c21: Testing the Details
There is an old Arabic proverb: "One must not become angry lightly, for in anger, a man's true strength is revealed and it is then others learn how terrible he truly is."
If one were to alter this slightly, replacing "anger" with "separation," it would perfectly describe Viserys. Viserys dared not risk a real confrontation with Illyrio; he knew full well he lacked the power to sever ties now. In their dealings, Illyrio clearly held the reins, the one truly dictating how their game would be played.
Thus, when Viserys realized that Illyrio had not uncovered the full truth of his plans through Varys's spies, he knew that his strategy of spreading uncertainty was succeeding and perhaps, in Illyrio's eyes, even increasing his perceived worth and influence.
This confirmed that the dangerous game of hidden daggers and whispered promises politics without open bloodshed was still a rule Illyrio was willing to maintain.
It suited Viserys well. So long as there was talking, bargaining, maneuvering, and no rush to knives or poison, he could survive. Still, he dared not grow complacent. He knew that Illyrio, once a sellsword and assassin in his youth, could easily revert to killing without hesitation if ambition demanded it. Viserys could only pray that the merchant prince's thirst for greater rewards would outweigh any urge for sudden betrayal.
"In truth, Your Grace, my visit to Westeros coincided with the grand tourney held in honor of Crown Prince Joffrey's name day," Illyrio began, his tone light, conversational. "I lingered for some days at the port of King's Landing and saw a sight most rare over a hundred brilliant tents arrayed across the banks of the Blackwater, just beyond the city's walls. Every day, knights and freeriders from across the Seven Kingdoms arrived in a steady flood, and throngs of smallfolk poured in to watch the spectacle. I have seen much in my life, but few events of such magnificence. Countless ships clogged the harbor; wagons and horses crowded the streets. They came from the Crownlands, from the Reach and the Stormlands, from the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands even from the far North and the Iron Islands, and from sun-scorched Dorne."
He paused, watching Viserys carefully, but the young king betrayed no reaction. Pleased, Illyrio continued smoothly.
"Many proud knights and heroes of song assembled there, clad in shining armor, each bearing the sigils of their noble Houses a veritable parade of banners. Alas, I confess my knowledge of Westerosi heraldry is limited. Yet I recognized some: Baratheon's crowned stag, Lannister's roaring lion, Tully's silver trout, Arryn's white falcon on a sky-blue field, Stark's direwolf of winter"
But before Illyrio could list further, before he could even mention the Martell spear piercing the sun a detail he had saved to subtly test Viserys the young king abruptly cut him off.
"Ice wolf?" Viserys's voice sharpened. "You mean to say the Starks of the North were represented there? Are you certain?"
The interruption caught Illyrio off guard, sensing a flicker of unspoken tension, though he could not quite guess its root. "Does that surprise Your Grace?" he asked carefully.
Viserys replied vaguely, "I had always heard that the North is distant and removed, their lords disinclined to meddle in the affairs of the South. I would not have thought the Starks would travel so far merely to attend a crown prince's tourney. Who among them came, do you know?"
Illyrio, still cautious, asked, "Your Grace seems particularly interested in House Stark?"
"Just idle curiosity," Viserys deflected smoothly. "Let me say clearly, Lord Illyrio, I do not doubt your word but as I understand it, perhaps from inaccurate rumors, the heir to House Stark is still very young. If the North sent a representative, I should think it would be Eddard Stark himself."
[So he suspects I was lying and thus ignored my bait about Dorne?]
Illyrio realized suddenly, though he felt no anger. Rather, he admired the young king's wariness.
"I saw a ship bearing the Stark direwolf sail into the harbor," Illyrio assured him.
"Ah." Viserys dropped the matter lightly. "Perhaps they sent gifts for the crown prince's name day. Even the most aloof lord must sometimes show deference to the Iron Throne. After all, the sea route from White Harbor to King's Landing is not so arduous." Then, as if to prod Illyrio along, he asked, "And what else did you see, Lord Governor?"
It seemed Viserys was not truly suspicious of Illyrio, but was instead driven by urgent curiosity suspicion directed elsewhere. Viserys's mind, sharp as a blade, was already racing ahead, connecting the presence of House Stark to deeper political tremors in Westeros. In the original accounts of the tourney, there was little mention of the North; their sudden visibility now could only seem ominous.
Illyrio, sensing the subtle shift, gathered his composure and answered smoothly. "Where was I? Ah, yes, the Stark direwolf... also the golden roses of House Tyrell, the kraken of House Greyjoy, and lastly the sun and spear of Dorne—"
Viserys cut across him again, impatience creeping into his voice. "My Lord Governor, did you not go to King's Landing to gather news of the political situation? Why waste so many words on the crown prince's tournament?"
Viserys understood well enough that Illyrio's lengthy descriptions were intended to weave subtle messages: to hint at the strength of the Seven Kingdoms, at their lords' loyalties or simmering resentments. But Viserys wanted direct answers, not veiled parables.
Illyrio showed no offense at being interrupted once more. On the contrary, he merely smiled and asked deferentially, "What would Your Grace prefer to hear?"
"The political situation in King's Landing, of course," Viserys said, with a note of faint exasperation.
Illyrio had indeed been steering the conversation toward the political tensions of Westeros but sometimes, Viserys found that asking foolish questions was a useful weapon. It dulled the edge of Illyrio's testing and forced him to reveal more directly what he knew.
"Political situation, yes," Illyrio nodded sagely. He cast a meaningful glance about the room, dismissing the steward with a flick of his fingers, and let his gaze linger upon Daenerys to ensure she was the only other soul present. Only then did he continue.
"Forgive me, Your Grace I am but a humble merchant, with little skill for high politics. I must speak plainly. On this journey, I had hoped to verify the rumors you shared, but I could not. My visit coincided with the great tournament, and what I witnessed was a spectacle of loyalty. The lords of the Seven Kingdoms crowded to King's Landing to celebrate the crown prince. I saw a city that adored its king — forgive me, I beg you, if the word offends — but Robert Baratheon is beloved in the capital. His brothers serve him loyally; Stannis and Renly remain steadfast. His court flourishes."
"Oh? Truly?" A curious smile played at the corners of Viserys's mouth. "If that is so, Lord Governor, why are you still willing to help me?"
Viserys had expected Illyrio to press harder, to tempt him more brazenly, but the merchant's cautious phrasing only deepened his own wariness.
"Because I am not certain, Your Grace," Illyrio admitted, his voice growing softer, almost conspiratorial. "There are whispers that in the Usurper's War, many houses rallied to the king's banners, but others held back. Greyjoy's rebellion is still fresh in living memory. In Dorne, the people grieve still for Princess Elia and her murdered babes. Across the Seven Kingdoms, there are men and women who sew secret banners banners of black and red waiting for the day when a true dragon will return to claim the realm."
Illyrio's words were carefully measured, laden with seductive sincerity. Even Daenerys, who had been silently observing, could not help but glance up at the merchant prince in spite of herself. She knew she ought not trust Illyrio no one should but his honeyed words worked their poison. She dropped her gaze quickly, but not before stealing a worried look at her brother.
Viserys, for his part, was listening intently calculating, always calculating.
Viserys had a proud look on his face, a slight smile on his lips, and he was in high spirits, as if buoyed by Illyrio's deferential attitude. He replied unhesitatingly, "They said—ahem," he coughed awkwardly, clearly trying to cover a slip, then quickly composed himself and continued as if nothing had happened, "I mean, there are rumors that the Tyrells of Highgarden and Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, are very close. Did Governor Illyrio hear any whispers or see any signs of it during his time in Westeros?"
Illyrio offered a diplomatic choice in response, subtly signaling that he preferred to lean toward Viserys's interpretation rather than challenge him outright.
Viserys instinctively sensed that if he responded appropriately, offering a seemingly keen political insight, Illyrio might immediately favor him more, perhaps even offering greater resources or co-opting him into a more influential role, maybe as a figurehead with Illyrio pulling the strings.
Viserys also recognized that this was a clear test. Illyrio was probing, trying to gauge how much real knowledge he possessed.
Viserys knew very well that he could not simply embrace Illyrio's apparent support. He had nothing tangible no army, no fleet—and any relationship that was too close or too distant would be equally dangerous.
With this delicate balance in mind, Viserys decided to use one of his preplanned strategies: to play the fool. This wasn't entirely the image he wished to present, but it fit the expectations others had of "the Beggar King" ambitious but rash, confident yet ignorant, possessing glimpses of cunning but lacking pragmatism. He decided to act like a political novice, one who repeated grand theories he had heard but who had no real grasp of the details.
Thus, Viserys threw out a new bait, attempting to shift the conversation away from himself.
Illyrio, well-versed in courtly deception, merely smiled politely, pretending not to notice Viserys's earlier awkward cough. He gestured encouragingly, "Your Majesty, what kind of rumors and what signs?"
Illyrio was testing to see whether Viserys, like Varys or Littlefinger, could ground rumor in fact or whether he was simply parroting gossip like a child.
Unexpectedly, Viserys maintained his buoyant demeanor and asked naturally, "Isn't it your turn to tell me?"
"Your Majesty?" Illyrio blinked, briefly thrown off by the reversal.
The excitement on Viserys's face dimmed slightly, replaced by an astonished, faintly panicked look. He seemed caught off guard, and mumbled, "There must be some sign, right?"
Illyrio recognized the look instantly: the all-too-familiar face of a court pretender caught without an answer, the sort of blusterers who claimed knowledge but collapsed under scrutiny. Viserys's expression had the exaggerated self-confidence of a man used to talking over opposition, not answering precise questions.
Illyrio pressed again, still playing the courteous courtier: "Rumors, Your Majesty. You spoke of them. What exactly did these rumors say?"
Viserys forced a smile, visibly struggling: "'The Tyrells of Highgarden and Lord Renly of Storm's End are very close,' that's how the rumors put it. Isn't that an obvious and well-known fact?"
Illyrio carefully concealed his amusement, keeping his face solemn as he asked, "And this 'obvious and well-known fact,' Your Majesty, how could I verify it?"
"There must be some sign!" Viserys repeated desperately, his false bravado cracking. "Governor, didn't you hear anything while you were in King's Landing?"
Daenerys, sitting quietly beside her brother, couldn't help but glance up, her violet eyes wide with dismay. The awkwardness in the room was almost physical, a thick, clinging fog that made her want to look away.
Illyrio, meanwhile, reassessed Viserys. Perhaps he had overestimated the prince. Maybe Viserys wasn't a sly pretender after all, but simply a hollow vessel full of pride, yet utterly disconnected from the reality of Westerosi politics.
Still, Illyrio gave him a graceful out. After a pause, he said smoothly, "I did hear that Lord Renly and Ser Loras Tyrell the Knight of Flowers—are especially close. Perhaps that is what the rumors refer to?"
Viserys immediately latched onto the lifeline. "Of course! Renly and the Knight of Flowers, of course!"
"But," Illyrio said softly, tilting his head like a curious merchant bargaining for silk, "Ser Loras is not the heir to Highgarden. His brother, Willas Tyrell, is the true heir. I'm afraid this 'fact' might not be as strong as you believe."
Viserys faltered. "The heir to Highgarden? Oh...the Knight of Flowers is from the Tyrells?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.
Illyrio heard the whisper perfectly and inwardly shook his head. [He doesn't even know who the Knight of Flowers is?]
Still, to Viserys's credit or his shamelessness he quickly recovered. Swallowing hard, he straightened and declared, "No, Governor, you can't think that way. You must remember: Eddard Stark was not King Robert's heir, yet he was closer to the usurper than any blood relative during Robert's Rebellion."
Illyrio had to admit: Viserys might be absurdly ignorant, but he wasn't completely without wit. His ability to twist an argument in his favor was a survival trait, however clumsy.
Even as Illyrio pondered whether Viserys was playing the fool or simply was one, Viserys deftly shifted the topic. His hands, trembling slightly, unconsciously rubbed the small dragonbone pendant hidden in his palm.
"Governor," Viserys said, trying to sound casual, "before you left Pentos, I asked you about dragonbones and dragon eggs."
Illyrio's expression smoothed instantly into his merchant's mask, all politeness and curiosity.
Viserys leaned forward earnestly. "I remember you're a renowned trader of rarities. Dragon eggs, I understand, are precious beyond measure. But dragonbone surely you have much of it stored away in your warehouses. Might I...borrow some? I have use for it."
The word "borrow" made Illyrio's brows lift slightly. The notion that Viserys would ever be able to repay such a loan was almost comical.
Still, he asked formally, "May I ask what purpose Your Majesty has in mind for the dragonbone?"
Viserys shook his head gravely. "I'm sorry, Lord Governor. I cannot reveal that yet. But I swear it will not be wasted. A king must be a man of his word."
The oath was empty no one would trust Viserys's promises but Illyrio, seasoned in diplomacy, allowed the words to pass without comment.
The silence between them was heavy, stretching long enough for Daenerys to fidget uncomfortably.
Finally, Illyrio asked, "How much dragonbone does Your Majesty require?"
"You agree, Governor?" Viserys's relief was palpable. Without answering the question directly, he hurriedly untied the blackened silver chain around his neck, revealing the dragonbone pendant.
"There is one more thing," he said, placing it carefully on the table between them. "I would ask you to display this pendant in your shop somewhere prominent. Set the price at nineteen gold, eight silver, and fourteen copper coins Pentos coinage."
Illyrio raised an eyebrow. "Such a price is exorbitant, Your Majesty. I doubt it will sell. If you are in need of funds, I could "
"No," Viserys interrupted firmly. "The price must be as I say. It does not matter if it sells. If anyone asks, you must answer, 'It is a token of a once-proud house, sold for the hope of its restoration.'"
Illyrio tucked the pendant away smoothly. "I am bound by Your Majesty's request. But does the price have some hidden significance?"
Viserys smiled slyly. "Forgive me, Lord Governor, but that must remain my secret."
Illyrio, seeing the glint of something either madness or ambition in Viserys's eye, decided not to press further. Instead, he smiled warmly. "Very well. Shall we speak now of dragonbone?"
Viserys leaned back in his chair and laughed lightly, the tension momentarily broken. "First, let us eat, Lord Governor. I find myself quite hungry."
Across the table, Daenerys bowed her head, listening silently.
Some might think this conversation stilted and disjointed, but it was in fact a clash of wills each man trying to steer the course, to dominate the flow. It was a slow battle fought with words, half-truths, and insinuations, the sort of subtle conflict from which true intrigues were born.
Though the author's skill may be limited, he hopes at least to capture a flicker of that hidden war.
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