Deep within the courtyard of the Governor of Pentos, in a study carpeted with Myrish rugs and fragrant with spices.
Illyrio Mopatis sat in prolonged silence.
His corpulent body sank into a high-backed velvet chair. Between his stubby fingers, laden with gold and jeweled rings, he held three reports that had arrived almost simultaneously.
Lys had changed hands, Tyrosh had fallen, and Myr had surrendered.
Each recounted, in the simplest possible terms, events that should have been impossible.
"Impossible..."
He murmured to himself, his voice so soft it seemed he feared disturbing something.
But his eyes swept over the specific details: the Golden Company's defection, Malko Soren's betrayal and surrender, the extermination of the Antaryon family, Governor Miloto's declaration of surrender...
Too specific, too coherent. These could not be false reports.
Not to mention the dragon.
"Pale gold, three heads, breathing golden thunderfire..."
Illyrio rubbed his fingertips over the final line, his nails whitening under the pressure.
"No."
He shook his head sharply, casting off those absurd thoughts.
Dragons had long been extinct.
This had to be some kind of sorcery, some trick, some...
Bang!
The solid oak desk gave a dull thud.
Illyrio's fist slammed into its surface, overturning the jeweled inkwell. Black liquid swiftly stained the expensive Myrish carpet.
"Bastard!"
He growled, his kindly mask shattering completely to reveal the twisted fury and fear beneath.
"...How dare he?! How dare he?!"
Ten years.
No, fifteen years, perhaps even longer.
He and Varys had been the most patient of gardeners, planting seeds in barren soil.
They had watered them with lies, fertilized them with conspiracies, and carefully nurtured the sapling called "Blackfyre" with gold and blood.
They had planned everything: Viserys, that vain, ill-tempered, silver-haired fool, would serve as the visible target, drawing everyone's fire.
They would use his