A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter Twenty-Four: Shadows in the East

295 AC - Pentos

The East:

The sun set over the bustling streets of Pentos, casting a warm orange glow across the towering structures of the Free Cities. Within the shadowed alcoves of a private manor, Illyrio Mopatis, the wealthy merchant-prince, sat across from his old friend, Viserys Targaryen. The tension in the room was palpable, for Viserys, with his silver-gold hair now thinning and his eyes burning with frustration, had been in a foul mood since the moment he arrived.

Illyrio, ever the calculating mastermind, leaned back in his plush chair, his round face revealing little. He had known Viserys for years, and over time, he had come to realize the extent of the man's volatility. He was no longer the young prince full of hope; the years in exile had embittered him, especially after the Dragon Company had grown so powerful.

"We've searched for your brother and sister for years, Viserys," Illyrio began, his voice soothing, almost predatory in its calmness. "The Dragon Company has a far-reaching influence. They are everywhere."

Viserys's eyes narrowed at the mention of Aerion Targaryen, the Starborn, the young prince with the blood-red eyes who had become a legend in his own right. Aerion had become an obsession for Viserys—resentment and hatred fueling every thought of the young man. He was a constant reminder of what Viserys could never have—power, glory, and strength.

"I've already dealt with the Dragon Company's spies. They're dead. All of them," Viserys snapped, his voice laced with venom. "I'm not afraid of them. Aerion is just a boy, and I'll have him killed just like the rest. He will never take my throne. Never."

Illyrio kept his expression neutral, his eyes calculating the anger that burned within Viserys. "A wise move, Viserys. You do what you must. But I believe the real threat to your throne is still out there. The whispers grow louder, and you know as well as I that the people are restless. They speak of a new khal—Drogo—who is gathering a massive khalasar in the east. And you must understand this, Viserys—there is little room for two Targaryens on the throne."

Viserys stiffened at the mention of Drogo. His hand clenched into a fist on the table. "Drogo?" he hissed. "A Dothraki khal? They are nothing but savages."

Illyrio's eyes twinkled as he leaned forward, a hint of a smile curling his lips. "And yet, the savages are gathering power. There are rumors, and you know how quickly those rumors spread. The time for inaction is over. Soon, Aerion will no longer be a threat to your throne. He will be gone, and you will sit on the throne, as it was always meant to be."

Viserys gritted his teeth but nodded slowly. He could feel the weight of Illyrio's words, though part of him still clung to the idea that the threat from Aerion was looming over him. "And what of my sister, Daenerys?" he asked, his voice turning cold. "She's become insufferable. She dares to question my authority now that she's grown into a woman. She's nothing but a bartering piece for some future marriage contract."

Illyrio gave a heavy sigh, a momentary flicker of regret passing across his face, but he quickly masked it. "She's a child still, Viserys. You must remain her protector. But do not worry. All of this will be resolved soon." He paused, letting the silence stretch before continuing. "And as for Aerion—" Illyrio's voice turned darker, "I have an ally in Myr—an old friend. He despises the Targaryens, and he has been a thorn in their side for years. His name is Midas Drahar, a descendant of the infamous Crabfeeder. He is in contact with someone in Lys, another of our allies. Together, we can move quickly. Soon, Aerion will be no more than a footnote in history."

Viserys's eyes brightened. "And how does Drahar propose to help us?"

Illyrio gave a cryptic smile. "Trust me, Viserys. He is well-positioned to take care of things." He then added, as if offering a personal touch, "But the first threat we need to deal with... is that khal Drogo."

Viserys sat back, his mind working, plotting. His thirst for power was insatiable, and now, the pieces were slowly coming together. With Midas Drahar and Illyrio's network, he could finally achieve his goals—Aerion's threats would be gone, and his throne would be safe.

King's Landing:

Meanwhile, across the narrow sea, in the Red Keep, King Robert Baratheon sat with his small council, his face flushed with anger. He had been pacing for hours, cursing under his breath.

"Damn the Targaryens," he muttered, his large hands pounding the table. "Damn Aerion, and damn that dragonspawn witch who cursed me! I should have killed him long ago when I had the chance!"

Varys, the Master of Whisperers, sat silently in his chair, observing his king with an unreadable expression. His fingers tapped gently on the armrest, but his mind was already far away, thinking of schemes and plots. When he spoke, it was soft, measured, as always.

"Your Grace," he said calmly, "I would advise against allowing your anger to cloud your judgment. Aerion is a formidable adversary, but he is still a boy. The Dragon Company may have grown in strength, but they are far from invincible."

Robert's nostrils flared as he turned toward Varys. "Don't give me that nonsense, Varys! That bastard was born from a witch's curse. He and his company are too powerful, and we can't just let them continue to roam unchecked. If they are allowed to grow, they could—"

"Your Grace," interrupted Stannis Baratheon, his voice steady but stern, "we may not have the resources to deal with them directly. The treasury is drained from our efforts in the Stepstones and the ongoing peacekeeping in the Riverlands. We cannot afford a war against the Dragon Company—yet. But I will build up our navy, bolster our armies. We will not allow them to grow into a real threat."

Robert's eyes turned cold, and he nodded reluctantly. "Fine. Build your bloody navy, Stannis. But we need to know where Aerion's men are. I won't let them get any closer. I want spies sent to Dorne. The Martells might be allied with him, and I want to know their every move. If they've been consorting with that Targaryen whelp, I want to know about it. And send my faceless men to the Free Cities. If Aerion's forces are too strong, then we'll take him out quietly, the way we should have done from the start."

Varys gave a small smile, his thoughts already turning to the network of spies and informants that he commanded. "It will be done, Your Grace. You shall have word soon."

Robert slumped into his chair, his gaze distant and brooding. "The Targaryens will not have their way," he muttered. "Not if I can help it."

The council room fell into silence, each man pondering the growing storm on the horizon—a storm of dragons, fire, and blood.