The atmosphere of the banquet shifted the moment Audro issued that astonishingly irresponsible order.
Several people immediately sensed something was wrong.
"Prince Audro, this is a fire, not a joke!"
The lean magister spoke first.
With the prince's command openly challenged, the musicians stopped playing and the dancers froze where they stood.
The lively merriment from moments before vanished.
In its place came the distinct sounds of coughing, goblets clinking together, and chairs scraping across the floor, making the grand hall suddenly feel cold and eerily quiet.
"I said, keep the music playing and keep the dancers dancing! It's only a fire. What's there to make such a fuss about?"
Now many of the guests truly realized something was amiss.
Several began edging toward the exits, glancing anxiously around for their bodyguards while instinctively reaching for whatever weapons they had brought with them.
"Audro, what game are you playing?" one of his opponents finally shouted, abandoning all formalities.
"Call me Prince Audro!"
Audro answered without yielding an inch.
"Guards! Guards!"
The elderly magister who had called him by name might have been advanced in years, but his voice still carried tremendous authority as he called for his men.
"Guards! What guards?" a voice suddenly roared. "Gamoti, today is the day you die!"
The leader of the Windblown, disguised until now as one of the musicians, cast off all pretense.
With one savage kick, he sent the banquet table flying aside.
Half of the musicians standing behind him reached inside their instruments and drew hidden weapons.
Daggers and short swords, carefully concealed within harps before the banquet, gleamed beneath the candlelight, their sharpened edges flashing with deadly brilliance.
"You... You are..."
"Yes."
"I am."
For forty long years, the old commander had waited for this day.
At last...
It had arrived.
He still remembered the day he had been chosen as Prince of Pentos.
It had also been the day his wife told him she was carrying their child.
Fearing that the magisters would dispose of him once he outlived his usefulness, he had abandoned everything and fled for his life.
Not long afterward, word reached him.
His family had been murdered.
Every single day of the past forty years had been filled with regret.
Whenever they appeared in his dreams, it felt as though his heart and every organ inside his body were being slowly fried alive.
Forty years had passed.
Both men had grown equally old.
Both remained remarkably sturdy.
Realizing a deadly confrontation was about to erupt, everyone standing between them scrambled away, desperately clearing a path.
"You've spent all these years trying to kill me, haven't you?"
"I've been killing you every night in my dreams."
Every word between them dripped with murderous intent.
Neither gave an inch.
Yet the outcome had never truly been in doubt.
The commander of the Windblown had survived four decades as a sellsword.
Compared to the countless battlefields he had crossed, this was little more than a skirmish.
Gamoti, on the other hand, had spent decades wrapped in luxury and privilege.
He stood no chance.
The old commander overwhelmed him with ease.
Once the elderly magister collapsed onto the floor, he no longer possessed the strength to fight back.
The Ragged Prince calmly used his dagger to sever the tendons in both Gamoti's arms and legs.
Then he dragged him away like a dead dog.
His enemy's blood would become the offering laid before the graves of his murdered family.
Audro had his own vengeance to claim.
He had never forgotten the humiliation of watching both of his brides violated on their wedding nights.
Drawing a sword from one of his guards, he walked toward the lean magister.
One thrust.
Then another.
Then a third.
By the time he finished, the man's lower body had become an unrecognizable mass of blood and torn flesh.
...
Outside, an equally fierce battle had already begun atop Pentos's walls.
The city's fortifications were indeed immense and formidable. But no matter how high or strong a wall might be, someone still had to defend it.
The Targaryen army raised ladders everywhere along the battlements.
There were simply too many. The undermanned defenders could not possibly cover every section.
Soon, one soldier climbed onto the wall.
To his astonishment, he realized he was the very first attacker to reach the top.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself sitting beside the king at a victory feast, wearing a golden wreath of wheat upon his brow.
"Targaryen!"
The braziers atop the wall illuminated his face.
He was a Rhoynar soldier.
Facing the defenders, he shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Throw down your weapons! Open the gates! His Grace will pardon you and forgive your debts!"
Quite a few soldiers hesitated.
Just as one defender prepared to cast aside his weapon, the supervising officer drew his sword and cut him down where he stood.
"I'd like to see who dares surrender! Anyone who throws down his weapon dies where he stands!"
The Rhoynar soldier lowered his stance, snatched up a nearby shield, and charged directly at the brightly armored officer.
At that very moment, as the Pentoshi soldiers wavered between resistance and surrender, a dragon's roar echoed overhead.
Viserys had entered his dragon vision.
Controlling Balerion from above, he swooped toward the section of wall where the defenders were packed most tightly together.
Two clay jars filled with wildfire dropped from the dragon's claws.
They shattered against the battlements.
Brilliant green wildfire splashed across the stones, coating dozens of soldiers.
Balerion folded his wings into a dive.
Black dragonfire erupted from his jaws.
The wildfire ignited instantly.
A long stretch of the wall disappeared beneath roaring emerald flames.
The defenders had already been spread dangerously thin.
Now, with a dragon descending from the heavens, what little morale remained collapsed completely.
As more and more Targaryen soldiers flooded onto the battlements, the gates of Pentos swung open.
The battle ended with astonishing speed.
Before the first rays of dawn touched the city walls, the black banner bearing the red three-headed dragon flew proudly above Pentos.
.....
Surrounded by his commanders, Viserys entered Audro's princely palace.
Above the palace rooftops, the three young dragons circled triumphantly through the morning sky.
Audro stepped forward, removed the princely crown from his own head, and respectfully presented it to Viserys.
"Your Grace, Pentos is yours now."
Viserys made no move to accept the crown. Instead, he walked directly to the throne and sat upon it.
"You've served me well, Prince Audro."
Audro smiled humbly.
"Everything was possible only because of Your Grace's strategy. Although... now that Pentos belongs to you, calling me 'Prince' no longer seems appropriate."
No one could have guessed that only the previous night, he had briefly entertained thoughts of carving out an independent realm for himself.
Viserys knew nothing of those passing ambitions.
Still, this was the perfect opportunity to reward loyalty.
"In that case," Viserys said, "I hereby grant you the hereditary title of Prince."
He paused before continuing.
"Your son, however, will not inherit the princely title. Under my hereditary system, his rank will become Highlord instead."
Audro's eyes brightened.
Relief flooded through him.
Thank the gods I didn't lose my head yesterday.
He understood exactly what Viserys meant. This was the king's unique system of diminishing hereditary titles.
His son would inherit as a Highlord.
His grandson would become a lord.
Each generation would inherit one rank lower than the last.
Even so, his family would remain among the highest nobility for at least three generations.
And if his descendants distinguished themselves in military service, there was every chance they could earn their way back to the highest ranks.
"Thank you for Your Grace's generosity."
Audro bowed deeply.
As for Viserys, his thoughts had already moved to the next challenge.
Taking Pentos had only been the first step. Keeping it would prove far more difficult.
By annexing Pentos before anyone could react, he had struck first.
Now R'hllor and those gathering against House Targaryen would undoubtedly accelerate their own plans.
___________
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