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Illyrio's chamber was dim, thin blades of golden sunlight slicing through the shutter slats.
He sat in the oversized padded chair—the one built specially for his enormous ass, legs reinforced so it wouldn't collapse under the weight of a magister who liked to eat and drink like a king. A half-empty goblet of chilled Arbor red rested in his hand. On the low table beside him lay a box of candied ginger, the kind little boys loved.
The wine tasted like blood now.
On the table sat a locked chest. Illyrio no longer had the courage to open it. Inside were the gifts meant for Young Griff: a ruby-hilted sword and a golden crown.
He had once dreamed of ruling the sunset kingdoms through a puppet king. Power, real power, the kind that made men tremble across two continents. Instead, everything had crumbled.
"Old friend," he muttered to the empty room, "looks like I'm going first."
Myles was dead. The lion and the boy were dead too.
Below the window, six cherry trees ringed a marble pool. Their slender brown branches swayed in the breeze. In the center of the pool stood a life-size statue of a naked boy no older than sixteen, poised in a dueling stance, holding a real sword. The marble had been painted so perfectly that most people had to stare for a long moment before they realized it wasn't living flesh. The boy had straight golden hair falling to his shoulders—Illyrio as he had been in his youth.
Across the pool rose a twelve-foot brick wall topped with iron spikes. Beyond it sprawled Pentos: a sea of tile roofs hugging the bay. Illyrio could see the red temple, the tall square towers, the distant manse on the hill. Sunlight glittered on the deep water. Fishing boats and trading galleys moved across the bay, sails bright in the morning wind.
He wanted a ship. Any ship. King's Landing, Lys, anywhere. But that door had slammed shut. He was too big a target now, and the other magisters were already piling on.
A moment later the door opened.
Magister Odrero stepped in with a squad of Unsullied, their bronze helmets gleaming. Odrero looked at the fat man the way a victor looks at a corpse.
"Where are my guards?" Illyrio asked quietly.
"Old Unsullied lose to young ones," Odrero replied. "And I brought more."
Illyrio gave a small nod. "I see. The other magisters all agreed."
The Unsullied seized him. He didn't resist.
"What's in the chest?" Odrero asked.
"A sword and a crown. I advise you not to open it. Not for ordinary eyes."
Odrero smiled thinly. "You think Viserys will spare any of us?"
Illyrio met his gaze. "Greed is bottomless. Especially for a dragon."
"That's no longer your concern."
"We were colleagues once. Couldn't you at least grant me a quick death? I'm just an old fat man now, not the assassin I used to be."
Odrero's voice was cold. "Would you have spared me if our places were reversed?"
Illyrio fell silent.
Of course he wouldn't have. If Young Griff had taken Andalos, Illyrio would have turned the Golden Company loose on Pentos and made the city his rear base. No mercy for the losers.
The Unsullied dragged him out into the courtyard. The smell of fresh blood hung thick in the air. Several old Unsullied lay dead among the flowerbeds.
"Smash that statue," Odrero ordered, pointing at the marble boy. "No one will want to look at it anymore."
The Unsullied and sellswords stepped forward and shattered the beautiful carving.
Servants moved through the manse in orderly lines, cataloguing Illyrio's wealth. Every coin, every ship, every farm and mine would be offered to Viserys as reparations.
Outside the city gates, a golden dragon circled high overhead.
Viserys Targaryen sat in the saddle, looking down at the coastal city of Pentos. With his army and a living dragon, he could burn the place to the ground in an hour or two. The Pentoshi had grown soft; their walls were decorative, their soldiers mercenaries who had never seen real war.
But ruling was harder than conquering. Taking Pentos now would bring more trouble than it was worth. Braavos had already broken the city once and would never allow a new power to swallow it whole. The other Free Cities would scream bloody murder—Viserys had no legitimate claim here.
"Best to keep them weak and friendly for now," he told himself. "Distant strike, close alliance."
Leave Pentos as an open, demilitarized buffer. Stay on good terms with Braavos and Lorath. Cultivate Norvos and Qohor. Then turn west toward the Three Daughters.
Still, debts would be collected.
On the walls, Pentoshi soldiers stood frozen, terrified the dragon would grow impatient and start roasting them.
The great gates creaked open. Several wagons rolled out. On the first lay the bodies of dead magisters—some stabbed, some poisoned. Unsullied guards marched silently beside them.
Behind the wagons came Illyrio, his fat face slack with shock.
More carts followed, loaded with tribute: trade galleys, stockpiled goods, farm deeds, mines. A huge scarred eunuch warrior trudged along with them—Belwas, thick arms like tree trunks, belly hanging over his belt, long arakh at his side.
"Strong Belwas has a new master?" the eunuch grumbled.
Odrero nodded. "Yes."
Andal soldiers stepped forward and took Illyrio into custody.
"Pentos welcomes you, Your Grace," Odrero announced, the other magisters crowding behind him with wide, humble smiles. "A few small misunderstandings occurred. We hope you will overlook them. Pentos will remain your loyal friend."
Viserys slid from Sunblaze's back. The golden dragon fixed the crowd with molten eyes. Every Pentoshi felt the hairs on their necks rise.
"What happened to these men?" Viserys asked, gesturing at the corpses.
"Some lent gold to the Archon of Tyrosh. Others secretly dealt with the Dothraki khals," Odrero said smoothly. "Tragic accidents, all of them."
Viserys nodded. The traitors had been executed as a peace offering.
"And the rest of their estates," Odrero continued, "the conclave has decided to present them to you as gifts. Ships, warehouses, farmland, mines."
"Pentos truly is a hospitable city," Viserys said, pleased. Even for a dragon, the haul was generous.
No one bothered to lower their voice around Illyrio. Everyone knew he was already dead.
"Magister Illyrio," Viserys said, turning to the fat man. "Still breathing, I see. Bring him a chair. He's not as young as he used to be."
Illyrio lowered himself into the oversized seat with a strange, tired sadness.
"You look surprised I'm still alive, Your Grace."
Viserys gave a short laugh. "You once asked if I would name you Master of Coin when we first met."
Illyrio's jowls quivered. "Did you mean it?"
"Why ask what you already know? You joined the game. Don't pretend to be naïve."
Illyrio's voice cracked. "Why did you let them go?"
"I misjudged you," Illyrio whispered. "I thought a young man would be ruled by lust and rage, not cold calculation."
"The Golden Company was your web. Myles was your ally. The lion was your tool. All of it for that boy. During the battle of Andalos you tried to blow the horn and steal my dragon."
Illyrio's hands began to shake. "Yes… I believed it could work. Myles and the Griffin were brilliant. They loved my son."
Everyone listening stared in shock. The cheerful, gift-giving fat man had been playing a far deeper game than anyone suspected.
"A magnificent plot," Viserys said, clapping slowly. "If it had succeeded I would have fallen from the sky in flames."
"Wager and lose," Illyrio said with hollow calm. "I learned that truth long ago when I first stepped onto the board. Take my gifts, Your Grace. I only ask for a little time to talk."
"Open the chest," Odrero ordered.
The Unsullied lifted the lid. Inside lay two items: a longsword with a ruby hilt shaped like twin dragon heads—Blackfyre—and a newly forged golden crown in the shape of a three-headed dragon, wings spread, eyes of blood-red rubies.
Viserys drew Blackfyre. It was not equal to True Dragon, Secret Blood, or Dominator, but to the world it was still the blade of kings.
He had just checked off another achievement.
The crown had been made for the Blackfyre pretender, yet it wore the red dragon's colors anyway.
"Fine gifts," Viserys said, "but the people you meant them for are all gone."
Illyrio's face twitched. "How did they die?"
"Fake Aegon and the Griffin blew my horn. That horn demands a life. Blackheart followed them into the fire once the secret was out."
"That's impossible," Illyrio breathed. "The dragon was bound by heart-spell and Dragon Horn—the secret of the old Valyrian Dragonlords—"
"It was a Dragon Horn," Viserys said calmly, "but not the kind you wanted. That one only enrages dragons, makes them irritable. Nothing more."
Illyrio's whole body trembled. "You knew. You've been to the ruins of Valyria. You knew everything."
He stared at Viserys with the eyes of a man who finally understood he had never been playing against a boy—he had been playing against the real monster.
"Why did you know so much about the horn?" Viserys asked.
"After I spent a fortune buying fossil dragon eggs, I hunted every book of sorcery, hired every wizard I could find. All frauds." Illyrio's voice broke. "I killed my own son…"
He began to sob, huge, heaving sobs that shook his fat frame. "Aegon… My son… I murdered you…"
Viserys watched without expression. "In light of the help you once gave me, you may choose your death. Treason is hard to forgive."
"Buried with the chest," Illyrio gasped. "Let me wear the crown when I die. Let me carry the dream I stole from Aegon. I owe them that."
Viserys nodded.
Agos placed the golden crown on Illyrio's head. Because the fat man's skull was so large, they had to lash it in place with straps. It looked ridiculous.
They tied Illyrio to the chair.
"Win, Viserys," the magister raved, eyes wild. "Keep winning. Never lose. Not one step. Kill them all—the magisters of Pentos, the Sealord of Braavos, the archons of the Three Daughters. Otherwise you'll end up like me. Let me watch from the afterlife while your feast goes on forever!"
"Dracarys."
Golden-red dragonfire poured down.
Illyrio screamed—a sound of pure agony that echoed across the plains. His huge body thrashed against the ropes. Molten gold ran from the crown, dripping down his face and chest like liquid fire. The fat man burned alive wearing a crown of molten gold.
Then he was still.
The only sound left was the soft crackle of flames and the distant cry of gulls over the bay.