The square-brick tower stood as a black silhouette against the fading sun.
Waves crashed against the dark reefs, where seaweed glowed crimson in the dying light.
Crows watched from the shadows.
"Griff," said a stout man with golden hair and a forked beard. "The plan needs to move forward."
"Why?" Griff sat opposite him. His beard was freshly shaven, his face lined but resolute beneath a head of blue hair. "That's not what we agreed."
"It's not," the fat man replied, "but I believe he's ready now—ready to bear the weight."
"That burden is too heavy," Griff said, shaking his head. The last light of sunset brushed his face, deepening the lines there. "I'm afraid..."
"Afraid of what? That the dragon's too small?" the fat man snorted. "We don't need to rely on those... magical beasts!"
"Then what do we rely on? The Golden Company?" Griff frowned. "I was meant to be their successor. Instead, for this boy, I've wasted years and my honor..."
Ghosts and liars, he thought bitterly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A brotherhood born from forgotten wars, lost battles, failed rebellions—the defeated, the disgraced, the disinherited. Is this truly what we have left to depend on?
"Dorne is willing to help."
Griff's head snapped up, startling a crow into a frenzy of flapping wings.
"Are you certain? Illyrio, would Prince Doran truly do that?"
"Prince Doran is a cautious man," Illyrio said as he stood. "But it isn't Doran who struck the bargain with me. It was his brother. He traveled the Free Cities, knew me well, and we've kept in touch over the years."
"But why?" Griff asked, frowning.
"He's Elia's son," Illyrio said simply. "Dorne will join us. They must."
"That's not reliable."
"Prince Doran secretly betrothed her to Prince Viserys Targaryen," Illyrio continued. "When Prince Viserys was killed by Khal Drogo, the betrothal became void. I believe Prince Doran will find her another husband—one with Targaryen blood."
"You mean..." Griff hesitated. "No. That's not our plan."
"I don't mean Young Griff," Illyrio said, patting his shoulder. "The usurper's son—he's in Lys. I can find him."
"Baratheon? Aren't they in King's Landing, sitting on the Iron Throne?"
"A noble bastard," Illyrio corrected.
"A bastard," Griff muttered, shaking his head. "Bastards can't be trusted. If one bastard rises to claim the throne, a hundred more will follow, no matter how noble he is."
The waves pounded the shore with a deep, rhythmic roar. Griff could hear the red priests chanting their prayers as they lit the nightfires, and the laughter of children playing beyond the high walls.
He rose and walked into the courtyard, where pale ivy climbed among stone pillars, the leaves glowing orange in the sunset.
The night before, he had dreamed of Stoney Sept again.
Alone, sword in hand, he had run from house to house, smashing doors, charging up stairs, leaping across rooftops, the sound of distant bells ringing in his ears. The pealing of bronze bells and silver chimes had pierced his skull, a maddening noise that grew louder until his head felt ready to split.
Seventeen years had passed since the Battle of the Bells, yet those sounds still twisted inside him. Others might claim the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell beneath Robert's warhammer at the Trident—but if the Griffin had slain the Stag at Stoney Sept, the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought.
That day, the bells killed us all—Aerys and his queen, Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, every true man and loyal woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And my Silver Prince.
The road ahead was perilous, but he didn't care. Everyone dies in the end. All he needed was time.
He had waited so long. Surely the gods would grant him a few more years—enough to see the boy he called his son sit upon the Iron Throne, to claim his lands, his name, his honor. And to silence the tolling bells that thundered through his dreams each time he closed his eyes.
The boy he called his son was clever and well-schooled, fluent in many tongues and learned in history.
Besides his native Common Tongue, he spoke High Valyrian fluently, along with the Valyrian dialects of Pentos, Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys, even their street speech. He had just begun learning the dialect of Volantis and knew only a handful of words. The Meereenese dialect, drawn from both Valyrian and Ghiscari roots, was harder for him to grasp. He studied mathematics—arithmetic came easily, and he understood the basics of geometry. He had learned poetry as well.
Illyrio thought him more educated than half the lords in Westeros.
But all of this—years of careful plotting—was it all to be thrown away so rashly?
"We have gold, armies, and ships," Illyrio said. "Everything will go smoothly."
"Tywin is formidable."
"Oberyn swore to handle him. He seeks justice, the kind that burns in his heart," Illyrio said reassuringly. "And you are the Hand of the King."
"He still has a son."
"The Kingslayer? A knight, nothing more."
"No. The one who defeated Stannis on the Blackwater."
"Tyrion? Every wedding has its pigeon pie. One stroke of luck is hardly a miracle."
"We should secure a betrothal first," Griff said stubbornly. "The plan was to reveal the prince only after we joined Queen Daenerys."
"The lions surely know of the dragons by now," Illyrio said. "But they're still small—hardly bigger than hatchlings. When the armies close in around the city like a fist, they'll be of little use."
"And behind them lies all the wealth of Casterly Rock. The boy king is betrothed to a Tyrell girl, which means we must also face the strength of Highgarden."
"Even after a century, we still have friends in the Reach. Highgarden's power may not be as great as Mace Tyrell imagines," Illyrio said with a smile.
"I know you trust me, and I trust my own skill," Griff replied. "But to pit one kingdom against six others—surely that's folly."
"The North and the Reach were burned out by war, their strength halved," Illyrio said. "And besides, we are not one."
He paused.
"We are three."
Three! The crow gave a harsh cry and took to the air, diving low over the waves.
...
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