Only three people attended the banquet, yet the table in Illyrio's manse groaned under the weight of a dozen kingdoms. There were roasted ducks and quails glistening with honey and ginger, rich foie gras soaked in a decade-old red wine, and roasted larks stuffed with a pungent mixture of garlic and wild onions. Tender lamb chops were drizzled with almond milk, and mountain snails were tossed in a slurry of fried garlic and herbs. In the center sat a roasted suckling pig, its skin a perfect, glassy gold, holding a tart green apple in its mouth.
As each dish was presented, Illyrio Mopatis would taste a portion before his guests, praising the texture and urging them to indulge. It was a performance of hospitality designed to prove the lack of poison, though Eddard suspected the "Cheese Merchant" had more subtle ways of killing a man than through his stomach.
Salladhor Saan paid the Archon's words no mind. He was a man of simpler appetites, single-handedly devouring an entire plate of butter-roasted mushrooms before gesturing frantically to the chef for a refill.
Illyrio rose, his massive frame trembling with the effort, and filled three silver chalices with amber wine from the Pentosi hills. He raised his glass, his eyes twinkling with a sharp, mercantile intelligence. "To celebrate our meeting of East and West. Let us drink to the health of those who dare to cross the Narrow Sea."
Salladhor Saan stretched his neck, swallowed a mouthful of duck, and gulped the wine in one go. Eddard, however, took a measured sip. The wine was a revelation: it began with a faint fruity sweetness, layered with a complexity of sour notes that danced across his palate, followed by a smooth, oily heat that left a lingering smoky finish.
"Not bad," Eddard noted, setting the glass down. "I've never tasted its equal in Westeros."
"As long as it pleases you, Lord Eddard," Illyrio smiled, though a fine sheen of sweat already covered his oily face. Even in the cooling winter of Pentos, the Archon's sheer bulk generated a furnace of heat.
"I like it very much," Eddard said, leaning back. He looked at the Archon, the speculator, the man who had sheltered the last Targaryens. "But my dear friend, you didn't invite me here to discuss the vintage. You surely don't intend to partner with me to sell Pentosi amber in the North, do you? My people prefer ale and hard brandy; the Southerners are already wedded to their Arbor Gold."
"Everyone loves gold," Illyrio said, stroking his yellow mustache. "But I never intended to extend my reach into the wine cellars of Karhold. I invited you here because I have a favor to ask. A service only a man of your... unique capabilities... can provide."
"At least you're blunt," Eddard replied. "I was born in the North. We don't have much patience for the flowery circles you Essosi like to run. Tell me what you want. Whether I help depends on the price and my mood."
Illyrio slapped his fleshy thigh, the gems on his rings flashing. "Direct! Truly, Varys was right about you. He called you a monarch of rare strictness and honor. It is refreshing to see it in person."
Eddard's expression remained a mask of iron. He tore a piece of crusty bread, stuffed it with foie gras and crispy pig skin, spread a layer of plum jam over the top, and took a large bite. The explosion of fat and salt was a welcome relief from the weeks of dried sea-rations. He chewed slowly, waiting for the hook.
"I understand your destination is Slaver's Bay," Illyrio said, the joviality fading into a serious, political tone.
"Varys told you?" Eddard asked, a cold light in his eyes. He didn't enjoy his movements being reported like a ledger entry.
"He did," Illyrio admitted, glancing at Salladhor Saan. "As you know, Tyrosh and Lys are on the razor's edge of war. A fleet of your size passing through their disputed waters would be treated as an invasion. Fortunately, I have friends in the Stepstones, men of high standing who can ensure your 'Marquis' banners pass without a single arrow being fired."
Eddard looked at Saan, who offered a sincere, toothy grin. The pirate had clearly been the source.
"I'm not interested in blood-feuds over trade routes," Eddard said. "If your friends can save me a fight, I'll take the help."
"Excellent," Illyrio purred. "Then my request is simple. In Meereen, a young friend of mine is in... difficult circumstances. She has liberated the slaves, sacked the cities, and now finds herself surrounded by enemies. I want you to bring her back to Pentos. I am willing to pay any price for her safe return."
"The 'young friend' being Daenerys Targaryen?" Eddard sipped his wine. "The Breaker of Chains? The Queen of everything? She seems to be doing quite well on her own. Why does she need a Karstark to act as her escort?"
Illyrio didn't flinch at the irony. "When I last saw her, she was a frightened child. But the girl who wandered the Dothraki Sea has died. The woman who remains has three dragons, Eddard. You are going to Meereen to seek an alliance against the Others, Varys told me of your 'White Walker' problem. You need her dragons. I simply want the girl home."
Varys, you talkative eunuch, Eddard thought. I'll have to find a deeper dungeon for you when I return.
"I agree," Eddard said. "It's a small detour. But the girl has grown. She may not want to return to your 'protection' once she realizes she has the only three tactical weapons in the world."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed into slits of satisfaction. "That you agree is joy enough. I simply wish to help her reclaim her rightful inheritance."
"The Throne?" Eddard shook his head. "That won't be easy. Stannis is on the chair, and the North is independent. If she comes for the crown, she brings fire to a kingdom that has had enough of it."
"With dragons, fire is merely a formality," Illyrio said excitedly. "When Drogon spreads his wings over King's Landing, the people will remember the dragon's glory. Even you, as her ally, could be the Hand of the greatest dynasty the world has seen."
Eddard chuckled but offered no comment. He had no intention of helping a Targaryen restore a mad legacy. He wanted her fire for the dead, not for the living.
"And you, Archon? What do you gain? A castle? A title?"
"I am merely repaying a debt," Illyrio said, his face flushed with wine. "Even a fat old fool like me has friends, and some debts are written in blood."
"To noble character, then," Eddard raised his glass, masking his suspicion. He knew Illyrio was a player of the "Great Game," and "gratitude" was a word players only used when they were winning.
In Sunspear, the sky was a bruised purple, heavy with the weight of an unnatural storm.
Stannis Baratheon stood at the edge of his command tent, his jaw tight as he watched the white-capped waves. "Melisandre," he rasped. "You burned two lords of Lannister blood on Rhaenys's Hill. You promised a fair wind for the voyage. It has lasted exactly seven days."
"Your Grace," Melisandre replied, her red robes whipping in the salt wind. "The blood you offered was thin, collateral cousins, not the heart of the Lion. Had you given me Kevan Lannister, we would be in the Reach by now. Even so, the Royal Fleet has passed Massey's Hook and rounded Tarth. We are at the Broken Arm of Dorne."
"We have been in Sunspear for three days," Stannis ground out. Hundreds of warships were anchored in the harbor, their crews restless and prone to brawling with the Dornish locals. "The Northerners are whoring and drinking, and my own men are following suit. Martell won't even send a Prince to meet me, only a common steward."
Footsteps crunched on the sand. Monford Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, and Ser Wendel Manderly approached. Manderly was so large that his footsteps were as heavy as a warhorse's.
"Your Grace," Velaryon began, his face pale.
"What is it, Monford? Has the wind turned?"
"No, Your Grace," Wendel Manderly interjected, his voice a low rumble of concern. "The Dornish lookouts on the lighthouses have sent word. They've spotted the Sea Monster in the open sea."
"Greyjoy," Stannis whispered, his hand going to the hilt of Lightbringer.
"The Iron Fleet," Manderly emphasized. "They aren't just raiding the Mander anymore. They are moving to intercept us before we can reach the Arbor."
The storm was no longer just a matter of weather. The Kraken had found the path of the Stag.
[Strategic Status: Fleet docked at Sunspear (Dorne).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_