"Seven Hells!"
I may possess wealth, but I have clearly lost the vigor of youth.
Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos—privately referred to by other Magisters as "the Cheese Monger" or simply "that upstart"—wheezed like a broken bellows as he carefully sidestepped a puddle of filth.
By all the chaotic gods, let the moonlight shine a little brighter. I'd hate to soil these robes. They cost a fortune. The Magister, whose girth rivaled that of the King across the Narrow Sea, thought bitterly.
"This is the place. Oh, by the Gods... To think the ruler of a kingdom lives in such squalor. That damned Usurper should burn in the deepest of the Seven Hells!"
Staring at the dilapidated shack in front of him, Illyrio's expression screamed a silent message to the servant guiding him—the same gray-haired baker who had given Viserys bread earlier that day:
Look. Who else but I could be so loyal to the Dragon Banner?
For His Grace, I have sacrificed my favorite outfit to the mud!
Knock, knock, knock.
Illyrio wiped the sweat from his forehead, steadied his ragged breathing, and stepped forward to knock on King Viserys's "palace" door.
The response from inside was faster than Illyrio expected. But when the door swung open, the longsword pointed directly at his chest was definitely not part of the fat merchant's calculations.
"Oh! Heavens above! Great King Viserys, I fear this is hardly the way a monarch welcomes a guest."
It had been many years since Illyrio had felt the cold threat of steel so close. The Magister's face turned the color of a dyer's vat—pale, then flushed. He tried his best to angle his face so the moonlight would show both his fear (to flatter the King's ego) and his loyalty (as he bowed his head).
Before coming here, he had thoroughly researched the temperament of this pitiful "Beggar King."
A man who craves flattery. A king without a kingdom who wants everyone to crawl at his feet and kiss his boots, Illyrio thought. Manipulating this man will be as easy as drinking water.
Just a little groveling. Such a simple transaction. Truly, much easier than the deadly political games played by the other Magisters.
"Who are you? Raise your head."
The silver-haired young man spoke.
King Viserys sheathed his sword, allowing the Magister to look up.
Of course, the King knew exactly who this was. It was Illyrio. But he had to play dumb. After all, a King who wasn't a little oblivious wasn't the "Good King" Illyrio wanted to see.
"Ah, before I introduce myself to Your Grace, please allow me to offer you my humblest loyalty."
With practiced etiquette, Illyrio bowed. To those unfamiliar with him, it would be impossible to tell that this soft, rotund man was once a ruthless bravo who had waded through piles of corpses.
"I am but one of the many Magisters of this beautiful city, a humble merchant who has stumbled upon a bit of wealth. More importantly, I am a small man who remembers the True King and wishes to extend a helping hand in your time of need. I am Illyrio Mopatis."
"A loyal servant of the True King informed me of your arrival in Pentos. I have come solely for the sake of Your Grace's Restoration." Illyrio gestured to the baker who had guided him, then poured out his "sincere" loyalty to Viserys.
"Indeed. Even inside, I could smell the rich aroma of fresh bread." Viserys nodded slightly to the gray-haired baker. His regal bearing was flawless; no one would doubt his royal blood. His gaze then locked onto Illyrio.
"I thank you for your loyalty to House Targaryen. However, I have always said that when one gives a gift, one secretly hopes for a return. I do not wish for you to be another idler mocking a fallen king. So, please, state your desire. Only then can I believe in this 'loyalty' you speak of."
Viserys didn't believe a word of Illyrio's "loyalty." As the saying goes: Ask them, and they're all loyal; ask them to act, and they all vanish. That was Illyrio in a nutshell.
Furthermore, knowing the plot, Viserys knew exactly what game this fat man was playing. Sure, he waved the banner of Targaryen Restoration, but the King he served wasn't Viserys.
Illyrio was conspiring with the Spider across the sea. There was only one King in their plan, and it had always been "Young Griff"—Aegon.
Whether Young Griff was actually Jon Snow, the fat man's own son, or someone else entirely, Viserys knew that he was just a pawn meant to draw fire.
But he couldn't say that out loud. Playing dumb is the first rule of survival until the trap is sprung.
From the moment they met, their relationship was destined to be one of mutual deception and exploitation.
"Ah, as Your Grace wisely deduces, as a merchant, I hope that after helping Your Grace restore the Kingdom, I might find a seat on the Small Council. Of course, my only wish is to better serve Your Grace."
Illyrio tried his best to maintain the gentle demeanor of a wise elder.
But his yellow, oil-stained beard and his jagged, yellow teeth made his performance look more like that of a scheming vizier than a kindly grandfather.
"If you truly aid me in restoring the Targaryen Dynasty... on the day I return to King's Landing, slay the Usurper, and sit upon the Iron Throne, you shall be my Master of Coin."
You old fox, you can act. But my acting skills might just win me an Oscar, Viserys thought. He mimicked the original Viserys's arrogant tone perfectly. The Restoration hadn't even started—he didn't even have a pot to piss in—yet here he was, handing out cabinet positions like candy.
The last time the original Viserys did this was with the Golden Company. All he got in return was a room full of laughter, Viserys recalled from the original body's memories.
Although Illyrio's ultimate goal was far grander than a mere Master of Coinship, he acted overwhelmed with gratitude. He looked ready to kiss Viserys's ringless hand with his greasy lips.
"The Seven Gods bear witness! This is the most exciting day of my life! Oh, Heavens! Your Grace, to express my respect and gratitude, please, return with me to my manse."
"There, delicious food, fine clothes, and—of course—a hot bath await you, my King," Illyrio said obsequiously.
"Everything you have done today will be richly rewarded in the future, my Master of Coin." Viserys suppressed his nausea and looked at Illyrio's greasy beard with a straight face.
"Ah, it is my duty, Your Grace."
"My sister, Daenerys, is inside. As are several loyal subjects who have crossed the Narrow Sea to serve the True Dragon. My Master of Coin, I trust you do not mind if they also stay at your manse?" The King smiled at Illyrio.
The Magister's smile froze for a fraction of a second. He knew about Daenerys, of course. But who were these "loyal subjects" that had crawled out of the woodwork?
"Of course, Your Grace. What reason would I have to turn away the Princess and the brave warriors loyal to the Dragon?" Although suspicious, Illyrio kept his composure.
"They will be grateful for your generosity. Oh, forgive me, Illyrio. My sister is sleeping soundly, and I truly do not wish to disturb her. Perhaps I shall come to your manse tomorrow to discuss matters of state."
Viserys acted as if the thought had just occurred to him, slapping his forehead theatrically.
"Uh... Of... Of course. As you wish, Your Grace."