Chapter 631

The courtyard’s size and layout were entirely unworthy of a "ruler of Westeros," yet the layers of security wrapped around it were meticulous. Passing through identity verification and a thorough search under the watchful eyes of Unsullied guards, Illyrio Mopatis was finally permitted to enter. He strode through a courtyard smaller than the garden of his own governor’s estate and stepped into the rather humble hall beyond.

No tricks, no traps—Daenerys Targaryen was indeed seated at the high seat, smiling radiantly, every bit the embodiment of her reputation as "the most beautiful woman in the world."

Illyrio barely cast half a glance at her before a faint sorrow crept into his heart. The greatest obstacle to young Aegon’s claim to the throne was none other than the girl who had once slipped through his fingers.

He would never forget—years ago, when this little queen first arrived at his doorstep with her brother, seeking shelter, she had already been more enticing than any woman he had ever laid eyes on. The thought had even crossed his mind to claim her for himself.

But in the end, his formidable rationality had prevailed over his lust. He understood that Daenerys’ value as a "princess" far outweighed the fleeting pleasure of possessing her. With great difficulty, he had restrained himself, suppressing the impulse, and followed the plan—selling, no, introducing her to the horselord.

Illyrio had always prided himself on his ability to let reason triumph over desire. But standing here today, he could not say for certain whether that had been a wise decision.

…

The timid, fragile little bird who had once cowered under his roof had died on the Dothraki Sea and been reborn in blood and fire. The new Dragon Queen was a true Targaryen, her wings grown strong enough to blot out the sky. Sitting upon the high seat, she exuded power and confidence—she had earned her place.

If he had followed his base instincts back then and taken her for himself, would this entire mess have been avoided?

Casting aside that meaningless thought, Illyrio donned the mask of a wealthy merchant-governor. Plastering a broad smile across his plump face, he cradled his round belly and strode toward the center of the hall.

"Your Grace, it has been years, and you have only grown more dazzling. The Lord of Light must have poured all His blessings upon you."

"Lord Illyrio," Daenerys replied with a smile, raising a graceful hand to gesture to her side. "It is a comfort to see you still hale and hearty in these troubled times. Allow me to introduce my Hand of the Queen: Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, the hero who led mankind to victory against the White Walkers—Aegor West."

"A great name I have long heard of. To meet you at last is an honor." Illyrio’s smile did not waver in the slightest as he seamlessly turned to the queen’s Hand and offered a polite bow. As he lifted his head and met the man’s gaze, however, his body tensed for just an instant.

From the moment he had entered the hall, Illyrio had sensed an inexplicable pressure. A man of his experience was no stranger to such a sensation—dragon’s might.

The Dragonlords of Freehold had perished in the Doom, but their blood had been scattered across Essos, passed down through generations. Nobles, merchants, slaves, whores—every now and then, a child would be born with the old blood’s gifts, be they strong or faint. His second wife, Serra, had been one such person. When he pressed her beneath him, it often felt as though he was conquering a dragon in human form, a sensation that had greatly satisfied his every carnal ambition.

It was only natural for Daenerys, a true Targaryen, to exude dragon’s might. But this man—this supposed foreigner from across the Sunset Sea—why was his aura so many times stronger than hers? Could he be some remnant of the Freehold, a dragonlord who had circled the world and come to Westeros from the other side?

The rulers of the Freehold had always called themselves the "Daughters of Valyria." But if some long-lost "father" were to return and seek dominion over them, the archons and princes would resist with all their might.

"You are too kind, Lord Illyrio." The black-clad, black-armored Night’s Watchman did not even rise from his seat. He merely offered a lazy smirk. "We must all thank you for your generosity and bravery in sheltering Her Grace all those years ago. Without your kindness, I would not have had the privilege of following such a queen and fighting for her cause. Allow me to express my deepest gratitude."

Illyrio knew of Aegor West. Ever since the man had first gained a foothold in King’s Landing and built his enterprise for the Night’s Watch, he and the book had kept a close eye on him. He had even, on occasion, had The Night’s Watchman’s Fantastic Adventures read aloud to him for entertainment.

At the time, like most intelligent men—including Varys—he had dismissed Aegor as nothing more than a shrewd storyteller and a master of branding. Who could have foreseen that he would turn out to be a warrior, a commander, and a kingmaker?

"Enough formalities, Lord Illyrio, please sit." Daenerys’ smile widened. "My armies have only just taken King’s Landing, and my hold over the Seven Kingdoms is still tenuous. I have little time for pleasantries, so I must ask your forgiveness. Now, what brings the esteemed governor all this way?"

Guided by Missandei, Illyrio lowered himself into a seat, shifting his ample bulk until he was somewhat comfortable. As he settled in, his gaze flickered toward the black-clad Hand across from him. The man was perfectly at ease, watching him with quiet amusement.

Illyrio’s heart sank.

Daenerys had personally received him—a good sign. But the fact that she had summoned the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to sit in on their conversation? That spoke volumes.

She acknowledged the debt she owed him, yes—but she did not consider him one of her own.

Because he was not "one of her own," she did not trust him. And because she did not trust him, she needed a trusted guardian at her side—Aegor West, a man who had carved out a place for the Night’s Watch in King’s Landing, who had risen to become Lord Commander through sheer wit and will, who had led men against the White Walkers and helped the queen subdue the North, the Riverlands, and King’s Landing. This was no ordinary man.

With him in the room, persuading Daenerys to spare young Aegon would be nearly impossible.

Illyrio took a deep breath and clenched his jaw.

He had come this far—there was no turning back now. Even if the odds were against him, he had to try.

"Your Grace, allow me to first offer my congratulations on reclaiming your birthright." Illyrio’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of solemnity. "But I must urge you not to let this victory cloud your judgment. The fledgling Targaryen dynasty stands surrounded by enemies."

"You have won the upper hand in Westeros, and the foes that remain are of little consequence—this much is true. But do not forget, Westeros has never been an island adrift in the sea. It is bound to Essos by constant trade and commerce. While Your Grace and your Hand prepare to march upon the Reach, have you considered the stance of the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea?"

I am fighting my own rebellious subjects on my own land, and I should concern myself with what the men across the sea think? What nonsense.

Yet Daenerys was no longer the naïve girl of old. Under the tutelage of men like Littlefinger, Varys, and Aegor, she had learned restraint. And Illyrio had chosen his timing well—she was in a rare good mood. She would not let "the wrath of the dragon" override her reason.

"I have not," she admitted. "Do enlighten me."

"Your Grace, tell me—how many Free Cities do not rely on slavery?"

"None."