Chapter 47

I looked into the glass candle and the world flickered.

Not just the flame. Everything. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. Reality itself seemed to pulse and waver like a reflection on disturbed water. The room around me began to change.

The tapestry on the wall shifted. The Targaryen dragon became a stag, then a lion, then something I didn't recognize. The colors bled and reformed, cycling through different heraldries, different styles. The wooden furniture aged before my eyes, going from polished to worn to replaced entirely. A chest appeared in one corner, disappeared, was replaced by a different chest.

And there were people.

Flickers of them, like afterimages. A woman sitting in the chair I'd just vacated, reading a book. A man standing by the window, staring out at a city that looked different, smaller, with fewer buildings. Two people in the bed, their forms blurred and indistinct but their purpose clear from the rhythm of their movements.

The visions came faster. Flickering through the room's history like someone rapidly turning pages in a book.

The furniture became simpler, more sparse. The tapestries disappeared. The walls looked newer, the stone freshly cut and unstained by soot or age. The mortar between the blocks was still pale, not darkened by decades of dampness.

Then the walls were wooden. Rough-hewn timbers instead of cut stone. A different building entirely, smaller and cruder.

Then suddenly I was outside.

The walls vanished and I was standing on bare ground, grass beneath my feet. The Red Keep loomed smaller behind me, incomplete. Just the foundation of what it would become, workers swarming over scaffolding like ants.

Then even that was gone.

And I was falling.

The ground rushed up to meet me and I hit hard, all the air driven from my lungs. My mouth filled with grass and dirt. I gasped, struggling to breathe, my chest spasming.

Coughing, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, spitting out grass. My head spun, the world tilting around me like I'd just gotten off a ship in rough seas.

What the fuck just happened?

Look into the flames.

Melisandre's voice echoed in my head, and I realized the bitch had done some kind of charm on me. Some compulsion or suggestion that had bypassed every mental fortitude I thought I had. 

I hadn't even known she could do that. Not so easily as that. My bad for not wearing mental armor, I thought bitterly. 

Then again, I didn’t even know if she had done an actual magical charm. Hypnosis was a real thing in my old world. Suggestion could be a powerful tool, especially on someone already stressed and exhausted. Maybe she'd just planted the idea and my own mind had done the rest.

I shook my head. No reason frying my brain thinking about it now. Bottom line was to avoid being in the same room as that woman or any other mind-wobbling fire priestess for as long as I could help it. Amazing cleavage or otherwise.

I stood up slowly, testing my balance. Everything felt solid enough. Real enough. 

I was standing atop a hill at the mouth of a river. The land sloped down in front of me toward water that sparkled in sunlight. Behind me, more hills rose in gentle curves. No buildings. No roads. Just grass and scattered trees and the cry of gulls overhead.

Frowning, I looked around more carefully. Something about the geography felt familiar. The shape of the hills, the curve of the coastline, the way the river met the sea...

It took me a second to recognize it.

The Blackwater Rush. That was the Blackwater Rush flowing into Blackwater Bay.

Which meant I was standing where King's Landing should be. Where the Red Keep should be. More specifically, where Aegon's Hill rose to dominate the city.

But there was no city. No keep. No nothing.

I looked around in awe at the world without Westeros's largest city. The land was pristine, untouched by the million footsteps and countless fires that would eventually blacken it. The air smelled clean, salt and grass and earth, without the underlying stink of sewage and too many people.

Was this just a feature of this candle world? Some dreamscape my mind was constructing? Or was I actually seeing the past?

The answer came sailing across the bay.

Ships. Dozens of them, approaching from the west. Their sails billowed in the wind, catching the light. Even from this distance I could see they were warships, sleek hulls built for speed, high prows designed to intimidate.

I squinted, trying to make out the banners flying from their masts. Red crabs on white. House Celtigar. A colorful triple spiral. House Massey. A silver seahorse on sea green. House Velaryon. And flying above all of them, larger than the rest, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

My breath caught in my throat.

Aegon's Conquest. I was witnessing Aegon's Conquest. The moment before the Targaryens set foot on mainland Westeros for the first time.

A roar split the air above me.

I looked up, eyes going wide. Three shapes broke through the clouds. Massive, striking, and  impossibly beautiful. Wings spread wide enough to eclipse the sun, scales glittering like jewels.

Dragons.

Awe washed over me in a wave so powerful it nearly drove me back to my knees. I'd known they existed. Had known they were real in this world. But knowing and seeing were entirely different things.

They flew in circles above me, spiraling down through the air with a grace that belied their size. I could hear the beat of their wings, feel the rush of air they displaced.

I couldn't stop looking at the largest one. Balerion. The Black Dread.

He was huge. Not just large. Huge in a way that defied comprehension. His wings cast shadows big as castles over the land below. His scales drank the light, black as midnight, black as the void between stars. When he opened his mouth I saw teeth the size of swords, a throat that glowed with inner fire.

The dragons came closer, clearly intending to land on the hill where I stood.

Of course they were. This was Aegon's Hill. This was where it all began.

"Shit!"

I scrambled out of the way, nearly tripping over my own feet. Found a spot twenty feet away and pressed myself flat against the ground.

The earth shook as Balerion landed. The impact sent tremors through the soil, dislodging rocks and sending birds scattering from nearby trees. His claws dug into the earth, each one as long as a man was tall.

A figure sat on his back. Silver-haired, broad in the shoulders, wearing armor that gleamed in the sunlight. His face was almost a blur to me, like my eyes couldn't quite focus on it properly. But he didn't seem to notice me at all.

Aegon the Conqueror. In the flesh. Or whatever passed for flesh in this vision.

Then came Vhagar and Meraxes, landing on either side of Balerion with their own thunderous impacts. They were smaller than the Black Dread but still massive, still terrifying in their beauty.

Two more riders dismounted. Women, both with silver-gold hair and purple eyes. One moved with the deadly grace of a warrior, hand resting on the pommel of her sword. The other was softer, more elegant, but no less regal.

Visenya and Rhaenys.

I couldn't believe I was seeing them. The actual Aegon and his sister-queens. The three people who would forge seven kingdoms into one. Who would burn Harrenhal and accept the submission of kings and queens and begin a dynasty that would last three hundred years.

They stood watching as the ships approached the shore, talking to each other in low voices. None of them noticed me some twenty feet away, still pressed against the ground.

Curiosity overcame caution. Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself up and approached them.

Their figures didn't seem like solid flesh to me. They flickered occasionally, like a bad internet connection. Like the signal was struggling to fully render them. Their edges were slightly blurred, indistinct.

As I came closer, I realized they were speaking High Valyrian, the words flowing fast and fluid. Much faster than Maester Rowen had ever spoken in his lessons back on Tarth. I struggled to catch even half of it.

"It's finally happening, then," Visenya said. Her voice was hard and clipped. A warrior's voice.

Rhaenys said something I didn't fully understand, but it made her siblings smile. Something about regret, I thought. Or perhaps reluctance. The words were too quick, too smoothly connected.

They watched the coming ships in silence for a few moments. The fleet was closer now, maybe a mile out. I could see figures moving on the decks.

Then Aegon spoke, his tone suddenly serious.

"There is something else I must tell you."

"You've taken a third wife?" Rhaenys asked, amusement in her voice.

Visenya smirked, but their brother was no longer in good humor. His jaw was set, his posture tense.

"Daenys' dream," he said.

That cut the smiles from his sisters' faces like a blade. They both turned to him fully, giving him their complete attention.

"There's something else Father never told you two."

Their images flickered. The voices warbled, like someone was adjusting the volume on a radio. I stepped closer, straining to hear.

Visenya frowned. "He would not hide... from me. I am the eldest."

Aegon raised an eyebrow. "Would... not? Father and... more Andal than... admit."

It was becoming harder to understand them. Like the world was struggling to process their presence here, to maintain the vision. Their faces grew more blurred, their edges bleeding into the air around them.

Visenya crossed her arms, clearly displeased.

"Well, what … say?" Rhaenys asked, leaning in.

Aegon looked out at the approaching fleet, then back to his sisters. "He told ... Valyrian Freehold … east... never conquered Westeros."

Visenya’s eyes hardened, her hand going to her sword hilt. Rhaenys said something rapid that I couldn't parse at all. The flickering was getting worse.

I gripped the glass candle tighter in my hand. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it, but I could feel it warm against my palm, pulsing with that same heartbeat rhythm.

Visenya spoke again, and I only caught two words clearly: "Long Night."

My own heart picked up, hammering against my ribs. This was it. This was important.

Aegon continued, his words coming in fragments: "Something... even the Others. The... darkness... long night... dark stone... tall tower..."

"Wait," I said, stepping even closer. "Say that again."

A roar erupted from below, from one of the dragons. All three of them—or all four of us, I suppose—turned to look.

It was Vhagar. The dragon had her head raised, nostrils flaring. Her eyes were fixed on something.

On me.

Visenya frowned, her hand now gripping her sword. Her words came out in a growl, "... being watched!"

She pulled the blade free in one smooth motion. It was Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword that would pass through House Targaryen for generations. The metal rippled in the dim, uncertain light of this candle world, showing patterns I couldn't quite focus on.

All three dragons roared now, the sound shaking the ground beneath my feet. Aegon pulled his own sword—Blackfyre—the metal gleaming red and black. Rhaenys stepped behind him, her hand on his shoulder.

They all looked around, scanning the hilltop as if searching for attackers.

I froze before them, barely daring to breathe.

The world shook. Flickered more violently. Reality was becoming unstable, the vision struggling to maintain itself.

Vhagar approached on foot, each step making the ground tremble. She came straight toward where I stood, her massive head lowering. I could see into her mouth—a dark pit lined with teeth, leading down to a throat that glowed with heat.

Then orange light bloomed deep in that throat.

Fire.

My eyes went wide. I tried to move, to run, but my legs wouldn't respond.

An angry caw split the air.

Vhagar opened her mouth wider and flames erupted forth, a torrent of fire hot enough to melt stone.

But before the inferno could reach me, I saw a flash of dark wings. Felt talons grip my shoulders, impossibly gentle despite their size.

Then I was flying.

It was confusing. Disorienting. The world flashed around me in fragments and pieces. I was everywhere and nowhere at once, moving through time and space without any sense of direction or control.

I saw flickers of the Long Night. Felt cold so intense it burned worse than fire. Saw Others moving through a blizzard, their armor made of ice that reflected and refracted light in hypnotic patterns. Pale ice spiders cracking the frozen earth with legs like spears. Battles in the snow where the living and the dead clashed in desperate combat.

Flaming swords cutting through the darkness. Obsidian blades shattering against ice. Men and women fighting and dying and rising again to turn on their former comrades.

A wall. Not the Wall, but something older. Something that predated even that great barrier. Made of dark stone that drank the light. Oily black stone covered in strange angles and patterns that hurt to look at directly.

A tower. Impossibly tall, reaching up into a sky that held no stars. Made of that same dark stone, emanating wrongness like heat from a fire.

And at the base of that tower, a doorway. Open and waiting, leading down into depths that had never known light.

It was too much. Too fast. Too overwhelming. My mind couldn't process it all, couldn't categorize or understand. It felt like it was breaking, fragmenting under the weight of too much information delivered too quickly.

I tried to fight it, to regain some control. But it was like trying to climb a glass wall. My hands couldn't get a grip on the force that was tossing me through memories and worlds and visions of things that might have been or might yet be.

Then the world shattered.

Reality broke like glass, fracturing into a thousand pieces. Each shard reflected a different image, a different moment, a different possibility.

And then I was back in a room.

I gasped, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. My whole body was shaking, trembling from a cold that went deeper than flesh and bone. Sweat poured down my face despite the chill.

I struggled to get up, my limbs weak and uncoordinated. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.

Then I noticed something wrong.

I was in my room. The same room I'd left. But the tapestry on the wall was different, showing a scene I didn't recognize. The stone in the walls looked newer, the mortar pale and fresh. The furniture was arranged differently.

And standing in the corner of the room, wreathed in shadows that seemed to cling to her like fabric, was a figure wearing a mask.

Red lacquered wood. Covering the entire face, with eyeholes that showed only darkness within. My foggy brain took a minute to process what I was seeing. To pull the name from memory.

"Quaithe," I rasped out, my voice rough.

The eyes behind the mask—wet and shiny, reflecting the lamplight—widened for just a second. Surprise, quickly hidden.

"Interesting," the figure said. The voice was neither male nor female, distorted somehow by the mask or by magic. "How do you know this name?"

Instead of answering, I asked my own question. "Did you see what I just saw? The conversation between the Conqueror and his siblings?" My hands were still shaking. I clenched them into fists. "The visions of the Long Night? That tower?"

The mask was quiet for a long moment. When Quaithe spoke again, the voice was softer.

"I cannot be here for long. This is the only place in Westeros I can step foot without interference."

"Whose interference?" I asked. "The three-eyed raven? He saved me, I think." 

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You know much, child of Morne." There was something like approval in that strange voice. "More than you should. More than is wise, perhaps."

"Then tell me what I need to know. What was Aegon talking about? What's darker than the Others? What's that tower made of black stone?"

"Trust neither raven nor spider," Quaithe said, ignoring my questions. "Both weave webs, but neither serves the light. Neither serves the dark. They serve only themselves and their own visions of what must be."

"That's not an answer."

"No. It is a simple warning." The figure moved slightly, the shadows shifting with her. "I cannot give you what you seek here. In Westeros, there are eyes and ears everywhere. Powers that would see you silenced before you learn too much.”

"Who?" I aksed. “I know of Bloodraven. Who else?”

"There are others." The shadows around her deepened, grew more solid. “If you wish for true answers, come to me in the east. I must go. We have spoken too long already."

"Wait!" I stepped forward. "At least tell me. Is what I saw real? The Long Night, the tower, all of it?"

The mask tilted slightly, as if she was considering the question.

"Some visions show what was. Some show what is. Some show what might be." A pause. "And some show what must never come to pass."

"Which one was mine?"

"All of them," Quaithe said. "And none of them. The glass candle shows truth, but truth is not always simple. Not always singular."

The shadows were consuming her now, eating away at her form. Only the mask remained visible, a splash of red in the darkness.

"Remember, child of Morne. To go forward, you must first go back. To find light, seek shadow. To save all, risk everything."

"Can't you just speak like a normal person?” I asked, frustrated. "That's the vaguest prophecy I've ever heard, and I've read a lot of prophecies,"

I thought I heard a laugh. Soft, barely audible.

"Then you know how little they matter in the end. It is not the words that shape destiny, but the choices made in spite of them."

The mask faded into nothing. The shadows receded. And I was alone in my room. The real room. The tapestry was back to showing Targaryen dragons. The stone was properly aged and smoke-stained.

The glass candle lay on the floor where I must have dropped it, dark and cool and inert once more.

I sat down heavily on the bed, my legs finally giving out completely. What the fuck had just happened?

I'd seen Aegon's Conquest. The actual moment before it began. Heard the Conqueror himself speak of secrets his father had kept, of reasons Valyria had never tried to conquer Westeros.

Something to do with the Long Night. With darkness even the Others feared. And that tower of oily black stone. I had read about it in the books, the Greyjoy’s Seastone Chair and the ruined city of Yeen in Sothoryos all made from the mysterious stone.

For some reason, it felt as if the candle world itself was rejecting my attempts at listening in on the Conqueror’s words. 

Then the visions that followed. That had to be Bloodraven’s work, I knew that for a fact. Were those the past? Some long-forgotten memory of the first Long Night? Or was it more like what Melisandre sees in the fires, visions of a possible future? 

And Quaithe. She'd known who I was. Perhaps not by name, but child of Morne… Had she known I was going to see those visions? Had she been waiting for me in whatever strange space the glass candle had taken me to?

Too many questions. Too many stupid prophecies the likes of her and Bloodraven and Melisandre liked to throw around.

To go forward, go back. To find answers, go east.

Had she meant Asshai? The city at the edge of the world, where shadowbinders learned their craft. Where magic ran as thick as the ash that fell from the sky. 

I laughed, the sound slightly unhinged. Because of course. Of course the answers would be in the most dangerous, most remote city in the known world. Why would they be anywhere convenient?

She was madder than I could imagine if she thought I’d waste years of my life sailing off in search of answers to vague prophecies I probably had nothing to do about. She could go bother Jon and Dany about it whenever they were born. If they were ever born.

I had plenty of work to be done here in Westeros, in the real world, before I could go around thinking of saving the world. I had some decades before it became urgent, at least. I could probably count on that.

Reaching down, I picked up the glass candle from the floor, wrapping it carefully in cloth. My hands were steadier now, the shaking subsiding.

Tomorrow I'd think about what to do with this information. How to use it. Who to trust with it, if anyone. Tonight, I just needed to sleep. If I could sleep after what I'd seen.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried very hard not to think about towers made of darkness or dragons breathing fire or masked figures delivering cryptic warnings.

xxx

Matteno of Myr

The inn stank the same as any other this side of town. Piss and sour wine and the particular kind of sweat that came from men who spent their lives at sea. Matteno sat at a corner table nursing a cup of the cheapest ale the establishment offered, which was saying something, considering the place was already bottom-of-the-barrel as far as Pentoshi establishments went.

Around him, his officers were having a good time. Torgo the Flea was regaling the table with some story about a merchant's wife in Lys, his hands gesturing wildly, spilling ale with every dramatic flourish. Kassos laughed so hard he nearly fell off his bench, his scarred face turning red.

"And then, and then!" Torgo wheezed, barely able to get the words out through his own laughter. "She says, 'That's not what I meant when I asked you to check the hold!'"

The table erupted. Even stone-faced Gylos cracked a smile, which was rare enough that it made the others laugh harder.

Matteno took another drink and said nothing.

He should have been enjoying this. His men were happy, relatively speaking. They had enough coin to eat and drink and fuck their way through Pentos's cheaper brothels. They had work, even if it was petty shit—escorting merchant cogs, running protection rackets for magisters too cheap to hire proper guards, the occasional smuggling job.

But it wasn't enough.

More than the gold, he missed the adventure. The real work. The kind of jobs that got your blood pumping and made you feel alive in ways that petty escort duty never could.

And if he was being honest with himself—which he tried not to be, but the ale was loosening his tongue even if only in his own head—he missed his crazy Westerosi bitch.

None of the whores in Pentos could sate his appetites like Lenora had. They'd try, gods knew they'd try. But there was something missing. Some spark, some edge. Lenora had been half-mad and wholly vicious, and she'd matched him in ways that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with pure, raw hunger.

The Weeping Town job had not been good money. It was bad money, if anything. But it was good fucking.

He took another drink, grimacing at the sour taste.

Couldn't go back to Tyrosh. Not with the debts he owed Magister Karo Adarys. The man had already fronted him even before the Weeping Town, and when it all went sideways, Matteno had decided discretion was the better part of valor and fucked off to Pentos before Adarys could collect.

Myr was out too. He'd burned those bridges years ago in ways he preferred not to think about.

So here he was in Pentos, doing odd jobs for whatever magister could scrape together enough gold to pay him and his crew. Running messages, scaring merchants, playing bodyguard to soft men who'd never held a sword in their lives.

It was beneath him.

The door to the inn banged open. The noise in the place didn't stop immediately. Sailors were too drunk and too loud for that. But it died down quickly as the new arrivals made their way into the common room.

Four men in leather skirts and spiked bronze helms. Faces blank as stone. Moving with the precise, coordinated step of soldiers who'd trained together for years.

Unsullied.

The room went quiet. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even Torgo's wild gesturing stopped, his hands freezing in the air like he'd been turned to salt.

Matteno watched them approach, his jaw tightening. Unsullied meant money. Real money. The kind of money only the richest magisters could afford.

The lead Unsullied—distinguished only by a slightly fancier plume on his helm—stopped at their table. His eyes swept across Matteno's officers, then settled on Matteno himself.

"You will follow," the Unsullied said. His voice was flat and emotionless as he spoke with the clipped accent of Astapor.

Matteno's officers reacted immediately. Torgo's hand went to his belt knife. Kassos stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Gylos just shifted his weight, readying himself for violence with the economy of movement that came from decades of practice.

The four Unsullied didn't even flinch. Didn't reach for their weapons. Just stood there, perfectly still, perfectly calm. Six armed men against four, and they didn't care.

Because they knew they'd win.

"Whose orders?" Matteno asked, keeping his voice level.

The lead Unsullied simply repeated, "You will follow."

"Don't do it, captain," his first mate growled. Rego was a massive Tyroshi with a green beard and a temper to match. "We can take them. Be out of Pentos before anyone knows what happened."

Matteno considered it. Weighed the options.

And run where? The thought was bitter. Braavos? The Iron Bank didn't look kindly on pirates who operated in the Narrow Sea. Lorath? Might as well slit his own throat and save time. He couldn't go back to Myr or Tyrosh. And Volantis was a whole different beast—the Old Blood ran that city with an iron fist, and they had no love for pirates who didn't know their place.

He could try to disappear into the Basilisk Isles or the Stepstones, but that was just a slow death. Living hand-to-mouth, preying on fishing boats and coastal villages. No glory in that. No real coin.

"I'll go," Matteno said, standing.

"Captain…"

"Go back to the ship, Rego." Matteno looked his first mate in the eye. "If I'm not back by tomorrow sunset, sail off without me. Understood?"

Rego's jaw worked, but he nodded. "Aye, captain."

Matteno turned to the Unsullied and spread his arms. "Lead on, then. Let's see what magister wants me badly enough to send you lot."

xxx

They brought him to one of Pentos's hills, where the wealthy magisters kept their estates away from the stink and noise of the lower city.

The manse wasn't the biggest he'd ever seen. That honor went to some monstrosity in Lys that had belonged to a pillow house owner who'd made a fortune selling his best girls to Volantene nobles. But this one was impressive enough.

High walls surrounded the estate, topped with iron spikes. Guards at the gate, not Unsullied, but professional soldiers in matching armor. The manse itself was built of pale stone and white marble that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Gardens spread out on either side, lush and green and clearly expensive to maintain.

The Unsullied led him through the main entrance and into a courtyard. Fountains burbled. Orange trees grew in decorative pots. Silk cushions were scattered around low tables.

And sitting at one of those tables was a dangerous man. 

Tall and broad-shouldered, with the build of someone who'd been athletic once but was letting it slide. Blond hair oiled and curled. A handsome face, if you looked past the indulgence starting to show around the jaw and midsection. Dressed in yellow silk that probably cost more than Matteno's ship.

"Ah! My guest has arrived!" The man stood, spreading his arms in welcome. "Please, please, sit. You must be thirsty after the walk. Wine? We have an excellent vintage from the Arbor. Or perhaps something from Dorne? I confess I've developed quite the taste for their sour reds."

Matteno remained standing. "Who are you?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners?" The man pressed a hand to his chest. "Illyrio Mopatis, at your service. I am a simple merchant, you understand. A trader in cheese and spices and other sundries."

A simple merchant who could afford Unsullied and a manse on the hill. Right.

"What do you want with me, Illyrio Mopatis?"

"Please, sit first. All this standing makes me nervous. As if we're about to duel, and I assure you, my dueling days are long behind me." Illyrio laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Though in my youth, ah! I was quite the bravo. Won seventeen duels before I turned twenty. The ladies loved it, of course. The scars, the danger..." He sighed wistfully.

Matteno sat. Mostly because standing felt stupid after that speech, and the half a dozen guards standing around meant it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he sat or stood.

Soon a servant appeared with wine and food: roasted fowl, cheese, grapes, bread still warm from the oven. Another brought dancers, girls in silk so sheer they might as well have been naked. They swayed and spun to music from a trio of musicians who'd somehow materialized in the corner.

Illyrio talked. And talked. And fucking talked.

He told stories of his days as a bravo, though Matteno suspected half of them were exaggerated and the other half were outright lies. He asked about Matteno's pirate life with the enthusiasm of a child hearing adventure stories, laughing at the violent parts and gasping at the clever bits.

A full half-hour passed. Matteno ate—no point wasting good food—and drank sparingly. Kept his guard up. Waited for the other shoe to drop.

It did when a servant approached and whispered in Illyrio's ear.

The magister's face lit up. "Ah, wonderful! Bring them here, yes."

Matteno shifted in his seat, his hand moving to where his sword should have been. The Unsullied had taken it at the gate. "You expecting company?"

"An old friend," Illyrio said, his smile widening. "Two, actually. I think you'll find them most interesting."

Two figures emerged from the manse. The first was a man, bald and plump and soft-looking. He wore silk robes in deep purple that hid his significant bulk. He moved with small, precise steps, his hands folded in his sleeves.

Everything about him screamed "eunuch." The smoothness of his skin, the pitch of his voice when he giggled to himself. The way he carried himself.

Matteno didn't like him on principle. Too soft. Too unmanly. The kind of person who smiled while sliding a knife between your ribs.

But the second figure made him sit up straighter.

A woman. Dusky skin, dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders. Beautiful as sin in a dress that left very little to imagination, deep red silk that clung to curves and exposed more than it concealed. But it was her eyes that caught him. Sharp. Clever. Fox-like.

She looked at him for just a second, taking him in with a glance that felt like being assessed and catalogued and dismissed all at once. Then she turned to their host.

"Serala, my dear!" Illyrio rose from his chair, arms spread wide. "It is so good to see you."

He greeted her with a warm hug, kissing both her cheeks. She returned the embrace with the ease of long familiarity.

"It is good to be back," she said. Her voice was rich and cultured. The accent was Myrish, but smoothed out by years of travel. "I've missed Pentos. Westeros is so... damp."

"I hope Varys didn't ask too much of you." Illyrio gestured to the eunuch, who'd settled into a chair and was helping himself to grapes. "He can be quite the taskmaster."

The eunuch—Varys—let out a soft giggle. "I prefer to think of myself as thorough."

Serala smiled, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh, but it was quite fun being a lord's wife. Ordering him around. Poking at the dragon king." She glanced at Matteno again, that same assessing look. "The men of Westeros are much more fun than their Essosi counterparts. No offense, Illyrio. You are still my favorite."

"None taken, my dear. Your talents were always wasted at the pillow houses." Illyrio waved toward the manse. "Go inside for now. The servants will show you to your rooms. Rest. We'll speak more at dinner."

The woman smiled, turned to wink at Matteno, a slow, deliberate gesture that promised things he absolutely should not be thinking about, then twirled around and left.

Matteno couldn't help but watch her go. The sway of her hips, the way the silk moved against her skin...

"She's a good-looking one, isn't she?" Illyrio said, amusement in his voice.

Matteno grunted an agreement, dragging his eyes away.

"She is an investment. A fruitful one." Illyrio sat back down, gesturing for Varys to join them at the table. "As were you."

His eyes hardened. Beneath the table, his hand moved instinctively toward his belt before he remembered—no sword. But he still had the knife in his boot. Always had a knife in his boot.

"I've never taken work from you."

Varys giggled again, that high, soft sound that set Matteno's teeth on edge. "Not directly, no."

His mind raced. "Lenora?" he asked slowly. "She didn't work for you. I'd have known."

Varys's smile widened. "Would you? She was a bad investment on Adarys's part, I'm afraid. Too blunt of a tool. Too... passionate in her methods. Not subtle enough for the work we needed done."

Matteno's instincts sharpened to a razor edge. The Unsullied had taken his sword, but he could get to the knife fast. Grab the soft eunuch as a hostage, use him to get out of the compound. Six guards around them here. Four Unsullied at the gate, maybe more inside, but if he moved quick enough…

"You work for Adarys?" he asked, keeping his voice level.

Illyrio laughed. "Not quite. Not quite. Karo Adarys is an old acquaintance. A friend of the family, you might say. We've done business together over the years."

Matteno tensed, ready to move.

Before he could explode out of his seat, Illyrio lifted a hand. The gesture was casual, almost lazy. But something in it made Matteno pause.

"No, no. Do not worry, my pirate friend. I am not here to settle old debts. If anything, I want to alleviate them." Illyrio's smile was friendly, but his eyes were calculating. "Start anew and wipe the slate clean, as it were."

Matteno wet his lips. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to stay still. "You've got work for me?"

"Work is such a dirty word," Varys said, his voice like that of a child’s. Almost playful. "Think of it more as a long-term partnership."

Illyrio nodded enthusiastically. "Our future interests lie in the west now. And we need men who have some... experience with the people of that land."

"If you think killing and fucking them counts as experience..." Matteno said.

Illyrio laughed, slapping the table. "Those are the only ones that count, my friend! Yes, yes. You understand perfectly." He leaned forward, his expression turning serious despite the smile still on his lips. "I'm sure we will accomplish great things together. And you will not suffer for lack of coin for many a year to come, Matteno of Myr."

Matteno looked between the two of them. The merchant with his easy smiles and expensive silk. The soft eunuch with his giggles and sharp eyes.

Something was going on here. Something bigger than smuggling runs or pirate raids. These weren't men who dealt in petty schemes.

"What kind of work are we talking about?" he asked carefully.

Ilyrio’s smile turned knowing. "The profitable kind. The kind that will see you commanding a fleet instead of a single ship."

"And all we ask in return," Varys added, "is loyalty. Discretion. And the patience to wait for the right moment to strike."

"Strike at what?"

"Why, kingdoms of course," Varys said softly. "What else is there worth striking at?"

Matteno stared at them. He should walk away. Should refuse whatever insane scheme they were cooking up. Should take his ship and his crew and disappear into the Stepstones and never look back.

But he thought about the shitty inn. The petty jobs. The boredom eating away at him day by day.

And he thought about what Varys had said. A fleet. Real power. The kind of coin that could buy anything, even a boy’s fanciful dreams.

"Tell me more," Matteno said.

Illyrio's smile widened. "I knew you were a smart man. Now, let us discuss the details. But first—more wine! This calls for celebration!"

As servants rushed to refill cups and bring fresh food, Matteno settled back in his chair. He would hear them out and make up his mind after that. And if it all went to shit?

Well, he'd gotten out of worse situations before. 

Kind of.