Jon

Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a couple of Unsullied stood on the flanks. The nine-towered manse of Illyrio Mopatis sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been the biggest building Jon had seen in Pentos, far more larger than the mere brick houses that littered the streets around it.

The Free Cities did always focus more on wealth and finer things in life and so was the man the Hand of the King was meeting now on his King's commands. The magister met him at a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. The sunlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them.

Jon doubted that his quest in the east would yield any results but he still had to try for his King's need. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savoury things. He would not be the man one would like to come asking for an army but Jon Connington knew what Illyrio Mopatis was truly made of.

He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the JadeSea. It was also said that he'd never had a friend he wouldn't cheerfully sell for the right price. Jon knew about the man with his dealings with Rhaegar Targaryen in the past. If it was in his say, he would have kept the man as far away as possible. But Jon couldn't question his King's decisions. What the King dreams, the Hand builds, that was what they said in the Seven Kingdoms. And now his king dreamed for the support of the wealth and swords of his friends from the east and it had fell to Jon to get it for him. But that didn't mean he trusted the magister. Any friend of Varys the Spider is someone Jon Connington would trust just as far as he could throw him.

Beneath the balcony where they met six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the Hand a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel. Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. Beyond that was the free city of Pentos. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, a great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance, sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking up along the shore. If only he could convince this one man, I could get Rhaegar a new fleet to make up for the one lost in Oldtown.

Pentos was a different place, different from King's Landing or the Stormlands. Even the air smells different here. Strange spices scented the chilly autumn wind, and he could hear faint cries drifting over the wall from the streets beyond. It sounded something like Valyrian, but he did not recognize more than one word in five. He had learned to read High Valyrian as a boy from the maester of Griffin's Roost, though what they spoke in the Nine Free Cities was not as original as the one spoken by the Dragonlords of the freehold.

"So the King of the Seven Kingdoms need my help to put down the dog who threatens to bite his hand off," the magister of Pentos said. "I am a merchant, Lord Hand, not a warlord. I deal in wine and cheese and other lavish items, not soldiers. You should have gone to Braavos or Tyrosh or Volantis or any of the slaver cities if you wished to find an army for your king."

Jon had visited them on his way here. Half of them had given the same answer as this one did. It was all profit with the merchant princes of the Free Cities. Should a day ever dawn when Illyrio Mopatis saw more profit in a dead dragon than a live one, Jon had no doubt that they would soon find the wealth of Pentos turned against them, and his friends following him.

"I had met with them on my way here," Jon said. "Lys and Tyrosh are lending their support. If you could offer your support then that would tilt the entire scale on our favour. We know your influence here in the east."

"The Arbor has the best navy in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon continued. "Half it it is trapped within the walls of Oldtown. If we could free them we'll put an armada together large enough to challenge the Braavosi fleet. For that we'll need to go in a warship, not fishing boats and pleasure barges."

"I have no warships. War is bad for trade. Many times I have told you, Illyrio Mopatis is a man of peace."

Illyrio Mopatis is a man of gold, the Hand of the King thought. But his gold could buy me all the ships and swords Rhaegar needs. "I have not asked you to take up a sword, only to lend us your ships and support."

He smiled modestly. "Of trading ships I have a few, that is so. Who can say how many? One may be sinking even now, in some stormy corner of the Summer Sea. On the morrow, another will fall afoul of corsairs. The next day, one of my captains may look at the wealth in his hold and think, All this should belong to me. Such are the perils of trade. Why, the longer we talk, the fewer ships I am likely to have. I grow poorer by the instant."

"Your king has a good nose in sniffing out where you could find support." Illyrio wiped his lips clean off the wine he was drinking. "But I'm afraid he has chosen the wrong friend to come to. I would rather sail my ships across the Jade Sea over to Yi-Ti where they make a golden vintage so fine that one sip makes all other wines taste like vinegar. I would sooner have my ships broke down in storms rather than sending them off to war to be burned and wrecked in return for nothing. You would do well to stay away from the Seven Kingdoms as well."

"I mean to sail to Westeros, and drink the wine of vengeance from the skull of the Andrew Stark with or without your help." Jon scratched his fiery beard with a certain determination. He felt suddenly uncertain about coming there. What was the purpose of sailing all the way here to the east only to get back empty handed. Empty handed when his king depended upon his success here.

A single perfect drop of wine ran down the jiggling chin of Magister Illyrio. He looked up at Jon as if he was mocking or or if he was weighing up the truth in his words. "Suppose I get you the help you need, what am I going to receive in return for my help?"

Probably nothing, he wanted to say the truth. Rhaegar had sent him over to win them off to his cause but he had never said what offers he was making for this support of his friends from the east. The king had extended the call in the name of friendship but Illyrio would pay enough attention to such friendship as much as he does to horse piss. "His grace's friendship," the Hand of the King said. "It's not long before when King Rhaegar helped you in your city's war against Myr. You received the support of the Iron Throne when you needed it and we are expecting the same in return."

Illyrio laughed as if he knew the truth hidden beneath the ploy. In truth Rhaegar had muddled himself in the affairs of the east to cut down any ties the Northern Queen, Ashara Dayne had made with the North and the Free Cities. Myr and Braavos had been the cities to entertain closer ties with the North during the time of the Outlaw King. And his fall broke the back of any trade which centered between the North and the Free Cities.

But the Dragonking had found it hard in himself to leave such friends alive since they could shelter any old loyalties tied with the dead. And with the boy escaped they could not risk it even for a bit especially when there could be a day when Myrish sellsails and the fleet of Braavos could come back to the doorstep of King's Landing raising the direwolf banner of House Stark. So when Pentos along with Tyrosh and Lys started their war against Myr to curb their growing power they had turned to the support of the Iron Throne, hoping to turn the King's old enmity with Eddard Stark onto his allies. Rhaegar had lent his support willingly and destroyed the ruling conclave of magisters and replaced them with his own friends. Every influential man in Myr who had extended their friendship with the Outlaw King had lost their life that day.

When Braavos heard of what happened to Myr the Sealord must have known what was coming to him as well. Instead of bringing Fire and Blood to the island, Rhaegar extended the hand of friendship one which the Braavosi were quick to take upon. After all there is no trade to be done with dead men.

"Even if I give you my ships and the ships of all my friends, you'll have no crew to sail them. The justice of your cause means naught to the common men of Pentos. Why should my sailors care who sits upon the throne of some kingdom at the edge of the world?"

"We will pay them to care."

"They don't love your gold enough to embrace death when they could earn more than that in my trading galleys without the risk of dying."

"Sellswords and sellsails can always do with more gold."

"That they may do," Illyrio acknowledged, "but so much of your gold will be wasted on the likes of sellswords and sellsails. They will turn back and run at the first sight of the Dragonslayer, if not before that. They will care more about your gold than your king's protection."

That annoyed Jon Connington more than anything. It was as if the man had already made up his mind to not lend any support to King Rhaegar. He was evading any offers Jon had made him and found issues with all. "If you wouldn't help, perhaps I should leave and ask for the help of Volantis?"

Illyrio gave a languid shrug. "They will give you nothing but flattery and lies. Volantis would never raise it's sails unless there is something in it for them. Unlike with Pentos or Tyrosh or Braavos your King has done nothing for the triarchs. The Seven Kingdoms mean nothing for Old Volantis."

Perhaps I should burn Pentos down and put Volantis in its position. Then they would be more than willing to help us out against the false King. "Perhaps I should just make an example out of you to these great magisters," Jon said impatient. "King Rhaegar never tolerates betrayal. Keep off from your word and I promise you that you will reap the rewards. When we finish with the traitor in the Seven Kingdoms, we will come for you with Fire and Blood. The dragon does not forget."

That seemed to amuse the lord of cheese no end. He slapped a meaty thigh and said, "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all wolves or dragons or eagles. I have no doubt you have met a real dragon, my friend. They are big enough to drape cities with their shadows and breathe fire. Do you think our noble King Rhaegar can do either of those?"

The lords of the Seven Kingdoms did make rather much of their sigils, Jon had to admit. But he would not let this cheesemonger mock his King in front of him. "No, he couldn't" he conceded. "But he has the necessary dragons under his command to do that for him."

"And still the Born King is very much alive and he is winning victories in the lands ruled by King Rhaegar and his dragons."

How are these stories getting across the seas so fast? The Hand of the King had no answer for that. The magisters of Myr had known it as well and so did the Archon of Tyrosh. And now the Pentoshi magister as well. He had to turn the tide soon enough or else he might lose the chance to set sail in the waters he has hoped to take. If they know we are losing they would not be so willing to help us. "For now," Jon said. "And with the help of the traitors. We will deal with him in short time with the dragons and with your help it would be much more quicker."

"There are those in Westeros who would say otherwise," Illyrio said. "Even here in Pentos there are those who say that killing the dragons was merely a good beginning."

They had best not say it in his grace's hearing, or they will find themselves armed and armoured to go do the job themselves. Jon took a deep sigh and looked up at the magister. "You had best be careful what you say of the royal family, magister. It is high treason to even talk of such things."

"What is treason to one king is the show of devotion of loyalty to another. In Pentos we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. Three heralds go before him with the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge of justice. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the maid of the fields and the maid of the seas." Illyrio leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease the gods and choose a new prince from amongst the forty families."

The Lord Hand was unamused. "Remind me never to become the Prince of Pentos."

"Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace in Westeros, no justice, no faith ... and soon enough, no food. When men are starving and sick of fear, they look for a saviour."

He had the truth of it, Jon knew at once. The best part of the Seven Kingdoms might have broken into two factions but the smallfolk cared not for who sit the Iron Throne. The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are. "We could make Rhaegar that saviour with your help," Jon said. "If you could lent your support."

Illyrio opened his arms. "I could give you the ships and the food, but you should look for soldiers elsewhere."

You will get no help in this city, Lord Hand." Illyrio Mopatis took an onion between thumb and forefinger. "Each day you spend here wasting your time on finding sellswords and sellsails lets the Dragonslayer move up against your king little by little and the Targaryens hold on the Iron Throne slipping away slowly."

There was wisdom in those words, Jon thought. He was getting no help from Pentos, only wasting his time. He was getting more convinced of that than the day before. The Prince of Pentos saw no farther than the walls of his city as long as there was something in it for him.

"What do you suggest?" Jon asked.

"Get your ships and change course for Slaver's Bay."

Jon was not certain he liked the sound of that at all. Everything he'd ever heard of the flesh marts in the great slave cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor was plainly unacceptable and detestable. "What is there for us in Slaver's Bay?"

"An army," said Magister Illyrio. "One that would be much more stronger and fiercer than any sellswords I could buy for you. If pit fighters are much to your liking you can buy hundreds and thousands out of the fighting pits of Meereen . . . but it is Astapor where the real prize stands. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied."

"The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?" Jon had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. He knew what they were made of. But the notion of bringing a slave army into Westeros didn't sit well with him. "Why should I want Unsullied and any slave army? King Rhaegar leads free men into battle, not slaves."

"Slavery is forbidden in Pentos, by the terms of the treaty the Braavosi imposed on us a hundred years ago. Still, it's almost as if there are five slaves for every free man in the city. And we use the unsullied to guard our homes as well." Illyrio gave a ponderous half bow. The fat man's eyes glittered like the gemstones on his fingers. "It seems to me that his grace lacks for free men to do his battles," Illyrio said. "Else you wouldn't be here now. Besides he had made common cause with the wise masters before."

That Jon Connington could not deny. His king's friendships had extended so far to the east that he meddled with the slaver cities and it's masters as a result his involvements across the Narrow Sea. The unsullied who tore down the walls of Myr had acted under his commands.

Illyrio tore a chunk of a black bread and put it inside his mouth. "If it's any comfort for you they would not be slaves once you buy them off from the slavers. They would be free men, as free as any sellswords you could get. Only these would fear neither dragons nor dragonslayers."

That. . . could work, Jon Connington knew. The magister was not as devious and gluttonous as he had thought him to be. Illyrio was clever, he will give him that. "That could work," the King's Hand said.

"So that's it," the magister slapped his large belly and laughed heartily. "I could give you my wealth to by the Unsullied and the ships to get them back onto Westeros. Between the Unsullied, the sellswords and our combined fleet we should be able to deal with the Dragonslayer with ease."

Jon could not join onto his happiness and laughter for he was too bothered by the notion of what Illyrio Mopatis was going to ask in return for his help.