Chapter 147: Big Terrace
In the gardens of Governor Illyrio's manse, Daenerys was enjoying a moment of solitude after lunch. She lay half-reclined on a lounge chair, letting the warm sun wash over her.
This was the only free time she had left. In a few days, she would marry Khal Drogo. Then she would follow his khalasar to the distant city of Vaes Dothraki, a journey to meet the Dosh Khaleen—the council of widowed khaleesis who governed the sacred city—and seek their prophecies for the wars to come.
Vaes Dothraki was even farther east than Qohor, the last of the Free Cities, lying across the vast Dothraki Sea. She had heard it was a sea of grass, not water, but as for why it was called a sea, Daenerys did not know. She only knew that the journey would be very long.
And then, Drogo would give her brother an army. Viserys would finally go home. He would take back the Seven Kingdoms and their father's Iron Throne.
*But what about me?* she could not help but ask herself.
Though she always forced the question down, it surfaced again and again, a persistent and unwelcome guest in her thoughts.
*What about me?*
Viserys never mentioned it. Illyrio remained silent on the matter. But Daenerys understood what it meant to marry the Horse King.
She would never go home.
She would never see the home Viserys had spoken of for as long as she could remember, the home she knew only from stories of brick and tile.
The black fortress on Dragonstone, built with the lost arts of Valyrian stonemasons.
The Red Keep on the shores of King's Landing, with the terrifying skulls of dragons resting in the darkness beneath it.
The Seven Kingdoms and their people, suffering under the usurper's rule.
Instead, an unknown husband and an uncivilized people awaited her. She had overheard Illyrio's maids whispering that a Dothraki khal shared everything with his bloodriders—everything except his horses. That included his wife.
Daenerys could not understand it. How could a horse be more precious than a wife? The thought left her with nothing but fear.
*I am the blood of the dragon,* Dany whispered in her heart. *And dragons are not afraid.*
*I am the blood of the dragon,* she repeated.
Unfortunately, the fear would not be dispelled.
Suddenly, she heard a sound. First, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, and then the creak of an iron gate being pushed open.
"Ian!" Daenerys cried out, her voice filled with unmistakable joy when she saw who it was.
Ian heard her call and saw the Targaryen princess in the courtyard. She wore a long velvet gown threaded with gold and silver, her shoulders and collarbones left bare. The bodice, half-covered with fine Myrish lace, was cut to fit her form perfectly.
"Your Highness," Ian said, greeting her with a slight, polite bow.
After leaving Hazan that morning, he had returned to Illyrio's manse, intending to find Jorah and trick him into taking Hazan's assessment. He hadn't expected to run into Daenerys here. He was in no hurry to win her favor; there would be plenty of time for that later.
"Have you seen Ser Jorah?" Ian asked. "I need to speak with him."
"Yes," Daenerys nodded. "He was here just a moment ago. He should be over there now." She pointed toward a small, moss-covered door set into a stone wall. "Behind that is a large terrace. From there, you can see a panoramic view of the entire city of Pentos."
"Thank you," Ian said, bowing again in farewell.
He had only taken a few steps when he heard her trotting after him.
"My lord," she began, her voice hesitant, "do you truly believe my brother can lead you to retake the throne?"
Ian turned, surprised. He had not expected such a question from a girl of her age. "Your Highness?"
"Forgive me, my lord," Daenerys said, looking as if she instantly regretted her words. But after a moment's hesitation, she pressed on, voicing the thoughts she had held back during Drogo's feast.
"I only wish to warn you. Viserys is… a very selfish person. Cold and violent. He might be smiling at you one moment, and the next, he could order your head chopped off. Please, be careful when you serve him."
Having spoken the treasonous words, Daenerys gathered the hem of her skirt and quickly ran off.
*Cut off my head?* Ian thought with a flicker of amusement. *Viserys is surrounded by my men. If I didn't kill him first, he'd be the one getting burned.* Still, she must have wrestled with herself to offer such a warning. It seemed his previous efforts to make a good impression had not been wasted.
Raising an eyebrow, Ian hummed a quiet tune as he crossed the courtyard and passed through the door Daenerys had indicated.
Beyond the door, a path led up the mountainside. The trail was paved with bluestone, each step carefully laid, making the ascent less steep than it appeared. Lush woods flanked the path, a mix of oak, pine, and camphor trees whose branches grew thick and tangled overhead. Beneath them, dense shrubs fought for space, with smokeberry vines twining through their leaves.
Ian, followed by Rohr and Case, made his way up the path. The climb took a full half-hour, and Ian could not help but marvel at the sheer scale of Illyrio's estate, shocked by the wealth and the immense power it represented.
As he stepped onto the large terrace, he immediately spotted several of Illyrio's servants and, sitting on a stone couch, Jorah Mormont. The exiled knight was cleaning his sword. He wore no armor, only a dark green woolen tunic embroidered with the standing black bear of his house, a clear sign of his confidence in the security of the manse.
The moment Ian and his companions set foot on the stone, Jorah looked up, his gaze wary and doubtful as he took in the uninvited guests.
"We meet again, ser," Ian said, walking toward him.
"I am no 'ser'," Jorah replied coldly. "Not from the moment I left Bear Island."
"What? His Majesty has not granted you a new title?"
"His Majesty?" Jorah let out a bitter laugh. "Hah! A title! Hahahaha!"
In a sense, Ian had to admit, it was a joke. He waited quietly until the man's cynical laughter subsided.
"Alright, bastard," Jorah finally said, his tone sharp. "What do you want?"
"My name is Ian Darry, Earl of Darry, and Hand of the King to His Majesty, Viserys the Third," Ian said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I believe you are showing me a lack of respect." He hadn't expected Jorah's contempt for Viserys to be so openly displayed.
"Fine," Jorah said with a noncommittal shrug. He offered a mock apology, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "My apologies, Lord Hand. I meant no offense. Do you have some order for me?"
"You seem to be short of money," Ian observed, glancing at Jorah's worn and dirty clothes.
The knight's face paled almost instantly.
*Money! Money! Damn the money!*
It was for lack of money that he had sold those poachers and lost his title. For lack of money, he had become a hedge knight, only for his wife to leave him for another man. And now, for lack of money, this damned bastard dared to humiliate him to his face? *I'll make you pay for that!*
"I can provide you with an opportunity to earn some," Ian said, pretending not to notice the storm brewing in Jorah's eyes. "Prince Hazan of Pentos is offering a high price—one thousand gold dragons per man—to recruit champions for a tourney the day after tomorrow. His Majesty, King Viserys, has already sided with Prince Hazan."
He let the offer hang in the air. "I came to ask if you are interested in fighting in the name of House Targaryen."
"One thousand gold dragons?" The murderous look on Jorah's face vanished. "In Astapor, a thousand gold dragons could buy most of an Unsullied century," he mused aloud. "And I only need to fight for this prince once?"
"There are seven men on each side," Ian explained. "The bouts are one-on-one. A victor may rest after a match, but he must continue to fight in subsequent rounds until all combatants on one side are defeated." He paused. "If you are willing, you can come with me tonight for the trials. But you may not be qualified."
"You will see if I am qualified," Jorah said, his voice hard with confidence. "I will find you after dinner. I need to make some preparations." With that, he rose and quickly strode off the terrace.
Ian walked to the stone balustrade at the edge of the overlook and gazed down the mountainside. In the distance, he could see the square brick towers of Pentos, a large red temple, and the sprawling compound of its priests.
Farther out, the sun danced on the dark waters of the bay. Fishing boats with white sails fluttering in the wind moved gracefully in and out of the harbor.
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