The night before the meeting with Illyrio was long and restless for Maegor. He sat in the dim light of his rented room, the Serpent's Sting laid across his lap, its Valyrian steel gleam a cold comfort. Balerion, now undeniably large, snored softly in his crate, a miniature mountain of black scales. He was the size of a large dog, perhaps, but certainly not an adult cow yet, though his growth had been astonishing. He was a creature of immense power, even at his present size, capable of serious harm with his claws and teeth, and perhaps a nascent flame.
Maegor considered his options. Diplomacy with Illyrio was paramount, but diplomacy without leverage was begging. And begging was not in his nature, nor in the nature of the ancient soul now so deeply intertwined with his own. He needed to impress, to dominate, to show Illyrio that he was not merely another desperate claimant, but a force to be reckoned with.
"Dominance," the voice of Maegor the Cruel whispered in his mind. "A display. A whisper of true power."
He settled on a bold, dangerous plan. A calculated risk.
He waited until the deepest part of the night, when the city was quiet save for the distant lapping of water in the canals. Then, he unlatched Balerion's crate. The dragon stretched, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. Maegor knelt, stroking the warm, scaly head.
"Balerion," he murmured, his voice low, resonating with the ancient tongue of his ancestors. He spoke in High Valyrian, the words rolling off his tongue with a fluid ease the System had enhanced. "Fly, my shadow. Let your wings carry you high above this city. Be unseen, a whisper on the wind. But be ready. When I call, you will answer. And you will descend like a storm. Do you understand, my son?"
Balerion chuffed, a puff of warm air, and nudged Maegor's hand. He was still small enough to fit through the narrow window, and with a powerful beat of his wings, he launched himself into the night, a silent, black streak against the star-dusted sky. Maegor watched until he was a mere speck, then closed the window. The Flame Adaptation (Tier 1) hummed within him, a nascent connection to the soaring beast.
The next evening, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the Pentosian sky in hues of orange and purple, Maegor made his way to Magister Illyrio's manse. He had instructed Ryker and Gor to remain discreetly behind, ready to act if trouble arose. Instead, he took Kaeto and Lyra with him, trusting their quiet competence more than brute force for this initial, delicate dance.
As they approached the imposing gate of Illyrio's manse, a marvel of gilded domes and marble columns, Maegor made a strategic decision. "Kaeto," he said, adjusting the hood over his black-dyed hair, "you will lead. You are the face of this company. I am merely your… strategist. Lyra will be my shadow."
Kaeto, understanding the subtle play, nodded. He was a sellsword, a man of lesser standing than a Magister, but his confidence, bolstered by his newfound Targaryen identity and Maegor's subtle influence, was palpable. He approached the liveried guards at the gate with an air of quiet authority.
"We have an appointment with Magister Illyrio," Kaeto stated, his voice clear. "A.M.'s company."
The guards, though large and heavily armored, recognized the Magister's seal on the letter Kaeto presented. They nodded, unbarring the gate.
They were led through lush courtyards filled with exotic plants and bubbling fountains, past servants moving silently, their faces unreadable. Maegor observed everything, every shadow, every potential vantage point, his mind calculating. The opulence was a clear display of power, meant to impress and intimidate. His Valyrian Insight (Tier 2) picked up faint echoes of ancient magic in the very stones of the manse, a subtle energy that spoke of deeper, forgotten arts.
They were ushered into a grand reception hall, adorned with silken tapestries and gleaming mosaics. And there, seated on an enormous cushion, was Magister Illyrio Mopatis. He was as vast as a whale, his golden robes shimmering, his smile wide and unctuous. Beside him, like decorative figures, stood two silent guards with a faint, unsettling aura.
"Ah, my esteemed A.M.," Illyrio boomed, his voice a jovial rumble that didn't quite reach his shrewd eyes. "And his companions. Welcome, welcome. I confess, your message piqued my curiosity. So rare to find such… intriguing propositions." He gestured to a set of cushions opposite him. "Pray, be seated."
Kaeto, playing his role, stepped forward. "Magister. We thank you for your hospitality. My lord A.M. prefers to remain in the background, a man of thought more than words, for now. But he is indeed here to discuss the 'sensitive arrangements' you alluded to."
Illyrio's smile widened, but his eyes were like chips of obsidian, sharp and calculating. "Indeed. A man of thought, you say? A man who hides his face and allows his… retainer to speak for him. Intriguing. But one cannot truly gauge a man's worth if one cannot see his eyes, hm?" His gaze flickered to Maegor, hidden behind Kaeto.
Just then, a side door opened. Maegor's peripheral vision caught the movement. His blood surged. Entering the hall, looking small and fragile beside a tall, impatient young man, were Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Viserys, with his silver hair and arrogant smirk, was already looking around as if searching for someone more important. Daenerys, however, seemed lost, her violet eyes wide and fearful in her unfamiliar Dothraki silks. She was beautiful, undeniably, even in her misery.
Maegor's eyes locked onto them for a brief, intense moment. He felt the pull of their shared blood, a strange resonance that was now amplified by his Valyrian Insight. My kin.
He felt the ancient Maegor within him stir, a surge of possessiveness and cold resolve. This was the moment. The time for subtlety was over.
He reached out, his hand resting on Kaeto's shoulder, a silent signal. Kaeto, knowing the plan, stopped speaking mid-sentence. All eyes turned to Maegor.
With a fluid, unhurried motion, Maegor reached up. His fingers found the knot in the leather thong that held his hood. He pulled it back, slowly, deliberately. The black dye, though fading slightly, still clung to his hair. He reached up again, running his hands through his hair, raking the last of the artificial darkness away, letting the shimmering silver-white spill around his shoulders. Then, he met Illyrio's gaze, his own purple eyes burning with an ancient fire.
Illyrio's smile faltered. His eyes, for the first time, widened in genuine shock. Viserys, who had been about to stride forward, froze, his mouth agape. Daenerys gasped, a small, fragile sound.
Maegor allowed the silence to stretch, letting the truth wash over them. Then, he spoke, his voice no longer just that of a hidden merchant, but of a king, a dragon, resurrected. He spoke in a blend of Common and High Valyrian, his words ringing with an authority that left no room for doubt.
"Magister Illyrio Mopatis," Maegor began, his voice deep and resonant, the Draconic Persuasion (Tier 2) now fully engaged, pressing down on everyone in the room, filling them with awe and a primal sense of danger. "I apologize for the disguise. Necessity, you understand. But the time for such games is over."
He took a slow step forward, away from Kaeto and Lyra, establishing himself. His gaze swept over Viserys, then lingered on Daenerys, a silent promise in his eyes. He turned back to Illyrio, his expression hardening.
"My letter spoke of 'sensitive arrangements'," Maegor continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "And indeed, you have made one. You host the last scions of House Targaryen. You traffic in their futures, arranging alliances for your own gain. But you seem to have forgotten something, Magister."
He raised his voice, loud enough to echo through the grand hall, loud enough to reach Viserys and Daenerys. "You have forgotten the Dragon."
And then, he unleashed it.
"Balerion!" Maegor roared, the word a thunderclap in the ancient tongue. "Descend! Show them the truth of the Dragon's return!"
A terrifying, familiar shriek ripped through the air outside the manse. A shadow, far larger than before, fell over the open courtyard, blocking out the last of the setting sun. From the sky, with a rush of wind and a beat of leathery wings, Balerion descended. He was indeed no larger than an adult cow now, his scales gleaming like polished obsidian, his eyes burning with an intelligent, hungry fire. He landed with a thud in the courtyard, his roar shaking the very foundations of the manse, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand years of fire and blood.
The guards in the hall scrambled, their hands going to their swords, but their faces were pale with terror. Illyrio Mopatis, for all his practiced composure, looked like he had seen a ghost, his wide smile finally gone, replaced by naked fear. Viserys stumbled back, eyes wide, a choked gasp escaping him. Daenerys, however, lifted her head, her purple eyes fixed on the magnificent creature in the courtyard, a flicker of something long dormant igniting within their depths.
Maegor stood tall, the reborn Dragon, his silver hair catching the fading light, his purple eyes burning. "Now, Magister," he said, his voice cold and clear, "let us discuss these 'sensitive arrangements' of yours. And what it will cost you to keep your head attached to your fat body."