The air in Illyrio's grand hall crackled with a silence heavier than any storm. The thunderous roar of Balerion outside still vibrated through the very stones, a raw, primal declaration of power. Magister Illyrio Mopatis, so recently jovial and self-assured, was now a pale, sweating mass, his golden robes suddenly seeming less regal and more like an ill-fitting shroud. His guards, rigid with terror, stared out at the colossal shadow in the courtyard.
Kaeto, reacting with swift, unthinking loyalty, stepped forward and pulled out a chair from the polished table, offering it to Maegor. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his stance radiating readiness to defend, or to kill. Lyra, a shadow behind Maegor, had already shifted her grip on a concealed dagger, her eyes darting, calculating angles, ready to throw at the slightest sign of treachery.
But Maegor did not sit. His eyes, burning purple, fixed first on Viserys Targaryen. The self-proclaimed "Beggar King" stood trembling, his jaw slack, his silver hair a mere wisp against the terrifying reality of a true dragon. His arrogance had crumbled, revealing the petulance and fear beneath.
Maegor strode towards Viserys, each step deliberate, heavy with ancient wrath. Viserys flinched, instinctively recoiling. Maegor's hand shot out, not drawing a blade, but landing a resounding, open-handed slap across Viserys's face. The crack echoed in the stunned silence. Viserys stumbled back, clutching his stinging cheek, tears welling in his eyes.
"You fool!" Maegor's voice was a whip, lashing out in High Valyrian, each word a condemnation. "You would sell your own kin for a mere alliance you would never truly control? You would bind a daughter of the Dragon to a savage in a tent, hoping to gain what your own cowardice could not win? A truly spineless idiot, born from that wretched Aerys and his madness!"
He leaned in close, his height towering over the shaking Viserys. His eyes burned into the younger man's, infusing the raw power of Draconic Persuasion into his words. "Kneel, Viserys. Kneel down to your true lord."
Viserys, utterly broken by the raw display of power, the very presence of a dragon, and the searing, contemptuous gaze of a true Targaryen, crumbled. He fell to his knees, trembling, openly weeping, utterly humiliated.
Maegor looked down at the pathetic figure. "You are not fit to be king," he declared, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "And you will never be. As the eldest Targaryen alive, save for my father who will soon join our ancestors, I, Maegor Targaryen, do hereby denounce any and all claim you have to the Iron Throne. Consider your lineage… severed." The final word hung in the air like a death knell to Viserys's pathetic ambitions.
Satisfied, Maegor turned, his presence still dominating the hall. He strode to the cushion Illyrio had offered him, took his seat with the casual grace of a conqueror, and fixed his unblinking gaze on the trembling Magister.
"Now, Magister Mopatis," Maegor began, his voice calm, yet laced with steel. The threat was implicit, undeniable. "What can you offer me not to burn you and your ill-gotten gains to ash? I do not care for your 'influence' in this city, nor your intricate schemes. What is your tangible offer for my inconvenience, and more importantly, for the well-being of my kin, whom you so carelessly risked?"
Illyrio, wiping sweat from his jowls with a silk handkerchief, swallowed hard. His eyes darted nervously between Maegor's burning gaze and the black shape of Balerion visible through the archway. He understood. This was not a negotiation; it was a price.
"My lord… my lord Targaryen," Illyrio stammered, scrambling for words, "I... I meant only to preserve your House! To ensure a future! I have always served the dragons!" He paused, his mind clearly working frantically to salvage something, anything.
"My lord," Illyrio continued, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual smoothness, albeit tinged with desperation, "I have… I have been a collector of rare and valuable things. And I believe I possess items that would be of significant interest to a… true dragon." He clapped his hands.
A servant, trembling, hurried forward. Illyrio gestured. From a hidden compartment in the wall, three large, intricately carved wooden chests were produced. With a flourish, Illyrio opened the first.
Lying within, nestled on velvet, were three more dragon eggs. One was a shimmering green, another a cream-and-gold, and the third, a pale blue streaked with bronze. Maegor felt a thrill, a surge of power within him, as his eyes rested on the eggs. They hummed with latent magic, ancient life. Balerion outside, as if sensing them, let out another sharp shriek.
"These, my lord," Illyrio panted, gesturing proudly, "are genuine, ancient dragon eggs. Gifts to me, from a lifetime of careful… acquisitions. Worth a king's ransom, each."
"And the others?" Maegor pressed, his voice flat, but his eyes gleaming.
Illyrio quickly opened the second chest. It was filled to the brim with glittering Gold Dragons, stacks of them, gleaming in the lamplight. "Ten thousand Gold Dragons, my lord," he announced, his voice regaining a hint of its old swagger. "For your immediate expenses. A gift."
He then opened the third chest, revealing ten powerful-looking men, clad in simple, functional armor, holding spears and shields. Their faces were impassive, their musculature evident. "And these, my lord, are ten of my finest slave guards. Strong, silent, utterly loyal, trained in shield and spear. They are yours. To serve you and your noble House."
Maegor observed the offerings. The eggs were priceless, a true measure of Illyrio's desperation and the depths of his long-term schemes. The gold was substantial. And the guards, while slaves, were formidable, a ready-made unit for his Targaryen Royal Guard (Minor Unit) recruitment.
"Your offer is… acceptable, Magister," Maegor finally said, a chillingly calm assessment. "It shows you understand the true value of your continued existence." He stood, his gaze sweeping over Viserys, who was still kneeling, sniveling. "I will be taking Viserys and Daenerys with me. They are my kin, and they will no longer be pawns in your games."
He turned to Lyra. "Lyra, you will accompany the slave guards. Ensure the eggs, the gold, and the Targaryen siblings are brought immediately to the Sea Serpent. Captain Jorah and the others will be waiting. Tell them to make ready for a swift departure once I return."
Lyra nodded, her movements quick and efficient. She approached the terrified Daenerys, offering a small, reassuring nod, then motioned for the slave guards to move. Viserys, still a sniveling mess, was practically dragged to his feet by one of the burly guards.
As Lyra and the others began to usher the precious cargo out, Maegor turned back to Illyrio, a glint in his purple eyes that promised either a partnership or utter destruction. "Now, Magister," Maegor said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "there is one more matter. Khal Drogo. I understand he is still within your manse. You will take me to him. I have a… conversation I wish to have with the horselord."
Illyrio, seeing the cold, unyielding resolve in Maegor's gaze, knew there was no refusing. He had faced kings before, but never a Targaryen with a dragon roaring in his courtyard. The price of his life had just gone up, but he was still breathing.
"As you command, my lord," Illyrio said, rising slowly, his fat face still pale but a flicker of his usual cunning returning. Perhaps this new dragon could still be manipulated, still be an asset. "It would be my… my honor to introduce you."