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Chapter 646
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 18:18:38 +0000 UTCAs a man who had spent over a decade hiding his fangs, Illyrio Mopatis refused to let his curtain call be a simple, pathetic surrender. He was still the Magistrate of Pentos, the envoy of one of the Nine Free Cities—a position that might not save him from this predicament, but it could certainly be used to make his enemies suffer one last time.
Beyond the city gates lay the docks. Beyond the docks, the Blackwater Rush, Dragonstone, and the inner and outer naval patrol lines of the Queen’s fleet. If the Hand of the Queen was truly intent on capturing him, he would be dragged back even if he made it onto a ship. A few moments’ head start would mean nothing.
If he was already being hunted, then there was no need to scurry like a headless fly, clinging to his diplomatic status in a blind panic. Better to walk out the front gate calmly—if escape was still possible, three extra minutes wouldn’t make the difference.
His head was buzzing, and the frantic shouts around him faded into the background.
The City-States Alliance.
Outside the carriage window, as expected, chaos erupted. Shouts, scuffling boots, and the clattering of weapons. The steady movement of his carriage halted.
A nervous voice called from the driver’s seat. "My lord, the gate guards are stopping all traffic. Looks like they’re here for us. What do we do?"
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The announcement of declassified weapons research should have been a perfect trap—but King's Landing hadn't gone into lockdown. That meant one of two things:This wasn’t meant for him.His sudden flight had caught his enemies off guard.
But being captured was not an option. Without him pulling strings from the outside, Daenerys’ army would steamroll the Reach, crushing its defenders with terrifying efficiency. That alone was disastrous—but even worse, he himself was running out of road.
He couldn’t go home.
Not to Pentos, not now.
If he did the numbers, all his liquid assets wouldn’t even cover a fraction of his debts.
And now, the riders had arrived.
Dressed in black.
He exhaled sharply. As expected, the next step would be a search of his carriage—and without a doubt, one of those black-clad men would "find" stolen gunpowder schematics hidden inside.
From there, it would all unravel.
He would be detained. His efforts to pry into Night’s Watch military secrets would be exposed. And if things spiraled further, witnesses would appear—ones who would swear that he had orchestrated the poisoning in Winterfell.
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But there was a way out.
He had to convince the Vale to take the risk.
Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to expect them to march on the Crownlands—not even if Jon Arryn himself rose from the grave. Even if Yohn Royce had the balls for it, neither the old Blackfish nor that seizure-ridden little falcon of a Lord could pull off such madness.
But if the Vale army marched to the Bloody Gate, if they merely stationed troops along the Vale-Riverlands border, making a show of "renegotiating their terms of fealty", then—
Even if they never took a single step further, they could create a new northern front for Daenerys to consider.
Even a mere threat would force her to slow down in the Reach, giving Aegon’s forces breathing room—buying time.
And time was what he needed most.
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Returning to Essos was an option. He could continue building the City-States Alliance, but distant waters can’t put out nearby fires.
And more pressingly—he couldn’t go back empty-handed.
If he returned to Pentos having failed, the other magistrates would rip him apart. Whether it was fines, asset seizures, or enforced debt repayments, they would break him financially before his feet even touched the docks.
Illyrio had built his empire on a carefully maintained illusion—a grand performance, smoke and mirrors keeping his faction intact.
But if those watching from the sidelines realized the truth—that Illyrio Mopatis, one of the richest men in Pentos, was actually a walking corpse, his fortune long drained dry in pursuit of Aegon’s doomed cause—
They would pounce.
Debt collectors. Rivals. Old enemies.
If he limped back to Pentos as a failure, they would not save him.
They would tear him apart.
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His position had been precarious for a while, but he had always known how to play the game—always found a way to keep the mask in place.
Even now, he had one last trick.
The City-States Alliance.
A Valyrian Freehold without dragons—a coalition of city-states meant to counter Daenerys. It was a half-baked dream, still in its infancy, and the Dragon Queen herself hadn’t even blinked at it.
But the Vale didn’t know that.
Right now, the lords of the Vale were paralyzed—uncertain of where to stand. The Riverlands and the North, their traditional allies, had already thrown their weight behind Daenerys.
Yet it was too late for the Vale to swear fealty and expect a warm welcome—they had hesitated for too long, and if they bent the knee now, they would receive little favor and even less reward.
The Vale needed leverage.
And Illyrio could give them that.
He just had to whisper in the right ears:
"The war won’t end in the Reach. Once the Tyrells are crushed, Daenerys will turn east—to face the full might of the Free Cities. The Nine City-States stand united against her, and they are looking for allies. You need not commit—only position yourselves wisely. Hold your ground. Negotiate from strength."
And on top of that, just a few tangible benefits—nothing large, but just enough to nudge them forward.
If he could make them hesitate, make them move, then perhaps—just perhaps—he could still play another round.
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"Not much of a line," Illyrio murmured, stroking his massive gut as he thought. "We’ll wait our turn."
His voice was steady, calm.
Inside the carriage, however, cold sweat ran down his back in thick rivulets.
He had no idea what to do.
His enemies had closed every escape route. Unless R’hllor himself descended from the heavens, there was no way he was leaving King’s Landing alive.
And from what he had gathered—even the Red Priests had sided with Daenerys.
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The bitter irony wasn’t lost on him.
Here he was, wracking his brain, searching for ways to sabotage his enemies, to create one last disaster for them—
But he had failed to realize his enemies had already planned how to kill him.
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Retreating to King’s Landing proper was not an option. His last standing orders had already been executed—his espionage efforts in the Night’s Watch would continue without him.
Even if there was only a one percent chance that this was a trap meant for him, he could not take the risk of staying.
His mind raced.
There was only one hope left.
The Vale.
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Beyond the carriage, his loyal retainers remained steadfast, but they were not suicidal fanatics. They would kill for him, they would sleep with him, but they would not die for him.
If he wanted this final play to work, he would have to make the first move himself.
His mind had been set on returning to Pentos—but now, as he thought more deeply, he realized that path had already closed.
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The chaos of the marketplace swirled around him—vendors shouting, customers haggling, dogs barking, children laughing.
The familiar rhythm of life.
For a moment, Illyrio almost believed he had made it.
Then—
The sound of galloping hooves.
From the northern end of the street.
His heartbeat staggered.
He lifted the carriage curtain, peering out.
And what he saw shattered his final illusions.
