Chapter 630

Like a dream.

Swaying gently with each step of the bearers carrying his luxurious palanquin, Illyrio Mopatis found himself caught between astonishment and fear.

He had not crossed the Narrow Sea just to see Daenerys Targaryen.

Or rather, not only to see her.

A month ago, in the grand halls of a Magister’s estate in Pentos, Illyrio had received the devastating news—Varys was dead.

His only true friend. His greatest partner.

The architect and mastermind of a twenty-year plan, gone.

Not in King’s Landing.

Not in some courtly intrigue.

But in the far North, in a castle that was never part of their calculations, murdered by his own attendants.

Illyrio had thought he had already experienced the most shocking and terrifying moment of his life.

He had been wrong.

So, so wrong.

When he first heard the news, he had not felt grief.

Nor fear.

Just suffocating urgency.

Varys’ death meant that their two decades of careful planning—the scheme they had gambled everything on—was now without its director.

They had spent their lives, their fortunes, their everything to push this game to its final act.

Now, there was a very real possibility that all of it would go to waste.

That they had labored only to hand their efforts to another.

That—

—was unacceptable.

Illyrio had wasted no time.

He had ordered ships prepared, arranged his passage, and sailed for Westeros immediately.

His goal?

To arrive before Daenerys took King’s Landing—before things spiraled too far beyond control.

To seize the baton where Varys had fallen, to complete what he failed to accomplish.

To unite the Black and Red Dragons—to arrange the marriage and alliance between Daenerys and Young Aegon, so that the true blood of Valyria could merge once more.

That had been the plan.

That had been his purpose.

And then?

Then his fleet had entered Blackwater Bay.

Then they had been intercepted by patrols.

Then he had heard—

Daenerys had already fought and defeated Aegon.

Not just that—

She had beaten him to a pulp and exiled him.

And in a single decisive battle, she had taken King’s Landing.

Oh, and in the meantime, she had also destroyed the Iron Fleet and killed the King of the Iron Islands.

Illyrio had no words.

The grand design he had spent his life admiring, the brilliant conspiracy so immaculate in its complexity, had not merely gone off course.

It had been shattered beyond recognition.

It had collapsed into complete and utter ruin.
----


When had it all gone wrong?

Illyrio felt a chill run through his entire body.

He forced himself to think.

Had the disaster begun when Varys personally traveled to the North to retrieve Daenerys?

No. That had been necessary—a desperate attempt to correct the plan before it spiraled further.

If Varys had stayed behind, Littlefinger would have gained absolute control over the Queen.

Had it gone wrong when Daenerys abandoned her meeting with Aegon, flying North instead?

No. She had gone to fight the dead, an entirely logical decision.

Even a Queen could not rule a kingdom of corpses.

He continued working backward, tracing each misstep.

If Viserys had not provoked Khal Drogo and died, and if Drogo had not perished from a pointless wound, his entire khalasar would have already sailed for Westeros. They would have been the perfect cannon fodder for Aegon’s invasion.

If Jaime and Cersei’s incest had not been exposed early, the Lannisters would not have been attacked so soon. The war would not have forced Aegon to enter prematurely, ruining his advantage of surprise.

If Daenerys had not thrived in Slaver’s Bay, if she had not built her own power, she could have been brought back quietly—her dragons taken, her strength redirected before her ambition grew.

Had any of these not happened—

If even one of these had gone according to plan—

Then, then…

No.

No, that is the wrong way to think.

Illyrio pinched his own leg, hard.

Pain barely registered, dulled by his layers of fat, but it was enough to snap him out of it.

History did not allow "what-ifs."

There was no singular mistake—

No one event that had derailed the grand scheme.

It was not a single moment.

It was a thousand tiny deviations.

An avalanche of miscalculations, accumulating over time—

Until even a genius like Varys could not restore it to course.

The plan was not merely damaged.

It was beyond salvation.
----


Illyrio had no escape route.

Unlike Tywin Lannister, he could not simply admit defeat, don a black cloak, and retreat to the Wall.

He had no family.

No wife.

No heir—except Aegon.

To put his son on the throne, he had exhausted everything—his fortunes, connections, and influence.

The illusion of his wealth and power still held, but in truth?

He had nothing left.

Supporting Varys’ spies, manipulating rebellions, financing the Golden Company—

He had bled himself dry to keep it all afloat.

And now?

He was drowning in debt so immense, it could rival the Iron Bank's yearly income.

If Aegon did not take the throne—

If he did not become Master of Coin—

Then Illyrio would lose everything.

He would be ruined.

Destroyed.

Hunted by his creditors like a cornered animal.

There was only one way out.

Daenerys owed him a debt of gratitude.

She would see him.

She would listen.

And once he was close enough—

Once she trusted him—

Then a well-placed assassin, a poisoned meal in the Red Keep’s kitchens…

The game would not be over yet.

Victory was unlikely.

But not impossible.

As Illyrio was calculating his next possible move, the palanquin suddenly stopped.

“Magister Illyrio, we have arrived.”

He strained his bulk to peek outside—

And froze.

The palanquin was not at the Red Keep.

It was in front of a small estate at the foot of Aegon’s High Hill.

…What?

The Queen wasn’t even living in the Red Keep?!

…What the hell was going on?!