Illyrio Mopatis's POV
298 AC, Pentos
The air in my manse hung heavy with the scent of spiced wine and incense, but it did little to soothe the unease gnawing at me. From the balcony overlooking Pentos's bustling streets, I awaited the arrival of Khal Drogo's khalasar, two Targaryen siblings seated behind me—Viserys and Daenerys. My wealth, my influence, all rested on Varys's intricate plan for the Iron Throne. I hope your scheme holds, Varys, I thought, fingers tightening on the railing. The streets below teemed with merchants and carts, but my mind was elsewhere, tangled in rumors of a new power rising in the south.
"Lord Illyrio," Viserys's voice cut through, sharp and petulant, "when is my army going to be here?"
I turned, forcing a practiced smile. The boy—barely a man, though he styled himself king—lounged on a cushioned chair, his silver hair gleaming under the torchlight, violet eyes narrowed with impatience. "Soon, Your Grace," I said smoothly. "We've heard the Khal is riding out with his band. They were last seen heading toward the new Kingdom of Uruk."
Gods help us if that fool attacked Uruk, I thought, my stomach twisting. My spies' reports were grim: thousands had perished against Uruk's walls, their armies broken by stone and sorcery. The city was an enigma, a fortress risen from the Disputed Lands' chaos, its king, Dominic Augustus, a name spoken in whispers of fear and reverence.
Daenerys, seated quietly beside her brother, looked up, her violet eyes bright with curiosity. "Can you tell me again about this Uruk, Lord Illyrio?" Her voice was soft, laced with a hope that contrasted Viserys's arrogance.
I leaned against the balcony, gathering the details my spies had painstakingly collected. "The city lies on the coast south of here, in the heart of the Disputed Lands, near the entrance to what was once Old Valyria. It emerged after the sacking of Slaver's Bay, a free city where slavery is outlawed. No man, woman, or child wears chains there. Its king, Dominic Augustus, rules with a heavy hand against those who harm others—such offenders are said to vanish, taken by the king himself or his unseen forces."
I paused, noting the spark in Daenerys's eyes. "The city is carved from the mountains, its walls unyielding against sand and sea. It gleams in the sunlight, so clean it seems unnatural. Some claim ancient guardians—beasts or spirits from Old Valyria—patrol its skies, striking down invaders. The people are cared for, fed, and housed, provided they contribute to the city's growth. It's a place of order amidst Essos's chaos, a beacon of freedom and strength."
Daenerys's face lit up, her expression one of wonder, as if Uruk embodied the haven she dreamed of—a place free from fear, where she could thrive. But Viserys scoffed, shattering the moment. "Utter nonsense," he spat, leaning forward. "He is some upstart squatting in the ruins of better days. I've seen the Red Keep, the greatest seat in the world. To think I, the last dragon, the true king of Westeros, would care for this filth-ridden corner of Essos is laughable."
Gods, this boy is insufferable, I thought, swallowing the retort. Instead, I said, "Yes, Your Grace. The Khal's party should arrive in a few days. Let us hope they come in peace."
Viserys waved a dismissive hand, turning to his sister. "Daenerys, be prepared. We must make you perfect for your new husband." He seized her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "You must be flawless. We need his men to take back our rightful home. You can do that for me, can't you? You wouldn't want to wake the dragon, would you?"
Daenerys, barely sixteen, trembled under his grip, nodding frantically, fear etched into her young face. "Good," Viserys said, releasing her. "Be ready when he arrives. I won't have this deal ruined by your stupidity."
I watched as servants ushered her out, her shoulders hunched, the weight of her brother's cruelty heavy on her. Varys, let your plan succeed, I thought, my heart sinking. All I want is Aegon on the Iron Throne. But the shadow of Uruk loomed large. My spies spoke of its king, Dominic Augustus, a young man wielding powers beyond comprehension—stone that moved at his will, sorcery that rivaled Valyria's lost arts. If Drogo's khalasar had clashed with him, our plans could be crumbling already.
The reports were consistent: Uruk had risen in two years, its walls carved from cliffs, its streets clean and sparkling. Slavery was abolished, enforced by a king who brooked no defiance. His army, thousands strong, included disciplined warriors unlike any in Essos, and his city drew refugees and sellswords, all swearing loyalty to a ruler who offered freedom and protection. Some claimed he commanded a dragon—not a Targaryen beast, but a creature that soared above Uruk, guarding it from attack. Others whispered of artifacts—shields that deflected any blow, cloaks that hid him from sight, and a wand that sparked with unnatural light.
Viserys's arrogance blinded him to the threat, but I saw it clearly. Uruk was no myth. It was a power to rival the Free Cities, perhaps even Westeros. If Drogo's khalasar had been foolish enough to challenge it, we might face a vengeful king instead of an ally. I poured myself a goblet of wine, the liquid trembling in my hand. The Targaryen siblings were my path to influence, but Uruk's rise changed the game. Dominic Augustus was a name I'd need to watch—perhaps to court, perhaps to fear.
As Daenerys's footsteps faded down the hall, I turned back to the balcony, the distant hum of Pentos filling the silence. The khalasar would arrive soon, and with it, the next move in Varys's grand design. But my thoughts lingered on Uruk, its gleaming walls, and the king who'd built a kingdom from nothing. What manner of man are you, Dominic Augustus? I wondered. And what would it mean for the Iron Throne if he turned his gaze north?
No One's POV
King's Landing
The Red Keep mourned in silence, its halls draped in the shadow of Jon Arryn's death. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, strode through the corridors, his golden armor clinking softly, his face a mask of indifference hiding the weight of his thoughts. As he approached the small council chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood by the door, his white cloak pristine despite the somber air.
"Ser Jaime," Barristan greeted, his voice steady but heavy with the grief that hung over the court.
"Where is His Grace?" Jaime asked, already knowing King Robert Baratheon wouldn't be tangled in his usual vices—not today, not with his foster father dead.
"His Grace is overseeing preparations to send Lord Arryn's body back to the Eyrie," Barristan replied, his eyes scanning the hall as the small council members began to gather, their footsteps echoing on the cold stone.
The council chamber was a tense affair, the air thick with unspoken rivalries and the sting of loss. Varys, the spymaster, sat with his hands folded, his powdered face unreadable. Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, lounged with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes. Renly Baratheon, the king's youngest brother, looked restless, while Grand Maester Pycelle hunched over his notes, his chains clinking. Queen Cersei Baratheon, resplendent in crimson and gold, presided with an icy authority, her brother Jaime standing at her side.
Varys spoke first, his voice soft yet cutting through the room's murmur. "My lords, my little birds bring grave news from Essos. Reports of strange creatures—beasts not of this world—have surfaced again. This is the tenth such report in two years. Their nest, it seems, lies in the new Kingdom of Uruk."
The room stilled. Jaime's hand tightened on his sword hilt, a reflex born of unease. Uruk. The name had crept into their councils before, a whisper from across the Narrow Sea, growing louder with each passing moon. A city risen from nothing in the Disputed Lands, its king—Dominic Augustus—a figure shrouded in mystery and dread.
"Any update on Uruk itself?" Petyr Baelish asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. His own spies, usually so reliable, had vanished without a trace in the Disputed Lands, a fact that gnawed at him.
"Unfortunately, no," Varys replied, his lips pursing. "My birds sing of walls that gleam like polished stone, of a king who wields powers beyond mortal stone that moves, fire that obeys his will. But details are scarce. Those who venture too close to Uruk… do not return."
Cersei's emerald eyes flashed, her patience thin. "Enough of these tales," she snapped. "My husband grieves for Jon Arryn. We will not trouble him with more ill-fated news of some upstart in Essos."
"Of course, Your Grace," Varys said, bowing his head, though his eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Renly Baratheon leaned forward, his voice laced with irritation. "My brother wishes to name a new Hand of the King. He's set on traveling the Kingsroad to the North—Winterfell, I presume, to drag Ned Stark into this mess."
"His Grace demands the council remain here," Grand Maester Pycelle added, his voice quavering as he clutched a raven's scroll. "I've sent word to Winterfell, as he commanded."
Jaime watched the exchange, his mind drifting to Cersei, of their children, of the fragile game they played in King's Landing.
Baelish tapped his fingers on the table, his mind clearly working. "This Dominic Augustus… if he's real, he's no mere warlord. A city that sparkles, creatures in the sky, armies that rival the Free Cities? We'd do well to learn more before he looks west."
Varys nodded slightly. "My birds will keep listening, Lord Baelish. But Uruk is a fortress of secrets. Its king does not welcome spies."
Cersei's lips curled. "Then let him keep his desert kingdom. Westeros is ours to rule. We have no time for myths and monsters."
The council moved on to trade disputes and royal finances, but the specter of Uruk lingered, a shadow cast across the Narrow Sea. As the meeting adjourned, Jaime lingered by the window, staring east. The game of thrones was shifting, and a new player had entered the board—one whose power might reshape the world.