Illyrio Mopatis

The perfumed hall of Illyrio's mansion in Pentos. The silk curtains sway in the sea breeze. A banquet laden with fruits and warm meats lay on the table, but Viserys didn't even glance at it—his eyes burned with impatience.

Illyrio Mopatis:
(smiling, reclining between golden cushions)
"Patience, my dear prince. The gold of Pentos doesn't melt in a day, and neither does the Iron Throne."

Viserys III:
(annoyed, pacing back and forth)
Patience? I lost it years ago, magister! While I hide like a rat, the usurper celebrates in the halls that belong to me!

Illyrio:
(raises a glass of wine, unperturbed)
"And that's why I move the right pieces, quietly. Soon, your sister Daenerys will be the wife of a great Dothraki lord. One hundred thousand warriors on horseback, my prince. Imagine them shouting your name."

Viserys:
(with a glimmer of hope in their eyes)
— And when Drogo marches... he will bring me my crown.

Illyrio:
(smiles, almost paternally)
— Ah, yes... the promised golden crown. All in due time, Your Majesty. The Targaryen fire never goes out — it merely awaits the right wind to burn again.

(Illyrio takes another sip, his calculating gaze concealing something Viserys would never perceive—a game far greater than the young prince could comprehend.)