Year: 281 AC — Location: Pentos
By the time Aragorn left the granary district, the morning was well underway. He moved through the streets without guards or ceremony, just another man in a worn tunic. But more people watched him now. Not with fear, not yet with reverence, but with a growing awareness.
He didn't slow. There were negotiations still to handle. The blacksmiths' guild remained hesitant about the new rotational forge system he'd proposed. Resistance wasn't ideological, it was inertia. Too much, too quickly. They needed assurance. And if none came, he would give them outcomes instead.
A boy intercepted him near the spice quarter. "Message, my lord. From the docks."
The seal wasn't Illyrio's. It belonged to a lesser merchant-prince, one who had remained silent during Aragorn's early reforms.
Lord Aragorn,
The Docksmen's Consortium would speak with you privately and without spectacle. Matters of protection and profit. Discretion is expected.
Another test. Or a provocation.
He handed the boy a clipped nod. "Tell them I'll come at sundown."
By mid-afternoon, he had concluded negotiations with the bricklayers. Two of his six proposed kiln designs were accepted, a small but meaningful win. They would adjust over time. They always did when shown results.
Willem met him at the villa's main gate.
"You're making more enemies than friends," Willem said, offering a waterskin.
"I'm not here for friends," Aragorn replied, taking a drink. "I'm here to make the city work."
"And cities that work draw attention. Some of it is sharp."
Aragorn's gaze narrowed. "What did you hear?"
"Whispers," Willem said. "A caravan came up from Volantis. They heard talk in King's Landing. Not just about Viserys and the girl. About you. Some say a knight of the Reach passed through Lys last month. Asking about silver-haired men with strange ideas."
Aragorn said nothing. His letters had become bolder in tone. Some addressed minor Westerosi lords by name, offering trade models or agricultural insights. Each one bore the name Aragorn Targaryen. No more hiding behind courtesy.
"Should we prepare?" Willem asked quietly.
"We already are," Aragorn said. "But let them whisper. That means they're still uncertain."
The Docksmen's hall sat disguised as a warehouse near the seawall. At dusk, Aragorn arrived alone. Two dozen guards lingered in the shadows, blades visible. Discretion had its limits.
Inside, four men waited. The merchant-prince wore a ring embossed with a squid, House Talem, minor, but dangerous. The others were trade lords, nervous and pink-faced.
"We've seen your reforms," one began. "The dock schedules, the sealed timber rigs. It's all… impressive."
"But also fast," another added. "And fast stirs fear."
Aragorn stood straight. "You're profiting more than before."
"True. But profit invites enemies. Especially when it shifts too quickly."
One leaned forward. "We've heard of gold being offered in Myr and Tyrosh. For names. Descriptions. Of you."
"So have I."
"You should be careful."
"I am," Aragorn said. "But know this, I don't want to rule Pentos. I want it to survive. And I want it to matter. If you stand with me, you'll thrive. If not, you'll watch others pass you by."
He left them in silence.
That evening, he found Nalea in the garden. The scent of sage and night-blooming vines hung heavy in the air.
"They've seen your shadow in the fire," she said.
"Whose fire?"
"All of them. The fire beneath the Red Temple. The one behind the eyes of the Queen. And the one smoldering inside you."
"I need steel," Aragorn said. "Not riddles."
"You'll have both."
Back at his desk, Aragorn resumed drafting a modular forge, cart-movable, capable of producing uniform tools for expanded repair operations. Standardization was key. The designs were simple but revolutionary. The Codex didn't speak. It simply guided.
As he worked, he considered Varys. Cersei. Men like Gyles Rosby, who spoke little but knew too much. He could feel the pressure starting to build, not in Pentos, but across the Narrow Sea.
They would come.
Not yet. But soon.
Before sleep, he crossed the small training yard. Months ago, he had constructed a basic regimen: stretching, strength drills, balance corrections. Movements not for show, but for war. The Codex analyzed muscle load, adjusted motion paths, and compensated for exhaustion.
He moved in silence, deep lunges, slow pivots, weight transfers through the hips. No audience. No flair. Only necessity.
When the day came, when politics failed and knives sang, he would not be caught soft. He would be ready.