The air outside Illyrio's manse was thick with river mist and morning voices. Viserys—Aryan, in mind and ambition—pressed copper coins into a stable boy's palm and tugged his hood lower. The city of Pentos sprawled before him, alleys slick with mud, harbor thrumming with foreign tongues. Danger lingered everywhere for the last Targaryens, but Aryan craved the world beyond suffocating marble walls.
He moved with careful purpose, keeping to the main roads but glancing over his shoulder as Ser Willem had taught him. Each step reminded him: he wasn't just escaping boredom—he was testing the reach of their exile, measuring how rumor and resentment followed in his wake.
Testing the Waters
Aryan visited a blacksmith's yard he'd spotted from the manse window. The place was old—hammering out far more horseshoes than swords—but metal was metal. He watched as the smith, arms corded and burnt, struck iron with rhythmic skill.
"Looking for work, boy?" the smith called without looking up. "Or just a tale?"
Aryan smiled, schooling his accent. "Only to watch. I'd pay a copper for pointers."
The man shrugged. "Grip and stance, eh? Better to keep your thumb away from the blade's ridge, else you'll lose it first sparring."
Aryan nodded, repeating the lesson mentally. He lingered, watching each movement—the sharpened steel, the bellows, the way the smith's apprentice swept the floor between strikes. No Westerosi prince would do this, he thought. Aryan would, and remember.
"You ever held a real blade?" the smith grunted.
"Once or twice," Aryan lied.
"If you want to learn, I'll not stop you. But coin for blood, not for play."
Aryan thanked him and slipped away, heart pounding from the simple contact. Even here, among sweat and soot, knowledge was a weapon. Someday, he reasoned, he'd commission a real sword—one worthy of a bloodline. For now, watching would have to do.
Lessons in the Library
Upon his return, Illyrio greeted Viserys with forced geniality, bearing a parchment sealed in green wax. "A trader from Tyrosh sends his regards," he said, eyes glimmering with calculation. "Would my prince care for news from across the sea?"
Aryan accepted the letter, but set it aside. Instead, he requested access to Illyrio's private library—a room thick with the dust of forgotten lore.
"Books?" Illyrio arched an eyebrow. "Most young princes crave gold or girls, not musty parchment."
Aryan forced a half-smile. "A wise king must know history, lest he repeat its mistakes."
Illyrio appraised him, amused. "As you wish."
Here, Aryan found what canon Viserys never had: context. He pored over maps of Westeros and Essos, learning the trade routes, the distances armies would need to cross, what crops could feed a legion, and where old Targaryen loyalists once hid. He read of the Golden Company, exiled lords, and Blackfyre pretenders—all hints of allies or threats.
He studied languages: picking at Valyrian roots, Dothraki phrases, bits of the Braavosi cant. Dragon words. Knight words. Aryan repeated them softly, turning each unfamiliar syllable into muscle memory, preparing his tongue for every future alliance.
A Change in Daenerys
In the afternoons, Aryan sat with Daenerys. She remained pale, but now watched him differently—her gaze sharp, calculating. He saw in her shades of the queen she'd become.
"Why do you train, brother?" she asked one day, as he stretched tender arms.
"So none can take from us what I'm too weak to protect," Aryan replied, measured.
She frowned. "Did Father not say dragons do not beg—nor crawl in the mud?"
Aryan drew closer, concern softening his voice. "Father lost because he believed strength came from fear alone. We have to be more than dragons. We must be wise."
She absorbed this with care—uncertain, yet hopeful. "Could I learn? The sword, or books?"
Aryan hesitated, replaying scenes of her abuse and neglect in canon. Not this time. "Of course. Both. We rise together."
Her smile was small but genuine. In that moment, Aryan understood: win her trust, and he'd have a true ally. Not a pawn.
Sharpening the Mind
Evenings brought council with Ser Willem—a rebellion veteran with a lifetime of regrets.
"How fares the sword, my prince?" Willem asked, easing himself onto a bench.
Aryan displayed fresh bruises but grinned. "Better daily. I watched a smith at work—noticed flaws in my grip I'd never have seen with just noble teachers. Are there others like you, Willem? Loyal to House Targaryen, but hidden?"
Willem looked pained. "Scattered. Hunted. Few dared cross Robert, and fewer still survived the usurper's culls. But there are whispers in Lys, in Volantis. Old blood remembers, sometimes."
Aryan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We must find them. Quietly. Send word. Promise only what we can deliver—a future, not pipe dreams."
Willem nodded. "You're not the same as before. In time, men may notice."
"I hope they do," Aryan said, fierce resolve flaring up. "But not until I hold the reins."
Spiderwebs and Seeds
The final days of the week brought small but critical changes. Aryan convinced Illyrio to let Daenerys join him in reading. He sent discreet messages to trade outposts under the guise of seeking tutors, inserting coded phrases that old Targaryen loyalists might recognize: "Blackwood crows gather at dusk," "The dragon misses Storm's End."
He quietly observed Illyrio's servants, noting who lingered to listen—who might be bought, and who might betray.
He ended each day with sword and sweat, arms burning but mind whirring with plans. Aryan wondered at the smallness of his gains. But from such seeds, kingdoms grew.
Closing Reflections
One night, Aryan stood by the window, hair damp from training. Daenerys slept on a far cot, breathing peaceful for once. Illyrio's city buzzed, ignorant of the plot brewing beneath their noses.
I'm not the prince the world expects, Aryan thought—both a promise and warning. But I know this world better than any, and I'll use every cheat, every lesson, to shape fate anew.
There were years yet before the dragons returned. But the first steps had been taken, and neither wolf nor lion would be ready.
End of Chapter 3