Cool twilight bled across Pentos as Aryan—cloaked as Viserys—lowered himself onto one knee in the center of Illyrio's garden. Sweat glistened on his skin. The ache in his muscles was a familiar friend now, the sting of blisters a badge earned, not endured. Yesterday, he had been proud merely to lift a practice sword. Tonight, he craved to cut through the threads of fate binding him to exile.
For the first time since awakening in this world, Aryan felt almost... settled. Not safe—never safe—but grounded by the rhythm and rules of his new life: train each morning, study each afternoon, plan each evening. The foundation set, his next step was to reach outward—carefully, quietly—toward allies and answers.
The Merchant's Game
Illyrio was waiting by the central fountain, exotic fruit and chilled wine arrayed before him. The air reeked of candied lemon and anticipation. Illyrio had taken a keen interest in the "changed" prince, and every gesture of kindness doubled as a transaction.
"My prince," Illyrio boomed, voice oily and pleasant, "have you considered my latest proposal? The Myrish crossbowmen are restless; their contracts grow thin as winter soup. For a prince with gold..."
Aryan only smiled, choosing his words with deliberate care. "A wise man spends coin only where it matters. Sellswords serve gold, Illyrio, but what stands when the purse empties?"
The merchant studied him, eyebrows knitted. "Then you would court loyalty, not labor?"
"And plant seeds that last," Aryan replied. "Speak to me not as a child, but as a partner in rebuilding House Targaryen."
That earned another smooth laugh, but Aryan caught a flicker—interest, maybe respect? Illyrio would always believe himself the puppetmaster. Aryan meant to play his own game, letting the merchant think he was winning until the board itself shifted.
Letters Unsent, Promises Unbroken
Back in his sparsely furnished chamber, Aryan examined three blank pages. The first was meant for Lys, a city of shadows and survivors; the second, for Volantis, where old money and old grudges festered; the third, for Braavos, where a coin and a phrase could open any door.
He hesitated. Each letter was a risk. If word spread to the wrong ears, the Usurper's daggers would hunt him even here. But Aryan's old life had taught him: the greatest gambles earned the richest rewards.
He wrote carefully, encrypting his messages with references only true loyalists might catch. "The Black Dragon seeks kin beneath unburnt banners," he penned, echoing old Velaryon codes. He offered nothing but hope and gratitude—a welcome, not a command.
When Daenerys peeked in, Aryan folded the final letter, sealing it with wax. She drew close, wide-eyed. "Why so many letters, brother?"
"Because dragons do not fly alone, Dany," Aryan said quietly. "We need friends—old and new. Will you help me tomorrow? We can study together."
She nodded, pride flickering beneath the shyness. It struck Aryan then, how much his little sister needed to belong—not merely to him, but to their cause and her own future.
Lessons in the Yard
The next morning, Aryan found Ser Willem already waiting on the tiling, a battered steel practice sword in his lap. They moved through their drills—a parry, a turn, a downward cut—until sweat blurred Aryan's vision.
"Remember, prince," Willem said, correcting his stance, "a good sword is nothing without the arm and mind guiding it."
"Or allies, Ser Willem. Did you ever doubt Robert would win?" Aryan asked, catching his breath.
Willem's gaze grew distant. "Doubt? Every day. But men followed him—because he shared their burdens, not just their victories."
Aryan nodded, storing the lesson. In his old world, storybook rulers who ruled by fear alone never lasted. He would be something different: a prince who earned loyalty through merit and foresight.
Eavesdropped
By noon, Aryan had developed a new habit: lingering in corridors, listening more than speaking. In Illyrio's manse, whispers traveled fast as wildfire. Two kitchen girls clucked over salted fish, bemoaning a merchant's tight purse. A scarred sellsword spoke of a new arrival from Westeros—red hair, northern accent, seeking work. Aryan filed every phrase away.
Late that evening, he caught sight of Illyrio speaking quietly to a thickset man with a coin-shaped scar on his right cheek. Aryan pulled Daenerys back from the balcony's edge, heart pounding.
"We must be careful, Dany," he whispered. "Even here, we're watched. Never speak our plans outside this room."
She nodded, trembling. "Am I in danger, too?"
"We both are. That's why we'll become strong—together," Aryan assured her.
Sowing New Bonds
As the days slipped by, Aryan encouraged Daenerys to train alongside him, first with letters and histories, then with practice knives harmless as sticks. She was awkward at first, giggling with embarrassment, but Aryan praised every small success.
He also recruited allies among the lowest—kitchen boys, stable hands—by treating them with uncommon kindness. A kind word here, a shared loaf there. By weaving himself gently into the fabric of the house, Aryan quietly reshaped his reputation from petty tyrant to a prince worth following.
He made another friend, too: a scribe's son named Marei, clever with numbers and eager for secret adventure. Marei agreed to deliver Aryan's letters, slipping them past Illyrio's watchful eyes in exchange for simple coins and Aryan's word of trust.
End of the Chapter
One cool night, Aryan knelt beneath the odd stars of Pentos and looked over the city—the ships bobbing in harbor, the lanterns flickering on the wind.
He held up his bruised hands, callused and cut, and allowed himself one thought of triumph: Step by step, day by day, he was building something stronger than a crown—he was forging alliances, trust, and resilience that no single sword could break.
Viserys Targaryen—the boy, the dragon, the pretender—was becoming a leader forged by fire, secrets, and slow, deliberate transformation. The wheel of fate had turned, and this time, he would not let it crush him.
The game had begun, and Aryan played for keeps.
End of Chapter 4