The sky above Pentos burned sapphire, scented with brine and lantern oil. Aryan—inside the skin and name of Viserys—sat at the edge of Illyrio's garden wall, fingers sore from drills, heart racing with a new kind of hunger. Training his body and mind was necessary, but it dawned on him with relentless clarity: knowledge wasn't enough. Ambition wasn't enough. In Essos, gold ruled. Without wealth, even dragons starved.
Mapping Opportunity
That afternoon, Aryan claimed a quiet corner in Illyrio's library, poring over trade ledgers and ledgers with the same seriousness he applied to studying swordplay. He watched the comings and goings of trade ships from Pentos's port, noting what goods moved fastest and which merchant names carried weight. Aryan understood one iron rule: power accrued to those with the means to act—coin bought silence, loyalty, and the hope of one day buying more.
He tallied his own worth: a paltry stack of coins, just enough for a month's food and the barest bribes. To rule, he needed something far greater.
Seeds of Enterprise
Viserys—Aryan—couldn't flaunt his identity in the open market, but he had a secret: modern knowledge. He recalled stories from his old life—how common people built businesses from scraps, how small clever trades grew into fortunes.
Sitting by the open window, notebook open, he scribbled a plan:
Find goods that sold for more outside Pentos (spices, rare dyes, or well-made Pentoshi lace).
Use trusted intermediaries—kitchen boys, Marei the scribe's son—to help buy and sell.
Offer unique value: stories whispered between merchants spoke of a rare "Dragon Tea" from Yi Ti, never before seen in the city. Aryan thought he might import something similar, or at least create the illusion of rarity.
He smiled, already imagining the faces of Illyrio's other guests—foreign, jaded nobles—might pay handsomely for something novel.
A Merchant's Gambit
The next morning, Aryan approached Marei with a heavy pouch and a list. "There's a merchant market tomorrow by the Fishmongers' Gate. I want you to bid—quietly—on three goods: saffron pouches, Lysene glass beads, and Tyroshi silk scraps. Buy low, sell higher. Any profits we split: one-quarter for you and the runners, three for me."
Marei's eyes lit up—coin and trust were a rare pairing in service. By late afternoon, the boy returned with both news and a small haul: the saffron moved instantly, Beads drew interest from a Braavosi trader, and a silk remnant had been traded for twice its purchase price.
Aryan grinned, elation surging inside. It wasn't yet lordly wealth, but it was a start.
Night fell, and Aryan snuck into the city, cloak drawn tight. He met Marei and two other street-savvy children behind a baker's stall. They counted copper and silver in the flickering candlelight, whispering plans for the next day. Aryan listened to which goods sold fast, which merchants paid late, and who could be trusted.
"Trade isn't just goods, it's people," Aryan reminded Marei. "Remember every face and deal—one day, those memories will matter more than coin."
The Merchant's Eye
Predictably, Illyrio noticed the change: fewer scraps on Aryan's plate, coins spent more wisely, a glint in the young prince's eye.
"You seem entrepreneurial, my young lord," Illyrio mused one evening, swirling Vezzene wine. "But remember—a prince should not sully his hands with small labor."
Aryan's smile was tight, practiced. "A prince who can think like a merchant wins twice, my lord. Gold buys swords, after all, but it also buys rumors—and loyalty."
Illyrio laughed, deep and theatrical, but Aryan saw sharpness in the merchant's gaze. He was being watched. So be it—the risk was worth every copper.
Allies in Odd Places
With a trickle of income assured, Aryan made investments: a finer robe for Daenerys (her first true smile in weeks); hush-money for a nosy servant; a down payment for sword repairs. He also paid for a book of Westerosi trade routes—most would see a child's curiosity, but Aryan saw future strategies.
He found that by treating his helpers with direct, unforced kindness—paying fairly, offering lessons in reading and sums, listening to gossip and worry—their loyalty deepened. If asked, they would keep his secrets. If tasked, they would run greater risks.
Aryan understood now: wealth wielded wisely was force multiplied.
Small Victories, Big Dreams
By week's end, Aryan's venture yielded more coin than he'd hoped. A small chest now held his profits—nothing to match Illyrio, but more than most boys his age in Pentos.
Each evening, Aryan counted his coins in his spartan room, rehearsing the future: enough gold for bribing guards, sponsoring a knight's training, maybe even hiring a clever sellsword or two. Not yet—not nearly enough—but the foundation was set.
He told Daenerys, softly, "We build our independence, one day at a time. Someday, those who sneer at us will beg for a chance to serve."
She smiled, playing with a silver penny, hope rekindling in her violet gaze.
Closing Reflection
The world outside his window still pressed close and dangerous. Illyrio watched. Rivals plotted. But Aryan—Viserys—was no longer powerless, and every coin lifted him, small step by step, towards a power no one expected from a beggar prince.
To rule, one must first learn to earn.
And Aryan was already dreaming, already planning, his future paved in both memory and gold.
End of Chapter 5