Cold wind rattled the blue shutters of Aryan's modest quarters, carrying a fresh scent of river and danger. In the candle's flicker, the coins in his chest gleamed—a tiny kingdom, built from sweat, wits, and memory. But Aryan had learned something new: gold did not keep threats at bay; it only called new ones forth.
The Warning
It began at dusk. Marei, anxious and breathless, slipped through the servants' entrance with eyes wide as thaler coins. "Someone's asking after you in the fish market, m'lord. A Westerosi man—thick-necked, arm like a butcher's. He keeps dropping your name to the wrong people."
Aryan's heart stuttered. Robert's hunters? Spies of the Usurper, finally closing in? He masked his fear and dismissed Marei with a grateful nod. That night, Aryan sat awake, replaying the canon: how wandering exiles were easy prey, how even in Pentos, daggers reached far.
Strength in Routine
He did not let fear claim the morning. The next day, Aryan redoubled his training—Ser Willem working him harder than ever. Sword met sword, wood cracked wood, bruises blossomed purple and rust along Aryan's arms.
"You anticipate better," Willem observed, approving. "Fear can sharpen a man, if he listens."
"I listen," Aryan replied, voice low. He watched every shadow in the garden, every new face among Illyrio's workers. He even taught Daenerys a few signals: a tap on the window meant trouble, a knocked-over lamp meant run.
He expanded his routine:
Practiced dagger work, quick-draw motions hidden beneath billowing sleeves.
Added basic wrestling moves from memory—no knightly flourishes, just what might help if cornered.
Taught Daenerys to recognize the most common poisons and draft a simple escape route.
Mind Games
Aryan's new wealth brought attention. Servants eyed him warily, uncertain if he was favored or marked for ruin. Illyrio's hospitality grew more strained: the merchant offered subtle warnings disguised as compliments.
"You've grown clever, my prince," Illyrio murmured over sweetwine, the words thickened with curiosity. "Not many exiles manage such...influence. But cleverness alone can be dangerous—especially for your friends. Or your sister."
Aryan understood. Despite the merchant's puffy smile, danger coiled behind those words. Still, Aryan feigned ignorance, "Essos rewards those who adapt, my lord. I mean to survive—surely you expect no less?"
Illyrio raised a toast. "Survival is a dragon's birthright, some say. But never forget: dragons hatch best in fire."
The Threat Revealed
By the week's end, Aryan's fear was justified. Ser Willem returned from a discreet errand, face pale beneath his white beard.
"I saw the man, my prince. Calls himself Ser Harrick, says he comes from Westeros to recruit for a merchant fleet," Willem said quietly, glancing over his shoulder. "But his badge was Lannister gold—hidden, but there."
Aryan's mind raced. Who else had noticed his dealings? Had Illyrio sold whispers to Westeros, hoping to profit from Targaryen blood—one way or another?
He made a swift decision. That night, he gathered Marei and Daenerys. "If I am taken, you run to the Braavosi embassy," he said, voice rough and fast. "Say you're couriers of House Blackwood seeking passage. If Illyrio tries to stop you—give him nothing."
Daenerys trembled but did not cry. Marei nodded, understanding far beyond his years.
Preparing the Defense
Aryan could not face assassins alone. But he could build safeguards.
He hid emergency coins in Daenerys's travelling cloak and Marei's satchel.
He bribed two stableboys to keep a mule ready by a side gate—no questions asked.
He wrote letters to the most loyal contacts, warning them subtly: "Storms gather. Watch the rivers for red sails."
Training also changed: Aryan drilled with a real blade, stolen from Illyrio's armory by Ser Willem. Its edge was not sharp, but it was a mark of deadly intent. Willem taught Aryan clandestine moves: how to draw, parry, and strike to wound rather than kill.
"Coward's tricks win when honor fails," Willem said, laying another bruise across Aryan's thigh. "Your enemies will not fight fair. So you must not, either."
Turning the Tables
Yet Aryan did more than hide—he gathered information. He cultivated gossip from the kitchens, news of a Tyroshi ship recently arrived, of new faces at Illyrio's feasts. In secret, he arranged a meeting with Ser Harrick—posing as a Pentoshi scribe seeking work.
He saw, behind the Westerosi's easy smile, the hard eyes of a killer. Harrick asked pointed questions, about House Targaryen, about Daenerys's age and location.
Aryan lied smoothly, feeding false trails: "The Dragon children? Gone to Lys, last I heard. Ships move fast this time of year."
He slipped away before Harrick could press further, heart hammering. But he'd learned two things: the price on his head had risen, and his time in Pentos was running out.
The Dragon's Promise
That night, Aryan sat at the window, sharpening his new sword by candlelight. Daenerys slept, clutching a small pouch of coins—her trust absolute, her fear quieted by Aryan's reassurances.
He stared into the dark Essosi sky, the constellations foreign but beautiful. He would not die like a hunted rabbit. He would not let Daenerys become a pawn.
This world played the game with death and coin. But Aryan finally understood: to win, he needed not just money or strength, but readiness—a will to strike back when struck.
End of Chapter 6