The moon hung low over Pentos, swollen behind drifts of cloud like an unblinking, watchful eye. Viserys—Aryan, beneath the silver hair and Targaryen eyes—moved through the corridors of Illyrio's manse with measured purpose. Each footfall was memory and intent: of a boy from another world devouring stories, now wielding both story and steel in a world that hungered for his blood.
Danger had sharpened his days into drills, planning, and restless nights. If gold invited the attention of wolves, then Aryan was resolved to become the one who bared his fangs first.
Rumors Like Daggers
Since Ser Harrick's arrival, Aryan had lived in a haze of warnings and coded messages. His small network—Marei and the mutes in the kitchen, Daenerys and a stableboy pressed into secret duty—brought back word daily. Westerosi mercenaries asked too many questions in the alleys; a Tyroshi merchant bought up ship manifests, searching for two silver-haired children.
Illyrio remained genial but his eyes, heavy-lidded and sly, followed Aryan's every move. Every evening the merchant seemed to weigh Aryan as much as he did his countless bags of spice and saffron.
Something was coming. Aryan could feel it: tension simmered, the city holding its breath.
An Invitation
It arrived before dawn, a note on heavy parchment slipped beneath Aryan's door.
Prince Viserys,
The time for hiding ends.
Meet with us at the Indigo Lantern before the third bell after dusk.
Bring only the girl.
Come, and you will learn your fate.
No signature. No threats spelled out—but the message was clear. Aryan's heartbeat kicked fast, old fear mixing with a thrill of resolve. This was it: the trap meant to end him or shape him. In his other life, he might have hesitated or fled. Here, faced with the choice between passivity and action, Aryan's mind clicked into place—the quiet satisfaction of seeing the board for what it was. It was his turn to move.
He made preparations. First, a letter for Ser Willem:
If I do not return by dawn, gather our friends and take Daenerys to Braavos by the old plan.
Next, coin hidden in Daenerys's braid and inside his boot, a spare knife sheathed at his side, a dull ring that opened to reveal a trickle of slow-acting sleeping draught — a precaution, for poison or escape.
He hugged Daenerys as he explained, eyes fierce. "No matter what happens, listen for my word alone. You are not alone. The world will try to break us, but we are each other's shield."
She nodded—her fear swallowed by trust.
Walking into the Web
As dusk bled into night, Aryan and Daenerys slipped from the manse, cloaks pulled low. Aryan's mind ticked through possibilities, recalling the stories he'd studied: how Littlefinger snared rivals with a smile, how Tyrion won with words and a well-timed lie, how every movement in King's Landing was a move in the deadly game.
The Indigo Lantern stood at the edge of Pentos's old market, a tumbledown inn famed for its private rooms and doors that opened onto forgotten alleys. Inside, candle smoke and spiced wine thickened the air. Two armed strangers watched Aryan as he entered, gaze cold and measured.
In the largest back room, a cluster of men waited. Ser Harrick stood by the window, gloved hands on the pommel of a dagger. By his side loomed two other Westerosi—mercenaries by their bearing—and, in shadow, Illyrio himself, playing both host and judge.
"Prince Viserys," Harrick said, voice as soft as velvet and twice as dangerous. "You've been busy. Trading, plotting, stirring up hope in broken men. It ends tonight."
Aryan's voice was steady. "It does. But not as you expect."
A flicker in Illyrio's eye suggested amusement—or curiosity. Aryan wondered how many secret bets the merchant had placed on his survival.
Words as Weapons
"Come," Harrick went on, gesturing. "You're to return to Westeros—alive, if you're wise. Otherwise, I take only your head. That's the price set by your enemies."
Daenerys pressed close to Aryan's side; his hand found hers, squeezing for courage.
Aryan raised his head. "If you kill me, I become a ghost haunting your masters. If you take me, you'll have fled Essos and all its debts for a single bloody coin. But if you let us go—there may be a fortune far beyond Lannister gold."
A bark of laughter. But Aryan pressed on, cool and relentless, pulling on every lesson from books, forums, and the desperate cunning he'd cultivated:
"You saw how I trade. How rumors gather. How loyalists answer old codes. Imagine what I could bring you, if I remain free—ships, secrets, even the goodwill of the Dragon restored, once the lions and wolves finish tearing each other apart. What matters more to you—serving a dead king's grudge, or joining a winning cause?"
The mercenary at Harrick's left frowned. "He's clever, I'll give him that, ser."
Illyrio spoke at last. "Perhaps there's merit to letting the game play out—if your prince outlives his enemies, he may reward those who aided him."
Aryan sensed the turning. He forced his breathing calm. Sweat beaded at his hairline.
The First Blade Drawn
But Harrick wanted blood, not bargains. "Enough," he hissed, moving for Aryan with dagger raised. "I was paid for heads, not promises."
Aryan slipped behind a table, hand moving to the sleeping draught ring. If words failed, a last desperate ploy would have to serve.
As Harrick lunged, chaos exploded. Aryan flung a candle into Harrick's face—visions of action films overlaying panic—and shoved Daenerys toward Illyrio, the closest to a reluctant ally. Wine spilled. Blades flashed in the low light. A chair clattered.
Daenerys shrieked. Aryan whipped out the knife from his boot—not aiming to kill, but to cut—slashing at Harrick's thigh. The mercenary bellowed, staggered, and crumpled. Illyrio's bodyguards surged forward, subduing the others.
It was over in moments, the room wrecked, Aryan panting and wild-eyed.
A Price Paid, a Lesson Learned
Illyrio restored order, ever the merchant—soft words for Aryan, coin for bruised egos, and two bloodied men dragged into the alleyway.
"Clever, my prince. You cost me the price of a table, but you saved your own skin," Illyrio murmured, mouth twisted in a considering smirk. "I wager you'll be worth more alive, for now."
Aryan stood, swaying, Daenerys clinging to his arm. He met Illyrio's gaze without bowing. "You backed the right horse tonight. You'll see."
Illyrio's gold-ringed fingers flexed. "I hope so—for both our sakes."
Refuge and Resolve
Later, with Daenerys safe at his side and Harrick's threat ended, Aryan allowed himself a moment of release. He had survived his first true assassination attempt—not by outmatching, but outmaneuvering.
He sprawled on his rough bed, shaking, exhaustion mixing with electric pride. He could learn from this: every trap was an opportunity. Every expectation—of weakness, of childish fear—was a mask he could cast off.
That night, sleep finally claimed him. In his dreams, dragons circled not as monsters, but as protectors—old gods, perhaps, or echoes of his own will. Aryan knew: he would carve out a future here, no matter how many blades waited in the dusk.
The trap had closed—but it was not he who was caught.
End of Chapter 7