A thick fog crept through the alleys of Pentos, weaving between candlelit doors and shuttered windows as though the city itself feared what dusk might bring. For Aryan—Viserys in soul and visage—each passing day felt like a tightening net. The failed assassination had left scars deeper than those visible, and every murmur now sounded like a threat wrapped in silk.
But Aryan had learned from the scrape with death. Slow, careful progress was his armor, and trust—so rare in both his old world and this one—would be forged, not given.
The Cost of Survival
The morning after the Indigo Lantern, Aryan found his hands trembling. Not from fear, but from aftershocks—adrenaline fading, new bravery settling in his bones. In the privacy of his chamber, he dusted dried blood from his sleeve and counted his remaining coin. Every coin now had purpose: a bribe, a gift, a payment for silence or loyalty.
Ser Willem entered without knocking, concern etched deep into the folds of his weary face. "Word spreads, my prince. Some call it luck that you lived. Others"—his voice grew thin—"say a new dragon kindles its fire in Pentos."
Aryan met his gaze, a tired smile in his eyes. "Let them talk, Willem. In their stories, strength grows."
"And so does danger," the old knight warned. "Your enemies grow bolder. This city is no longer safe for you… nor for the princess."
Aryan nodded. He'd already decided: it was nearly time for their circle to outgrow its Pentoshi shell.
Alliance Weaving
That day, Aryan called a secret council in the servants' kitchen—a battered table, three candles, and only the most trusted faces: Daenerys, Marei, Ser Willem, and two loyal stable hands whose lives Aryan had quietly improved.
He stood at the table's head, speaking softly but with conviction. "Each of us owes nothing to Westeros, and less to those who rule it. But together, we can build what even Illyrio could not buy—trust."
He met Daenerys's wary eyes first. "We are not symbols. Not pawns. We are survivors. I need your trust, Dany—and your oath."
The room was quiet, the girl's voice a whisper: "I am with you, brother. Always."
Ser Willem knelt, one hand to his heart in the old Kingsguard vow. "For House Targaryen, for as long as I draw breath."
Marei and the others, faces plain but determination shining, nodded agreement. Aryan felt the warmth of something powerful sparking—a small circle, fiercely loyal.
He laid out plans with clarity and certainty:
Collecting discrete supplies—food, gold, disguises—in case of sudden flight.
Marei to sound out other youth for information and secret messages.
Willem and Daenerys to drill each day, sword and feint, bolt-hole and route memorized.
Aryan told them everything. No lies, no half-truths. He needed them to act on their own wits if he fell.
Before the candles guttered, each repeated their oath: to stand by the dragon's side, in light or shadow, freedom or flight.
Bargains with the Spider's Kin
Illyrio was not blind to Aryan's shifting fortunes. That night, over sugared wine and almonds, the merchant drew Aryan close.
"You have faced down Westerosi steel with little more than clever words. Admirable—but dangerous." Illyrio smiled, predatory. "You could be more than a pawn, my prince. The right allies—the right payments—could take you far."
Aryan answered in careful, measured tones: "Allies or puppetmasters, my lord? I will reward loyalty with loyalty. But I am no one's fool."
Illyrio laughed, showing teeth. His words dripped meaning: "Even spiders know when to share a web, lest larger predators return."
Aryan pressed, "Are you offering safe passage, or selling it to the highest bidder?"
"Both, perhaps," Illyrio purred. "Your family's legend is a commodity. As is your ambition. Let us trade favor for favor, and see which proves more enduring."
They talked late, bartering secrets and promises. Aryan walked away with a guarantee: for a share of profits (and rumors), Illyrio would provide a ship and safe passage when Aryan gave the signal. It was not trust, but it was leverage.
Forging Daenerys
Each dawn, Daenerys rose at Aryan's side, no longer timid but with a new clarity in her bearing. She listened as Ser Willem drilled her in knife-work and escape tricks, bruised knees forgotten when Aryan praised her progress.
One afternoon, after a long lesson, Aryan paused by the garden. "Dany, do you remember the old tales? The dragon must grow three heads… but it must also learn to fly."
She looked at him, uncertain.
"You are not a piece on my board. You are my kin—and one day, my equal. Rule begins here, in small choices, in weathering fear. Never forget what survival cost us—nor how much we still have to win."
She squeezed his hand. "I will not be weak. Not again."
For a moment, Aryan saw not a doomed princess, but a spark of the queen—Daenerys Stormborn—she would become.
A Quiet Farewell
As Aryan made final preparations for the next phase, he sat alone one last time beneath the moon in Illyrio's walled orchard. Every plan, every oath, every bruise shimmered through his mind. In a world built on betrayal, he'd made something fragile but potent—trust, a circle of loyalty.
In stories, he'd always admired the characters who built their strength in anonymity, who forged family from misfits, and rewrote fate with resolve.
Here and now, in a foreign skin, Aryan understood the real power was not the birthright he'd inherited, but the bonds he chose—and those he inspired in turn.
Tomorrow, the journey would begin anew. But tonight, for the first time, Aryan—prince, exile, and dragon—felt the weight of real leadership settle across his shoulders.
The game was no longer about mere survival.
Now, at last, it was about beginning to win.
End of Chapter 8