The last embers of night clung to the Pentoshi skyline, fragile and dark, as Aryan—still Viserys to both the world and the wary faces at his side—stood at the window, scanning the waking city. The ink of the Essosi night seemed to stain his thoughts: every plan and secret etched in shadows, every hope pressed into the hush before dawn. Aryan felt the weight of what he'd built, fragile as spun glass but anchored by trust and preparation.
The Quiet Before
For days, Aryan's world had narrowed to details: lists of debts paid off, routes memorized, shifts in Illyrio's moods. Allies had been gathered in secret—Daenerys, strong in spirit now, Ser Willem prepared for open danger, Marei and the others quick to vanish when the signal came.
As the city woke, Aryan rehearsed every step. Illyrio watched him more than ever, his fat hands always moving as if counting invisible coins. The merchant's patience was thinning; Aryan could sense it in every forced smile. He was running out of time, but he knew this much about games: there is always a window before the trap resprings.
Aryan turned to Daenerys, already dressed, her movements calm. He nodded approvingly. "Today," he said, voice gentle, "we become more than guests or pawns. Are you ready?"
She met his gaze, violet eyes resolute. "With you, always."
Unraveling the Web
Breakfast was tense, the manse's luxury soured by whispered warnings. Aryan caught snatches of conversation—Illyrio's guards grumbling, a new Tyroshi merchant with questions, rumors in the air of missing Lannister gold.
Illyrio himself greeted Aryan with a sly smile. "My young prince, I hope your appetite is as keen as your ambitions. There is talk of new ships in the harbor—old friends and foes alike return to Pentos."
Aryan bowed his head, careful. "A prince must keep many friends, my lord. And yet his friends sometimes keep knives behind their backs."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed, but his smile did not falter. "Wise words... for one so young."
The game beneath their words was as taut as a drawn bow. Aryan had made his choice—tonight, they would leave, using Illyrio's own promise of a ship, but on their terms.
Gathering the Loyal
Throughout the day, Aryan gave final orders with a sense of meta-awareness: it was almost absurd, how much this reminded him of fan theories—the right signals, the coded messages, like he was scripting events with a reader's foresight. But this was reality now: he had to be both player and author.
Marei spread word among the harbor boys: at sunset, a group of "Velaryon cousins" would seek passage on a merchant cog bound for Norvos. Aryan's face would be disguised, Daenerys's silver hair wrapped and hidden.
Daenerys carried coins, a knife, and a message from Aryan: "If anything happens to me, you find Marei and keep going. You are the dragon's future."
Ser Willem packed arms and food, favoring mobility over comfort. Aryan noticed the old knight's hands only trembled when tying knots, never when gripping a sword.
Each person in Aryan's circle repeated their roles, their exits, the places they'd regroup if split apart. He wasn't a general commanding armies—yet—but the structure was there: loyalty, adaptability, trust.
The Final Audience
Just before dusk, Illyrio summoned them to his study, surrounded by enough guards to make the invitation plain.
"I have arranged your passage, as promised," Illyrio announced, dripping honeyed expectation. "A ship north, swift and shadowed, for two honored guests and a handful of companions." He paused, gaze resting heavily on Aryan. "But I would like assurance that, in your rise, you will remember who aided your climb."
Aryan—drawing on every memory of fiction and fan analysis—responded with humility edged in steel. "Illyrio Mopatis, you will always have a friend in House Targaryen. When our fortunes rise, so will yours. But threats and bargains mean nothing against true dragons."
The merchant's eyes searched his for deception, then blinked once, accepting. "Safe travels, my prince. Essos is long on opportunity—and memory."
Exodus in Fog
Dusk melted into fog as Aryan's small group slipped through secret doors to the waterfront. Marei led the way, Daenerys at Aryan's side, Ser Willem bringing up the rear under his hood, watching every alley.
The docks were loud and reeking, but Aryan's heart pounded with purpose. Ahead, the ship waited—a battered old cog, but sturdy. Its captain, a Braavosi with a long scar and little patience for questions, took their coins and looked the other way.
Everyone boarded in silence. The gangplank raised, the sails caught the wind. Aryan stood at the rail and looked back at the city, now shrouded in gloom. He caught a lantern in Illyrio's window—a subtle sign, maybe a farewell or a warning.
He felt a strange surge of hope. This wasn't victory, just survival stretched a little further—but for the first time, the story had truly become his own.
The Dragon's Promise
As the ship slipped into the night, Aryan huddled with Daenerys and Marei, feeling every thrum in the wood, every crisp gust off the Narrow Sea.
"We are safe, for now," he said, voice low. "Our enemies will chase us across the world, but we know things they do not. We have each other, and we have dreams. Remember: we build our strength slowly, we trust carefully—and when the time comes, we strike as dragons should: together, and without fear."
Daenerys nodded, gripping his hand tight. Marei smiled in the dark. Even Ser Willem allowed himself a relieved sigh.
Aryan leaned his head back, breathing the cold sea air. I know the plot. I know this world—as a reader and now as a player. Here, I forge my legend, step by slow step. Here, the dragon's story really begins.
End of Chapter 9