Even before dawn, the rustling sound of sweeping could be heard in the alleys of the Pentos slums. When Illyrio Targaryen climbed out of his straw bed, there was only a faint hint of dawn outside the window, and the air carried the damp chill unique to early morning.
He felt for the two copper starls under the bedboard—he'd earned one yesterday moving cinnamon, and with the two remaining from the original owner, he had three in total, just enough to tackle the top priority: "clothes."
According to the original owner's memory, there was a second-hand vendor named Old Mo on the edge of the slums who specialized in buying and selling old clothes discarded by impoverished nobles, at half the market price.
Illyrio Targaryen pocketed the copper starls and his dragon-sigil necklace, quietly pushed open his door, and walked along the wall towards Old Mo's stall.
The early morning alley was exceptionally quiet, with only a few stray dogs rummaging for food in the garbage heaps, occasionally letting out a few low barks.
Illyrio Targaryen walked quickly, afraid of encountering early-rising thugs—especially Gray, who he had embarrassed yesterday and might seek revenge.
Old Mo's stall was at the intersection of the slums and the commoners' district, a small shed made of tattered cloth, hung with all sorts of old clothes—mostly faded linen shirts, worn-edged jackets, and a few noble garments with faded crests.
Old Mo was sitting under the shed, counting goods, and when he saw Illyrio Targaryen approach, he squinted his cloudy eyes: "It's you, the Targaryen boy. Are you well? Come to buy clothes?"
Illyrio Targaryen's heart skipped a beat—Old Mo knew his family? Then he remembered that Old Mo had helped arrange things when the original owner's mother died, so he probably knew from then.
He nodded, lowering his voice: "Mr. Old Mo, I need a jacket I can wear to the market, not too tattered. How much?"
Old Mo pointed to a dark brown coarse wool jacket in the corner of the shed: "That one. I got it a few days ago. The original owner was a merchant, didn't wear it much. Only the cuffs are a bit worn. Two copper starls."
Two copper starls, just within his budget. Illyrio Targaryen picked up the jacket, shook off the dust, and tried it on—though a bit large, it was wearable, at least more presentable than the rags he was wearing.
He pulled out two copper starls and handed them to Old Mo. Just as he was about to fold the jacket, he heard a familiar curse from behind him.
"Well, well, you little brat, hiding here!"
Gray and his four followers blocked the entrance to the shed, each holding a wooden stick, clearly prepared. Seeing this, Old Mo quickly retreated behind the shed, whispering: "Gray, don't cause trouble here. My small business can't handle it."
Gray ignored Old Mo, his eyes fixed on Illyrio Targaryen: "Yesterday you played smart, but today, let's see who can help you! Hand over your jacket and money, or I'll break your legs!"
Illyrio Targaryen tightened his grip on the jacket, his mind racing. There were five of them, and they had weapons; a direct fight was out of the question.
He glanced at the items on Old Mo's stall and saw a few bags of spices piled in the corner—those were substandard goods Old Mo bought from the spice market, sold specifically to people in the slums.
"Gray, are you sure you want to do this here?" Illyrio Targaryen deliberately raised his voice, "Yesterday you failed to rob Mr. Marrow of his cargo money, and today you're trying to rob Old Mo's customer. If the guards find out, do you think you'll still be able to stay in Pentos?"
Gray's face changed—he feared the guards most. But he quickly regained his bravado: "Don't try to scare me! This is the slums, the guards won't come here!"
"Oh really?" Illyrio Targaryen gestured towards the alley entrance, "Who do you see there?"
Gray subconsciously turned his head. Illyrio Targaryen seized the opportunity, grabbed a bag of pepper from the stall, and threw it at the closest follower.
The pepper bag burst open, and the pungent pepper dust covered the follower's face, making him scream and cover his eyes.
While Gray and the others were in a panic, Illyrio Targaryen grabbed his jacket and ran towards the alley entrance. He knew that one second later, he would be caught.
Just then, a milk vendor pushing his cart happened to pass by the alley entrance. Illyrio Targaryen shouted: "Make way! Someone's being robbed behind me!"
The milk vendor was startled and quickly moved his cart aside. When Gray and the others chased out, their path was blocked by the milk cart.
By the time they pushed the milk cart away, Illyrio Targaryen had already run far away.
Illyrio Targaryen ran back to his dilapidated house in the slums in one breath, leaning against the door, panting heavily, a fresh layer of cold sweat breaking out on his back.
He looked down at the jacket in his hand; thankfully, it hadn't been stolen. This encounter made him even more aware—the Pentos slums were full of dangers, and he had to see Daenerys and leave here as soon as possible.
After a short rest, Illyrio Targaryen changed into his new jacket, put the remaining copper starls in his pocket, and walked towards the docks.
He needed to confirm Illyrio's travel route on market day—Marrow had worked at the docks for years and dealt with many merchants, so he might know the habits of nobles.
Marrow was at the docks, directing stevedores to unload cargo. Seeing Illyrio Targaryen approach, he frowned: "Why are you here? Not working today?"
"Mr. Marrow, I have something I'd like to ask you." Illyrio Targaryen handed him half a piece of black bread—which he had saved from yesterday. "The day after tomorrow is market day. Do you know if Lord Illyrio will take guests to the market? Which route will they likely take?"
Marrow took the black bread, bit into it, and mumbled: "Why are you asking? It's none of your business."
"I have a distant relative who works in Lord Illyrio's estate and wants to meet on market day," Illyrio Targaryen fabricated an excuse. "If I know the route, I can save myself a lot of trouble."
Marrow thought for a moment, then pointed to the main street across the dock: "Every time Illyrio goes to the market, he takes the 'Golden Avenue'—that road is wide and suitable for carriages.
He usually leaves around mid-morning, first to the spice market, then to the slave market, and finally to the jewelry store. If you want to see someone, wait at the entrance of the spice market; you might run into them."
Golden Avenue, mid-morning departure, first to the spice market—this information was crucial for Illyrio Targaryen.
He quickly thanked him and then asked: "Mr. Marrow, do you know if one of the guests Illyrio is bringing is a blonde princess? What kind of clothes would she likely be wearing?"
"A blonde princess?" Marrow recalled, "I think I saw her once, following Illyrio's carriage, wearing a blue silk dress and a silver necklace. She was quite pretty, but she seemed a bit timid."
Illyrio Targaryen felt reassured—that must be Daenerys. A blue silk dress and a silver necklace, these features would help him quickly identify Daenerys.
Leaving the docks, Illyrio Targaryen detoured to Lena's soup stall. Lena was preparing the midday soup and, seeing him in his new jacket, said in surprise: "Oh, that jacket looks decent, where did you get it?"
"Bought it from Old Mo, cost two copper starls." Illyrio Targaryen smiled, "Madam Lena, on market day the day after tomorrow, will you be going to the spice market?"
"Of course, there will be many people that day, and the soup sells quickly," Lena said while chopping vegetables. "What, are you going too?"
"Yes, I want to see the excitement that day," Illyrio Targaryen said casually. "By the way, do you have any extra dried flowers? The kind you used to decorate your soup stall last time."
Lena paused, then took out a small bundle of dried lavender from under the stall: "Yes, I do. What do you want them for?"
"I heard that blonde noble ladies like flowers, and I want to carry some with me, hoping to make a good impression," Illyrio Targaryen took the dried lavender, carefully put it into his jacket pocket, "Thank you, Madam Lena."
Lena smiled: "You're a thoughtful child. But those noble ladies have tempers, so don't get too close, lest you cause trouble."
Illyrio Targaryen nodded, thanked Lena, and turned to walk back to his dilapidated house. The sun had already set behind the rooftops, and kerosene lamps gradually lit up in the alley, their dim yellow light reflecting on the cobblestones, casting long shadows.
Back in the dilapidated house, Illyrio Targaryen took out the dried lavender and placed it by his bedside, then folded the dark brown jacket and put it by his pillow.
He touched the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar; the cold metallic touch made him feel much more at ease.
The day after tomorrow would be his first meeting with Daenerys. He didn't know if this meeting would go smoothly, if Viserys would be present, or if Lannister spies would appear.
But he knew this was his only chance—to survive, to change Daenerys's fate, he had to seize this opportunity.
The night outside the window grew darker, and the lights of Pentos gradually merged into a single expanse. Illyrio Targaryen lay on his bed, closed his eyes, and repeatedly rehearsed the meeting in his mind:
At the entrance of the spice market, seeing Daenerys's blue dress, he would slowly walk over, quietly reveal his dragon-sigil necklace, and whisper, "Your Royal Highness, I am Illyrio Targaryen, your cousin…"
He knew that this fateful encounter was about to unfold quietly two days later, in Pentos's busiest market.