The Narrow Sea, 281 AC
The sea was not kind.
Two days out from Dragonstone, the storm had dulled to a heavy fog, but the air remained sodden, the sky low and iron-gray. Rain came in bursts, like the sea spitting after them, unwilling to let go of the fleeing Targaryens. The boat groaned with every shift in weight, the damp soaking through clothes and skin and into the soul.
Aragorn stood at the bow wrapped in a tattered wool cloak, his silver-blond hair plastered to his forehead. Daenerys, swaddled against his chest, whimpered softly. Her fever had broken during the second night, after endless cycles of cooling cloth, chest-to-chest warmth, careful hydration, and whispered reassurances. He'd done it all himself, his movements tireless and focused.
He had not slept in over forty hours.
The Codex tracked this, silently urging him to rest—but he couldn't afford to. The mind of James Arden, reborn as Aragorn Targaryen, endured on grim resolve. Somewhere in the back of his skull, he imagined the burn of fluorescent lights and the cold hum of air conditioning from another life.
He blinked against the spray. The child within him sagged from exhaustion, but the builder-the—the tactician, the heir—refused to yield.
"Willem," Aragorn said without turning, his voice low but carrying over the lapping water, "take Viserys below. He's too quiet. That's more dangerous than when he screams."
Ser Willem Darry gave a short grunt and obeyed. He no longer questioned the prince. That had changed during the storm, when Aragorn had pulled a broken plank free with his bare hands and instructed the sailors exactly how to rebrace the rigging. Or maybe it had changed when he saw Aragorn diagnose Daenerys's fever faster than any maester could.
Still, Willem watched him now with more than wariness—there was awe, and something like unease.
Alone, Aragorn brushed his palm across the rail. Splinters and waterlogged seams whispered secrets into his mind.
King's Touch Active. Structural integrity: marginal. Estimated seaworthiness at current stress level: five days. Wood saturation is 72%. Hull tension is distributed unevenly.
He could feel the strain in his teeth.
Back in the cove, anchored beneath craggy cliffs blanketed by morning fog, the ship swayed gently as the tide shifted. The crew was bone-tired, and so was he. Some of the sailors played quiet dice games using smoothed knucklebones, while others simply sat, staring out to sea with empty eyes. One man kept adjusting a loose buckle on his boot, as though fixing it might restore something else.
Aragorn moved among them—not to command, but to observe. He noted which sailor watched others roll the dice without playing, eyes sharp and calculating. That one had discipline. Another rearranged stacked crates to better balance their shifting, perhaps unaware of what he was doing. That man understood spatial logic. They might not be soldiers, but they had value.
The Codex quietly recorded it all.
When Willem returned above deck, his cloak soaked and dripping, Aragorn straightened.
"Illyrio will receive us," Willem said, panting. "He sent a skiff to escort us in at first light. He offers shelter. Provisions."
"No cost?"
"None he names."
Aragorn's expression didn't shift, but inwardly he calculated the angles: Illyrio Mopatis, wealthy magister of Pentos. Codex fed him prior and speculative data—political ties, trade influence, the slow encroachment of slavery in border holdings. Illyrio played long games. This was no act of kindness.
"Very well," Aragorn said. "Prepare the others. And Willem—ensure Viserys is clean and dressed before we dock."
Willem hesitated, brow lifting. "He still thinks he's king."
"He will learn he is not," Aragorn said flatly. "We can't afford weakness—not now."
At sunrise, they rowed through thinning mist toward Pentos.
Aragorn clutched Daenerys tighter beneath his cloak as the city's outline grew clearer. Pentos sprawled outward like a great, rust-colored fan—brick roofs packed close, narrow alleys winding like veins, towers capped with fluted domes. The docks were already bustling, sailors shouting in Valyrian and the Pentoshi tongue, gulls screaming overhead.
Codex Imperium: Regional Profile — Pentos.
Port throughput: Moderate to High
Sanitation grade: Low
Security enforcement: Guild-controlled
Political leanings: Merchant oligarchy
Threat rating: Manageable (short-term); volatile (long-term)**
The salt stung his nose, mingled with fish rot, perfume, horse dung, and the sweetness of citrus. His engineer's mind ticked constantly. He saw drainage flaws in the city's sloped gutters. Noted traffic congestion at bottlenecks by the market arches. Even her chaos could be structured.
"Welcome to exile," he muttered.
A pair of Illyrio's house guards—clad in silken sashes and bronze armor more for show than war—waited on the dock. They escorted them up twisting streets toward a villa perched above the harbor.
Viserys said little. He walked stiffly, chin raised, eyes scanning windows as though half-expecting the Iron Throne to appear around the next corner. His pride stank louder than the docks.
Illyrio's villa was a white marble structure wrapped in blooming vines, its domed roof capped in gold leaf, reflecting the sun. At the gate, they passed under an arch engraved with trading slogans in Valyrian.
Inside, a garden bloomed beneath open sky—lemons, pomegranates, bright flowers. Servants bustled silently. The scent of cinnamon and roast fowl drifted through the air.
Illyrio Mopatis himself descended from the far staircase. He was a mountain of scented silk and jewelled fingers, his beard neatly combed, his breath fruity and wine-heavy.
"Your Grace," Illyrio said with a florid bow toward Aragorn. "And young Prince Viserys. And… sweet Daenerys." He gestured to the bundle in Aragorn's arms.
Aragorn inclined his head, but did not kneel.
"You honor us, Lord Illyrio."
"I would be poor indeed," Illyrio said, "if I could not offer a roof to dragons cast out by lesser men."
Codex Imperium: Behavioral Analysis — Illyrio Mopatis.
Vocal rhythm: controlled, performative
Motivations: gain influence, secure future favor
Security risk: medium-high (resourceful, politically adaptable)
Illyrio turned and clapped. Rooms have been prepared. You must be wary'll dine at sunset. All you need is yours, for now."
A servant girl led them through cool corridors. Aragorn noted the guards' bored posture, the thinness of the doors, and the width of hallways—too wide for quick defense, but perfect for display.
Their rooms were spacious, tiled in blue and green, smelling of jasmine. Aragorn laid Daenerys gently on the bed, then moved to the windows. He pressed a hand to the wooden frame.
King's Touch: Frame intact. No secret compartments. View line exposed. Minimal security.
He noted the view of the city. Escape paths. Choke points.
"Sleep," Willem said gently. "You've done more than anyone could ask."
"I will. Briefly." Aragorn looked down at Daenerys. "But I must begin planning."
"For what?"
"For everything."
He moved to the far wall, took a piece of charcoal from the writing table, and began to sketch lines of defense, supply routes, and lists of names he would need to remember.
Behind him, Willem watched with wonder.
And Viserys sat alone by the hearth, hands clenched, eyes burning.