Pentos, 281 AC
The city sprawled before him, a tangled tapestry of brick, plaster, and clay roofs. From the eastern balcony of Illyrio Mopatis's villa, Aragorn stood wrapped in a thin robe, Daenerys swaddled against his chest. She breathed softly now, no longer feverish, but not yet strong. The warm Essosi air did little to banish the weight pressing down on his shoulders.
His fingers traced the carved marble of the balustrade, its curves and grooves whispering of artisans who cared more for beauty than structural integrity. Codex Imperium flickered behind his eyes, a second consciousness unceasing in its assessment.
Structural analysis: 12% cosmetic degradation. The support base is stable. Historical equivalent: Moorish courtyards, Andalusia, 10th century.
He inhaled deeply. The scent of citrus trees in the courtyard below, of baked dust and faintly salty sea breeze, mixed with the acrid smoke of burning trash in distant alleys. Slaves moved through narrow streets like ants in rivulets, bearing amphorae, sweeping courtyards, hauling grain sacks twice their size.
It disgusted him.
Not because he hadn't seen worse—he had. James Arden had read of slavery in his textbooks, seen its echoes in sweatshops and trafficked bodies across history. But now he saw it through the eyes of a child-prince reborn, aware of every muscle pulled tight under the lash of an indifferent world.
Note: The Pentoshi labor system is non-hereditary slavery. Codex recommends a phased abolition strategy: covert resource redistribution, employment modeling, and covert resistance network building.
Ethical overlay active. Recommendation: Minimize confrontation until a power base is established.
He watched a boy, no older than himself, stagger under the weight of an iron brazier. His foot slipped, and the brazier clanged loudly. A man in fine robes cuffed him across the face. The boy kept walking.
Aragorn's jaw clenched.
Codex: Suppressed emotional response. Cortisol spike. Prioritization queue updated.
He turned his gaze to the skyline. Pentos, for all its wealth, bore the hallmarks of inefficient urban design. Streets are crowded without order. Drainage systems were inadequate—he could smell the rot of standing water. Rooftops are tiled improperly. Heat built up between alleys, causing thermal layering that worsened disease vectors.
Recommendations: Radial road system. Central sewage channel. Water tower and aqueduct feasibility: low due to elevation disparity. Alternative: distributed cistern model.
The heat clung like oil. Dust coated his tongue. Somewhere, in the open-air market, a vendor cried out in Braavosi-accented Valyrian.
Behind him, Daenerys whimpered softly. He adjusted the blanket.
Infant respiration rate is within normal parameters. Continue hydration. Monitor fever resurgence.
He closed his eyes. Forty hours with no sleep. His muscles ached—not from labor, but from the tension of leadership. His spine felt too rigid for a child's frame. The memory of James Arden still lived in his nerves: fluorescent lights, cold office chairs, the numb tingle of hands gone too long without rest. None of that existed here. But his mind hadn't forgotten.
He hadn't eaten since the storm. Hunger gnawed like a rat in his belly.
Ser Willem Darry entered with quiet boots and weary eyes.
"You've not slept," Willem said.
"No."
"You'll kill yourself."
"I'll rest when she's safe. When we all are."
Willem approached slowly. He looked down at the child in Aragorn's arms and then at the city.
"I served your father," Willem said. "I bled for Rhaegar. But you… I don't know what you are."
Aragorn turned. "I am what is left. That must be enough."
Willem's eyes searched his face. "I hear the way you speak. Like a man grown. A king in waiting."
"I've seen what kings become when they grow with no challenge. I will not be that."
Willem looked away. "Do you trust Illyrio?"
"No."
"Then why meet him?"
"Because a man who wants something thinks he's in control. Until he isn't."
Willem grunted. "I'll fetch you a clean tunic."
Before the audience, Aragorn stood alone in the antechamber.
Codex: Subject Illyrio Mopatis. Merchant-Prince archetype. Prior observed behaviors: opportunistic alliances, double-dealing, wealth accumulation via arms and spices. Probable hidden assets: sellsword companies, smuggling routes, political favors.
Recommended posture: controlled candor. Tactical truth. Avoid ideological reveals. Allow the subject to believe he holds the upper hand.
Aragorn ran his fingers over the silk sleeve of his borrowed tunic. It itched.
He rehearsed three phrases in Valyrian, one in Braavosi, and reviewed seven opening negotiation frameworks. Then he stepped forward.
Illyrio Mopatis welcomed him with a practiced smile. The chamber was everything a man like him would build: ostentatious, heavy, perfumed.
Silks draped the walls, embroidered with scenes of dragons and lion-headed kings. Tapestries showed Aegon the Conqueror crossing Blackwater Bay—an irony Aragorn didn't miss.
"Prince Aragorn," Illyrio said, bowing slightly. "What a pleasure."
Aragorn bowed. "Lord Mopatis."
They sat. Illyrio gestured toward the wine. Aragorn lifted the cup, sniffed, and set it down without drinking.
"Not thirsty?" Illyrio asked.
"I never drink until business is concluded."
Illyrio's eyes gleamed. "Then let us speak plainly."
"Please."
"You are a prince without a kingdom. A brother to a mad child. A guardian of a babe with no army. And yet… You speak like a conqueror."
"I am merely a man who understands his position."
"Which is?"
"A shadow in the world's eye. But even a shadow can learn to sharpen its edge."
Illyrio chuckled. "Poetic. Tell me, what would you ask of me?"
"A roof. Provisions. An education for my siblings. Discretion."
"And what do I receive?"
"A stake in a future empire."
Illyrio raised his eyebrows. "Empire?"
"Do not mistake my age for ignorance. My house may be broken, but it is not dead. I will rebuild it—stone by stone. That is not a hope. It is a plan."
Illyrio leaned forward, fingertips steepled. "And when that day comes, you will remember who fed your sister pap and clothed your brother in silks?"
"I will remember who tried to chain me with velvet."
The older man's eyes narrowed. "You play a dangerous game, young prince."
"I did not choose the board. I only play to win."
They locked eyes. Then Illyrio leaned back and laughed.
"You are sharper than I expected. Very well. Pentos welcomes you—for now."
That night, Aragorn walked through the villa.
He touched the walls. Ran fingers beneath beams.
King's Touch: Activated. Core materials—mixed limestone and wood. Flaws—hairline stress fractures, moisture seepage, asymmetrical load distribution.
He saw blueprints in his mind's eye. Angles of force. Arches collapsing inward. Weak joints beneath the tile.
Near the stairs, he pressed against the wall and felt emptiness.
Substructure: Hollow. Depth: 1.3 meters. Shape: curved, descending. Possible tunnel. Codex recommends mapping.
Even security could be breached. Three blind spots in the servant path. One false mosaic. Guards rotated on uneven schedules. Sloppy.
He committed every flaw to memory.
In the solar, Viserys waited.
"You embarrassed me," he snapped.
"No," Aragorn said. "You embarrassed yourself."
"I am the king!"
"No. You are a child playing dress-up in your father's crown."
Viserys lunged.
Aragorn stepped aside. Grabbed his wrist. Twisted. Viserys fell to one knee, gasping.
"I could break you," Aragorn said. "And no one would stop me."
"Willem would—"
"Willem serves the realm. And I am its future."
He released him.
Viserys stumbled back, pale and shaking.
"You'll regret this."
"I regret every minute I spend indulging your delusions."
Willem had been watching from the doorway.
He said nothing. But when Aragorn passed him, Willem bowed.
Back in his chambers, Aragorn knelt beside Daenerys.
Codex: Infant temperature normal. Sleep cycle resumed. The immunity baseline is low.
He kissed her brow.
"I will give you a world worthy of you."
Then he turned back to the balcony.
Codex: Begin phase one. Infrastructure acquisition. Intelligence gathering. Language mastery. Noble contacts. Potential allies: House Martell, Braavos, Lys.