The heat of Pentos pressed like a hand on the back of Aragorn's neck, relentless and damp. Dust caked the window ledge of the chamber, grit lingering in his throat as he leaned forward, scanning the city below. The Codex pulsed behind his eyes, lines of blue data forming invisible latticework over buildings, streets, and gutters. Neural fatigue: rising. His vision trembled, not from emotion, but from depletion.
His hands trembled subtly. Muscles ached—not from exertion, but the corrosive erosion of time without sleep. The Codex registered micro-spasms, but pushed him on. Executive override engaged. Human needs are deprioritized.
And then—
The soft blue fabric of a suit. Synthetic. A memory: James Arden stood at the head of a long, dark walnut table. Boardroom. Fluorescent lights burned white overhead. Across from him, a man with tortoiseshell glasses clicked a pen in irritation. Someone spilled coffee. Bitter. Burned. The scent cut through the stale air.
"You're asking me to sign off on a projected loss just to disrupt their logistics chain?" the man snapped.
Aragorn's hand twitched on the windowsill. Pentos shimmered below him, the midday heat distorting its rooftops. Grit burned his eyes. He blinked hard.
The Codex reasserted.
Structural analysis: The southern causeway bore signs of advanced stone fatigue. Discolored mortar. Repeating stress fractures. Thermal expansion was exacerbated by poor gradient correction. Mitigation schema initialized.
He saw the solution in layers. Local brick compositions. Load distribution curves. Subterranean aqueduct rerouting. Modular causeway elevation via beam-locked pylons. No steel. No cranes. But wood scaffolding, counterweight-driven lift frames. Training laborers—slow, but feasible.
Secondary Effect: reduced congestion on labor caravans. Less need for slaves to haul cisterns. Societal friction: moderate. Long-term trade acceleration: projected 47% increase in throughput by volume.
His mind spun, exhaustion and clarity paradoxically coiling tighter. Every inefficiency was a flaw in the body of the world, and he could see the surgical incisions to cure it all.
A child screamed.
Below the balcony, an amphora smashed. A thin girl—no older than Daenerys—knelt in spilled dye. Her handler brought a cane down hard across her back. Again. Again.
James Arden screamed inside him. The scream wasn't sound, but pressure—rising heat behind his teeth, behind his eyes. It threatened to rip free, but the Codex clamped down.
Emotional response: suppressed.
Still, his fists clenched. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to descend, kill the man with cold precision, and carry the girl away. But what then? The Codex gave options:
Abolition model: phased disincentive structure. Free labor tax offset credits. Trade guild formation. Subsidized mechanization of port loads.
He exhaled, a cold, dead thing.
He turned away and entered Daenerys's nursery.
Light filtered through gauze curtains, casting pale gold over Daenerys's silk-wrapped form. She stirred faintly, her breath still shallow. Aragorn knelt beside her and pressed two fingers to her pulse.
Codex: heart rate normalizing. Fever decline confirmed.
He checked the herbal regimen. Birch-root infusion to reduce inflammation. Lavender poultice for respiratory easing. Willow bark decoction for pain. Prepared precisely to the dosage. Ground using stone mortar, triple boiled, filtered through boiled linen.
He brushed sweat-matted hair from her brow.
"Soon," he whispered. "I'll give you better than this. A world where no one beats children with sticks."
He let the vision form in detail. Not just concept, but texture. Brick roads are still warm from the morning sun. Water flows clean through open channels. Public baths, heated with compost chambers. Schools with chalk slates and wooden toys. A market full of free men and women, spices and fruit piled high under striped cloth awnings. Not fear, but bustle.
He left quietly and found Willem Darry waiting in the corridor.
"You didn't sleep," Willem said. Not a question.
"Not yet," Aragorn replied.
Willem studied him, eyes tracing the boy's too-straight spine, the way his hand never idled, the shadows under his eyes.
"You look like Rhaegar did after the Trident," Willem said. "When he knew he would die. Hollow. Far away."
Aragorn's brow twitched.
"What did Rhaegar say?"
Willem exhaled. "He said, 'It's already done. We were only waiting for the fire to find us."
"And did it?"
"Yes. And it burned him."
Aragorn nodded once. "That won't be me."
They descended to the receiving chamber. Nalea stood like flame sculpted into a woman, robes shifting in an unseen breeze. Her gaze—molten gold, unwavering—locked on him.
"The flames whispered," she said softly. "Your name was on their breath. You stood in their light."
Her voice wasn't soft. It was penetrating. It scraped past the surface and went deeper.
Aragorn analyzed her expression, her inflection. Codex scanned vocal cadence, micro-muscle contractions. High conviction. Non-delusional. Tactical utility: extreme.
"You'll obey three rules," Aragorn said. "You do not speak prophecy to Viserys. You do not tell Daenerys what fate awaits her. And you do not call me a god."
Nalea bowed low.
"I see. A king who fears destiny."
"A king who makes it," Aragorn replied.
He left her behind and entered Illyrio's chamber. The air was rich with clove and vanilla. The merchant's robe, rust-red and embroidered with pearls, matched the cushions. Perfume clung to the room like oil.
Illyrio smiled without warmth. "You've become something of a topic. Pentos whispers."
"They whisper because they're uncertain," Aragorn said, settling opposite.
"Uncertainty invites correction. My friends ask what you are. What you bring. If you're a threat."
"I bring value. In five days, I'll prove it."
Illyrio laughed. "With what? Dreams?"
Aragorn leaned forward. "A fleet yard that floats. An armory that breathes. Dockside systems that double output with half the labor."
Illyrio blinked. "Floating?"
"Modular pontoons," Aragorn said. "Tidal-synchronized slipways. No drydock needed. Faster turnaround. Lower mortality. Ships spend less time idle. Money moves."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed. "You've thought this through."
"I don't dream. I calculate."
That night, Aragorn sat with a lamp and ink. The marble was cold against his legs. His fingers cramped. Ink stained his knuckles. The air stank of wax and salt.
He wrote:
To Master Romun, shipwright: Enclosed, a method of crosscut spiral jointing. By staggering timber seams on a helical axis, you disperse tension across lateral planes. Reduced warping. Fewer failures in sea-swell.
To Lord Berro, minor noble: Your fields flood in spring. Use buried ceramic trenching and fermented fish offal to enrich topsoil. Layered planting will double crop yield. Enclose a chart of lunar-coordinated irrigation.
To Guildmistress Velna, carpentry foreman: Replace your angled joints with lath-pinned framing. Wooden rivets drilled through crossbeams reduce single-point collapse. Safer. Quieter. Faster.
He sealed each letter with melted wax, impressed with the black stone from Dragonstone. His fingers shook. A spasm crawled down his wrist. His back screamed.
"One stone at a time," he whispered.
Then, in the stillness, with the lamp guttering, he finally slept.