Two moons had turned since Alyn arrived in Pentos.
He wandered the sunbaked streets of the Free City when fate finally granted him what he had long sought—a glimpse of silver-white hair and violet eyes that could belong only to those of Valyrian descent.
The mission, he thought, his heart quickening.
He stood stunned for a moment, scarcely believing his fortune, then rushed forward through the crowded marketplace.
After hearing Alyn recount his presence in Pentos, Viserys Targaryen's gaunt face twisted into an expression both grim and sinister, his violet eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
"You're a Lantell?!" he spat, spittle flying from his lips. "A lowly, shameless cousin to the Lannisters! How dare you present yourself before the blood of the dragon?!"
Alyn dropped to his knees upon the dirty cobblestones with an audible thud, wincing at the impact.
"Your Grace, I beg you to understand!" he pleaded, his voice trembling with apparent sincerity.
"Though I was born to House Lantell, I have always yearned for the rule of the true dragon. Never have I recognized the shameless rebellion of the usurper and his dogs."
Alyn crawled forward on his knees, closing the distance to Viserys before offering a bow so deep his forehead nearly touched the street.
"I have never forgotten that Your Grace is the rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
His voice rose with fervor as passersby turned to stare. "Only the great House Targaryen deserves to sit upon the Iron Throne!"
The common folk in the street paused to observe the spectacle, some turning to one another with knowing looks.
A few who recognized the silver-haired youth whispered explanations to those nearby—identifying him as the exiled prince of the extinct Targaryen dynasty, a penniless "beggar king" reduced to living on the charity of wealthy magisters.
Quiet laughter rippled through the gathering crowd.
Viserys ignored the contempt surrounding him, entirely intoxicated by Alyn's extravagant flattery.
"The Seven Kingdoms still remember me," he declared, his chin lifting proudly. "They remember the true dragon. You speak rightly—I am the master of the Iron Throne! The usurper's dogs will not run wild for much longer. The dragon's wrath shall burn them all to ash!"
Beside him, Daenerys stood with downcast eyes, all too familiar with her brother's grandiose pronouncements. Yet she could not ignore the stares of the onlookers, their silent mockery scoring her like countless small knives.
She wished to shrink behind her brother's slight form, to escape these biting gazes, but knew Viserys would likely refuse her such shelter.
It would not serve to "wake the dragon" again. Her back still bore faint marks from his last display of temper.
She regretted leaving their sanctuary. Within the high walls of Magister Illyrio's manse, she had enjoyed protection from such public humiliation. Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded to venture forth only to face such derision?
She glanced timidly at the boy kneeling before them with such apparent devotion.
His light yellow hair and fair skin marked him clearly as Westerosi. Daenerys felt a pang of curiosity about her homeland—a place she had never seen—but instinct warned her against trusting this silver-tongued youth too readily.
"Your Grace!" Alyn continued, his voice ringing with practiced desperation. "Your humble servant begs you to permit him to remain at your side. Grant me the supreme honor of serving the true dragon!"
He remained kneeling, his posture and tone conveying absolute conviction.
Viserys appeared greatly pleased by this display. Yet years spent fleeing from city to city had imbued him with a wary nature, suspicious of all who approached too eagerly.
"You claim you were a servant to the usurper's bastard get?" he asked, his voice hardening.
Alyn raised his head, allowing Viserys to see eyes seemingly filled with hatred and pain. "That was before!"
He spoke with passion, gesturing emphatically. "I lived contentedly enough with my family until the Lannister forces grew too powerful. They compelled me to enter the Red Keep and serve Joffrey—that cruel and vicious son of the usurper."
A sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head mournfully. "These past years have been worse than death itself."
"Two moons past, I was forced to cross the Narrow Sea to Pentos to oversee the purchase of dragon eggs. The sea terrifies me to my bones, and I lack the courage to brave those waters again. Thus, I have remained in Pentos, wandering lost, until this blessed day."
His tone grew confidential. "In truth, I suspected abandonment, and indeed, no word or aid has reached me since my arrival."
Alyn's explanation appeared reasonable enough. "Your Grace, how could I harbor even a trace of goodwill toward the usurpers after such treatment?"
Viserys considered this tale, recalling his own years of desperate flight from city to city, one step ahead of the Usurper's knives. He found he could readily understand Alyn's apparent change of heart.
Moreover, was not the defection of the usurper's son's own servant further proof that destiny favored the true king's return?
"When that day comes," Viserys proclaimed with magnanimous grandeur, "I shall grant you the privilege of personally removing Joffrey's head from his shoulders. And when I reclaim my rightful seat upon the Iron Throne, all who proved loyal to the true dragon shall receive castles, titles, and lands in abundance!"
With characteristic arrogance, Viserys accepted Alyn's pledged allegiance, while Daenerys remained silent, knowing better than to voice her misgivings.
Yet she could not quite bring herself to trust this sudden appearance. Everything the youth claimed might well be falsehood. How could such a convenient coincidence arise without deliberate design?
"Indeed, how remarkable a coincidence," Magister Illyrio mused later within his palatial manse, stroking his forked yellow beard with bejeweled fingers. He could not suppress a degree of suspicion.
After two moons of dwelling in Pentos, Viserys and his sister had somehow encountered a servant from the Sunset Kingdoms—one formerly employed by the heir to the Iron Throne, no less.
Could this truly be mere happenstance rather than calculated conspiracy?
Alyn knelt before the dais, uncertain whether his gambit had been wise.
Over the past two moons, he had gradually established himself within Pentos. For one fallen so far from grace, he ought to have been satisfied with such modest success.
Yet he could not forget his mission.
Though the existence of the Targaryen siblings was common knowledge in the streets and alleys of Pentos, Alyn had found it impossible to gain access to them within Illyrio Mopatis's heavily guarded compound.
Observing the approaching deadline, and knowing that Khal Drogo had already begun his journey toward Pentos, Alyn determined that risk had become necessary.
After careful preparation—and with unexpected good fortune—he had finally encountered the Targaryen siblings in the street.
Now he faced his greatest challenge.
"Magister," Alyn said, bowing deeply before the corpulent merchant prince, "I am honored to behold your face once more."
Illyrio sat majestically upon his elevated chair, his smile revealing nothing of his thoughts.
Viserys spoke with characteristic impatience. "Illyrio, he is merely a servant who wishes to attend the true dragon. Why harbor such suspicion?"
The Magister remained silent, measuring his response.
Though he regarded the self-styled king as nothing more than a pawn in a greater game, the time had not yet come to allow the pawn to recognize its true significance.
Illyrio carefully weighed risk against potential benefit.
A fellow Westerosi might indeed help soothe Viserys's volatile temperament. Was the danger significant enough to warrant refusal?
The Magister studied Alyn again, mentally reviewing the various intelligence reports he had received over the past two moons.
Assassinations and conspiracies concerning the Iron Throne fell under Varys's purview, and by all accounts, Prince Joffrey remained a foolish, willful child.
Even if this Alyn harbored ill intent, what meaningful harm could a single youth accomplish?
Illyrio trusted his old friend Varys, and he trusted equally in his own power within Pentos.
"Very well," he declared at last. "Alyn, henceforth you shall devote yourself entirely to serving your true king and princess. Put aside all thoughts of Westeros for the present."
The Magister raised his arm in dismissal and descended from his dais with the assistance of two attendants.
"After all," he added with subtle warning, "this is Pentos."
Alyn watched the Magister depart, fully comprehending the unspoken admonition.
Pentos harbored countless dangers, especially for those who plotted against those under Illyrio's protection. Now that he had gained access to the dragon's remnants, he stood but one step from completing his task. He could not afford to falter.
That night, he lay awake despite his exhaustion, mind racing through possibilities and contingencies.
By the following morning, after receiving instruction regarding his new duties, Alyn was finally led by household servants to a secluded garden within the compound.
Amidst fragrant climbing vines and exotic flowering shrubs, the Targaryen siblings sat at a carved stone table, their silver-white hair and violet eyes even more striking in direct sunlight.
Alyn made no attempt to conceal his apparent excitement.
"Your Grace, Princess," he said, bowing low. "Your humble servant Alyn awaits your command."
Viserys idly toyed with a delicate dagger, turning it this way and that in hands unused to weaponry. "I find myself plagued by tedium," he said. "Tell me of interesting developments in the usurper's court."
Even from his brief observation, Alyn could discern that the beggar king possessed no skill whatsoever with the blade he handled so carelessly.
"Your Grace, the usurper's court holds nothing of interest," Alyn replied with practiced conviction. "Robert Baratheon is wholly unfit to rule. With each passing day, the Seven Kingdoms suffer more grievously under his misrule. I mourn for the common folk of Westeros."
He spoke each word with deliberate certainty.
"The Seven Kingdoms shall soon welcome a new king!"
"A true king!"
"A king hailed by tens of thousands!"
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