Bronze and black iron gates groaned open with dull creaking.
A wave of warm air—mixed with cloying spice and food aromas—washed over him.
Inside, two rows of slaves in white linen stood with bowed heads.
Their bare feet pressed against cold marble floors, not daring to make a sound.
At the end of the slave columns, a man like a mountain of flesh stood beside a bubbling fountain.
Illyrio Mopatis.
Magister of Pentos.
A man who'd accumulated endless wealth through spice, gems, slaves—even war.
He wore purple silk robes large enough to make two tents.
His fat neck hung with string after string of jewels.
Stubby fingers wore countless glittering rings.
He laboriously wiped sweat constantly seeping from forehead and chin with a silk handkerchief.
Those small eyes hidden behind layers of fat gleamed with shrewdness and sharpness utterly disproportionate to his bloated form.
"Welcome to Pentos, honored guest from afar."
Illyrio's voice was oily and smooth, face piling on that perfectly calculated merchant's enthusiasm.
He'd clearly received news beforehand.
Possibly even witnessed that dragon landing on the beach outside the city.
But he didn't reveal it, just used appraising eyes to silently size up this young man who'd come alone.
That luxurious eastern silk Lynn wore, plus his black hair and dark eyes, made him feel somewhat inscrutable.
Such strange coloring and skin—like someone from Essos.
"Magister."
Lynn nodded slightly, walking in with natural composure.
Like returning home, he ignored the surrounding exotic luxury, walking straight to Illyrio.
"I trust you know why I've come."
Illyrio's smile froze momentarily.
He disliked this feeling.
Being seen through, having initiative completely in the other's hands.
"Please sit, my friend."
He quickly recovered composure, fat arm waving, gesturing for Lynn to sit on a velvet-cushioned couch.
Female slaves filed in, bringing chilled mead and silver platters filled with exotic fruits from the Summer Sea.
"The dragonlord from the west."
Illyrio sat opposite Lynn, body sinking into soft cushions with an overburdened groan.
"Your image has likely spread throughout the Free Cities by now."
"I'm merely an insignificant merchant. What service can I provide?"
"I want your connections, your fleet, and..."
Lynn's gaze turned toward an independent tower deep in the courtyard.
"Those two true dragons you keep at home."
Illyrio's heart contracted sharply, fat on his face trembling.
He knew—the real negotiation was just beginning.
"I think... you should meet them first?"
After a moment's contemplation, Illyrio clapped.
An attendant departed on command.
Soon, light footsteps echoed from the corridor's depths.
Viserys Targaryen entered.
He wore well-tailored black velvet, collar and cuffs embroidered with silver thread depicting the Targaryen three-headed dragon.
Smooth silver hair was impeccably groomed.
That reasonably handsome face wore the aloof, noble smile unique to royalty.
Since Khal Drogo's deal fell through, under Illyrio's "suggestion," he'd seemingly restrained himself considerably.
He understood—"the sleeping dragon's wrath" couldn't trade for armies and thrones.
He needed allies. More valuable bargaining chips.
"Magister."
Viserys first bowed to Illyrio, then turned his gaze to Lynn.
"I presume this is the honored guest from Westeros?"
He scrutinized Lynn with appraising eyes.
Those pale purple eyes held barely concealed wariness and jealousy.
"I am Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."
He proclaimed his identity in flat tones.
Lynn smiled.
Missing one more—Wearer of the Golden Crown.
Lynn didn't rise, just sat on the couch, lifting his wine cup, gently swirling the amber liquid inside.
This silent arrogance made Viserys's smile stiffen slightly.
Just then, another figure quietly appeared at the corridor entrance.
The entire luxurious, noisy hall seemed to lose all color the moment she appeared.
Daenerys Targaryen.
She wore a pale purple gown, hem flowing like moonlight, silently gliding across polished marble floors.
Silver-gold hair was braided into several intricate plaits, loosely hanging behind, a few disobedient strands brushing her smooth forehead.
Her beauty seemed unearthly.
A delicate beauty.
Skin so pale it seemed transparent.
Those world-famous violet eyes—like two amethysts washed by morning dew.
Clear, pure, yet carrying melancholy and resilience beyond her years.
She was no longer that timid girl manipulated by others.
That memory Lynn had "altered," that prophecy like divine revelation—had long planted a seed called hope in her heart.
She stood there quietly, like a winter flower blooming in wind and snow.
Fragile, yet carrying an inviolable sanctity.
Her gaze passed over everyone, landing directly on Lynn.
Their eyes met.
Daenerys's heart stopped beating for an instant.
It's him!
She didn't recognize this face, but she recognized those eyes!
Those eyes that appeared again and again in countless midnight dreams!
Carrying Northern winds, gazing down on all beings like a god!
[The prince is in the west.]
That prophecy branded on her soul's depths thundered in this moment!
Daenerys's body trembled uncontrollably.
Breathing quickened, an unnatural flush rising on her cheeks.
"Dany?"
Viserys noticed his sister's abnormality, frowning with displeasure.
He didn't like Daenerys looking at other men this way.
It made him feel his precious commodity was being coveted.
Daenerys ignored him.
She slowly, step by step, walked toward Lynn.
Everyone present froze.
Viserys's face showed bewilderment. Illyrio's small eyes gleamed with intense interest.
Daenerys stopped before Lynn.
She didn't speak, just stared at him with those violet eyes brimming with moisture.
That gaze held shock, confusion, expectation—countless days and nights of waiting and torment.
"Lord Lynn."
Viserys finally couldn't help speaking, tone carrying displeasure.
"My sister is... being rather rude."
"No matter."
Lynn set down his cup, standing.
He was a head taller than Daenerys, his tall figure completely shrouding her in shadow.
He could feel her soul's trembling.
An emotion mixing faith and adoration—utterly pure emotional fluctuation.
It seems the seed I planted has taken root, sprouted—even bloomed unexpected flowers.
"Targaryen blood is indeed extraordinary."
Lynn extended his hand, using fingertips to lift a strand of Daenerys's silver hair.
The touch was cool and smooth.
Daenerys's body shuddered violently, but she didn't dodge.
"King Viserys."
Lynn's gaze turned to the "Beggar King" whose expression had grown ugly.
"You want to reclaim the Iron Throne, yes?"
"It was mine to begin with." Viserys raised his chin.
"Good." Lynn withdrew his hand.
"I can give you an army, countless gold dragons, let you cross the Narrow Sea in glory, take back everything you want."
Viserys's breathing instantly quickened.
Even nearby Illyrio unconsciously straightened.
"But why should I trust you?"
Viserys suppressed his wild joy, asking in as calm a tone as possible.
"Because of this."
Lynn turned, walking to the courtyard terrace.
He raised his head, looking at Pentos's azure sky, letting out a distant, penetrating whistle.
Dead silence.
Only sea wind rustling through palm leaves.
Viserys and Illyrio exchanged glances, both seeing confusion in the other's eyes.
However, the next second—
A roar seemingly from primordial antiquity came from the distant horizon!
That sound was full of supreme majesty, as if even the sky trembled!
Throughout Pentos, countless people clamoring in the streets suddenly looked up.
They saw it.
A massive shadow was approaching at incredible speed from the sea!
The shadow grew closer, larger...
When it flew over Pentos, everyone saw its form!
Sky-blocking wings, a spine covered in vicious bone spikes, and... three enormous heads!
A dragon!
A three-headed dragon existing in no ancient legend!
Its scales weren't the legendary black or red, but a crystalline blue like ice.
With each breath, visible airflow sprayed from its nostrils, seemingly freezing the surrounding air!
"ROAR—!"
The dragon circled above Pentos, roaring to announce its arrival!
The entire city instantly fell into deathly silence.
Then erupted in mountain-collapsing screams and panic!
Countless people dropped their goods, fleeing in terror, seeking any hiding place!
On Magister Illyrio's terrace—
Illyrio's wine cup clattered to the ground.
His fat flesh rippled violently like waves. He collapsed onto the couch, face drained of blood.
Viserys's nobility and reserve had vanished completely.
He gripped the terrace railing with white knuckles.
Mouth open, he stared blankly at that mythical beast in the sky, throat unable to make any sound.
That handsome face twisted with extreme terror—and near-manic ecstasy!
A dragon!
Their Targaryen dragon!
Their family's glory—returned!
However, only one person present didn't scream or rejoice.
Daenerys.
She'd somehow reached the terrace's edge, letting the dragon's wingbeats whip her pale purple gown and silver-gold hair.
She raised her head, staring entranced at that three-headed ice dragon in the sky.
Tears had long since fallen uncontrollably from those beautiful violet eyes, streaming down her pale, burning cheeks.
[But the true king from the Land of Always Winter, riding a three-headed ice dragon.]
Three-headed dragon.
The prophecy... is real!
Everything is real!
She slowly turned her head.
Directing those tear-soaked, frighteningly bright eyes toward that figure standing calm as a mountain amid chaos.
Her prince.
Her king.
He came.
He really came for her.
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