The dawn did not break; it seeped through the caked dust and stagnant air like a dying breath, thick with heat and a faint scent of stagnant water and scorched citrus. Aragorn's boots, cracked from weeks of wear, ground through the gravel-laced marble paths of Illyrio's upper garden. His hands trembled.
"Neural fatigue: Critical," the Codex pulsed.
Muscle tremors began in his thighs and forearms, radiating in steady pulses to his spine. Behind his eyelids, a molten pressure pulsed with every heartbeat. He felt his blood move—a thick, sluggish crawl beneath fevered skin. His vision blurred with each breath, distorting the garden around him until the cypress trees seemed to bend under their weight.
A memory seized him. Peter's voice, sharp and nasal: "Arden, unless you've got a miracle in your pitch deck, you're ten million short and six months late."
James Arden blinked at the sterile glow of the boardroom. The glass table reflected his exhausted face, two days without sleep. On the screen behind him, projected metrics stuttered through the PowerPoint—a red arrow pointed down. The room smelled faintly of overbrewed coffee and ozone from the printer.
Then, without transition, the modern world tore away, and Aragorn staggered. Heat slammed into him, the rancid odor of boiling dye and unwashed bodies cutting through the illusion like a blade. A fruit vendor shouted in rapid Braavosi-accented Valyrian. A mule brayed. A whip cracked.
"Executive override engaged," the Codex hummed.
Focus returned in the form of brutal clarity.
He lifted his gaze to the horizon, where the sprawling bulk of Pentos heaved like a creature too bloated to breathe. Slums festered at the base of broken aqueduct arches. Granaries, domed and ancient, showed stress fractures around their base rings, fungal rot along the eastern seams. He blinked, and a Codex schematic overlaid the vista.
"Eastern granary complex: risk of structural compromise 74%. Contributing factors: foundation settling, improper ventilation, insect infestation. Suggested materials: tufa stone reinforcement, lime mortar (4:1 ratio), roof ventilation slats."
He visualized the rebuild: stone transported from the White Hills quarry, soaked in seawater, cured under canvas before stacking. The internal airflow was rechanneled with staggered vent slats along the dome spine. He would need six masons, three days of training, and a mobile scaffold system repurposed from Illyrio's warehouse carts.
The image dissolved as he turned.
A child stumbled near the street beyond the garden wall. She was barefoot, bearing an amphora twice her size, back hunched, collarbones protruding. A cane whistled through the air and struck her flank. She did not cry out. Her eyes met Aragorn's. No fear. Only resignation.
Rage flared.
James Arden screamed within. The boardroom collapsed. He stood, shaking. That child could've been his niece. It could've been the girl who brought donuts to the office every Friday after school. Could've been—
"EMOTIONAL OVERRIDE: SUPPRESSED. Tactical risk: High."
He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood from his palms.
Intervention now would burn every bridge he needed. He needed to dismantle slavery, not rage against it. The Codex offered phased models: incremental economic transitions, free labor incentivization, guild-backed apprenticeships, and agricultural automation. Models that could reshape the world. If he moved now, the old world would close ranks and swallow him whole.
So he turned away.
He entered Daenerys's nursery.
Filtered light bled through white silk curtains. The scent of chamomile and clean linen eased the spike of bile in his throat. Daenerys slept curled in her blankets, the flutter of her breath soft as down. Aragorn brushed her hair from her brow and ran a slow, methodical scan.
"Growth velocity: optimal. Respiratory rate: steady. Herbal regimen: birch-root (anti-inflammatory), lavender (sedative), willow bark (mild analgesic)."
He adjusted the birch-root infusion.
In his mind, Pentos transformed. Crumbling alleys turned into shaded colonnades. Stagnant canals became flowing aqueducts. Markets bustled—not with slave auctions, but with free men and women, artisans and scholars. Public bathhouses, solar-forged cisterns, paved causeways, and illuminated boulevards rose behind his eyes.
He kissed her brow. She stirred, smiled, and slept on.
Later, in Illyrio's east garden, Willem sat beside him in the dappled shade of a fig tree. Nalea approached, silent, robes rustling like flame.
"The smoke turned west," she said.
Her eyes were molten gold. Her presence disrupted the air. Aragorn's Codex pulsed.
"Cognitive profile: Conviction level—extreme. Probability of delusion—low. Tactical utility—high."
"West is filled with ash," Aragorn replied. "And wolves."
Nalea smiled like a woman who had already seen the ashes scatter.
"You do not fear your path. That is rare."
"I don't need faith to walk it."
She bowed low. "Flame walks with you anyway."
Willem shifted. "I served with a man who followed R'hllor. Once. Before the march to Summerhall. He burned three boys on a pyre because his dreams said the crops would fail."
Aragorn met Willem's eyes. "And yet I haven't burned anyone."
Not yet.
That evening, Illyrio's chamber was thick with citrus smoke and silk perfume. Cushions lined the walls, soft as cloud beds. The floor shimmered underfoot—polished lionwood inlaid with Valyrian sigils.
Illyrio lifted a goblet. "Your letters have made ripples, Prince. Lord Saan sent a courier. He read your design for spiral joint-hulls twice, then built a test model. Said it turned faster and weathered the dock ramp without splintering."
"He'll see better performance in open waters," Aragorn said. "That pattern distributes torsional stress, prevents bow sag."
Illyrio's eyes narrowed, calculating. "And your floating fleet yard?"
"Imagine drydocks that rise with the tide. A modular chain of pontoons—each an independent workspace, self-leveling. Ships of all drafts are serviced at once. Reduced queue time. Mobile deployment across coastal locations."
Illyrio sipped. "And the armory?"
"A forge that breathes. Thermal energy is recaptured through sealed vents, filtered for impurities, and circulated for secondary processes. Blades are forged in half the time, with fewer flaws. Workers are healthier, steel cleaner."
The Pentoshi lord leaned forward, voice hushed. "You're not just improving infrastructure. You're reshaping economies."
"One stone at a time," Aragorn replied. "Until the old world cannot stand."
Illyrio chuckled. "Dangerous talk."
"Only to those who profit from rot."
That night, Aragorn's quill scratched against parchment. Blueprints sprawled across the marble. His fingers cramped. The ink stung his nostrils—metallic, sweet. Candlelight cast shadows that flickered like ghosts.
He wrote to Lord Berro:
"Introduce fermentation pits. Fish offal, straw, and ash, layered and rotated. Accelerates nitrogen absorption. Within a season, your yield doubles."
To the Carpentry Guild:
"Lath-pinned framing. Replace single-point loads with distributed stress pathways. Less collapse risk. Simplified assembly."
To the shipwrights:
"Crosscut spiral joints. Efficient, durable, and faster to assemble. Reduce hull repairs by 40%."
Each stroke of the quill burned. The marble chilled his thighs. His spine ached, muscles locking.
"Rest required," the Codex pulsed.
He ignored it.
He traced the aqueduct fix again: brick thickness, mortar seal pattern, venting ducts for pressure equalization. Each line was carved deeper into the parchment and his will.
(Tomorrow I will share between 4-5 episodes, and then nothing will be shared for 2 days. I hope you like it. Also, this fanfic is controlled by AI for corrections, continuity, and easier understanding, but otherwise it is written by me.)