The damp, musty smell, mixed with the pungent aroma of spices and sewage, suddenly assailed his nostrils. Illyrio Targaryen opened his eyes with a violent headache, his vision filled with mottled, yellowish-brown walls. A coarse linen sheet, drying overhead, dripped water onto his cheek, icy cold.
"Damn it…" He tried to prop himself up, but found his arms so sore they felt like they'd been run over by a carriage, and his throat so dry it could emit smoke. This wasn't his familiar rental room — no desk piled high with history papers, no wall adorned with 'A Song of Ice and Fire' posters, and certainly no lamp still burning at three in the morning.
Memories, like shredded parchment, churned wildly in his mind. One moment, he was a history graduate student at Cambridge University, staying up until dawn for his thesis, 'The Fall of the Targaryen Dynasty and the Evolution of Power Structures,' and falling asleep at his desk. The next, countless unfamiliar scenes flooded in: a blonde woman crying as she held him, saying, "You must live, find Miss Daenerys"; a man in silk robes handing him a dragon-sigil necklace, saying, "This is your mother's relic, and proof of a Targaryen"; and the clamor of Pentos streets, the strange languages of the Free Cities, and names like "Usurper's War," "The Mad King," and "Robert Baratheon," which should only appear in academic papers.
Illyrio pinched his thigh hard, the sharp pain instantly clearing his head — this wasn't a dream. He had truly transmigrated, becoming a never-before-mentioned collateral branch of the Targaryen Family in 'A Song of Ice and Fire,' Illyrio Targaryen, the son of The Mad King's younger brother. As a child, he was fostered in Pentos; his mother died of illness during the war, leaving only a dragon-sigil necklace and the dying wish to "find Daenerys."
He reached for his chest and, sure enough, felt a cold piece of metal — it was a palm-sized necklace. The chain was dark silver, and the pendant featured two intertwined dragons, their eyes set with dark red gemstones that glowed faintly in the dim light. This was the symbol of the Targaryen Family, and now his only proof of identity.
"Daenerys… Viserys…" Illyrio murmured these two names, his heart pounding. According to his memory of the original story, Daenerys and her brother Viserys should currently be residing in the manor of Magister Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos, waiting for Illyrio to arrange her marriage to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki. And Viserys, that irritable, shortsighted fool, would soon be crowned with molten gold and executed by Drogo because of his impatience.
No, that scene couldn't happen so soon. At least until Daenerys hatched her dragons, Viserys still had his uses — he was a symbol of the legitimate Targaryen bloodline, capable of temporarily uniting the scattered remnants in the Free Cities. More importantly, Illyrio now had nothing; only by finding Daenerys could he survive under the name of Targaryen.
He struggled to his feet and looked around. This was a dilapidated shack in the slums of Pentos, with only a straw bed, a wooden table with a broken leg, and a few empty clay pots piled in a corner. It seemed the original owner had died of poverty — according to his memories, the original owner made a living by carrying goods for merchants. A few days ago, he caught a fever after being caught in the rain, couldn't afford a doctor, and simply passed away, allowing his modern soul to inhabit the body.
Illyrio walked to the wooden table and picked up the only broken mirror on it. The mirror reflected a young face, about seventeen or eighteen years old, with golden hair (though somewhat disheveled) and purple eyes (a characteristic of the Targaryen Family). His skin was pale, and his build slender, but his features were quite handsome. Good, at least he inherited the Targaryen physical traits, which would make it easier for Daenerys to believe his identity.
He patted his pockets and only found three copper starls — the original owner's entire savings. This amount wasn't even enough for one day's food, let alone a trip to Illyrio's Manor. Illyrio's Manor was in the noble district of Pentos, several miles from the slums, and guarded at the entrance, so it wasn't somewhere one could simply walk into.
"I need to get some money first, then figure out how to approach Illyrio's Manor." Illyrio frowned, beginning to recall the situation in Pentos. According to the original story, Pentos was one of the wealthier Free Cities, bustling with merchants, especially the spice market and slave market, which required many porters. Perhaps he could first find work at the spice market, earn some money to buy decent clothes, and then find a way to meet Daenerys.
He carefully tucked the dragon-sigil necklace into his collar, hiding it close to his body — this item was too conspicuous. If someone with ill intentions saw it and recognized it as a Targaryen token, it could bring about his demise. Then, he took the three copper starls, put them in his pocket, and pushed open the door of the dilapidated house.
Outside was a narrow alley, with houses packed tightly on both sides. Sewage flowed through the cracks in the flagstones, emitting an unpleasant odor. Several barefoot children chased and played in the alley, while a beggar in tattered robes leaned against a wall, extending a dirty hand to passersby. In the distance, the shouts of merchants could be heard, selling spices, fruits, and even slaves, all mixed together, forming the unique clamor of the Pentos slums.
Illyrio took a deep breath, suppressing the unease in his heart, and walked towards the direction of the spice market in his memory. His steps were somewhat unsteady; his body hadn't fully recovered, but he knew he had no time to waste — Viserys's patience was limited, Illyrio's marriage plan could be activated at any moment. He had to find Daenerys as soon as possible to buy himself, and Daenerys, some time to survive in this cruel game of power.
After walking for about half an hour, the street ahead gradually widened, and the scent of spices in the air grew stronger. Illyrio knew the spice market was approaching. Just then, he heard the sound of horse hooves behind him, accompanied by the clear ringing of bells. He instinctively turned his head and saw a troop of soldiers in silver armor, escorting a luxuriously decorated carriage, passing by the alley entrance. The carriage bore a lion sigil — the sigil of Lannister Family.
Illyrio's heart suddenly constricted. Why were members of Lannister Family in Pentos? Could it be people sent by Tywin Lannister, to hunt down the remnants of the Targaryen Family? He quickly lowered his head and hurried into a nearby alley, only daring to peek out after the sound of the carriage faded.
It seemed Pentos was not safe. Lannister spies were everywhere; he had to be even more careful.
Illyrio composed himself and continued towards the spice market. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the houses, casting mottled shadows on the flagstones. He clutched the copper starls in his pocket and the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar.
Ahead, the sign for the spice market was already vaguely visible. And in the more distant Illyrio's Manor, Daenerys Targaryen was unaware that her fate was about to be rewritten — quietly pushed onto a new path by a "cousin" from the future, with full knowledge of the storyline.
Winter is coming, and his war has just begun