At first light, the servants of the estate began to bustle; the rustle of sweeping and the clatter of water buckets filtered through the window into Mr. Illyrion's guest room.
He hadn't slept soundly all night, his mind replaying the day's plan repeatedly.
Hearing activity outside, he immediately got out of bed and quickly put on his dark brown coarse wool jacket—the cuffs of which he had simply mended with needle and thread last night, making them look tidier than before.
He folded the note detailing Dothraki customs and put it into his inner pocket, then touched the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
In the hallway, the guard on duty was dozing against the wall, while the butler walked softly towards Viserys's room, carrying a food box.
Mr. Illyrion deliberately slowed his pace, and only after the butler had passed did he pretend to stretch and leisurely walk towards the estate's main gate.
"Morning, big brother guard," he greeted the dozing guard with a smile, "Mr. Illyrio asked me to fetch something from the slums, some old things he left there, you know, that dragon-embroidered shawl, needed for the wedding."
The guard rubbed his eyes and looked him up and down—Mr. Illyrion was now dressed respectably and had mentioned Illyrio's name, so the guard wasn't overly suspicious.
He merely waved his hand: "Come back early, don't delay the wedding."
"Aye, I will!"
Mr. Illyrion breathed a sigh of relief, hurried out of the estate gate, and walked along the familiar path towards the slums.
The morning air was cool, carrying the dampness of dew, and water droplets hung on the roadside weeds, wetting his trouser cuffs.
The slums were much quieter than the estate; most people were still asleep, with only a few early vendors setting up stalls, and the smoke from their stoves curled upwards, dispersing in the morning light.
Mr. Illyrion, familiar with the way, walked to the original owner's dilapidated house.
The door of the shack was still as he had left it, propped open with a wooden stick, with no signs of having been disturbed.
He pushed open the wooden door, and a musty smell assailed him.
The house was still the same: a straw bed, a broken wooden table, and empty clay pots piled in the corner.
Mr. Illyrion walked to the bed, squatted down, and lifted the bed board—the linen shawl embroidered with a dragon-sigil was hidden beneath the bed board, wrapped in a faded blue cloth.
When unfolded, two silver dragons were embroidered on the light gray shawl, their scales outlined with fine silver thread; although some threads were loose, the exquisite craftsmanship was still evident.
"Good thing it wasn't lost."
Mr. Illyrion folded the shawl and put it into the inner pocket of his jacket, close to his chest—this was not only Daenerys's return gift but also an important token to prove his identity, and absolutely nothing could go wrong.
Just as he was about to leave, he heard a familiar voice from the alleyway: "Yo, isn't this our 'Targaryen Young Master'? Why are you back in this dump again?"
Mr. Illyrion's heart sank—it was Grey!
He turned around and saw Grey with three followers blocking the alley, each holding a wooden stick, with mocking smiles on their faces.
It seemed they hadn't gotten the better of him at Old Mo's stall last time, and this time they had specifically come to ambush him.
"I have things to do, no time to mess around with you," Mr. Illyrion clenched his fists and slowly retreated towards the door—he needed to track the Lannister spies now and couldn't waste time here.
"No time?"
Grey took two steps forward, twirling the wooden stick in his hand, "You got away last time; do you think you can escape this time? Hand over your money and that new jacket, or I'll break your legs today!"
Mr. Illyrion's gaze quickly swept over the situation in the alley—not far away was a small stall selling hot porridge, run by a middle-aged man who was adding firewood to the stove; on the other side of the alley, two porters were passing by, carrying goods.
He had an idea and deliberately raised his voice: "Grey! You're robbing again! Last time you robbed Mr. Marrow's freight money, and this time you're robbing me.
Do you believe I'll call the guards?"
Grey's face changed, and he instinctively looked back at the porters in the alley—though he was a ruffian, he was still afraid of being caught by the guards.
At the moment he was distracted, Mr. Illyrion suddenly rushed forward, pushed aside the closest follower, and ran towards the alley entrance.
"Chase him! Don't let him get away!"
Grey reacted, shouting as he gave chase.
Mr. Illyrion dared not look back, running desperately towards the spice market—according to last night's memory, the man in the grey cloak walked towards the slums, most likely leaving via a small path near the spice market.
He ran past the hot porridge stall, and the stall owner instinctively stuck out his foot, tripping Grey.
Grey stumbled and fell to the ground, cursing as he got up, but Mr. Illyrion had already put distance between them.
"Thanks!"
Mr. Illyrion shouted back, quickened his pace, and soon shook off Grey and his gang, turning into a narrow alley—this alley led directly to the back door of the spice market, and it was also the route the man in the grey cloak had taken last night.
The alley was quiet, with only the sound of water droplets falling from the walls onto the flagstones.
Mr. Illyrion slowed his pace, carefully observing his surroundings—there was a fresh set of footprints on the ground, left by leather boots, very large, likely a man's; on the grass in the corner of the wall, there was a bit of grey fluff, consistent with the material of the man in the grey cloak's cloak from last night.
"This must be the way."
Mr. Illyrion followed the footprints forward; at the end of the alley was an abandoned warehouse, its door ajar, with low voices coming from inside.
He quietly approached the warehouse and peered through the crack in the door—there were three people inside, one of whom was the man in the grey cloak, and the other two wore black clothes and masks over their faces, holding a map and conversing in low voices.
"...The wedding is set for three days from now, in Drogo's Khalasar.
We'll blend in then, and in the chaos, kill Daenerys and Viserys, framing the Dothraki, and turning Illyrio and Drogo against each other," a masked man said, his voice hoarse.
"What about that Targaryen cousin? Should we kill him too?" the man in the grey cloak asked.
"A collateral descendant, no threat; if he gets in the way, deal with him incidentally," another masked man replied, "Lord Tywin said no Targaryen must leave Pentos alive, and Drogo's cavalry must not march south."
The Lannisters' plan was to assassinate Daenerys and Viserys at the wedding!
Mr. Illyrion's heart tightened, and he clenched his fists—fortunately, he had followed them in time, or Daenerys would have been in danger.
Just then, the people in the warehouse seemed to sense movement outside, and a masked man shouted, "Who's out there?"
Mr. Illyrion quickly retreated and hid behind a nearby trash can.
The warehouse door was pushed open, and the man in the grey cloak poked his head out, scanning the surroundings vigilantly.
Mr. Illyrion held his breath, not daring to make a sound—the smell from the trash can was awful, but he couldn't mind it now.
The man in the grey cloak watched for a while, found nothing unusual, then withdrew and closed the warehouse door.
Mr. Illyrion breathed a sigh of relief, slowly emerged from behind the trash can, and quietly retreated, returning the way he came—he now had to get back to the estate as quickly as possible and figure out how to counter the Lannisters' assassination plot.
By the time he returned to the estate, it was already mid-morning.
The guard merely nodded when he saw him return, asking no questions.
Mr. Illyrion hurried towards Daenerys's room; as he passed through the corridor, he saw Daenerys sitting by the window, holding a piece of paper, softly murmuring something.
"Your Highness, what are you doing?" Mr. Illyrion entered the room and closed the door.
Daenerys looked up, her eyes lighting up when she saw him return: "I'm learning the Dothraki language you wrote.
Look, I can already say 'thank you'—'Mokah,' right?"
"Right, you learn so fast," Mr. Illyrion smiled, took out the dragon-sigil shawl from his inner pocket, and handed it to her, "This is my return gift for you, to be used at the wedding."
Daenerys took the shawl, gently unfolded it, and seeing the dragon-sigil on it, her eyes were filled with surprise: "It's so beautiful... Is this your mother's relic?"
"Yes," Mr. Illyrion nodded, lowering his voice, "Daenerys, I have something to tell you—the Lannisters plan to assassinate you and Viserys at the wedding, and frame the Dothraki."
Daenerys's face instantly turned pale, and the shawl in her hand almost dropped to the ground: "Assassination? Why... why would they do that?"
"Because they fear Drogo will help us reclaim the iron throne," Mr. Illyrion held her shoulders, helping her calm down, "Don't be afraid, I will find a way to handle it.
On the wedding day, you must stay by Drogo's or my side, do not act alone.
Also, you must keep this shawl on you at all times; the dragon-sigil on it will let the Dothraki know you are a Targaryen, and they will not easily harm you."
Daenerys nodded, clutching the shawl tightly, her eyes a little red: "I understand... Mr. Illyrion, thank goodness for you."
"We are family, I will protect you," Mr. Illyrion patted her shoulder, "I'll go tell Illyrio that the shawl has been retrieved, and check on the wedding preparations.
You continue learning Dothraki; if anything happens, call me immediately."
Leaving Daenerys's room, Mr. Illyrion did not immediately go to find Illyrio—he knew he couldn't reveal the Lannisters' plan entirely yet.
Although Illyrio outwardly helped the Targaryens, he actually valued his own interests more; if he were to reveal the news to the Lannisters for self-preservation, the consequences would be unimaginable.
He walked to the estate's garden, sat on a bench by a rose bush, and quickly calculated his counter-plan: on the wedding day, he would infiltrate Drogo's Khalasar early to find the Lannister assassins' positions; Daenerys needed someone to protect her, and it would be best to persuade Drogo's Blood Riders to pay more attention to her safety; additionally, he had to find a way to keep Viserys in line, so he wouldn't cause trouble at the wedding, which would give the assassins an opportunity.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the rose bushes, falling warmly on Mr. Illyrion.
But his heart was cold—the Lannisters' assassination plot was like a sword hanging over his head, ready to fall at any moment.
The wedding three days later was not only the marriage ceremony of Daenerys and Drogo but also a contest concerning the life and death of the Targaryens.
He touched the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar, then looked in the direction of Daenerys's room, his heart filled with determination.
No matter what, he had to protect Daenerys and prevent the Lannisters' plan from succeeding—this was not only for the revival of the Targaryens but also for his only bond in this world.
Just then, the butler walked over and bowed: "Mr. Illyrion, Mr. Illyrio requests your presence in the study; he says there are wedding details to discuss with you."
Mr. Illyrion stood up and brushed the dust from his clothes: "Understood, I'll be right there."
He followed the butler to the study, his steps firm.
He knew that in the coming days, every step had to be flawless.
A silent war had quietly begun in the sunlight of Pentos.