The battered "Harvest" limped into Pentos harbor like a wounded beast, its once-proud form now a mockery of its former glory.
Its sails hung in tatters, more ragged than the burlap that clothed a slave's back. The figurehead—once a magnificent carving—had been cleaved in two, and the hull bore the scars of the sea's fury, resembling a corpse beaten mercilessly with clubs.
Half the bustling port was drawn to the spectacle, their daily routines forgotten in the face of such devastation.
A few sharp-eyed observers recognized the vessel. "That's Magister Illyrio's 'Harvest'!" one called out.
"I remember her," another said. "She last sailed for King's Landing in the Sunset Kingdoms. Has another great storm risen on that route?!"
At this, the crowd erupted into worried murmurs. Ship owners and those with family at sea grew especially anxious, shifting from foot to foot as though standing upon hot coals.
Yet the commotion ashore held no sway over the actions of those who had survived aboard the "Harvest."
The living crowded at the gangplank, desperate to disembark as though pursued by creatures from the darkest nightmares, seemingly forgetting they had reached safety at last.
Nevertheless, they all eventually set foot upon solid ground.
Some fell to their knees weeping the moment they touched shore, others kissed and caressed the earth in wild relief, while the fortunate few who spotted kin among the crowd rushed into waiting embraces, tears of joy streaming down salt-crusted faces.
Though saddened by the sight, the crowd had grown accustomed to such scenes.
A city nourished by maritime trade must inevitably endure the sea's wrath and misfortune. This was the bittersweet inheritance passed down through countless generations of Pentoshi.
Indeed, barely more than half of the "Harvest's" hundred-odd crew had returned, and most of the cargo was lost to the depths. But what remedy existed for such tragedy?
Life, inexorable as the tide, continued its march.
The onlookers gradually dispersed, each returning to their own concerns. The "Harvest's" crew likewise calmed and drifted away from the docks, leaving only the bewildered Iron Throne envoy and Alyn standing abandoned.
The envoy paused, casting a sidelong glance at the Crown Prince's attendant, feeling a flicker of pride.
Though his own comportment during the storm had been less than exemplary, he appeared positively heroic compared to Alyn's wretched state.
"Alyn, are you well?" the envoy inquired with forced courtesy.
Alyn seemed not to hear, staring blankly into the middle distance, occasionally jolting as though struck by invisible lightning.
The envoy ignored the coward with thinly veiled contempt and resolved to complete his mission with all possible haste.
The sooner I finish, the sooner I may return, never again to set foot in this godforsaken place!
He grasped the cowering Alyn by the arm and dragged him from the docks.
The two men walked among Pentos's distinctive square brick towers and red-tiled roofs, brushing shoulders with all manner of folk.
Pentoshi citizens with their extravagant, brightly colored forked beards; mercenaries openly carrying cruel blades, their leather armor creaking with each step; humble free men who were nominally not slaves yet bore their servitude in their downcast eyes; mysterious figures in careful disguise; wealthy merchants and powerful patriarchs surrounded by fawning attendants...
Perhaps it was these lively scenes that gradually calmed Alyn's frayed nerves, though he remained withdrawn, shrinking into himself in silent contemplation.
After passing street performers and bustling markets trading in exotic spices, glittering gems, and rich wines, a massive red temple rose before them, its presence dominating the surrounding structures.
Magister Illyrio's sprawling courtyard stood adjacent to this temple.
Their destination had arrived.
The envoy straightened his travel-worn attire and approached the courtyard gate with as much dignity as he could muster.
Alyn glanced up furtively, then fixed his gaze upon the ground and followed in the envoy's wake. Gods, grant us luck.
Within his grand hall, the magister welcomed the esteemed guest from King's Landing with practiced warmth.
After hearing the Iron Throne envoy's purpose, he readily expressed his willingness to present a gift to the esteemed Prince Joffrey.
Three beautiful dragon eggs. Littlefinger was actually willing to forgo pursuing the ten thousand gold dragons owed between him and the Iron Throne for this curious exchange.
Though it wasn't gleaming gold coins immediately within his grasp, it represented ten thousand dragons nonetheless!
Magister Illyrio nearly salivated at the prospect, as though already smelling the sweet fragrance of wealth.
Since Varys hadn't sent any cautionary whispers through his network of little birds, it seemed this was merely an ordinary transaction. Why refuse when there was profit to be had?
Dragon eggs weren't worth ten thousand gold dragons—not by half.
Magister Illyrio laughed heartily, promising to send the envoy back to King's Landing with his report on the morrow.
The envoy bowed in gratitude. When he straightened, two scantily clad, graceful maids stood before him, their eyes promising pleasures beyond mere conversation.
Understanding the unspoken offer, he bid farewell to the magister, eager to sample the more intimate charms of Pentos.
Alyn simply stood there, expression vacant.
Magister Illyrio narrowed his eyes. "Esteemed representative of the Crown Prince, do you have anything to add?"
Alyn offered no response.
Illyrio displayed no displeasure at this rudeness.
"If you wish, I can have servants escort you to quarters where you might rest. Perhaps you would prefer returning to King's Landing with the ship tomorrow?"
"Ship, ship..." Alyn seemed triggered by the very word, instantly growing agitated.
"No! I don't want a ship!"
"The Storm God is angry! Storm!!!"
He shouted with wild abandonment, looking upward and spinning in place, staggering like a drunkard upon a heaving deck.
The servants scattered to avoid him, but one unfortunate soul was knocked to the floor by the frantic Alyn.
In that instant, Alyn's strength seemed to desert him completely. He collapsed to the ground, muttering blankly.
"No, no, no ship..."
A look of understanding spread across Illyrio's broad face.
The fury of a storm at sea was not something mortal men were meant to witness directly. Even seasoned sailors could suffer profound mental collapse after surviving shipwreck; what hope had a landlubber unused to the capricious moods of the deep?
The Pentoshi had a name for this affliction—"The Sea God's Baptism."
Those who weathered the baptism emerged stronger and braver, regarding it as a blessing bestowed by the depths; those who could not were marked by a terrible curse, forever changed.
Illyrio sighed and signaled his servants to remove Alyn from his sight. This so-called representative of the Crown Prince had lost all usefulness.
Based on past experience, one afflicted thus would not dare cross the Narrow Sea again for years, if ever. By then, would the esteemed Prince Joffrey even recall this broken attendant's existence?
This unfortunate, cursed by the sea, could only struggle to survive in this foreign land, far from home and favor.
The following morning, Alyn was unceremoniously expelled from the magister's magnificent courtyard.
The disgraced attendant wandered the winding streets of Pentos, watching from a distance as the Iron Throne envoy and the precious dragon eggs boarded a ship bound for King's Landing.
Until the light reflecting off the endless sea transformed into a warm orange glow, no one paid him the slightest attention.
Alyn found himself grateful for this neglect.
After the storm had spared the battered "Harvest," he had swiftly become an object of ridicule among the survivors. Who could respect a coward who cowered in his quarters day and night, screaming at the mere sight of ripples in a cup?
Now it seemed this carefully crafted disguise had successfully helped him take the first step in his true plan.
As for how to complete his mission from here...
He could not help but gaze toward the direction of the magister's courtyard, though it lay beyond his sight.
The Crown Prince had shared much with him before his departure.
Magister Illyrio, the Dothraki horselord known as "Khal" Drogo, Varys's network of little birds—all represented dangerous adversaries in this game.
Where might Jorah Mormont be found?
Should I remain in Pentos and await opportunity? Journey to other Free Cities?
Perhaps I should hire mercenaries?
While pondering these questions, he noticed several predatory gazes fixed upon him and instinctively touched the purse secured at his waist.
In his present circumstances, the two hundred gold dragons on his person represented his sole means of survival.
He would need to acquire a weapon for self-defense with all possible haste.
The nights of Pentos, a dangerous journey, my song has only just begun...
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