The clamor of the spice market intensified tenfold as Illyrio stepped into the street.
The air was thick with the sweet scent of cinnamon, the sharp tang of pepper, the rich aroma of saffron, all mixed with the smell of sweat and animal dung, like a dense net that tightly enveloped everyone. The cobblestone streets were packed with people: porters carrying burdens, vendors shouting their wares, servants of nobles dressed in silk, and slave traders leading lean horses. They jostled shoulder to shoulder, each step taken cautiously, for fear of bumping into nearby stalls.
Illyrio clutched the three copper starls in his hand, his fingertips white from the effort. His gaze quickly swept over the stalls on both sides—mostly mountains of stacked spice sacks, or wooden crates filled with dried fruits and pottery—all things that needed to be moved, exactly the kind of work he was looking for.
"Hey! You, the blond kid! Over here!"
A hoarse shout came from the left. Illyrio looked in that direction to see a burly man with a full beard waving from where he leaned against sacks of spices. He wore a coarse, oil-stained tunic, a rusty dagger tucked into his waist, and in front of his stall were a dozen cinnamon sacks, each half a man's height, clearly indicating he needed help.
This was Marrow, a merchant who often hired the original owner in his memories. Illyrio felt a sense of relief and quickly walked over: "Mr. Marrow, do you need a porter?"
Marrow looked him up and down, his brows furrowed: "Didn't you have a fever a few days ago? Look at your face, can you even carry this?" He kicked a nearby cinnamon sack with his foot. "Thirty pounds a sack, carry them to the cargo ship at the dock. One copper starl (currency) when you're done."
One copper starl (currency) was just enough to buy a loaf of black bread and a flask of water. Illyrio had no room to bargain and immediately nodded: "I can do it, Mr. Marrow."
He bent down and hoisted a sack of cinnamon onto his shoulder. The heavy weight instantly made him stumble. The original owner's body was already weak, and he had just recovered from a fever, his muscles still aching, but he gritted his teeth, steadied his feet, and followed Marrow towards the docks.
All the way, Illyrio's ears were busy. He deliberately slowed his pace, listening to the conversations of the surrounding vendors—mostly complaints about falling spice prices, or discussions about Illyrio, the Governor of Pentos's recent movements.
"Did you hear? Dothraki have arrived at Illyrio's Manor!" a pepper vendor whispered, "Those horse-riding barbarians, I hear they're going to form an alliance with our Pentos."
"An alliance? I think Illyrio wants to find a backer for those two Targaryen remnants," another vendor scoffed. "That Prince Viserys, he was causing trouble in the tavern just two days ago, saying he was going to reclaim the iron throne."
Illyrio's heart leaped. The Dothraki had arrived, meaning the marriage alliance was on the agenda, and Viserys's "golden coronation" was drawing closer. He had to see Daenerys as soon as possible, at least to make her more wary of Viserys's impulsiveness.
"Kid, what are you staring at! Hurry up!" Marrow turned back to urge him, impatiently kicking his heel.
Illyrio snapped out of it and quickened his pace. After three trips to the dock, when he carried the last sack of cinnamon onto the cargo ship, his coarse clothes were soaked with sweat, which streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto the cobblestones and instantly evaporating. He leaned against the ship's rail, panting heavily, his chest aching as if a huge stone was pressing down on it.
Marrow tossed him a copper starl (currency). The copper coin felt heavy in his palm. "That's it for today. If you can still move tomorrow, come find me again."
Illyrio took the copper starl (currency) and tucked it into his clothes. Just as he was about to say thank you, he heard a burst of arrogant laughter behind him.
"Well, isn't this Illyrio? You're well enough to steal work now?"
Three young men in tattered tunics walked over. The leader was a one-eyed man named Grey, a local ruffian who made a living by stealing porters' jobs. The original owner had been robbed by them several times before, even beaten black and blue.
Illyrio's heart tightened, and he instinctively reached for his waist—it was empty; he had no weapon. Grey's two followers had already surrounded him, blocking his escape route.
"Grey, this is work Mr. Marrow hired me for. I'm paid for my labor, it's not stealing," Illyrio tried to keep his voice steady, his mind racing. Fighting them was definitely not an option; he couldn't beat three people. He had to find a way to outsmart them.
Grey scoffed, reaching out to snatch the copper starl (currency) from Illyrio's clothes: "In this spice market, if I say you're stealing, you're stealing! Hand over the money, or I'll make sure you're laid up for another three days today!"
Just as Grey's hand was about to touch Illyrio's chest, Illyrio suddenly shouted: "Mr. Marrow! Grey and his men are trying to steal your payment for the goods!"
Marrow was still tallying goods not far away. Hearing the shout, he immediately turned around, saw Grey and his men surrounding Illyrio, and instantly became enraged: "Grey! Do you dare cause trouble on my turf? Do you want me to have the guards arrest you?!"
The arrogance on Grey's face instantly froze. Although Marrow was a small merchant, he knew the market guards, and if it really came to the guards, they would definitely be in trouble. He glared at Illyrio fiercely, spat, and said, "You've got guts, we'll see about this!" Then, he led his two followers away, sulking.
Illyrio breathed a sigh of relief, a layer of cold sweat breaking out on his back. He bowed to Marrow: "Thank you, Mr. Marrow."
Marrow waved his hand and snorted: "I'm not helping you, I just don't want my business messed up by these ruffians. Now get out of here, and come early tomorrow."
Illyrio nodded and turned to leave the dock. He didn't immediately return to the slum but instead went around to the other side of the spice market, where there was a small stall selling hot soup. The owner was a widow named Lena, and the original owner occasionally bought a bowl of hot soup here.
"Madam Lena, a bowl of vegetable soup and a piece of black bread," Illyrio placed the copper starl (currency) on the stall.
Lena took the copper starl (currency), glanced at him, and sighed: "You child, you just recovered from an illness and went to carry heavy things. How can your body take it? I added extra beans to your soup, drink it while it's hot."
A steaming bowl of vegetable soup was served, with a few beans and vegetable leaves floating in it. Although the black bread was hard, dipped in the soup, it was barely enough to fill his stomach. Illyrio ate ravenously, the warm soup sliding down his throat, relieving its dryness and easing some of his body's fatigue.
"Madam Lena," Illyrio asked casually while eating, "Have you heard about Illyrio's Manor? It seems like a lot of people have been coming and going recently."
Lena added some water to the pot and said in a low voice: "More than a lot, yesterday I went to deliver soup near the Manor and saw many Dothraki, riding tall horses, very fierce. There were also two blond nobles. The guards said they were a Prince and Princess of the Targaryen Family. Illyrio is treating them as honored guests."
"Blond nobles?" Illyrio's heart stirred. "Do you know when they might come out? For example, to a church, or to the market?"
Lena shook her head: "I haven't heard that. Illyrio's Manor is heavily guarded, outsiders can't get in, and those nobles rarely come out. But I heard the day after tomorrow is Pentos's market day. Illyrio might take his guests to the market to look around, since it's the Dothraki's first time in Pentos, he has to let them see something."
Market day! Illyrio's eyes lit up. This was a perfect opportunity. He could see Daenerys at the market, and even try to strike up a conversation with her.
After finishing his soup and bread, Illyrio thanked Lena and stood up to walk towards the slum. The sun was setting, and the golden afterglow spilled over the rooftops of Pentos, casting a warm halo over the city. But Illyrio knew how many dangers lay beneath this warmth—Lannister's spies, harassment from ruffians, Viserys's foolishness, and the impending Dothraki marriage alliance.
He touched the dragon-sigil necklace beneath his collar. The cold metal made him even more alert. The market day the day after tomorrow was his first chance to approach Daenerys, and he absolutely could not make a mistake.
Returning to his dilapidated shack in the slum, Illyrio carefully hid the remaining money under the bed board, then lay on the straw bed and began to plan. He needed a slightly decent set of clothes, at least not as tattered as his current ones, otherwise he would be chased away by the guards as a beggar at the market; he also needed to find a way to attract Daenerys's attention, such as subtly displaying the dragon-sigil necklace as she passed by, to make her realize he was a member of the Targaryen Family.
The sky outside the window gradually darkened, and the clamor in the alley gradually subsided, with only the occasional dog bark and drunkard's curse. Illyrio closed his eyes, Daenerys's image appearing in his mind—the woman who grew from a fragile princess to the Mother of Dragons in the original story. He had to extend a helping hand at this critical juncture of her destiny.
As night deepened, Pentos fell into slumber, but Illyrio knew that a game of survival and destiny was quietly brewing. And he, in this game, had to seize that only chance to survive.