ASOIAF : Creed

The voyage had given her a small, precious thing: a breath of space.

At sea, surrounded by open sky and the sound of waves slapping the hull, Daenerys had found a sliver of quiet. Not peace—peace was too grand, too distant—but something smaller. A lull. Time to think, to breathe. In the quiet moments when the ship rocked gently under her feet, she would lean against the railing and close her eyes, feeling the salt wind on her face. There, in that fragile stillness, a new thought had begun to take root:

I will not be afraid.

It wasn't a vow, not yet. Just a seed. A fragile resolution. A tiny splinter of defiance, barely visible even to herself. But it was hers, and it had taken hold.

Then came Pentos.

Their ship sailed through the stone jaws of the harbor walls, tall and sun-baked, each block larger than a man. The golden light of morning faded as they passed into the shadow of the city. The towers loomed, squat and wide, square silhouettes against the sky. Red tile roofs gleamed in the heat, and the air shifted—thickened—choked with the smell of spices, smoke, animals, and the sweat of thousands of bodies all pressing against one another, striving for coin and power.

Viserys stood beside her at the prow, eyes wide, posture swelling with every tower they passed. "This is more like it, Dany," he said, practically glowing. "A city of power. Fit for a king."

Daenerys said nothing. Her gaze swept the skyline, the rooftops, the windows shuttered against the sun. It did not look like a city fit for a king to her. As they moved deeper into its embrace, she felt the old knot tighten again in her belly—the cold, coiling knot that came with fear.

She took a slow, steady breath, like she had on the ship. Observe, she told herself. The new voice—still small, still unsteady—rose again to meet the old one that whispered of dread. Observe. Do not shrink. See it for what it is.

What she saw were walls without windows and guards with hard, narrow faces. She saw streets that narrowed like traps and doors reinforced with iron. She saw a city that did not welcome—it contained.

They were taken through the city by covered carriage, the curtains drawn back just enough for Viserys to admire the buildings and spit disdain at anything he found "Eastern." She watched quietly as merchants hawked figs and bolts of silk under striped covers, as barefoot children chased one another between mule carts. All the while, the guards rode silently around them, eyes forward, spears ready. Their presence wasn't for protection. Daenerys could feel it in her bones. They were an escort, yes—but also a warning.

Magister Illyrio Mopatis met them in a central court paved with cracked marble and surrounded by white-stucco walls thick with ivy. He was a man as grand as his reputation, and larger still. His robe, golden and embroidered with thread-of-silver, barely contained the soft waves of his flesh, which shifted and trembled with each step. He approached with a smile, but his eyes small, dark, glinting, were not smiling.

They were studying her.

"Welcome, Your Grace," Illyrio said, wheezing slightly as he bowed to Viserys. "And to you, Princess Daenerys. My humble home is yours."

His voice was thick with courtesy, but there was something oily beneath it. Daenerys lowered her eyes slightly, not in deference, but to look through him. To see.

He is not looking at a princess, she thought, pulse quickening. He is evaluating an investment.

She pushed down the terror in her chest and lifted her head again, letting her face go smooth. Empty. It was a skill she had learned in Lys, in the shadows of men's voices and appetites. Show nothing. Give them nothing.

"It will serve," Viserys said, puffing up his chest.

Their rooms were beautiful, absurdly so. Daenerys had never seen such luxury. There were velvet drapes and polished brass basins, floors of veined marble and carved wooden screens. The baths were filled with warm, scented water that smelled of orange blossoms and myrrh. The beds were so soft she sank into them like a stone dropped into velvet.

Viserys strutted through it all like a dragon returned to his hoard. He ran his hands over every surface, tested every chair, called for wine before he'd even unpacked. "He knows who I am," he kept saying. "He sees my worth."

Daenerys said nothing.

She felt the chill of the stone under her bare feet, even through the rich carpets. She watched the slave girls who attended her—young, silent, eyes like glass. They moved as if choreographed, never speaking, never meeting her gaze. She watched the Unsullied stationed outside their door, their bronze masks fixed in eternal scowls, spears held in arms that never trembled.

They weren't there to protect her.

They were there to keep her inside.

That night, they dined with the Magister beneath a painted ceiling that showed a field of stars and crescent moons. The long table groaned with delicacies roasted peacock glazed with honey and saffron, spiced chickpeas, sugared almonds, cakes shaped like sea creatures. The wine was red and thick and sweet as syrup.

Illyrio spoke as he served Viserys another cup. His voice was soft and slow, wheezing between phrases.

"Patience, Your Grace," he said. "The great game requires patience. And powerful friends. In time, you will have both."

He spoke of Westeros in vague, sweeping tones—of alliances forming and enemies weakening, of dragons remembered and kings reborn. Never details. Never names. Only promise.

Viserys, drunk on the words as much as the wine, grinned like a fool. "They will rise for me," he said, eyes gleaming. "You'll see. With the right ships, the right coin..."

Illyrio nodded indulgently, like a man feeding a child. "And they shall come, Your Grace. All in time."

Daenerys watched. Listened. Said nothing.

Where Viserys saw a loyal servant, she saw something else.

A spider, she thought. Patient, plump, and spinning.

After the meal, the Magister presented them with gifts. For Viserys, a cloak of black velvet, heavy and thick, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen in rubies. Viserys nearly wept, as if he were being crowned.

For her, a silver chain, delicate as breath, with a single, perfect amethyst that rested in the hollow of her throat.

She touched the stone with her fingers. It was cold.

It did not feel like a gift.

It felt like a collar.

Later, alone on the balcony, she looked out over Pentos. The high walls rose around her like teeth. In the distance, she could see the faint flicker of the red priests' fires, dancing in the night. The city was quiet, the air still, but she felt no calm. Only pressure. Like being underwater. The softness of the silk robes, the luxury of the bathwater, the sweetness of the wine—it was all too much. Too rich. Too calculated.

Nothing had happened. No threats had been made. No chains were fastened to her wrists.

And yet the fear was worse than ever.

In Lys, the danger had been blunt. Their host had wanted them gone, and they had known it. But here, in Pentos, everything was wrapped in gold. They were flattered, bathed, fed. Coddled.

Polished.

Prepared.

Illyrio did not want to be rid of them. He wanted to use them.

Use her.

For what, she could not yet say. But the game was being played around her, and she was no longer too young, or too afraid, to miss it.

She thought again of the ship, of the open sky, of the words she had whispered to herself.

I will not be afraid.

But as she stood there in the suffocating comfort of her new cage, the thought came back to her not like a vow but a question.