Morning sunlight in Pentos streamed through the inn window, falling across Owen’s face.
The air was thick with the gamy stench of livestock and the blended aroma of various spices.
In his mind, he felt a sudden wave of hunger from Comet.
*Hold on a little longer, Comet,* Owen murmured silently in his mind, communicating telepathically with Comet, who was hiding far away.
*I’m…
hungry.* Comet’s voice carried a faint trace of aggrieved hurt.
Owen let out a dry laugh.
How could he not know?
When he had left the Valyrian ruins, he had taken almost everything he could carry from that laboratory.
However, a vast portion of the treasure was far too heavy to transport and had to be left behind in the vault.
He decided to visit a smithy first to buy some food for Comet.
After eating the breakfast provided by the inn, Owen went to a tailor shop, changing into a well-fitted silk robe.
The dark fabric was embroidered with subtle silver patterns—discreet yet luxurious—making his tall frame appear even more striking.
Next, he rented a secluded warehouse, then bought a modest quantity of high-grade steel, copper ingots, and rare metals from a blacksmith, piling them inside.
Patting his virtually empty coin purse, he headed for the marketplace to find his prospective business partner.
As the westernmost of the Nine Free Cities, Pentos had an eclectic atmosphere.
The elegance of Volantene merchants, the shrewdness of Myrish craftsmen, the charm of Lysene innkeepers, and the wildness of Dothraki nomads all intertwined and fermented in the city air.
Leaning against a street corner, Owen swept his gaze across the market.
Spice merchants shouted loudly, hawking rare seasonings from the Far East.
Slavers cracked leather whips, driving their numb-faced merchandise along.
Mercenaries sat outside taverns wiping down their broadswords, watching every passerby with wary eyes.
Everything seemed so…
normal.
Owen recalled the plot of *Game of Thrones*: after Daenerys married Khal Drogo, the Khal led his massive khalasar westward across the Dothraki Sea.
That vast grassland was the very trade route connecting Vaes Dothrak to the Free Cities!
Once Drogo’s hundred-thousand-strong host began its migration, the trade route would inevitably be cut off!
When that happened, what would happen to the prices of spices reliant on that route?
They would skyrocket!
A truly insane surge!
Owen’s heart thudded wildly—not from hunger, but from intense exhilaration.
This was a golden ticket handed to him on a silver platter!
He didn’t need capital; the information he possessed was the most valuable asset in the world.
That was his plan.
He began weaving through the spice market, carefully scrutinizing every stall to find his target.
The major spice merchants were too well-established; they wouldn’t easily trust an outsider of unknown origin.
What he needed was someone on the brink of bankruptcy—a desperate man grasping at straws.
Before long, a middle-aged man huddled in a corner caught his eye.
His stall held only a sparse assortment of spices, and his face was gaunt, his eyes hollow and lifeless.
His stall was devoid of customers, standing in stark contrast to the bustling shops around it.
Though his clothes were relatively clean, the cuffs were frayed, and his gaze reeked of a man about to be crushed by reality.
He was the one.
Taking a deep breath, Owen adjusted his clothes and walked straight over.
“Vendor, how much for your Shadow of Asshai?” Owen asked.
His voice wasn’t loud, but his articulation was crisp, carrying a calm authority that naturally commanded trust.
The middle-aged merchant, Fabor, raised his head listlessly.
Sweeping a glance over Owen’s attire, a flick of impatience flashed in his eyes, but he answered professionally out of habit: “Five coppers a pouch.” “What if I take all of it?” Owen asked calmly.
Fabor froze for a moment, then gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“Don’t mock me, young man.
All the Shadow of Asshai I have here comes to at least fifty silver stags.
Can you afford that?” The large sack at his stall was his final capital.
If he couldn’t sell it, the city tax collectors would seize both him and his stall next month.
Instead of answering, Owen shifted the topic.
“Vendor, I see you also have plenty of Summer Isles Sweet and Qartheen Blue.
The prices for these spices have been plunging lately, haven’t they?” Fabor’s expression darkened instantly.
“What are you getting at?” That struck a raw nerve.
It was precisely because he had trusted an insider tip from a colleague, dumping all his capital into those spices, that he had lost everything when the market crashed.
“I’m saying you’ll be bankrupt soon,” Owen replied in a flat, unbothered tone, as though stating an indisputable fact.
“You…!” Fabor bolted up, glaring at Owen.
“Did you come here just to humiliate me?” “No.” Owen shook his head, looking him dead in the eye.
“I’m here to give you a chance to turn things around.” He paused, lowering his voice, uttering each word deliberately: “Sell your Shadow of Asshai, take every bit of coin you have left, and convert it all into Yi Ti Yellow and Jade Sea Crystal.
Buy as much as you possibly can.” Fabor stared at him as if he had heard the most absurd joke imaginable.
“Are you mad?!
Yi Ti Yellow and Jade Sea Crystal?
Those two spices are overproduced!
Their prices have been stuck at rock bottom forever with zero chance of rising.
Are you trying to push me to my death even faster?” “No.
They will soon become the most precious commodities in Pentos,” Owen said, his voice carrying an intoxicating certainty.
“Because the eastern trade route is about to be severed.” “Severed?” Fabor frowned.
“How come I haven’t heard a whisper about this?” “Information is always held by the select few.” Owen smiled faintly and began his explanation.
“You only need to consider one thing: the Dothraki.
Their pastures are drying up.
According to their customs, what will they do?” Fabor caught his breath.
Born and raised in Pentos, he knew the steppe barbarians all too well.
“They…
they will migrate west, searching for new pastures…” “Precisely,” Owen agreed.
“A massive khalasar is gathering, heading west.
And their path will trample right over the trade route those spices depend on—the Dothraki Sea.” Owen gestured toward the Shadow of Asshai on Fabor’s stall, then pointed off into the distance.
“Shadow of Asshai can be transported by sea, so the impact is minimal.
But Yi Ti Yellow and Jade Sea Crystal rely almost entirely on overland routes.
Once that trade route is cut off, how long will Pentos’s current stock last?” Fabor’s lips quivered, fine beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He wasn’t stupid.
Owen’s logic was airtight, every piece fitting seamlessly.
He had simply been blinded by poverty and despair, never considering the situation from this angle.
“But…
what if…
what if the Dothraki don’t come?” he asked in a trembling voice, clinging to a final shred of hope.
“Then consider it a favor between friends—I won’t take a single copper,” Owen said, opening his hands with a serene expression.
“But if I’m right, I want seventy percent of all the profits you make.” “Seventy percent?!” Fabor gasped.
“You did nothing but run your mouth!” “What I gave you is a vision of the future you couldn’t see,” Owen replied, his gaze deep.
“A future that can drag you out of hell and back to heaven.
If you gamble, you have a fighting chance.
If you don’t, you’ll be sleeping on the streets a month from today.
The choice is yours.” With that, Owen fell silent, watching him quietly.
Seconds bled into minutes.
Fabor’s face shifted through a storm of emotions as an internal battle raged inside him.
Finally, like a deflated balloon, he slumped back into his seat and muttered raspy words: “Fine…
I’ll gamble!” He already had nothing left.
How much worse off could he be if he lost again?
That evening, Owen returned to the warehouse and called out to Comet in his mind.
The little creature navigated toward him through their bond.
Slipping silently into the city that night, Comet caught sight of the food piled in the warehouse, and Owen immediately felt a surge of joyful excitement echo through their connection.
The little creature pounced on the heap of metal rations: *Very…
delicious.* Listening to Comet’s post-meal review, Owen smiled softly and began pondering his next step.
Money was merely a tool.
His ultimate goal was Daenerys Targaryen.
Over the next few days, following Owen’s instructions, Fabor liquidated all his remaining goods and mortgaged what little property he possessed, recklessly pouring every coin into purchasing Yi Ti Yellow and Jade Sea Crystal.
Owen also handed a portion of his gold coins over to Fabor to buy up even more spices.
Vendors across the spice market looked at him as if he were an absolute fool, mocking him behind his back for losing his mind.
Fabor spent every day in agonizing suspense, while Owen remained completely relaxed, as though everything were firmly within his grasp.
Until the fifth day— “Extra!
Extra!” “Khal Drogo commands a hundred thousand horsemen, arrived outside Pentos!” “Magister Illyrio will host a grand feast in his honor!” The news swept through the city like a hurricane.
Panic spread among the citizens of Pentos as they babbled fearfully, dreading that those savage Dothraki might breach the city walls.
Meanwhile, after a brief, deathly silence, the spice market exploded!
“Gods above!
The trade route through the Dothraki Sea is finished!” “Yi Ti Yellow!
Who has Yi Ti Yellow?!
I’ll pay triple!” “Jade Sea Crystal!
Five times the price!” Prices skyrocketed at a mind-boggling pace.
The two cheap spices that no one wanted yesterday became more precious than gold overnight.
Fabor stood frozen at his stall, staring at the very colleagues who had mocked him yesterday, now waving coin purses and gazing at him with near-begging eyes.
In less than two hours, the value of the spice mountains piled in his warehouse multiplied more than tenfold!
He was…
rich!
He whipped around, looking at Owen, who stood behind him as calm and unruffled as ever.
Fabor’s lips trembled, too overwhelmed to utter a single word, before he collapsed to his knees with a thud.
“My lord…
are you a prophet?” Owen gave a subtle smile and pulled him up.
“I am no prophet.
I am merely someone who recognizes opportunity.” And right now, the future Stormborn Queen should be staying in the manor of Pentos’s most powerful man—Magister Illyrio Mopatis.
Illyrio was a fat man wealthy enough to rival kingdoms, yet possessed vulgar taste—a shrewd political opportunist.
Harboring the Targaryen siblings and arranging Daenerys’s marriage to Khal Drogo was, at its core, nothing more than an investment.
A common nouveau riche merchant would never catch his eye.
Owen needed a knocking stone heavy enough to open that door.
Fiddling with his fingers, his gaze landed on the sole antique-looking artifact he had salvaged from the Valyrian laboratory.
It was a palm-sized metallic artifact of strange design, its surface covered in intricate, incomprehensible patterns that shimmered with a faint luminescence under the light.
In truth, it was a high-density data storage unit, but to an outsider, it exuded a mysterious, captivating beauty.
The corner of Owen’s lips tugged into a confident smirk.
He knew Illyrio harbored a well-known obsession—an almost lunatic fascination with anything originating from Old Valyria.
A few days later, a modest rumor began circulating through Pentos’s high society.
A mysterious Eastern merchant had narrowly cheated death in an expedition to the Valyrian ruins, bringing back a genuine Valyrian relic.
Some claimed it was a glowing stone; others swore it was an unbreakable dagger.
The tales grew increasingly fantastical.
After putting the rumors into motion, Owen ignored the hubbub.
Daily, he discussed future commercial ventures with Fabor while instructing him to acquire large quantities of various metals and deliver them to the warehouse.
Owen spent most of his time there, watching Comet gradually repair and strengthen itself.
He possessed great patience.
He knew the bait was set; the fattest fish was bound to bite.
Sure enough, within three days…
A lavishly decorated carriage came to a stop before the estate Owen was renting.
A man wearing the livery of the Magister’s estate stepped forward, holding a gorgeous wax-sealed invitation, and presented it respectfully to Owen.
“Master Owen, my master, Magister Illyrio Mopatis, cordially invites you to a dinner party three days from now.” Owen accepted the invitation and opened it.
The invitation was written in elegant calligraphy, sealed at the bottom with the unique flaming seahorse crest of Illyrio’s house.
Smiling faintly, he closed the invitation.
“Please inform the Magister—” “It will be my distinct honor.”