The streets of Pentos stretched out beneath Varya's feet as she made her way to Illyrio's villa, the city's clamor fading behind her like a distant storm. The heavy scent of incense greeted her as she stepped into the cool shade of the villa, where Illyrio waited by the window, his large figure outlined by the setting sun.

"Varya," he greeted with a knowing smile. "I trust the journey was to your liking?"

Varya offered him a brief nod, her gaze flicking to the young Aegon, who sat quietly at a table, reading a book of westerosi history. He was growing, yes, but still too young to set the plans in motion. She turned back to Illyrio, lowering her voice as though what she said next could tip the balance of fate.

"He has grown into the features of his line," she began softly, her eyes never leaving Aegon. "When he is ready we will strike. The return of the rightful rulers of the Iron Throne. Defeated but not vanquished."