Jon's grip on Longclaw tightened as the man's words sank in.
"You're not the only one looking for dragonfire, Snow."
He had known that carrying the egg would be dangerous, but hearing it confirmed unsettled him. If others were searching for dragons, it meant one thing—someone still believed the age of the Targaryens was not over.
Jon glanced around the dimly lit tavern. No one else seemed to have overheard their conversation, but he had learned to be cautious.
The old man smirked. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Snow."
Jon ignored the remark. "Who else is searching?"
The man took a slow sip of his drink before answering. "Whispers travel fast in Essos. There are those who still long for the return of dragonlords. Some want power. Some want revenge." He leaned in. "And some… some claim to have Targaryen blood."
Jon stiffened. "Who?"
The man chuckled. "Now, now. Knowledge is not given freely." He extended a hand. "You may call me Mylaro. I deal in information, and I can tell you what you want to know—for a price."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "I have nothing to pay you with."
Mylaro shrugged. "Then perhaps we trade in favors. You wouldn't be the first exiled man to owe me something."
Jon hated the thought of being in someone's debt, but if he wanted to understand the meaning of the dragon egg—and who else might be after it—he had little choice.
"What do you want?" Jon asked.
Mylaro grinned. "Simple. There is a man in Pentos—a powerful magister named Rhazdar. He and I have… unfinished business. I need someone to retrieve something from him. You look capable."
Jon frowned. "You want me to steal from a magister?"
"I want you to take back what was stolen from me," Mylaro corrected. "Do this, and I'll tell you everything I know about dragons and those who seek them."
Jon exhaled. He didn't trust Mylaro, but he needed answers. If there were others searching for dragons, it could mean danger not just for him, but for everyone.
And if there were still those with Targaryen blood out there…
Jon met Mylaro's gaze. "Tell me where to find this magister."
Mylaro's smirk widened. "That's the spirit, Snow."
The sun had long since set by the time Jon made his way through the winding streets of Pentos. The city was alive even at night, its markets and taverns filled with the laughter of merchants and the hushed dealings of thieves.
Ghost padded silently at his side, his red eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. Few dared to approach Jon with the direwolf beside him.
The magister's estate was heavily guarded—tall walls, armed men patrolling the gates. Jon remained in the shadows, studying their movements. He had broken into castles before, climbed walls of ice, and fought men twice his size.
This was no different.
Carefully, he scaled the outer wall, slipping past the guards unnoticed. The estate was lavish, filled with silken curtains, golden statues, and the scent of exotic spices.
Jon moved quickly, avoiding the patrolling guards. Mylaro had told him where to look—the magister's private study.
He found it on the upper level, a grand chamber filled with books, scrolls, and artifacts from across the world. But Jon wasn't here for treasure.
His eyes landed on a locked chest by the window.
He knelt beside it, carefully prying it open with his dagger. Inside, wrapped in fine silk, was a scroll bearing the sigil of House Targaryen.
Jon's breath caught.
He had expected Mylaro's stolen item to be gold or jewels—but this… this was something else.
Carefully, he unrolled the scroll. The ink was faded, but he recognized the language instantly. High Valyrian.
As he read the first line, his heart pounded.
"The blood of the dragon must not fade. If the world is to survive what is coming, the legacy must endure."
Jon's fingers tightened around the parchment.
This was no simple stolen item.
This was a message. A warning.
And someone had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden.