Chapter 1: Stranger in a Strange Land
Mat Cauthon stumbled forward, his foot catching on the jagged remnants of the portal that had just spat him out. The ground beneath him was hard and unfamiliar—cobbled stone instead of the grassy plains he had expected. The air smelled different too, salty and sharp, tinged with the scent of rotting fish and spices he couldn't quite place. Mat cursed under his breath, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat that had tilted precariously on his head.
"This isn't bloody Andor," he muttered, brushing the dust off his coat.
He turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene around him. The narrow street was bustling with people, but not a single one of them looked like they belonged in any place he'd ever seen. They were dark-skinned, olive-toned, speaking in a harsh, rapid tongue he didn't recognize. The women wore dresses that clung to their bodies, dyed in bright colors, while the men moved with purpose, their hands never far from their belts where curved daggers glinted.
"Where in the Light am I?"
Mat tugged on the medallion hanging from his neck, as though it might offer some comfort, some explanation. But the foxhead remained silent, no more responsive than his own confusion.
This had to be some trick of the Pattern. One moment he was with Perrin and Rand, discussing what came next after the Last Battle, and then— bloody hell —he'd walked through some strange archway without thinking. Should've listened to Thom. Or maybe Elayne. But no, I'm Mat bloody Cauthon. I've got more luck than any man alive.
Yet here he was, in a city that was most definitely not any part of the world he knew. A huge dome loomed in the distance, ornate buildings lined the streets, and the people seemed as varied as the places Mat had seen in his travels—from Ebou Dar to Tear—but different somehow. There were no gleeman or soldiers in sight, just strange-looking sailors, merchants, and armed men in armor that didn't seem quite right.
Best figure out where I've landed.
He caught a snippet of conversation as a pair of merchants haggled nearby. The words were foreign, but the tone—sharp, clipped, competitive—was unmistakably about money. Mat sidled closer, not that anyone paid him much mind. Pent—Pentos? He repeated the name silently to himself, filing it away.
"Well, stranger things have happened," Mat mumbled, glancing around for a tavern or some place where he could make sense of his surroundings. His stomach growled in agreement, and he realized he hadn't eaten since… since before walking through that cursed portal.
Mat had always been quick to adapt, and there was no sense standing still. He sauntered down the street, his eyes scanning the crowd, sizing up the people who walked by, his fingers itching with the need to do something—anything. And soon enough, the sound of rattling dice reached his ears.
A grin tugged at his lips. Now that's more like it.
Within an hour, Mat found himself sitting at a table in the shadow of a vast market square, surrounded by a motley group of merchants, sailors, and traders. They were all barking in thick accents, but the game itself was universal enough. Dice were dice no matter where you went, and Mat's fingers moved as deftly as ever.
He'd started small, pretending not to know the game, letting them underestimate him. But after a few rounds, the pile of coins in front of him grew larger and larger. His luck, as always, was holding—perhaps better than ever. The merchants were grumbling, frustration clear on their faces. They cursed in that strange language, but Mat didn't need to know the words to understand the intent.
Mat had a knack for pushing things just a little too far, and this time was no different. One burly man across from him slammed his fist down on the table after losing another handful of silver. His dark eyes narrowed as he glared at Mat.
"Cheating foreigner!" he growled in broken Common.
Mat leaned back, flashing a disarming grin. "Now, hold on there, friend. No need for such harsh words. Luck's just a fickle lady, that's all."
The men didn't seem convinced. One of them—a tall, narrow fellow with a hawk-like nose—muttered something to the others, and soon enough, they were standing. Mat's instincts screamed at him to move, and fast.
Before the nearest merchant could draw his dagger, Mat tipped the table over, sending coins and dice scattering. The crowd erupted into shouts as Mat darted through the market, weaving between stalls, dodging fruit carts and startled pedestrians.
"You know," Mat muttered to himself as he ducked down a narrow alley, "I was planning to leave anyway."
He could hear the shouts of the merchants behind him, getting closer. His mind raced—there had to be somewhere to hide, somewhere these angry bastards wouldn't think to look. And then, as if guided by an unseen hand, Mat's eyes landed on a tall, elegant manse tucked between two larger buildings. A rich, opulent structure that stood out in the dirt and chaos of the market.
Mat hesitated only a second before darting through the open gate. His luck had always led him in and out of trouble, but this time it felt like the dice were rolling just a little too perfectly.
Inside the courtyard, Mat stumbled to a halt. Statues of lions and strange, mythical creatures lined the walls, and lush gardens spilled across the stone pathways. The air here was cooler, tinged with the scent of exotic flowers. As Mat caught his breath, the sound of heavy footsteps behind him warned that his pursuers weren't far.
A deep voice called from the shadows near the entrance.
"Not many dare to run into Illyrio Mopatis' house without invitation."
Mat froze, spinning toward the voice. A large, round man stepped into view, his silk robes shimmering with every movement. His golden rings glinted in the fading sunlight, and a sly smile curled across his lips.
"Well," Mat said, forcing a grin, "I guess I'm not most people."
Mat tugged on the brim of his hat, offering a lopsided grin as the large, silk-robed man appraised him. The man, Illyrio Mopatis, had an air about him—one of wealth and power, the kind of man who could command a room with a look, or crush someone with a word. Mat had learned to recognize the type.
"I didn't mean to cause a stir," Mat said casually, his voice easy and full of charm. "Seems I ran into a little misunderstanding with some of your city's fine merchants."
Illyrio's eyes twinkled, but there was a calculating sharpness behind his amusement. "I see that. It's not every day a foreigner rushes into my manse, uninvited, after what I can only assume was a profitable game of dice."
Mat chuckled and shrugged, leaning slightly against a marble pillar in the courtyard. "I'm Mat. Matrim Cauthon, and I seem to have a talent for causing misunderstandings. Though it wasn't entirely my fault this time. Luck—well, she's a tricky one."
Illyrio raised an eyebrow at that. "Luck, you say? Luck can be more valuable than gold in Pentos. And gold, as you'll learn, is quite valuable here." He paused, looking Mat over, as if weighing his options. "You seem like a man with talents beyond dicing, Master Cauthon. Perhaps a man who knows how to stay out of trouble as often as he gets into it."
Mat's grin widened, but before he could respond, angry voices interrupted the exchange. The merchants he'd left in the market had found him.
"There he is! Thief! Cheater!" one of them yelled, pushing through the gate.
Mat tensed. There were three of them now, all red-faced and furious, and their hands were on their weapons. Mat's fingers twitched toward the hilt of his ashandarei, but before the situation could escalate, Illyrio raised a hand, his voice booming with authority.
"Enough!" The merchants froze. Illyrio's presence was like that of a lord, though Mat could tell he wasn't one—not quite. "You will not threaten my guest within my walls."
"He cheated us, Lord Illyrio!" one of the merchants spat, though his bravado had faded under Illyrio's stare. "No man is that lucky!"
Illyrio stepped forward, his bulk moving with surprising grace. "In my city, all men pay their debts. This man will compensate you. Take what you lost and be gone."
Mat's hand instinctively reached for his coin purse, but before he could protest, Illyrio motioned for a servant, who stepped forward and handed the merchants a small pouch of coins. The anger in their eyes dulled, though not completely. Still, they nodded and left, muttering curses under their breath.
Mat exhaled, his shoulders relaxing, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling of being in Illyrio's debt now.
"You didn't have to do that," Mat said, though his tone was grateful. "I've handled worse scrapes before."
Illyrio waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense. Pentos is a place where discretion can be bought, as you've just witnessed. And besides, I've taken an interest in you, Master Cauthon. A man like you could be useful, if he's willing to listen."
Before Mat could respond, movement at the far side of the courtyard drew his attention. Two figures emerged from the shadows of the manse—a young man, pale and gaunt with almost predatory eyes, and a girl, younger still, with silver hair that shimmered in the light like nothing Mat had ever seen. She was striking—delicate yet poised, like she belonged in a royal court. And when Mat's gaze fell on her, something in him stirred.
The dice began to tumble in his head, clicking and spinning in the back of his mind, a sure sign that fate was shifting around him.
The young man, Viserys, sneered as he approached. "Who's this? Another beggar at Illyrio's door?"
Mat stiffened, his easy grin faltering for just a moment. He didn't care for the look in Viserys's eyes—sharp, entitled, and far too accustomed to having his way.
"Name's Matrim Cauthon," he replied, his voice still light but with a slight edge. "And I don't beg, friend. I make my own way."
Viserys's sneer deepened. "I doubt that. Illyrio, is this who you've decided to waste your hospitality on?"
Mat's hand twitched toward his ashandarei again, but before things could spiral out of control, the silver-haired girl stepped forward, her eyes curious but shy. She looked at Mat with a quiet intensity, studying him like she wasn't quite sure what to make of him.
"I am Daenerys," she said softly, her voice lilting like music. "And this is my brother, Viserys." She glanced between the two men, clearly uncomfortable with the tension between them.
Mat's grin returned, though a little more genuine this time. "Daenerys," he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue. "A pleasure to meet you."
Daenerys blushed, a faint pink creeping into her pale cheeks as she dipped her head, but her eyes never left Mat's. There was something about her that tugged at him, something important, though he couldn't place what. The dice in his head rolled again, faster this time, as if warning him that his path had just crossed with something—or someone—dangerous.
Viserys, on the other hand, was clearly unimpressed. "You're wasting your time, Daenerys. He's just a lowborn fool who got lucky at dice."
Mat shot him a cold look. "I've been called worse."
Illyrio, sensing the brewing conflict, clapped his hands together. "Now, now, let's not quarrel. Master Cauthon, I think you'll find Pentos a fascinating city if you stay a while. And I happen to have plenty of room here, should you require lodging."
Mat hesitated. On the one hand, staying in one place too long wasn't his style—especially with the way the dice were behaving. But on the other, Illyrio had saved him from a nasty scrape, and something told Mat this wasn't the kind of man you walked away from easily. Plus, there was Daenerys. She was more than just beautiful; she felt important. The dice never rolled without reason.
"Well," Mat said after a moment, "I suppose I could stick around. Seems like fate's brought me here for a reason." He glanced at Daenerys, his grin turning a bit mischievous. "Besides, how could I say no to such fine company?"
Viserys scowled, but Daenerys looked away, her blush deepening.
Illyrio chuckled. "Excellent. Then it's settled. You'll stay, and we'll see what use your… talents may have in the days to come."
Mat tipped his hat. "As long as there's a good drink and a dice game nearby, I think we'll get along just fine."
But as he followed Illyrio inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just rolled the dice on something far bigger than a simple game of chance. Luck had brought him here—but he had a sinking suspicion that leaving would be far more difficult.
And the thought of what trouble lay ahead only made him grin wider.
Mat sat back in the large, plush chair Illyrio had provided for him, feet kicked up on an ornate table, swirling a goblet of wine in one hand. It was his third day in Pentos, and he still felt off balance, like a man walking into a game without knowing the rules. He had a room in Illyrio's manse, as grand as any palace bedroom he'd ever seen, with a bed so soft it swallowed him whole. Fine enough accommodations, sure, but the dice hadn't stopped rolling since he'd stepped foot in the city, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
The wine was decent—strong, though not quite as good as the stuff in Ebou Dar. Mat wasn't here for the wine anyway. He was here because of Daenerys.
The moment he'd seen her, the dice had started tumbling in his head, warning him that something was different, something that mattered. He'd learned long ago that when the dice rolled, fate was pushing him in a direction. Running didn't help. It only meant that destiny caught up with him later—usually in a worse way. No, better to face it head-on.
But Daenerys Targaryen was proving to be more elusive than the best game of Stones.
Mat drained his goblet and set it down with a sigh. Getting to know her was going to be trickier than he'd thought. Every time he'd tried over the past few days, there had been obstacles: attendants fluttering around her like nervous birds, or worse, that pompous brother of hers, Viserys.
Mat grimaced at the thought of Viserys. They'd crossed paths twice more since that first tense introduction, and each encounter had been as pleasant as rolling dice against a rigged game. The Targaryen prince strutted around like he was still on a throne, sneering at Mat every chance he got.
Two days ago, Mat had bumped into Viserys while exploring Illyrio's gardens. The man had sneered, his eyes full of contempt.
"Still lurking around, Cauthon?" Viserys had said, his voice dripping with disdain. "I thought you might have scurried back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
Mat had bit back a sharp retort, forcing a smile instead. "No need to worry, your highness. I'm just getting used to the place. Besides, it's hard to leave when the company's so fine."
Viserys had narrowed his eyes, clearly aware that Mat wasn't talking about him. He'd opened his mouth to say something—likely another insult—but Illyrio had appeared, diffusing the tension with a wave of his hand and a booming laugh. Still, the look Viserys shot Mat as he walked away had been pure venom.
Mat grinned now, thinking back on it. I've dealt with worse than you, your royal highness.
But Daenerys? She was something else entirely. Every time Mat had tried to get close to her, she had been surrounded by attendants, and while polite, she seemed distant, unsure what to make of him. Mat wasn't sure either, not yet. She was young, much younger than he'd first thought, and there was a fragility to her that made him hesitate.
Yet, she had a strength beneath it all. He could see it in her eyes—something unspoken, waiting to be unleashed. And if the dice rolling in his head meant anything, it was that she mattered, though how, he couldn't yet tell. He was curious, yes, but more than that—he wanted to understand why fate had led him here, to this girl who seemed trapped in her own life, much as he often felt.
On the seventh day, Mat's patience finally paid off.
He had been wandering through Illyrio's sprawling manse, nodding to the various servants and avoiding Viserys wherever possible. It was just past midday, and the sun had cast long shadows across the courtyard. He wasn't expecting to find anything, just killing time and avoiding the nagging feeling of the dice tumbling in his skull.
Then, as he rounded the corner of a secluded garden, there she was.
Daenerys sat on a stone bench, alone for the first time since he'd arrived. She held a book in her lap, but she wasn't reading. Her silver hair glistened in the dappled sunlight, and her pale violet eyes were distant, lost in thought.
For a moment, Mat hesitated. She looked so… peaceful, fragile even, and he wondered if it was wise to intrude. But the dice clicked in his mind, a constant, insistent hum that told him now was the time. So, with a quiet breath, he adjusted his hat and stepped into the garden.
"Fancy meeting you here, my lady," Mat said, his voice light as always, masking the deeper undercurrent of curiosity that tugged at him.
Daenerys blinked, startled from her thoughts, her eyes focusing on him. She looked surprised to see him, but not displeased. After a brief pause, she offered a small smile. "Matrim Cauthon, isn't it?"
Mat grinned, tipping his hat. "That's right. Though most people just call me Mat."
She nodded, though the hesitation in her expression was still there. "What are you doing here?"
"Just exploring. Illyrio's manse is too big to stay cooped up in one place, don't you think?" He sat on a low wall across from her, giving her space but not too much. "Besides, I figured you might want some company that doesn't come with royal airs or a dozen attendants."
Daenerys looked away, a soft laugh escaping her lips—softer than he'd expected. "I suppose I do spend most of my time surrounded."
"That brother of yours doesn't make it easy," Mat added with a conspiratorial wink.
Daenerys's expression darkened at the mention of Viserys, and Mat cursed himself inwardly for bringing him up. But to his surprise, she didn't pull away. Instead, she let out a small sigh. "No… he doesn't."
Mat leaned back, letting the silence stretch for a moment before continuing. "I know how that is. Always having someone telling you what to do, where to go. Gets tiring after a while."
Daenerys's eyes flicked up to meet his, and for the first time, there was something more than caution in them. Curiosity. "You don't seem like someone who listens to orders."
Mat chuckled. "Oh, I've been known to follow a few. When it suits me."
She smiled, and this time it was genuine, though still shy. "And when it doesn't?"
"Well," Mat said, leaning forward slightly, "then I find a way to make my own luck."
The words seemed to resonate with her. She looked down at the book in her lap again, her fingers tracing the edge of the pages. "I don't think I've ever been lucky."
Mat's grin faded, replaced with a quiet seriousness. "Maybe not yet, but luck can change. It always does. One roll of the dice and everything can turn around."
Daenerys looked up at him, her violet eyes searching his face as if trying to decide if he was mocking her or speaking the truth. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased, and she seemed to relax, just a little.
"You speak as though you know a great deal about luck," she said, her tone almost teasing.
Mat shrugged, his grin returning. "You could say it's my specialty."
For the next hour, they talked. Daenerys was cautious at first, her words careful and measured, but as Mat made her laugh with his stories—some true, others exaggerated—she began to open up. She spoke of her life, of Viserys, of feeling trapped by her brother's ambitions and the weight of their family's name. Mat listened, offering a mix of empathy and humor, knowing when to jest and when to stay quiet.
For Daenerys, it was something new. Mat wasn't like anyone she'd ever known. He was easy, light-hearted, but there was a depth to him, too, something in his eyes that told her he'd seen more of the world than most. And when he smiled, it wasn't a sneer or a smirk, but something genuine.
By the time they parted, she was still unsure of him—he was an enigma, a man who seemed to laugh at the world while carrying its weight. But she felt… better. Lighter. And for that, she was grateful.
As Mat walked back through the manse, his hands in his pockets, he could feel the dice settling in his head. Fate had shifted again, and he knew, without a doubt, that Daenerys was going to be important. She was more than just a pretty face or the sister of a prince. She was someone whose path was going to change the world—and somehow, the Pattern had placed him in the middle of it.
He couldn't help but grin. Light help me, I'm in it now.