The dirty street kid who shoved the note into Leo's hand was obviously one of Varys's "little birds."
That was the Spider's name for the kids he used as the front line of his spy network across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond the Narrow Sea. They were always young—orphaned boys and girls who could slip through any crowd like ghosts.
Varys picked up kids who'd lost everything, trained them, and turned them into perfect little spies. No one notices street rats. They climb walls, slide down chimneys, steal letters, and copy secrets without a sound. He taught them to read and write, too. For the price of a little food and shelter, he owned them completely. They'd do anything he asked—far more loyal and useful than grown men.
Leo was on the king's mission, so of course Varys's network was feeding him information. And this little bird had just dropped the exact location of Viserys and Daenerys right in Myr.
After everything Leo had seen—Varys and Illyrio's secret scheming, Illyrio's careful testing—he wasn't surprised the Spider had handed him such "precise" intel so quickly.
True or fake, Leo had to see it for himself.
Back at the inn he told Brienne and Brule to get some rest. Then he grabbed Varyn and the five original men who'd followed him from Westeros. They geared up fully, saddled fresh horses they'd bought in Myr, and rode out.
They reached a merchant warehouse district fast. Varyn led them straight to a rundown house next to it. The second they kicked the door open they knew they were too late.
The place had been completely tossed—furniture flipped, drawers yanked out, everything scattered like a storm had blown through. Someone had beaten them here.
Varyn and the men grabbed a couple of locals from the street. After some rough questioning and hand gestures (Leo was still pretending none of them spoke the local tongue), the residents spilled what they knew: a group of armed men matching their description had already torn the place apart, then ridden east after a merchant caravan that had just left the city.
Interesting.
Essos had dozens of languages, but the main ones in the Free Cities were variants of Valyrian. High Valyrian from the old Freehold, and the everyday Low Valyrian everyone actually spoke now. Common Tongue from Westeros was common enough in trading hubs like Pentos and Myr.
Leo had discovered the moment he arrived in Pentos that the system let him understand and speak any local language perfectly—same as when he first landed in Westeros. He never mentioned it. Instead he hired a local translator and played dumb while they wandered the streets. It was the perfect hidden ace, just like Daenerys pulling the same trick with the Good Masters in Astapor.
So when the locals answered, Leo caught every word. They knew exactly who the group was looking for and said the targets had left with the caravan heading east. The armed men who came before them had chased the same way and weren't far ahead.
Too clean. Too precise.
Leo smirked. Varys and Illyrio had clearly set this up as a test. They wanted to see how he'd react to the Targaryen siblings.
"Mount up," he said. "We're heading east."
He wasn't about to ruin their little game. He'd play along, follow their script, and find out what they were really after.
They left the city at a trot. A few more quick questions to people on the road confirmed the same story—another group of armed men had ridden out fast, chasing the caravan.
Half an hour later they heard distant shouting and the clash of steel. Leo spurred his horse up a low ridge. Below them, two groups were fighting hard.
A small merchant caravan was under attack. Some of the traders were trying to scatter, but mounted men on fast horses were herding them back like cattle. The guards—five or six still standing—were locked in combat with an equal number of attackers. A few more guards already lay dead or dying on the ground. The rest of the merchants huddled behind wagons, terrified.
The attackers looked like sellswords, not common bandits—well-equipped, maybe twenty of them total. Definitely professionals.
"Orders, my lord?" Varyn asked quietly.
"Hold here and watch," Leo said. He wasn't rushing in. If this was Varys and Illyrio's setup, he wanted to see the whole show first.
A moment later one of the sellswords bellowed in Low Valyrian, loud enough for everyone to hear:
"Stop fighting! I won't say it again! We're not bandits and we're not here to rob you! We're only looking for two escaped slaves. Let us search your caravan and no one else gets hurt. Refuse, and we'll cut you down where you stand!"
The caravan guards hesitated, glancing back at one particular wagon. The people inside looked ready to give in—the numbers were clearly against them.
Then someone in the wagon spotted Leo's group on the ridge. Their faces filled with fresh despair. The sellswords noticed too and frowned. Seven men in full armor on warhorses wasn't something they'd planned for.
Three of the sellswords broke off, riding straight up the slope toward Leo.
"What's your business here?" the lead rider demanded.