The third person was a woman, cloaked and silent. She wore a mask of red lacquered wood that concealed her entire face, leaving only the faintest impression of the features beneath. When she spoke, her voice was flat and unaccented, her command of the Seven Kingdoms' Common Tongue perfect. "Greetings, Mother of Dragons. I am Quaithe, a shadowbinder from Asshai."
Daenerys nodded, her mind racing. A warlock, a merchant prince, and a shadowbinder. This was a delegation of profound and dangerous power. She motioned for her Dothraki to stand aside, allowing her and her guests to pass through the gate first. As they walked toward the palace ruins, Ser Jorah and her bloodriders met them, their faces a mixture of suspicion and awe.
"You came seeking dragons," Jorah said, asking the question that had been burning in Dany's own heart. "How did you know to find them here?"
"The stars guided us," Quaithe said simply.
"The stars?" Jorah asked, skeptical.
Pyat Pree, the warlock, pointed a long, thin finger toward the sky, where the faint red streak of the comet was still visible. "That one."
"The Weeping Star?" Jorah scoffed. "Its position changes. It is no man's guide. And what has it to do with dragons?"
"To an ordinary man," the warlock hissed, his voice like dry leaves skittering across stone, "it is merely a comet. But for those of us who can feel the turnings of the world, its coming heralded a great shift in power. Magic, which has been fading from the world, is growing strong again." His pale blue eyes were fixed on Dahei, who was perched on Dany's shoulder.
"That seems… an exaggeration," Jorah argued, ever the protector. "There have always been tales of dragons. The ironborn speak of sea dragons, and there are legends of ice dragons beyond the Wall."
Pyat Pree let out a series of soft, dry hisses that might have been a laugh. The sarcasm was obvious. He did not bother to reply.
"Tsk, tsk," the merchant prince, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, clucked his tongue, looking at the ruined city with disdain. "A place of wind, sand, and decay. It is entirely unworthy of the noble Mother of Dragons." He urged his camel closer to Dany, his tone becoming oily and magniloquent. "Khaleesi, you were born to be draped in the finest jewels, to wear gowns of Myrish lace. You were meant to live in a grand palace, surrounded by servants, as close to the gods as a mortal can be. Only Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be, can provide you with such a life."
He gave her a lavish smile. "And it just so happens that I have the means, and the most sincere desire, to offer you all of this. Please, I beg you, leave this wretched place and follow me to Qarth."
"You are a most generous gentleman, my lord Daxos," Dany said with a polite smile, "but I have my people to care for."
"Hah!" Xaro laughed, a sound full of an easy, breathtaking arrogance. "Khaleesi, you truly must see Qarth. This desert has shrunken your view of the world. The smallest guest wing in my palace could easily house all of your followers. I once entertained thirty-five visiting princes at one time, and each of them brought a retinue far larger than yours."
Any bathroom in his house is bigger than my entire city, she translated silently. Aloud, she simply sighed. "As you may not know, my husband, Khal Drogo, is dead."
"Of course we know," Xaro said immediately. "The greatest of the horse kings has passed. The whole of Essos knows that the Great Grass Sea now has many new Khals, and none as strong." He leaned closer. "But that is old news. I bring you newer tidings. You spoke of the Usurper's assassins. You need fear them no longer. Robert Baratheon is dead."
Dany froze. "Dead? How?"
"It has been almost half a year now," Xaro said, clearly enjoying his role as the bearer of monumental news. "They say he was gored by a boar while hunting. A drunken accident. But there are whispers in the wine shops of every port… whispers that his queen, the Lannister woman, arranged the 'accident' herself."
Robert Baratheon. The man who had destroyed her family, taken her throne, and hunted her across the world. Dead. The news was so immense, she could barely process it.
"So you see," Xaro concluded with a triumphant smile, "you have nothing left to fear. In Qarth, under my protection, no one would dare to harm you."
Dany nodded slowly, her mind working furiously. "How far is Qarth from here?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral. "And how many days did it take you to cross this waste?"
"The journey is around a thousand kilometers. It took us nearly a week."
Their speed was much the same as her own khalasar's. The difference was that her horses were on the verge of collapse after only three hundred kilometers. Camels were truly the ships of the desert.
That evening, she held a feast in the square before the palace ruins. They ate roasted horse meat in plum sauce, stewed venison with mushrooms, and buttered beets. It was the best her small khalasar could offer. The guests, in turn, produced their own luxuries from their saddlebags: spiced sausages, dark red wine, and pots of black caviar.
She brought out her three dragons, now the size of small hounds, and allowed her guests to see them up close. She and Jorah watched their reactions carefully. Quaithe, the shadowbinder, simply stared at the black dragon, her posture one of utter awe. The warlock, Pyat Pree, could not hide the raw, hungry longing in his eyes. And Xaro, the great merchant, smiled his oily smile and remarked on their inner heat, his eyes shining with the glint of a man calculating the value of a priceless gem.
When she sent them back to the rooms she had prepared for them, she told Xaro she would seriously consider his generous invitation.
But after they were gone, she did not go to sleep. She called a council, gathering Jorah, her bloodriders, her handmaidens, and the wisest of the old men, Avanti and the blacksmith Solomon. Unlike the Khals before her, she would not treat the elderly as useless burdens. Their wisdom had already proven to be one of her greatest assets. Avanti, the herdsman, was a miracle worker, coaxing new life from their dwindling herds of horses. And Solomon, the green-eyed blacksmith from Qohor, possessed the greatest metalworking skills in the world, a gift from a trade prince to Drogo's father long ago.
It was time to decide their future.
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