To go or not to go. It seemed an impossible choice, a future hanging on a single word. But Daenerys knew, with a cold certainty, that there was no choice at all.
"Your Grace," Ser Jorah began, his brow furrowed in thought, "it is obvious they have come for the dragons. But their interest in you, their desire to possess you, is also a shield. In Qarth, your danger will be greater, but also of a different kind."
"Explain," she prompted.
"In all the Free Cities," he said, his eyes distant, "a merchant's most sacred possession is not his gold, but his credit. On the sea or in the wild, any man might become a robber. But within their own cities, they use more subtle weapons: deception, extortion, seduction. They will not use open force against one another, for it would destroy the trust upon which all their wealth is built."
He leaned forward, his voice earnest. "The greater the merchant, the more he values his reputation. By inviting you to Qarth as his guest, Xaro Xhoan Daxos has made you his responsibility. To allow harm to befall you under his roof would be a stain on his honor that no amount of gold could wash away."
"And the sacred rights of the guest are never trampled upon?" she asked, a skeptical edge to her voice.
Jorah looked genuinely horrified by the suggestion. "Never," he said, his voice a low growl. "Only the most accursed, insane, and ignorant man would dare to violate guest right. Have you not heard the tale of the Rat Cook?"
The Dothraki maids, huddled together, looked on with wide, curious eyes.
"It is an old story from the Wall," Jorah said, his voice dropping into the cadence of a grim bedtime story. "The Rat Cook was a brother of the Night's Watch, years ago, at the Nightfort. An Andal king came to visit, a man the cook held a deep grudge against. One night, the cook took the king's own son, killed him, and baked him into a great pie with onions, carrots, bacon, and mushrooms. He served the pie to the king, who knew nothing, and praised its taste, even asking for a second piece."
The maids let out a collective gasp of horror.
"The gods could not suffer such a crime," Jorah finished, his face a grim shadow in the firelight. "They cursed the cook, transforming him into a giant white rat who could only eat his own young. To this day, they say his spirit still haunts the Nightfort, forever devouring his children to satisfy a hunger that will never end."
A thick, uneasy silence fell over the tent. Dany's maids huddled closer together, their eyes darting into the dark corners of the room.
"A fine story to tell before sleep," Dany said with a dry cough. "Though perhaps a bit frightening."
"It is true," Jorah insisted. "Every child in the North knows it."
"The first half, perhaps," she mused. "But which god do you think punished him? The king was an Andal, who prayed to the Seven. The Nightfort is in the North, the land of the Old Gods. I find it hard to believe two rival faiths would cooperate to punish a single man."
Jorah sighed, frustrated. "Your Grace, the purpose of the story is to warn us. A man has a right to his vengeance, but the gods will not forgive one who murders a guest beneath his own roof."
Or perhaps, Dany thought with a cold, cynical clarity, the real lesson is that guest right provides the perfect cover for revenge, and the gods do nothing at all. The Rat Cook's true punishment would have come from the king, not the heavens. She kept the dark thought to herself.
"So," she said, "you advise we go to Qarth."
"It is a great city," he nodded. "A crossroads of the world. There you will find what you need most: ships and sailors. If we find the Qartheen to be false friends, we can take to the sea." He looked at her then, his gaze intense, searching. "Robert Baratheon is dead, Your Grace. Does this news truly not stir any thoughts of home in your heart?"
She had to be careful. Jorah's homesickness was a powerful, dangerous thing. "I have a chance?" she asked, letting a flicker of hope show on her face.
It was all the encouragement he needed. "The usurper may be dead, but his 'sons' still live, and their mother is a Lannister. Eddard Stark was like a brother to Robert; he would not support you. The Tullys and the Arryns are tied to the Starks by marriage…" He trailed off, his face troubled, trying to navigate the tangled politics of a realm he had not seen in years. He did not know, of course, that none of the queen's sons were Baratheons. He did not know that Eddard Stark was already a prisoner in the Red Keep, or perhaps, already dead. "It is best," he concluded, "to avoid Westeros for now. We will wait until the dragons are grown."
She nodded. "And what do the rest of you say?" she asked, turning to the Dothraki who had been listening silently.
"Khaleesi, you are the blood of my blood. Where you go, we go," Jhogo said, scratching his newly-shorn head, though the thought of the sea, which the Dothraki believed was poison water, clearly made him anxious.
The other bloodriders grunted in agreement.
"We should flee into the western mountains this very night," old Avanti suggested.
"And if we deceive the men of Qarth, they will become our enemies, not our guests," the blacksmith Solomon countered, his voice full of a wisdom the others lacked. "How did they find this place? With prophecy. They will find us again, wherever we go."
The maids nodded, whispering about the stars and the shadowbinder's magic.
Daenerys had heard enough. She had made her decision. "Quilo," she said to the captain of her Dragon Guard, "from tomorrow, you will not let my children out of your sight."
"As long as I live, Khaleesi," he vowed, "no one will touch them."
The next morning, she told her guests her decision. Quaithe's lacquered mask revealed nothing, but the warlock and the merchant prince expressed their profound delight, solemnly promising that she and her khalasar would be under their protection in Qarth.
For the next four days, the camp was a hive of activity. Riders were sent to gather the hunting parties from the mountains and the herders from the other two cities. Dany also sent Aggo to ride ahead, carrying a letter from Xaro to his steward in Qarth. A great caravan of camels, laden with food and fresh water, would be sent to meet them in the wasteland. Their long, punishing march on horseback was almost over.