Xaro Xhoan Daxos was a man of his word. The palace he provided was a wonder, a place of sprawling gardens, wide marble baths, and a towering crystal observatory that touched the sky. It was larger than the great market, with more than enough room for her small khalasar and the two hundred servants Xaro had assigned to her.
As she sat by the edge of a pool, feeling the tickle of tiny fish nibbling at her toes, she thought that in Qarth, even the fish were decadent. Suddenly, the sky above her darkened. She turned and was startled to find Quaithe standing silently beside her.
"I am leaving," the shadowbinder said.
"Oh," Dany said, taken aback. "Farewell."
"Be careful," Quaithe whispered, her voice a flat, emotionless warning.
"Careful of what?"
"Of everyone," she replied. "From this day forward, they will come to see the miracle of your rebirth. They will be greedy. For a dragon's flesh is made of fire, and fire is power."
And then, as silently as she had appeared, she was gone.
The words left a chill in the air that the luxurious gardens could not warm. Dany immediately summoned Jorah and her bloodriders to the poolside. As the tiny fish nibbled at their own calloused feet, she relayed Quaithe's warning.
"I do not like that woman," Jorah said, "for I cannot see what lies behind her mask. But I believe her warning. From the moment we entered this city, I have felt… an uneasiness."
"I do not like the way the milk-men look at us," Rakharo added, his face grim. "It is as if they are looking at a rare beast captured from some savage land." The Dothraki had taken to calling the pale-skinned Qartheen "milk-men."
Dany was impressed by his perception. It was true. The welcome had been grand, but it had felt like the welcome a city gives to a prized spectacle, not a visiting queen.
"They want to see the dragons," she said. She turned to Quilo. "Arrange two sets of guards, one in the open, one in the shadows. For as long as we are here, you will not let your guard down for a single moment." To her bloodriders, she commanded, "Map this palace. Learn its layout, the guard posts, the houses that surround it."
Finally, she looked at Jorah. "Ser, I need you to go into the city. To the markets, the docks, the taverns, even the brothels. Learn what the people of Qarth, both high and low, are saying about us." She took a breath. "And since this is a crossroads of the world, there will be men from Westeros here. Let the news of my dragons spread. Let them know."
Jorah looked hesitant. "Your Grace, you were just worrying about assassins. Now you wish to announce your presence to the Seven Kingdoms?"
"The story of the dragons will be told whether we wish it or not," she said. "It is better that we are the ones who tell it. It is a shield, and a distraction, to hide our true purpose."
That night, Dany dined on food as extravagant as the palace: stir-fried peacock tongues. Such waste, she thought, to kill such a beautiful bird for a single bite.
The next morning, as Quaithe had predicted, the powerful of Qarth began to arrive. They came in ornate palanquins, surrounded by servants, to pay their respects. Xaro accompanied them, introducing the princes of the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers. They proclaimed themselves overwhelmed by her beauty, they lavished her with gifts of silk and jewels, and they wept. The Qartheen, she learned, believed that weeping was a sign of a highly civilized and sensitive soul.
But through their tears, their eyes darted around, searching. Dany understood what they truly wanted. She had her dragons brought out, and the sight of the three small creatures made the great men of Qarth weep all the more.
The Tourmaline Brotherhood, a guild of gem merchants, returned a week later with a magnificent three-headed dragon crown. The Ancient Guild of Spicers sent seventy-seven chests of rare spices from all over the world. Day after day, the lesser merchants and captains came to pay their respects. But the Pureborn, the ancient royal family of Qarth, remained silent.
"What of the king and queen?" she finally asked Xaro.
He sniffed with disdain. "The Pureborn have nothing left but their ancient glory. You must make an appointment to see them." He then explained the sordid process: to gain an audience, one had to send gifts, bribes, to a long and complex chain of courtiers and officials. He, of course, knew exactly who to bribe, and with how much.
"No," Dany said, the word coming out colder than she intended. She would not beg for an audience in her own ancestor's fashion.
But it was not so simple. Jorah had learned that the Pureborn, while politically weak, still commanded the city's army and fleet. To refuse to play their game of bribery was to insult them. And an insulted host was not bound by the laws of guest right.
"It is the custom of this place," Jorah advised her. "Even in Westeros, a guest does not always enjoy protection. When a guest arrives at a lord's keep, guest right only comes into effect after they have accepted the host's offer of bread and salt."
"But for a host to demand bribes? Is that a custom in the Seven Kingdoms as well?" she asked, disgusted.
Jorah coughed, a deep blush rising on his bearded face. "Not… not so openly. But it is a tradition for a guest in a weak position to offer a 'guest gift' to a powerful host, to show gratitude and ensure their protection." He saw the look on her face and tried to explain further. "The men of the Night's Watch, for example, must often seek shelter with the wildling Craster beyond the Wall. Craster is a vile man who marries his own daughters, but he provides food and shelter. In return, the Watch must bring him gifts of steel weapons and turn a blind eye to his sins. They cannot harm him, for he is their host."
He sighed. "The right of guests is a law that binds both sides. Perhaps it is a universal concept, just with different forms."
"Very well," Dany said, her voice heavy with resignation. "I will give the Pureborn their gifts. And I will hope that they might give me some 'guest gifts' in return."
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