THE LESSON OF QARTH (Part 1)
The passage through Slaver's Bay was a spectacle of silent disdain. Volantis, with its stunned priestess and its hastily obedient Triarchs, had set the tone. In the cities that followed – the great, pyramidal Meereen, the cruel Astapor with its Unsullied, and the decadent Yunkai – the Northern fleet barely slowed. They were not guests; they were a passing natural phenomenon. The ships anchored just long enough for barrels of fresh water, sacks of grain, and casks of salted fish to be traded for heavy chests of gold, the universal currency for those who desired no conversation.
Theon remained a distant figure on the deck of the Queen Anne's Revenge, observing the dock activity with the impassivity of a glacier. His eyes, colder than the sands of Dorne, saw the same choreography of oppression and submission in every port. The news of his display of power in Volantis – the snow under the sun – had preceded him, creating a vacuum of cautious respect around him.
His next stop, however, demanded more than a simple supply run. Qarth, the Queen of Cities, the Great Gateway between East and West. A city of white marble, porticoes, and ostentatious luxury, which breathed opulence and an air of rotten intellectual superiority. It was ruled by a myriad of factions, but the true holders of power were the Merchants of the Thirteen.
And it was they who received Theon Stark when his fleet anchored in Qarth's bustling harbor. A delegation dressed in expensive silks and extravagant jewels waited, their smiles as polished and empty as the city's marble walls.
"King Theon Stark," announced one of them, a thin man with a blue-dyed beard, giving an exaggerated bow. "Qarth bows to the King of Winter. Your fame, like your fleet, is imposing."
Theon accepted the greeting with a slight nod of his head, his Ice Crown with its central ruby pulsing with a soft, steady light. "Merchant Xaro," he replied, identifying the man without hesitation. His network of informants was as vast and ancient as Qarth's own walls. "Qarth bows to no one. It calculates. Let us skip the choreography."
The Merchants' smiles grew tighter. They led Theon and a small contingent of his Black Guard – silent men whose dark armor seemed to absorb the Qartheen sunlight – through the wide, ornate streets to a mansion that was more of a palace, a labyrinth of courtyards, fountains, and halls lined with mother-of-pearl.
The banquet was a display of decadent excess. A hundred dishes were served, each more exotic and intricate than the last. Theon had long since lost interest in the ephemeral pleasures of taste. While the Merchants ate and laughed, he remained sober, watching, analyzing. His wife, Gael, beside him, handled the golden cutlery with a grace that made the vulgarity around her almost elegant.
Finally, when the remnants of the feast were cleared away and servants poured wine from a glass amphora, the real business began.
"Qarth has heard of the wonders of the North," began Xaro, dabbing his lips with a silk cloth. "The Icesteel, of course, but also the runes of preservation in your wood, the crystals of perpetual light... We would be interested in acquiring exclusive trade rights for all the East."
Theon took a sip of pure water from his silver cup. "No."
The word echoed in the sumptuous room, simple and final.
The Merchants exchanged glances. Another, a woman with a headdress in the shape of a golden serpent, spoke: "The price can be discussed, Your Grace. Qarth has wealth beyond the imagination of any man."
"Any mortal man," Theon corrected softly. "I do not sell exclusivity. The North does not put all its eggs in one basket, especially one as ornate and fragile as Qarth's. You may participate in the decennial auctions in Braavos, like all the others."
The refusal was a blow to their pride. Qarth, accustomed to buying and selling empires, was being treated as just one among many. The air grew heavy. The courtesy began to crack, revealing the cold steel of greed beneath.
The meeting ended shortly after, with a minor agreement on the purchase of certain Qartheen spices in exchange for a small shipment of enchanted ice. It was crumbs, and the Merchants knew it. Theon stood, his imposing height dominating the room.
"The business is concluded," he said. "Our stay here ends at dawn."
He turned and left, his Black Guard forming a perimeter around him as they left the mansion. The Qarth night was warm and perfumed, the air heavy with the scent of spices and sea. They were halfway back to the harbor, crossing a silent garden enclosed by high walls, when the air stilled.
The moonlight distorted. Suddenly, they were no longer in the garden, but at the bottom of a dark ocean, with creatures of tentacles and teeth writhing towards them. It was a powerful illusion, designed to terrify and disorient. The black guards stopped, their hands flying to their sword hilts, but their faces remained as carved from granite as ever.
Theon simply sighed, a sound of profound boredom.
"Stop this," he commanded, his voice low, but carrying an authority that made the fabric of reality tremble.
The nightmare ocean dissolved like smoke in the wind. They were back in the garden. Before them, five figures emerged from the shadows. They wore robes embroidered with stars and serpents, and their lips were painted a deep, shining blue. The Warlocks of Qarth. Their eyes glowed with an arrogant inner light.
"The King of Winter cannot simply come to Qarth and refuse our offer," hissed the leader, raising his hands. The air began to hum, and a spear of pure, blinding energy, so hot it distorted the air, shot from the space between his palms straight at Theon's heart.
Theon did not move. He raised his left hand, palm facing the energy beam. The instant before impact, the air before his palm became absolutely black, darker than midnight, a void that sucked in the light. The energy spear collided with the darkness and was swallowed without a sound, without an explosion, without a trace. It was simply... extinguished.
The warlocks' eyes widened in disbelief.
"Your magic," Theon said, his voice now laden with a dangerous cold, "is noisy. Clumsy. Like a child banging a drum. I did not come to Qarth to deal with you. Your existence was, until this moment, irrelevant to me."
He looked at the warlocks, and for the first time, a flash of his true fury hung in the air, causing the temperature to plummet. "But since you insisted on placing your necks in the path of the axe..."
He gave no order. It was unnecessary. It was as if the very darkness around the warlocks solidified. The Black Guard moved. They did not run; they simply were there, their long, black swords already in motion. They were not blows of rage, but of brutal, absolute efficiency. Three of the warlocks barely had time to raise their magical defenses – shimmering shields of force that shattered like glass under the enchanted Icesteel. Their heads, with blue lips still contorted in surprise, rolled on the perfumed grass.
The leader and another warlock, quicker, retreated, shouting words of power. A veil of invisibility began to envelop the leader.
Theon looked at him. He made no elaborate gesture, uttered no spell. He simply willed it, with a will forged over a century and a half. The warlock's magic dissolved with an audible snap, and the man became visible again, gasping, his face a mask of pure terror.
"You think you know what power is?" Theon's voice was now a deadly whisper. "You play with candle flame and call it the sun."
He then raised his right hand, not in a fist, but with his fingers slightly curled, as if holding an invisible snowball. His eyes turned to the sky, towards the imposing Tower of the House of the Undying, which dominated the city's skyline, its top lost in the heights.
He closed his hand.
There was no sound. Only a sensation, a chill that ran down the spine of every person with a spark of magical sensitivity in Qarth. High above, at the top of the Tower of the House of the Undying, a point of white, cold light appeared, small as a star. For a fraction of a second, it flickered.
Then, a blinding, silent, absolute light swallowed the top of the tower. It was not fire. It was not a blast. It was as if a small moon had been born and died in the same instant, in the heart of that ancient structure. When the light dissipated, the top of the tower – and only the top, with surgical, terrifying precision – had simply vanished. Vaporized. No debris fell. No fire started. Just a perfectly smooth, smoldering stump where once stood imposing architecture.
Theon lowered his hand. He looked at the lead warlock, who was on his knees, trembling uncontrollably, a puddle forming beneath him.
"I did not kill you before because you were insignificant," Theon said, his voice back to its flat, monotonous tone. "Now, you are no longer."
He then turned his back and continued walking towards his ship, the Black Guard following him, their swords already sheathed. Before boarding the Queen Anne's Revenge, Theon looked back one last time towards the city. He saw, in the distance, one last, weak flare of magical energy – a final sigh of the Undying – rise from the stump of the tower and then fade forever.
The destruction was apocalyptic in scale, but mysteriously contained in its scope. Only the Tower and its immediate occupants were erased. The rest of Qarth remained intact, but forever changed.
Without a word, Theon Stark entered his ship. The message to the world, to any who dared challenge him, was delivered. He was not just a king. He was a judge. And he needed no army to pronounce his sentence.
Part 2.
The final stop of the Great Voyage was, by design and symbolism, the most distant and legendary: the Empire of Yi Ti. As the Queen Anne's Revenge and its retinue sailed the murky waters of the Jade Sea towards the golden coast, Theon Stark orchestrated his arrival like a maestro preparing a symphony. The snow began to fall upon the imperial capital, Yin, a week before his ships were sighted. It was not a furious storm, but a persistent, gentle fall, a white and silent mantle that covered the golden roofs and lush gardens, painting the exotic with a familiar Northern brushstroke. It was a statement, soft but undeniable: Winter knew no borders, and its king was arriving.
The reception at the harbor was a spectacle of Eastern pomp. Guards with lacquered armor and ornamental helmets, giant ceremonial fans, and a crowd dressed in colorful silks. At the center of the splendor was Bu Gai, the Seventeenth Lazuli Emperor, seated in an open litter. His robes were the richest of all, his face powdered with gold, but his eyes were empty as dry wells. A puppet, elegantly dressed, but a puppet nonetheless.
Theon descended the gangplank, a figure of Northern austerity amidst the whirlwind of Yi Tish colors. The snow accumulated on his shoulders and his wolfskin cloak, but he seemed not to notice. He walked directly to the imperial litter, ignoring the protocol officers rushing to dictate the choreography of the encounter. His eyes, colder than the falling snow, did not settle on the emperor, but on an older, severe-looking man to the right of the throne, wearing the robes of a High Minister.
Silence fell. Everyone expected the King of Winter to bow.
Theon did not bow.
He kept his gaze on the High Minister and spoke, his voice cutting the icy air like a blade, completely ignoring the figure on the throne.
"I have come to negotiate with the Empire of Yi Ti," said Theon, without any preamble. "Not to play pretend with a puppet emperor."
A collective shock ran through the court. Bu Gai himself seemed to shrink, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. At that same instant, the gentle snowfall transformed. The wind gained strength, howling between the city's towers. The snow, which had been falling in graceful flakes, became a thick, blinding curtain. The cold, which was once a discomforting novelty, became a bony hand squeezing their bones, causing the Yi Tish, accustomed to a mild climate, to tremble uncontrollably in their thin silks. The Emperor, pale, tried to speak, raising a trembling hand.
"How dare you—" he began, his voice an offended squeak.
It was the High Minister who intervened, placing a firm but respectful hand on the emperor's arm, silencing him. He looked at Theon, and in his dark eyes there was no offense, but a swift and profound calculation. He saw the snow, felt the murderous cold, and understood the language being spoken. It was a language of pure power, which cared not for titles or facades.
"The meeting will happen immediately, King Theon," said the Minister, his voice clear and cutting, overcoming the howling wind. "The Emperor has other state commitments to attend to. I, High Minister Lo, will be your interlocutor."
Theon inclined his head once, a gesture of acceptance. The blizzard diminished instantly, returning to its soft, persistent fall. The message had been sent and received.
He was led through the city, a marvel of architecture that reminded him of ancient palaces he only vaguely remembered from stories of a long-lost world. Yin was all gold, red, and green jade, with curved roofs rising like the wings of exotic birds. The Imperial Palace was its crown, a vast complex of courtyards, pavilions, and halls adorned with bronze dragons and lacquered phoenixes.
The negotiations, conducted away from the farce of the court, were surprisingly productive. High Minister Lo was a pragmatic man, and Theon's display of power had opened all doors. Theon's primary mission in Yi Ti was to secure the North's food security for generations to come. And he succeeded. In exchange for bars of Icesteel, crystals of perpetual light, and the right for Yi Ti to participate in future auctions of runic artifacts, Theon secured something of priceless value: cultivars.
He departed with a veritable botanical treasure. Dozens of varieties of rice, each adapted to different soil and climate conditions, which his farmers and earth-mages would test in the Neck and the North's most fertile lands. He acquired seeds of a frost-resistant purple grain, similar to wheat, but which thrived on mountain slopes; saplings of a vine that produced a sweet, black grape, even in the shade; and roots of a tuber that could be stored in ice for years without spoiling. It was the diversification the North needed to become truly unassailable.
After several days of meticulous meetings, the agreements were sealed. The Great Voyage had achieved its final commercial objective. After a year away from home, it was time to return to Westeros.
---
Aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge, Jade Sea
Theon was in his quarters, the soft light of a runic crystal illuminating the stack of scrolls on his desk. Communication over such a distance was a monumental logistical feat. He had had to establish a relay chain across Essos, stationing loyal wargs bonded to Northern green magicians at strategic points, each guarding a vision stone tuned to the next. The message was weeks out of date, but it was the most current he could hope for.
As he read the weekly report from Cregan, his face, normally an icy mask, darkened. It was not worry he felt, but a deep, simmering irritation. The stupidity of men, apparently, was a universal constant.
The Blackfyre Rebellion was in full swing in the South, and the absence of the King of Winter seemed to have given the contenders foolish courage. Both sides, the legitimist king and the Blackfyre pretender, had sent envoys to the North. Their mission: to try and claim the support – and the dragons – of the Northern Dragon Houses.
The report was meticulous. On one side, the Pretender Daemon Blackfyre, as arrogant as he was skilled with a sword, had approached Vaelor Truefyre. When diplomacy failed, Daemon resorted to treachery. He attacked Vaelor from behind in a supposedly friendly duel. The blow, cowardly and meant to be fatal, was stopped only by the protection runes woven into Vaelor's armor. Even so, the Truefyre heir was gravely injured. Naturally, his dragon, Green Day, retaliated with fury, carbonizing most of Daemon's escort, but the Pretender himself, with the luck of the wicked, managed to escape with light wounds.
On the other side, the envoys of the legitimist King had been equally insistent, almost aggressive, with Haelena Targaryen, pressuring her to join their cause. The insistence reached a point that deeply angered her grandson, Lucerys, who had to be physically restrained by his own men from mounting his dragon and "making fire rain down upon the fools."
The final straw was the attack on Vaelor. Cregan Stark, acting as Regent, did not hesitate. He ordered the Northern Dragon Houses to seek vengeance and declared the North's support for the legitimist Targaryen faction – largely a gesture of solidarity to the Truefyres, as Urtigas, the Matriarch of the House, mounted on Sheepstealer, was already flying south with maternal fury, seeking vengeance for her nearly slain son.
Theon read this and let out a short, dry laugh. Cregan's decision was sound, politically and militarily correct. The only thing Theon would do differently, if present, would be to attack both sides for their audacity, teaching them a lesson that would echo for generations. But Cregan was more practical, less vengeful.
He then skimmed a final note, an almost casual addition from Cregan. One of the legalized Targaryen bastards, a young woman described by Cregan with some frustration as having "a disturbing beauty and sensual cunning," had taken up residence at the court of the Northern Targaryens. From the description, Theon knew instantly who it was. He let out another sigh, this one more weary. That particular headache, which he had hoped to leave behind in the South, seemed to have found a way to land in his lap, one way or another.
Folding the parchment, Theon looked out his cabin window at the dark sea and the starry sky. The return to Westeros would be interesting. He prepared for the final leg of his journey, a planned detour to the mysterious and wild continent of Sothoryos. He hoped, with a spark of dark anticipation, that when he finally arrived home, the Blackfyre Rebellion would still be ongoing. Perhaps there would, after all, be an opportunity for him to have a little fun before restoring absolute order.