Chapter 4 – Good News
"I do value friendship," the spice merchant said coldly, "but not from barbaric Dothraki."
Daenerys clenched her teeth, swallowing the sharp retort rising in her throat. She could not risk provoking them—not when she feared they might seize her dragons if pushed too far.
When she didn't erupt in anger as the merchant expected, he could only return to the ranks of the Thirteen with a sour expression.
Jorah shot her a puzzled look.
Was the Khaleesi truly going to give up their only chance of entering the city?
"This is not the Qartheen way of receiving guests," he murmured, "especially not the Mother of Dragons."
Just as everyone expected the negotiations to collapse—and Daenerys to turn and lead her people away—a tall, dark-skinned middle-aged man stepped out from the Thirteen.
"Xaro Xhoan Daxos," the spice merchant snapped, brows knitting, "what else do you have to say?"
"I only believe," Xaro replied, inclining his head politely toward Daenerys, "that a woman who crossed the Red Waste to reach us should not be turned away."
Hope lit Daenerys's eyes. If the gates opened, she wouldn't have to force her people to trudge for days more toward the coast.
"The Thirteen have already reached a decision," the spice merchant insisted. "Do you mean to defy our consensus and bring them into our city?"
"I am one of the Thirteen," Xaro said sharply. "Am I not?"
"Our decisions are not so easily overturned." The spice merchant looked around. The other members nodded in agreement.
"Then," Xaro said calmly, "I invoke sumae."
Before anyone could react, Xaro drew a sharp dagger from his belt, gripped the blade with his bare hand, and dragged it across his palm. Blood spilled freely, dripping onto the stones.
Daenerys and Jorah both stiffened at the sight. They had not expected Xaro to resort to such a binding ritual. For him to go this far—what was he after?
The moment Xaro's blood hit the ground, the spice merchant flicked his sleeve and stepped aside. The rest of the Thirteen began to murmur, parting to clear a path. Slowly, the great gates swung open.
Daenerys did not know why Xaro was so intent on letting them in. But as the gates revealed the glittering heart of Qarth, worry mingled with relief—and unmistakable hope.
Whatever Xaro wanted, the immediate danger had passed. The rest she could deal with later.
Qarth truly deserved its title as a great city. Beyond the gates rose tall, ornate buildings carved with intricate patterns, lush trees lining the streets, and Qartheen citizens with pale, striking skin clothed in fine, flowing garments. No wonder they were famed as the "Milk Men."
Inside his cage, Drogon lifted the fabric again, eyes widening. Even as a modern soul in his past life, he was impressed by the splendor.
Who would imagine such a magnificent port city standing at the edge of a barren wasteland?
The caravan was escorted through the bustling avenues until they reached one of Xaro's private manors. After ensuring their comfort, he took his leave with polished courtesy.
Freshly bathed and dressed in elegant Qartheen garments, Daenerys glowed with a new grace. Refined features, flawless skin—she already had the faint presence of a queen.
The three dragons were released into the courtyard. Drogon, who ate more and digested faster than his brothers, was already ready for another meal. The handmaidens, Doreah and Irri, had barely finished setting the rooms before rushing out to prepare the roasting pit again.
Wearing her new attire, Daenerys didn't care about the smoke staining her sleeves. She insisted on grilling the meat herself, watching with satisfaction as her little dragons devoured each piece with ravenous enthusiasm—as if their joy fed her own.
Seeing her vibrant and radiant, Drogon couldn't help but admire her.
[As expected of pure Targaryen blood… she truly carries the bearing of a queen.]
While tending the roasting meat, Daenerys couldn't help but glow with pride at Drogon's… unconventional praise echoing in her mind.
The hatchlings' appetites were astonishing, and their growth even more so—they seemed to change by the day. Drogon especially had outpaced the others, nearly half again their size. Daenerys had begun to daydream about what it would feel like to soar across the skies on his back.
Drogon could now produce thin streams of dragonflame—barely enough to char the outside of the meat. The inside always remained half-raw, a taste Drogon detested, but Viserion and Rhaegal didn't care; as long as the outside was crisp and browned, they were happy to gulp it down.
As Drogon alternated between training and torching skewers for his brothers, Daenerys found herself, for once, grateful for the help—she and the handmaidens no longer had to do everything.
With his wings stretched and the courtyard warm beneath the sun, Drogon took a moment to observe his two littermates—golden Viserion and green Rhaegal.
[These two fools need proper training. I won't have them dying carelessly again and shaming the dragon race.] he muttered inwardly, watching them bicker over a scorched haunch.
A strange tug pinched Daenerys's heart—an echo of Drogon's thoughts—but her worry quickly turned to relief. If Drogon trained Rhaegal and Viserion, it would be far better than anything she could manage alone.
"Khaleesi."
Ser Jorah's voice came from the gate. A dark-skinned man stood beside him.
"Khaleesi, this is Captain Qhoro of the Cinnamon Wind, from Tall Trees Town in the Summer Islands. He brings news from Westeros."
The Summer Islander captain, skin gleaming like polished ebony, immediately dropped to one knee.
"Most noble Mother of Dragons—your radiance is an honor to behold!"
The moment the word Westeros left Jorah's mouth, Daenerys perked up—and even Drogon lifted his head from the spit, ears pricked.
"You've been to Westeros? What is happening there now?" Daenerys asked, unable to hide her urgency.
"King Robert Baratheon is dead, my queen. The realm has fallen into chaos…"
"The Usurper is dead?" Daenerys froze, hardly daring to believe it.
She had grown up hearing stories of the Usurper—tales that were her nightmares as a child. They said he was a giant of a man, a black bear with a warhammer, the brute who smashed in the chest of Rhaegar Targaryen, the brother she never knew. He had stolen the Iron Throne… and he had stolen her birthplace, her safety, her childhood.
Because of him, she had fled from the moment she was in her mother's womb, hunted from city to city, nearly poisoned just weeks earlier if not for Ser Jorah's intervention.
And now—he was dead.
Daenerys felt the sky above her brighten as if clouds had suddenly parted.
"Is the news certain? How did he die? Tell me everything—every scrap of news from Westeros." She feared this might all be some cruel hoax.
"It is certain, my queen. Once-mighty Robert Baratheon was gored by a boar. The whole realm speaks of it. Prince Joffrey has taken the throne. The king's two younger brothers refused to recognize his claim and fled King's Landing to declare themselves kings. And Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, has been arrested for treason."
Daenerys's joy swelled—until she glanced at Ser Jorah, searching his face for confirmation.
"Eddard Stark and Robert were like brothers," Jorah said slowly. "He would never commit treason."
"Why not?" Daenerys snapped. "He betrayed my father, didn't he? He became Robert's dog!"
Her hatred for the Usurper was matched only by her fury toward the lords who had betrayed House Targaryen. Without them, she would never have grown up a fugitive, never spent her life running from assassins.
Confronted with her anger, Jorah said no more. After all, it was Eddard Stark who had first condemned him to death, forcing him into exile.
[Stark is already dead. And the Five Kings are tearing the realm apart as we speak.]