Chapter 8 — The Warlock Pyat Pree
Daenerys Targaryen owned almost nothing now.
Those who followed her had gained nothing from her—no land, no gold, no safety—but she had never treated any of them unjustly.
She had sworn in her heart that once she escaped her current hardship, she would repay their loyalty a hundredfold.
She never expected betrayal to come this soon… and from someone so close.
"Who bought you?" Daenerys said coldly. "Tell me, and I'll let you die quickly."
Doreah trembled, bruised and tied to the pillar, her voice hoarse.
"Khaleesi… Lord Xaro is richer than kingdoms…"
For a woman trained in seduction, loyalty was not one of her cultivated virtues.
"What happened?"
Jorah burst in, breathless, scanning the scorched courtyard. His voice tightened as he spotted Doreah. "Khaleesi?"
"It was Xaro," Daenerys said, her expression dark.
"So it was him," Jorah muttered grimly.
"You suspected him?" Daenerys frowned. Xaro had never shown desire for her dragons—at least not openly.
"Only today I learned of a peculiar Qartheen custom," Jorah said. "During a wedding, the bride may ask her husband for anything as a token. Anything at all. And in return, the husband may ask the bride for anything… and she must give it."
The realization hit Daenerys like a blow.
Xaro had never desired her body.
He desired her dragons.
No wonder his eyes had never held lust—only calculation.
"What do we do now?" Jorah asked quietly.
"Did you find a ship?" Daenerys demanded.
More than anything, she wanted to leave Qarth.
This city did not welcome her.
It coveted her dragons.
Even a man as polished and courteous as Xaro had now turned to outright theft—how many others would follow?
They had survived today only because Drogon had sensed the danger first.
But her dragons were still so young.
If enemies came in greater numbers next time, even Drogon might not be enough.
Jorah lowered his head, guilt flickering in his eyes.
"Not yet… but I did learn more news from Westeros."
Daenerys's shoulders slumped.
No ship.
No escape.
The longing to leave Qarth was now stronger than her need for Westerosi news.
Still, she asked, "What is happening there?"
"Eddard Stark has been executed. He—"
"Executed?" Daenerys snapped, shock turning to anger. "You told me the new king would never kill him!"
Jorah had been so certain in his earlier analysis—that King Joffrey would not risk making himself an enemy of the entire North.
Yet only a few days later, Eddard was dead.
Drogon's predictions had been proven right again.
After several such shocks, Daenerys's nerves had toughened. She no longer panicked the way she once did.
And much of that newfound steel came from Drogon himself.
He had led Rhaegal and Viserion in burning dozens of Qartheen attackers alive.
If he hadn't sensed the danger earlier, her other dragons—smaller and slower—might have been dragged down by spears before ever taking flight.
Today's survival had been nothing short of a miracle.
Drogon could save them once—but could he save them a second or a third time?
That was why he trained Rhaegal and Viserion so relentlessly.
Only by becoming strong themselves could they avoid death.
Daenerys clenched her fists. She would push them even harder from now on.
Jorah had no defense when she questioned him. He, too, had never imagined that King Joffrey—facing a realm divided—would still choose to behead Eddard Stark.
"Go on," Daenerys said.
She wasn't truly blaming Jorah. His earlier reasoning had been sound.
As for why the boy-king had killed Eddard… perhaps some personal spite.
Her political insight went only so far.
"After Eddard's execution, his son Robb marched south toward King's Landing, but Tywin Lannister stopped him. The Imp, Tyrion, has become Hand of the King. King Robert's brother Renly was assassinated, and the other brother, Stannis, is preparing to attack King's Landing."
"The Imp? That dwarf? How did he become Hand?" Daenerys asked, puzzled.
[The Imp is no ordinary dwarf. He has the makings of a Hand.]
Drogon's voice echoed in her mind.
Daenerys's eyes widened.
Drogon knew of Tyrion—and spoke as though he knew him well.
Could Drogon truly be the reincarnation of Balerion the Black Dread?
Was that why he possessed insight that bordered on prophecy?
Two predictions had already come true. Her belief in Drogon grew, and with it came wild imaginings.
"I don't know much about the Imp," Jorah admitted honestly.
[This is why intelligence matters. If only the Spider—Varys—were here.]
Drogon muttered to himself.
Varys? Who is that?
Yet another unfamiliar name.
Daenerys's stomach tightened—she truly knew too little of Westeros.
Her past knowledge had come mostly from her brother Viserys's repetitive rants.
"What will you do with Doreah?" Jorah asked, after finishing his report.
"Gather everyone," Daenerys said coldly.
Betrayal was the one thing she could never forgive—not even from a handmaid who had once shared her bed and secrets.
"Khaleesi, please—spare me! I swear there won't be a next time!"
Doreah sobbed, sensing her fate was sealed.
Daenerys ignored her and lifted her gaze toward the clear blue sky, her expression unshakeable.
When all the Dothraki had assembled in the courtyard, Daenerys gave the signal.
Rakharo stepped forward and, without hesitation, carried out the execution.
Doreah's life ended swiftly beneath his blade.
The Dothraki cared little for death; to them, a wedding without corpses wasn't a proper wedding.
They despised traitors as much as she did.
[Such a lovely head… what a waste.]
Drogon sighed inwardly.
Daenerys: "…"
Jorah's chest tightened as Doreah's head rolled across the ground.
He had never grown used to moments like these.
Suddenly, a voice called out from the gate:
"Mother of Dragons! When will you grace the House of the Undying?"
Daenerys turned.
The man had no hair, no eyebrows, sunken eyes, ashen pupils, and blue-tinged lips.
It was the strange figure Drogon had noticed at the city gates—the warlock.
"Pyat Pree," Jorah muttered darkly.
At Xaro's feast, the warlock had already invited Daenerys to visit the House of the Undying.
Now he had come himself.
Daenerys glanced at Jorah before replying, "Master Pyat, I have been occupied these days. When I have the time, I will visit your abode."
She remembered the eerie feeling he gave her at the feast—
the same unease she had felt near Mirri Maz Duur, the maegi who had killed her husband and child.
She preferred to keep her distance from such people.
"But the Undying have waited too long," Pyat Pree said, voice flat. "As their servant, I am troubled."
"The Undying?" Daenerys echoed, unfamiliar with the term.
"He is my master."
"Please tell the Undying that I will visit soon," Daenerys said again, maintaining politeness.
"You make it very difficult for me," Pyat Pree murmured—tilting his head sharply to one side…