Chapter 36: The Invitation
The red lacquered wooden mask concealed her eyes and facial expressions, leaving Daenerys unable to discern her thoughts from her calm tone.
Daenerys nodded, signaling her horsemen to step aside and clear the path. She and her guest led the way while the others followed behind.
As they passed through the city gates, Daenerys noticed Ser Jorah Mormont approaching alongside her bloodriders. On the way to the palace, she introduced them to each other once again.
"You've come in search of dragons," Jorah voiced the question that had lingered in Daenerys's heart. "But how did you know dragons were here?"
"The stars guided us," Quaithe replied curtly.
"The stars?" Jorah asked, puzzled.
"That one," the warlock said, pointing to the red comet still hanging in the sky.
It had been three months since the comet first appeared, and though it had dimmed significantly, it had not vanished entirely. Perhaps soon, when people looked up, they would wonder when it had disappeared completely.
"The bleeding star? It's been shifting directions constantly—how could it guide you? And what does its appearance have to do with dragons?" Jorah pressed further.
"To ordinary mortals like you, it is merely a comet that appears once in a millennium," the warlock said, his voice eerie as he gazed at Drogon. "But to those of us attuned to magic, it signifies a great upheaval in the world."
"That's an exaggeration," Jorah retorted skeptically. "There were dragons before. People claim they've been extinct for over a century, but that's only in Westeros.
The Ironborn say sea dragons dwell in the depths of the Sunset Sea. There are tales of ice dragons, too. Even great dragons occasionally send whispers from the hidden corners of the world." He clearly believed the warlock was exaggerating, likely to deceive his queen.
The warlock's strange blue lips curled into a mocking smile, and he scoffed at the "mortal's" remarks, refusing even to respond.
"This city reeks of sand and decay—a disgrace to the Mother of Dragons," said the Quarthene merchant Zaro Xhoan Daxos, whose round, egg-like head glistened under the sun. With a whip, he urged his camel forward to draw closer to Daenerys. In an exaggerated tone, he extended an invitation: "Khaleesi, you were born to wear the finest jewels, drape yourself in the silks of Myr, and be surrounded by servants as you reside in palaces worthy of the gods.
Only Qarth, the center of the world, can provide all this.
And as it happens, I possess both the means and the sincerest heart to grant you all these pleasures. Leave this desolate place and come with me to Qarth."
"Ha! Zaro, you are a noble and generous gentleman, but I have an entire people to care for," Daenerys replied with a polite smile, declining his offer.
Zaro, however, burst into hearty laughter, his tone full of pride and superiority. "Khaleesi, you must come to Qarth. This wretched desert offends your sight.
Even the smallest guest chamber in my house could easily accommodate all your followers. In fact, kings and great lords from all over the world visit me in Qarth, and their retinues are larger than your entire khalasar. I once hosted thirty-five esteemed guests at the same time."
Translated into simpler terms: My bathroom is bigger than your entire house, and I have thirty-five bathrooms.
Daenerys was tempted to retort, I have three cities.
Instead, she sighed. "You may not know, but Khal Drogo is dead."
"We are aware," Zaro replied immediately. "The strongest Khal is no more, and now the Great Grass Sea has sprouted new khals. All of Essos knows this."
Daenerys was briefly stunned, marveling at how swiftly news traveled across this strange world.
Later, she would not find it so surprising, once she learned about the near-miraculous efficiency of ravens.
"But the problem remains—Robert Baratheon's usurper forces haven't relented in their pursuit of me. The last time, they dared to attempt my poisoning in the sacred city of the horselords. Without Khal Drogo's protection, what will stop them from striking again when I leave here?"
"Khaleesi, you needn't worry," Zaro reassured her. "Robert Baratheon, who stole your father's throne, has been dead for nearly half a year."
With that, Zaro began recounting the news that had reached them from Westeros.
The events Daenerys heard mirrored the storylines of a show she had once watched. "Old Robert" met his end during a hunting trip when he drank the wine that Lancel had spiked. In a haze, he was gored to death by a wild boar.
As glorious as his life had been, his death was equally ignoble.
Ah, Lancel Lannister—a cousin to Queen Cersei and her self-heating personal plaything.
Robert, in his youth, had been an unparalleled force. His warhammer ranked third in the "Song of Ice and Fire Armory," surpassed only by the magically-enhanced Mountain and Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning, who wielded the greatsword Dawn.
The likes of the Red Viper, Khal Drogo, and Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, fell a tier below Robert. Even Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, ranked further down.
As for Ser Jorah Mormont, Daenerys's loyal companion, it was likely that he was another tier or two below the White Bull.
This wasn't a matter of elevating Robert for effect. In the entire Song of Ice and Fire series, Robert Baratheon was the only character whose strength and agility both reached their natural limits.
Skill could be honed, but talent set the ceiling.
His slaying of Rhaegar in single combat was legendary, but it wasn't just that. Consider Robert's final battle—the one that claimed his life.
Yes, the boar hunt.
After consuming several skins of spiked wine, Robert, too intoxicated to dodge, was charged by a rampaging boar. The beast's tusk pierced him below the waist, slicing upward to carve a half-meter-long gash. If not for his ribs stopping the tusk's path, the boar would have split him in two.
From the gaping wound in his bloated belly, intestines and organs spilled out like an overdue flood—pouring out in a grotesque, almost gleeful rush.
Any ordinary person would have collapsed immediately from a single kick to the groin, yet Robert launched a counterattack from the brink of death. Gravely injured, he used his spear to skewer the boar hanging off his chest.
A display of unmatched ferocity.
Even after the fight, Robert survived for several days, during which he left his will and reminisced about the glories of youth with his dearest friend, Ned Stark, before succumbing under the influence of milk of the poppy.
But for all his might, this formidable warrior suffered an ignominious end. His wife, Queen Cersei, cuckolded him countless times. None of the three children she bore were his.
No, they were fathered by her brother.
Cersei had no desire to bear Robert's children. Whenever the king, drunk and eager, sought her bed, she would feign consent, creating an illusion of intimacy. In reality, she never let him lay a hand on her. The one time she conceived his child, she seemed to have deliberately caused a miscarriage.
(P.S.: Unlike in the show Game of Thrones, book Cersei harbored no love for Robert and refused to share a bed with him. She manipulated him into drunkenness whenever he attempted to fulfill his marital duties. Over the 14 years of their marriage, the number of times they touched could be counted on one hand.)
When Eddard Stark became Hand of the King, a few suggestive hints from those with ulterior motives led him to uncover the truth: his closest friend had been raising another man's children.
In the end, Ned confronted Cersei, making it clear that he knew.
Cersei, upon learning this, acted preemptively. She had one of her lovers—her cousin Lancel—poison Robert's wine during the hunt. As described, Robert met his end beneath the boar's tusks.
Of course, Zaro Xhoan Daxos didn't relay the story to Daenerys in such vivid detail. He merely mentioned the rumors that Robert had been killed by Cersei's schemes.
"So, you no longer need to worry about the usurper posing a threat to you," Zaro assured Daenerys. "In Qarth, under my protection, no harm can come to you."
Daenerys nodded, steering the conversation along. "How far is it from here to Qarth? How long did it take you to get here on camels?"
"About 1,000 kilometers," Zaro replied. "It took us roughly a week to reach this place."
Daenerys did some mental calculations. Their speed seemed comparable to the pace of her khalasar heading south.
The only difference was that camels could endure another thousand kilometers in this harsh environment, whereas her khalasar had barely managed 500 before nearing collapse.
As they spoke, the group reached the palace gates, where a crowd of elders and children stared in amazement at the three visitors atop their camels.
Daenerys prepared fresh water and fermented mare's milk for her guests to quench their thirst. She also set aside three rooms near the gardens for them to rest.
In the evening, Daenerys hosted a bonfire party in the square. The feast included roasted horse meat glazed with plum sauce, a stew of mushrooms and smoked venison, buttered beets, turnip stew, and some carefully rationed wine.
It was, without a doubt, the finest meal her khalasar could offer.
The three guests from Qarth also contributed, bringing out red wine, sausages, and caviar from the bags hanging on their camels.
Daenerys took the opportunity to showcase her dragons, now as large as hunting dogs. She even let the guests touch the young dragons.
Both she and Jorah paid close attention to the guests' reactions. Quaithe, with reverence in her movements, stroked the black dragon with deep respect. The warlock, on the other hand, could not hide the hunger in his eyes.
As for the wealthy merchant, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, his ever-narrowed eyes seemed to glimmer with fascination. He expressed amazement at the dragons' high body temperature.
All in all, the guests appeared thoroughly impressed with Daenerys's hospitality.
When it was time to escort them back to their rooms for the night, Daenerys informed Xaro that she would seriously consider the possibility of a journey to Qarth.
"What do you think?"
Instead of going to bed immediately, Daenerys gathered Jorah, her bloodriders, a few elders, and her three handmaidens to hold a meeting and reach a unified decision on whether to journey to Qarth.
Unlike other khals, who often regarded elders as burdensome, Daenerys deeply valued the wisdom of those who had survived the harsh environment of the Dothraki Sea beyond the age of sixty.
Most of them had proven to be invaluable assets, aside from one elder whose judgment occasionally faltered. For instance, Afanti, the horse herder, was a remarkable expert in his craft.
In the desolation of the Red Waste, not only had the horses survived, but they had also thrived—several new foals had been born over the months. In modern times, prestigious equestrian clubs would likely go to war over someone like him.
Then there was Solomon, an elderly ironsmith with green hair and green eyes—a member of an outsider group absorbed into the khalasar.
The Dothraki had no ironsmiths of their own and traditionally relied on enslaved outsiders to repair their weapons. Solomon had been sent as a "gift" to Khal Drogo's father by the Merchant-Prince of Qohor after Solomon had fallen afoul of Qohorik law.
Following the Doom of Valyria, Qohor had risen to hold the most advanced smithing techniques in the known world.
Each Free City of the Nine was known for something unique despite their involvement in all forms of trade: Lys for its courtesans, Myr for its craftsmanship, Qohor for its fabrics and smithing, Pentos for spices and dairy, Braavos for its Iron Bank, and Volantis for its slave trade.
And here in the midst of it all, Solomon had proven to be an invaluable asset to the khalasar.
(End of Chapter)
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