It was widely said that the Glorious City of Qarth was the center of the world—the most lavish city ever recorded in any chronicle, with a h
It was widely said that the Glorious City of Qarth was the center of the world—the most lavish city ever recorded in any chronicle, with a history so ancient it exceeded human memory.
A scholar who had traveled across the known world in search of wonders was said to have gouged out his eyes upon seeing Qarth, declaring that everything else he had ever laid eyes on was ugly and dim by comparison.
Now standing at its gates, Drogo could not deny the grandeur and magnificence of this great city—but it was far from being the unmatched marvel the legends made it out to be.
He had lived two lives and seen many towering constructions that could rival or surpass it.
Qarth was even more difficult to conquer than the stories claimed. It was surrounded by three concentric layers of walls. The outermost was built of red sandstone and nearly thirty feet high, adorned with intricate carvings of animals. The middle wall, constructed from gray granite and over forty feet tall, was engraved with vivid reliefs of the city's war-torn past.
The outer gate was plated with bronze, the middle one with iron, and the innermost reinforced with golden ornamentation.
Drogo had originally intended to have the giant smash the gates with brute force and storm the city, but seeing how thick and solid the defenses were—and three layers of them, no less—he quickly realized such a direct assault was unfeasible.
He had once thought the Golden Company was the most extravagant force in the world, but now, surveying the soldiers lined along Qarth's walls, he realized his ignorance.
Their armor and sword hilts glittered with embedded gemstones—ornaments that far exceeded the value of mere gold.
Drogo had once dreamed of sacking this eastern jewel. Now, standing before it, he knew he had chosen the right target.
If he could conquer Qarth and plunder it to the bone, it would more than meet every requirement for his future conquest of the West.
The towering giant, the dragons overhead, and the disciplined legions at his command created such a fearsome spectacle that even the most arrogant Qartheen noble would think twice before resisting.
The ruling elite of Qarth stood divided on the city wall—three separate factions posted left, center, and right. All were dressed in finery, surrounded by beautiful women, attendants, and lavish parasols strung with pearls—status symbols flaunted with pride.
The gaunt-faced merchant prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos sat among twelve others in a grand palanquin borne by slaves. He was the only one Drogo recognized. Judging by the number of them, Drogo guessed this group to be the Thirteen, Qarth's merchant council.
To the right were bloated pale men with women draped over their arms—clearly the heads of the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the Ancient Guild of Spicers.
At the center, flanked by guards of the official city garrison, stood a row of nobles who must have been the royal family residing in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.
It was said the Qartheen monarchy held no real power—puppets in a hereditary system. True control lay with the merchant guilds and the Thirteen.
But who actually ruled Qarth didn't matter to Drogo. In his eyes, none of them posed a threat. The entire city already belonged to him.
The only ones who truly concerned him weren't standing atop the wall at all—but hidden in the shadows: the warlocks of the House of the Undying.
Led by Pyat Pree, their lips turned blue from drinking Shade of the Evening. Their skin was pale, like corpses soaked in water—making them easy to recognize. Pyat Pree, however, was nowhere in sight.
The lizard priestess had warned him: winter was coming, dragons had returned, and magic had awakened. That alone made Drogo uneasy. If Pyat Pree could perform illusions and teleportation just by drinking that cursed liquid, what kind of power did he now wield in an age of rising magic?
Whether they came or not didn't matter—Drogo intended to seek them out. That was his true purpose in Qarth: to enter the House of the Undying, witness visions of the future, and hear their prophecies.
According to what he knew from the tales of ice and fire, the truths spoken by the Undying were worth listening to.
He suspected the Undying were tied to the Lord of Light. He believed the lizard priestess was a follower, and the red witch who called herself his guide had told him: "You must go to them."
Now, with the soldiers on the walls showing no signs of hostility, and the city's leaders whispering among themselves, Drogo knew—Qarth's rulers were afraid. They wanted to negotiate.
As expected, Xaro Xhoan Daxos stepped forward to the edge of the wall. He had been rescued from Astapor thanks to the gold and efforts of the city's elites. Drogo assumed the bloated merchant had been chosen to speak on their behalf.
It was said Xaro possessed a secret vault of wealth surpassing that of entire kingdoms, but the nobles who had paid for his escape now expected him to repay their kindness. Xaro had deflected, delayed, and made excuses—so they decided he needed to be punished. And what better punishment than sending him to parley with a savage warlord?
If Drogo had known that Qarth's elites believed Xaro to be stingy, he would have scoffed. According to the histories he knew, Xaro's vault was already empty.
Whatever valuables remained had been sent by Drogo's order to the Qasari Pass, traded with the Lhazareen to help the people of Slaver's Bay survive the famine.
In recent years, Xaro had sold off his trading houses and ships. That the nobles hadn't noticed amazed Drogo.
Xaro was the worst person to send for these talks. But at least he got straight to the point.
"Khal Drogo, if you are willing to cease your siege of the Glorious City, we are prepared to offer compensation that will satisfy you."
Drogo circled his horse lazily, replying with mocking disdain, "You can't afford what I want."
Qarth was one of the wealthiest cities in the East. Xaro, surrounded by the richest and most powerful men in the city, had confidence—after all, it wasn't his personal coin that would be spent.
Hearing Drogo's tone, which hinted at a willingness to negotiate, Xaro raised his voice with renewed vigor.
"There is no price the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the Guild of Spicers, and the royal house cannot meet. Name your terms, and we will satisfy them."
But Drogo had no intention of negotiating. He just wanted to have some fun.
"Very well," he shouted. "Here's the first of my terms: hand over every so-called Good Master, Great Master, and Wise Master hiding in Qarth."
These were all powerful slaveowners—closely connected to the Qartheen elites. Xaro, with no authority to decide, instinctively turned to the sides.
Another bout of whispered discussion followed. After a long exchange, consensus was reached.
Once the nobles confirmed their decision, Xaro called down, "We agree to hand over these slavers and will offer them no further protection. We ask that, upon receiving them, you leave the lands of Qarth."
As if handing over a few doomed slave masters would make him turn around?
Drogo snorted in contempt. "Stupid pig—are you deaf? That's just the first part of what I want!"
The nobles fell silent again. Seeing they did not object, the ever-watchful Xaro asked cautiously, "May I ask what else the mighty Khal desires?"
Drogo pointed his whip directly at him and sneered. "Those slavers are too small a price. I want you too—yes, you, pig—as part of the deal."
The tall merchant's face turned white. A chill ran down his spine, and he nearly stumbled off the wall.
He knew exactly where that cold came from: from the very colleagues who had once schemed and connived alongside him.
Xaro had no doubt—if handing him over could lift the siege, those bastards would do it without hesitation.
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