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The pounding silence at the gate was a sledgehammer, every heartbeat echoing in the burning heat. One person. A frantic choice designed to divide, to weaken.
"Khaleesi, no," Jorah Mormont said instantly, his voice a desperate craving for her to be safe. "It's a trap. They mean to separate you from your guard. Let me go."
"And what would you say, Jorah?" Daenerys asked, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Beg for scraps in my name? No. I am the Queen. I will plead my own case."
"She is right," I cut in, my voice a soft whisper that still managed to reach her. David's heart hammered against his ribs at the thought of her going in alone, but Loki saw the cold, hard political necessity. "You must be the one they see, my Queen. They must measure the woman, not the knight."
Jorah shot me a look of pure fury, but Daenerys nodded, her lilac eyes fixed on the figures on the wall. "I will enter."
"Alone, Khaleesi?" I pressed, letting a shadow of a smile touch my lips. "A Queen never goes anywhere alone. She brings her counsel." I leaned in, my voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her, though I knew the wind might carry it. "Jorah is your sword. But I," I tapped my temple, "am your shield against their world. The world of whispers and lies. Let me hear what they don't say."
Her gaze met mine. The intimacy of our shared pact, forged in ash and desperation, held her. She saw the cold calculation in my eyes, the promise of Loki's silver tongue. She needed that more than Jorah's steel right now.
She made her decision. "I will enter," she called up to the wall, her voice ringing with new authority. "And I will bring my Vizier, Loki."
There was a pause. The man on the wall looked to another, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He clearly had no idea what a 'Vizier' was, but it sounded important enough. "So be it. The Spice King, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, awaits you."
With a groan of ancient metal, a small, man-sized door opened in the massive bronze gates. Jorah looked agonized. "Khaleesi..."
"Stay with my children, Jorah," she commanded, her voice gentle but unbreakable. "Keep them safe. And trust in me. Trust in us."
That us was a masterstroke of politics, placating her knight while reinforcing my position. She was learning fast.
I dismounted and offered her my hand. She slid off her horse and took it. Her palm was damp, but her grip was firm. Together, we walked towards the gate, leaving her khalasar and her last true protector behind in the Garden of Bones.
The transition was a sledgehammer to the senses.
The abrasive scrape of the Red Waste was gone, exploding into a chemical reaction of overwhelming sensation. The air inside Qarth wasn't just air; it was a thick, heavy perfume of spices—clove, saffron, pepper—mingled with the salt of the sea and the unmistakable, foul stench of too many people living in one place. David, the 20-year-old college kid, felt his vision blur, overwhelmed. The colors alone were an assault—silks of turquoise, magenta, and gold, buildings of impossible rose-colored stone and black marble.
Loki, however, was unimpressed. Asgard's golden towers shamed this place. He analyzed it instantly: a city of merchants, not warriors. All beauty, no spine. A gilded cage.
We were met by a contingent of guards in ridiculous, cone-shaped bronze helmets, who led us through a maze of shaded streets. People stared. They were pale, elegant, their clothing draped and effeminate. They whispered as we passed, their eyes lingering on Daenerys's barbaric Dothraki leathers and my own alien green-and-black armor.
We were brought to a vast, open-air hall, where the Thirteen sat on carved thrones. One man, however, rose to greet us. He was tall, pale, and completely bald, with a long, bejeweled nose. He wore robes of deep purple silk. This was Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the Spice King. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Welcome, Daenerys Stormborn," he said, his voice as oily and cloying as the perfume in the air. He took her hand and, instead of kissing it, held it, his thumb stroking the back of her palm. "Your tragedy has reached our ears, and Qarth weeps for you."
I felt a sudden, burning spike of rage. It was irrational. It was David's primal, jealous instinct mixed with Loki's cold, possessive arrogance. This worm dares touch her? I kept my face a mask of calm amusement, but my eyes narrowed.
"Thank you for your welcome, Lord Xaro," Daenerys said, pulling her hand back gracefully.
"And who is this?" another voice asked. It was a chilling sound, dry as bone. We turned. Standing in the shadows was a man in dark blue robes, his lips stained a deep, bruised blue from drinking "Shade of the Evening." A warlock. Pyat Pree.
His pale, dead eyes didn't look at Daenerys. They fixed, instantly, on me.
It was a shock, a jolt of recognition. He wasn't looking at my armor or my face. He was looking at my Seidr, my fading ember of power. It was like one spark recognizing another in the dark. A cold, unwelcome intimacy. He smiled, a ghastly parting of blue lips.
"A sorcerer," Xaro whispered, his eyes widening with new, greedy interest as he looked between me and Pyat Pree. "How... exotic. Qarth has not seen new magic in an age."
"I am her advisor," I stated coolly, stepping slightly forward, inserting myself between Daenerys and the warlock's invasive stare. "Her 'Vizier,' as she said."
Daenerys, sensing the shift in power, ignored them both and addressed the Thirteen. She spoke of her lineage, her right to the Iron Throne, the miracle of her dragons. She spoke with a burning passion that David admired, but Loki cringed at. She was a novice, begging, not commanding. She was offering them abstract concepts of destiny when they only dealt in concrete profit.
"Dragons," one of the Thirteen, a fat merchant, finally said, his voice bored. "You say you have dragons. We see only a barbarian girl in filthy leathers with a Dothraki rabble at our gates. We have no interest in your Westerosi wars."
"They are real," Daenerys insisted, her voice cracking with desperation.
Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the man who had vouched for her, remained silent, a faint, cruel smile on his face. He wanted to see her beg. He wanted her broken so he could re-make her in his image. The thought sent another wave of cold fury through me.
This was failing. It was time to act.
"My Queen," I said, my voice cutting through her frantic pleas. She stopped, turning to me in surprise. I smiled at her—a quick, reassuring smile for her—before turning to the Thirteen. My expression went cold.
"She is tired," I said, my voice resonating with a faint, unnatural echo that made the guards flinch. "The Red Waste was cruel. Perhaps she is not making herself clear."
I walked to the center of the room. "The Mother of Dragons does not 'beg.' She offers."
"Offers what?" the fat merchant sneered. "Her titles?"
"No," I replied, my smile widening. "An opportunity. You are merchants. You understand commodities. You see these," I pointed at Pyat Pree, "your warlocks, with their fading illusions and parlor tricks."
Pyat Pree's blue-lipped smile tightened.
"You have no idea what real magic looks like," I whispered.
I raised my hand. I gathered every drop of Seidr I possessed, drawing it from my aching core. It wasn't enough for a sledgehammer. It had to be a scalpel.
I didn't create an illusion. I augmented reality.
For a single, pounding heartbeat, the light in the room changed. It bent around me, shimmering with green-gold energy. My shadow deepened, stretching, twisting into something vast and horned. The air chilled by twenty degrees. The flames in the braziers flickered and turned green.
"The world is changing, gentlemen," I said, my voice now a layered chorus that vibrated in their bones. "Dragons burn. The dead walk. And gods have returned to the game."
The Thirteen were paralyzed. Some gasped. The fat merchant squeaked.
"The Mother of Dragons," I hissed, the sound inhuman, "is the future. You can barter for a place at her side... or you can be crushed under her heel when she returns to burn the unbelievers from her path. Choose."
I let the illusion drop.
The light snapped back to normal. The chills faded. I stood there, just a man in strange armor, breathing slightly heavily from the exertion. David felt dizzy, his vision blurring at the climax of the effort.
Silence.
Daenerys was staring at me, her face a mask of pure, undiluted awe. Her lips were parted.
Xaro Xhoan Daxos was no longer smiling. He was staring at me with a new, hungry light in his eyes.
It was Pyat Pree who broke the silence. He laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "A true sorcerer! A shadow-walker! Excellent!" His blue-stained lips curled. "The House of the Undying has been craving new magic. You will visit us, 'Vizier.' Soon."
His invitation was a threat. He knew I was bluffing, at least in part. He knew I was weak. He wanted to taste my power.
But the bluff had worked on the mortals.
Xaro Xhoan Daxos glided forward, clapping his hands. "Amazing! A true miracle! Of course, Qarth welcomes the Mother of Dragons and her powerful Vizier! You shall be my honored guests, within my own palace!"
He offered his arm to Daenerys. This time, she took it, but her eyes never left mine.
That night, the luxury of Xaro's palace was disorienting. After the Waste, soft silks felt like abrasions, and perfumed water tasted like lies. Xaro had given Daenerys gifts—gorgeous silk robes that draped her form, leaving one of her shoulders bare. When she met me in the garden of his palace, David's brain stuttered. She was heaven on earth in ash; in silk, she was a weapon. Her soft boobs were gently cupped by the rich fabric, her skin glowing.
"What was that?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, radiating a mix of fear and excitement. "In the hall."
"That," I said, stepping closer, invading her scented air, "was leverage. I gave them a reason to fear us, not pity us."
"They looked at you like you were... a monster."
"I am whatever you need me to be, Daenerys," I murmured. I resisted the urge to touch her bare shoulder. "Your counsel. Your weapon. Your monster."
Her lilac eyes searched mine. The chemical reaction between us was pounding, thrumming in the balmy Qartheen night. She was no longer just a lost girl. She was a Queen with dragons and a monster at her beck and call. And Loki knew, with absolute certainty, that he would never let her go. She was his.
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