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Chapter 45: The Price of an Audience
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 09:11:57 +0000 UTCThe old Jogos Nhai, emboldened by the wine and his captivated audience, launched into another tale of his ancestors, this one about the destruction of a kingdom of giants.
"Giants?" Jorah interjected, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "There are giants beyond the Wall, but they stand no more than four meters tall."
"Those are snow giants," the old man said with a dismissive wave. "The Jagoswen were stone giants, seven or eight meters in height. They were a different race, just as you and I are both men, yet you are nearly twice my size."
His logic was strangely sound. Dany, imagining a battle against such creatures, asked in a reverent tone, "Do you keep any of them as captives?"
"There were only three in their entire 'kingdom'," the old man admitted with a shrug. "And they could not reproduce. They died of old age thousands of years ago."
Daenerys stared at him, a muscle twitching in her cheek. Three. You destroyed a kingdom of three giants.
After a few more epic tales, Dany turned the conversation to their beliefs. "We follow the Moonsingers," the old man said. The name was familiar. Mirri Maz Duur had learned her birthing songs from a moonsinger.
"I have heard," Dany said, "that the great city of Braavos was founded on the prophecy of a moonsinger."
"That is true," the old man nodded. "In the days of the Valyrian Freehold, our people were enslaved by the dragonlords. Eight hundred years ago, there was a great slave rebellion on a fleet in the Summer Sea. Among the slaves was a group of our own young women, moonsingers all. They prophesied a safe haven: a hidden lagoon, forever shrouded in mist, where the dragons could not see them. They led the fleet north, to the place that is now Braavos, and in gratitude, the Braavosi built for them the grandest temple in their city."
The story was fascinating, but Dany had another question. "What were the Valyrians mining in those volcanoes?"
"Gold, silver, and other ores," he said. "They were so greedy they dug into the heart of their own hell. It was their retribution, to be consumed by the very fires that gave them their wealth."
Dany felt a flicker of disappointment. She had hoped for some magical material. "And what role do the moonsingers play in your tribes today?"
"They are our healers, our judges, our wise women," he said. "They handle all matters save for war. And because of their wisdom, we do not fight amongst ourselves."
That, Dany thought, looking at her own fractious Dothraki, is a lesson worth learning. The rest of the night was filled with more of the old man's boasting. The next morning, as a gift, Dany gave him a fine bay colt, born in her own city in the waste.
In the days that followed, Dany received dozens more visitors. A Qartheen widow wept as she presented Dany with the mummified corpse of her late husband, a warlock, covered in silver leaf. Refusing a gift was the gravest of insults, so Dany had no choice but to accept the grotesque offering and have it stored away.
Later, Xaro approached her in private. "That mummy," he whispered, "is a thing of great power. I would be willing to purchase it from you." He explained, with a pathetic sort of sadness, that a warlock’s corpse could be used in bloodmagic to restore a man's… vigor. He told her a long, sad story of his rise from a penniless boy to a merchant prince, and how his health and youth had been the price. His kidneys were failing, he said, and his "slug-like" manhood was in need of a magical revival.
"It would be a gift to you as well," he said, giving her a wet, winking leer. "You know how I long for you. Marrying me is the best choice for you, and a healthy husband only makes the 'best choice' better."
The man was not winking; his face was twitching. She was overcome with a wave of pure disgust.
"I am not interested in the warlock's corpse," she said coolly. "But the poor widow… it was her husband. What if she regrets her gift and asks for him back?"
"A gift given is water spilled!" he declared. "Besides, you are the Mother of Dragons, a queen! Why would you fear an ordinary woman?"
"I do not like to rule through fear," she said.
"Then tell her the truth!" he said, his voice full of a shameless, wheedling logic. "Tell her that you love me, and that my thing no longer works, and I need the magic from her husband’s corpse! She should be proud to help you!"
She wanted to have him kicked. Instead, she asked, "What is your offer?"
"Two hundred gold pieces is the market price. I will give you one hundred," he said, as if being generous.
"We are friends," she replied, her voice dangerously sweet. "To speak of money would wound our friendship." She saw the joy on his fat face and continued, "Let our housekeepers discuss the matter." She later told Jorah to fleece the man for every coin he had.
She began to notice Xaro's game. After she had rejected his marriage proposals several times, the stir-fried peacock tongues vanished from her table. The number of servant girls who danced for her during her meals dwindled from two dozen to four. He was trying to subdue her with luxury, and then show her that he was the only one who could provide it. He did not love her; he loved the idea of possessing her, and her dragons.
Jorah had explained the strange Qartheen marriage custom. On the wedding day, a wife could ask her husband for any one thing in the world, and he was honor-bound to grant it. Then, he could ask for one thing in return, and she could not refuse. "He will ask for a dragon," Jorah had warned her. "With one of your children, he could become the undisputed king of this city."
A few days later, Xaro arrived, his face beaming with triumph. In his hands, he held a pair of simple slippers woven from blue leather. "The Opener of the Door has accepted your gift!" he announced. "This is the traditional invitation from the Pureborn! You may wear these to your audience with the royal family tomorrow!"
The final gate had opened. Her long and demeaning campaign of bribery, which had cost her thousands in gold, was finally over.
