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Chapter 41: Rumors and Bribes
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 09:03:25 +0000 UTCDaenerys had expected Xaro Xhoan Daxos, who so loudly proclaimed his admiration for her, to offer to pave her way through the gilded corridors of Qartheen power. He did not. He was happy to be her guide, to point out which hands required greasing, but the gold itself would have to come from her own chests.
Her first stop was the great temple of the city. The Qartheen, she learned, worshipped a "God of Memory." She brought three sacrifices: a fine bay mare to honor her Dothraki, a wild grey buffalo hunted on the plains to honor the city’s ancient past, and a fat black dog, as she had been told the Qartheen had a particular taste for their meat.
The ancient priestess, a woman with skin and hair as white as milk, was pleased by her offerings and her understanding of their customs. She granted Daenerys access to the Temple of Memory, which, she was delighted to discover, also served as the city’s great library and repository of history.
"You, Mother of Dragons, your children, and your great feat of crossing the Purgatory Plain," the old woman said with a serene smile, "all of this will now be recorded, a part of the God of Memory forever."
It was worth it, Dany thought, a thrill of excitement running through her. The two thousand gold pieces were well spent. The three beasts had been the public offering. The true price had been two heavy chests of Valyrian coin, delivered by Aggo the night before through the back door of the priestess's young lover's apartments. It was a fortune, but access to the accumulated knowledge of the oldest city in the world was priceless.
After the temple came the city’s administrative officials. Bag after bag of gold was sent out, and Dany watched with a growing sense of alarm as the treasure she had salvaged from Drogo's life dwindled to almost nothing.
"I am out of money," she told Xaro, her voice laced with a carefully constructed helplessness. "All I have left are a few antique jewels from the city in the waste."
Xaro, his heart as cold and hard as the gems on his fingers, had no intention of opening his own purse. Instead, he offered her a crass, but brilliant, idea. "Dragon seekers from all over the world are flocking to Qarth," he said. "They all wish for an audience with you and your children. You should grant it to them. For a suitable gift, of course."
She thought about it. It was a solution. More than just raising money for her bribes, it would cement her fame. The more people who saw her with the dragons, the more the story would spread, and the harder it would be for her enemies to move against her in secret. When no one had known of the dragons, secrecy was her shield. But now that the secret was out, publicity was her armor. She had a buffer, she calculated, perhaps two years before the news reached the ears of those in Westeros who mattered. Two years to grow strong.
She agreed to Xaro's plan to open her own "dragon menagerie."
That afternoon, Jorah brought a captain to her drawing room. "Your Grace," he announced, "I bring you a sea merchant from the Summer Isles. He has news of King's Landing."
The man was tall, his skin the color of polished obsidian. He wore a flamboyant yellow-and-green feathered cape and bowed low. "Your Grace. I am Quhuru Mo, captain of the Cinnamon Wind. I bring you a gift." It was three barrels of fine Arbor Gold, a small fortune for a man of his station.
"Thank you for your generosity, Captain," she said. "I trust you will bring me good news."
"Your Grace, King's Landing is on the brink of war," he said, his face grim. "No foreign merchant dares sail there now. I have come from Oldtown, where the news of the Seven Kingdoms is gathered."
"Then tell me," she said, leaning forward, "how did the Usurper truly die?"
"They say it was a beast in the woods," the captain reported. "But there are many other whispers. The apprentices in the taverns of Oldtown swear the Queen betrayed the King. They say her children are not his, but her brother's, and that she murdered her husband when her treason was discovered. That is why the king's two brothers, Stannis and Renly, have fled the capital and are raising armies to claim the throne for themselves." He shook his head. "And there is another rumor, that the Queen has declared the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, a traitor who murdered his king."
"That is a lie!" Jorah exploded, his face turning red with anger. "Eddard Stark is the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms! He would sooner die than tarnish his honor!"
"And yet, he was a traitor to my family fifteen years ago, was he not?" Dany said, a cool, cynical smile on her face. "To the people of King's Landing, his honor is already stained. Why would they not believe he would do it again?"
Jorah looked taken aback by her cold logic. "That was different, Your Grace," he stammered. "King Aerys… he murdered Lord Stark’s father and brother. His rebellion was an act of honor, not treason." He knew her well enough now to speak such truths. "What has become of Lord Stark?" he asked the captain, his voice tight with anxiety. "What was the North's reaction?"
"As soon as word of his arrest reached the North, the Young Wolf, his son Robb, called the banners. They say twenty thousand Northmen have crossed the Neck and are marching south."
"Ah," Jorah sighed, a sound of deep, profound grief. He sank into a chair. "My cousins… how many will die in this war?" His thoughts were of his family, of the small, fierce girl, Lyanna, who was now Lady of Bear Island. Dany looked at her knight with a pang of genuine pity.
"The Young Wolf… Robb Stark?" Jorah asked the captain, his voice a hoarse whisper.
"Yes, he commands the army."
"He is only a boy of fifteen," Jorah murmured, his eyes distant. "I have seen him. As tender as a summer flower. What can he do against the Lannisters? That boy… he will get the whole of the North killed."
"Perhaps he is a gifted commander," Dany offered gently.
"Then I should be even more worried," Jorah said, rubbing his face with a weary hand. "If he loses his first battle, the Northmen will retreat behind the Neck, and they will be safe. No army has broken the Neck in a thousand years. But if the boy is clever, if he wins a battle or two… his pride will swell. He will press on. And then, the North will truly be doomed."
