Like Pyat Pree, Xaro Xhoan Daxos wore a cryptic, unreadable smile—but while the warlock's face was unnerving, his grin only inspired fear. By comparison, Xaro's merchant charm seemed far more approachable.
As for Quaithe, hidden behind her lacquered wooden mask, no one could tell if she was smiling or ecstatic. Only the subtle tremble in her form and the fervent gleam in her eyes as she stared at the hatchlings revealed her overwhelming excitement.
The three enigmatic figures exchanged brief glances, seemingly reaching an unspoken agreement: Xaro, the eloquent merchant prince, would be their spokesman.
After all, one does not climb from dockworker to Qarth's wealthiest man and become one of the Thirteen without being gifted with words.
To most of the world, the Dothraki were barely civilized. Xaro saw no point in speaking to the lesser rabble. Win over the chief, and the rest would follow.
He had dealt with people of all kinds, and after rising to fortune, he mingled only with the powerful. He believed himself an excellent judge of character—and to him, power meant proximity to dragons.
Given that the dragons only perched on Drogo and Daenerys, he naturally assumed one of them must be the leader.
After barely a minute of scrutiny, he dismissed Drogo outright.
In the Free Cities, it was common knowledge that the Dothraki Khal wore the longest braid. Drogo, with hair barely long enough to cover his ears, couldn't even braid it. Clearly, Xaro thought, this brute had lost in combat and shorn his braid in shame. Just another grunt to fall first in battle.
As for why the dragon rested on his shoulder—well, dragons preferred high ground. Only a giant like Drogo could support such a creature.
Xaro decided to save his flattery for the pale, beautiful girl with dragons at her feet.
He nudged his camel forward, passing Drogo without acknowledgment, moving straight toward Daenerys.
But in doing so, he made a grave mistake—one that would not go unpunished.
Drogo silently drew the bone bow from his back and plucked an arrow from a warrior's quiver behind him.
Seeing this, Quaithe's lips barely moved—no sound, no gesture. Her moonlit shadow seemed to come alive, twisting like a serpent as it slithered across the sand, climbed the camel's flank, plucked a dagger from its saddlebag, and crept toward Drogo with chilling purpose.
No one noticed—not even Pyat Pree, whose expression turned anxious. It seemed the warlock was genuinely concerned for Xaro's life.
Unaware of the tension, Xaro reined in his camel about ten paces from Daenerys, placing a hand on his chest and smiling politely.
"Such elegance, my lady," he said, looking down. "Surely, you are the Khaleesi of these Dothraki friends?"
Aggo, ever the fierce guardian, bristled with anger and answered for her, "She is our Khaleesi, half-blood. What do you want?"
Xaro was of mixed race, his skin a warm brown. He ignored the insult, keeping his eyes on Daenerys.
"Most esteemed Khaleesi," he said smoothly, "welcome to my humble retreat. After crossing the Red Waste with your people, you must be weary and parched. Allow me to escort you to a palace I've prepared. There, cool and pure well water will wash away the dust of your journey. Silken gowns adorned with pearls await your choosing. You shall dine on fresh fruit, Qartheen delicacies, and sweet wine. And of course, your dragons and people will be treated with honor."
It was mostly a performance.
They were travelers themselves, and supplies were running low. This ruined city was new to Xaro as well. The gowns belonged to Quaithe, the food was salvaged rations, and the wine came from half-empty bottles.
Still, the nearby fig trees were abundant—at least that promise was true.
Though she saw through some of his charm, Daenerys was tempted. She was weak, and the offer of comfort and refreshment spoke to her needs.
But Xaro had made a critical error: he invited only her, ignoring Drogo completely.
"How generous you are, noble of Qarth," Daenerys said with a soft smile. "On behalf of myself and my people, I thank you for your hospitality. However—"
Flushed with triumph, Xaro interrupted, eager to impress:
"Lovely lady, once you've dined, I shall gift you jewels to match your eyes—gems that glow red like passion, blue like the sea, and dark as night. Simply point to the one you desire, and it is yours."
Though she had little experience with luxury, Daenerys was still a young woman—and she loved beautiful things. She suspected he spoke of rubies, sapphires, and onyx.
Xaro's words sparkled with temptation.
But Drogo, who had heard everything, had not forgotten.
Fury boiled within him. He nocked the arrow and aimed at the bald merchant, who remained blissfully unaware.
Just as he was about to release the string, a shadowy figure burst from the ground, driving a dagger straight toward Drogo's heart!
Caught completely off guard, Drogo had no time to react. No chance to dodge, no chance to defend—not even time for fear to show on his face.
BOOM!
At the very moment his life hung in the balance, a jet of dark flame burst from his shoulder.
A shrill scream tore through the air—from Quaithe.
"AHHH!"
Freed from death, Drogo leapt backward several paces. Before him, the shadow burned, writhing in agony like a trapped rat—its silhouette hissing and crackling in the flames.
Drogo looked to Drogon on his shoulder, and his eyes filled with gratitude.
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