Qarth had stood proud for countless years, rarely facing invasion, precisely because its nobles were so wealthy they could crush enemies ben
Qarth had stood proud for countless years, rarely facing invasion, precisely because its nobles were so wealthy they could crush enemies beneath mountains of gold.
If they were willing to bleed financially, they could hire every mercenary company in the Free Cities.
But that very foundation—their pride and wealth—had been shattered by Drogo's unstoppable might.
The Khal had already defeated the renowned Windblown and the Second Sons, and even the Golden Company—the most elite of them all—had fallen to him.
Faced with such overwhelming force, how could the Qartheen nobles do anything but swallow their pride and seek peace, hoping to avoid complete destruction?
For the first time, the people of Qarth realized that gold wasn't omnipotent.
Malicious glances from self-interested peers made their sentiments plain without words.
Xaro could see it clearly.
Furious, he growled, "I am one of the Thirteen! Without me, a vital artery of commerce will be severed. You cannot give me up!"
But some nobles were unmoved.
The so-called Good Masters, Great Masters, and Wise Masters had broad connections and immense economic value.
Even they had been abandoned. Why should the now petty and self-serving Xaro be spared?
Many were even eager to eliminate a powerful rival—after all, profit reigned supreme.
Qarth's centuries-old commercial prestige would not collapse because of one merchant prince.
Without Xaro, someone else could simply take over his business.
What gave some nobles pause was the prestige of the Thirteen—handing one over by brute pressure would tarnish Qarth's reputation.
Otherwise, they wouldn't have spent so much gold and effort to rescue Xaro Xhoan Daxos with the help of the Sons of the Harpy.
As fellow members of the Thirteen, the rest kept silent.
The royal family, who ruled in name only, stayed seated on the sidelines as always, content to watch and wait.
Sensing an opportunity, the Spicers' Guildmaster and the Tourmaline Brotherhood's head—long oppressed by the Thirteen—spoke out with no hesitation.
They hated Xaro to the bone. Even if it cost them, they were willing to see him fall.
As Drogo's patience wore thin below the walls, the two stepped forward, not hiding their disdain.
The Tourmaline leader mocked him openly:
"Xaro, had you not coveted the dragon and offended that vile niece Daenerys, enraging the Khal, this disaster would never have befallen Qarth.
You know what responsibility you bear. Must I spell it out?"
Xaro shouted back, furious, "Because of me? And what of you, who sheltered slave masters? What of Pyat Pree, the true instigator, who came here with me? Are you all without blame?"
The Spicers' Guildmaster cut him off, sneering,
"O mighty prince of Qarth, surely you understand that it's not up to us. The Khal will decide.
Don't you claim to own a treasure vault worth more than a kingdom?
Now is the time to part with your wealth and avert this calamity.
Maybe if your offer is rich enough, the savage will leave.
We saved your life—it's time for you to repay us and save yourself."
As harsh as it sounded, it was true. Drogo only wanted him as a scapegoat.
Xaro fell silent, despair taking hold. He had no treasure left.
The Spicers' plan was perfect—they could eliminate a rival and pay nothing.
The others quickly agreed:
"Yes, he should bear the burden."
"He who incurred the debt must pay it."
"You miser! Will you drag all of Qarth down with you?"
Even the timid royal family raised their voices:
"Prince Xaro, if you help lift the siege, the people of Qarth will praise your name for generations.
Your deeds will be carved into red sandstone and remembered in history forever."
But what use is glory to the dead?
Xaro knew he was now at the bottom of the ladder.
He wanted to say his vault was empty, his business failing, that he was no longer the foremost prince.
But he dared not. If the others knew he was a hollow shell, they'd tear him apart.
He'd reached his rank through cunning and instinct.
As the nobles murmured atop the walls, Drogo—exhausted after battle—had no time for stalling.
He roared up at them, "Qartheen! What is your final answer? Speak clearly!"
No one defended the scapegoat.
At last, the royal spokesman acted with authority:
"Guards! Seize Xaro Xhoan Daxos and lower him from the wall to appease the Khal!"
The nobles approved. Someone had made the tough call.
As guards advanced, Xaro panicked. Thinking fast, he cried,
"Wait! I am willing to give everything—my entire fortune—to save Qarth!"
The royal spokesman signaled for the guards to stop.
"Ah…"
Xaro sighed heavily, steeled himself, then shouted:
"Khal Drogo! I may not shine like gemstones, but on behalf of the nobles of Qarth, I offer:
One hundred bundles of tiger pelts,
Ten thousand bolts of fine silk,
One hundred chests of pearls and agates,
Fifty emerald bangles,
Five chests of rare black amethysts,
A chest of pearls,
And one thousand ivory tusks—
To appease your wrath!"
He stood tall, reclaiming the haughty air of a nouveau riche.
Such a ransom could buy two cities the size of Qarth.
As exaggerated as it sounded, the nobles believed him.
Xaro wouldn't gamble with his life.
Even Drogo, greedy as he was, was tempted.
He had come for wealth—and to hear the prophecies of the Undying Ones.
If he could win such riches without bloodshed, all the better.
As for the Undying Ones, he knew they wouldn't dare refuse him entry.
With cold fire in his voice, Drogo shouted,
"This ransom is… barely acceptable. I'll spare the stinking pig—but not a single slave master can be missing!"
The worst seemed over.
The nobles sighed with relief and chorused,
"Of course, Khal! You have our word!"
Drogo's booming voice silenced them:
"I won't wait long. When will the treasure be delivered?"
The nobles turned to Xaro.
He called boldly,
"By sunrise tomorrow!"
Drogo nodded to himself and said coldly,
"Very well. If you Qartheen fail your word—then after sunrise, Qarth will fall."
"All troops—make camp here!"
The Khal's voice rang out. The exhausted army needed rest to handle any surprises.
As soldiers moved below and three dragons circled above,
the nobles of Qarth felt dread and helplessness.
Their network of selfish alliances had collapsed.
Xaro, eyes burning, was the first to descend the walls.
As he walked away, the nobles smiled.
They had long overestimated Xaro's wealth—now they believed they had underestimated it.
But by sunrise, he would be beneath their feet forever.
Back at his palace—larger than most marketplaces—Xaro dismissed everyone and began packing.
He was preparing to flee Qarth.
Earlier, afraid Drogo might see through him, Xaro had said "on behalf of Qarth's nobility" to deflect suspicion.
As for the ransom—he had made it up.
If he hadn't boasted, he would have died.
Boasting gave him a slim chance at survival.
That night, several nobles—eager to see the promised fortune—came to his palace.
But the servants searched everywhere and found nothing.
Panic set in. The nobles turned pale and cursed aloud:
"That damn liar! He's doomed us all!"
They knew the price of failing to deliver.
Many were ready to sacrifice everything to survive—but Xaro's promise was far too grand.
They couldn't hope to gather it.
In despair, they made a final, desperate choice: fight or die.
The royal spokesman urgently ordered:
"Go! Summon the Guild of Assassins and the House of the Undying!
Bring the Grand Regretful and Pyat Pree to the Hall of a Thousand Thrones!"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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