Time slipped by, and nearly a month had passed.
As usual, Aedric was seated cross-legged in his secret chamber, cradling a dragon egg as he cultivated, when a commotion from outside broke his concentration. The noise was chaotic—angry shouts, the sound of clashing steel. Someone was fighting.
Over the past two months, challengers had often come to Qarth to test the famed "Storm Sword Saint."
Aedric, too lazy to waste his time on such weaklings, usually left them to Arya. He had even set a rule: every challenger had to pay a fee of one hundred gold dragons. It gave Arya a chance to practice—and him, a steady side income.
Of course, if Arya lost, Aedric promised to fight personally and even pay the challenger five hundred gold dragons as compensation. But in the two months that followed, after nearly twenty challengers, he hadn't lost a single coin—rather, Arya's training had earned him several thousand gold dragons.
Though Arya had defeated many, she had always shown restraint, never taking a life. As a result, those defeated challengers left in awe rather than anger, and peace in Qarth was mostly undisturbed.
So when Aedric heard this sudden uproar from the front hall, he frowned. Something was wrong.
With a sigh, he ended his cultivation session, rose, and walked toward the noise—curious to see which fool had decided to challenge him today.
When he reached the front courtyard, he stopped short in surprise.
The intruders were none other than Daenerys Targaryen and her retinue.
Ser Jorah Mormont was shielding the furious silver-haired queen, while several Dothraki warriors were attacking Arya.
But against the girl's twin blades, they were utterly helpless—each one struck down in seconds, their curved arakhs snapped in two like twigs.
"Daenerys," Aedric's voice was calm and cold as ice, "explain yourself."
He glanced at the fallen Dothraki, his tone dropping lower.
"If you can't give me a satisfactory reason for this intrusion, I won't be serving tea today."
Not serving tea meant one thing—no guest right.
And without guest right, blood could be freely spilled.
"Northerner! Give me back my dragons!" Daenerys shrieked, struggling against Jorah's grasp. Her face was pale with fury, her violet eyes wild. "Return them to me!"
"Dragons?" Aedric raised an eyebrow.
A thought clicked instantly.
So—the warlocks of the House of the Undying had struck, just as in the show.
But… why in the world was she accusing him?
"Your dragons were stolen," he said, confused. "And you came here because…?"
"Because the guards who were watching them were killed!" Daenerys screamed, trembling with rage. "And the only one in this city who could have done that… is you! You vile Northerner!"
Aedric rolled his eyes, and in the blink of an eye, his figure blurred.
A loud crack rang out—Ser Jorah was sent flying by a casual backhand, crashing into a pillar.
Before anyone could react, Aedric's hand was at Daenerys's throat, fingers tightening with effortless strength.
"If I had taken your dragons," he said coldly, his eyes like stormclouds, "believe me—I'd have killed you first. You wouldn't have lived long enough to accuse me."
Then he released her. Daenerys collapsed to the floor, gasping and coughing, clutching her throat.
"Who told you it was me?" Aedric asked evenly. "Who suggested it?"
"It… it was my handmaiden, Doreah," Daenerys managed to whisper. "She said the enemy could only be one man.
Wait—you mean… it wasn't you?"
Aedric sighed, extending a hand to help her up.
"Tell me," he said dryly, "is your handmaiden a six-armed goddess, or can she fly through walls?
If I'd killed all your guards, how would she still be alive to tell the tale?"
He narrowed his eyes.
"Where is she now?"
"Doreah was hurt. I told her to rest." Daenerys hesitated. "Are you saying… she lied to me?"
"Let's go see her," Aedric said, shaking his head. "If I'm right, she's already gone."
He signaled Arya to follow, and together they headed toward the courtyard where the young dragons had been kept.
Upon inspection, Aedric crouched beside the slain guards, examining their wounds carefully.
He exhaled through his nose and shot Ser Jorah a weary look.
"Daenerys, I can understand," he said. "But you, Ser Jorah—you should've known better.
These wounds were made by a woman. The thrust is light, precise, and low. She must have poisoned or drugged the guards first, then stabbed them once they collapsed.
Tell me—where is the surviving maid?"
"She's… gone." Jorah hung his head. "She was resting in the next room a moment ago. Now she's vanished."
"Then she was bought," Aedric said flatly. "This was an inside job. Someone paid her well—to drug your guards, kill them, and take your dragons. Whoever's behind it is rich. Very rich."
"Who… who took them!?" Daenerys cried, trembling.
"Most likely one of the suitors who's been courting you lately," Aedric replied, brushing his hands together. "The richer and more eager they were, the higher the chance it was them.
My bet? One of the Thirteen Magnates. If they couldn't possess your dragons lawfully, stealing them was the next best option."
Daenerys spun toward the door, intent on storming out, but Aedric caught her arm.
"Arya," he said quietly, "go tell the Thirteen that I wish to see them—all of them. Now."
His tone sharpened.
"The dragons may not be mine, but I hate being framed. If I don't get an answer today, they'll all learn firsthand how the name 'Storm Sword Saint' was earned."
"Got it!" Arya grinned from ear to ear, delighted at the prospect of a fight. "Finally, something fun!"
She bounced away down the corridor.
"Sword Saint," Daenerys said softly, guilt washing over her features, "thank you. And… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have accused you. I—I lost my mind."
"No need to apologize." Aedric waved it off. "If someone stole my children, I'd have lost my temper too.
Let's just see how the Thirteen explain this. I only hope they don't make me start killing."
No one in Qarth dared ignore a summons from the Storm Sword Saint.
Within the hour, all thirteen merchant princes—the so-called Thirteen Magnates—had assembled in the grand hall to greet Aedric and Daenerys.
To show "good faith," Aedric hadn't brought a sword.
(At least, not one they could see.)
He surveyed the thirteen—each with a different expression, each guarded by masked retainers—and spoke first.
"These past two months," he began evenly, "we've done fair business. I pay gold; you deliver goods. Honest trade."
"But today, one among you stole Daenerys's dragons, bribed her handmaiden, and pinned the blame on me."
His tone darkened, eyes gleaming like lightning.
"I'll make this simple. If the guilty man stands up now, I'll kill only him.
If I have to find him myself—I'll kill his entire bloodline. Parents, wives, children… even their chickens and dogs. Not one will live."
"So," he said softly, his voice cutting like steel, "who's it going to be? Will you speak—or will I decide?"
The magnates glanced nervously at one another. Then, just as the fattest of them seemed about to say something, a figure rose from the far end of the table.
It was the blue-lipped warlock Pyat Pree.
He stood slowly, smiling, eyes glinting with cold amusement.
"There's no need to discuss it further," he said. "It was I. The dragons are mine now."
"Where are they, you blue-lipped liar!?" Daenerys screamed.
Aedric held her back and looked at the warlock calmly.
"Where are the dragons, Pyat Pree?"
"In the House of the Undying, my lord," the warlock said smoothly, bowing with eerie grace. "I shall personally escort the Mother of Dragons there—to be reunited with her children… forever."
"Why, Pyat Pree?" demanded the fat merchant, his face ashen. "You know those creatures will bring only ruin! You can't keep them in this city!"
"It was the king's command," Pyat Pree replied, smiling faintly. "The King of Qarth."
"Nonsense!" the merchants shouted, enraged. "There is no king in this city! Qarth has no throne, no crown! You're raving, Pyat Pree!"
Then, from the far end of the chamber, a deep voice echoed.
"There is one now."
A man rose slowly from his seat, disdain curling his lips as his gaze swept across the hall.
"From this moment on," he said coldly, "I am the King of Qarth."
~~--------------------------
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