One good thing about this world was that no matter how fiercely you fought before, as long as one side bowed its head and swore allegiance, all grudges would be wiped clean. Both sides would simply move on.
The best example was the North—the Starks and the Boltons. The two houses had been bitter enemies for hundreds of years; several Lords Stark had died at Bolton hands. Yet once the Boltons bent the knee, they instantly became trusted allies, switching sides with almost ridiculous ease.
So when the warlocks of Qarth swore fealty to Daenerys, she immediately forgot about their theft of her dragons and the guards they had killed. Under her command, the warlocks began collecting the treasures within the Hall of the Undying, preparing to leave the city together.
After all, their crimes had already provoked the other Thirteen; staying here any longer would only mean war.
When Aedric and Daenerys finally emerged from the hall safely with the three dragons, those who had been anxiously waiting outside let out a collective sigh of relief.
And when they heard that the same warlocks who had been attacking them had now sworn loyalty to Daenerys—and that even their leader had become one of her Kingsguard—everyone was overjoyed. Everyone except Ser Jorah Mormont, whose expression grew faintly bitter with jealousy.
"Don't take it to heart, Ser Jorah," Aedric said with a slight smile. "Kingsguard can't marry. I'd imagine your goal is to become royal consort instead, no?"
"Nothing of the sort!" Jorah blurted out, his rugged face reddening in embarrassment. "As long as I can stay by Khaleesi's side and serve her, I'm already content!"
Ignoring the curious stares from the others, Aedric shrugged, patted the flustered knight on the shoulder, and said dryly, "Then here's to you winning the lady's heart someday, O great lover."
After leaving the House of the Undying, Aedric accompanied Daenerys to meet the remaining eleven members of the Thirteen, informing them that the warlocks had surrendered to the Mother of Dragons and would be leaving Qarth soon.
The Thirteen were understandably reluctant to forgive those who had nearly killed them, but with Aedric—their savior—mediating, and with the tempting prospect of seizing the warlocks' property once they left, they soon agreed to let the matter go.
When all was settled, the Thirteen delivered a payment of one million gold dragons to Aedric's residence. Though the fat merchant's assets hadn't quite reached that amount, they had added extra gold and rare medicinal herbs as thanks for saving their lives—a shrewd and generous gesture.
Indeed, businessfolk always knew how to conduct themselves.
Aedric had spent less than half that sum in Qarth and now earned more than double back. Robbery—or something close to it—was clearly the fastest way to make money.
Knowing there was little left in the city worth taking, he packed all the wealth onto his new ship, the Weiyuan, and joined Daenerys's growing fleet as they set sail.
Yes—fleet.
The warlocks' centuries of hoarded treasure filled over a dozen ships, worth more than five million gold dragons altogether.
Even Aedric was tempted; he half-jokingly asked Daenerys if she wanted to buy back Blackfyre with all that gold. She rewarded him with a single eye-roll.
She wasn't foolish enough to trade her entire fortune for a sword whose power she couldn't fully unleash. She already had plans—to use that wealth in the slave city of Astapor to purchase an army of Unsullied, the first step in her future conquest of Westeros.
...
Under the shimmering blue of the open sea, on the deck of a lavishly decorated ship, Daenerys once again found herself disarmed by Arya. The Valyrian dagger flew from her hand as the dragonbone blade came to rest against her throat.
"You're dead again, Daenerys," Arya said lightly, spinning the dagger deftly between her fingers. "That makes fifteen times today. Want to go again?"
Panting, Daenerys tried to catch her breath. Ser Jorah, unable to watch any longer, stepped forward. "Perhaps that's enough for today. Let me teach Khaleesi swordplay instead."
"You?" Arya scoffed. "A big knight swinging a broadsword? What would you know about daggers? Jon said it himself—Daenerys will have Kingsguard protecting her. Most assassins won't charge her head-on; they'll strike with short blades from the shadows. She needs to train for that."
"She doesn't need to master the sword—just survive the first few strikes long enough for her guards to react."
"As her fame grows, more assassins will come. Maybe even the Faceless Men. Can your heavy sword handle them, Ser Jorah?"
The knight fell silent. Daenerys steadied her breathing, retrieved her fallen Valyrian dagger, raised it again, and said firmly, "Once more."
"Heh, fiery spirit. I'm starting to like you, big-breasted lady," Arya muttered under her breath. She flipped her dragonbone dagger and added spitefully, "This time, I'll aim straight for your heart. Defend yourself."
While the still-flat-chested Arya was fuming over Daenerys's curves, on the far end of the deck Aedric was training in magic under Pyat Pree's supervision—specifically, the warlocks' most mysterious spell: the Art of Shifting Shadows.
It was known as the Spell of Translocation, one of the warlocks' most powerful movement techniques, with two tiers of mastery.
The basic version was merely illusion—a decoy image placed in one spot, dismissed in an instant while another appeared elsewhere, giving the illusion of teleportation.
The advanced form, however, was true space traversal.
But the mana cost was enormous; even Pyat Pree, one of the greatest warlocks, could use it only once per day. That explained why, in the show, he had died under a single burst of dragonfire—he had already used his one daily casting and couldn't escape.
Aedric had worried that his dragonflame energy might conflict with the magic's nature. But his Postnatal Inner Core Skill truly lived up to its reputation as a universal, god-tier technique—so versatile it could harmonize even opposing energies.
It fused the essence of dragonflame and sorcery seamlessly, allowing Aedric to perform three spatial traversals per day—far surpassing Pyat Pree's limit.
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