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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 47: The Savior
The city of Qarth rose from the Red Waste like a vision from a fever dream.
Its walls of pale stone gleamed under the harsh sunlight, its towers pierced the sky, and its famous three gates stood open to receive the merchants and travelers who came from every corner of the known world.
Joffrey stood at the prow of the Storm Dancer, watching the city grow larger with each passing moment. Behind him, the crew prepared the ship for docking, their voices loud and urgent as they hauled ropes and furled sails.
The Hound stood at his shoulder, his scarred face hidden beneath his dog's helm. His newly enchanted greatsword was strapped across his back, and he now wore a suit of steel armor, its surface covered in runes that pulsed with a faint, dark light. The enchantments had turned the metal almost black, the color of old shadow, and it seemed to drink the sunlight rather than reflect it. This was an unintended side effect of working with materials and tools he was not used to.
"How does it feel?" Joffrey asked. This was the first time Sandor had worn the enchanted armor since the work had been completed, just two days before their arrival.
"Light," the Hound responded, offering little else.
But the prince could tell that his guard was pleased with his gifts. The way he moved was more fluid than before, less burdened by the weight of his steel.
Lord Varys emerged from his cabin, his soft hands folded before him, his pale eyes fixed on the city with an expression that was impossible to read. "Qarth," the eunuch murmured, almost to himself. "The greatest city that ever was or ever will be, or so they say."
"Hmph." The Hound's voice was flat. "Doesn't look too impressive to me."
Joffrey smiled. "So they say. But words are wind, Lord Varys. We shall see what Qarth truly has to offer." He paused, his eyes scanning the distant towers. "Hopefully, a silver-haired princess and three dragons, at least."
The ship slid into the harbor, past the great chain that protected the bay, past the massive bronze gates of the port, past the forest of masts that marked the ships of a hundred nations. The crew threw ropes to the dockhands, and within minutes, the Storm Dancer was secured.
Joffrey turned to Captain Xho. "Wait here. We will return before nightfall."
The captain nodded and offered a bow. It was deeper than any he had given before. "As you wish, Prince."
Since Joffrey's return from Valyria, the crew had begun treating him with far more reverence. Even the captain, who had once looked at him as a mad boy sailing to his death, now looked at him as something else. Something powerful and dangerous.
Joffrey spotted the figure of Saera standing on the deck, a short distance away. Her golden hair was bright in the sunlight, her blue eyes fixed on him with an expression that was equal parts worry and longing.
"Wait here as well, Saera. I will return soon."
The maid nodded. It was obvious that she wanted to join him, but she knew her place and did not make any requests.
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The streets of Qarth were a maze of colors and noise. Merchants called out their wares in a dozen languages, their stalls piled high with silks and spices, with gold and jewels, with things that Joffrey could not identify and did not care to.
The buildings were tall and narrow, their facades adorned with mosaics and carvings, their windows hidden behind elaborate screens that let the air in but kept the sun out.
Joffrey walked at a brisk pace, his enchanted armor hidden beneath a simple traveling cloak, his sword at his hip. The Hound loomed behind him, his black armor drawing wary glances from the locals. Varys kept to the shadows, his soft footsteps barely audible on the stone.
"We need information," Joffrey said, his voice low. "The girl could have arrived in Qarth weeks ago, for all we know. But if she did, the people of this city would certainly remember her. The last member of the Targaryen line arriving here with three dragons." He paused. "Hard to ignore."
Varys nodded. "I will ask among the merchants. Someone will have seen her."
They split up, moving through the crowded streets, asking questions of the vendors, the shopkeepers, the sailors who had come from every corner of the world. The answers were frustratingly vague.
"Yes, I heard of her. The silver-haired girl with the three small dragons. She was offered protection by Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the merchant prince."
"No, I have not seen her for days. Weeks, perhaps. She vanished."
"The warlocks took an interest in her. The Undying. They have their own ways."
After speaking with a dozen more merchants, they pieced together a picture. Daenerys Targaryen had indeed arrived in Qarth with her dragons and a small retinue of Dothraki. The merchant prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos had taken her under his protection, offering her the hospitality of his palace. But no one had seen her in the city for some time. She had vanished from the streets, from the markets, from the places where a princess with three dragons would normally draw crowds.
Joffrey met the Hound and Varys at a fountain in the center of the market, his frustration growing.
"So she is here," he said. "Or she was. But no one has seen her for days."
"She was taken by some merchant," the Hound added.
"The merchant prince," Varys corrected. "Xaro Xhoan Daxos. I have heard of him. He is one of the wealthiest men in Qarth, one of the Thirteen who rule the city."
"Then he should be easy to find," the Hound said.
"Then let us go see this merchant prince." Joffrey turned, ready to leave. "Hopefully, the girl is still there."
"You won't find her there."
The voice came from behind them. It was soft and feminine, with an accent that Joffrey did not recognize. He turned, his hand going to his sword, the Hound's hand moving to his greatsword.
The woman who stood before them was unlike any he had seen in Qarth. She wore a red lacquer mask that covered her face from brow to chin, its surface smooth and featureless except for two narrow slits for her eyes. Her robes were of red silk, embroidered with golden thread, and her hands were wrapped in bandages that left only her fingers bare.
"And you are?" Joffrey's voice was cold, wary.
"I am called Quaithe." The woman's voice was calm, unhurried. "I am a shadowbinder, from the lands beyond Asshai. I have seen you in my dreams, Joffrey Baratheon. The prince who left his throne to seek something else in the east."
Joffrey's eyes narrowed. "I did not think people would recognize me so far from King's Landing."
"News travels faster than you think. But I do not rely on news." Quaithe's masked face turned toward him. "I know many things. I know that Daenerys Targaryen is in danger. The warlocks of Qarth...the Undying, have stolen her dragons to lure her into their trap. Even now, she walks through the House of the Undying, lost and alone, surrounded by visions that seek to steal her soul."
Varys stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the masked woman. "And how do you know this?"
"I have seen it." Quaithe's head turned toward the eunuch. "I am aware of your distaste for the mystical arts, Lord Varys. But there is no denying that some things exist beyond your comprehension. You have seen strange things as well, in your youth, in the Free Cities. You have merely chosen to forget them." Her voice softened. "But the truth remains."
Varys went very still. His face was unreadable, but Joffrey could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had clenched at his sides. The eunuch said nothing.
"She is there now," Quaithe continued. "In the House of the Undying. Her dragons are chained. The warlocks are preparing their rituals. If you do not act soon, she may be lost forever."
Joffrey studied the strange woman, his magical senses reaching out toward her. She was not lying...he could feel that much. But there was more to her than she was revealing. The mask hid her face, but it did not hide the power that coiled beneath her skin, old and strange and not entirely human.
"You want us to go to the House of the Undying," he said.
"I want you to save her." Quaithe took a step closer, her bandaged hand reaching out as if to touch his face. She stopped short, her fingers hovering in the air. "Daenerys Targaryen has an important role to play in the future of this world. And so do you, lost prince. You have so much power already, and yet you crave more." Her voice dropped. "Be careful. That kind of greed will lead you to ruin."
Joffrey smiled. "You seem to know a great deal. But I am not fond of oracles. The future is not set in stone."
"The future is not set in stone. That much is true." Quaithe's masked face seemed to study him. "But I can tell you that she will not survive the night unless you help her." She retreated a step, her voice dropping to a murmur. "It was not meant to be this way. Things have changed. You have changed them." Her eyes, visible through the slits in her mask, were fixed on Joffrey. "Your presence is already causing too many ripples."
Joffrey ignored her rambling. "Where is the House of the Undying?"
Quaithe pointed toward the heart of the city, where a massive grey tower rose above the other buildings, its walls smooth and windowless, its shadow stretching across the streets like a wound.
"There," she said. "Go now. The warlocks will not expect you. They have grown complacent, confident that no one dares challenge them."
Joffrey nodded to the Hound and Varys. "Let's move."
They left Quaithe standing by the fountain, her red robes bright against the pale stone, her masked face watching them as they disappeared into the crowd.
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The House of the Undying was a massive structure of grey stone, its walls smooth and windowless, its only entrance a narrow door of carved ebony.
The door was unguarded, at least when it came to people. But Joffrey could feel the imprinted wards that protected this tower...old magic, but nowhere near as ancient as the magic he had felt in Winterfell or the ruins of Old Valyria. It was weaker, too, and less refined.
"The warlocks do not welcome visitors," Varys murmured. "Those who enter rarely leave."
Joffrey studied the door, reaching out with his senses. "I was not expecting a warm welcome." He turned to the Hound. "Stay close to me. Do not touch anything. Keep your eyes on the floor. This place will try to trick your mind." He looked at Varys. "You may want to wait here."
The Hound grunted his understanding.
Varys nodded, stepping back. "I will secure the perimeter. Do not be too long, my prince."
Joffrey pushed open the ebony door and stepped inside.
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The corridor beyond was dark and cold, and the air smelled of dust and old incense. Doors lined the walls...hundreds of them, thousands, each one different, each one promising something that Joffrey did not have. He ignored them, keeping his magical senses extended, following the thread that connected him to the dragons.
They were here. He could feel them...three bright flames in the darkness, burning with a fire that was not quite natural. And near them, another flame...smaller, but brighter, the flame of the girl who had hatched them from stone.
"We are lost," the Hound said after they had walked through endless corridors for what felt like an hour.
"We are not lost," Joffrey insisted. He had said it three times already, and he would say it again if he had to. "It is this way. I am sure of it."
He followed the pulse of power, concentrating hard to avoid losing track of it. The dragons were close now. He could feel their fear, their hunger, their desperate longing for their mother.
They reached a blank wall at the end of a corridor. Joffrey placed his hand on the cold stone, feeling the wards that lay beyond.
"It is here," he said.
The Hound stared at him with incredulity.
Joffrey touched the wall in several places, searching for the weakest point, the place where the magic was thinnest. He found it...a thin crack in the ancient enchantment, a flaw that had been there for centuries, waiting for someone with the power to exploit it.
"Stand back."
The Hound retreated a few steps, his hand on his greatsword.
Joffrey gathered his magic, focusing it on the weak point. The power built in his chest, in his arm, in the tips of his fingers.
"Bombarda." The word was a whisper, but the effect was not.
The wall exploded inward.
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