Chapter Text
In Essos, there are a thousand stories about the throne of swords, and all across the world, there are a thousand and one about the fair, haunting creatures who sit upon it.
Everyone knows about the Dragon Lords, and their silver hair and eyes of an unnaturally light hue. Many a bard has sung a song about these lithe, handsome creatures of fire and blood. Some call them the creations of the gods, and others tell that they are cursed so their kiss kills those not of their blood. Some even know that they wed brother to sister, that their blood is strange and fiery, that they are more Dragon than man. All can tell how the world has been shaped by their fair hands, wrought in their flames.
The world knows these creatures to be all but extinct, though. Even while in far-off Yi-Ti, stories of the fall of the Great Dragons pass through towns and cities on the back of hushed whispers. Only in the West have the stories of the ones who survived remained. In the Free Cities, those stories took the shape of a woman, cutting across Slaver’s Bay with her justice and her silver hair.
Adok of Pentos has heard all these stories. For the last three months, they have been at the front of his mind as he has made his way to this small island off the coast of the Sunset Kingdom. He has imagined what he is to meet, what strangeness he will encounter when he bows before a Dragon Lord of old. A true one.
Yet, for all his preparation, the man and the throne before Adok do not follow the stories.
He knew that the throne of swords did not lie on this island, but rather in the King’s City, further inland. Seeing the rocky throne did not shock him, like it did some of his companions who thought they were to see it and the Queen herself, as they deemed to be their right as her subjects in her Eastern holdings. But the man standing before it—standing, not sitting, something that feels at odds with all the stories in Adok’s mind of the Dragon Lords—does.
The man is tall and lithe, just like the stories. But all else is wrong. His hair is dark as the night, and his eyes glint coolly as he looks down at them. His clothes are not shimmery silks that show curves and beauty, but rather dark leathers and mails that seem to suck the light of the room in. His face is long and narrow, marred by a slew of scars. Adok can see some beauty in the man, but it is something harder than that of the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria. Older, too. The man has the eyes of an old man, despite his relative youth to the rest of the room.
The man was introduced as Jaehaerys, Prince of Dragonstone. Adok knows the reference in the name, knows the tale of the Great King who once bore that name. But the man before him bears little similarity to the king of old whom he shares a name with. He seems to be something else, something darker and colder than a Dragon. And he does not seem pleased to have company.
“Are you sure of what you have heard?” the Prince asks, his voice frosted. Adok has heard the voices of plenty from the Sunset Kingdoms, but none such as this. Not that he can recall. The Prince turns towards the wall slightly, and Adok sees the sword at his side clearer as he does. A strange animal head stares out from the end, and he recalls the thousands of japes at the expense of the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms made all throughout the Free Cities. They think putting an animal on a banner makes them one!
The translators flitter around, whispering his words to the men they serve. Adok is the only one who speaks the common tongue of Westeros. He is the only man from the Free Cities here, the only one here on business from those lands. The others had joined him as he was conducting that same business in Dragon’s Bay, where they all hail from. They’d seemed surprised the Prince did not speak Valyrian, likely thinking he’d be the male copy of the Silver Queen.
He is not, though. Adok saw the Silver Queen once, many long years ago. She was young then, but he’d known she had no peer in the world, not even in her handsome brother. This man is no monster, but he is not the Dragon Queen.
Finally, one of the men speaks. Garmerh nar Ladha, of Yunkai, was once one of the Wise Masters of the Yellow City. Now, he is one of the many men in that wretched bay who pay at least lip service to a Queen that they have not seen in nearly five years. He is a balding man with beady eyes and a constant sheen of sweat on his face, despite the coolness of the island. Adok has no friendship with him, but he is the leader of the men he has come to this isle with.
“Yes, dārilaros,” the man says, bowing low. The Prince arches a sole brow at the title. Garmerh’s translator parrots his words off as he continues speaking. “We speak the truth. The Golden Company backs a false dragon in the East, one who reaves in the lands beyond ours. He was spat from the Red Waste, and now settles in Ghiscar, naming himself King of the Seven Kingdoms. And he even dares to fly the Three-Headed Dragon.”
Adok watches the Prince take in the information. That arched brow has dropped down in tandem with the other, shadowing his eyes. Adok is too far to see the colour, but his gaze reminds him of steel, honed to a point on Garmerh and the translator who hovers at his side. Both look cautiously upon him, likely fearing flames or wrath.
But the man has a grave look on his face. He does not seem to be coming to violence, rather something darker and far more unknown. The longer he stands there, processing the words, the colder the room seems to become, the harsher his shadow seems to be, looming long and large on the floor, like a black crack.
“And what does Dragon’s Bay think of this…King of the Seven Kingdoms?” The prince asks, finally. His voice echoes slightly in the empty room, and Adok shivers as a chill runs up his spine. Only two braziers have lit the room, but they do nothing to warm it. The Prince hardly seems to register the chill.
Silence again. The man is staring down at them, waiting for them to reply. Adok would speak, if this news was his. Only to stop the man from looking at them like a predator hunts its most vulnerable prey. Yet he cannot. His news is his own, separate from them. They’re only with him out of convenience, not because they are on the same mission. He will not speak for them—he cannot. A man of his position in the world has no right to do so.
Finally, Garmerh speaks again, but not before looking at his companions with disdain for their silence. “Daenerys Targaryen is our Queen, the one who gave us a new life. We follow her, not those who claim her throne. We are loyal to her, and the Wise Masters stand behind her.”
“I did not ask what the Wise Masters thought of the false dragon,” the Prince says, voice flat. It is as vicious as the bellow of a demon, despite how unnaturally even it is. “I asked what the Bay, as a whole, thinks. The people, those who don’t lie in the lap of luxury. The soldiers the Queen left behind when she came to these shores. Those who could be bought, those who will be his tools if he turns his eyes to the Iron Throne. What do they think of him?”
Garmerh goes still, looking pale. That is telling enough, even before he opens his mouth like a fish, making a blubbering noise as he tries to form the words, wrapping them up in sweetness. Adok does not think the Prince desires sweetness. He must want only cold, hard truths. He seems to be a man who can take it.
But the man manages to speak, in the end. “Some say he is kind and fair, and look to him as a new saviour. Others care little for him and say he will never dare to come any further West. Some may have sold to him, and plenty decry him. But in all, I do not believe him to be very popular in the Bay, for all recall the…the mhysa who freed them.” Garmerh grimaces as he says that final bit. Adok wonders just how much the emancipation of what was once Slaver’s Bay hurt this man’s finances.
“I see,” the Prince says. Adok doesn’t think he seems to believe the man all that much, but if you were to look at Garmerh, you would hardly be able to tell. He’s smiling in open relief, shoulders sagging as he exhales. You are far too obvious, fool, Adok thinks, resisting the urge to wince as Garmerh mutters something about idiot Westerosi to the man at his side. The translator says something about how Garmerh thinks his prince is quite wise.
A few more words are exchanged, and Garmerh continues to be the only one speaking. Adok looks at him for a long moment, taking in his beady eyes and the drops of moisture that run down his face and wet his collar. He doesn’t look like a man who deserves the power in his hand, like a man who worked for it. They so seldom do, anymore.
The Prince, though, does. Adok can see it as he looks at the man, see it in how he stands so comfortably with a blade at his side, see it in the deep gouges on his face. His clothes are as black as the night, but when he moves, Adok sees hints of subtle finery on the thick fabric in patterns unknown to him. Everyone knows that the Sunset Kingdoms produce warriors. The man before him is one. Of that, Adok has no doubt.
Finally, the conversation ends. The men of Dragon’s Bay say their goodbyes and turn to go, leaving Adok to briefly wonder what he should do. He has words for this Prince, but could he perhaps speak to him later, once he has time to catch his breath and forget the coldness of the man?
The decision is made for him.
“You,” the Prince says, looking right at Adok, who valiantly hides how badly the direct address startled him. His stomach rolls, and he finds that he is uncomfortable with the thought of being alone with the Prince. “You’re not with the men of Dragon’s Bay, are you? You come on different business.”
“Indeed, my Prince,” Adok says, seeing the glances that his companions send him as they leave. He’s the one of them who speaks the common tongue, and if he knows anything about the men from the Bay, they dislike feeling as if they have been made out to look like fools. Adok showing that he alone speaks both tongues could easily be taken as an insult by them. He doesn’t care. “I am a man of Illyrio Mopatis, a Magister of the Free City of Pentos. Your Queen knows him well.”
“That she does,” the Prince agrees, a strange smile crossing his face for a brief moment. It is gruesome and wrong, as if the man never learned to smile. Everything seems just ever so slightly off with this man, and Adok has to fight to resist the urge to look away from him. He has a duty, and he will not disobey his Magister. He is alive because of the man. “I don’t know that she has much love for him, given that she was sold by his hand to her Dothraki husband.”
“I bring gifts for you both,” Adok says, ignoring the comment. His voice is even and steady, but his palms are clammy. The Prince seems keenly interested in his words, and Adok’s heart beats heavier as the man approaches him. He’s taller than him, but Adok is not tall himself. His eyes are as grey as steel, he can see now. Grey and cold. “The Magister seeks to reconnect with her. He offers his eyes in the Free Cities up to her, for her use in whatever matter she deems fit.”
The Prince looks at Adok for a long moment, taking him in. Somewhere in the rush of introductions, it came up that they sailed from Dragon’s Bay, on Adok’s ship. The man may be wondering how one of Illyrio’s men came to be there. Or perhaps there is something unknown to Adok that has caught the man’s attention. Either way, his gaze is heavy and uncomfortable on Adok’s shoulders.
“Does he?” the Prince finally asks, smiling again when Adok nods. It’s just as strange as it was before. Adok wonders if this man simply doesn’t smile, all too often. “Well, I will bear that news to her. Does he have anything to report, now, or should I simply tell the Queen that Illyrio Mopatis is offering gifts and service without any proof he will do as he says?”
Adok’s mouth goes dry. This man is deceptively observant, seemingly as sharp as the edge of a Valyrian Steel blade. Adok is lucky that he does have something to share, and luckier still that the men from Dragon’s Bay have left.
“Dragon’s Bay is breaking,” he says, his voice soft but sure. The Prince leans back as he hears that, taking Adok in. “They will never say it, but that false dragon is gaining power. Mereen stands weakly, and the man the Queen left behind—Daario Nahaaris—is struggling to keep a hold on it. The men who stand before you want you to think nothing is wrong, make themselves seem good for their reporting. But I would not be surprised if the false dragon owns them in a year. The Magister bid me to tell you so.”
“You serve him in Dragon’s Bay?” the Prince questions, and Adok nods, not wanting to get into the weeds of it. Serves is a kind word, but the Free Cities must be Free, so that is the word used here. Adok has no life without Illyrio Mopatis. If he tries to, he will be dead. “If the Queen worked with him, would you be a liaison for us in Dragon’s Bay?”
“If the Magister wishes me to be, yes,” Adok says. The Prince narrows his eyes slightly, humming in faint suspicion. Adok’s hands are even clammier now, his heart racing under his chest. His orders had been clear. Illyrio wants the allyship of Daenerys Targaryen, and they both know his relation to the man would make the woman say no, on sheer principle. “He may not be able to spare me, not with the rising unrest. It would be for the Queen to ask and for her and the Magister to hash out.”
“I see,” the Prince says, looking over Adok for a long moment. His gaze is heavy, and Adok knows, deep within him, that very little, if anything, escapes his notice. All he can hope is that Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, knows when to keep his mouth shut on matters that do not concern him. Adok likes being alive. “Well, I thank you for your news, Adok of Pentos. I hope we will meet again, and speak again of this…development. Be well.”
“As do I, my prince,” Adok says. He does not. He wants to be somewhere else, under some other man, amidst some other game. But he is where he is, and there is nowhere for him to go. The Prince looks at him like he knows it. Adok bows and murmurs a farewell. The words are ash on his tongue.
———————————————