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Essos, The Great Grass Sea
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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The two massive bronze stallions presiding over the entrance to Vaes Dothrak seemed to shrink beneath the shadow of Endaxia. The wind sweeping down from the Mother of Mountains carried a dry chill, stirring the tall grass and dust of the wide, wall-less avenues of the only Dothraki city. Here, where weapons were forbidden by law, the sound of horse hooves had been replaced by a sepulchral silence. The thousands of slaves and riders inhabiting the place had been terrified long before the bronze dragon's claws touched the sacred earth.
Caspian dismounted with fluid grace. His netherite armor made no sound as he stepped down, absorbing the pale light of the sunset. Beside him, Princess Aerea Targaryen, now Khaleesi, descended from her own mount with an expression of absolute disdain mixed with curiosity. She wore a black silk tunic reinforced with Xandarian leather, and over it, Valyrian steel armor—the very same she had brought from the peninsula. Her violet eyes scanned the thatch and mud structures with evident scorn.
"This place is hideous, Caspian," Aerea murmured in High Valyrian, keeping her hand close to the dagger at her belt, though she knew no one would dare attack them under the gaze of two dragons. "Do you truly need the blessing of these old women for what you plan?"
"It is not a blessing I seek, Aerea. It is a claim," Caspian replied in the same tongue, his stride unwavering as they headed toward the great hall of the Dosh Khaleen, a cavernous structure of interwoven logs roofed with horse hides. "Fourteen thousand riders from Moro's khalasar are not enough to bend the east of Essos. I need every braid from here to the Lands of the Long Night to bow before my crown. And for the Dothraki, the only voice that outranks a Khal is that of their witches."
The entrance to the temple was plunged into shadow. The air inside was thick, heavy with the acrid smoke of dry horse dung and burnt roots used by the old women for their visions. Seated in a semicircle around a communal pit of embers, the widows of the Great Khals—the Dosh Khaleen—waited. Their faces were maps of wrinkles, skin weathered by the desert sun, and many had eyes clouded by cataracts and time.
Caspian walked to the center of the room. He did not kneel. He remained standing, hands resting on his belt, observing the crone at the central axis, whose white hair fell like dry manes over her hunched shoulders.
"The sky-sorcerer who rides the copper storm," the crone spoke. Her voice was a low rasp, like stones rattling inside a plastic container shifting with water. Her words echoed through the wooden rafters. "The pyres of Qohor still smell of your name, foreigner. The heads of the sons of that vile city adorned your walls, and the riders of the Great Grass Sea sang of the blue fire that consumed the sacred forest of the smiths."
Caspian nodded faintly, his mastery of Dothraki allowing him to comprehend the witch's rambling.
"I have come to bring words of unity and peace to the Mother of Mountains," Caspian said, though the weight of his presence belied the word 'peace.' "Khal Moro's khalasar now is mine. But it is not enough. I want you to summon a Khalar Vezhven. I want every Khal, every bloodrider, and every ko in this city before the next moon is full."
A sibilant murmur rippled through the semicircle of crones. Several rattled their bone amulets; others fixed their blind eyes on Aerea, who stood a step behind Caspian.
"A Khalar Vezhven?" countered another witch, a toothless woman whose trembling hands held a bowl of clotted blood. "That council is only summoned when the world must tremble, when the Khals must unite their whips to crush the cities of stone. You are a Khal. You have a braid to cut, but you have no blood of the grass in your veins. You are an iron king; you hold no power here to demand such a thing."
Caspian took a step forward, and for an instant, the temperature in the hall seemed to drop. His eyes appeared to burn an even deeper red the moment the light from the pyres caught them.
"I have thirty-six thousand arakhs under my direct command and two reasons in the sky that can turn this valley into a sea of black glass in a single afternoon," Caspian said, his voice low but laced with an absolute threat. "I am not asking you to name me your Khal. I am asking you to fulfill the prophecy your own fires have been screaming since long before the Century of Blood."
The central crone raised a skeletal hand, silencing the rest of the council. She stared intently at Caspian's face, searching for something beyond human features. After a long silence, she exhaled a sigh that smelled of ash.
"We know why you ask for the great council, Caspian Darkwood," the crone said. "We have seen the threads of fate. The Stallion Who Mounts the World is not a man of flesh to be born from the womb of a frightened khaleesi. It is the force that binds east and west under a single banner that does not burn. Your presence, your power, your yearning... all of it is the gallop of the stallion trampling the old ways."
Aerea arched an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Caspian. "These old women are mad," she whispered in Valyrian.
"We know it," the crone continued, ignoring the Targaryen princess's interruption. "The stars bled when your forges in Xandar were lit. We will not support you because we love your iron, red-haired king. We will support you because the Great Stallion has neighed at night, and his will is for the grass to bend before your crown. The messengers left two weeks ago; the Khals will be here before the next full moon. The drums of Vaes Dothrak will sound. The Khalar Vezhven will assemble, and when the Khals arrive, they will see that the world they knew is dead."
Caspian showed no expression on his face, but he was uneasy. He had thought them mere mad crones, but the fact that they knew of his arrival—and more importantly, his intentions—disturbed him slightly. Nonetheless, he inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"So be it," he concluded. "Xandar will give them a new empire. One that does not depend on the flesh of slaves, but on the death of many clad in steel—those whom the Dothraki have detested for years."
They left the hall under the mantle of the Dothraki night. The eastern stars shone with a cold intensity over the silhouettes of the two dragons. Aerea broke the silence once they were far enough from the temple.
"Those old crones are utterly mad from the fumes, but they possess a political instinct that my uncle Jaehaerys's knights could only dream of," Aerea commented, letting out a short laugh. "They have handed Essos to you on a silver platter to a man who could have burned them all. At least they are well-versed in survival."
"People always align themselves with the mortal who can help them most, Aerea," Caspian said, mounting Endaxia. "Let us return to Xandar. I have a Khalasar to gather."
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Essos, Pentos
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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The afternoon sun fell over Pentos, casting a golden glow upon the brick towers and tiled roofs. High upon the shaded terraces of a Magister's manse, Groleo—a man of robust but not excessive build, dressed in turquoise silk robes embroidered with silver threads and sporting a forked beard dyed a pale blue—scrutinized the harbor visible from the heights.
Groleo turned to look at the woman seated in the shade of the portico. Mara Nymeros Martell did not wear the heavy, restrictive velvet of Westerosi ladies. She wore the light, flowing silks of Dorne, dyed the color of a night sky. Golden bands shaped like serpents coiled around her arms, and her dark, piercing eyes were fixed on the Magister.
"The Captain is already on his way, Princess," Groleo said, offering a diplomatic and unctuous smile. "The table is set. Let us see if this new eastern realm is as reasonable with diplomacy as it is with steel."
"I am not looking for a reasonable man, Magister," Mara replied, rising with feline grace. "I am looking for a man who understands that the world is ready to change with them, and that Dorne has no intention of being left behind while others reap the rewards."
Dinner was served as night fell, illuminated by aromatic oil torches under the cool breeze of the Narrow Sea. Silver platters overflowed with lamprey, honey-glazed duck, and candied fruits, but none of the three diners paid true attention to the food. The atmosphere was charged with an invisible tension, a political game of chess where every word was a piece moved with precision.
At the head of the table sat Vaellyn, captain of the HMS Loyalty. He wore his structured, padded Xandarian garments, an attire that denoted an almost military formality. His face remained serene, a mask of cold courtesy that betrayed not a single emotion.
"It is an honor to have you at my table, Captain Vaellyn," Groleo began, raising a goblet of golden wine from the Summer Islands. "My people have told me of your men's efficiency. The Khal does not conquer with steel alone, but also with order. And here in Pentos, we appreciate order... especially when it facilitates the flow of wealth."
"Xandar does not seek chaos, Magister Groleo," Vaellyn replied, measuring his tone. "Khal Caspian desires stability so that the western routes may flourish. But stability requires partners who are willing to envision such a future."
Mara, who had been silently observing the Xandarian's rigidity, intervened, leaning subtly forward. Her political versatility was deployed immediately; she did not speak as a fragile woman, but as the rightful princess of a realm that had never been broken.
"Stability is a luxury the world despises, Captain," Mara said, fixing her dark eyes on the sailor. "The fire of Balerion the Black Dread taught Dorne that blind pride only yields ashes. But Dorne does not forget. My people have resisted the dragon riders of Westeros for nearly a century, not just with spears but with cunning. However, I know how to recognize when the brute force of tradition is no longer enough."
Vaellyn tilted his head, showing a flash of interest that he immediately extinguished. The geopolitical panic in Westeros following the Targaryen War was invaluable intelligence for Xandar, but he had to remain hermetic.
"Dorne has resisted dragons in the past, Princess Mara," Vaellyn commented monotonically. "Your people are renowned for their tenacity."
"Tenacity does not stop fire from the sky if one lacks a modern strategy, Captain," Mara replied firmly. "Unscrupulous people seek a rustic war of blood; I seek to prevent disaster and secure the future of my people. That is why I am here in Pentos. I have not come to buy swords or beg for armies. What House Martell desires is to establish deep diplomatic, commercial, and social relations with the people of Xandar before the flames begin to burn."
Groleo, sensing that the conversation was elevating to spheres where he might be excluded from the profits, quickly intervened, waving a jeweled hand in the air. His genius lay in making himself indispensable as a potential bridge between east and west.
"An incredibly astute vision, Princess!" Groleo exclaimed melodiously. "Preventing the storm before the wind even blows. Such a deep exchange would need a safe harbor, a neutral enclave. My private docks here in Pentos are the perfect nexus. I can coordinate the logistics, the safeguarding of your materials, and the safe transit of your men... for a fair percentage of the volume of the commercial contracts, of course. A small price for absolute discretion."
Mara looked at Groleo with a mixture of disdain and useful recognition. She knew the magister was a leech, but a leech with the best contacts in the Free Cities.
"The Magister understands the value of routes, Captain," Mara continued, ignoring Groleo's avarice. "But my proposal goes beyond the warehouses of Pentos. I desire a social exchange: I want our scholars to study in your academies, our weavers to adopt your imperial dyes, and our builders to learn your techniques. I offer Xandar a permanent strategic ally in Westeros. A realm that will never kneel to the Targaryens, capable of acting as a shield or a spear for Xandar in the west should that war I so fear eventually erupt."
Vaellyn listened with absolute attention. Every word from Mara revealed the sharpness of a ruler trying to save her nation from a looming war; every intervention from Groleo exposed the logistics and vulnerabilities of Pentos.
"Your proposals are of a magnitude that exceeds the capacity of this table, Princess Mara," Vaellyn replied, keeping his hands steady. "You speak of a treaty of cultural and diplomatic integration before formal routes have even been opened. And you, Magister, propose a transit monopoly that would alter our existing agreements with the other houses of the Free Cities."
"The risk of a war in Westeros will affect all trade, Captain. I can ensure that Pentos serves as a commercial shield for you," Groleo pressed, leaning in with a sly smile.
"Xandar does not seek the shields of others, Magister Groleo," Vaellyn said, and for the first time, his voice acquired a sharp, icy edge. "My mission this moon is purely one of reconnaissance and controlled distribution. I bring with me samples of our ingenuity. I am recording the reaction of the western markets and assessing the stability of neighboring political factions, but I will not offer words of affirmation to your cause out of fear of a Westerosi conflict when Xandar possesses the strength to protect its own sovereignty."
Vaellyn looked directly at Mara, recognizing the woman's worth but remaining implacable in his position as a subordinate.
"I have neither the mandate nor the authority from the crown to offer a pact of diplomatic alliance or the dispatch of Xandarian scholars to Sunspear at this time to foster a bond between our two realms. Nor can I sign commercial exclusivity with House Groleo. In our kingdom, decisions of this magnitude belong exclusively to the Minister of Trade and, ultimately, to King Caspian. Until the minister issues explicit orders signed on royal paper, my ships act only as display outposts."
Mara did not appear disappointed; on the contrary, her eyes gleamed with the respect that military and bureaucratic discipline commands. A rising kingdom whose captains did not allow themselves to be tempted by promises of immediate glory was a partner worth allying with.
"A prudent answer, Captain Vaellyn," Mara said, reclining in her seat with a chilly elegance. "A man who promises what does not belong to him is a useless partner. But reports travel fast on your sharp-prowed ships. Tell your Minister of Trade and your King that the Princess of Dorne seeks allies of the future, not ghosts of the past. If Xandar wants a secure gateway to the west before the idiots start their wars, Sunspear is ready to be that gate."
Groleo, seeing that the commercial evening was ending without a signed contract but with the threads of a much larger web in his hands, raised his goblet once more, adapting to the outcome with typical Pentoshi flexibility.
"Then so be it," Groleo declared, smiling and showing whitish teeth amidst his blue beard. "Let us toast to the peace or the war to come, and may my manse remain the indispensable stage where the fate of the world is decided. And let the wine keep flowing, my guests, for the night is young!"
Vaellyn nodded faintly, taking a small sip from his goblet while his mind already drafted the encrypted message he would send to Xandar's eastern bases. The political game in the Narrow Sea had just become more complex, and Xandar's recent moves were merely the first pieces of an invisible conquest that was about to begin.