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Essos, The Summer Sea
12th Moon of 57 AC
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The smoke of the blue lotus floated in dense, lazy layers inside the aft cabin, a space that had been transformed to simulate the opulence of the palaces of Slaver's Bay. The teak wood walls were hidden behind Lysene silk tapestries depicting scenes of ancient libations, and in the center, upon a silver-threaded rug that cushioned the swaying of the waves, three figures sat arranged around a pierced bronze brazier.
That merchant vessel flying the flag of Meereen, anchored in neutral waters on the southern fringes of the Summer Sea, carried no ordinary cargo. It was the epicenter of an alliance born not out of mutual affection, but out of shared panic. The map spread across the low table did not show the lines of the traditional maritime routes of Essos, but rather the dying trade arteries that had once nourished the treasuries of three great powers.
The first to break the silence was Grazdan zo Galare, a noble of Meereen whose purple silk tokar fringed with gold denoted his lineage from Ancient Ghis. His fingers, adorned with rings of jade and carnelian, tapped impatiently against his knees.
"Slaver's Bay is suffocating," Grazdan declared, his voice raspy from tobacco and resentment. "This is not a market fluctuation or a seasonal bad streak. Ever since that northern upstart—that supposed monarch clad in a metal that seems torn from the nightmares of the Ancient Freehold—rose over the ashes of Volantis, the human trade has fallen into an abyss. The flesh markets of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor are registering the most severe losses of the past century. Volantis was our primary buyer in the west, the anvil that sustained the economy of the plantations. Now, the freedmen of that cursed peninsula import grain from the south and tools produced by their own hands. They have eradicated the need for servitude through crafts that defy the logic of human labor."
Across from him, seated upon a sea-green velvet cushion, Vyrio Nestoris, one of the Archons of the commercial oligarchy of Tyrosh, whose hair was dyed a brilliant electric blue that contrasted with the paleness of her skin, exhaled a puff of aromatic smoke before intervening. Her tone of voice was that of a woman accustomed to calculating the cost of war in gold coins.
"Meereen is losing arms, Grazdan, but Tyrosh is losing its purpose," Vyrio said with a cutting coldness. "Our dyes, our shipyards, and our smiths used to supply the market of the Stepstones and the coasts of the Free Cities. Today, Xandar's ships dominate the currents of the Summer Sea with an absurd speed. Their vessels possess a design that our master caulkers cannot manage to replicate; their hulls are wide yet they advance against the wind as if driven by invisible forces. They have monopolized trade with the Summer Islands and have established a direct corridor with Pentos. And what do we receive? Crumbs. Xandar is trading exclusively between its own vassal cities and the ports that kneel before its terms. They are leaving us off the board through economic isolation."
The third member of the conclave, a man from Qarth who called himself Yuliquo Fargos—a member of the Thirteen, wrapped in a Qartheen silk robe that shifted colors between green and gold depending on the light—expressed his thoughts.
"The Queen of Cities also weeps for the loss of her splendor," Fargos expressed with calculated calculated melodrama. "The caravans that crossed the Deserts of Bones to bring spices and silk from the far east no longer stop at our wharves to be re-shipped toward the west. Merchants prefer to risk rounding the Valyrian peninsula because they know that in the ports of Xandar they will find a ravenous market, gold that flows from mines that seem never to empty, and a security that no other fleet can guarantee. Xandar is a pit that is absorbing the wealth of Essos. Its capital is not a city; it is a fortress that consumes world trade."
"Commercial control is only the symptom of a much deeper disease," Vyrio interjected. "Let us speak of their military power. The reports my spies brought from the northern steppes are appalling. This Caspian has not merely subdued the peripheral khalasars; he has unified the Great Grass Sea under a single command. The title of Grand Khal is no rhetorical affectation. He has over half a million Dothraki riders quartered in Vaes Yeraan, a city that by all accounts was restructured in weeks using construction methods that defy what we know. He has taken the wildest, most disorganized force on the continent and transformed it into a regular army, disciplined by strict laws of Xandar. If those Dothraki hordes decide to march south or east, there will be no wall in Meereen nor mercenaries in Qarth that can contain that sea of hooves."
"And let us not forget the power he deploys at sea," Grazdan zo Galare added, adjusting his tokar with a sharp movement. "His purple dragon banner instills a superstitious terror. His ships patrol the waters with an impunity that is offensive. General Galileo of Xandar commands an armada that not only doubles our defensive fleets in number, but we know it is backed by the dragons nesting in their capital. Maritime power, terrestrial control of the Dothraki, and an economy based on resources that seem to spring from nothingness... Xandar is a geopolitical aberration. It is an empire born overnight that will not stop until everyone in this room is either its vassal or its freedman."
Fargos leaned forward, his face taking on an expression of cunning stripped of its usual theatricality.
"Brute force is not the only way to fell a deep-rooted tree," the Qartheen suggested. "Empires built around the will of a single man are usually fragile at their apex. Caspian is the axis upon which the entire structure of Xandar turns. He designed its laws, he commands his bloodriders clad in blue, he controls the fire of his beasts. If the axis snaps, the wheel of Xandar will smash against the rocks of chaos. His ministers are skilled bureaucrats, yes, but without the savage monarch, the Dothraki hordes will fragment once more into khalasars warring over pastures, the liberated slaves will plunge into revolts, and the Free Cities will be able to reclaim what rightfully belongs to them."
"The physical elimination of a king protected by dragons and steel is no simple task, Fargos," Vyrio Nestoris replied, crossing her arms. "Tyrosh knows of warfare in the shadows. We considered that option before convening this meeting. My city sent a formal emissary to the House of Black and White in Braavos. We brought a fortune in gems and promises of commercial concessions that would have enriched the temple for a century—enough to buy the death of any magistrate or archon of the Free Cities."
Grazdan and Fargos looked at the Archon with restrained expectation. The temple of the Faceless Men was known worldwide for the infalliability of its contracts.
"And?" the Ghiscari inquired. "When will the Grand Khal receive the gift of the Many-Faced God?"
Vyrio Nestoris let out a bitter, dry laugh, shaking her head in frustration.
"The temple rejected the contract."
The silence that followed those words was absolute, broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers as it took the impact of a lateral wave.
"They rejected the gold?" Fargos asked, incredulous. "The Faceless Men do not reject contracts if the price is proportional to the status of the target. The price of a king is exorbitant, but Tyrosh and Qarth together can pay it."
"It was not a matter of price," Vyrio explained, her blue eyes fixed on the fire in the brazier. "The emissary met with one of the higher priests in Braavos. The response was categorical and gélid. They said the House of Black and White does not accept petitions, contracts, or offerings directed against King Caspian or against any legitimate citizen of Xandar. The priest argued that the souls of Xandar belong to a balance that the temple does not have the authority to alter, and that the Many-Faced God does not claim debts from a kingdom that walks under the shadow of the Smith. They practically drove us from their domain. The most lethal assassins in the world fear Xandar, or are indebted to its mysteries."
Grazdan zo Galare struck the low table with his fist, making the silver cups clink.
"Cowards of Braavos!" he bellowed. "They hide behind their mysticism because they dare not challenge Caspian's military power. If the north cannot help us, we will seek steel elsewhere."
"Calm, my dear friend of Ghis," Fargos intervened, recovering his sibilant smile. "Braavos is not the only place where death is sold for a price. If the Faceless Men shrink from the task for fear of the balance of their gods, we men of Qarth share no such scruples. There exists another order, one that does not answer to the Many-Faced God, but to the traditions of courtesy and refined suffering of my own land."
"The Sorrowful Men," Vyrio Nestoris murmured, narrowing her eyes. "They say they always say 'I am so sorry' to their victims before dealing the death blow."
"Quite so," Fargos nodded, his fingers caressing a jade amulet that hung from his neck. "The Sorrowful Men do not trouble themselves with the balance of souls or the dragons that cross the skies of Xandar. They are an instrument of the will of Qarth. Their methods are subtle, precise, and ruthless. They do not seek a direct confrontation; they know there are better ways. A basilisk or manticore poison, introduced into his chambers in a moment of distraction; a dart steeped in the essence of the tears of Lys that penetrates; or a trap laid in the dim light of their reconstructed temples in Vaes Dothrak."
"And what makes you think the Sorrowful Men will succeed where Braavos dares not compete?" Vyrio questioned. "Caspian is surrounded by eight bloodriders, warriors who do not sleep or leave his side, trained in Dothraki savagery."
"Bloodriders are men, Archon, and men make mistakes," Fargos replied confidently. "Furthermore, the Sorrowful Men have the advantage of patience. They can wait for months, blend into the tide of ex-slaves that Xandar is absorbing into its residential districts, or present themselves as humble servants in the court of the Grand Khal. Caspian's ambition to rebuild Vaes Dothrak as a metropolis of stone and iron offers the perfect opportunity. In a city under construction, where thousands of workers move daily, anonymity is an assassin's best shield."
Grazdan zo Galare leaned back in his seat, evaluating the proposal. His eyes reflected the desperation of a magnate who saw his commercial empire crumbling before the advance of a new order.
"The cost of hiring the Sorrowful Men for a regicide of this scale will be immense," the Ghiscari pointed out. "They will demand an amount of gold that will weaken our defensive coffers for the coming months."
"A necessary expense, Grazdan," Vyrio Nestoris sentenced, giving her approval. "Consider it a long-term investment for the survival of our markets. If Xandar continues to expand the way it does, if they succeed in their missions in what remains of the Free Cities, Tyrosh, Meereen, and Qarth will become footnotes in the history books written by the Khal's scribes. I would rather empty half my treasury today than hand over the entirety of my ports tomorrow to the damned Xandarians."
"Qarth will contribute its third share in gems and spices that can be converted into liquid gold in the ports of Slaver's Bay," Fargos announced, stretching his jeweled hand over the brazier. "The Sorrowful Men will receive their commission before the current moon comes to an end. Their finest agents will begin the journey toward the Grass Sea. The forgiveness of Qarth will be delivered to the Grand Khal in his own palace of blocks and ashes."
The three figures joined their hands over the fire of the brazier, sealing a pact of blood and gold in the dim light of the cabin. Outside, the Summer Sea continued to rock the timbers of the ship, ignorant that within that space, the most ambitious conspiracy against the throne of the Smith had just been designed.
The net was cast. While the High Council in Xandar planned the acquisition of the Unsullied and the distribution of wheat enriched with bonemeal toward Vaes Yeraan, the forces of the old world, represented by the greed of Ghis, the cunning of Tyrosh, and the lethal refinement of Qarth, moved their pieces on the board. The Pax Xandariana was about to face its first trial, not on the open battlefields where dragons and Dothraki hordes were invincible, but in the silent and dark corridors where a single whispered apology preceded the fall of kings.