An hour later, more than a dozen richly dressed and distinctive figures arrived at the port under the escort of their retinues.
As soon as their masters appeared, the hundred-odd armed guards who had gathered at the docks quickly dispersed, regrouping behind their respective lords.
Only a handful of warriors remained standing awkwardly in place—their master clearly hadn't shown up.
Indeed, only twelve of the so-called "Thirteen" merchant princes of Qarth had come.
The one who hadn't was none other than that ambitious, dark-skinned fat man, the very same arrogant merchant from the TV series.
"Good grief, you pig-headed bastard," Aedric thought darkly. "You couldn't even bother to show up? Fine. I'll remember this. You'll be the one getting the small shoes later."
It was human nature, really—if none of them had come, he wouldn't have minded.
But since everyone else had shown up except one… well, that one was just asking for "autumn accounts" later.
"Ah! Sword Saint, welcome, welcome! Your arrival truly brings glory to our humble city!"
Among the group, a plump, cheerful merchant—his robe almost bursting with gold thread—stepped forward, beaming with flattery.
"No need for such courtesy," Aedric replied calmly. "It's I who owe you all an apology."
After all, courtesy deserved courtesy. Since these men greeted him with smiles, he naturally wouldn't pick a fight right away over one absent merchant.
"I didn't realize this ship's previous owner had caused so much trouble," he continued sincerely. "It was never my intention to alarm you."
"Hahaha! The Sword Saint is far too humble. Please, come into the city! We insist on giving you a proper welcome feast!"
Pleased that this famed Westerosi warrior was so reasonable, the merchants—who lived and breathed by the creed "peace brings profit"—escorted Aedric and Arya into Qarth.
A procession of ornate carriages carried them straight to a grand hall that had clearly been lavishly prepared in advance.
"So that's what they were busy with for the past hour," Aedric mused. "Efficient, courteous, and quick on the uptake—not bad. True merchants indeed."
Amid laughter and clinking goblets, Aedric casually inquired about the missing Thirteenth Prince.
He soon learned that the absent man had gone off to receive another "storm-named" visitor—none other than Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn Silver Queen herself.
And just as her name was spoken in that banquet hall, across the city Daenerys and her small entourage had also just arrived in Qarth, guided by that same dark-skinned merchant, Xaro Xhoan Daxos.
He led them to a lavish courtyard, promising them temporary residence and safety.
But earlier that day, when Aedric's mighty, qi-infused voice had rolled across the entire city like thunder, Daenerys and her followers—who were gathered at another gate—had heard it clearly.
The names "Westeros," "the North," and "House Stark" had immediately set her on edge.
Though she had yet to hear of the Storm Sword Saint, she instinctively feared that this Westerosi warrior might have come to kill her.
Even now, with dragons by her side, Daenerys had survived more assassination attempts than she could count.
If she were being targeted again—by someone from across the sea, no less—it could only mean her enemies were growing desperate and mad.
After several tense hours, her loyal knight Ser Jorah Mormont finally returned from scouting, a strange look on his face.
"Khaleesi," he reported, "I've confirmed it. This Jon Snow—he's not here for you."
Jorah then explained what he had learned: King Robert's death, the conflict between the North and King's Landing, and how this Jon Snow had earned the title Storm Sword Saint after single-handedly rescuing three Stark family members from execution.
He even told her about the Baratheon brothers—Renly and Stannis—who were now on the verge of civil war for the Iron Throne.
"According to what Jon Snow said during tonight's banquet," Jorah continued, "he came here simply to collect rare medicinal herbs. He's already given the other Twelve Princes a list."
"He even paid several thousand gold dragons as deposit and intends to sell his ship, the Serenity, to purchase a new one. That sort of spending doesn't look like a ruse. I'd say he had no idea you were coming here at all."
Daenerys mulled over his words, her violet eyes narrowing slightly.
"Storm…" she murmured thoughtfully. "A word that carries meaning for me as well."
Then, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Ser Jorah, do you think we could meet this 'Sword Saint'? Perhaps recruit him to our cause?"
Ever since she had gained her three dragons, Daenerys's confidence had soared.
She saw omens of destiny in every event.
To her, nothing in the world was impossible anymore.
After all, she was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons.
She had already convinced herself she could, by sheer force of charisma, persuade the Thirteen merchant princes to hand over a fleet of ships for free.
Yes—free.
A plan that could only be called optimistic, at best.
Owning dragons had clearly gone to her head.
"I'm afraid it won't be easy, Khaleesi," Jorah said after a long pause. "This Jon Snow didn't come alone. There's a girl with him."
"From a distance, I recognized her—Arya Stark, Lord Eddard's third daughter."
He met her gaze grimly.
"If she's still traveling with him, it means this Jon Snow holds Lord Stark's full trust. He won't easily pledge himself elsewhere—especially not to you."
Jorah drew a slow breath, his tone turning somber.
"Remember, Khaleesi… what your father did to the Starks. They still hate House Targaryen with every fiber of their being."
Daenerys's expression tightened. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then finally exhaled and nodded, setting aside her ambition to recruit the Sword Saint—for now.
She would focus first on Qarth's merchant princes.
Or, more accurately, on getting free ships out of them.
After all, in her mind, dragons in hand meant destiny assured.
What were a few greedy merchants compared to that?
They should be falling over themselves to kneel before her, offering ships, soldiers, and gold in exchange for a place in her glorious future.
Once she reclaimed the Iron Throne, she would—of course—repay them a hundredfold.
So she told herself.
But a month later, after endless rejections, failed negotiations, and more than a few unwanted marriage proposals, Daenerys began to… doubt life itself.
How could these merchants be so short-sighted?
Couldn't they see her destiny? Her dragons? Her right to rule?
"They're dragons! The real thing!" she fumed privately.
"Seven hells, what investment could possibly yield more return than dragons?"
And yet, while she was busy being ignored and rejected, every merchant in Qarth seemed to be bending over backward to serve that Westerosi swordsman.
They were scrambling to gather herbs for him, building him a new ship—
"What, so my three dragons aren't worth as much as one sword saint now?!"
Just as Daenerys was about to lose her mind in frustration, Xaro Xhoan Daxos delivered news that left her utterly stunned—
The supreme heirloom of House Targaryen, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre,
was currently in the hands of that very same "bastard" from the North.
~~--------------------------
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