Chapter 49: Erathon the Night-Waker

"As for Westeros," Jorah said, his expression gloomy, "I do not know if you should give up on that dangerous iron chair. But I know this: the longer you stay in one place, the easier it is for your enemies to find you. Targaryen is a name that terrifies men, especially now that they know you have dragons."

"I thank you for your counsel, Ser," Daenerys said, her voice sincere. She looked him directly in the eyes. "But Westeros is a dream to me. Tell me, if I am no longer a queen seeking a throne, can I still have a Queensguard I can truly trust?"

It was a test. Her ambitions for Westeros were a phantom, a story she told to manipulate the men around her. But for Jorah, it was everything. His hope of returning home, his honor restored, was inextricably tied to her reclaiming the Iron Throne.

"Daenerys," he said, the name a raw, vulnerable thing. "You can trust the loyalty of one who… admires you."

"That is the problem," she sighed. "If I cannot return that admiration, and if I cannot give you back your honorable home, then what is your loyalty truly worth?"

"Your Grace, why must you be so cruel?" he asked, a bitter smile on his lips.

It would be crueler to give you false hope, she thought. "You are a reliable brother-in-arms," she said, her voice softening, "a friend I trust. I do not wish to lie to you. So please, do not lie to me."

He flushed, his heart clearly moved by her words. But when she said the last sentence, his face went deathly pale. "I have not lied to you," he blurted out, a little too quickly. "And I never will."

You are lying to me now, she thought, a profound disappointment settling in her heart. This had been his chance to confess, to tell her of his spying for King's Landing, to be forgiven. But he could not bring himself to do it. She could trust his sword, but not his whole heart. Not yet.

She changed the subject. "Ser, take Aggo to the blacksmiths' guild tomorrow. It is time to order armor for my warriors." She had originally thought of steel, but had decided against it. The Dothraki tradition of scorning armor was one reason. Their inexperience as heavy cavalry was another. And she did not entirely trust the quality of Qartheen steel. "Based on your expertise, choose a light leather armor, but one that can defend against arrows. Add a breastplate, front and back."

Jorah hesitated. "Your Grace, with respect, no such leather armor exists."

Dany felt a flash of irritation at being called a novice. "My requirements are simple. I ask only that it can stop an arrow."

"A single arrow, perhaps. A volley from massed archers?" The big bear shook his head. "Iron arrows can pierce steel plate. What hope does leather have? An elite archer from the Summer Isles, with a goldenheart bow, can punch through thin leather at four hundred paces."

She sighed in frustration. "Then get the best leather you can, with an iron plate for the chest. Some protection is better than none."

The next morning, Jorah and Aggo went to the guild. It was a small order, but it led to an immediate dispute. Jorah, thinking of protection, chose a full helm with a visor and gorget. Aggo, thinking of Dothraki pride, refused. Such a helmet would crush a warrior's braid. They brought the argument to her.

"Cut a hole in the back," she commanded, "so the braid may pass through."

"It is ugly, and a weakness," Jorah muttered.

"The armor is already full of weaknesses," she sighed. "What is one more?"

She also ordered a great number of crossbows—light ones for the saddle, and heavy ones for the women, children, and old men. The order, combined with her recent purchase of camels, did not go unnoticed. Xaro, suspecting she was preparing to leave, came to her, his face a mask of theatrical grief.

"Light of my life," he wept, "what have I done to displease you?"

Dany met his performance with one of her own, her own eyes turning red. "You have been a most gracious host," she said, her voice trembling. "But my people in Westeros await me. The Usurper is dead. I must seize this chance, and yet I have found no aid in this great city."

"So you will ride your camels back to the Great Grass Sea?" he asked, his eyes sharp and calculating beneath the tears.

"Perhaps," she shrugged helplessly. "Unless a true friend were to gift me two large ships for the journey."

Xaro pondered this, then a strange smile touched his lips. "My star, do not be so hasty. Perhaps things will yet turn for you." He dismissed the other merchant guilds as liars and pirates. "But do you remember the warlock’s mummy I purchased from you?"

Dany’s face remained passive, but her mind flashed to Jorah’s recent report. "That man who helped Xaro with the ritual," he had told her, "was a lesser warlock named Erathon, a 'Night-Waker.' The servants heard strange cries from the chamber after the ritual, and the businessman’s curses. I suspect it had… some small effect." He had then added, with a look of pure disgust, "All the love he professes for you is a lie, Your Grace. He does not like women at all. His palace is filled with perfumed boys."

She looked at Xaro now, at his doughy, milky-white face and the jewels glittering on his nose, and saw him not as a suitor, but as a bald, colorful bird, preening in a gilded cage.

"Did the warlock’s magic work?" she asked.

"It has its uses," he said evasively, "when combined with certain medicines." He leaned closer. "The point is, the warlocks’ power is returning. Soon, they will be a great force in this city once more. Perhaps, if Pyat Pree is too dangerous, a more… secular warlock could be of use to you."

Dany now understood what he meant. As time went on, the warlocks would grow stronger, and they would become one of the most powerful factions in Qarth. If she could secure their help…

"Perhaps the great warlock lied to you," she said. "And even if it's true, why would they help me?"

"One must try every path, my sweet," Xaro suggested. "I know a more reasonable warlock. This Erathon, the Night-Waker. He has a weakness for gold. And any man who loves gold can be trusted… because I have more of it than anyone."