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Essos, The Great Grass Sea
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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The silence that followed the thundering crash of Endaxia's landing was more terrifying than the furious roar of the fire dancing against the grass. The plains of the Great Grass Sea exhaled a thick smoke, permeated with the stench of sulfur, melted bronze, and the scorched flesh of the Dothraki who, only minutes before, had felt unstoppable. The circle of fire traced by Endaxia continued to crackle—a perfect ring of bluish-purple flames that isolated the survivors of the dismantled khalasar. Thousands of Dothraki warriors, whose very names sowed panic from the borders of Qohor to the sands of Ghis, lay terrified and fearful, their weapons held only by habit, their eyes fixed on the gigantic silhouette of Endaxia as her talons touched the earth.
Caspian dismounted from the dragoness with astonishing ease, almost as if he were flying—which was not too far from the truth. His armor, crafted from netherite, looked as though it absorbed the flickering light of the fire. As he descended, his boots of the same precious metal crushed the ashes of what, minutes earlier, had been the Dothraki vanguard. Meanwhile, his eyes, shining like burning embers beneath the shadows of his blood-red hair, scanned the demoralized crowd.
Not far away, Khal Moro emerged from beneath a pile of dead horses and charred warriors. His clothes were torn and his bare torso was covered in soot, but there was still pride in his gaze. The jingling of the gold bells sewn into his hair chattered against the deathly silence that had formed after Endaxia landed. Beside him, two of his surviving bloodriders pulled themselves from the rubble, wielding their arakhs with trembling but determined hands. The bond that tied a bloodrider to his Khal knew no fear, only loyalty to the grave—even if that destiny meant certain death.
"Sky sorcerer!" Moro roared, spitting saliva mixed with blood and ash. "The Great Stallion will drag your corpse through the grass!"
Caspian did not respond with a shout, nor did he alter the rhythm of his steps. He brought his right hand to the hilt of his sword, a masterpiece crafted by Maicol. Behind him, the imposing Endaxia remained alert like a mountain of living copper, her eyes fixed on her rider, waiting for a signal that never came; Caspian wanted this khalasar, or what was left of it, and to claim it, the Khal had to die by his own hand.
"Your khalasar is mine now, Moro," Caspian said. His Dothraki had improved since then, and his voice, low but strangely clear, carried across the clearing. "Your men will live if they know how to kneel. You do not have that option."
Moro let out a savage cry and rushed toward him, swinging his curved arakh in a lethal arc designed to decapitate a man in a single blow. The two bloodriders launched themselves simultaneously from the flanks, seeking to overwhelm the foreigner by sheer force of numbers. It was a measure born entirely of bloodlust, given that it was the Khal alone who should have engaged in duel.
Caspian's superiority in combat was not just a matter of strength; it was an exhibition of precision and supernatural grace—attributes forged through potions and martial training, discipline he had not neglected even when the weight of ruling a kingdom had arrived. When the first bloodrider launched a low thrust toward his legs, Caspian did not even look at the weapon. With a subtle sidestep, he evaded the curved steel by a mere few millimeters. Before the warrior could regain his balance, Caspian spun on his heel and brought the pommel of his greatsword down in a reverse strike directly into the Dothraki's face. The attack was not chivalrous in the least, but this was not for preening or displaying false honor; it was to kill. The impact shattered the frontal bone, sending the man to the ground, dead, with cerebral matter spilling from his nostrils.
The second bloodrider attacked, slashing his arakh toward Caspian's neck. But with a speed that defied human sight, Caspian raised his sword. The clash of metal rang out like a cathedral bell. Without breaking the parry, Caspian applied a massive downward force, forcing the Dothraki's arms to give way. In one fluid motion, he disengaged his blade and drew a perfect semicircle through the air. The netherite sword sliced cleanly through leather and flesh; the bloodrider collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest before falling lifeless onto the scorched earth.
Khal Moro arrived a moment later, capitalizing on the apparent opening. His arakh descended with the force of a meteorite toward Caspian's shoulder. But there was no impact. Caspian raised his left gauntlet and caught the Dothraki steel blade directly with his hand. Sparks flew as the sharp edge scraped against the magical metal, but the gauntlet did not suffer a single scratch.
Moro's eyes widened in pure terror upon seeing his weapon trapped. He tried to wrench it away, but Caspian's grip was made of iron.
"You have lived with pain and suffering on your back," Caspian whispered, staring directly into the Khal's wild eyes. "But there are things far older and darker in this world. It is a pity you will not live to see them."
With a swift, heavy kick from his boot, Caspian shattered Moro's right knee. The Khal unleashed a roar of pain and sank onto one leg, losing his grip on his arakh. Caspian released the enemy blade, letting it clatter to the ground, and took a step back, maintaining an insulting advantage. Moro, driven by pride and adrenaline, attempted to stand using his sound leg, throwing a desperate left hook.
Caspian simply ducked his head, letting the blow pass harmlessly by, and in the very same movement, buried his sword into Moro's chest. The steel drove out through his back, clean and lethal. The Khal froze, his mouth open in a silent exhalation as the light faded from his eyes.
Caspian extracted the blade slowly. Moro staggered and fell face down, his long braid resting over the pool of his own blood. Caspian reached out, grabbed the Khal's hair, and with a single stroke of his sword, severed the braid at the root. The gold bells jingled one last time before being buried in the reddish mud.
He raised the blood-stained braid into the air, facing the thousands of Dothraki who watched from within the circle of fire.
"Your Khal is dead!" Caspian proclaimed, his voice seeming to resonate with the echo of the dragons—one behind him and the other in the sky. "From this day forth, there is no Khal Moro. There is no nomadic Khalasar. Now you are part of my Khalasar, the one that serves the Xandarian crown, my crown. Whoever wishes to keep his braid and his life, bend the knee before me. Whoever prefers to join the ashes of Moro, remain standing."
For a second, only the afternoon wind moved the grass that remained untouched. Then, one Dothraki, seeing the severed braid and the colossal dragon keeping watch, threw down his arakh and prostrated himself entirely. In less than a minute, the movement rippled through them like a wave. Nearly fourteen thousand Dothraki warriors—the most feared cavalry force of the central plains—bowed before the red-haired man standing in front of them. All while Caspian offered a slight smile.
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Essos, Pentos
Tenth Moon of 57 AC
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The afternoon sun fell over Pentos, tinting the pink brick towers and the glazed tile roofs with a golden glow. Upon the terraces of Magister Groleo's mansion, the air smelled of rosewater, cinnamon, and the salt of the sea that lapped against the private docks of the Free City. Groleo, a man of generous flesh, dressed in turquoise silk robes embroidered with silver threads and his split beard dyed a pale blue, scanned the harbor through a Myrish eye.
There were ships from the Summer Islands with their colorful sails, war galleys from Braavos, and trading cogs from Oldtown, but his eyes were fixed on two strangely designed vessels that had just berthed at the north pier. They did not possess the heavy lines of Westerosi ships, nor the slender structure of the Free Cities' vessels. Their hulls were long and elegant, with very pronounced, sharp bows that ended in a heavy steel ram. A fierce dragon, its mouth agape with carved scales and folded wings, seemed to emerge from the water as the figurehead.
And from their masts fluttered a banner that made the rulers of Essos nervous and furious in equal measure: a purple dragon holding a sword, the emblem of Xandar.
(Image)
"They are faster than the reports say," a voice commented behind him.
It was Ordello, his chief free servant and the man tasked with overseeing the ledgers of Groleo's trading house.
"They are no ordinary ships, Ordello," the Magister replied, shutting the Myrish eye with a click. "They say the wood of their hulls was treated in the shipyards of old Volantis with rituals and sacrifices that prevent sea salt or rot from touching them. They bring goods from the new kingdom of the east. The market of Pentos is starved for novelties, and I shall be the first to taste them. Prepare yourself. We will go to the docks in person. I will not let the messengers of the other magisters claim the best of it."
Half an hour later, Groleo walked along the wooden planks of the pier under the protection of a dozen hired guards—robust men with pikes and breastplates of polished iron. The heat of the docks was suffocating, but the Magister barely noticed it, fascinated by the activity unfolding around the Xandarian ships. The sailors unloading the crates were not slaves; they moved with an almost military discipline, wearing clean gray armor—a strange choice to wear at sea due to the risk of drowning. But aside from them, two people could also be seen on the ship's deck, covered from head to toe in dark robes and veils that revealed only their eyes.
At the forefront of the unloading stood a tall man with olive skin and features that suggested blood from the hills of Qohor, though his clothes were purely Xandarian—those strange but luxurious garments they were accustomed to wearing.
"Greetings, traveler from the east," Groleo spoke, forcing his best commercial smile, the very same one he used when he intended to ruin a rival from Lys. "I am Magister Groleo. My house governs the trade of fabrics and spices in this sector of Pentos. I have been told your cargo holds bring new things from the city of the Khal."
The Xandarian merchant looked up, evaluating the magister's silk robes and the jewels adorning his fingers. His face never showed a smile or amiability; he simply nodded and offered a greeting.
"I am Vaellyn, captain of the HMS Loyalty of Xandar," the man replied, giving a brief inclination of his head that denoted respect but not submission, though by the look on Groleo's face, it was clear he did not understand what those letters meant. "We bring what King Caspian has ordered us to distribute to open the western routes. If you are looking for trinkets or common spices, magister, you have come to the wrong dock. What Xandar offers is not measured in sacks of grain."
"Pentos has enough gold to buy a kingdom if the product is worth it, Vaellyn," Groleo countered, stroking his dyed beard. "Show me what it is that makes the merchants of the Free Cities bite their nails every time one of your ships sets sail from Volan... Xandar."
Vaellyn signaled to one of his men. The man brought over a wooden crate reinforced with iron corner pieces and placed it on a wooden table upon the pier. Carefully, the captain slid back the latches and opened the lid. The interior was lined with black velvet, designed to highlight the contents.
Groleo stepped forward, holding his breath.
Inside the box lay a dozen strange contraptions. They were round, made of what appeared to be copper or something similar, shaped like a clam with two halves gathered, and a small chain hung from the top. The captain took one and held it closer to the Magister.
"This is known as a watch," Vaellyn began to explain in a monotonous voice. "Xandar's knowledge is so advanced that we have discovered how to read time with exact precision. The day and the night are divided into twelve hours each, and each hour is composed of sixty minutes, and so on; each minute has sixty seconds. The watch punctually counts the seconds and minutes, giving the exact hour."
"Magnificent..." Groleo whispered, feeling the coldness of the metal in the palm of his hand. "What else do you have?"
...
"Let us continue with what a man of fabrics will value above all else," Vaellyn said, extracting a thick glass jar that contained a dense powder of a purple so deep it seemed to absorb the sunlight. "Dyes. But not the dye of Tyrosh that fades after three washes or stinks like rotten snail when heated. This is extracted from the factories of Xandar, processed with materials found only within our domains. A single pinch of this powder can dye a hundred yards of silk with a violet hue that will never lose its luster, neither under the desert sun nor after a hundred washes in the river."
The Magister took a pinch of the powder between his index finger and thumb, rubbing it. It left no greasy residue, but his skin remained stained with a purple tint so vibrant it seemed alive. His eyes shone. The silks of Tyrosh and Myr were famous across the world for their colors, but they were costly to produce and delicate to maintain. A dye that did not discolor over the years was worth its weight in gold.
"Astonishing," Groleo admitted, trying not to let his voice betray his enthusiasm. "Is there anything in Xandar to feed my tongue?"
Vaellyn smiled faintly and opened two small, hermetically sealed wooden boxes. In one was a white, crystalline, fine powder; in the other, compact blocks of a translucent white that glinted beneath the sun.
"Salt, purified in such a way that it does not embitter meat, but preserves it for twice as long as the common gray salt," the merchant explained. "And this, magister, is something we call refined sugar in Xandar. It is not the thick, impure molasses of honey that they sometimes bring from the Summer Islands, tasting of earth. Taste it."
Groleo broke off a small fragment of the sugar block and placed it on his tongue. The sweetness was immediate, and clean, without the burnt aftertaste of common syrups. As a spice merchant, he knew that nobles placed sweetness on the same tier as silver; but this, this was a luxury reserved for the banquets of the high nobility.
"An exquisite palate will know how to pay for this," Groleo murmured, wiping his lips with a piece of cloth.
"As for this, it is called paper," Vaellyn said, stroking the surface of some white sheets, perfectly smooth and of a uniform thickness that far surpassed the coarse leather parchment or the fragile vellum of the Free Cities. "In Westeros and in the Citadel of Oldtown, the maesters still write their chronicles on parchments—a material that leaves much to be desired and produces heavy books, prone to moths and moisture. Our paper is manufactured in Xandar from treated plant fibers. It is light, flexible, and ink does not bleed into its fibers."
"And what are these small metal tools?" the Magister asked, pointing to some elongated objects made of polished iron resting in another box.
"We call them lighters," Vaellyn said, taking one of the objects between his fingers. He took a sheet of paper and placed it on the table, and with a swift flick of his hand, a spark jumped against the surface of the paper, and a bright, steady flame erupted immediately from the sheet. Vaellyn blew on the paper, scattering the ashes to the ground. "Forget the flint, steel, and damp tinder your guards use to light torches at night. A pressure of the hand, and fire is at your service, even under the harbor drizzle."
Groleo stared at the small iron lighter as if it were a magical jewel. It required no spells; it required no chants from the red priests of the temple who now supported Caspian; it was simple ingenuity, a technical marvel that any noble or freedman would pay for in gold just for the comfort of not having to rub stones together beneath a storm.
"Vaellyn, your city knows how to tempt a merchant. This cargo will conquer the halls and pockets of every wealthy man from Pentos to the Wall. What is the price for each lot?"
With that, Vaellyn knew that Xandar's first sale under his command had borne fruit.