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(EM Vol. 2: A Wandering Melody) Chapter 31: Black and Blue
🕑 Added 2025-07-08 14:00:12 +0000 UTCChapter 31: Black and Blue
123 AC, Qarth
Growing up, Thalor Thornezh knew that Qarth was the most beautiful city in the world, and in all his years, he never found reason to deny it. After all, their city had predated Valyria itself, and perhaps even more than any other human settlement, enough that some of his fellow Pureborn often claimed that it was the birthplace of civilisation, something that visitors often debated out of pride.
It did not matter in the end. Who cared what men did thousands of years ago? The present was far more important, which included the affairs of the previous day.
Thalor walked to the council chambers, the slaves bowing as he entered and silently guiding him to his seat, which had a chilled pear brandy waiting for him, as was expected for a man of his position. Thalor was a Pureborn, a descendant of the ancient Kings who had once ruled Qarth. It was mostly a ceremonial title now, with the governance of their precious city being in the hands of the Thirteen, a council of thirteen men and women elected by the wealthiest residents of the city. It was decided after the bloodbath during the Century of Blood, where the city’s factions tried to bid for control over the city. The Pureborn still ruled the city, but it was in name only, with the actual governance being in the hands of the Thirteen.
It wasn’t often that the Thirteen called for a council of this size, let alone a meeting in the Hall of a Thousand thrones, but when they did, it was never for anything trivial. The last time such a meeting had been called, half a decade past, it had been to decide on the execution of a merchant from Asshai, who was found with a ship filled with bound Stone Men, men who had lost their sanity after being infected with Greyscale. A single mistake could have caused an uncontrollable outbreak in the city, and even now, they did not know if this was an attack on Qarth itself, or some odd request of merchandise in Yi-Ti like the merchant proclaimed. It did not matter either way. The ship was burned, and any person involved, including the guards, was executed to avoid the outbreak. It was a ruthless measure, but a necessary one.
Thalor sipped his brandy slowly, letting the cool sweetness settle on his tongue as his eyes swept across the rising rows of gilded seats. He had an idea of what the issue was, mainly the very concerning movements of the Warlocks of Qarth in the last Fortnight.
Whatever it was, the warlocks started aggressively harvesting the blue leaves of the Black-barked trees that surrounded their temple, showing an increase in production of the Shade of the Evening. Furthermore, the warlocks hadn’t left the Temple of the Undying for a while, and they were all concerned with the possibility of an invasion or an attack.
The Thirteen rarely concerned themselves with the rituals of the Warlocks; eccentricity was expected of those who drank dreams, but this was different. The city’s informants whispered of frenzied chants at midnight, and of strange lights flickering near the temples. They were all justifiably concerned.
Before the Doom of Valyria, the Warlocks of Qarth were a treasured and necessary resource. Thalor would not say that he understood the mechanics of their magic, which they guarded jealously; anyone who knew of it without being a member of their order often found themselves dying a very mysterious death, and people learned to stop digging after a while.
Nevertheless, despite the mystery, the warlocks had somehow made Qarth an unattractive target for the Dragonlords. It wasn’t a guarantee, and there were likely multiple reasons that stopped the Valyrians’ violent expansion of their empire, specifically the logistical concerns over governing such a large area of Essos, even with their dragons.
And yet, after the Doom, the Warlocks’ use started to fade. They retreated to their temples, drinking their Shade of the Evening all day, acting as advisors when magical matters were involved. Even when blood poured in the streets during the Century of Blood, they did not take sides. They did not attempt to support either side, and no one knew why.
Their movements after centuries of stagnation worried everyone who was able to notice it, and it showed. It took a while, but finally, most of the council had gathered, and this time, it seemed like every man in Qarth who had any influence was invited. Thalor noticed members of the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the Ancient Guild of Spicers spread around the room. A part of him bristled at the thought of these merchants sitting on the thrones that belonged to extinct Pureborn families, but no room could even match the necessity of both security and capacity in Qarth, other than the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.
Instead, his eyes, much like everyone in the room, were fixed on the solitary figure that stared at the Thirteen, his eyes completely blank, Pyat Pree.
Thin as a reed and draped in robes, the shade of bruised twilight, Pyat Pree was the face the Warlocks presented to the world. It was not a name, not truly, but a title passed from one to the next, the one permitted to speak on behalf of the Undying Ones. Whatever they were. The Warlocks prattled about them often enough. He still did not know if they were godly figures or simply a council of old Warlocks, and given the fact that they did not leave the temple, he had not cared. He regretted that slightly now.
One of the Thirteen, a portly spice lord named Zarado Mo Zaen, cleared his throat and rose from his marble throne. His voice, though soft, echoed across the golden chamber with the authority of coin and influence, “Pyat Pree, we are honoured by your presence. Enlighten us, if you would, on the reasons for the recent... upheavals at the Temple of the Undying. Your silence these past days has stirred fear, and fear breeds unrest.”
Pyat Pree did not move. His expression did not change. Only his lips parted, thin and pale. “I do not know the reasons of the Undying Ones,” he said, voice dry and cold as old vellum. “Only their will. And they have willed us to reconvene.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the chamber. Thalor did not join them. That answer bordered on disrespect, and to do that to the Thirteen in front of everyone, it was an easy way to end up getting a visit from a Sorrowful Man.
As Thalor expected, that answer did not please the Thirteen, given the way that Zarado’s lips pursed in annoyance. His voice tightened, still polite but no longer cordial, “And the production of Shade of the Evening? The harvesting has tripled. What do the Undying intend with it?”
Pyat Pree blinked slowly, as if the question had taken centuries to reach him. “I do not know the precise purpose,” he said, “only that the world shook. The visions cracked and failed. Our dreams turned to ash. The Undying Ones awoke in silence and sent us to gather. It is not merely Qarth. Our agents in Volantis report that the Red Priests there were... disturbed. Their fires dimmed. Their High Priest refused counsel for three days. We also received nothing but silence in Asshai. Something happened, an event beyond the scale of mortal reckoning. Beyond the Doom, even.”
He stepped forward, and though his form was still gaunt and slight, his voice seemed to stretch and bend against the walls. “We seek to understand it. We must.”
A hush followed. Thalor sat rigid, the brandy forgotten in his grip. He hated how vague it was. How sincere it sounded. Too many words. Too few truths. Perhaps it was not a coup as he had expected before, even if he still did not trust them. They had left the Warlocks to their own devices, an unspoken agreement between all factions in Qarth, and yet, something had stirred them, and that was disturbing in itself.
Still, Volantis could be verified. So could Asshai, in its own way, not that he would risk his assets in the city of Shadows. Volantis would be enough; he would send agents under the guise of pilgrimage or spice trade, slip into the right halls and whisper in the right ears. If the Red Priests truly staggered, and there was a magical effect, then the Warlock’s words could be somewhat trusted, even hesitantly. He knew that Volantis and Asshai would likely have a mass exodus of diplomats and spies from Qarth. And if Pyat Pree had spoken some falsehood, then he would answer for it.
Thalor wasn’t sure which answer he feared more. He had always disliked matters of magic. They were problems that could not be bribed or bought and could very rarely be reasoned with. The Warlocks had been a blessing in that regard, but he had read records of the Blood Mages of Valyria in his youth, and he knew from that moment that he wished to have nothing to do with sorcerers and warlocks.
He wasn’t alone in this thought. While many of his fellow Pureborn still feared the Warlocks, given tales of their feats, it was clear that magic had waned since the Doom of Valyria, and that magical threats were few and far between. There was a growing faction that sought to add restrictions on the House of the Undying, as a way to neuter a future threat.
Yet, if there truly was a threat of mystical nature, Thalor would be grateful to still count on the Warlock’s protection of Qarth, even if he knew that it wouldn’t be without a cost in the future. The House of Undying would undoubtedly gain a lot of influence and perhaps enough to participate in the cutthroat politics of their glorious city.
He had many questions, and thankfully, Zarado seemed to do as well, “What have you discerned so far? Did the increase in the production of Shade of the Evening not help get further insight into the nature of this threat?”
Pyat Pree tilted his head, as though listening to something only he could hear. “Only one thing,” he said at last, voice thin as a thread of silk. “A direction. West. Far west. Past Volantis, past the bones of Valyria, past even the Land of the Dragons.”
That earned a ripple of confusion, then derision.
“Westeros?” a merchant-lord scoffed, voice thick with disbelief. “You speak of the Sunset Lands? That cold, barbarous scrap of earth ruled by petty kings and bloodthirsty tyrants?”
A woman, likely another merchant, shook her head, “They are the last true remnants of Old Valyria, the last living Dragonlords. They are not to be underestimated.”
“They are also heading for a civil war, one that will lead to them being very reduced. They are not a threat to us, not especially the fact that they are on the other side of the known world.”
Thalor had to agree with that statement. All of Essos had done its best to keep an eye on the Targaryen dynasty in fear of the emergence of a new Valyrian Freehold. So far, other than their dragons, they found little of the glory of Old Valyria in them. Without Valyrian methods of construction, their sorcery, and their magical steel, House Targaryen was nothing more than men who could tame dragons. While that would be dangerous enough on its own, it severely dampened their capabilities for conquest. Even after over a century of their rule, they still hadn’t conquered all of the continent and were constantly dealing with the savage lords of Westeros.
It did help that the so-called House of the Dragon was too preoccupied with its own destruction, especially after the original civil war after Aegon the Conqueror’s death, and with another brewing very soon, with this one promising to be far more damaging.
According to his ancestors’ records, two Dragonriders battling one another often ended with both dragons and their riders dying. There were exceptions, of course, if there was too much difference in size and strength between the two beasts, but there was a reason why it was a rare occasion and rarely sought out. After all, a powerful dragon could serve an entire family line, and all but guaranteeing that it would perish would weaken the entire family of Dragonlords. Without any competing families to take advantage of any weakness, the Targaryens seem more prone to battle on dragonback, constantly weakening themselves before slowly rising slowly as an uneasy peace followed the massacres.
Either way, the entire Hall spread out into conversations, each one deciding whether to act on a threat that was too far away. Even the Thirteen spoke to one another, with Zarado obviously trying to act as some sort of intermediary between the members.
Yet, Pyat Pree, who had remained silent after his previous statement, spoke up. His voice echoed in the room, the torches that illuminated the hall twisted slightly, and Thalor shivered as he felt a sudden gust of cold.
The Warlock of Qarth spoke, but his voice sounded different, “We drink dreams in Qarth, and we pride ourselves on visions, and through them, we have secured our great city’s place in the world. We have protected this city from the Valyrians at the height of their power, from the priests of the Fire Gods, from the Shadowbinders that sought to sow chaos and cause bloodshed. Yet, with this event, the protections we wove in shade and breath, in blood and dream, are no longer whole.”
No one dared to say anything. Thalor did not know what they would say even if they wanted to. He could feel the chill of these words, feel the danger projected by that statement. Instead, they let the man continue, this time his voice returned to normal, “Not since the Doom has the delicate balance been so disrupted. Not since the Doom, not since one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen fell so suddenly, so violently, has the House of Undying stood blind, and that ended with this city being drowned in blood and war. And now, old things stir because of this threat, and we need to control it or be swept by it. The Undying Ones have decided to send a small group of their warlocks to find this threat in the Sunset Kingdoms. I will personally join them in their mission, given my role as a servant of the Undying.”
After a few minutes of silence, Zarado shared a glance with his fellow Thirteen before asking, “And may I ask what the Undying One’s plans are should you find this threat?”
“Death walks amongst men, and we will either slay it, tame it, or be swallowed by it.”
That was the warlock’s last statement before turning and walking out of the chamber, silent as a shadow. The doors shut behind him with barely a sound.
No one spoke. The air still held a chill.
Thalor leaned back in his seat. There was no use pretending this was normal. Even if the warlocks exaggerated, the fact that they admitted to blindness was troubling. After all, no one liked to confess to a weakness.
He knew that the warlock likely did it to instil fear, which also included the comparison to the Doom and the bloodshed that followed it. There was much that they were not told, that Thalor knew for a fact, and that last statement about taming Death sounded far too vague and ominous for his liking. Yet, looking at the pale men and women sitting around him, it seemed to have worked, nonetheless.
Whether this was real or not, whether there truly was a magical threat, something was coming, and Qarth needed to be ready for it.
AN: Apparently, killing a God had consequences. Who knew? Anyway, I chose to mess around with Qarth’s lore a bit. I haven’t read the books in a while, but I remember that it was different what it was in the show, I think. Anyway, I hope this chapter came out like I wanted it to, and that you liked a bit of a change in perspective. We’re going back to Harry in the next chapter. As usual, I don’t mind rewriting this depending on your feedback, so please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.
Comments
Monzter E
They are really courting death! There are dumber ways to meet death...
Marius Petrauskas
nice
