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Essos, Xandar
9th Moon Of 58 AC
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The sky above Xandar was different from those moons ago when Volantis lay beneath it. Now, instead of the clear and sunny sky capable of burning anyone who spent more than a few minutes under the scorching sun, it was perpetually overcast; the sun seemed unable to pierce the thick blanket of clouds, a phenomenon that made it feel as though it were about to rain every single day.
ROOOAAAG!
Caspian tightened his thighs against Endaxia's saddle, feeling the deep, rhythmic thrum of the dragon's heart echoing through the leather of his mount. Behind him, buckled into the same tandem harness, Valka let out a clear laugh that the gale dampened but could not extinguish. Her dark hair billowed back like a wild banner. She was not looking at the horizon; she was looking straight down, her eyes wide, flooded with that pure fascination known only to dragonriders.
Flying was not simply moving from one place to another. It was an intoxication. It was a complete disconnection from the earth, gravity, and the pettiness of mortals walking upon the ground. Up there, fear did not exist; there was only the air, the speed, and the living mass of fire and muscle that obeyed the slightest shift in their body weight.
Caspian leaned his body slightly to the left. Endaxia responded instantly, tilting her massive membranous wing spanning over forty meters. The dragon descended in a gentle spiral, passing through a dense, damp cloud that enveloped them for a second in a cold mist, before suddenly bursting into the blinding afternoon sunlight.
Below, stretching as far as the eye could see and fading into the coastal haze, lay Xandar.
Ancient Volantis had vanished under the Khal's rule. What was once a city divided by the stench of mud, slavery, and black stone walls now rose as the most breath-taking city the known world had ever conceived. From the heights, the districts were organized in a flawless geometry of wide avenues and rectangular plazas. The red-tiled roofs and polished copper domes gleamed under the sun like a mosaic of jewels. Great white stone aqueducts crossed the city like the spines of giants, carrying fresh water from the hills into the very heart of the most populous neighborhoods.
Even the ships in the harbor of the Fjord—hundreds of them, from heavy war galleys to three-masted brigantines—looked like tiny wooden scale models floating on a pond of blue glass. The vessels of Xandar's fleet, anchored in formation near the shipyards, stood out with their dark, reinforced hulls, ready for anything.
A deafening roar, so deep it vibrated in the chests of Caspian and Valka, echoed to their right.
Out from the upper cloud layer emerged Balerion. The Black Dread, immense and monstrous, with scales the color of a moonless night that absorbed the sunlight, cut through the wind with terrifying grace. Atop his dorsal spines, secured by a web of chains and reinforced leather straps, Aerea screamed in pure euphoria. The young Targaryen showed not a single trace of timidity; she banked her dragon with audacity, causing Balerion's mammoth shadow to cover several whole neighborhoods as he glided over them from above.
Aerea brought Balerion into a tight turn, sweeping so close to Endaxia that the gust generated by his wings caused the golden dragon to rock gently. From her perch, Aerea waved an arm at them with a wide, wild grin before commanding the great beast to ascend in a vertical dive toward the infinite blue of the sky.
"That girl is going to end up making the Black Dread try a loop-de-loop in midair!" Valka said with a laugh, resting her chest against Caspian's back as Endaxia stabilized her flight over the central district.
"Let her enjoy it, Valka," Caspian replied, turning his head to throw her a kiss while keeping a firm grip on the reins. "Few in this world know what it feels like to be up here. Looking at creation through the eyes of a dragon changes your perspective forever."
Endaxia emitted a guttural purr, a crackle of embers in her throat that warmed the saddle leather. Flying over Xandar was the confirmation of the power they had built. No king, lord, or army in Westeros or Essos could lift their head toward that sky without feeling a cold shiver of helplessness. From up there, the stone fortresses of the eastern continent looked like sandcastles waiting to be trampled. The roads connecting Qohor to Xandar, along which endless caravans of timber and supplies flowed, looked like living veins feeding a heart of stone and steel.
The wind blew clean, carrying the scent of sea salt mixed with the sweet pine smoke from the city's blacksmiths. Caspian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze whip his face, feeling the living warmth of Valka against his body and the imposing presence of his dragoness dominating the heights. For a moment, there were no wars to plan, no kings to subdue, and no tributes to collect. There was only the flight, the afternoon gold, and the vastness of Xandar beneath their feet.
On dry land, the perspective was radically different, yet no less overwhelming.
Mara Nymeros Martell, Princess of Dorne, stood on the carved stone pier of Xandar, feeling as though the world she knew had shrunk to the point of irrelevance.
The ship she had sailed on from Pentos looked like a nutshell compared to the hulking wooden behemoths and dark hulls cluttering the Xandarian docks. But it was not the port that took her breath away; it was the city itself.
Xandar looked like nothing in Westeros nor any of the Free Cities Mara had ever seen or imagined. Before her lay no packed-dirt streets or narrow alleyways stinking of urine and waste. The avenues were so wide that ten war wagons could march side by side without brushing against one another. The ground was entirely paved with large gray stone slabs, fitted together with almost surgical precision, so clean it looked as if they were washed daily.
On both sides of the avenues rose buildings of mind-boggling height, eight to twelve stories tall, built of pale stone, carved timber frames, and glass windows reflecting the meager sunlight. The people strolling along the sidewalks did not wear the filthy rags or worn-out clothes common in the ports of the west. They walked in fine garments, clean linen tunics, well-dyed wool cloaks, and well-kept leather boots. No one looked hungry; no one begged on the corners. There were no emaciated faces or beggars crawling on the ground. The city breathed an almost unnatural order, wealth, and security.
And the guard... The Xandarian Guard was a sight that inspired a chill of respect.
Squads of tall, burly men patrolled along the streets. They did not wear tarnished chainmail or faded surcoats like the guards of Westeros's houses. They wore full suits of polished, darkened steel, with clean engravings on the chest and helm-visors closed to hide their faces. They carried long spears tipped with gleaming steel, broadswords at their belts, and what appeared to be repeating crossbows slung across their backs. They walked with the steady, coordinated stride of veteran soldiers who would not hesitate for a single second to execute orders. They were armed to the teeth, and their mere presence kept the crowds flowing in seamless order.
Yet before Mara could take ten steps off the ship's gangway to admire the grandeur of the city, two of those steel guards cut off her path with the coldness of the statues adorning Sunspear.
They escorted her, along with her modest entourage of three servants and eight Dornish guards, to an imposing single-story stone building situated near the dock exit. A polished wooden sign with golden lettering declared in several languages: Xandar Central Customs.
There, Mara Nymeros Martell tasted the bitter flavor of Xandarian condescension for the first time.
The interior of the building was spacious, well-ventilated, and filled with long wooden tables where dozens of clerks dressed in austere gray tunics jotted down data into thick record books. There were no thrones, fine carpets, or welcome wine. Only the constant scratch of quills on parchment and the organized murmur of hundreds of travelers standing in line.
When her turn came, Mara stepped forward, standing tall and maintaining the proud posture befitting a daughter of House Martell.
The clerk behind the counter—a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, a tired look in his eyes, and a goose feather in hand—did not even look up immediately. He dipped the tip into the inkwell, turned a page in his ledger, and finally observed her with neutral eyes, completely devoid of submission.
"Name and origin," the man said in fluent Valyrian, though with a distinct northern accent.
Mara blinked, taken aback by the lack of a formal greeting.
"I am Princess Mara Nymeros Martell, of House Martell, legitimate rulers of Dorne and Sunspear," she declared in a clear, firm voice, expecting the mention of her lineage to make the official snap to attention.
The man did not flinch. He wrote slowly on the parchment: Mara Nymeros Martell. Origin: Dorne.
"Purpose of your visit to Xandar," the clerk continued without altering his dry tone.
"I have come to meet in person with King Caspian Darkwood," Mara replied, quietly clenching her fists beneath the fabric of her Dornish gown. "Matters of state of the utmost urgency regarding peace between our realms."
"Do you have a scheduled appointment or a letter of audience sealed by the King's Council?" the man asked, finally raising his head to meet her eyes.
"I am a princess of royal blood, sir. My presence here is sufficient justification to request an audience."
The clerk let out a soft sigh, a mechanical gesture; it was clear he had repeated the same explanation a thousand times before.
"It does not matter here if you are a princess, a lady, or the daughter of a fisherman from the Free Cities, Lady Martell," the official said with absolute coldness, without a hint of insolence, yet with crushing authority. "In Xandar, all foreigners go through the same registration process. No exceptions. If you wish to see the Lord Chancellor or request an audience with King Caspian, given that you belong to high nobility, you must submit a formal request at the Central Chancery once you have entered the city."
The man gestured to an assistant standing beside him.
"How long do you intend to stay in the city?" he resumed the questioning.
"As long as necessary to conclude my discussions with the king."
"We will log thirty days of initial stay," the official said as he wrote. "Should you require more time, you must renew your permit at the Bailiff's Office in District Three before the term expires. Physical traits: female, dark complexion, dark hair, brown eyes, average height. Companions: eleven people."
The assistant picked up a small polished wooden token edged in metal, where an artisan had heat-stamped a registration number in crisp characters: XND-8842, followed by the name Mara Martell.
The official took the tag and slid it across the counter toward her.
"Keep this visible on your belt or cloak at all times while within Xandar's urban limits," the man ordered. "City patrols are authorized to detain and question any foreigner not wearing an active identification tag."
The Dornish guards accompanying Mara stepped forward, incensed by what they considered an intolerable humiliation toward their princess.
"This is an outrage!" one muttered, hand straying toward the pommel of his scimitar. "They treat the Princess of Dorne as if she were a livestock trader!"
Before the sword could clear its scabbard by even an inch, the metallic click of four crossbows being cocked echoed behind the entourage. Four customs guards, clad in darkened armor with their faces hidden behind steel visors, were aiming directly at the chests of the Dornishmen. The speed of the reaction was so devastating that Mara's guards froze in their tracks, cold sweat breaking out on their foreheads.
"Advise your men to keep their hands off their weapons, Lady Martell," the customs official said without raising his voice, continuing his notes. "We Xandarians do not care for trouble. If you break city rules, cause disturbances, or draw steel against the guard or any of our citizens, no letters or ransoms will save you. You will be put to work in the shipyards or stone quarries until your sentence expires. Is that clear?"
Mara swallowed hard, feeling the pride of her bloodline slam headfirst into the reality of a power that feared neither her name nor her knights' steel.
"It is clear," Mara said, making a swift hand gesture for her men to step back. She took the wooden tag with firm fingers and fastened it to the leather strap of her tunic. "We did not come to cause trouble. We only seek an audience."
"Very well," concluded the officer, stamping the final document with an iron seal. "Welcome to Xandar, madam. You may return to your ship to sort out your affairs; once that is done, the place where you must go to request an audience with the king is the Chancellery, which is three miles to the north, straight along Sun Avenue."
As she left the customs building and stepped back onto the quayside, Mara took a moment to adjust the badge on her chest. Despite the coldness with which she had been treated, she felt no anger, but rather a deep and unsettling fascination. Xandar's efficiency was terrifying. The city functioned like a perfect machine where every cog, from the ship's captain to the foreign prince, had an assigned place and a rule to obey.
Morion wanted war. Prince Morion, dragging along half the houses of Dorne and allying himself with the pirates of the Stepstones and exiles like Borys Baratheon, believed he could challenge the world. He believed he could march against the kingdoms of Westeros and block the sea lanes.
Morion is blind, Mara thought as she watched a squad of Xandarian guards march past her in full armor that glinted under the few rays of sun. A blind fool who has no idea what kind of monster he is trying to provoke.
Morion did not understand that the world had changed. Mara quickened her pace along the polished flagstones. She needed to reach Caspian Darkwood before her nephew's madness unleashed a massacre. She wanted Xandar's backing to crush Morion's ambitions, secure the throne of Sunspear for the rightful line, and save Dorne from being reduced to ashes by the Targaryen dragons soaring through the skies.