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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 59: The Market of Masks
The grey twilight of Asshai was no different at dawn than it had been at midnight. The sun never seemed to rise here, not truly. An unnatural, semi-translucent veil kept the city shrouded in a perpetual sickly paleness, as if the sky itself had been painted in shades of grey and rot.
Daenerys had slept poorly. Her dreams had been troubled by shadows and whispers; formless things that slithered through her mind and left only unease in their wake.
When she finally opened her eyes, the same gloom that had greeted her the night before pressed against the window, making her wonder if she had slept at all.
Drogon lay curled on the pillow beside her, his black scales warm against her cheek. Rhaegal and Viserion stirred in their spots near the door, their golden eyes gleaming in the darkness.
They were restless, she could feel it...a tension in their small bodies that mirrored her own unease.
'They do not like this place,' she thought. 'Neither do I.'
A knock at the door, followed by Ser Jorah's voice, low and steady as ever. "Khaleesi. The prince is ready to depart."
She rose, dressed in a gown of white linen that seemed almost foolishly bright in the gloom of this place, and gathered her dragons.
Drogon climbed onto her shoulder, his tail wrapping around her arm for balance. Aggo, one of her remaining bloodriders, came into the room and took the cages holding Rhaegal and Viserion.
They met in the common room of the inn. Joffrey was already dressed in his traveling clothes, his sword properly secured at his hip. The Hound loomed behind him...a mountain of black steel and scarred flesh, always one step behind the prince.
Lord Varys greeted her with a smile on his face, his soft robes rustling as he moved.
Ser Jorah positioned himself at her right side like the shield he was sworn to be.
"The markets are not too far away," Varys said, gesturing toward the door. "I have made inquiries. The Bazaar of a Thousand Masks is the largest in the city. If what we seek exists in Asshai, it will be there."
Joffrey nodded. "Then let us not waste time."
They stepped out into the grey twilight.
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The Bazaar of a Thousand Masks was a maze of narrow alleys and crowded stalls, tucked between buildings of fused black stone that leaned so close together they seemed to be whispering secrets to one another.
The air was thick with incense and smoke, mingled with the stench of spices and decay.
All the merchants wore masks. Some were carved from wood, others from bone, hammered copper, or beaten silver. Some were beautiful, delicate things carved with the faces of gods and heroes. Others were terrifying demonic visages, monsters, and things that had no name in any language Daenerys knew.
But all of them had eyes, and all of those eyes watched the strangers as they passed.
Daenerys kept Drogon close, her hand resting on his warm scales. The little dragon hissed at a merchant who reached out to touch him, and the man withdrew his hand quickly, his mask hiding whatever expression he might have worn.
"Do not touch," she said, her voice cold. "He bites."
The merchant bowed and retreated.
Joffrey moved through the crowd with clear purpose, his green eyes scanning the stalls. The Hound followed close behind, his massive frame clearing a path through the press of bodies for the rest of them.
Varys stayed near the back of the group, his soft footsteps barely audible, and Daenerys found herself looking back often to make sure he was still there.
She quickened her pace and drew closer to the prince. "What are we looking for?" she asked.
"Shade of the evening," he replied without turning. "Dragonglass powder. And something called the tears of the Fourteen."
A merchant overheard him and beckoned them toward his stall. He was tall and thin, his mask made of polished obsidian carved into the shape of a dragon's skull. "Shade of the evening, I have some right here," he said in a raspy voice. "The finest you will find in Asshai. Imported from the House of the Undying itself... before it fell."
Joffrey stopped. "Before it fell, you say?" He feigned ignorance.
The merchant shrugged. "Have you not heard what happened in Qarth? The Qartheen warlocks got themselves killed. Apparently, they offended the wrong individual. Or so they say." He produced a small glass vial containing a dark blue liquid that shimmered in the torchlight. "This is the last of it. Genuine shade of the evening. One small sip... and you will see things beyond our reality."
Joffrey took the vial without hesitation and held it up to the light. "How much?"
The merchant named a price. Joffrey paid it without haggling.
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Further into the bazaar, they found a stall selling dragonglass items: obsidian knives and arrowheads, mirrors and jewelry, and a fine black powder ground from the same volcanic glass.
The merchant was a woman wearing a copper mask, her robes embroidered with glyphs that glowed faintly in the blue torchlight.
"The tears of the Fourteen," she repeated when Joffrey asked. "That is a rare thing. Not many know of it. Not many would seek it."
"I seek it," said the prince.
The woman studied him for a long moment. "The Fourteen Flames are dying, just as the old Valyrian Empire died centuries ago. Their tears will soon be nothing but ash and distant memories. But..." She reached beneath her stall and produced a small crystal vial containing a few drops of a substance that seemed to glow from within. "This is what remains. The last of the last. It will cost you."
Joffrey paid without hesitation, handing the merchant a heavy bag of gold coins.
Daenerys watched him with unease. She knew exactly what those materials were for. She had spent countless hours helping him translate the alchemist's book, had memorized many of the experiments depicted there.
'He is not giving up,' she thought. 'He wishes to continue, even after that catastrophic failure.'
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While Joffrey conducted his business, Daenerys found a merchant who dealt in imported goods. The man was short and round, his mask made of white porcelain painted with a smiling face.
She told her men to bring forth the goods they had secured from Qarth...silks and spices, jewels and pieces of artwork, and spread them before the merchant.
The man examined them all. "Fine quality. Very fine. Where did you acquire these?"
"Qarth," Daenerys replied.
"You bought them there?" Despite his hidden face, there was a knowing tone in his voice.
"Does that matter?"
The merchant laughed. "No, no... I suppose it does not. I can give you... this much." He named a sum.
Daenerys had learned to bargain in the markets of Pentos. She named a higher sum. They haggled, back and forth, until they reached an agreement that satisfied her. Her men took the coins and secured them in leather bags.
Daenerys spoke further with the merchant, inquiring about buying a ship. One large enough to carry her people. The Storm Dancer was spacious, but it felt cramped with all the Dothraki aboard. And that was not the only reason. She wanted an alternative means of travel, a way to escape Joffrey's influence if necessary. Just in case...
The merchant tilted her head. "Ships can be very expensive," she said, glancing at the bags of coins.
"I have more goods to sell." Daenerys still had valuable items stored aboard the Storm Dancer.
"In that case, I know of someone selling a vessel. She is old but sturdy. Her captain died recently, and the owner wishes to sell her and retire. I can arrange a meeting for you, my lady."
"Do it."
The merchant bowed. Daenerys turned away.
'One step closer,' she thought. One step closer to Westeros. If this alliance with Prince Joffrey did not work, she would need to leave. She would need her own ship, her own crew, and her own path.
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They learned much in the bazaar.
Magic was not forbidden in Asshai. No practice was considered too depraved, no ritual too dark. The shadowbinders worked their spells openly, and the pyromancers sold their wares alongside the smiths. Necromancers displayed jars of preserved organs, claiming they could wake the dead for the right price. Warlocks offered visions and prophecies, though their power had waned since the fall of the House of the Undying.
Joffrey found a stall selling ancient scrolls, treatises on dragonlore, on the binding of ancient beasts, even one that promised to reveal the method of forging Valyrian steel. He bought them all, his coin flowing freely to the merchants.
Daenerys watched him from a distance. She was still young and somewhat naive, but she was fairly certain those scrolls were forgeries. And yet Joffrey bought them without hesitation. She wondered why, but did not dare question him in front of the others.
"The Shadow Lands," an old merchant told them, "the primordial mountains beyond Asshai, are where the first dragons were born." He pointed at Drogon on Daenerys's shoulder. "Your dragons, Princess... their ancestors came from this place."
"The Shadow Lands are the origin of dragons?" Joffrey asked. "How can you be so sure?"
The only response was an eerie chuckle.
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As they were leaving the bazaar, a child approached her.
She was young, perhaps ten years old, maybe younger, and she wore no mask. An iron collar gleamed at her throat. Her eyes were dark and solemn, and her voice was barely a whisper.
"Princess Daenerys," the girl said.
"Who are you?" Daenerys asked.
"The Seer wishes to speak with you again."
Daenerys frowned. "Who?"
"The Seer wears a red mask. She claims to have met you in Qarth." The child pressed a folded parchment into Daenerys's hand and vanished into the crowd without another word.
Daenerys unfolded the parchment. There was no writing, only a crude map of the city, with a tower marked near the northern border.
Joffrey appeared at her side. "What is it?"
"Quaithe. It must be her. The mysterious woman I met in Qarth. She wishes to meet."
Varys stepped closer. "This could be a trap. We do not even know if it is truly from her. Why would she not come in person?"
"I do not know, but I wish to go. If it is truly from her, I have much to ask her." Quaithe was one of the reasons she had come to Asshai. The masked woman had claimed she would find answers here.
"We will all go," Joffrey said. "If it is a trap, better to face it together."
They all knew that once the prince had made a decision, there was no room for argument, so they prepared to leave.
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The tower stood at the edge of the city, where the fused black stone gave way to the ash-choked wastes of the Shadow Lands. It was tall and narrow, leaning slightly to one side, its surface covered in glyphs that glowed faintly with a cold blue light.
There were no windows and no doors, only a dark archway that led into the bowels of the structure.
Inside, the air was cold and dry. The only source of light came from candles that burned with that same cold blue flame. At the center of the chamber, standing beside a table covered in ancient scrolls, they found Quaithe.
Her mask was made of red lacquer, her robes of black silk. Her hands were wrapped in bandages that left only her fingers bare.
"Daenerys Stormborn," she said. "You came..."
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