The Travelling Merchant
As the merchant and his partner approached the city, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the towering bronze statues that marked the entrance. The road had been long, but they were finally here. The big mountain stretching over the city were a good enough sign. It was not like any city he had ever been to, and that made him nervous. He could feel his heart pumping hard as he passed the gates.You're just selling wares, nothing more.He tried to calm himself, but these people had a reputation. In Yi-Ti and Tyrosh, places where he had frequented and sold his trade. Even in his home city, Braavos, men and women alike knew about them.
He turned his head to his partner, who sat on the waggon with their wares. ''We're here! Let's find the markets and get set up. I don't want to stay here any longer then I have to.'' The merchant spoke in a bastard version of High Valyrian.
The partner nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. ''Let's move.''
As they passed the entrance, a group of warriors on horseback appeared, their expressions stern and scrutinising. The merchant raised a hand in greeting, showing empty palms to indicate he meant no harm. ''We come in peace.'' He told the warriors in his own tongue. The warriors kept their gazes, saying nothing, and their eyes narrowed dangerously. They want something. They always want something. He thought bitterly. He had been used to this all over the known world, where strong men liked to take advantage of the weaker men. He got the first taste of that cruel truth growing up in his birth city, Volantis. His mother had sold him to a salver when he was one and ten. He remembered little of his master and his appearance now. But he would always remember how he was treated. Like a dog, like property. He had been beaten and whipped for accidentally tripping on a stone floor once when he was four and ten. He had not dropped anything or caused any damage. But his master had noticed him, noticed him and his mere presence, and that was good enough for his master to punish him.
He will never forget the day his master made him lose his innocence. The day when he finally properly understood what men were. He did not remember the 'honoured guest' he had been having over; he did not care. He did not remember what they had been talking about when he was in the room, waiting to serve. As a slave, you learned to master the skill of closing your ears and tongue; otherwise, you lost it.
He can still remember the guest's thick, fat hands grabbing his naked body. He was three and ten at the time and knew nothing of fleshly pleasure. He was not that kind of slave. But that was the kind of boy that the guest and other future guests apparently liked. Everytime he had been weeping silently, he had been punched. Everytime he had been begging, he had been punched. Everytime he had been screaming in pain, he had been punched. But the first time was the worst, when he had laid on all fours and felt the punching pain in his bottom. He had been bleeding and had pain reliving himself for several days afterwards. Fury took hold of him, and the warriors must have noticed. Because they said something to him with venom in their tongues.
His partner said something in a foreign tongue while slapping the barrels in their waggon. He did not know what he said, but it made the warriors calm down. The warriors sneered at him before grabbing their reins and galloping back into the city.
''Thank me later. What the fuck are you playing at?'' His partner glared at him.
''I got lost in thought.''
His partner huffed. ''It must have been quite a thought you got lost in then. They were ready to cast us out.''
''It does not matter; I did not know you could speak their tongue.''
''Do you really think our employer so witless? That he would send us to this place of all with no skill of their tongue?''
The merchant did not reply; instead, he grabbed the reins and forced his horse forward, deeper inside the city. The sun was beginning to vanish over the mountain as the merchant and his partner guided their horse-drawn waggon into one of the markets. The city was a sprawling expanse nestled between the tall mountain and the large lake. It was a hub of activity; the city may be foreign to him, but the markets were always the same—the vibrant energy and diverse array of goods, and the fact that it was particularly lively in the late afternoon, were all so familiar to him that he could not stop his lips curving.
When they entered an empty spot, the sights, sounds, and smells of the market enveloped him. Stalls adorned with colourful fabrics, exotic spices, and intricate jewellery lined the dusty pathways. The air was filled with the calls of merchants hawking their wares in a cacophony of languages, the neighing of horses, and the laughter of children darting between the legs of the crowd.
''Here we are. Our new home, for the time being,'' his partner declared.
''Let's get set up quickly; I don't want to miss the evening rush.''
His partner laughed. ''Always the merchant's mind.''
That's how I survived.He thought. By being useful, by making profit. Any man can find themselves lucky, blessed by the Many-Faced God, or R'hllor, and be born into wealth. But earning it for yourself takes work. It was hard work that he had been doing ever since he escaped Volantis. He started by selling himself, and when he made enough coin, he started selling things. He knew immediately that he was good at it—bargaining, talking, and conversing with people. That was his skill; that was what he loved to do. His mind drifted to Ahlora, his love. She was pale-skinned with emerald-green eyes and silver hair. She was a pleasure slave he had grown up with in Volantis, sold into slavery by her mother just like him. At first, they were only friends and often played outside in the streets of Volantis when their master gave them leave. But as they grew up, and their bodies matured. Love had started to grow. The last thing he had promised her, the night before his escape, was that he was going to return to her. Buy her out and start their new lives together. ''You are mine, and I am yours. Make the coin and find me.'' was the last words she said to him. Perhaps I love the idea of making coins and selling things because of the thought of freeing her. He shook that thought aside and started carrying the barrels from the waggon. He would not need to sell things for much longer; the Braavosi had promised more than enough coin to free her and to buy land anywhere in the world for this selling job.
They worked quickly, unloading their goods with practiced efficiency. His partner handled the heavier crates, filled with spices from the west and rare silks from Pentos, while he meticulously arranged the smaller items, ensuring that everything was displayed to its best advantage. He had a keen eye for presentation, knowing exactly how to catch a potential customer's interest with a well-placed trinket or an inviting aroma.
As they worked, curious onlookers began to gather. A milky, fatigued man in silver armour watched intently as he laid out a selection of delicate golden rings. An older, copper-skinned woman stroked her chin thoughtfully as he examined a bolt of rich, crimson fabric.
''Greetings,'' the merchant called out, his voice warm and welcoming. ''Come, see what we have to offer! Spices from Myr to tantalise your taste buds, silks from Lys to adorn your loved ones. Wine and jewellery from Westeros to bring joy to any heart!''
The crowd began to move closer, drawn by the merchant's enthusiasm and the mix of their goods. The merchant handed a small pouch of spices to a woman who held it to her nose, inhaling deeply with a satisfied smile. Nearby, a young couple admired the craftsmanship of a beautifully embroidered tapestry. His lips curved; this was what brought him joy.
When the sun had vanished from the horizon and white dots could be spotted in the black sky, they had earned more coin than he thought he would do here. He had clasped many hands, given out many smiles, and earned many more for himself. He had also gotten darker, he noticed. He already had a dark complexity since birth, perhaps from some distant relative from the Summer Iles or Slaver's Bay. But the scorching sun here and during their long journey had made that complexity even darker. Ahlora has always loved my dark skin; she will swoon when she sees me like this. He filled two cups with some of their own wares and gave one of the cups to his partner.
''To a successful first day,'' the merchant said softly, his eyes sparkling with pride.
''To many more,'' the partner replied, his smile broadening as he looked around at the once-thriving stall and the markets beyond. ''Vaes Dothrak is more than you thought, eh?''
The merchant laughed. ''Don't you start.'' He sipped his cup and gazed as his partner did the same. ''We have travelled so far, yet I must admit that I do not know much about you.''
His partner smiled. ''What would you like to know? You already know that we have the same employer.''
''Where were you born? You know Dothraki—that much I knew as you spoke to those guards. But you do not look like it.''
He heard a snort coming from the man in front of him. ''I must admit that I myself was uncertain they would understand at first; I have not known it for long.'' He paused as he took another sip and pushed his dark hair from his face. ''What do you think?''
''Stop being humble; you translated all the words each person said today. I would say you are more than basic in Dothraki.'' The merchant paused before answering his question. ''Pentos?''
''Close, I suppose. Braavos. What about you?''
''Volantis.''
His partner laughed. ''Now that, I could not have guessed. You look dornish.''
A puzzled expression took hold of his face. ''Dornish? What is that?''
His partner's smile dropped slightly, revealing something more serious. ''It's what you call people from Dorne, a place as far south as the south goes in Westeros.''
''I'm surprised you know that, seeing as you are from Essos. So are you a wealthy man's bastard, or were you lucky to be serving some kind man that gave you such an education?''
The partner took his cup, sipped on it some more, and wiped his mouth before answering. ''Something like that; I am the son of a Braavosi banker. I had a good life; I never had to fight for bread or beg. Every day when my father returned from work, he would sit me down and teach me about numbers and maps.''
''Good for you.'' The merchant said it genuinely. ''Most of us are not so lucky.''
''No, I suppose I am lucky. What about you? Were you as lucky as I am?''
The merchant hesitated. He took a sip from his cup and drank as he tried to figure out what to say. ''In some ways, yes. My childhood was not a happy one, but I have found happiness now. And once we are done here, I will be reunited with the woman I love.''
His partner's expression turned into one of pity. He finished his cup. ''Well, I'm off to bed. Will you keep the first watch?''
''Yes. Get some sleep, partner.''
''Goodnight.''
Once the night passed, and both of them got good sleep. They were back in the game. This time, the markets were even more full. He was grateful; he was certain he could sell the rest of it off and make a good profit. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, their stall was a whirlwind of activity. Customers haggled over prices. Some things will always be the same. I have yet to visit a place where men do not haggle. Others marvelled at the quality and variety of the merchant's offerings. His keen eye for customer preferences ensured every potential buyer felt valued and catered to, while his partner's Dothraki tongue attracted newcomers from across the market. When midday came and passed, their supplies of certain items were dwindling, prompting his partner to hastily go on a quick restocking mission while he held down the fort. He was puzzled at what he could possibly find that would be worth selling. But he appreciated his partner's enthusiasm; in truth, it was the merchant who did most of the selling work, with his partner merely being a lifter and a good translator. Business went down somewhat when he did not have a translator, but he still managed to sell enough. His partner eventually returned with some silk and a few sacks of spices, his face flushed with fatigue and the satisfaction of securing new deals from neighbouring traders.
As the day progressed and the sun started to once more descend from the blue sky, the market continued to buzz with activity. The merchant and his partner were busy attending to customers when a small entourage caught their attention. A young woman, heavy with child and draped in a flowing dress-like robe, accompanied by a man in silvery, gleaming armour, approached their stall with a gentle grace. He had seen the man before, on the first day when they set up. He had not seen the woman, though; she greatly reminded him of Ahlora. Pale skin and silvery-gold hair, but with violet eyes instead of green. His partner bristed somewhat upon noticing them.I do not doubt him; she is very beautiful.He somewhat pitied his partner; he had never met Ahlora. She was the most beautiful woman that ever existed.
''Good day,'' the woman greeted warmly in his tongue, her voice carrying the confidence of someone accustomed to command.
''Good day to you,'' the merchant replied cheerfully, his eyes flicking briefly over the woman's attire. ''How did you know I was terrible in Dothraki?''
The woman giggled as she briefly glanced at the man next to her. ''My protector told me about this stall; he said that you spoke Valyrian.''
''Bastard Valyrian, in truth. It is my partner who speaks Dothraki.''
His partner suddenly interrupted them and hastily made his way forward in the stall. He spoke something in Dothraki, flustered and bowing. Earning more giggles from the woman and making the merchant frown at his partner. His partner punched him on the shoulder. ''This is the queen and wife of Khal Drogo. Daenerys Targaryen.''
His eyes widened at him before his gaze shifted to the Targaryen. Even someone as poor and uneducated as him knew of the dragonlords. He quickly and somewhat flusteredly bowed at her and the man next to her. He cursed himself while doing so. He had been around all people long enough to know which ones were important enough and which ones were not. He should have known this by her mere appearance and the entourage with her.
''I apologise, Queen Daenerys.''
Daenerys Targaryen waved it off. ''It is no matter.'' She said genuinely. He was somewhat surprised; he had never met such a wealty person who treated someone like him with such kindness.
He managed to compose himself. ''What can I interest you in today? We have a fine selection of spices and silks from the Free Cities and wine and jewellery from Westeros.''
''Westeros?'' The woman's silvery eyebrows were raised in such a manner that she greatly reminded him of Ahlora. ''We are in need of some gifts for a celebration, perhaps something from Westeros then.''
His partner immediately stepped forward, his dark eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. ''Of course, we have just the thing,'' He immediately went to the back of the stall and grabbed a barrel furthest back. Not wanting to feel outdone, the merchant grabbed a beautiful silver ring that he had bought from a Westerosi.
''Arbour Gold. From the Arbour in Westeros. The same house that produces this wine supported your father during the War of the Usurper. What better wine than those made by your supporters back home?'' His partner said it gleefully.
''Perhaps a ring to match your beauty? This silvery lion ring has a lot of my customers swooning.'' The merchant added.
The woman frowned at his words. While his partner once more punched him in the shoulder.What did I do?
''Lion? I am a dragon. The lion is the sigil of the men who murdered my father, niece, and nephew.'' The woman said, somewhat agitated. The merchant was speechless; he had not felt this powerless and little since his days as a slave in Volantis. I have to fix this. He took a deep breath and started to work his art.
''Where did you grow up?''
The Targaryen was somewhat surprised by the question. ''In the Free Cities, I have never seen my home country.'' She answered, somewhat sullen. His partner glared at him, but he ignored him.
''Any favourite place? Someplace that brought you great joy?'' He asked genuinely.
She smiled to herself, seemingly finding her answer. ''There was a house I grew up in when I was little in Braavos with beautiful lemon trees.''
He tried to hide his frown. Lemon trees? In Braavos? But then another memory entered his head. And he gracefully made his way to a locked chest. He opened it and, to his amusement, found the necklace. He brought it to the stall, and the Targaryen's eyes widened when he brought it to her. The silver necklace was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, delicate yet sturdy, intricately wrought with filigree patterns that danced across its surface. At its centre hung a pendant that drew her eyes irresistibly—a shining golden lemon, crafted with exquisite detail.
''It's beautiful.'' She gasped.
''Yes, although not crafted in Westeros. But no lions.''
She laughed. ''That is good to hear.'' She glanced at the man next to her and then to the merchant and his partner. ''I'll take both of them. The barrel and the necklace.''
His partner smiled gleefully, and the merchant tried to hide his sigh of relief. He had done it. ''What will it cost me?'' The Targaryen asked.
Once the payment was done, he gave her the necklace. And while the merchant immediately helped the next customer, his partner watched as the men carried the barrel of wine to her cart. To his bewilderment. ''Partner! Help, please!'' The merchant howled.
''Oh, yes. I'm sorry.'' The partner said, snapping out of his trance.
When the day was over, the white dots were shining in the black sky again. The merchant and his partner were once again drinking wine and laughing at their success.
''Another good day!'' The merchant declared, his cup raised high.
''Indeed.'' The partner said calmly.
The merchant looked behind him; the markets were almost ghost-like now. ''Where is everyone?'' The merchant asked.
''The celebration, I presume. The one the Targaryen spoke about.''
''Ahh, yes. That one.'' He took another sip of his cup. ''You seemed very anxious and gleeful that you managed to sell her that barrel. I have never seen you so.''
The partner smiled for himself. ''Yes, well... It's always nerve-wracking when you are close to sealing a mission, and finishing it brings you a joy that you cannot hide.''
A mission? He must be drunk; this is a mere selling job. Too far away for anyone else to be willing to go. Was that not what the Braavosi told him? He decided to ignore it. ''Well. I'm happy you are happy.''
His partner smiled; it was a smile of pity. ''Yes, but my mission is not quite done yet.''
This time, he decided to ask him. ''Your mission? What mis-...''
His eyes widened as his partner leaped to him and puched him. They both went down to the sandy ground as he felt a soaring pain in his bowel. He tried to scream, but his partner put his hand in front of his mouth. He kept punching him. Once, twice, thrice. And he could taste the blood in his mouth.
''Scream, and you die.'' The traitor said calmly. He removed his hand from his mouth and rose. The merchant panicked when he could see the crimson leaking from his bowel. No, this cannot be.
''I'm sorry, my friend. You do not deserve this.'' The traitor said, his voice full of pity. ''I'm just following orders.''
He coughed. Where did he get the knife? You cannot bear arms in Vaes Dothrak. He spat out the blood that filled his mouth. ''Whose orders? The Braavosi will kill you for this.''
The traitor frowned, but then something seemed to click. ''I'm sorry, but you have been misled. Our employer is not Braavosi... and neither am I.''
The merchant started to panic. He had been around people for so long that he never thought he could be misled again. He groaned as a wave of pain soared through his body. ''What? Then... Who are you then?''
The traitor went down to one knee, and the merchant's eyes widened. He pleaded with the traitor. ''Please. Don't kill me. I have fought for too long. I want to see Ahlora before I die.''
''I'm a man of Westeros, here to assassinate Daenerys Targaryen.'' The merchant started to weep silently.
''I'm sorry.'' The traitor slahed his knife, and he felt the bite at his throat. He instinctively held his hand at his throat. He could feel his lifeblood seeping through his fingers. He had been sold into slavery by the women that were supposed to love and protect him; he had been raped, beaten, and whipped by the wealthy and powerful. He had found a woman who suffered just as he did; he had escaped and worked all these years to free her from the wealthy and powerful because they always hurt people like him and Ahlora. Yet this is where he was going to meet his end. In some dark corner of the known world, manipulated, used, and discarded by the wealthy. ''You are mine, and I am yours. Make the coin and find me.''
''Ahlora...'' The merchant managed to gurgle. Then suddenly, it got cold—so cold.