The night in Qarth was warm, thick with the scent of spice and wine, heavy with the weight of silk and secrets. Beyond the high white walls of Xaro Xhoan Daxos' palace, the city shimmered beneath the moon, a thousand torches burning like fallen stars. Within, the feast stretched on, a world of music and laughter, of rich foods and softer pleasures. The merchant prince held a lavish celebration in honor of his exalted guest; Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons.

Silken draperies billowed like phantom lovers in the evening breeze, parting to reveal halls adorned with lapis and jade, great basins of spiced wine reflecting the flickering glow of a hundred lanterns. The music was relentless, a symphony of pipes and drums, strings plucked by Qartheen minstrels who played for the pleasure of the noble and the damned alike. Laughter rose and fell in drunken waves, a tide of indulgence.

Rakharo did not feast.

He stood where he always stood, beside his Khaleesi, his arakh resting easy on his hip, his dark eyes watching the room like a hawk circling prey. The Qartheen were too kind, too eager. Xaro's smiles were soft as silk, but Rakharo knew that silk could strangle just as well as any rope. His sworn brothers had given in to the night's temptations, Aggo and Jhogo laughed and drank deep, arms draped around the merchant's willing bed slaves, but Rakharo only watched.

Until she appeared.

She moved like shadow and fire, slipping between golden pillars, her skin kissed by torchlight. She was called the Black Pearl of Myr, a gift from Xaro, trained in the arts of pleasure, of song and dance, of whispered promises in the dark. But she did not whisper now. She danced. Slow, smooth, certain.

Her hips swayed to the deep thrum of the drums, her feet light upon the marble floor. Others watched her, drunken men, slurring their admiration, but she did not meet their eyes. She sought only one. Rakharo felt it, the weight of her gaze, the silent challenge in the way her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a promise. For the first time that night, his hand loosened on his blade. For the first time, his mind wavered.

He had faced storms and steel, had ridden into battle with the wind at his back and blood on his hands. He did not fear pain, nor death, nor the endless plains that stretched beyond the edge of the world. But this...this was something else. She danced, and the night danced with her. And for the first time, Rakharo did not know whether to fight it...Or to fall.