GOT: Khal — Chapter 111 - Xue Ce Tamade

A few days later, the beachhead at Dragonstone was as chaotic as a kicked anthill.

Xue Ce stood half a step behind Barristan, watching the scene unfold. Old men clutched their bundles. Women held their children tight. Young men shouldered hemp sacks and wooden crates, hauling everything their homes could spare down to the water.

Dozens of small boats crowded the shore, crates stacked on crates, bundles piled on bundles. The vessels rode dangerously low. Each wave that rolled in splashed up and soaked the legs of half the people aboard.

Men standing at the gunwales waved and shouted: "Hurry! Hurry! The tide won't wait!"

Rolland Storm's ship was already far out to sea, sails fat with wind, a white wake cutting clean behind the stern.

He stood at the stern and shouted back toward the shore: "I've been in your debt these past days, Ser!" The ship kept moving. He shrank to a speck, then nothing.

"Just letting them all go?" Xue Ce asked, his hands hanging at his sides.

Barristan stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "I granted them freedom in the Queen's name. They may choose to join us, or they may leave."

"Yes. All gone." Xue Ce's voice carried a thin edge of mockery. "Not one willing to stay. Any man with a clear head knows this place will be the center of a battlefield soon enough. Who would choose to stay somewhere that's bound to be surrounded?"

"It matters not." Barristan's tone was flat, the tone of a man who had already thought this through many times over. "We have no shortage of bodies. What they will do is carry word of Daenerys Targaryen's mercy to everyone they meet. The lords who still remember House Targaryen will know which side to stand on. It won't be long before people come to us on their own."

Xue Ce didn't agree. Mercy was the cheapest thing on a battlefield. Those lords wouldn't switch sides because a handful of fishermen told them a kind story, that was putting a blade to your own throat.

But he couldn't say so. He shifted his angle instead and chose his words carefully.

"They'll also spread word that the Dothraki have invaded Westeros. They'll tell King's Landing our troop strength and our positions." He paused. "They will become our enemies."

Barristan went quiet. Seagulls swept overhead, their cries sharp and thin.

He had considered it. Letting those people go wasn't a decision made without weighing the cost. But he wanted to make the bet.

What Rhaegar lost at the Trident wasn't just a battle. He lost the hearts of the people. And hearts can't be taken back at sword point.

He didn't answer Xue Ce. He changed the subject instead. "What word from Magister Illyrio?"

Xue Ce's expression shifted, just for a moment, then settled back into place.

"It went smoothly. He agreed to provide assistance to Khal Drogo." He glanced toward the gray line of the Narrow Sea. "Limited assistance." He turned. "Forgive me, Ser Barristan — I have matters to attend to."

"Matters." Barristan's tone gave nothing away. "Your task was to contact Magister Illyrio. That's done. I haven't assigned you anything new."

"Then it sounds like you're about to." Xue Ce met the old man's eyes. "Before that, I need to send a report to Meereen. My younger brother is Master of Whispers now. Khal Drogo and Her Grace should know what's happened here — that you released our enemies."

Barristan said nothing. He made a low sound in his throat.

Xue Ce walked back to his quarters at a brisk pace, ground ink, laid out paper, and wrote two letters without stopping.

He rolled them. One he tucked into the hidden pocket sewn inside his cuff, pressing it flat, checking it wouldn't slip. Then he opened the door and went out.

On the beachhead, the last of Dragonstone's residents were still making their way to the water. Fewer now. The crowd had thinned.

Barristan hadn't moved from where he stood.

Xue Ce scanned the knot of sailors nearby and found the man he was looking for quickly enough.

Young, black-haired, crouched beside a boat tying off the mooring line. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms tanned unevenly in two distinct shades. He finished the last knot, stood, knocked the sand off his knees, and turned to board.

Xue Ce walked over. "Hey."

The sailor looked back.

Xue Ce put his back to the shore, his body blocking any line of sight from the beach.

He reached out and passed the letter over. In the same moment — no sound, no hesitation, the second letter slipped from the hidden pocket in his cuff and pressed into the sailor's palm alongside it.

He held the man's gaze for just a second. "King's Landing," he said quietly.

Then he turned and walked back toward Barristan at an easy pace, his face arranged into something appropriately deferential.

"Lord Commander. Is there anything you need from me?"

Barristan glanced at him. "You'll serve as my adjutant for now."

Xue Ce lowered his head. His voice was perfectly level. "It's my honor, Ser."

Inside, he exhaled half a breath.

Barristan releasing every last soul on the island had given him the best cover he could have asked for. If anyone looked into it later, there was nothing to find. The evacuation explained everything.

Over the days that followed, he ran Barristan's errands, copied his documents, tallied supplies. 7 years as a household steward had made him good at this. He moved efficiently, made no noise, left no cracks.

Showing nothing was always what he'd done best.

But deep in the night, lying on the hard camp bed with the waves breaking against the rocks below his window, his mind wouldn't settle. He counted on his fingers.

To King's Landing with a fair wind, one day, maybe two. The letter should have arrived by now.

He thought of his younger brother, Wodefa.

That one was in Meereen. At Khal Drogo's side. Doing well for himself, by all accounts, eating his fill of roast mutton, drinking the finest wine the city had to offer, the Khaleesi herself treating him with courtesy.

And me. Stuck on this miserable island, sea wind grinding into my knees, eating hard bread, drinking thin salt-water soup, sleeping on a cot that doesn't deserve the name. Why?

He was five years older than Wodefa. Better at the work, too. But Wodefa had the tongue for it, he knew how to make important people feel important, and so Xue Ce was stuck here in this godforsaken place, fetching things for a stubborn old knight who'd never ask himself whether mercy was worth the price.

The resentment sat in his chest, heavy and still. He couldn't say it aloud. He couldn't let it reach his face. That was the servant's gift, swallowing it whole, every time.

The waves came in one after another, like something counting down.

Xue Ce rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

Through the gap in the window frame, the sea wind crept in. The candle flame swayed once, and went out.

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