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Clay had spent the better part of the day wandering through the city, and by evening, word had already spread like wildfire across every corner of Astapor. The news had come from a group of fishermen who had fled back to the harbor in a panic: a flock of dragons had appeared off the coast.
At the inn, one of the guests staying across from him—someone who felt far too familiar despite having just met—had immediately latched onto Clay and begun chattering away, excitedly recounting the dramatic tale he'd heard at the port. His vivid narration came complete with grand gestures and wide-eyed expressions. Clay smiled politely throughout, his expression calm and genial, though inwardly he was practically bursting with amusement.
As expected, word of mouth was even more absurd than Robert Baratheon crawling out of his grave to drag Rhaegar Targaryen into a tango. The truth was simply that Gaelithox and Daenerys had arrived with just three young dragons, and yet somehow, listen to what this nonsense had morphed into:
"My friend, let me tell you, a whole flock of dragons has appeared over the waters of Astapor! I heard it myself, they say it's a massive swarm—more than ten, at the very least! You tell me, weren't dragons supposed to be extinct? Where on earth did so many come from?"
"…"
"You're stunned, right? And here's the real scoop—this is first-hand intel, mind you—the leading dragon was as long as two full-sized sailboats laid end to end! Can you imagine such a colossal beast?"
"…"
"Look at you, speechless already! That dragon is definitely heading for Astapor. Word is, the leading dragon is silver. So tell me, should we maybe offer up a couple of slaves with Valyrian blood to the dragons? Who knows, they might decide to protect us if we do. Hey, why aren't you saying anything?"
"…"
Clay had so many thoughts jumbled in his mind, he genuinely didn't know where to begin. This was truly something else. Aside from the part about the dragons heading toward Astapor, not a single thing this man had said was remotely accurate.
He had to hand it to them. If anyone ever hired these people as informants, they'd be led so far astray they'd fall off the map.
Still, there was something to take comfort in. At the very least, the reaction among Astapor's common folk proved one thing: they still held a healthy fear of dragonkind. That made things considerably easier.
By his calculations, Daenerys's fleet would reach the shores by the following evening, so he still had a bit of time to continue observing the city.
There was no helping it. This wasn't Westeros. Here in Slaver's Bay, even though Clay was the wealthy young lord of White Harbor, he was little more than a penniless wanderer. Otherwise, he would've already made progress using sheer financial leverage.
…
That night passed peacefully enough at the inn. Clay declined the owner's enthusiastic recommendation—and all the "fine goods" delivered right to his door. He accepted none of it. The road ahead was too wide, and Clay feared that if he stepped off the edge now, he might never make his way back out again.
Early the next morning, Clay rose with the sun and stepped out into the city. Today, he intended to investigate the local price of Unsullied soldiers. At this point, he needed to prepare for both possible outcomes.
Sure, he could have Gaelithox fly in and bathe the entire council of Good Masters in dragonfire—that would certainly be satisfying. But the truth remained: doing so would shatter the entire ruling structure of Astapor in an instant.
Clay had no concern for a few deaths. But if the current order was obliterated, then the production of Unsullied would grind to a halt for a significant stretch of time.
Neither he nor Daenerys had any foundation here. They had no roots in this land. To gather the necessary manpower and restart the production line quickly would be a fantasy. Why turn a potential long-term supplier into a one-time transaction?
Therefore, in Clay's mind, the best outcome would be to bleed the current elite sitting atop the pyramids—cut them down to size—and then prop up a few obedient figures who would continue the operation as usual.
Then he could channel some of White Harbor's financial resources into purchasing Unsullied, steadily building up his forces and preparing for war. Of course, if he needed to keep White Harbor's name out of it entirely, that could be arranged as well.
Among the Nine Free Cities, there was one called Braavos, and in Braavos stood the Iron Bank. Clay could always fly Gaelithox straight there and take out a loan.
As for any potential problems this might cause—like whether he could repay the debt or how high the interest might be—Clay couldn't care less. It wasn't as though he ever intended to pay it back.
Once he had a strong army and Westeros firmly in his grasp, he would most certainly cross the sea and launch a campaign against Braavos. Not for conquest, but to crush those heartless capitalists who had dared to sully his name.
Imagine that. Just to make money, these so-called "civilized men" had cast away all pretense of honor and dared to slander His Majesty, Clay Manderly, claiming he had defaulted on his debts. How absurd! What gave the tiny city of Braavos the right to demand money from the Iron Throne?
Gaelithox, dracarys! Burn them to ash!
That was Clay's plan under ideal circumstances. But what if the slave masters simply refused to cooperate? What if, by some misstep, either he or Daenerys really did reduce them all to cinders?
Clay had no interest in playing Daenerys's little conquest game in Slaver's Bay. He had come to Astapor for one reason only: to get his hands on an army. If the production line for Unsullied was destroyed, then he would have to find another way.
Clay himself had no intention of staying behind in Astapor to serve as some nominal "king" of the city, all while acting as little more than a glorified slave master. Nor could he afford to leave Daenerys behind to manage things on her own.
The young queen had to return with him to Westeros. He needed her name and her cause to help secure a crucial alliance in another corner of the continent.
And when the time came, if he had to drag a few slave masters out of Meereen just to keep Astapor's wheels turning, he would do it. Clay simply could not allow the city to grind to a halt.
…
He spent the better part of the day wandering through the city of Astapor, stopping by numerous taverns, which were always the best places to gather information. When there were only a few people around, he would cast the Axii Sign; when the crowd was larger, he would ask in a vague way about various information of the Unsullied.
The bad news was that throughout all of Slaver's Bay, only Astapor still maintained a fully intact supply chain for producing Unsullied. That was, without a doubt, the city's primary export.
The good news, however, was that the process was not monopolized by a single individual. According to many accounts, the five Good Masters currently governing the city-state each held a share in the production of Unsullied.
This meant Clay had a real opportunity to divide and conquer. Had the power been concentrated in the hands of just one or two slave masters, the situation would have been far more difficult. But with five at the top, it became a game with far more interesting pieces on the board.
He lingered in the streets until dusk, and only when he was fully satisfied with the information he had gathered did he finally call an end to his scouting mission. His next destination was the port. Blending into the crowd, he planned to quietly greet the great Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Dragons.
His and Daenerys's operations in Astapor needed a unified guiding ideology. They could not go their separate ways. These were matters that required consensus between Clay and Daenerys.
Astapor, too, had caught wind of Daenerys's impending arrival. Yet, curiously, there was no sign of much enthusiasm. Not a single Good Master showed up to greet her.
Clay did not believe for a moment that the Good Masters' absence was due to the late hour. From what he had gathered, if there were coin to be made, these lords would gladly forgo sleep for five or six days straight—so long as they still drew breath.
All he saw at the docks was a small detachment of Unsullied clad in black leather armor, accompanied by a few common soldiers. They were led by a portly man with a greasy sheen to his face, clearly a minor figure in the hierarchy. A pitiful excuse for a welcoming party.
Yet Clay was gradually beginning to understand the mindset of these slave masters. In their eyes, who cared if Daenerys Targaryen called herself the Mother of Dragons? To them, she was just another "beggar queen" from Westeros.
Someone with no profit to offer, a figure already stamped and labeled by the Good Masters as a waste of time and resources. Such a person was hardly worth their effort, much less a nighttime excursion to the city's outskirts for a formal reception.
All the better for Clay. This made it easier for him to "rendezvous" with Daenerys. Of course, he hadn't told the young queen he was in the city. It would be amusing to see her reaction.
The great ship carrying Daenerys approached the dock at a steady pace. Astapor's harbor, as it turned out, was surprisingly well-built—a deepwater port, no less. It was an excellent place to house a fleet, Clay noted silently as he watched the ship maneuver precisely toward its mooring.
Bathed in golden twilight, the Targaryen banner—red dragon on black—snapped and unfurled in the sea breeze. Though the ship itself had once been a merchant vessel, its conversion to a warship lent it a formidable presence, almost regal in its silhouette against the fiery sky.
However, the ceremony of arrival was soon disrupted by a minor, unexpected incident. For the first to disembark were not Daenerys or her followers, but a group of unsteady, disheveled figures—staggering as if half-drunk, their clothes in complete disarray.
Their garb was wildly mismatched, yet no one dared to underestimate them. The moment a few bystanders recognized who they were, some of the more skittish soldiers instinctively drew their swords from their belts.
There was no real mystery to it. The ones stumbling off the ship were the Dothraki who followed Daenerys.
And in all of Essos, not a single city-state held a favorable opinion of those wild, nomadic horsemen who came and went like the wind. They were infamous for their savagery, their brutality, their bloodlust—and their unbearable stench. These traits alone were enough to inspire terror.
So when a swarm of such men suddenly staggered ashore—even ones clearly suffering from severe seasickness—it was no surprise that the slavers panicked. The crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle screamed in terror and fled en masse toward the city gates.
In the chaos, Clay—still wearing a bemused expression—was swept up by the frantic tide of bodies and carried into the city.
So much for a smooth rendezvous. Their meeting would have to wait. Circumstances had shifted, and comrades had to retreat.
What had begun as a minor hiccup had swiftly spiraled into a major headache. With a sigh of resignation, Clay returned to his quarters. He would wait until Daenerys and her people were settled before attempting to contact her.
Leaving the city was now out of the question, even if he wanted to. The guards stationed at the gates had no idea what had actually happened at the docks. All they saw were citizens screaming and flooding the streets, shouting about Dothraki invaders.
Acting on instinct, the man in charge of the gate ordered the heavy city doors slammed shut, leaving Clay staring at the barred passage in silent, speechless frustration.
Unbelievable. Just how terrifying were the Dothraki to these people? This was beyond a simple panic. It was like some full-blown trauma response. Truly, a spectacle to behold.
Eventually, after much shouting and clamor at the gates, Daenerys and her entourage were allowed entry into Astapor. However, because she insisted on bringing every last one of her followers with her, the city guards—resigned to her obstinacy—had no choice but to assign twice the usual number of troops to watch her movements closely.
Clay, however, remained utterly unfazed. They could send more guards, surround the entire estate Daenerys was staying in, and it still would not stop him.
If he wanted in, he would get in. When it came to serious business, a witcher was second to none. And when it came to less-than-serious business, he was just as capable.
As night fell, the commotion brought by the Mother of Dragons' arrival settled down. The disturbance barely extended beyond the western quarter of the city. Most of Astapor's residents still enjoyed a quiet, undisturbed night.
Around midnight, Clay slipped out from his temporary lodging. He didn't bother concealing his face. There was no need to. Even if one of the guards spotted him, they would have no idea who he was.
After all, who in this backwater knew the name Clay Manderly? This face—this strikingly handsome face—was his best disguise. Unless he had the misfortune of running into someone with an... unconventional taste, no one would remember him anyway.
Taking on the role of a nocturnal daredevil, Clay wove silently through the alleys and avenues of Astapor. He had a keen memory, and his wanderings over the past couple of days had already etched much of the city's layout into his mind.
He had pried the location of Daenerys and her followers' residence from the lips of an unfortunate soldier. For once, he refrained from performing his signature tracheotomy—not out of mercy, but simply because he did not want to attract unwanted attention with the scent of blood.
With a good deal of luck and dexterous footwork, he avoided three or four patrols and arrived safely, though not without a few close calls, at the grand courtyard where Daenerys and her followers had taken up residence.
The brick wall standing twice his height posed no obstacle to him. With the slightest leverage and a casual spring, Clay vaulted over it with the ease of muscle memory. Basic stuff, really. You couldn't blame him. In this world of ice and fire, there had been no convergence of celestial spheres, no monstrous fiends prowling the dark.
A witcher had pride too. Sometimes it was perfectly reasonable to take advantage of his unique talents to do something a little... unconventional. Ahem. Entirely understandable.
The interior defenses were not nearly as rigorous as he had imagined. Most of Daenerys' guards had been stationed outside. Near the chambers she occupied, only a few handmaidens lingered, along with Arstan—more properly known as Ser Barristan Selmy.
The old knight had not yet retired for the night. He was seated alone in the courtyard, sipping wine in silence. It was likely a parting gift from the city's rulers to Daenerys. In any case, Clay had not seen any wine aboard the ship.
"Ahem, Ser Barristan. Enjoying fine wine all by yourself at this hour? That is hardly the mark of a generous gentleman. Come, pour me a cup as well. I've been out for a while and I've been craving a taste."
Clay's voice rang out beside Barristan's ear, sudden and sharp, like a bell striking in the silence of night. The old knight's heart leapt wildly in his chest, nearly stopping altogether from the shock. Instinctively, his hand shot out toward the staff resting beside him—but before his fingers could grasp it, a firm, youthful hand intercepted him.
His muscles, initially tense as drawn bowstrings, slowly relaxed. Ser Barristan Selmy had recognized the voice.
Clay, utterly unbothered, seated himself across from the knight. With a casual sweep, he took up an empty cup from the tray and set it in front of Barristan.
The old man gave him a stunned look, eyes lingering on the easy, mischievous smile playing across Clay's face. After a long pause, he wisely decided not to waste any energy wondering how Clay had gotten in.
There were far too many strange and implausible qualities to this Clay Manderly. At this point, Barristan no longer found anything surprising.
With a weary smile, he poured Clay a drink. The latter picked it up without hesitation and downed it in a single motion.
Unfortunately, the wine glass in Astapor were too small. Clay was unable to properly chug it down and could only savor the flavor with a slightly dissatisfied frown.
As he waited for Clay to finish, Ser Barristan studied him carefully, already trying to decipher his true purpose in coming here in the dead of night.
This mysterious man who rode dragons was far too enigmatic. Every move he made warranted close scrutiny.
"Clay Manderly. Will you tell me what brings you here at this hour?"
There was a trace of curiosity in the old knight's tone, but his voice remained steady with the calm of a man performing his duty. He might have just witnessed a feat of silent infiltration, but he was still a guardian of Daenerys Targaryen.
"Just call me Clay. No need to keep announcing my family name every time," Clay said with a wave of his hand. Then he turned his gaze toward the room still aglow with candlelight, and spoke in a quiet voice.
"I'm here to see her."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
"…"
Seeing Clay's matter-of-fact expression, the look on the old knight's face became... complicated. His features tensed as he searched for the right words, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking in a voice tinged with both awkwardness and uncertainty.
"Clay, don't you think this is a bit... too forward? Even if Her Grace does hold some affection for you, this seems rather... hasty, does it not?"
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[Chapter End's]
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