Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
Clay blinked slowly. At long last, the delayed spark of realization ignited in his mind. He chewed over what Barristan had blurted out just moments ago, his thoughts narrowing in on the most telling words. Yes… he had caught the key point.
Clay wasn't someone who normally went after vegetarians. The reason he had abstained for so long was not out of principle but pragmatism. In a world where there were no little hats to be seen—where identities were always under scrutiny—indulging without restraint was far from wise.
Later, even after he became a witcher and most common diseases had long since learned to despair before his immune system, the habit had already taken root.
Besides, he was a man of finesse, skilled at navigating tight spaces. As for the wide, bustling avenues filled with people, he would rather keep his distance.
To be fair, the young queen did match his aesthetic taste rather well. A bit short, perhaps, but that could be forgiven given her age.
Clay wouldn't mind sampling what it felt like to be Daddy Drogon right now, but that could wait. At the moment, Daenerys's wariness and rejection were still far stronger than any flicker of acceptance she might have.
Sometimes, no matter how much they claim to love a lance, it doesn't mean their hearts are truly open. For Clay, what he needed to obtain from Daenerys had nothing to do with that kind of conquest. No, the first and most important thing was that dazzling golden object atop her head.
Of course, if he ended up getting both—crown and queen—that would be a most delightful bonus. Only a fool would turn down such fortune.
He shook his head and filled his cup again with the locally brewed Astapori ale, its scent faintly spiced and strangely invigorating. A grin curved his lips as he said with a chuckle,
"No, that's not the main reason I came here today, Ser Barristan. I believe you already know why your queen is here."
"Apart from the Unsullied, who are known far and wide, there is little else in Astapor that would draw the attention of Daenerys Targaryen—a queen who bears the fire of vengeance and dreams of restoration."
Barristan fell silent. In truth, he was deeply opposed to Daenerys doing this. Slavery had been abolished in Westeros for a long time, and it was regarded as an unforgivable crime by everyone, from the highest lords to the lowest commoners.
Especially for a man like him, born into a noble house and raised with a strong sense of justice, even if that sense was flawed, it was not easy to simply look the other way.
"And what about you, Clay? What do you think of the Unsullied? Of this city, Astapor? With your dragon, conquering this place would be nothing but a breath."
Barristan's eyes searched Clay's face. The young man before him was shrouded in mystery, and the more time he spent near him, the deeper his unease grew.
But Clay did not respond with solemnity. He swirled the wine in his cup, the silver liquid shimmering beneath the moonlight. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, just shy of mocking.
"Well... reasonably priced consumables. With a little discipline, they make for a fine rear guard."
He answered with two simple phrases. Barristan understood at once—Clay had just given him replies to both of his questions. The old knight's grey brows lifted slightly in surprise. Clearly, Clay's answer was not what he had expected.
As Barristan frowned, still lost in thought, Clay turned around and his gaze shifted to the side. He had heard it, a light, almost cautious set of footsteps.
Sure enough, it was Daenerys.
But she clearly hadn't expected to see him here. The moment her eyes landed on Clay, there was a visible flicker of astonishment across her pale and delicate face.
"Clay… what are you doing here? How did you even get in?"
The young queen was clearly taken aback. Her sharp gaze swept over the courtyard and fell upon Arstan, who had already regained his composure, stepped back from his seat, and now stood respectfully to one side.
Then her eyes landed on the wine bottle sitting openly on the table.
Her refined eyebrows twitched slightly. Clearly, these two had been here for a while. They had already started drinking.
A sudden irritation welled up in Daenerys's chest. Why did everyone around her seem to like this man so much?
Just earlier, she had been lying on her soft bed in her chambers, chatting idly with her maid about the things only women would whisper to one another. Even then, the little maid's words, both spoken and unspoken, had been full of admiration for this man.
Daenerys knew that kind of look in a girl's eyes. So now, when she found this scene before her, she felt even more annoyed. It hadn't even been that long…
Her expression darkened ever so slightly. Thankfully, she hadn't overheard how Clay had addressed Barristan just now. Otherwise, she might have exploded on the spot, convinced the two had conspired to deceive her.
"Arstan, you are no longer needed here. Go find Belwas."
Her voice was cold and laced with displeasure. It was a dismissal, and Barristan picked up on it immediately. He shrugged lightly and glanced between Clay and Daenerys, then casually reached his hand toward the wine bottle on the table.
Only to have his wrist swiftly caught by Clay, who was smiling as ever.
Watching Barristan leave with a forced, courteous smile, Clay couldn't help muttering inwardly. He had been in this place for quite a while now, and today was the first time he had managed to get his hands on something that actually tasted like real alcohol. Everything else served at the inn tasted like dishwater, completely undrinkable.
And now, this old man had the nerve to try and snatch it from him? How could that possibly be allowed?
Once Barristan's footsteps had faded into the distance, the small courtyard fell into an odd silence. Only Clay and Daenerys remained. Their eyes met briefly, both of them glancing at the lone bottle of wine on the table between them.
They stared at each other in silence, neither quite knowing what to say.
The awkward silence lingered for some time before Daenerys finally forced a strained smile. She gestured lightly toward the bottle still in Clay's hand and spoke softly,
"Is it that good? I've never really liked wine myself. Ever since I was a child, I've found it unpleasant. My brother, every time he drank, would always become… well, rather unpleasant. Less than kind…"
Her voice trailed off toward the end, growing quieter and more hesitant. She realized halfway through that she probably should not have spoken of such things to an outsider like Clay. But in her flustered attempt to ease the discomfort between them, the words had slipped out without warning.
Clay met her slightly evasive gaze, and in that moment he understood the unspoken part of her sentence. Viserys Targaryen—her brother—was, in some ways, a figure who warranted a degree of sympathy.
Unlike Daenerys, Viserys had always lived with the belief that he was the undisputed heir of House Targaryen. He had grown up carrying that weight, bearing witness to the family's downfall while still a child. That trauma had left scars that ultimately shaped his tragic fate.
In Clay's view, Viserys had never truly understood what he wanted from life. He was a man consumed by an illusion—a phantom throne that had haunted every step he took.
Everyone around him had filled his ears with grandeur: the noble blood that coursed through his veins, the righteous vengeance he bore on his shoulders, the vast realm that was supposedly his birthright.
In the end, he was not unlike that so-called Aegon Targaryen who still clung to life by some miracle. Both of them had been fed grand visions and grander lies, losing sight of what they truly desired, and what they were truly capable of.
Viserys's death had not been undeserved, but it was not something to be mocked either.
"If your brother could see you now," Clay said at last, "I doubt he'd dare raise his voice. After all, you are the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys."
His tone was light, almost teasing, and he gestured for her to relax and sit with him. Then, with a thoughtful air, he retrieved an empty cup, pouring her half a glass of the dark red wine.
Daenerys frowned slightly, eyeing the liquid as it shimmered in the moonlight. She had meant to refuse, but a quick glance at Clay, who was quietly watching her, made her hesitate. After a brief internal struggle, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a small, cautious sip.
"It doesn't taste good," she said bluntly.
"That doesn't matter," Clay replied calmly. "Alcohol is meant to help people relax, that's all."
He gently flicked the rim of his glass with his knuckle, producing a crisp, ringing sound that echoed faintly in the night air.
Another silence settled between them, filled with tension that neither quite knew how to dispel. Eventually, it was Daenerys who broke it, her patience clearly wearing thin.
"You came to see me this late. Is there something you needed?"
No sooner had she spoken than her expression shifted, her cheeks taking on a faint flush. Clearly, her mind had leapt to a certain possibility, one that left her a little breathless and unsettled.
Clay could hardly blame her for jumping to that conclusion. Under such circumstances, any woman might have suspected the same. It was only natural.
But her thoughts were interrupted by his voice, calm and direct.
"Daenerys, you want the Unsullied that the Good Masters of Astapor hold, don't you?"
Whatever illusion she had conjured in her mind dissipated in an instant. Clay's words pulled her back to the matter at hand, though a trace of disappointment flickered briefly in her eyes. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared. She quickly composed herself again, knowing full well that this man had come to discuss business.
"Yes," she said. "You're right. I need those warriors. My ancestors, the original conquerors of Westeros, didn't defeat the kings of the Seven Kingdoms with dragons alone."
"Good. Then tell me, how do you intend to purchase so many of them?" His gaze was steady. "Believe me, I arrived a day or two earlier than you did, and I haven't been idle. You don't have the coin to buy the kind of army you're dreaming of."
As he watched her fall silent, Clay suddenly realized something. The entire idea of roasting the masters of Astapor like a grand feast may well have been an impulsive decision—something Daenerys had come up with on the spot.
Everything that followed had not been part of a grand strategy, but rather the result of seizing the moment. What had started as a simple visit had unexpectedly transformed her into the so-called Liberator of Slaver's Bay.
"And what do you suggest, then, Clay Manderly?" Her tone lightened, even playful. "Your queen needs your counsel."
Clay couldn't help but laugh at the sly glint in her words. So she was turning the tables now? He hadn't called her his queen, yet she was determined to assign him the role of loyal subject.
"Daenerys, you're not my queen," he replied with an amused smile. "But I do have a suggestion for you."
However, Daenerys was not about to let him get away with that so easily. Puffing her cheeks in mock indignation, she chased after his words with renewed vigor.
"I am Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and rightful heir to the Iron Throne. As the Lord of White Harbor, you are honor-bound to kneel before me."
Clay gave no immediate response to Daenerys's words. He merely continued to savor the wine in his goblet, the rich flavor lingering on his tongue. Only after a long pause did he speak, his voice low and distant.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "your father Aerys thought the same way when he burned those two Starks alive."
His eyes lingered on Daenerys's face, their gaze turning contemplative, his voice becoming almost weightless.
"To be honest, a crown, in my view, is little more than a glorified lord's coronet. It holds no special sanctity."
Daenerys parted her lips, ready to challenge his words, but before she could speak, he continued.
"The so-called legitimacy of a throne," he said, "when stripped of all pretense, is nothing more than a matter of whose army is larger and whose coinpurse weighs heavier. If your brother Rhaegar had triumphed on the battlefield, winning one victory after another, then even if he had dragged every noble in the realm to King's Landing and roasted them all on a spit, no one would have dared to object."
"So what if House Targaryen ruled the Seven Kingdoms for three centuries?" His tone sharpened slightly. "When the great houses chose to rebel, they didn't even hesitate for a second. The safety of their families outweighed any loyalty to royal blood. I don't think I need to explain that truth to you, do I?"
"But they swore loyalty to my father," Daenerys said, her teeth clenched in fury. "They made their vows before the gods themselves."
In the education she had received, an oathbreaker was a wretched soul, cursed and condemned by all the gods. Her anger surged with righteousness, but all it drew from Clay was a cold, derisive chuckle.
The sound sliced through her indignation like a blade, and her fury quickly shifted focus. Fixing her sharp gaze on Clay, who was sipping his wine, she asked, her voice laced with danger,
"Am I wrong?"
"Yes, yes, you are absolutely right, Daenerys," Clay replied with mock acquiescence, raising his hands a little in appeasement. Then his tone shifted, gaining a heavier weight.
"But let me tell you this. The gods never needed mortal vows to begin with. And every oath has a price. If you're willing to pay it, anyone will betray the very words they swore before the divine."
"That's not true. The Sword of the Morning fought to the end for my family. He could have bent the knee and begged for mercy. The usurper had already won the war."
"Is that so? Perhaps. But if I recall correctly, he was of House Dayne, was he not?"
"The Kingsguard have no houses of their own."
"Time to wake up from your princess dream, Daenerys. I once captured the Kingslayer alive. Do you think he was truly a Lannister, or merely a Kingsguard?"
"I'll tell you why the Sword of the Morning did not kneel. It was because his opponent was Eddard Stark, a man who disdained underhanded tricks. He could fight with a clear conscience, knowing his back was safe."
"But if it had been Tywin Lannister standing there, he would have lined up every single member of House Dayne in front of him. 'Refuse to kneel? Fine.' And House Dayne's bloodline would have ended that very day. What choice do you think he would have made then?"
"Let go of your naivety. The reason I came here today was to tell you this plainly. Your experiences and your thinking are not yet enough for you to make the right decisions. And your subordinates—frankly, not a single one of them knows how to use their heads."
"Take tomorrow's matter with the Unsullied, for instance. Tell me, how exactly do you plan to persuade the Good Masters to willingly sell you eight thousand Unsullied?"
Daenerys, caught off guard by the barrage of words, stood stunned for a moment. Under Clay's piercing, almost predatory gaze, she finally mustered a reply, her voice barely above a whisper:
"A true dragon never yields to men like them. If they refuse me, I will bring fire and blood to their doors."
Clay raised a hand to his forehead with a sigh. There it was again—that reckless, impulsive temper. Where had she learned to be like this? Always ready to draw blood over a few words. Thank the gods he was here, or tomorrow history would have snapped right back into place.
He looked at Daenerys with a rare seriousness in his tone.
"Remember this. You must never think that way."
"Why not?"
"Can you burn every single person in this world?" he asked quietly. "Dragonfire is not a solution to everything. To truly resolve things, you must use this."
He reached out and tapped her gently on the forehead. She flinched slightly, her expression growing faintly awkward, but Clay didn't seem to notice as he continued.
"Tomorrow, speak with them first. Learn what kind of people they are. Every man has a weakness. Burning them should always be the last resort."
"Your enemies aren't just a few thousand slavers. There are tens of thousands more, maybe even hundreds of thousands. If you can't win over at least some of them, then you'll find yourself facing them all alone."
"And if that happens, your enemies won't just number in the thousands. They'll come at you in waves of ten thousand, twenty thousand, even more. Do you understand now? Eight thousand soldiers won't be enough to reclaim your throne."
"Don't tell me it's fine because you still have dragons. I have one too, and it's a pretty big one. But how did Meraxes die?"
"Patience, Daenerys. Time is on our side. So why not wait until they have grown weak and brittle, while we gather our strength in silence and strike only when the moment is right?"
As he rose to his feet, Clay spread his arms wide, as though he meant to embrace all of Astapor within them.
"Don't you see? This place... it's the perfect beginning."
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available