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It was rather unfortunate—during the day, Clay was the dragonrider of Gaelithox, but when night fell, he failed to mount another dragon.
The young queen had bitten her crimson lips, hesitating for quite a while, but in the end, she still did not allow Clay to enter her chamber.
Clay, however, was not the least bit bothered. To him, it was only a matter of time—she was his sooner or later. There was no need to rush.
The good news was that Daenerys had finally been persuaded. She gave up on her plan to roast people alive at the slightest provocation come morning. Still, she remained adamant that she would not bow her head to these slave traders.
That didn't concern Clay. He had never placed much value on superficial appearances. Since Daenerys was determined, then he would let her have her way. After all, he had already prepared two separate contingencies.
If negotiations were possible, Clay would gladly play the part of a shrewd and calculating patron. But if talks broke down... well, he had prepared a different kind of surprise for those men.
By the next morning, Clay had changed into a tokar, the long robe fashionable in Astapor. In this city, wearing such a garment was a clear symbol of status and rank.
The news that the Mother of Dragons had taken an interest in the Unsullied had long since reached the Good Masters of Astapor. The reason they had not come to receive Daenerys earlier was simple: they believed she was a pauper, unlikely to afford anything of value.
But now, it seemed they had reassessed her worth.
Not long after Clay finished his breakfast and was discussing matters of Westeros with Daenerys, Ser Barristan came hurrying in.
"Your Grace. Clay…" Barristan's gaze moved between the two, lingering uncertainly. He mulled over how to address Clay. In private, calling him by name might be acceptable, but this man's identity was clearly far from ordinary.
He had been dismissed early the previous day and knew only that Daenerys had spent a long time alone with Clay. As for what had transpired between them, the old knight had no way of knowing. All he had were assumptions and guesses, fueled by imagination.
Because of this, he found himself uncertain about how to refer to Clay.
As though sensing Barristan's discomfort, Daenerys cast a quick glance at Clay, who remained entirely unfazed. Her brow furrowed slightly as she turned back to Barristan and asked directly:
"Speak plainly, Arstan. Have the Good Masters changed their minds?"
"They have, Your Grace. They have invited you to the Plaza of Pride. The messenger who came said they have prepared their most valuable goods for your inspection and hope you will be pleased."
"That doesn't sound like something those slave traders would say, does it?"
Clay, idly playing with a small wooden figurine of a harpy, turned his head at Barristan's reply and asked with a faint note of curiosity.
"Ah… well, no. That wasn't the original phrasing. But Arstan believes these men will pay dearly for their arrogance."
Clay let out a short, amused laugh.
He rose from his seat and casually brushed off the nonexistent dust from his toga, the purple embroidery gleaming faintly in the morning light—a clear sign of its high cost.
"Let's go, Daenerys. Since our hosts have extended an invitation, then as their guests, we must accept."
Daenerys gave a small nod. This was, after all, the very reason she had come. However, just as she was about to take a step forward, her gaze landed on Clay, and her footsteps suddenly slowed.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You plan to come along like this?" she asked, eyeing his appearance.
"Why not?" he replied.
"Well… dressed like that, you can't exactly pass for my retainer. I should find you a set of armor…"
Seeing the hesitant expression flit across her delicate features, Clay laughed aloud. He extended a hand toward her and said:
"What are you thinking about? You're not my queen."
Daenerys frowned slightly, uncertain whether to feel annoyed or merely confused. She couldn't quite understand why he was holding out his hand. Slowly, she approached him.
And then—
That infuriating hand wrapped itself around her waist!
Clay lowered his head, his gaze meeting her violet eyes, which shimmered with a tangle of emotions. He leaned close and murmured into her ear.
"I suppose, just for today, I could bear the hardship of pretending to be Your Grace's consort."
---
The palanquin swayed gently as it carried its passengers toward their destination. Within it sat Daenerys, grinding her teeth and casting sidelong glances every so often at the arm still firmly wrapped around her waist, while Clay sat beside her with his palm nestled against the soft curve of her side, savoring the warmth in smug silence.
Eventually, they arrived at Pride Square.
The last time Clay had come here, he had only stood at the edge of the plaza and observed a slave auction from afar. But the square was vast—far more expansive than that initial glimpse had suggested. And it was to the very center of this place that they now approached.
Beneath a towering statue of a harpy stood a fountain built of red brick. Clay found the smell of the water unpleasant, with a faint scent of sulfur lingering in the air — a sharp, irritating tang that matched the city's unsettling temperament. This place, like its people, always seemed to carry a simmering agitation beneath the surface.
The Unsullied stood in neat phalanxes, their obsidian-black armor gleaming under the scorching sun. Each soldier stood straight and tall, as unmoving as spears thrust into the earth. Not one of them so much as swayed.
Clay had once commanded armies himself. A single glance was all he needed to tell that there were certainly not eight thousand men assembled before him. It was not a matter of space; the plaza was easily large enough to accommodate that many.
No, this was deliberate. The slave masters had held back. They did not believe these foreign buyers possessed the wealth to afford the full force of the Unsullied. They were posturing, keeping their cards close.
Behind the ranks of Unsullied stood another group — a line of free folk soldiers, clad in polished gear but with weary eyes and unfocused expressions. They were clearly fewer in number and lacked the unity and resolve of the Unsullied. These men were not for sale. Most were locals from Astapor, though a few might have been mercenaries from abroad.
Beyond them, five ornate chairs sat in a row, each shaded by a canopy resembling an umbrella to shield their occupants from the sun. Upon those seats lounged five figures, each of varying stature and demeanor, engaged in casual conversation. Yet their gazes never strayed far from Clay and Daenerys, eyes quietly taking the measure of the pair approaching them.
"Tell the woman from Westeros she must explain who that man is. The Great Good Masters demand to know."
The words were spoken in Valyrian, but heavily accented — Clay's keen ears picked up every syllable. Though thick and clumsy, he understood well enough. The Free Cities along the eastern shores of the Narrow Sea all spoke variations of Valyrian, each with its own peculiar accent shaped by local dialects.
In truth, these tongues all traced back to High Valyrian, brought across the sea when the Freehold of Valyria swept through and conquered the lands. Over time, those conquerors' words mingled with the native speech, birthing these heavily flavored versions of the mother tongue.
Clay even suspected that Daenerys's own Valyrian was far from pure. Three centuries of generational change in Westeros would surely have dulled its edges, no matter how faithfully it was passed down by word of mouth.
Daenerys hadn't caught the slave master's words. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She was enduring the awkward sensation at her waist — the subtle pressure of Clay's hand — and her eyes lingered on the immense harpy statue that loomed over the fountain.
Clay had brought this up to her just yesterday, the matter of religion in these lands.
These so-called priests might seem laughable, but they were not to be underestimated. Under the right circumstances, their zealotry and the fanatic followers they inspired could rival even the Unsullied in fervor and cruelty. Though more often than not, such zealots were the first to beg for mercy when danger drew near.
Still, if one wished to establish any real footing in Slaver's Bay, the religious factions could not be ignored. Without their cooperation or at least their neutrality, lasting influence here was impossible. And Clay could hardly summon that strange power of his to preach atheism and materialism in a land where the gods had teeth.
As the two of them walked toward the shaded pavilion prepared in advance, they found only a single chair waiting beneath the canopy. Clearly, no one had anticipated that Daenerys would bring someone with her.
Clay glanced at Daenerys. She was looking back at him.
Was this really something to hesitate over?
Without the slightest pause, Clay sat down and settled into the chair. Then, with an utterly unbothered expression, he gave his thigh a gentle pat.
Barristan Selmy, following behind, saw Daenerys's cheeks flush a deep shade of red. Wisely, the old knight turned his back to the scene, positioning himself between the pair and the crowd of curious slave masters, whose necks were craning forward in interest.
The old lord used his body to block their view, prompting a chorus of curses from the disappointed onlookers.
Daenerys's amethyst eyes blazed as they locked onto Clay's. She had not expected this—he had already sat down. Her instincts screamed that she needed to stay calm. No matter how utterly mortified she felt in that moment, she knew she could not afford to lose her composure. Not here. Not in front of them.
But if she simply stood at his side, would that not be a silent declaration that Clay's status surpassed her own? That was something her pride could never allow.
Then... Daenerys cast a subtle glance at Clay's thigh, and in the next instant, mentally lashed herself for even considering it. If she truly sat there… her image as queen would be shattered completely.
"Stand up…"
The young queen bit down on her words, spitting them out through clenched teeth, her voice tinged with frustration and humiliation.
"Why though? Isn't the chair meant to be sat in?"
Clay lifted his gaze toward her with an expression of childlike innocence that made Daenerys want to strike him on the spot.
He drank in her flustered and helpless expression for a few lingering seconds, utterly satisfied, before finally rising to his feet. His teasing came to an end as his voice dropped to a low murmur.
"All right. Time to get down to business. Those foul-smelling slave-traders are here."
Daenerys turned quickly at those words. Indeed, the five most powerful slave traders of Astapor were now making their way toward them, their pace brisk and their eyes alert. Deprived of the spectacle they had hoped for, their mercantile instincts quickly took command, brushing aside any idle curiosity as they prepared for negotiation.
Clay smiled faintly, and his hand, with uncanny familiarity, found its way to Daenerys's waist.
A sharp jolt of pain suddenly shot through his hand, like a needle piercing straight into his nerves.
Someone was pinching him. Hard. And the culprit was staring at him with the same look of innocent composure he had worn just moments ago.
Fine then...
Clay's cheek twitched ever so slightly. Without flinching, he acted as though nothing had happened and calmly led Daenerys toward the approaching slavers.
"The Good Masters wish to know your identity."
Standing just to the side was a girl with bronze-colored skin, around ten years of age. She spoke the Common Tongue with perfect clarity as her gaze fell on Clay and posed the question.
Clay studied the young translator for a moment. Hmm… this must be Missandei, who would one day become Daenerys's handmaiden.
Not intending to make things difficult for her, he offered a straightforward reply.
"You may think of me as her husband. Though that hardly matters. What matters is that we are the ones with the coin."
Missandei eyed him with growing curiosity. She had never heard of the Dragon Queen having a husband. Yet judging by Daenerys's reaction, there was no denial in sight.
Her gaze briefly dropped to the hand resting on Daenerys's waist before she quickly withdrew her eyes, then dutifully translated Clay's words into the Valyrian dialect spoken in Astapor.
The Good Masters, upon hearing the answer, all turned their gazes toward Clay. He understood that look all too well. Tch. The primal envy of men. Clay knew precisely what that meant.
"Tell the woman from Westeros, and that barbarian husband of hers, not to get any foolish ideas. I sell flesh, and flesh alone. If they want bricks or stone, they can look elsewhere."
The one who spoke stood tall, the tallest among the five. Yet it was not his height that Clay disliked—it was his tone.
Clay did not spare them a glance. His gaze had been fixed on the Unsullied all along, quietly studying them. Truly, these soldiers looked as though they had all been cast from the same mold. With their faces hidden behind masks, one could hardly tell them apart.
"Tell me how they were trained. I want to know whether they're worth the price I'm about to offer."
He addressed Missandei, though he could understand every word the slavers spoke. He simply found it more entertaining to go along with Daenerys's performance.
Once the young translator had faithfully relayed his question, the slavers' faces lit up with contentment. Now that business could begin, they were perfectly at ease. This was their favorite part of any encounter.
"As you wish," replied another of the group, whose eyes lingered on Clay with a glint that resembled a butcher eyeing a prize hog fattened for slaughter.
How curious!
Clay was looking at him the very same way.
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[Chapter End's]
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