As Vlad had foreseen, the Wise Masters of Astapor were quick to greet him with smiles and masks of hospitality. Despite their mistrust, they allowed him through the city gates with no more than a dozen guards. They believed that would be enough to keep him in check. But it was irrelevant. If he wanted to, he could raze the city to the ground on his own.
The heat was thick and sticky, and the air reeked of salt, blood, and old sweat. With every step, Vlad could smell the stench of slavery: branded bodies, hollow eyes, chains that creaked with every movement. Astapor didn't disgust him… it only filled him with disdain.
The only thing more unpleasant than the city itself was the Wise Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. He opened his mouth before even looking Vlad in the eye, muttering insults in High Valyrian, convinced no one understood what he was saying. He relied on his translator to filter his words.
Too bad he didn't know Vlad spoke the language fluently.
So Vlad simply ignored the man's comments. Missandei, the young translator no older than Daenerys, conveyed the details of the Unsullied and their training with precise professionalism, smoothing over each insult. Meanwhile, Kraznys spoke shamelessly in High Valyrian.
More than once Vlad had to restrain himself when the master referred to him as a savage, along with a string of equally colorful adjectives. For a moment, he was tempted to rip his throat out… but he held back.
Revenge, like fine wine, was best enjoyed slowly.
As they toured Astapor and the sprawling Unsullied training fields, Vlad assessed the scale of the army. The discipline was impressive, though the cost of their creation was monstrous. Soldiers without fear, immune to pain, devoid of personal will.
After some fifteen minutes of walking, they were led into the Masters' stronghold.
Kraznys mo Nakloz immediately caught Vlad's attention—not just because of his red-and-black beard dripping with nauseating oils, but because of his overall repulsive appearance.
—My lord, Wise Master Kraznys welcomes you and awaits your offer —said Missandei politely.
—My offer is simple. I want them all —Vlad stated without hesitation.
Missandei blinked, surprised, and Kraznys let out a mocking laugh.
—All of them? —the translator repeated, as if she had misheard.
—All. The 8,000 Unsullied and the 300 or so still in training. If they fall in battle, I'll need replacements —Vlad replied calmly.
The Wise Master laughed again, full of disdain.
—This savage fool couldn't afford them even if he sold all his other savages —he said in High Valyrian, not bothering to hide his contempt. Then added with a filthy grin—. Maybe I'd sell him 500. 1000, perhaps… if he brings his silver-haired whore to suck my cock right now.
A chill passed through everyone present after those words.
Missandei, quick from experience, filtered the words before translating.
—Wise Master Kraznys respectfully rejects your offer. He doubts you can pay the full price but says you may negotiate for a little more than half with a generous discount.
Vlad didn't take his eyes off the man, but in his mind, he was already deciding his fate.
—I'm sure we can come to an agreement —he said as if nothing had happened—. One dragon in exchange for all of them?
Kraznys's expression changed instantly. Greed wiped the sneer from his face.
—A dragon? —he repeated in High Valyrian, still incredulous, though his eyes gleamed with hunger.
Rumors of the dragons' return had already spread through Essos, so the Wise Master was very interested.
Missandei translated faithfully.
—The Wise Master is interested in the offer.
—Excellent. I have four. And I'm willing to give one in exchange for everything I want to purchase here —Vlad said casually.
—I want four! —Kraznys demanded immediately, raising three fingers with childish eagerness.
—No. One dragon —Vlad replied firmly, raising a single finger to make his point.
Kraznys scowled.
—Three! —he shouted in the common tongue, slamming the table in fury.
—One —Vlad repeated, unmoved. Kraznys clenched his teeth, still furious… but greed was stronger than pride.
—The biggest —he finally said, as if he were winning something.
Vlad nodded indifferently. It didn't matter which—his dragons were nearly the same size for now.
—Add the translator to the deal, and we have an agreement —Vlad added, not even looking at Missandei.
The Wise Master barely gave it a thought before nodding. Losing a slave meant nothing compared to gaining a dragon.
And so, without even realizing it, Kraznys mo Nakloz had just signed his own death sentence. Soon, he would find that death might be a mercy he would not receive.
Three days later, they walked to the main platform where the 8,300 Unsullied stood. They remained upright, backs straight, shields on one arm and spears in the other hand, like living statues. Each had been molded through brutal training no man should endure, transformed into human weapons whose only purpose was to obey without question.
They didn't think. They didn't argue. They only listened.
Any deviation from an order was punished with the whip—or death.
—An army for a dragon. Where is it? —Kraznys demanded impatiently.
—As promised —Vlad replied calmly, gesturing with his hand.
From the sky descended a massive black shadow: Drakul. His size already exceeded that of a horse, and Vlad knew that, sooner or later, his dragons would reach the size of the colossal beasts of old, those that cast shadows over entire cities.
Kraznys's frown quickly turned into a greedy smile as the dragon landed beside Vlad.
Drakul glanced at the man as if he had just spotted a piece of rotten meat.