The waters of Slaver's Bay were the color of rust.
Not truly red—but close enough that, under the harsh Essosi sun, it carried the illusion of blood spread thin across the sea. The wind was warmer here, thick with salt and heat, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the north they had left behind.
The ships cut steadily through the waves.
Dozens of them.
The Golden Company vessels, reinforced and weathered from years of war, sailed in tight formation around the smaller escort ships carrying Viserys, Daenerys, and their personal guard of Death Knights—who, even cloaked and hidden, drew uneasy glances from seasoned sellswords.
They did not move like living men.
They did not speak.
And at night—
They did not sleep.
Astapor rose from the horizon like a wound carved into the coastline.
Its walls were massive, constructed from red brick that seemed to glow beneath the sun.
Tall, angular towers loomed above the harbor, their surfaces etched with symbols of conquest and trade—chains, spears, and stylized figures kneeling in submission.
Slaver's Bay did not hide what it was.
It celebrated it.
The harbor itself was a frenzy of movement.
Slave ships docked and unloaded their human cargo under the watchful eyes of overseers with whips coiled at their sides. Merchants barked orders in multiple languages. Guards patrolled in rigid lines, their armor polished but their expressions empty.
And everywhere—
Slaves.
Thousands of them.
Carrying goods.
Kneeling in silence.
Waiting.
Daenerys' grip tightened on the railing of the ship.
"They don't even look at us," she said.
"They've been taught not to," Viserys replied, though his voice carried a sharp edge.
This was not a place of subtle cruelty.
This was a system.
Refined.
Efficient.
And utterly devoid of mercy.
They disembarked under heavy watch.
The Golden Company marched behind them in disciplined ranks, their presence alone enough to keep most of the harbor guards at a cautious distance.
At the rear—
The Death Knights.
Cloaked.
Silent.
But unmistakable.
Even the most hardened slavers felt it as they passed—a chill that had nothing to do with the heat.
"What are those?" one guard muttered.
"No idea," another replied. "But I don't want to find out."
The streets of Astapor were narrow and winding, designed more for control than comfort. High walls blocked the worst of the sun, but trapped the heat, creating an oppressive atmosphere that clung to the skin.
The smells were worse here.
Sweat.
Rot.
Spices attempting—and failing—to mask decay.
They passed training pits where young boys were being drilled by overseers, forced to repeat formations again and again under threat of punishment.
Daenerys slowed.
"They start them that young?"
Viserys didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," he said finally.
"Break them early… shape them completely."
There was no admiration in his tone.
Only understanding.
The Great Plaza of Astapor dwarfed everything else.
It was vast, open, and lined with towering statues of former masters—each one depicted in exaggerated grandeur, standing over kneeling figures carved into the base.
At the center—
The Unsullied.
Thousands of them stood in perfect formation, bronze helmets gleaming, spears upright, shields locked.
They did not move.
Did not shift.
Did not even blink.
The silence around them was suffocating.
"They're not soldiers," Daenerys whispered.
"They're weapons."
The Good Masters received them in a hall designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
High ceilings.
Polished red stone floors.
Slaves arranged like decorations along the walls.
Perfumed air masking the underlying scent of decay.
The masters themselves reclined rather than stood, their wealth displayed openly—gold chains, jeweled rings, silks dyed in colors that only the richest could afford.
And their smiles—
Were sharp.
"Viserys Targaryen," one said through a translator. "A king… without a throne."
Viserys met his gaze evenly.
"For now."
The negotiations were not simple.
They were a game.
And both sides knew it.
Numbers were thrown.
Prices inflated.
Conditions layered with hidden traps.
The masters assumed superiority.
After all—
They had the Unsullied.
And the Unsullied were unmatched.
The demonstration proved it.
A slave was dragged forward.
Young.
Terrified.
A blade was placed in his hand.
"Strike," the master commanded.
The boy hesitated.
The Unsullied did not.
At a word—
The soldier stepped forward and drove his spear through the child's chest without hesitation.
Clean.
Efficient.
Final.
Daenerys turned away, her breath catching.
Viserys did not move.
But his hand tightened at his side.
"They obey," he said quietly.
"They've been hollowed out," she replied.
"Or perfected."
The words felt heavier this time.
That night—
The city burned.
Not in flame.
But in tension.
Viserys walked the camp, silent, thoughtful. The Golden Company had set up a defensive perimeter, their veterans already uneasy with the city's atmosphere.
"Something's off," one captain muttered.
"Other than the obvious?" another replied dryly.
"No… worse."
Daenerys found the Unsullied barracks.
Rows upon rows of soldiers standing at rest.
Not sleeping.
Not speaking.
Simply… waiting.
She approached one.
"You understand me?" she asked.
A pause.
Then—
"Yes."
The voice was flat.
Empty.
"What do you want?" she asked.
Another pause.
"I obey."
That answer lingered long after she left.
The plan formed that same night.
Not spoken loudly.
Not declared.
But understood.
Viserys had learned from Arthas.
Power was not just force.
It was timing.
At dawn—
Everything changed.
The Unsullied were assembled once more in the plaza.
The masters stood above them, confident.
Viserys stepped forward.
"You've shown me perfection," he said.
They smiled.
"And I've paid for it."
More smiles.
Then—
He turned.
"To whom do you belong?"
"To our master."
The answer came instantly.
Unquestioned.
Viserys' voice hardened.
"No."
Silence fell.
"You belong to yourselves."
Confusion rippled.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
Daenerys stepped beside him.
"If you follow us, you will be free," she said. "If not… walk away."
The masters laughed.
Then stopped.
Because the Unsullied—
Did not respond immediately.
And then—
One moved.
A single step forward.
Then another.
Then—
Chaos.
Not disorder.
But choice breaking through conditioning.
The masters shouted.
Guards rushed forward.
Too late.
The first Unsullied turned—not on Viserys.
But on their masters.
Spears struck.
Precise.
Lethal.
The Golden Company surged forward, cutting down resisting guards.
Daenerys pulled back.
End of Chapter.