With a cry of rage, a goblet was hurled against the stone floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. The sharp sound echoed through the tense silence of the dining hall in the Red Keep.
Here, under the watchful eyes of his mother, his uncle, and now his grandfather, King Joffrey felt like a prisoner. He was a king in name only, constantly managed and controlled. The simmering resentment he felt daily finally boiled over as he looked at Duke Tywin's calm, impassive face. His grandfather's utter disregard for his royal authority was a slight he could no longer bear.
The sudden violence terrified the younger children. Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen froze, their eyes wide with fear as they stared at their tyrannical older brother.
Cersei moved quickly, murmuring words of comfort to her two youngest. She gestured sharply for the servants to escort the prince and princess from the room, shielding them from Joffrey's escalating tantrum.
Tyrion, however, couldn't resist a smirk. "Well, look at that," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "The little king is angry." He let out a theatrical puff of air. "Who do you think you are, nephew? Do you truly believe sitting on the Iron Throne makes you a king?"
Joffrey's face contorted with fury. He spun to face Tyrion, the uncle he despised more than anyone. "You shut your mouth, you damn midget! You disgusting freak!" he shrieked. "Guards! Get this monster out of here! I won't have him in my castle!"
The two Kingsguard posted outside the hall, Ser Meryn and Ser Alex, stepped inside. They moved towards Tyrion, their hands reaching out to grab him.
Before they could, Jaime stood up, placing himself between them and his brother. He blocked their path and turned to look at Joffrey, his expression a mixture of weariness and disappointment. "He's your uncle, Joffrey. How can you say such a thing?"
"He's not my uncle, he's a monster!" Joffrey spat back, not giving Jaime, his own father, an ounce of respect. "Get him out of my sight! Throw him out!" He waved his hand dismissively, ordering the Kingsguard to drag the troublesome Tyrion away.
Tyrion's gaze shifted to his father. Lord Tywin's expression remained unchanged, his attention still fixed on the food on his plate as if the entire outburst was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Kevan Lannister, sitting beside his brother, looked on nervously. "Tywin," he began in a low, uncertain voice, "you should—"
Clang.
The sound of Lord Tywin's silver fork and knife dropping onto his plate cut through the room like a sword stroke. He slowly turned his head, his pale green eyes locking onto the two Kingsguard. "This is a Lannister family dinner," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "There is no king here. And no Hand of the King."
Ser Meryn and Ser Alex froze in place, caught in an impossible position. They knew perfectly well who held the true power in King's Landing. In front of the might of the Westerlands army, King Joffrey was little more than a puppet on a string. Yet, they had sworn a holy oath to protect and obey the king, an oath that superseded even the commands of the Hand. For men like them, however, whose character was far from noble, the awe they felt for the formidable Duke Tywin was a much more immediate and terrifying force than a distant vow. They were trapped, unable to advance or retreat.
Seeing their hesitation, Queen Cersei intervened. She ordered the Kingsguard to withdraw with a sharp wave of her hand. While trying to soothe her petulant son, she turned to her father with a hint of defiance. "What are you doing? Joffrey is the king! Everyone must respect his majesty!"
Her complaint was weak, and she knew it. Cersei was deeply dissatisfied with her father's open display of dominance, but she dared not challenge him further.
Duke Tywin ignored his brainless daughter completely. He fixed his cold gaze on Joffrey, who was still fuming. "I was considering your proposal," he said calmly. "But if you recall, I already addressed this at the last small council meeting. My armies need time to rest and refit. Furthermore, I must keep a watch on Stannis at Storm's End. I cannot lead the army north at this time."
Stared down by Tywin's unflinching gaze, Joffrey's bravado began to crumble. He felt small and powerless, instinctively looking away from his grandfather's eyes. His momentum was lost.
"Then when will you be able to march on the Riverlands and the North?" Joffrey demanded, his voice lacking its earlier fire. "They are in open rebellion! If we leave them alone, they'll rally to a new Robb Stark!"
"As I said," Tywin replied, his tone unchanging, "my army needs time. King's Landing also requires a strong garrison. As for when we will march, that depends on how events unfold."
Frustrated by Tywin's unhurried and dismissive attitude, but not daring to openly defy the man who commanded the armies, Joffrey kicked his chair away in a final, impotent display of anger. He stormed out of the banquet hall, leaving the remnants of the family dinner to disintegrate in his wake.
Far away, across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen had been driven from Qarth. She had refused to surrender her dragons to the city's rulers, and for that, she had been cast out. Now, her small khalasar was forced to take a ship to the infamous Slaver's Bay.
Following the advice of Ser Jorah Mormont, Daenerys planned to purchase an army of the legendary Unsullied in the city of Astapor. She needed loyal soldiers to protect her and her people.
However, her newest advisor, Ser Barristan Selmy—the Bold, who had recently journeyed all the way from Westeros to pledge his sword to her—was vehemently opposed to the idea. "Your Grace, I have never heard of any great ruler achieving victory with an army of eunuchs," he argued passionately. "They are slaves, not soldiers. Your brother, Prince Rhaegar, was the most noble man I ever knew. He would never have stooped to fighting alongside such men."
Ser Jorah scowled at the old, stubborn knight. Barristan's arrival had unsettled him, weakening the trust and reliance Daenerys had once placed solely in him. "With all due respect, Ser Selmy, I cannot agree," Jorah countered. "The Unsullied are famous throughout the world for their discipline, obedience, and loyalty. As for Prince Rhaegar… if he had commanded an army of Unsullied, he would not have died on the banks of the Trident!"
Barristan opened his mouth to retort, but Daenerys raised a hand, silencing them both. "Enough, my lords," she said, her voice firm. "I've made my decision. I want to buy the Unsullied. I need them."
After Khal Drogo's death, his great khalasar had splintered into warring factions. Daenerys was left with only a few hundred followers, mostly women, children, and old men. They had trekked across the brutal Red Waste to reach Qarth, only to be expelled. The few warriors she had left were not nearly enough to protect her. She desperately needed to strengthen her forces.
And so, she had followed Jorah's counsel and come to Astapor to purchase the slave soldiers.
The slave masters of Astapor, who ironically called themselves the Good Masters, were the city's rulers. Their entire economy was built on training and selling the Unsullied.
In the city's Plaza of Punishment, the Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz had assembled all 8,000 of his available Unsullied soldiers, arranging them in perfect formation across the sun-baked square. He had done so because Daenerys had declared her intention to buy every last one of them.
But as his slaves carried forward several chests of her trade goods, the Good Master's fat face flushed with anger. He turned to Missandei, the young translator at his side, and began shouting in harsh, guttural High Valyrian. "Tell this Westerosi whore that she has only enough here to buy fifty boys! With this pathetic pittance, she claims she wants to buy them all? Is she trying to mock me?"
The little girl, Missandei, trembled in fear. She turned to Daenerys, who was pretending not to understand the language, and relayed a much softer version of the message. "Khaleesi," she said meekly, "the Good Master Kraznys believes you have deceived him. This is only enough to purchase fifty Unsullied. You cannot afford to buy all eight thousand."
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