Daenerys kept her expression carefully neutral, feigning ignorance as the Good Master spewed a stream of insults in High Valyrian. She had understood every venomous word the fat slaver had uttered. Ignoring him, she turned to the small translator.
"Tell him," she said, her voice calm but firm, "that I will pay his price for all 8,000 Unsullied. And as a gift, he will give you to me."
Missandei's eyes widened in astonishment. She couldn't believe this beautiful foreign queen would ask for her. The thought of leaving the cruel Master Kraznys to serve Daenerys filled her with a desperate hope. She quickly translated the queen's words.
Kraznys's interest was immediately piqued. He conferred with the other Good Masters standing behind him, their greedy eyes darting between Daenerys and her dragons. After a moment, they reached a decision.
Stroking his forked, black-and-red beard, Kraznys's gaze fell upon the largest of the three dragons. Drogon, shackled by a heavy chain, hissed quietly. "Tell her I agree to the deal," he said, his voice thick with avarice. "But I want the big black one."
After Missandei translated, Daenerys turned and walked towards Drogon. She gently stroked the black dragon's sheep-sized head as he perched on a wooden frame. Then, taking hold of the heavy chain, she led him towards Kraznys mo Nakloz. Drogon launched himself into the air, flapping his wings just above her head, held back only by the length of the chain.
Seeing the dragon approach, Kraznys's face lit up with excitement. He eagerly held out the leather whip, its handle shaped like a harpy. "Give me the dragon!" he demanded. "This whip commands the Unsullied. It is yours. Come, give me the chain!"
Daenerys took the whip. The moment she did, Kraznys snatched the chain with both hands, his face flushed as he stared up at Drogon circling overhead. The other Good Masters crowded around him, their faces a mixture of excitement and awe as they gawked at the mythical creature.
Daenerys ignored them. She took a deep, steadying breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She slowly raised the harpy whip, her eyes fixed on the 8,000 silent soldiers arrayed in the plaza below.
In perfect High Valyrian, she gave her first command. "Unsullied! Forward, march!"
A single, unified sound echoed across the square as 8,000 sandals stamped the dust. "Hah!"
On the high platform, the Good Masters, who had been gleefully admiring their new prize, were startled by the sudden, sharp command.
Drogon suddenly beat his wings, a powerful down-draft kicking up dust. The chain snapped taut, and the sudden force nearly pulled Kraznys off his feet. "Dracarys!" Kraznys shrieked in clumsy Valyrian, trying to use the command for dragonfire. "Dracarys! Be still, beast! I can't hold you!"
The other masters joined in, shouting uselessly at the dragon to be still, but their panicked cries only seemed to agitate Drogon further.
Daenerys turned her head and gave them a look of pure ice. She looked up at her dragon and spoke a single, clear word. "Dracarys."
With a deafening roar, Drogon opened his jaws. A torrent of black-and-red flame erupted from his throat, engulfing Kraznys in an instant. The slaver became a human torch, his screams cut short as he collapsed to the ground in a heap of burning silk and flesh.
The other Good Masters stared in stunned horror for a second before erupting in furious curses. They barked orders at their guards to seize her.
But Daenerys was faster. Holding the whip high, she addressed her new army. "Unsullied! Slay the masters! Slay the soldiers who stand with them! Slay every man who holds a whip!"
She raised her voice, letting it carry across the plaza. "You are no longer slaves! You are my soldiers! I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen! Will you fight for me as free men?"
With a final, defiant gesture, she threw the harpy whip—the symbol of their enslavement—onto the dusty ground. "Kill the Good Masters who have tormented you! Your freedom is yours to take!"
As Daenerys gave the order for the Unsullied to turn on their masters, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan nervously drew their swords. Her bloodriders, Jhogo, Rakharo, and Aggo, did the same, fearing the slave soldiers might turn on them instead.
"Don't listen to her, you worthless animals!" one of the masters screamed. "Seize them!"
"I am your master! Obey me!" another shrieked.
Their commands were answered not with obedience, but with the cold points of Unsullied spears. The soldiers chose the queen who offered them freedom over the masters who had given them only brutality. The disciplined, perfectly trained army swept through Astapor like a storm, cutting down the slavers where they stood. Those who had been masters of the city only moments before now lay dead in the streets.
Daenerys appointed a commander for her new army, a quiet soldier named Grey Worm. She then declared all slaves in Astapor to be free. Leaving the city to be governed by a council of a healer, a scholar, and a priest, she marched her forces—now nearly ten thousand strong with the addition of freed slaves—towards the next slaver city, Yunkai.
While Daenerys was forging an army in Essos, the great houses of the North were gathering in Winterfell. They had been summoned to witness the trial of the last members of House Bolton and House Frey.
Edmure Tully arrived with his bannermen from the Riverlands. They, too, had a score to settle, having suffered greatly under the Freys' cruelty during the years Edmure was held captive. The Riverlords harbored a deep hatred for the house that had betrayed them and colluded with the Lannisters.
Winterfell was alive with activity, its guest rooms filled to capacity with the lords and ladies of the North and the Riverlands.
After returning to the North, Jason had moved quickly. He sent Jon to Deepwood Motte to help drive out the last of the Ironmen, while he tasked Bard with leading the assault on the Dreadfort, the ancestral seat of House Bolton. The castle had fallen, and Roose Bolton was now a prisoner.
The other surviving members of the Bolton family were locked away in the dungeons of Winterfell, awaiting their judgment. There was no doubt about the outcome. The Boltons had not only betrayed the Starks but had also murdered the patriarchs of numerous Northern houses at the Red Wedding. The ancient house, which had stood for thousands of years, was doomed to perish.
In the quiet heart of the castle, Jason and Sansa made their way through the ancient, dark trees of the Godswood, walking towards the white bark and red leaves of the heart tree.
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