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Are the Unsullied expensive? Of course they are. Purchasing so many of them would easily cost Clay upwards of a hundred thousand gold dragons—if converted to Westerosi currency.
What kind of concept is that? Simply put, even White Harbor, currently gorging itself on the profits of war and basking in unprecedented prosperity, would need to hand over its entire tax revenue for two full years to scrape together that amount.
In the past, Clay could have clenched his jaw and made it happen. The Manderly family, after all, had accumulated wealth over more than a thousand years. Their foundations were deep, their vaults heavy with coin.
But that was in the past!
Before leaving Westeros, Clay had already spent a significant portion of that wealth. Expanding the army, constructing ships, forging weapons, training cavalry—each endeavor was a bottomless pit of expense.
Now, even if he sold New Castle, he might not be able to gather the full amount.
And yet, Clay believed it was a deal well worth the price. He knew better than anyone what these rigorously trained Unsullied were capable of on the battlefield.
If properly equipped, they became elite heavy infantry—embodiments of unwavering discipline and steel. On the frontlines, they could deliver a devastating shock to any Westerosi army unfamiliar with their kind.
With them under his command, Clay could finally indulge in the luxury of fine control, micro-managing troop movements with precision without being drowned in a flood of logistical concerns.
In truth, even leading the relatively undemanding armies of the North had proved taxing for him as a military commander. Endless decisions, both large and small, continued to pile up and consume his time.
The presence of the Unsullied would drastically reduce such burdens, freeing up vast swaths of his time for leisure—ah, no, for contemplating strategies and drafting battle plans.
Daenerys, however, did not understand these matters. She only saw the Unsullied's fearsome reputation and impressive numbers. It wasn't her fault. She had never commanded an army and had no way of grasping the nuances involved.
Clay's question was soon answered, though the response left much to be desired.
"Westeros really is a backwater. You people don't even know this? How utterly idiotic."
Kraznys mo Nakloz, a corpulent master of Astapor, grumbled toward the visibly flustered Missandei.
Though it was still early morning, the heat in Slaver's Bay was already intense. The scorched earth baked through the soles of their shoes, roasting the feet of everyone present. The obese slave trader, drenched in sweat and glistening like a pig pulled from a river, looked utterly revolting.
"In this world, as long as you have a chest or something hanging between your legs, you should know the Unsullied specialize in the use of spears, shields, and short swords!"
He took a step back, retreating into the shade provided by parasols held aloft by a few slave girls. Yet even there, the heat remained oppressive. A string of coarse, vulgar curses native to Astapor spilled freely from his mouth, framed by yellowed, rotting teeth.
Irritated, the slaver delivered a heavy slap to the plump backside of one of the girls fanning him, demanding she move faster.
The girl gritted her teeth, biting back a cry of pain as she forced herself to increase the pace. Her spine throbbed with searing agony, but she did not dare utter a sound. Here, slaves were mere merchandise. Had she yelped or slowed down even slightly, she might not have lived to see the next dawn.
Missandei, the young translator, did not flinch or speak out against her master's cruelty. She, too, was a slave. Though fury simmered quietly in her chest, fear of death bound her in silence.
"Explain our merchandise to these two ignorant Westerosi savages. Make them cough up every last coin they have. Better yet, make them sell the clothes off their backs too."
Kraznys wiped the sweat from his forehead, his eyes then trailing unashamedly over Daenerys' exquisite figure with the kind of lewd, knowing gaze all men recognize.
Clay knew exactly what the man was thinking.
After all, he had thought the same.
But there was a difference. He was allowed to think such things. Others were not!
Clay committed the man's features to memory, every inch of that bloated, contemptible face. It seemed the heat of the Plaza of Pride today was not nearly enough. Perhaps it needed a little more fire. A spark to liven up the mood!
Missandei began translating, reworking the slaver's crude speech into a more palatable version in the Common Tongue. Her words painted a picture of the Unsullied's training and conditioning, mostly for Daenerys' benefit.
Clay already knew it all too well. He knew how such unnatural soldiers were forged—every brutal step of it.
If he were to speak purely from the standpoint of moral values, of course he would condemn the practice. But reality was not governed by idealism. One's position determined one's perspective.
Right now, he was Clay Manderly, heir to a noble and ancient house. A highborn of pure blood and impeccable standing. And with the queen at his side and a dragon under his command, he had officially taken his seat at the great table of power. The other players simply had yet to realize it.
At such a moment, his foremost priority was to ensure his victory over the rest of the contenders and seize the ultimate prize of this grand game. As for the process itself, that was a matter of secondary importance.
A flexible moral compass, one that could be bent and adjusted to suit the occasion, was the only rational path forward. Those who clung stubbornly to rigid ideals were destined to be cast aside as fools.
"These people are mad," Ser Barristan muttered under his breath. The old knight had listened closely to every word spoken by the little translator, and now, having heard the process through which the Unsullied were bred, his voice trembled with restrained fury. The sheer horror of it all left him unable to respond with anything more than a low curse.
The Dothraki who followed Daenerys, especially her bloodriders—men long since subdued by the awe-inspiring presence of their Khaleesi's dragons—remained completely unfazed. They gave no reaction.
They had grown up in a world shaped by different values. It was only natural that their moral compass pointed elsewhere. The Dothraki had, after all, committed their fair share of massacres throughout history. Slaughtering the innocent was not a deed they found particularly shameful.
"We don't see this as madness," a slaver said with a grin that stretched across his face. "Because this madness is under control. That makes it obedience."
In his eyes, the young queen and the handsome Westerosi consort he had never seen before had already shown sufficient interest in this transaction. This old knight stepping forward now—perhaps he was merely trying to haggle down the price.
"A flock of sheep is most obedient. All it takes is a well-trained hound to keep them in line."
Ser Barristan's voice dripped with scorn, his words steeped in disdain. But the slaver was quick to fire back without missing a beat.
"Sheep who follow orders can trample a shepherd to death all the same."
The young translator dutifully conveyed the slaver's words, though she tactfully filtered out the venom in his tone. Even so, what remained was enough to leave Ser Barristan seething with fury.
"That is quite enough. Let us now speak of price. I hope you are prepared to offer a proposal that is truly reasonable."
Clay tilted his head and cast a glance at Ser Barristan Selmy, giving a faint shake of his head to signal him to hold his tongue. Then, a faint smile rose upon his lips as he turned to address Kraznys mo Nakloz.
The corpulent slaver's jowls trembled as he heard the words passed through the translator, yet he showed no sign of anger. Only a fool who knew nothing at all would accept the first offer without bargaining. That would have been the truly strange thing.
"Tell the Westerosi savage that the current offer is already quite fair. At most, I can equip them with armor and short swords. Hmm… and perhaps I shall even throw in shields for the Unsullied. That is my final offer."
"No," Clay replied, shaking his head slowly. "I have traveled through Astapor myself. The price you charge the magisters of the Free Cities is certainly not the same as this."
He had not spent the past two days in vain. The preparations he had made were thorough, and he was well aware of just how deep a pit this greedy slave-trader had dug for him.
Though it had taken only a few small tricks to pry the necessary information from others, that did not stop Clay from donning the air of one who had seen through the whole charade from the start. His expression now carried the subtle condescension of a man unimpressed by a cheap performance.
Kraznys mo Nakloz listened patiently to Missandei's translation. Once seated at the negotiating table, he appeared to have forgotten entirely the heat that baked the city. He gave no comment on Clay's words but instead offered a different retort.
"The honored magisters are not the same as you, beggar king without so much as a proper army. Make sure he understands that, and translate it word for word."
That last instruction was directed at Missandei. Clearly, he had realized that he was dealing with someone who understood the market. There was little point in insisting that Clay had been misinformed. To do so would only risk driving the negotiation to ruin.
When she finished translating, Clay offered no rebuttal. After all, these people had no idea who he truly was. In a way, the slaver's words were not entirely wrong. Though he did have an army, it was stationed in Westeros. Here in Slaver's Bay on the continent of Essos, he did not, in truth, command a single soldier.
But that was no cause for concern. He had other cards to play. Even if every Unsullied in the city were brought forth, they might still not be enough to cover the true value of what he could offer.
Clay murmured this thought silently to himself. His expression gave nothing away, and seeing his silence, Kraznys mo Nakloz mistakenly believed that Clay had been struck speechless. A grotesque smile twisted across the slaver's face as he shouted at Missandei.
"Now, tell him this. The great Kraznys mo Nakloz demands to know what a Westerosi savage intends to offer in exchange for such a fine price of Unsullied."
"Master, I believe they have not yet said how many Unsullied they intend to purchase."
"Fool! Of course they're going to buy them!"
The slave-trader exploded with anger at Missandei's reasonable question. The heat was growing more oppressive by the minute, and his temper grew harder to control with each passing moment.
He lashed out with a sudden kick. The young translator staggered, but she had clearly grown used to such treatment. With only a slight stumble, she regained her footing quickly. Her face revealed neither fear nor panic—only the calm indifference of one who had endured far worse.
Resisting would only bring greater pain. Missandei knew that all too well.
She endured the pain and conveyed the slave-trader's words to Clay, then quietly drew in a breath between clenched teeth.
"Tell your master," Clay said, feigning interest as he turned to Missandei, "to ask what he desires. At such a generous price, I hardly intend to lug gold around with me."
Daenerys had remained silent all this while, listening closely to Clay's exchange with the slave masters. Her mind, however, was occupied with weighing the current situation.
Clay had told her not to overturn the table directly with the slavers, and the night before, she had spent a long time contemplating the reasoning behind his command.
In the eyes of the young queen, it didn't make much sense. Clay held Gaelithox under his control. As long as she invoked her identity as a Targaryen heir and kept such a mighty dragon at her side, the conquest of Westeros hardly seemed like a difficult feat.
It was true that history had recorded many dragons slain in battle. Yet in Daenerys's heart, dragonfire remained the most fearsome weapon of all. After witnessing Gaelithox with her own eyes, her faith in that belief had only grown stronger.
She needed an army, yes, but that was secondary. To truly claim the Seven Kingdoms, she would rely on the fury of her dragons.
Yet now, she was starting to realize that Clay had never once placed dragons at the center of his plans. A thought crept into her heart—a quiet, unsettling certainty.
This man… he had been planning all along as though he had no dragon at all.
It wasn't her fault for thinking so. How could she have known that Westeros, in the days ahead, would give rise to monsters and devils—wielding dreadful weapons of war that defied belief? The Night King, Qyburn, and countless others stood as grim emblems of brutal science and arcane terror.
When Missandei finished translating his words, Kraznys mo Nakloz made no effort to hide the greedy light that flashed across his face. He shouted,
"Listen here, Westerosi savage! I heard your woman has three dragons in her hands, is that true?"
So, it had finally come to this. Not surprising, really. On the surface, this was the only bargaining chip Daenerys and Clay had that could possibly interest them.
Clay smiled. As you wish!
"Tell your master this," he said, his voice smooth and unreadable. "I will give him one dragon. A true giant dragon. What do you say? Is that enough to satisfy him?"
With a knowing smile playing at his lips, Clay slowly raised his right hand.
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[Chapter End's]
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