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A look of unmistakable bewilderment surfaced on the rough, grease-streaked face of Kraznys mo Nakloz, his beard tangled and his brow furrowed. He was clearly struggling to comprehend what exactly this man, Clay, had just said.
What? He was just going to give him a dragon? And not just any dragon, but the largest one?
As someone who had managed to cling to his position as a Good Master for a remarkably long time—and, more importantly, had remained alive through countless brushes with death—Kraznys had learned to rely on a certain animal instinct for danger. That instinct was now roaring in his mind. Something about this felt wrong, deeply wrong. Yet, try as he might, he could not immediately pinpoint what.
This Beggar King and his woman had arrived with nothing more than a single ship. They had no army. The dragons they brought were kept in a large chest nearby and did not appear to pose much of a threat.
But anyone capable of negotiating directly with him, anyone who dared to approach the Good Masters as equals, was rarely a fool. Fools were consumed by Astapor's brutal currents long before they reached someone like him.
His bloodshot eyes, narrowing with suspicion, drifted toward Clay's right hand, which was raised high toward the sky. Kraznys had no idea what the man was doing, nor what purpose such a gesture served.
It shouldn't be like this. All they had were three little dragons that hadn't even grown up yet. Unless… wait—a dragon!
A flicker of realization pierced through Kraznys' confusion. He remembered a rumor—one dismissed with sneers by the Good Masters, a story that had traveled from the coast but had never earned their serious attention.
And then, as understanding bloomed, before he could even open his mouth to call out, a strange vibration filled the air, crawling into his ears like a warning too late.
Screams of panic erupted from those around him, sharp and terrified. Then came the thunderous roar. A sound so overwhelming, so primal, it shattered all barriers and crashed violently into his eardrums.
This man who trafficked in false smiles and deceit, who had survived the cutthroat politics of the slave trade, now found he lacked even the courage to raise his head. For in that instant, he understood the meaning behind Clay's earlier words.
I will give you a dragon. A true dragon. A towering, magnificent beast. But the real question is—do you have the life to receive it?
The sky above was clear and blue, the morning sun dazzling in its brightness, yet a vast shadow now descended upon the Plaza of Pride.
Amid the shrill, primal screams of instinctual terror, a creature of blue and gold soared across the sky, its wings slicing through the air as it glided over more than half of Astapor, circling above the plaza like a living storm.
Beneath the blazing sun, the metallic sheen of Gaelithox's blue-gold scales gleamed with a brilliance that made the dragon appear divine—like a creature descended from the heavens.
The Good Masters were already scared out of their wits!
What struck Clay as somewhat amusing was their first, unthinking reaction: they called for the Free Companies' militia to protect them, rather than ordering the Unsullied, who remained standing still, silent and unmoving, as though none of this concerned them in the slightest.
Above the plaza, Gaelithox's enormous wings beat down with a might that stirred the wind like a hurricane. It was preparing to land in the square, which, fortunately, was spacious enough.
A howling gust tore across the stone ground.
Clay reached out and pulled Daenerys into his embrace, shielding her slender form with his own body from the storm of dust that exploded outward.
With a dull thud, a heavy impact shook the earth as though a mountain had fallen from the sky. The dust cloud obscured all vision, yet everyone could feel the searing heat rising around them.
The weather had already been hot, but it now became unmistakably clear that the dragon's body radiated a heat far more intense than anything they had imagined.
Rough breathing echoed nearby. Without turning his head, Clay reached around behind Daenerys and placed his hand directly on Gaelithox's approaching snout.
The blue scales felt warm beneath his palm. Gaelithox leaned into the touch, evidently pleased. The great beast narrowed its eyes, stealing glances at its master—and at the woman nestled in his arms, whom it seemed to have a certain fondness for.
Hmph. My master does have good taste, the dragon thought. But still, I, Gaelithox, am a loyal creature. No one but my master shall ride me.
As the dust finally settled and the air cleared, the terrified Good Masters of Slaver's Bay and the sellswords' militia stared speechlessly at the overwhelming sight before them, trembling in silence.
Gaelithox paid them no mind. Instead, it lowered its great head toward Daenerys and sniffed her curiously.
The young queen had only just slipped out of Clay's embrace, her thoughts wandering in some unknown direction, when a massive dragon's head suddenly nudged up behind her, startling her so thoroughly that she gave a soft gasp of surprise.
Truth be told, she had barely seen Gaelithox before. Their encounter aboard the ship had been fleeting, little more than a brief glimpse before Clay mounted the beast and took to the skies.
Now she stood frozen, unsure of what to do, as the great blue-and-gold head nudged gently at her chest and shoulders, as if searching for something.
Despite her bewilderment, Daenerys found herself rather fond of this dragon with its striking blue and golden scales. From every angle, Gaelithox was a majestic creature; his appearance alone made him unforgettable.
In that moment, her thoughts drifted to Sunfyre, the legendary golden dragon of House Targaryen, whose pure golden scales had once lit the skies of Westeros. Sadly, that magnificent beast had met a tragic end during the bloody civil war known as the Dance of the Dragons.
Although she could sense that the creature meant her no harm, having such a colossal beast rooting around in her arms was overwhelming. Her hands, small and delicate, lacked the strength to push him away, leaving her no choice but to retreat step by step, casting a helpless glance toward Clay in silent plea.
Clay, of course, understood what was happening. This was no random behavior. It was the resonance that existed between dragons and those who carried the blood of the Dragonlords. Gaelithox was drawn to Daenerys not by thought or reason, but by the instinct etched into his very blood.
"All right, stop playing around, Gaelithox. Go greet our honored Good Masters," Clay said with a light tap on the dragon's horn.
The enormous blue-gold dragon let out a dissatisfied snort but reluctantly withdrew his head. He gave his master a sidelong glance, then turned his golden gaze upon the people of Slaver's Bay, who stood in tense silence, bracing as if facing death itself.
And greet them he did—in the way only dragons could.
He opened his vast maw, revealing a forest of gleaming, razor-sharp teeth, and unleashed a resonating roar so powerful that it shook the very air.
The sound, charged with raw menace, came so suddenly and violently that weapons clattered from the hands of several sellswords of the Free Companies. Terror seized them, and with shrieks, they turned and fled, leaving their swords behind without a second thought.
Clay stepped forward, calmly pulling Daenerys along with him. On the way, he casually stooped to pick up a sword dropped by one of the fleeing men, then advanced toward the stunned masters, who stood frozen in disbelief.
Among the soldiers of the Free Companies, a few foolhardy men still dared to remain. Though their legs trembled visibly and their courage faltered, they clenched their weapons as though grasping the last thread of their pride.
Clay's gaze rested upon them, not with anger, but with something close to pity. He hadn't intended for blood to be spilled here, but it seemed the fire still needed to be lit.
He turned and glanced at Daenerys. Her expression was confused, filled with concern, unable to grasp the silent message in his eyes. Then, with a calmness that stood in stark contrast to the tension in the air, Clay turned back to the few defiant men and, in a voice cold and steady, spoke a single word in clear, fluent High Valyrian.
"Dracarys."
A peculiar sound followed. Then came the blaze—brilliant, searing fire burst forth like a flood, erupting with explosive force. The wave of heat struck the stubborn men directly, a scorching storm that devoured everything in its path.
Even the finely forged armor and tower shields wielded by the sellswords offered no protection. This was no ordinary flame—it melted steel as though it were wax.
What use was willpower in the face of such destruction? What worth did blind loyalty hold before the wrath of dragonfire? With screams that would haunt every soul present for the rest of their lives, the would-be defenders were reduced to blackened husks within seconds, their flesh and bones turned to ash beneath the blazing inferno.
At that moment, Kraznys mo Nakloz finally remembered to call for the Unsullied he had trained. But before the words could escape his mouth, he was stopped cold by Clay's eyes—a gaze sharp and heavy like the sword of death itself.
His throat, hidden behind layers of glistening fat, rolled in a visible gulp. For the first time, a terrifying clarity struck Kraznys like lightning.
Daenerys—the woman from Westeros—was already the Mother of Dragons. And the man who now held her hand so naturally, the one she allowed to lead her without resistance—how could he not be tied to the dragons?
There was no doubt now. Even if the man before him lacked the iconic silver hair and violet eyes, Clay was undeniably a true Dragonlord.
And Dragonlords—they had always been tyrants. They had always ruled with fire.
Throughout the thousands of years of history, dragons and those who rode them had never bowed their heads to any power save their own. The only ones who could defeat a Dragonlord were other Dragonlords.
And now, he had been foolish enough to provoke one.
Kraznys' mind, once sluggish with arrogance, now worked with stunning lucidity. He suddenly understood the derisive gleam in Clay's eyes when he had insulted both him and his woman. The weight of his own arrogance crashed down upon him like a curse.
Even though he no longer spoke High Valyrian, that single word spoken just now with such precision and weight was enough for him to grasp its meaning through a lingering instinct.
Of course. How could a Dragonlord possibly not understand Valyrian?
Recalling what he had said mere moments earlier, the once-arrogant slave trader felt a wave of darkness wash over his vision, as if the world itself were tilting.
His only hope now was that this Dragonlord, known for incinerating people on a whim, might deem him too insignificant to bother with. Otherwise, even with the Unsullied stationed here, there would be no salvation for him today. He would not live to see another sunrise.
A boot landed squarely atop the charred corpse on the ground. The scorched and brittle ribs shattered beneath the weight with a dry, crackling sound. Clay cast a cold glance downward at the pile of ashes that could no longer be called a body. A smirk curled at the corners of his lips. Without a flicker of hesitation, he continued walking forward, heading straight toward the five men who stood at the very pinnacle of power in Astapor.
One of them made a feeble attempt to flee. But their bodies, long hollowed out by indulgence in wine and flesh, refused to obey. Their legs trembled, their backs hunched, and not a single one could move more than a step. All they could do now was stand and shiver, prisoners of their own fear.
They regretted it deeply. Why had they not made the effort to inquire more carefully about who this man truly was before confronting him?
"Well then, Good Master," Clay spoke at last, voice slow and deliberate. "What do you think of my gift? Does it please you?"
He stepped forward, his blade spinning lazily between his fingers. The gleaming edge caught the light, sending a shimmer across the terrified face of Kraznys mo Nakloz, who now stood rooted to the spot, as though trapped beneath a sheet of ice.
He had been boiling with temper moments ago. Now, that heat had entirely vanished, and he could no longer remember what warmth even felt like.
Summoning every ounce of strength in his body, he forced the muscles of his face to cooperate. What emerged was a contorted smile, uglier than any weeping grimace.
"My lord—no, Your Grace, Your Grace, O Dragonlord... I deeply regret my earlier offense. Please, allow me to offer compensation for my moment of disrespect."
His voice trembled with every word, but among the five, he was still the most composed.
The others had already lost control of themselves entirely. Muscles slackened, their bowels gave way. The sickening brown-yellow of human waste stained the luxurious tokar robes they had once worn with such pride.
"Your four companions seem a little... disheveled," Clay observed with a soft chuckle. "Let us find a more suitable place to discuss your compensation, shall we, Good Master?"
Clay was now firmly in control. Naturally, he had no intention of sullying himself further in this stench. He turned around without waiting for a reply, reached for Daenerys's delicate hand, and led her in the direction of Gaelithox.
He did not look back. He did not need to. He knew exactly what was going through the mind of the slave trader behind him—hesitation, dread, the urge to retreat. Without even turning, he tossed a faint, weightless warning into the air, a phrase that fell like a noose around Kraznys's neck.
"Don't make me angry again, Good Master. My dragon... hasn't had breakfast yet."
"... As you command, Your Grace."
Gritting his teeth, the slave trader bowed his head low and hurried after Clay and Daenerys. Only when they reached Gaelithox did Clay finally leave behind the stench of terror and filth.
He turned, taking in the sight of the man now drenched in cold sweat, as though he had been dragged from the depths of the sea. Then, raising three fingers before him, Crey made his judgment.
"As punishment, only three of you will be allowed to live and see me again. As for who those three shall be... that is for you to decide. I believe you understand my meaning."
His voice was steady, unhurried. Yet the words sank into the very marrow of the slave trader's bones.
"Within a day, I expect to see two severed heads laid before me. If I do not... I will burn all of Astapor to the ground."
Clay took one step forward, leaned in close, and whispered into the man's trembling ear.
"Believe me. I can do it."
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[Chapter End's]
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