Chapter 202: Pride's Plaza
Flanked by sixteen Astapori horsemen at the front and sixteen more at the rear, Ian and Daenerys's carriage rolled into Pride's Plaza. By any reasonable standard, the Good Masters of Astapor had laid out a genuinely impressive welcome.
The previous evening, after the ship had docked, Ian had granted the crew's request to go ashore — they'd been cooped up on that vessel for over two months, after all. He'd let them loose with one simple instruction: spread the word that the Dragon Queen of the Sunset Kingdoms had sailed to Astapor to buy Unsullied.
One night of gossip and rumor-mongering had done its work. That morning, Great Benevolent Lord Kraznys mo Nakloz had sent a messenger to Ian's ship. After confirming that Ian and his party had indeed come to purchase soldiers, he extended a formal invitation to come inspect the merchandise at Pride's Plaza.
In the original story, the Good Masters had treated Daenerys with thinly veiled contempt when she arrived from Qarth — a young girl with no money and three small dragons. Ian had made sure to lead with his wealth right from the start, and the difference in treatment was night and day.
He leaned slightly toward the carriage window and took stock of their escort.
The riders were broad-shouldered men, most with amber complexions, wearing yellow silk cloaks studded with polished copper discs. No armor, no helmets — just elaborately embroidered linen shirts and hair sculpted into bizarre shapes: horns, blades, wings, clenched fists. Ian had seen some unusual cavalry cultures in his time, but calling these men soldiers felt like a stretch. He kept the thought to himself.
The carriage came to a stop at the center of Pride's Plaza.
Kraznys mo Nakloz was already descending from the viewing platform to greet them personally. The man smelled like he'd bathed in a vat of perfume — black plum and something floral — and his forked red-and-black beard had been oiled to a shine. Through his thin navy silk robe, Ian could make out a pair of generous, drooping pectorals that would have given Daenerys serious competition. The robe itself was a toka, trimmed with gold fringe, fastened at one shoulder and held in place by Kraznys's left hand as he walked. His right hand gripped a short leather whip.
At a gesture from Kraznys, two slaves stepped forward from behind him — one tall, one short — and knelt side by side in front of the carriage door, positioning themselves as human steps for the distinguished guests.
But the first thing out of that carriage wasn't Queen Daenerys or her Hand.
It was a streak of black.
The shadow shot out so fast it spooked the escort horses before anyone could react, sending the entire formation into chaos. It whipped past Kraznys close enough that the wind from its wings sent his ridiculous forked mustache fluttering in all directions. Then it settled — perched on top of the carriage roof — and only then did Kraznys and the assembled crowd recognize it for what it was.
A dragon. Supposedly extinct for over a hundred years.
A collective gasp rippled through Pride's Plaza.
Two months old, Ion already had a wingspan of roughly a meter. He was smaller than most raptors, but there was something about him — a weight to his presence — that silenced people the moment they laid eyes on him.
Ian stepped out of the carriage next, planting his boot on the backs of the two kneeling slaves without ceremony as he descended, then dismissing them both with a wave. Daenerys followed, and Ian reached back to lift her down before her feet could touch the pavement.
"Before you stands Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name," Rol announced, stepping forward with the gravity of a herald at court, "born amidst salt and smoke, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Last Dragon Aspect of Valyria."
Last Dragon Aspect of Valyria was the title Ian had crafted for her — a deliberate replacement for Mother of Dragons, which carried a warmth he didn't want anyone here associating with weakness.
"And Her Grace's Hand," Rol continued, "Apostle of the Lord of Light, Summoner of Dragons — Lord Ian Darryl."
A small girl stepped forward from Kraznys's side to translate. She spoke the Common Tongue with remarkable precision for someone who couldn't have been older than nine or ten — flat round face, dark skin, golden eyes that marked her as Naathi. She addressed her translations toward Ian rather than Daenerys, which told Ian she knew exactly how to read a room.
He recognized her immediately. Missandei. The show had aged her up considerably and given her a romance with Grey Worm, but in the books she was still a child — this was her, no question.
"Tell these Westerosi savages to come up to the platform," Kraznys said to Missandei. His High Valyrian was thick with the guttural Ghiscari accent and peppered with slaver's cant. "Let them see what a real army looks like."
"The Great Master Kraznys graciously invites you and your party to ascend the platform and inspect the Unsullied," Missandei relayed smoothly.
Ian and Daenerys followed Kraznys up.
They passed the red-brick fountain at the heart of the square, and a sharp sulfurous stench hit Ian square in the face. He barely managed to keep his expression neutral. He made a silent promise to himself that fountain was coming down the moment he had any say in the matter.
"Let them get a good look," Kraznys muttered to Missandei. "Even these foreigners should be able to recognize quality when they see it."
"The Great Master asks if you find the soldiers impressive," Missandei translated.
Ian looked out over Pride's Plaza.
A thousand Unsullied stood arranged below the platform — ten ranks of a hundred men, positioned before the fountain and the massive bronze harpy statue. They were completely still. Eyes forward. Faces empty.
"They look like statues," Daenerys murmured to Ian. "What kind of army just stands there like that?"
"The queen praises the discipline of the Unsullied to her Hand," Missandei translated quietly to Kraznys.
"Good. Even a Westerosi girl can see what's in front of her."
Ian let a beat pass, then leaned toward Daenerys and said, "Honestly, Your Grace, give me a thousand dockworkers and two weeks, and I can get them to stand in a straight line too."
Missandei faltered. She glanced between Ian and Kraznys, visibly weighing how to handle it.
"What did he say?" Kraznys demanded.
Missandei translated faithfully.
The color that rose in Kraznys's face was spectacular. In all his years selling Unsullied, no buyer had ever compared his soldiers to common laborers. His composure cracked like old plaster.
"You tell that ignorant barbarian," Kraznys snapped, jabbing a ringed finger in Ian's general direction, "that the entire world knows the Unsullied are without equal with spear, shield, and short sword! Tell him exactly what these men are!"
Missandei composed herself and began to explain.
Ian listened with half his attention. He already knew the history — every detail of it — from what he'd read. But he kept quiet, because Daenerys was hanging on every word, her expression shifting as she began to understand what she was actually looking at.
"The Unsullied are trained after the methods of the legions of the old Ghiscari Empire," Missandei explained carefully. "They are cut at a young age. The training lasts ten years in full, during which they master three weapons."
Ian cut in: "Which three?"
(End of Chapter)
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