The Prince Remains, the Dragon Banner Sets Sail

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"Clay, are you really planning to leave this place in the hands of Oberyn Martell? I still can't bring myself to fully trust him—even if he does have that connection to my family."

Moonlight poured like water through the soft gauze curtains. On the large bed, a woman lay completely bare, her delicate body pressed close against the man's chest.

Daenerys, still lost in the lingering afterglow, gazed dreamily at the full moon hanging high outside the window. Her voice was soft and slow as she asked the question.

"Who else could we leave it to? You? Or me?"

Clay let out a helpless smile. It really wasn't much of a choice. This little kingdom of his—at the end of the day—was nothing more than a makeshift troupe. Now that he was preparing to return to Westeros, he didn't even have a single person he could rely on to hold down the fort.

He certainly couldn't stay behind himself. As for Daenerys… well, the titles popped into his mind one after another… Breaker of Chains, Liberator of Slaves… No, best to keep her by his side.

Besides, Daenerys was the rightful heir to the Targaryen dynasty. More often than not, without her presence, nothing could actually get done.

That left only one other option: Barristan Selmy. But really, that old knight with a head and face full of white hair? Better to spare him the burden. With all his stubborn obsession over Westerosi chivalry and noble ideals, he'd probably get devoured by the local scum before the week was out—bones and all.

So, in the end, after thinking it over from every angle, Clay had to admit that this wandering Dornish prince, who had grown rather capable over the years, was his only real choice. He planned to hand over command of nearly two thousand Unsullied—soldiers who were almost fully trained by now—placing them under Oberyn's command to give him the foundation he needed to govern Astapor.

And if Clay brought Daenerys back to Dorne with him, leaving Oberyn Martell behind, that absence would definitely raise suspicion and strain the fragile trust between them. So instead, Oberyn's lover, Ellaria Sand, would travel with Clay and Daenerys back to Dorne.

At the very least, that would keep Prince Doran from acting rashly. And if he truly began to worry, he could always send someone to Slaver's Bay to verify things for himself. Ravens wouldn't be able to fly that far anyway.

"Tell me," Clay said, lightly patting Daenerys on the shoulder, "we're finally going back to Westeros. How does it feel?"

They were setting out tomorrow. He wanted to hear what Daenerys truly thought of the land they were about to return to.

"I don't know, Clay. Honestly, I don't know. Everyone keeps telling me it's my homeland, my kingdom, but… I've never even laid eyes on it. Not once. Every memory I have of my childhood comes from that courtyard in Pentos, the one with the red-painted doors."

Clay understood how she felt. To say that Daenerys wanted to conquer Westeros wasn't quite right. It was more like the name Targaryen demanded it of her. There's a world of difference between doing something because you want to, and doing it because you have to.

"Well, then think of it as a journey," Clay said gently. "A chance to see the world of Westeros with your own eyes. When the Dornishmen in the south are still ducking under the sun in their thin tunics, the northerners are already bundling up in thick furs, scrambling to bring in the last harvest before winter sets in."

"The Starks. The Tullys. The Lannisters. The Arryns. The Tyrells. The Baratheons. The Martells. Go see what their castles actually look like. Those songs the bards sing won't show you any of that."

Daenerys didn't reply. She simply gave a quiet nod. The room fell into a hush. The only sounds left were the soft, intimate rustles of their bodies shifting against each other, echoing faintly through the lavish bedroom.

A long while passed before Daenerys asked in a quiet voice, "Clay… we're only bringing four thousand men with us. Isn't that too few? Our enemies… each of them has tens of thousands. No matter how strong the Unsullied are, there's no way they can make up for such a huge gap in numbers, right?"

Clay had expected this question. He nodded, gently brushing a hand through Daenerys's silver hair as he replied in a low voice, "This time, we're heading to Dorne with both high fanfare… and quiet restraint."

"What do you mean?"

"Even Dorne, isolated as it is, isn't completely sealed off from the world. Us marching in with four thousand men and four dragons… if we can keep that hidden from the big players near King's Landing for even three months, we'd have to thank the gods for the miracle."

"So if they're going to find out sooner or later," he went on, "we might as well walk in like we own the place. Boldly, openly. It'll only take a month or two anyway, and even if they do catch wind of us, it won't matter much by then."

"Once we arrive in Dorne, we won't be sending letters to the Seven Kingdoms demanding loyalty or threatening them with death if they don't kneel. No grand declarations. We'll just stay in Dorne quietly… and leak a little rumor."

He turned his gaze to her beautiful violet eyes and said slowly, "We'll let the world believe that House Martell has taken the last living Targaryen into custody. That they've put you, Daenerys Stormborn, under house arrest."

"What? Why?" she blinked, caught off guard.

"Why?" Clay's smile carried a hint of playfulness, but there was steel behind his words. "Because what all those lords across Westeros truly fear… is a dragon soaring free through the skies. But if that dragon's been chained, locked up by someone else… well, would anyone still be afraid of it?"

"We let the Martells shoulder the pressure for us, at least for now. Those so-called kings… when they look at you and see someone harmless, someone who poses no threat, they'll go right back to tearing each other apart, scrambling to plant their own asses on the Iron Throne."

"And when that moment comes," he said, his voice growing colder, "I'll take you, along with Gaelithox and the White Harbor fleet, and strike at Stannis's royal fleet. We'll destroy it in a single decisive blow."

"I want the entire eastern coast of Westeros to be left without a single real navy, and I want every trade route severed, until not even a raft dares to sail out to sea."

Daenerys tried to follow his thinking, but somewhere along the way, she got lost. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she looked up at him, still a little dazed. She didn't really understand what was so important about wiping out Stannis's fleet. The young queen knew nothing of sea power—not really—and Clay couldn't blame her for that.

"You'll understand in time," he murmured with a smile. "For now, just remember this—half of everything I've built hinges on those ships. On land, we're at a disadvantage. But at sea… we can be king and queen in truth."

He caught the flicker of confusion still lingering in her violet eyes, visible even in the pale light of the moon, and bent down to kiss her red lips softly. "Sleep. We leave at dawn."

. . .

What the slave-traders of Astapor had left behind for Clay wasn't just heaps of gold and treasure whose worth was impossible to tally. No, those generous bastards had gifted him something far more valuable—a massive fleet, free of charge.

The ships had originally been used to transport slaves—now, they were perfectly suited for carrying the Unsullied. After all, the four thousand Unsullied were all former slaves themselves, so boarding these ships posed no psychological hurdle whatsoever.

At first light, the Unsullied, who had already received their orders the day before, boarded the ships with flawless precision under the command of the leader they had chosen themselves—Grey Worm. The entire process was executed with quiet, near-mechanical efficiency.

In the hands of the slavers, these soldiers had been treated as nothing more than expendable light infantry. But Clay had no intention of throwing them into battle clad in armor that was practically useless. If they ran into a barrage of arrows, those thin plates would offer little protection. Casualties would be far too high, and Clay wasn't about to pay that kind of price.

So, he had each of them outfitted with a full suit of armor. And where had all that gear come from? Clay had stripped it off the bodies of the so-called "free companies" who once served as guards for the slave masters.

There hadn't been quite enough gear among them alone, but that was fine. Scouring the entire city of Astapor provided what they needed. Anyone who dared refuse to hand it over… well, all they had to do was look up and see Gaelithox circling in the sky.

The last two surviving slaver masters… or rather, now officially the deputy lords of Astapor under House Targaryen, stood respectfully at the dock, engaging in a cautious conversation with Clay.

"Your Grace," ventured the elderly Grazdan, his tone tentative, "how long will you be gone?"

"No idea," Clay replied cheerfully. "For all you know, one day you might wake up and find Gaelithox staring through your window. It's not that far a flight for me, after all."

His face was all smiles as he clapped the old man hard on the shoulder, like he was giving him a friendly pep talk—"Don't worry, I've got your back, just keep things running smoothly for me."

"Oh, of course, of course! You jest, Your Grace. We'll definitely take good care of everything here and raise the army you asked for!"

"No need to work yourselves too hard," Clay said lightly, still smiling. "Wouldn't want you getting exhausted now, would we? From now on, all of this falls under the authority of the acting city lord—Prince Oberyn Martell from Dorne. He's a Dornishman, you see, has a bit of a fondness for breeding strange and poisonous creatures. If you're into that sort of thing, maybe have a chat with him. Who knows? If he's in a good mood, he might even give you a pair."

"Ah… no, no, that won't be necessary. We wouldn't dream of disturbing the city lord," the two Grazdans stammered in unison.

Their eyes met in silent understanding, and they both immediately shut their mouths. Neither of them were fools—they could clearly hear the unspoken threat beneath Clay's cheerful words. They had hoped that once the Dragonlord departed, they might regain a bit of their old influence.

But now, Clay had made it perfectly clear: he'd left a devil in charge of the city. If they dared make any moves, they should probably think back to how their fellow slave masters had met their ends. This man had never once hesitated when it came to killing.

Clay cast one last lingering glance at the pair—if it weren't for the fact that Astapor still needed some stability, he'd have sent them both to their gods by now.

Standing nearby, Prince Oberyn Martell had been listening with amusement. As Clay turned to him, Oberyn spoke with a smirk, "Manderly, really now, there's no need to say all that to me. After all, I'm the one house-sitting for you… hardly a relaxing job."

Clay gave him a smile and replied calmly, "Prince, just keep things steady here. Dorne doesn't have much in the way of manpower. We'll need fresh recruits."

That, Oberyn fully agreed with. He knew perfectly well the limits of his house's strength—holding the line was manageable, but launching a campaign beyond their borders? Their numbers simply wouldn't cut it.

"Don't worry. Go on now. Say hello to my brother for me. He's not too difficult to deal with. Safe travels."

As Clay's figure disappeared up the gangplank of the warship, Oberyn's lips curled into a faint smile. He whispered softly to himself:

"Your Grace, Clay…"

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