Chapter 19: The Path to Astapor

Astapor had always been the next step.

Not because of power or beauty — it had neither — but because of what it held: the Unsullied. Flesh-trained soldiers, silent, brutal, and perfectly controlled. Daenerys would need more than dragons if she meant to take a continent. And I knew exactly how to get them.

Melyria and I spent the better part of two days gathering what we could — maps, rumors, broken accounts of merchant routes. Traders spoke of unrest in Astapor: missing shipments, whips drawn in alleys, slavers whispering behind closed doors. Weakness. Just enough of it.

That was all I needed.

Daenerys didn't ask for details.

She simply said, "Tell me when we ride."

We left before dawn.

No banners. No spectacle. Just a dozen riders, cloaks drawn tight against the rising heat. Daenerys, myself, Melyria, and a handful of scouts. Rhazal flew above us, his shadow trailing over the rocks like a moving omen. Drakaina and Vaedron remained behind with the rest of the camp, watching.

It was a quiet ride. Dry plains stretched endlessly beneath a pale sky, the wind scraping through scrub and bone-white stones. Daenerys didn't speak much during the journey. When she did, it was about water levels, elevation, distances — the concerns of someone planning movement, not seeking comfort.

On the fourth dawn, we reached the ridge that overlooked the city.

Astapor lay below like a scab torn open — red brick and blackened towers pressed against the dirty blue sea. Even from this height, we could hear the distant clang of chains and the guttural calls of dockhands loading crates.

Daenerys stood beside me on the ridge, her hair caught in the early wind. She didn't look excited. Just focused.

"There it is," she said.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

She gave a humorless smile. "Like a boil on the world."

"Boils can be lanced."

She tilted her head. "Let's go lance one."

We descended that morning. No announcement. Just the clop of hooves and the hush of saltwind as we entered slaver land.

The outskirts met us with suspicion, not swords. Slavers in blue robes, sweating in the heat, greeted us with hollowed courtesy. Two lines of Unsullied flanked the road. Their spears were upright, their expressions absent.

The man who greeted us bowed deeply. "Valar Dohaeris," he said. "Welcome, honored travelers. You grace us with your presence."

"Your city is… interesting," I said simply.

He introduced himself as Kraznys mo Nakloz. Greasy smile. Arrogance rolled into silk. He spoke mostly to a young woman at his side — Missandei. Her Valyrian was fluent and professional.

She translated his words exactly. I could tell. And she did it without ever once giving away her opinion. But her eyes flicked to Daenerys more than once — quiet, observant. She understood more than she let on.

We followed them in.

Astapor reeked.

Sweat, blood, and spiced rot lingered in the alleyways. Behind iron grates, chained children cleaned floors with raw hands. Whips cracked in rhythm. Every breath tasted like bile.

Kraznys showed off the Unsullied like jewelry. They stood in rows beneath the sun, identical in every detail — from shaven heads to bloodless feet. Daenerys watched them with something unreadable in her face.

At one point, Kraznys offered a demonstration: an Unsullied boy with a dull spear and a crying child.

"No," Daenerys said immediately.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I believe you," she said flatly.

He laughed. Loudly.

She didn't even blink.

We returned to our camp by nightfall, setting our tents along a low ridge overlooking the city. Rhazal landed softly beside a rock outcropping, his wings folding with a slow rustle. Melyria brewed a bitter tea and passed it around in silence.

Daenerys sat by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, her eyes on the flames.

"They break them young," she said. "Before they can even think for themselves."

"They do," I said.

"And they sell it as pride."

I gave a slow nod.

She didn't speak again for a long time.

Later, as the fire burned lower, she turned to me.

"You know how to take them."

"Yes."

"How?"

I laid it out.

The offer of a dragon for the Unsullied. Kraznys's arrogance. The use of Valyrian at the key moment. The whip. The timing. The moment the leash slipped.

She listened carefully, hands folded. Her expression unreadable.

At the end, she only said: "And they'll follow me?"

"They'll follow the one who holds the whip."

"And what if I break it?"

"Then they'll follow you without one."

The next morning, we returned to the city with fewer guards. Kraznys greeted us with exaggerated flair, as if he were hosting a feast instead of arranging a human sale.

We made our offer.

He mocked it, spat on it, then accepted.

Too eager. Too proud.

He thought himself clever.

Daenerys watched him like she'd already burned him once.

Missandei said nothing. But I saw the glance she gave Dany — sharp, brief.

That night, the wind turned cooler.

I stood near the edge of the cliff with Melyria. The sea below shimmered with weak moonlight.

"Will it work?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"Then we burn the city."

She gave a small smile. "That's a very you answer."

"It's the right one."

Inside the tent, Daenerys sat with her cloak drawn tight, her hair loose around her shoulders. She didn't look at me when I entered.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"No more chains after this," she said.

"No more."

She reached for my hand.

We sat like that until the coals dimmed.

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