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Nestled at the mouth of the Worm River, the city of Astapor welcod yet another tranquil morning. Life within its red-bricked walls continued much as it always had, with hardly a soul noting anything out of the ordinary.
The slaves, scattered across the city's every alley and courtyard, still toiled and struggled for their own survival. Those slightly more fortunate—the commoners who could barely be called people in this society—devoured greasy loaves of bread while casually inflicting tornt upon their slaves, as though it were no more than a daily routine.
As for the true masters of this city, the Good Masters, they had only just risen from the limp bodies of young girls who had entered their chambers as virgins the night before and were now left barely clinging to life. Refreshed and invigorated, they began to indulge in the pleasures of the new day.
No one saw anything wrong with this. After all, the Good Masters were the people who stood at the pinnacle of Astapor's social pyramid. This was a truth universally acknowledged, and fittingly, their dwellings were also perched atop the city's grand pyramids.
In the heart of the city, atop the vast and ostentatiously nad Plaza of Pride, Clay stood with a piece of Astapori breakfast hanging from his lips. It was a local specialty that resembled a deep-fried, oily pastry of sorts.
For reasons beyond understanding, the people of Astapor seed to adore food saturated with fat. Of course, that indulgence did not extend to the slaves.
Daenerys's great fleet was still more than a day's voyage away, but Clay had not waited for her arrival. He wanted to see the city for himself, and so he had landed a fair distance to the south of Astapor.
As for Gaelithox, he had been instructed to go forage for food on his own. So long as he refrained from eating people, he could do as he pleased. This land would belong to them soon enough, and Clay saw no harm in drawing upon his future holdings a little early.
There was little danger for him in entering Astapor alone. And even if trouble did arise, Clay was confident that the gluttonous yet remarkably intelligent beast would arrive in ti to protect him.
Before setting off, he had requested so gold from Daenerys. Though the young queen was far from wealthy, she still possessed a few valuable items, and Clay had made no effort to be polite about it. As he saw it, it would all be his eventually.
A single strike of the Aard Sign had knocked down two slavers who had attempted to capture him, likely hoping to sell him in Astapor for a handso price. After interrogating them using the Axii Sign, he had sliced their throats cleanly and without hesitation.
His attire still reflected the fashion of White Harbor, a clear signal to anyone in Astapor that he was a clueless outsider. But he was unconcerned. The generous slavers of Astapor would gladly offer him everything he wanted—without restraint or suspicion—to the honorable Lord Clay Manderly.
The two n lying at his feet had no objections, either. They had offered up their gear in complete silence and had not voiced the slightest protest when Clay stripped them bare in broad daylight. Their agreent was so wholehearted, in fact, that they had not uttered a single word.
Thus, reeking faintly of blood and exuding an air of savage nace, Clay, now clad in garnts typical of the eastern continent, strode boldly through the gates of Astapor.
The guards who had initially considered robbing him were quickly deceived by a subtle use of the Axii Sign. Mistaking the magic for a generous bribe, they now stood beaming with foolish delight.
They had no inkling that they had just welcod a living nightmare into the city. And as for the Good Masters, it remained to be seen how they might reward their dutiful gatekeepers for such a fateful lapse in judgnt.
Clay easily lured a few greedy pickpockets into a narrow alley. He struck swiftly, defeated them with effortless grace, questioned them face-to-face with the Axii Sign, then sent them off to et the Harpy they so piously worshipped.
The sequence of actions flowed seamlessly, as though rehearsed countless tis before. It bore the marks of practiced skill and the callous ease of soone long accustod to the work. In short, he was wicked to the core.
By the ti he reached Plaza of Pride, Clay had assembled a full set of gear taken from the bodies he had left behind. His appearance was now indistinguishable from that of a wealthy Astapori noble. He intended to take a leisurely tour of the city.
Though it was still early in the day, Plaza of Pride—the heart of Astapor's slave trade—was already bustling with activity. A pungent perfu choked the air, but beneath it lingered a stench far more familiar to Clay: the unmistakable sll of human flesh.
He could not help but sigh at the realization. At tis, an acute sense of sll was not a gift but a curse. Here, surrounded by corpulent n drenched in sweat, he felt as if the very air might suffocate him where he stood.
He idly tossed a small cloth pouch in his hand. It was a trophy from the slavers he had slain, filled with more than twenty gold coins minted in Astapor.
The coins were well crafted. One side bore the image of a towering pyramid, while the other depicted a ugly carving of a harpy. It bore a certain resemblance to the gold marks still used in Yunkai, just across the border.
This land had once been part of the ancient Ghiscari Empire, and the similar coinage design made perfect sense in that context.
What he could not yet discern was the purchasing power of these coins. After all, he could not very well continue his "free shopping" escapades forever. Eventually, the retainers of the Good Masters would begin to take notice. Not that he particularly cared.
Today, it seed, one of the scheduled slave trading days at Plaza of Pride. In the center of the plaza stood a wooden platform, hastily constructed, around which a crowd had gathered. The area buzzed with noise as people pointed and comnted on the slaves being displayed on stage.
Clay swept his gaze over the crowd and quickly concluded that most of those gathered were simply here for the spectacle. The real buyers, the ones with money and purpose, certainly wouldn't be found standing elbow to elbow with the common rabble.
To the left of the platform sat a row of chairs, carved from so deep violet-black wood of an unfamiliar variety. Soft cushions had been laid upon them, and five obese, well-fed n were seated there, exchanging pleasantries with feigned civility.
From the looks of it, they were the true patrons of today's slave auction. Clay decided to stay and observe for now, watching closely for any opportunity to speak with one of them.
No matter how absurd or brutal a political system might seem to outsiders, the very fact that it has endured for a significant length of ti ans there must be so reason for its survival.
The logic was simple: existence implies justification. Every system, however unjust, must have its beneficiaries. And these bloated n, soaked in excess and gluttony, were clearly among those who thrived under this regi. If he could find a way to speak with them, it might help him understand the deeper chanics that kept this city turning.
After waiting for about ten minutes, a man clad in a tokar robe strutted up to the stage. His posture was proud, his movents carefully arranged. Without sparing even a glance at the crowd, he bent into an exaggerated bow aid solely at the five nobles, then raised his voice in a theatrical shout.
"Free citizens, bathed in the glory of the Good Masters! This morning's trade features a special offering—Dothraki won snatched from the great grass sea itself! These horse-riding wildcats are hotter than the sumr sun! Tell , free n, don't you wish to ride them beneath you, to beco their very Khal?!"
His words were heavily loaded with implication, and paired with the flamboyant delivery, they shifted the atmosphere of the plaza in an instant. The crowd stirred. n began to whistle and chuckle knowingly, their eyes gleaming with interest.
This man was clearly the auctioneer. With the sa exaggerated style, he went on to introduce the rest of the "rchandise" up for sale that morning. As Clay listened, he couldn't help but be amazed.
These slave traders were truly wild. There was nothing they wouldn't traffic. Slaves from all nine Free Cities stood among the lots, not a single one missing. n and won alike.
One particular individual caught his interest—a man the auctioneer boldly declared to be a Westerosi exile knight. Clay was skeptical. He would wait to see the sigil before believing such a claim.
"Now hear this, free citizens! A rare treasure awaits! Bestowed as a blessing by the Good Masters themselves! This gem was originally destined for the golden pyramids, ant to serve the Masters within. But the great lords, in their generosity, have offered her to you instead! Behold, a descendant of Valyria, with silver hair and violet eyes!"
"Free citizens! She hails from House Targaryen, and she has already hatched her three dragons! I tell you now, she and this gift before you share the sa blood, the sa ancient lineage!"
"What are you waiting for, citizens? Use your wealth! Bring her ho! Who knows—one day, she may hatch a dragon for you as well!"
The crowd gasped in unison, a wave of awe sweeping through them. But woven into the sea of naive excitent was a short, sharp burst of laughter that soone failed to stifle.
Clay hadn't expected this. Here he was, quietly watching from the sidelines, only to witness such a ludicrous piece of salesmanship. He almost regretted not bringing Daenerys along—he would have dearly loved to see her reaction to this absurdity.
Yes, they had practically described her as a mother hen capable of laying dragon eggs. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Once Daenerys arrived, he would make absolutely sure she learned what kind of image she had among the people here.
And this woman wanted to be the Breaker of Chains? She should really take it slow. One step at a ti.
What they were really doing, Clay thought, was mocking these ignorant so-called "free citizens." Valyrian blood? That was most likely just a pure Lyseni girl who had the misfortune of being caught and brought here.
In Lys, traces of old Valyrian blood were still strong. Many people there bore the white-blond curls and delicate features once exclusive to the ancient nobility. Such appearances were rare elsewhere, but in Lys, they were ordinary.
After all, Lys had been one of the original colonies of the Freehold of Valyria. It had never been conquered, and so it retained much of its native heritage. But its people were the lowest among the Valyrians—re commoners. They were not descendants of the Dragonlords.
As such, they lacked the resonance needed to bond with dragons. The creatures would never accept them. From Clay's perspective, such people held no real value.
The slave auction grew ever more frenzied under the auctioneer's masterful control. Bids rang out in rapid succession, and the square echoed with excited shouts. Yet Clay noticed sothing curious.
Every ti a new lot went up for bidding, the crowd held back. Not a single voice was raised until those five seated n had made a move. Only after one of them offered a signal—be it a nod, a raised hand, or a whispered command—would the rest of the bidders dare to follow suit.
It appeared these five wielded considerable authority here. And it wasn't forced. The common folk had grown used to it. Their deference was instinctive, part of the unspoken order.
Clay rubbed his chin, pondering the deeper aning behind this phenonon. Daenerys' rule over Slaver's Bay had collapsed with astonishing speed. There had to be a reason.
Certainly, the inertia of the old regi played a role. But what truly propelled the people to reject her so quickly? Clay needed to uncover that truth for himself.
He made no move to purchase anything at today's auction. At this stage, purchasing a few slaves ant nothing to him. His true objective was to establish a connection with the Good Masters and seize control of their Unsullied forces.
The auction lasted for nearly two hours. From what Clay observed, the slave trade in Astapor functioned as a textbook buyer's market. Supply clearly outweighed demand.
Which, upon reflection, made sense. In Slaver's Bay, slave trading had evolved into a full-fledged industry, a well-oiled machine of cruelty and profit. With profit margins this obscene, slavers naturally cast their nets far and wide, capturing as many people as they could. The problem was that local demand could never keep up with such relentless supply.
…
Leaving the auction grounds behind, Clay now had a better understanding of just how far the small pouch of gold coins he carried could take him. To his satisfaction, it would be more than enough to support a comfortable lifestyle in Astapor for at least half a year.
It was a pity, of course, that he hadn't been able to strike up a conversation with any of the wealthy bidders who had bought slaves in bulk. But that was all right. There would be plenty of chances later.
He sought out an inn with a façade draped in violet silk, and there he rented a room that was neither too grand nor too ager, a temporary place to settle while he remained in the city.
Once inside the room, Clay indulged himself in the decadent life bathed in the so-called radiance of the Good Masters. In an establishnt so thoroughly dependent on slave labor, anything one could desire was provided by servants, so long as one could afford the room fee.
Slaves brought water, served als, and the slave responsible for cleaning the room also offered massages on the side. All of this was included in the cost of lodging.
The bearded innkeeper, clad in a long robe, even tried to promote the services of the inn's female slaves with solemn enthusiasm. He quoted prices for an ordinary woman, and then for a specially trained Dothraki girl, explaining the differences as if listing fine wines.
With a knowing glint in his eye, the innkeeper leaned in and suggested that for a single gold honor, even a Lysene woman with shimring silver-golden hair like the one Clay had glimpsed earlier this day could be persuaded to open her legs for him.
When Clay simply shook his head, the innkeeper nodded as if understanding everything. He quickly added that the price remained the sa even if Clay wanted more than one girl, so long as he could afford it.
Clay was inwardly speechless. The dizzying array of offers was so exhaustive, it felt as though the man might hand him a "nu" at any mont and ask him to make a selection. Truly, it was a masterclass in debauchery. Clay could only admit to himself—these people played the ga well. He had to concede defeat on this front.
Yet beneath all the shalessness lay an ugly truth: in this wretched place, the status of slaves was abysmally low. No matter what one's forr profession had been, if you arrived here through any ans outside of legitimate trade or diplomacy, you were nothing but a slave.
As Clay turned to leave, lost in thought, he failed to notice the innkeeper shoot a glance of contempt at his waistline before quickly shifting his focus to the next potential custor, eager to begin hawking his "collection" anew.
There was sothing oddly fascinating about it all. During Clay's travels across Essos in the past, he had never set foot in Slaver's Bay. The culture, the customs—this place was still unfamiliar to him.
But from his observations that morning, it was clear that the rule of Slaver's Bay resembled a pressure cooker forcibly sealed shut. The reason Daenerys had been able to conquer these cities so effortlessly was simply that she had arrived at precisely the right mont—just as the steam needed to be released.
The real problem, however, lay in what ca after. Once the pressure had been vented, the cooker remained a cooker. Yet Daenerys, in her haste to enact a series of reforms, had tossed it aside altogether and replaced it with a large vat full of holes.
Those who had grown accustod to life in the pressure cooker could not find their place in the vat. That was why, once the support of military power was gone, her regi had crumbled with shocking speed. It shattered completely, reduced to rubble, and the rule of the slave masters reasserted itself once more.
"This could be a bit of a headache. I don't exactly have a council of wise n skilled in the ways of governance."
A soft sigh escaped him as he lay sprawled on the plush bed, chewing the fruit a female slave gently pressed between his lips. In a language she could not understand, the Common Tongue, Clay muttered to himself.
"Daenerys's little team had way too few capable people. They didn't even have enough talent to form a proper small council. This issue needs to be addressed quickly."
He was not so self-righteous idealist who refused to indulge. Whatever pleasures life offered, he would never deny himself—but what he wanted went far beyond that. Daenerys had slaughtered the slave masters, taken a few thousand Unsullied, and fled. That was nothing more than draining the lake to catch the fish.
Clay, however, was laying plans to transform Slaver's Bay into his personal military factory, a fertile garden where armies could be grown at will. He had enemies to face. Perhaps many.
The Manderly family's troops, bound as they were by the rigid structure of Northern nobility, could not be mobilized on a whim. Which ant that in the end, he would have to rely on no one but himself.
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[Chapter End's]
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