Chapter 167 – Faceless Men and Dragons
Under the scorching air, the already dry ground was baked into a haze of drifting dust.
An army of ten thousand Unsullied stood encamped on a barren plain along the eastern coast of Essos, waiting in silent discipline for their queen's command.
Inside the queen's tent, surrounded by soldiers, maids carefully laid carpets and lit incense. A faint fragrance spread through the air, driving away the pervasive dryness and dust.
Two young dragons lay entwined together on a pile of cushions, fast asleep.
The third rested across the lap of a silver-haired girl, its pale gold wings occasionally fluttering and stirring light dust from the ground.
Sitting cross-legged within the tent, the young queen seemed distracted.
Her fingers absentmindedly scratched the dragon's neck, but her gaze—fixed beyond the tent—was distant, unfocused.
A dark-skinned maid finished lighting the incense, then rose to her feet. Seeing the queen's expression, she couldn't help but speak gently:
"Khaleesi, you used your dragons to claim ten thousand Unsullied. You can use them again to take Yunkai. There's nothing to worry about."
"Trickery and war are not the same," the girl replied absentmindedly.
"Trickery allows cleverness. War demands blood."
She sighed softly.
"But that's not what troubles me."
Hearing this, a white-bearded old man leaning on a cane spoke up:
"Your Grace, are you still troubled by the prophecy from before?"
The girl shook her head, saying nothing.
The old man sighed inwardly.
He had already said everything that could be said. Yet this young queen—so full of potential—refused to be persuaded.
Realizing further comfort would be useless, he changed his approach.
"Your Grace," he said simply,
"facts speak louder than words."
The statement was concise and firm.
At that, the silver-haired girl glanced at him, a faint smile flickering in her eyes.
Then she straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and took a deep breath—
her gaze fixed firmly beyond the tent, toward the world waiting outside.
Not long ago, relying on her dragons and cunning, she had seized ten thousand slave soldiers from a city in Slaver's Bay.
Now, this was her first step toward Westeros.
Along the coasts of Slaver's Bay in Essos, there were many port cities—but very few capable of hosting enough ships to carry her army.
Yunkai was one of them.
Yet despite her numerical advantage, the city would never simply surrender.
Negotiation was inevitable.
And today was the day.
No one knew how it would end—but Daenerys had already made her decision.
She would give them only two choices:
Kneel… or fall.
---
Not long after, Ser Jorah Mormont arrived at the tent, bringing with him three leaders of mercenary companies hired by Yunkai.
One was tall and broad-faced with graying black hair.
One was short, bald, with a scar across his face.
The last was lean, his beard dyed in bright, absurd colors.
Yunkai was famous for training slaves—not for warfare.
So this negotiation was, in truth, with men who fought only for gold.
Daenerys had expected introductions, arrogance, perhaps calculated insults—everything her white-bearded advisor had warned her about.
She had prepared for all of it.
But their opening words caught everyone off guard.
After exchanging glances, the gray-haired man spoke:
"The three captains of the Stormcrows, the Bastard of Titan of the Second Sons, and the nine Wise Masters of Yunkai… are all now under our control."
"…So?" Daenerys asked, confused by their lack of theatrics.
Even the white-bearded old man beside her grew cautious.
"So," the man bowed slightly,
"Yunkai is yours, Your Grace."
---
Silence fell.
The meaning behind those simple words was enormous.
Everyone in the tent was stunned.
They had considered the possibility that the enemy might hesitate… even surrender.
But surrender this quickly?
It felt unreal.
A trap?
After a long pause, Daenerys finally spoke:
"I accept your surrender. But tell me—what do you want?"
No one believed in free victories.
Even surrender came with conditions—unless the other side was mad.
"We require nothing," the gray-haired man replied calmly.
"We simply surrender."
Before Daenerys could respond, Ser Jorah cut in sharply:
"With respect, I find it hard to believe this is genuine. It sounds more like a scheme."
His tone was blunt.
Daenerys shot him a reproachful glance—but said nothing.
Because she wondered the same.
The three men exchanged looks again.
Then, without a word—
they raised their hands and wiped across their faces.
In an instant—
the three mercenary captains changed into entirely different men.
Strangers.
Calm. Polite. Unfamiliar.
---
"The Wise Masters are ours," one repeated.
"Their armies will not resist you."
Daenerys stared, stunned.
Only after her handmaid whispered urgently in her ear did she react.
"…You are Faceless Men?"
"We are no one," came the reply.
"I'm grateful for your help," Daenerys said cautiously,
"but why? Hiring the Faceless Men is… expensive. I doubt I can afford your price."
"No payment is required, Your Grace," said the man with the dyed beard.
"An ally of ours has already paid for your victory."
"An ally?" she frowned. "Who?"
"An ally… is simply an ally," he answered.
"He resides at the Wall. His methods are… remarkable. He sent us to assist you."
"To help me?"
"Yes. He wishes for you to reach Westeros as soon as possible."
"Who is he? A supporter of my father?"
"He is a wizard," the man said plainly.
"A remarkable one. Not from Asshai, nor from Westeros. He descended from the sky."
---
"A wizard?" Ser Jorah frowned deeply.
"Khaleesi, such people cannot be trusted. This smells of deception. And as far as I know, there are no wizards at the Wall."
"But in Westeros… there is indeed such a person," the white-bearded advisor said, tapping his cane.
"Ser Jorah, your information is outdated. This wizard—no one knows his origin. But his methods are… extraordinary."
"Like Quaithe?" Daenerys asked curiously.
"No," the old man replied.
"He does not hide behind riddles. His power is real."
"Real power?"
"Yes. They say darkness brings chaos and evil… and this wizard is entirely black. Black hair, black eyes. Many believe him to be a demon."
"Black hair… black eyes…"
Daenerys fell into thought.
"What does he look like?"
The old man hesitated.
He had only seen the man briefly—during the chaos when a Stark was executed in King's Landing. After that, he had sailed across the sea.
Still, he described what little he remembered.
---
At first, Daenerys listened calmly.
But as the description continued—
her expression slowly changed.
Confusion.
Surprise.
Uncertainty.
Then… contemplation.
"A wizard…"
---
Before she could think further—
a sudden change interrupted everything.
A dragon's roar erupted inside the tent.
It was filled with pain.
Daenerys's heart skipped a beat as she turned—
—and saw Drogon.
The black dragon, who had been sleeping, was now glowing.
Blinding light poured from his body—
like a miniature sun.
Under that radiance, his body began to grow.
And grow.
From the size of a hound—
to something monstrous.
Before anyone could react, he expanded violently, tearing through the tent itself!
Amid screams and chaos, the transformed dragon roared, beat its wings, and launched into the sky.
Gone in an instant.
---
Silence followed.
Everyone stood frozen, staring at the distant black silhouette vanishing into the sky.
The negotiation—
the Faceless Men—
everything—
was completely overshadowed.
The three Faceless Men watched the sky in silence.
Ser Jorah and the old advisor, however, were shaken:
"Your Grace—your dragon…!"
"My dragon…" Daenerys whispered, equally stunned.
She had no answer.