Chapter 210: The Harpy's Fingers
Nine chests were opened one by one, and it took more than a dozen slaves the better part of an hour to count every coin.
Ninety-six thousand gold dragons for eight thousand Unsullied. Cash on the table.
Even by Astapor's standards, a transaction of this scale happened maybe once in a generation.
"Once the count is confirmed, the deal is done?" Ian asked.
Across from him sat eight Good Masters in toka robes, each trimmed according to their station. Two wore silver tassels, five wore gold, and the eldest — old Grazdan — wore a single large white pearl tassel that caught the light whenever he shifted in his chair.
By Ghiscari custom, the tassels told you everything worth knowing about a man's standing. Kraznys mo Nakloz was simply one of five with gold — no more distinguished than the others in raw rank. The only reason the prospect of becoming dragonlord had fallen to him specifically was that his family controlled more than half the Unsullied instructors in Astapor. Without that leverage, the opportunity would never have landed anywhere near him.
"Naturally, Lord Ian." Old Grazdan spoke first, his High Valyrian rough around the edges but serviceable. "I regret that we were unable to reach agreement on the broader arrangement. That said, if you wished to pay in gold for Ghiscari infantry — soldiers trained in the old legionary style, not Unsullied — we could still accommodate that."
"I'll pass," Ian said without hesitation. "Eight thousand Unsullied is what I came for."
"Then we have a deal." Grazdan settled back in his chair.
"A deal," said the next master.
"A deal." And the next. Around the table it went, each man confirming in turn, until Missandei had translated eight separate agreements.
Kraznys was last. He spoke his confirmation with a flat, controlled expression. Several of the other Good Masters exchanged small glances as he finished — satisfied looks, faintly triumphant. They'd blocked his dragon deal. They knew it, and he knew they knew it.
Kraznys wanted very badly to smile. Fehmar had warned him not to. He kept his face stone-still and let their satisfaction wash over him.
Enjoy it, he thought. You won't be smiling much longer.
He stood and walked toward Ian. This part — the final handover — was his by custom.
"This is called the Harpy's Fingers." He held out the whip. "It is the highest-ranking command instrument in Astapor. With it, you hold authority over the eight thousand Unsullied you've purchased. Their obedience transfers with it."
Ian took it and turned it over in his hands.
The handle was carved from black dragonbone — genuine dragonbone, old and dense — inlaid with gold filigree along its length. Nine thin leather straps hung from the base, each one tipped with a small gilded talon. At the pommel end, a counterweight had been shaped into a woman's head cast in solid gold, its open mouth fitted with ivory teeth.
It was genuinely impressive craftsmanship, whatever else you thought of Astapor.
"Is this sufficient to complete the transfer?" Ian asked.
"Not on its own." Kraznys shook his head. "Pride's Plaza can't hold eight thousand men. You'll need to come to the Punishment Plaza — it's large enough. Our senior instructors will be present there to formally confirm the transfer to the soldiers themselves. They'll hear it directly: the deal is done, and their obedience now follows whoever carries that whip."
Ian thought about it. It made sense. Astapor sold Unsullied constantly — there had to be a formal, recognized mechanism for transferring command, otherwise the accumulation of sold whips across the years would create chaos. The scene in the original story where Daenerys raised her whip in the plaza was almost certainly exactly this same ritual.
"One more thing." Kraznys reached out and grabbed Missandei by the shoulder, pushing her forward toward Ian. "Consider her a gift from Astapor — a token marking a successful transaction. The Unsullied understand only Valyrian. You'll need someone who can relay your commands."
He'd shoved her harder than necessary. She stumbled several steps and went down to one knee on the stone floor.
Daenerys moved before anyone else did. She stepped forward, caught Missandei by the arm, and helped her back to her feet.
"Thank you, Your Grace," Missandei said quickly, dropping her eyes. "Forgive my clumsiness."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Daenerys said, glancing up at Kraznys with an expression she didn't bother to hide. "The one who should apologize is the one who pushed you."
Missandei went pale. "No — please, Your Grace, I am a slave. A master does not apologize for how he handles a slave. Please don't say such things."
"Don't call yourself that in front of me." Daenerys's voice softened. "What is your name?"
"Missandei, Your Grace."
"Missandei—" Daenerys wanted to say it right then. You're free. You're coming with me and you're free. The words were already forming. But Ian's voice from the night before cut across her thoughts, clear as a bell.
If we fail, there will never be a second person to break their chains. Not in the last few thousand years, and not in the next few thousand years.
She stopped herself. The words went back down.
"You'll stay at my side from now on," Daenerys said instead, and drew Missandei gently into their group.
Kraznys listened to the translation of what Daenerys had said — that he owed an apology to a slave — and his expression cycled through several things at once.
"Your queen is truly—"
"Young," Ian said smoothly, cutting him off before he could say something that forced a response. "She hasn't spent enough time in the wider world yet. She'll find her footing. A master is a master, and a slave is a slave — she'll understand that in time."
Kraznys visibly chose to accept the offered exit. He and Ian had serious business ahead of them. Starting a fight over a slave girl would be pointless. "Sensible of you. Now — shall we proceed to the Punishment Plaza?"
"After you."
Once Kraznys had moved ahead, Ian dropped back to walk beside Daenerys.
"If this is too much, you can return to the ship."
"No." Her answer was immediate and firm. "I want to see all of it."
Ian studied her for a moment. She was steadier today than he'd expected — more centered. He suspected the conversation from the previous evening had something to do with it. Knowing that abolition was the eventual goal had given her something to hold onto. A framework that made the ugliness bearable.
Well, he thought. That's what it was designed to do.
He let it go. Having Daenerys present in the Punishment Plaza wasn't without value either — seeing the worst of what Astapor did to its slaves would give her an internal reference point. Whatever Ian's operation looked like later by comparison, it would look considerably more humane. Context was a powerful thing.
"Just keep your reaction off your face," he reminded her quietly.
The Punishment Plaza faced Astapor's main gate — deliberately placed so it would be the first thing any new slave saw upon entering the city. There were no bronze statues here, no fountains, no decorative stonework. Just a series of heavy wooden platforms where rebellious slaves were made into examples.
"The Good Masters put it here on purpose," Missandei murmured to Daenerys as they passed through the gate. "So the new ones understand immediately."
Daenerys looked at the platforms without flinching. There were men and women bound to them, their punishments in various stages. She felt her stomach turn over and kept walking.
I am of the blood of the dragon, she told herself. I do not look away.
Beyond the platforms, the plaza opened up into something vast.
Row after row after row of men stood in perfect formation, each one motionless, eyes fixed on nothing. Eight thousand of them. The scale of it was difficult to take in all at once — it felt less like looking at an army and more like looking at a landscape.
Ian rode through the columns on a grey stallion, the Harpy's Fingers raised, working through the formal transfer with the senior instructors stationed at intervals throughout the formation. It took time. He moved methodically, column by column, rank by rank.
When he reached the final column and turned his horse back toward the plaza entrance, Daenerys understood that it was finished.
Eight thousand men. Theirs.
(End of Chapter)
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