Chapter 15 — The Regretful Guest
Astapor, though not as prosperous as Qarth, was still a major port city.
Its docks saw staggering amounts of cargo every day, but what truly made the city famous was its Unsullied.
Nobles, merchants, and even pirates from across the world arrived daily to purchase the legendary slave-soldiers.
The buildings of Astapor were built of red brick, and everywhere rose step-pyramid structures draped in thick green vines.
The docks were deafening—yells, bargaining, and footsteps blended into a constant roar. Ships crowded the shore, and workers rushed back and forth unloading goods.
Following the recommendation of a merchant steward taken prisoner from Xaro's estate, Daenerys ordered her fleet to anchor at the outskirts of the harbor.
Only after securing buyers would they move to the central docks to unload the cargo.
Jorah and Aggo went to seek information about the Good Masters—the slavers who trained the Unsullied.
Daenerys, meanwhile, strolled through the market with her two other bloodriders, Rakharo and Kovarro.
A shrunken Drogon perched boldly upon her shoulder, neck stretched forward, eyes darting curiously everywhere.
With him acting as her personal guard, Jorah felt safe leaving her side.
High overhead, Rhaegal and Viserion circled like sentinels, drawing gasps and awed cries from dock workers and merchants below.
Originally, Daenerys had wanted to keep the dragons inside the ship—she feared someone would try to make a name as a "dragonslayer," especially after Drogon's grim prophecy.
The thought of danger striking in Astapor left her uneasy.
But after hearing Drogon's thoughts, she left the two young dragons under his command and allowed them to patrol the sky.
No bow on this harbor could shoot that far—and if anything went wrong, Drogon would react before anyone else.
Daenerys was no longer a penniless fugitive.
She had money, power, and ships now; she could finally indulge a little.
She tasted candied dates, then walked along nibbling a thick black sausage, occasionally lowering it so Drogon could tear off a bite.
It was far from enough for his appetite, but perfect as a snack.
Between bites and admiring the sights, she bought two bolts of imitation silk, a jade-green brooch, and a handful of pearls to decorate her cabin.
Then—
"Rattle—"
A painted sphere, the size of a fist, rolled to a stop at her feet.
Daenerys paused.
Ahead stood a rag-clad little girl, seven or eight years old.
She looked nervously at Daenerys, wanting to step forward yet hesitating.
Daenerys smiled warmly, bent down, and picked up the painted ball to return it.
Just as she extended it, the little girl beamed back—an innocent, disarming smile—
and lifted her hand, twisting her fingers in a small, deliberate turning gesture.
Daenerys froze for a heartbeat.
She glanced at the girl, then at the ball, mimicking the twisting motion with her hands—a silent question: open it?
As the wordless exchange continued, Drogon felt something crawl up his spine.
There was something horribly familiar about this setup—this exact scene.
Before Daenerys could finish turning the sphere—
Drogon lunged.
With a sudden flap, he kicked the ball out of her hands.
The little girl whispered—only loud enough for herself to hear:
"I am very sorry."
The sphere hit the ground and cracked open.
A cold emerald shape unfolded from within.
A chitinous beetle emerged—its armored body glimmering green, its scorpion-like tail arching high, glowing with blue-violet poison.
The tail trembled violently, dripping venom.
The creature slowly raised its head…
And the face beneath was no insect's.
It was a woman's—twisted, hateful, and hungry.
The scorpion-horror with a woman's face lunged toward Daenerys the instant it emerged, moving with terrifying speed.
Clang!
Just as Drogon inhaled to unleash dragonfire, a razor-sharp dagger struck the creature mid-charge.
The blade pinned it through the body and lifted it off the ground.
The humanoid scorpion twitched violently a few more times before going still, dripping beads of sickly green venom onto the stones.
By the time Daenerys looked up again, the little girl who had lured her was already gone—vanished into the panic of the crowd.
"Your Grace, forgive the fright," the dagger wielder said, removing his black hood.
Beneath it was an aging face framed by graying hair, worn yet sharp with experience.
"Khaleesi!"
Rakharo and Kovarro finally registered what had just happened and moved to seize the old man—only for Daenerys to raise her arm, stopping them.
Without him, Drogon would have handled the threat… but the man had still saved her life, and he clearly was not in league with the would-be assassin.
"What happened?"
Jorah and Aggo pushed through the crowd, breathless. They had only just returned when they spotted the chaos forming around Daenerys.
Then Jorah froze—his eyes fixed on the old knight.
Seeing Jorah's unusual reaction, Daenerys asked quietly, "Ser Jorah… who is he?"
Jorah drew a steadying breath.
"He once served in the Kingsguard of King Robert—and before that, your father, King Aerys. One of the greatest warriors Westeros has ever known. They call him Ser Barristan the Bold."
The old knight sank to one knee, head bowed.
"My Queen, I failed your father. I failed my vows and the white cloak I wore. Allow me to take up my duty once more—let me serve as your Queensguard now. I shall protect you always… until death."
Daenerys's chest rose and fell, her emotions surging.
She could feel the echo of her father's legacy—proof that House Targaryen had not been forgotten. She had not been forgotten.
"Ser Barristan," she said softly but firmly, "I accept your oath. Honor your cloak, and I will honor your loyalty."
Barristan rose and stepped behind her, taking his place with solemn pride.
"Your Grace," he continued, "the assassin was almost certainly a Faceless Grief—an ancient order of killers from Qarth. They favor these scorpion-horrors. Before they believe a kill will succeed, they whisper one phrase: 'I am sorry.'"
Daenerys's eyes hardened.
"Who would employ such murderers? And to use a child as a disguise…"
"It could be many," Jorah answered grimly. "The broken warlock, the deceitful Pureborn, or the remaining Eleven of the Thirteen. Qarth holds many grudges."
"It likely wasn't a child at all," Barristan added. "Faceless Grief assassins often use illusions. That 'girl' was probably a dwarf in disguise. They rarely fail—and never attempt a second time."
That assurance finally allowed Daenerys and Jorah to breathe again.
"Your Grace," Jorah said then, "I've contacted Good Master Kraznys. He is waiting for you at the Plaza of Pride. A thousand Unsullied are ready for purchase."
"Good," Daenerys answered, her spirits lifting. "Let's see them."
On the way, Jorah continued briefing her.
"Remember—Astapori no longer speak the old Ghiscari tongue. They use High Valyrian. Don't reveal that you understand it. It will help us in negotiation."
Daenerys nodded before turning to Barristan.
"What news from King's Landing?"
He updated her beyond what she already knew:
• Stannis Baratheon was defeated at the Blackwater.
• Tywin Lannister stripped Tyrion of the Handship, taking the position himself.
• King Joffrey dissolved his betrothal to Sansa Stark and pledged to marry Margaery Tyrell.
[Tyrion's days in King's Landing are numbered… I can't wait. And that little monster Joffrey won't last much longer either.]
Drogon grumbled in Daenerys's mind.
She had already grown accustomed to his unique commentary.
She hadn't expected Tyrion's dismissal so fast—or that he would soon have to flee for his life.
And Joffrey… how could a king surrounded by guards possibly be killed?
Still puzzling over these thoughts, they reached the Plaza of Pride.
A massive golden statue dominated the center—
a harpy, woman-faced and eagle-winged, with a cruel scorpion tail raised high.
Iron chains bound her wrists and ankles.
Its shadow stretched across the plaza like a warning.