Chapter 16 — The Unsullied
"A Westerosi whore makes me wait this long, and you idiots just stand there?"
A voice dripping with profanity echoed across the plaza.
The speaker was a bald man with a trimmed beard, dressed in an ornate tasseled robe woven from imitation silk. In his right hand he held a short whip, gesturing with arrogant impatience.
A deep roar rolled from the sky overhead.
The insult caught in his throat.
"Gods… that really is a dragon."
Kraznys mo Nakloz squinted upward, his smug expression faltering.
"Good Master, look at her shoulder."
The slave girl beside him pointed.
"That's a dragon too. Why is it so small?"
Kraznys stared in confusion at Drogon perched on Daenerys's shoulder.
Drogon understood every word.
He bared his sharp little teeth at Kraznys in warning.
He might be the size of a newborn hatchling, but the oppressive weight of dragon aura never lies. A chill crept up Kraznys's back.
"Good Master Kraznys," Daenerys said in the common tongue, looking over the rigid ranks of soldiers with spiked helms, "what is their combat capability?"
"The Westerosi woman wants to know how strong the Unsullied are," the slave girl translated into High Valyrian.
"Tell that filthy wh—"
A sharp, throaty hiss erupted near his face. Drogon's jaws opened, embers glowing behind his fangs, smoke curling from his nostrils.
[Keep running your mouth and I'll roast you.]
Drogon's thoughts simmered with irritation.
Kraznys swallowed the rest of his slur and tried again, much less boldly:
"Tell her that the Unsullied begin harsh training at five years old. Only one in three survives.
They master shield, spear, and short blade.
A Dothraki rider on foot might not defeat an Unsullied one-on-one—and when the Unsullied form their battle phalanx, they can withstand repeated cavalry charges, even outnumbered five to one.
They do not retreat. Ever. Not until the last man falls."
He finished and shot a smug look toward Rakharo and the other Dothraki.
Rakharo didn't understand the words, but he certainly recognized disrespect. His hand tightened on the curved arakh at his hip, eyes narrowing with promise of violence.
The slave girl—long accustomed to Kraznys's temper—translated the words calmly, unfazed.
Kraznys snapped, sensing her judgment, "What are you staring at, you little doe? Translate and be quick—I'm roasting out here!"
Daenerys exchanged a glance with Drogon, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
Kraznys had no idea he was being cowed by a "little dragon."
The slave girl caught Daenerys's attention again—dark skin, round face, far too young to wear the seductive linen dress and the black slave collar around her throat. She held herself with unnatural composure.
"These Unsullied have never been tested in true war," Ser Barristan said after hearing the translation. "Facing Dothraki riders, shields and spears alone will not be enough."
"What did that filthy old man say?"
Kraznys demanded.
After the translation, Kraznys sneered but didn't answer.
He instead strode to the front rank of Unsullied, pulled the dagger from one soldier's belt, and sliced deeply across the man's chest. Blood poured—yet the soldier did not flinch, blink, or even turn his head.
Daenerys's stomach tightened.
"They don't feel pain?"
"Speak," Kraznys ordered the girl.
"Because they drink the 'Wine of Courage' from childhood," she explained. "A mixture the Good Masters create. It deadens pain without dulling fighting ability."
"I want to see them more closely," Daenerys said.
"Do you want to see their faces?" Kraznys smirked. "Or what's below? Hah!"
Daenerys ignored the filth.
"Remove their helmets."
"You should take a look. My Unsullied are completely gelded. Not like those of Yunkai or Meereen—those fools leave a bit of manhood for pissing, and it always causes trouble later."
Kraznys still relished showing off.
Daenerys continued to ignore Kraznys's vulgar jeers and studied the Unsullied as their spiked helms were removed one by one.
They came from every corner of the world — every skin tone, every lineage. Though their heights varied, they were without exception lean to the bone.
One face shocked her the most:
a young Dothraki with black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped eyes.
In Daenerys's experience, Dothraki fought only from horseback — arakh raised high, cleaving through flesh like harvesters cutting grain.
She struggled to imagine one standing rigid and silent, left arm bearing a shield, right hand gripping a spear.
She also saw men of Asshai — tall, night-skinned and spectral;
Qartheen milk-pale men;
and others she had never encountered before.
"Do they obey orders without question?" Daenerys asked as the helmets were replaced.
"You finally ask the important thing."
Kraznys puffed up, pleased with himself.
"From the moment we cut them, we drill absolute obedience into their bones. We test it… through trials both brutal and—well—poetic.
Command them to kill infants, and they hesitate no more than they might blink.
Any Unsullied who disobeys is long dead beneath the sands."
Daenerys's hands tightened—small tremors of horror.
"And once I purchase them," she asked quietly, "how do I ensure they obey me, and not you again?"
"Simple," Kraznys declared. "I hand you the whip in their presence. After that, my voice means nothing. They will belong to you alone."
Ser Barristan leaned in, voice low and urgent:
"Your Grace, you cannot hope to conquer Westeros with castrated slaves. The Seven Kingdoms abolished slavery centuries ago. If they see you relying on foreign slave armies to subdue them, you will win no allies — only a coalition bent on destroying you."
"Then what am I meant to win the Iron Throne with?" Daenerys countered softly.
"You have dragons," Barristan replied. "When we reach Pentos, Illyrio will use his influence to raise troops for you. We can also send envoys to Westeros to court alliances."
"Illyrio cares only for gold," she said. "And my ships and coins may not satisfy him. As for envoys — is it you who will go? Or Jorah?"
Barristan fell silent.
Daenerys turned back to Kraznys.
"I will consider your offer and give you my answer soon."
"They won't wait forever," he said instantly. "Two days ago I sold more than fifteen hundred. And a lord from Asshai wants a thousand next."
"Good Master," the slave girl said quietly, "two days ago you sold only two hundred."
Kraznys jabbed her with the whip.
"You stupid little sow — lie or they won't buy! Translate!"
The girl recited the lie obediently.
Daenerys and her companions took their leave of the plaza.
---
Once outside, Ser Barristan couldn't restrain himself any longer.
"Your Grace — you don't truly intend to buy them, do you?"
"Don't you think they're… pitiful?" Daenerys asked.
In her mind, her own childhood had been tragic — exile, flight, poverty, danger.
But compared to the Unsullied, she was fortunate.
She had eaten. She had chosen her own path.
She had known warmth, and even love — she had known Drogo.
The Unsullied had none of these.
Bodies mutilated, humanity stripped away — even their capacity to be human taken from them.
She had passed Punishment Square moments earlier — slaves crucified and left to rot beneath the sun — and the sight had hollowed something inside her.
How could anyone witness this and feel nothing?
She couldn't.
She wouldn't.