Daenerys walked along the upper brick walls of Astapor, the sea wind brushing against her face. At her side strode Kraznys mo Nakloz, one of the so-called Good Masters of the city, his ornate tokars wrapped tightly around his stout frame. His perfumed scent lingered heavily in the air.
Behind him walked a young slave girl with dark, warm-toned skin and tight curls framing her face, Missandei was quiet, composed, observant. Ser Jorah followed close behind Daenerys, hand resting near the hilt of his sword, his watchful eyes never still.
Kraznys spoke in harsh, clipped High Valyrian as they walked, gesturing grandly toward the battlements and the training yards below. His tone carried arrogance, pride swelling in every syllable.
When he finished, Missandei translated in a calm, measured voice. "The Unsullied have stood here for a day and a night, with no food or water," she said.
They approached a gate overlooking the courtyard. Daenerys could see them clearly now.
Ranks upon ranks of Unsullied stood motionless on the walls above, below in the yard, lining the corridors like living statues. Bronze spears upright. Shields polished. Faces empty of expression.
Not one shifted.
Not one blinked.
As they passed beneath the gate, more Unsullied came into view.
They stood arranged in a perfect square formation in the courtyard beyond, rank after rank, bronze caps gleaming beneath the harsh Astapori sun. Shields locked. Spears upright. Not a single man moved as Daenerys and her company entered.
Kraznys continued speaking in High Valyrian, his voice thick and impatient, gesturing lazily toward the soldiers as if displaying prized livestock.
Missandei translated smoothly, her tone neutral despite the words.
"They will stand until they drop," she said. "Such is their obedience."
As Daenerys drew closer, the formation parted in precise unison, creating a path for her. Every movement was identical. Every step is measured. They did not look at her.
They did not look at anything.
"They may suit my needs," Daenerys said calmly, studying the men with cool appraisal. "Tell me about their training."
Ser Jorah's eyes scanned the courtyard, wary and alert, hand resting near his sword.
Missandei turned to Kraznys and spoke in Valyrian, her voice careful. "The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price low. She wishes to know how they are trained."
Kraznys gave a short, irritated snort and replied sharply in Valyrian. "Tell her what she would know, and be quick about it. The day is hot."
They ascended a raised platform overlooking the square. Below them, the Unsullied shifted again in flawless synchronization, reforming their square behind them without a word.
Missandei spoke in a common tongue once more.
"They begin their training at the age of five. From dawn until dusk, every day, they drill until they have mastered the short sword, the shield, and the three spears. Only one boy in four survives this rigorous training."
Kraznys stood beside Daenerys upon the platform, sweat beading along his temples despite the sea breeze. He spoke in a lower tone now, gesturing lazily toward the ranks below.
Missandei translated evenly. "Their discipline and loyalty are absolute. They fear nothing."
Ser Jorah, voice calm but edged with skepticism. "Even the bravest man fears death."
Missandei relayed his words in Valyrian without hesitation. "The knight says even the bravest men fear death."
Kraznys' lips twisted in irritation. He replied sharply. " Tell the old man he smells of piss."
Missandei hesitated, she faltered slightly, glancing at him.
"Truly, master?"
Kraznys snapped, voice harsh. "No, not truly. Are you a girl or a goat, to question me?"
Missandei lowered her gaze at once.
Daenerys did not turn. She did not react. Her face remained composed, eyes forward, as though the exchange had not reached her ears at all. But she listened.
Kraznys continued speaking in Valyrian, voice swelling with pride.
Missandei translated.
"My master says the Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them."
A faint wind stirred the square below, carrying the smell of brick dust and sweat.
Then Kraznys added, his tone thick with contempt, "Tell this ignorant Westerosi whore to open her eyes and watch."
Missandei's throat tightened almost imperceptibly.
"He begs you to attend closely, Your Grace," she said. Kraznys mo Nakloz stepped down from the low platform, the hem of his tokar trailing across the hot stones.
He spoke in High Valyrian, sharp and liquid, calling one of the Unsullied from the rigid formation. The man stepped forward without hesitation, eyes fixed ahead, face blank as polished marble.
Kraznys set aside his own spear and shield with careful ceremony, then reached to the soldier's belt and drew the short dagger. With two deft motions he unclipped the leather straps that crossed the man's chest. The armor fell open; the Unsullied's bare skin gleamed beneath the sun, smooth, unscarred, unmarked by any past or future pain.
Daenerys felt the words rise in her throat. "Tell the Good Master there is no need—"
But Kraznys was already speaking again, his voice amused, mocking, the Valyrian words rolling like oil over steel.
"She is worried about his nipples?"
He seized the dark bud of flesh between thumb and forefinger, pinched hard, and drew the dagger across it in one swift, practiced stroke. The nipple came away cleanly; a thin line of blood welled, bright against the dark skin, then slowed to a sluggish bead.
The Unsullied did not flinch. His face remained empty, eyes staring straight ahead as though nothing had happened at all.
Kraznys laughed a short, barking sound and flicked the severed piece of flesh to the stones. It landed with a soft wet slap.
"Does the dumb bitch know we've cut off their balls?"
Missandei's voice came again, low and careful, translating into the Common Tongue without inflection.
"My master points out that men do not need nipples."
Kraznys wiped the dagger on the soldier's discarded leather strap, then pressed the hilt back into the Unsullied's hand.
"Here," he said in Valyrian. "I am done with you."
The soldier took the dagger without looking at it. "This one is pleased to have served you," he answered, voice flat, toneless, as though reciting a number rather than a sentiment.
He stepped backward into the formation, blood still trickling slowly down his chest, leaving a thin dark line across the perfect bronze of his skin. No tremor. No grimace. Nothing.
Daenerys stood motionless, the torch of anger in her chest burning hotter than the sun overhead.
Upon the high bricks stood Kraznys mo Nakloz. He turned toward Daenerys Targaryen and began to speak in the harsh, clipped Valyrian tongue.
Missandei stood small and still beside her.
"To win his shield," the girl translated at once, "an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find a newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes."
The words seemed to hang in the heat.
The words struck Daenerys like a lash across the face. Her violet eyes widened, pupils shrinking to pinpricks against the glare. She looked from Missandei to the endless ranks of men before her was boys, really, though no boyhood remained in them and saw only the same emptiness repeated eight thousand times.
Each one had done this thing. Each one had walked away with a silver coin and a shield, leaving behind a mother's scream and a tiny, still body.
Kraznys continued, voice lilting with satisfaction, gesturing toward the formation as though displaying fine horseflesh.
Missandei's translation followed, quiet as ever. "This way, my master says, we make certain there is no weakness left in them."
Daenerys felt the words settle in her stomach like cold lead. She drew a slow breath, "You take a babe from its mother's arms," she said, "kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?"
Missandei repeated the words in High Valyrian without hesitation, Kraznys's brows furrowed, then lifted in amusement. He leaned forward slightly, smirking, and spoke again a slow, deliberate, savoring each syllable.
Missandei's eyes flicked once to Daenerys, then back to the Good Master. When she translated, her voice remained even.
"My master would like you to know that the silver is paid to the baby's owner, not the mother."
The wind died. The distant cries of gulls over the harbor seemed suddenly far away. Daenerys stared at Kraznys. He stared back, smirking still, waiting for the silver-haired girl to flinch, to weep, to bargain, to break.
She did none of those things.
"How many do you have to sell?" she asked, voice clear and carrying across the stone.
Kraznys mo Nakloz tilted his head, the movement languid, almost amused. Missandei translated the words into High Valyrian without pause, her tone as flat as polished marble.
The Good Master's lips curved a slow, thin, satisfied. He raised both hands, fingers splayed, and held them there a moment before folding them into fists and extending eight fingers in deliberate succession.
Missandei's voice came again, soft, precise. "Eight thousand."
Daenerys felt the number settle in her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. Eight thousand. A city's worth of men, hollowed out and forged into weapons. She looked at them again, truly looked and saw not soldiers, but boys who had once cried for mothers now silenced forever.
Kraznys spoke once more, voice lazy and rich with mockery, the Valyrian words sliding off his tongue like oil.
Missandei translated without hesitation. "My master asks you to please hurry. Many other buyers are interested."
The Good Master turned then, tokar swirling around his oiled calves and began to descend the platform steps with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who has never known haste.
Missandei followed a pace behind, head bowed, eyes on the stones. The Unsullied formation parted before them like water before a ship's prow perfect, silent, mechanical then closed again behind their master's retreating back.
Daenerys watched him go.
The torch of her anger burned low and steady now, banked but unquenched. She felt Ser Jorah beside her, close enough that she could sense the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near his sword hilt without quite touching it.
She flicked her gaze once more to Kraznys's back as he walked away.
That moment passed, they walked side by side along the docks of Astapor. Just distance from them the harbor churned with noise and movement ships rocking in their berths, ropes groaning, gulls crying overhead.
Then Daenerys said quietly, "Eight thousand dead babies."
The words felt strange on her tongue. Bitter. Heavy.
Ser Jorah did not look at her. "The Unsullied are means to an end," he said.
Dany's jaw tightened. "Once I own them, these men—"
"They're not men. Not anymore," he said slowly.
The wind off the sea stirred her hair. She folded her hands before her, as if to still them.
"Once I own an army of slaves, what will I be?" she said.
They walked on.
They were nearing the docks now. Astapori passed them in bright tokars, their dyes rich and gaudy. Dockworkers moved in steady lines. Slaves labored beneath loads of cargo, chains resting cold and visible against their necks. Some dared to look up at her as she passed above them. Most did not.
The sound of iron links brushing against skin followed her like a whisper.
Ser Jorah's voice came again, low and practical. "Do you think these slaves will have better lives, serving Krazny and men like him or serving you?"
She did not answer.
A silence fell between them.
Only the ocean could be heard the steady rush of water against hulls, the creak of timber, the muttering of traders and sailors drifting upward from below.
Dany's eyes wandered over the scene the ships, the chains, the heat-hazed air, until they found something small amidst the movement.
A little girl sat not far from the base of the stairs, playing with a worn leather ball. She tossed it against the stone, caught it, tossed it again
Daenerys watched her. For a moment, just a momentshe smiled. Half-heartedly.
The smile did not reach her eyes.
The girl's dress was plain.
The wind shifted.
Without a word, Daenerys turned toward the steps.
Together, she and Ser Jorah began to descend the stairs going down onto the docks.
Behind them, unnoticed, a robed man began to follow.
He kept his head bowed, as any common Astapori might in the presence of a foreign queen. The cloth he wore was plain and dust-stained, the color of sand and old parchment. Nothing about him drew the eye.
Daenerys and Ser Jorah continued their descent toward the docks, unaware.
His steps were measured, unhurried. The steps of a man who had walked battlefields and courts alike. The steps of one accustomed to watching.
Slowly.
Silently.
As the sea rolled in and out, Astapor went about its business, unaware that old loyalties were stirring once more.