The path of the Walk of Punishment stretched before them, flanked by the dusty, sun-baked streets of Astapor. At its end loomed the Great House, and above it, the colossal statue of a golden harpy, its stone eyes fixed over the city, awaiting the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen.
Dany stood tall before the assembled Good Masters, her violet eyes steady. "I want to buy them all," she declared.
Missandei leaned closer to Krazny, one of the masters, translating the words carefully. The man's brows knitted in disbelief.
"She cannot afford them," he sneered, harsh Valyrian dripping from his tongue.
"The slut thinks she can flash her tits and make us give her whatever she wants." He turned to his companions, smirking with venom, then locked eyes with Dany. She did not flinch.
Missandei's voice cut through the tension. "There are eight thousand Unsullied in Astapor. Is this what you mean, all of them?"
Dany's reply was crisp, unyielding. "Yes. Eight thousand. And the ones still in training, as well." Missandei's lips moved rapidly, carrying Dany's words to the masters.
Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jorah exchanged wary glances behind her, sensing the storm brewing.
One of the men seated beside Krazny spoke, his tone sharp. Valyrian hissed from his lips: If they fail on the battlefield, they will shame Astapor.
Missandei's translation carried the weight of the statement: "Master Greizhan says you cannot sell half-trained boys. If they fail on the battlefield, they will bring shame upon all Astapor."
Dany's eyes did not waver. Her words came fast, like steel striking stone. "I will have them all or none. Many will fall in battle. I will need the boys to pick up the swords the others drop."
Missandei leaned toward Krazny, whispering Dany's response. The master groaned, irritation growing in his features.
"The slut cannot pay for all of this," he muttered under his breath, bitterness thick in the air.
Missandei's quick translation. "Master Krazny says you cannot afford all of this. Your ship will buy you only one hundred Unsullied."
Krazny and the other masters exchanged quiet words, smirking and laughing under their breath at what they assumed was Dany's folly.
Missandei's voice, calm but clipped, carried the final words.
"Because, Master Krazny is generous."
Krazny spoke again, his voice oily with mock generosity. Missandei translated carefully.
"The gold you have left is worth ten Unsullied," she said. "But Good Master Krazny is generous. He will give you twenty."
A ripple of soft laughter passed among the seated masters.
Missandei paused as Krazny continued, his tone turning dismissive.
"The Dothraki you have with you…" She hesitated only a fraction before finishing. "They are not worth what they cost to feed. But Master Krazny will give you three Unsullied for all of them."
Daenerys did not react.
Instead, her gaze drifted upward, toward the balconies that lined the great plaza. There, half-hidden behind carved stone and shadow, small slave children peered down. Thin arms. Wide, frightened eyes. Watching.
Always watching.
Missandei's voice continued, steady as ever. "Master Krazny asks how you propose to pay for the remaining seven thousand, eight hundred and seventy-seven Unsullied."
For a long moment, Daenerys said nothing.
The wind stirred her silver hair. The statue of the Great Master loomed above her, stone eyes blind to the suffering below. The children on the balcony did not look away.
Then her gaze shifted back to Krazny.
Cold. Certain.
"I have dragons," she said. "I will give you one."
Silence followed.. stunned, heavy.
Behind her, Ser Jorah stiffened visibly. His eyes flicked toward her. His expression darkened with concern. To trade one of them… her own children… for slave soldiers?
Barristan's jaw tightened, though he said nothing. His fingers curled faintly near the hilt of his sword, not in threat but in unease.
Krazny's smirk faltered for the briefest heartbeat.
Then greed flared in his eyes.
Ser Barristan stepped forward from her side, his voice low but urgent. "Your Grace," he said, grave and steady, "you will win the Iron Throne with dragons… not with slave soldiers."
Ser Jorah moved as well, closer this time, his tone more raw. "Khaleesi, please. Do not trade away your strength. They are your children."
Daenerys turned her head slightly toward him. She did not speak.
But her eyes.. cool, unyielding, already decided silenced further protest.
Then she stepped forward, silver hair stirring in the dry Astapori wind. Krazny reclined in his seat, fingers laced together over, studying her as one might study livestock.
In broken Common Tongue, he said plainly, "Three dragons." His lips curved faintly.
Daenerys did not hesitate. "One."
"Two," Krazny countered, leaning forward now, sensing negotiation.
"One," she repeated.
Her voice did not rise. It did not falter. It did not bargain.
The masters exchanged glances. Krazny's smile thinned. He turned to the others beside him, muttering rapidly in Valyrian. Soft whispers. Quick calculations. Greed beginning to outweigh caution.
Missandei listened, then spoke carefully.
"They want the largest one."
A subtle shift rippled behind Daenerys, Jorah's breath catching, Barristan's jaw tightening.
Daenerys did not look back at her knights.
"Done," she said. The word fell like a hammer strike.
Krazny's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Done," he echoed.
Ser Jorah Mormont gave a low sigh, the sound rough in his throat. It was the sigh of a man who had lost an argument he knew he could not win.
Daenerys turned from the Good Masters, silver-gold hair whispering across her shoulders as she moved to depart.
She had taken no more than three steps when she halted. Slowly, she looked back.
Not at Krazny.
Not at the seated masters beneath their towering statue.
At the girl.
At Missandei.
"I will take you as well," Daenerys said. Her voice was calm. Almost idle.
"Now."
Missandei blinked, dark eyes widening just a fraction. Surprise flickered there, quick as a candle flame in wind before discipline smoothed her features once more.
"You shall be Master Krazny's gift to me," Daenerys went on, turning her gaze at last toward the master himself. "A token of a bargain well struck."
Krazny scowled in confusion, his heavy brows knotting together. He spat a sharp question in Valyrian, demanding to know what had been said.
For a heartbeat, Missandei did not move.
Then she drew a breath and translated faithfully. The words tasted different now.
Krazny listened. His small eyes slid from the girl to the silver-haired queen. He weighed the matter as a merchant weighs coin.
A slave girl was a trifle.
A dragon was a treasure beyond counting.
Greed won easily.
His mouth split into a broad, satisfied smile. He gave a lazy wave of his hand, as though discarding some minor household ornament.
After a while, they passed from the open training grounds into the cool shadow of the stone halls, where the echoes of marching feet still rang faintly behind them.
Ser Jorah quickened his pace until he was at her shoulder.
"Khaleesi," he said in a low, urgent voice, careful but insistent, "a dragon is worth more than any army."
Ser Barristan followed a step behind, silver hair catching what little light filtered through the high slits in the walls. His voice was solemn, almost reverent.
"Aegon Targaryen proved that, Your Grace."
Daenerys walked on, her face unreadable.
Ahead, the great gates loomed. Beyond them, Missandei waited quietly in the shade, hands folded, posture perfect, eyes lowered.
Just before stepping through, Daenerys stopped. The sudden stillness made both knights fall silent.
She turned to face them.
When she spoke, her voice rose not to shout, but to carry, sharp and clear as drawn steel.
"You are both here to advise me. I value your counsel." Her eyes flicked first to Jorah, then to Barristan.
"But if you ever question me in front of strangers again, you will be advising someone else." The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.
Neither knight spoke.
Jorah's mouth tightened. Barristan bowed his head slightly, accepting the rebuke with the dignity of a man long accustomed to discipline.
"Is that understood?" she asked at last.
Both knights nodded in silence, avoiding any conflict or argument. She studied them for a heartbeat longer.
Then, swift as a gust of wind, she turned her back and continued toward the gate, leaving them no room for further argument.
Missandei fell into step beside her without a word.
For several moments they walked in silence, the sounds of Astapor rising around them distant shouting, the crack of whips, the low murmur of the market.
Daenerys glanced at the girl. "Do you have a name?" she asked.
The girl inclined her head. "This one's name is Missandei, Your Grace."
Dany spoke softly. "Do you have a family? A mother and a father you would return to, if given the choice?"
Missandei's voice, when she answered, was gentle and without self-pity. "No, Your Grace. No living family."
Daenerys was quiet for a moment.
"You belong to me now," she said at last. "It is your duty to tell me the truth."
"Yes, Your Grace," Missandei replied. "Lying is a great offense." Her dark eyes flickered briefly toward the distant road they had walked earlier.
"Many of those upon the Walk of Punishment were taken there for less." The words lingered between them.
After a time, Daenerys spoke again.
"I offered water to one of the slaves dying upon the Walk of Punishment," she said quietly. "Do you know what he said to me?"
Missandei listened without lifting her gaze.
"He said, let me die." The words seemed to linger in the air long after they were spoken.
Missandei's voice, when it came, was soft but steady. "There are no masters in the grave, Your Grace."
Daenerys' expression shifted — not anger, not shock, but something troubled. Thoughtful.
Behind her, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan followed at a respectful distance, their armor faintly clinking with each step. They did not interrupt.
"Is it true," Daenerys asked at last, "what Master Kraznys told me of the Unsullied? About their obedience?"
Missandei did not hesitate.
"All questions have been taken from them," she said. "They obey. That is all." Her tone was neither proud nor ashamed. It was simply a fact.
"Once they are yours, they are yours. They will fall upon their swords if you command it."
"And what about you?" Daenerys asked.
They were nearing the gates now, the noise of the city swelling beyond the stone.
"You know that I am taking you to war," she continued. "You may go hungry. You may fall sick."
She did not soften the last truth.
"You may be killed." The words were not cruel. They were honest.
For a moment, she did not answer. The dust shifted beneath her sandals. Somewhere in the distance, a whip cracked.
Then she lifted her eyes.
"Valar morghulis," she said.
Daenerys regarded her carefully. There was no fear in the girl's face. No trembling.
"Yes," Dany replied. "All men must die."
A faint wind caught her hair as the great gates opened before them.
"But we are not men." They stepped out into the blazing light of Astapor.
Missandei faltered then, only a heartbeat. The words lingered in her mind, turning over themselves. We are not men.
Slowly, a small smile touched her lips.
Then she followed.