Chapter 201 Pride Square
Under the escort of sixteen Astapori cavalrymen riding before and behind them, the carriage bearing Ian and Daenerys rolled into the Pride Plaza. Even to the most critical eye, it was clear the Good Masters of Astapor had afforded them a reception of suitable pomp and circumstance.
The groundwork had been laid the day before. After their ship had docked, Ian had granted the request of the sailors, who had been confined to the vessel for over two months, to go ashore. He gave them leave to freely spread the news of the arrival of the Dragon Queen from the Sunset Kingdoms, and her intention to purchase the entirety of Astapor's Unsullied.
The news spread and brewed overnight. Early this morning, the great Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz sent an envoy to find Ian. After verifying that they had indeed come for the Unsullied, he had extended a formal invitation for them to visit the Pride Plaza and inspect his wares.
Unlike the arrogance the slavers had shown Daenerys when she first came to Astapor from Qarth in the original telling, Ian had demonstrated his considerable financial resources from the very beginning. In return, he was being treated as a valued customer should be.
Peering out from the carriage, Ian observed the cavalrymen escorting them.
The riders were stout men with skin the color of amber. They wore yellow silk capes upon which were sewn a multitude of gleaming copper discs. They wore no armor, only ornately embroidered linen shirts. Nor did they wear helms, instead styling their hair into bizarre shapes—horns, wings, blades, and grasping hands.
Ian had no desire to comment on the customs of the Ghiscari people, but as for their cavalry, he felt that to call them 'rubbish' would be an insult to the word.
Soon, their carriage reached the center of the Pride Plaza and drew to a halt.
The great philanthropist Kraznys mo Nakloz, who had already descended from the high platform in anticipation, bustled forward to greet them. The slaver smelled as though he had just bathed in black strawberry water, and his forked, red-and-black beard glistened with perfumed oil. Through the thin, sea-blue silk of his tokar, Ian could see a pair of breasts that would put Daenerys's own to shame—despite their owner being a man.
Kraznys wore a tokar with gold tassels, clasped at one shoulder. He held the draping silk in place with his left hand as he walked, while his right clutched a short leather whip. At his command, two slaves emerged from behind him and prostrated themselves before the carriage, one higher than the other, to serve as a living set of stairs for the distinguished guests.
However, the moment the carriage curtain was drawn aside, the first thing to appear was not Queen Daenerys or her Hand, but a flashing black silhouette.
The black shadow launched itself from the carriage, soaring over the escort and their mounts. The horses shrieked and reared in terror, throwing the entire formation into chaos. It then shot past Kraznys, the wind from its wings instantly disheveling the slaver's ridiculous forked beard.
The shadow finally came to rest atop Ian's carriage. Only then did Kraznys and the others see it clearly, crying out in shock. It was a dragon, a creature of legend thought to be extinct for more than a century.
At two months old, Ion's wingspan had already reached a meter. Though smaller than an average bird of prey, he possessed an innate majesty that could not be denied.
The next moment, Ian stepped out of the carriage. He unceremoniously planted a foot on the back of one of the slaves Kraznys had provided, then waved them both away. Turning back, he reached up for Daenerys and lifted her down to the ground.
Rollo stepped forward, acting as herald. "Before you stands Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The Last Dragon of Valyria."
*The Last Dragon of Valyria*, Ian mused. It was a new title he had devised for her, one to replace 'Mother of Dragons'.
"And her Hand of the Queen," Rollo continued, "Lord Ian of House Darry, Apostle of the Red God, the Dragon-Caller."
The young translator beside Kraznys first relayed Rollo's words to her master in his own tongue before introducing him. "This is the noble Kraznys mo Nakloz. He will provide Her Majesty with an army of Unsullied for the restoration of her throne."
The girl spoke the Common Tongue of Westeros well. She was less than ten years old, with the flat, round face, dark skin, and golden eyes characteristic of the people of Naath. She addressed Ian rather than Daenerys; for a translator, her ability to read a situation was sharp.
Ian recognized her at once. This was Missandei. In the histories he knew, she was given a romance with the Unsullied commander, Grey Worm—an addition made possible only by artificially aging up the characters. Otherwise, it would have been deeply unsettling.
"Tell these Westerosi barbarians to accompany us to the platform," Kraznys said to Missandei, his High Valyrian a bastardized dialect, thick with the guttural accent of the Ghiscari and peppered with the slang of the slave pits.
"The great Kraznys invites his honored guests to the high platform to inspect the Unsullied," the little translator relayed smoothly.
Ian and Daenerys followed Kraznys toward the platform.
As they passed the red-brick fountain in the center of the plaza, a pungent smell of sulfur assaulted Ian's nostrils. He fought to suppress a sneeze that would have ruined his carefully crafted image. He silently vowed that one of his first acts upon his return would be to tear down this miserable fountain.
"Tell them to look upon these soldiers," Kraznys grunted. "I wager even these savages can see the quality of this stock."
"Lord Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?" the little translator said.
From the platform, Ian looked down upon the Pride Plaza, where a thousand slave soldiers stood in formation. They were arranged in ten rows of one hundred before the fountain and the majestic bronze harpy that loomed over it. A thousand pairs of emotionless eyes stared straight ahead.
"They are like a wall of brick," Daenerys whispered to Ian. "What kind of army can be trained to such a state?"
"The little queen praises the Unsullied to her vassal," Missandei murmured immediately to the slaver.
"This Westerosi sow is not entirely blind, then," Kraznys sneered.
"That means nothing, Your Majesty," Ian replied to Daenerys. "Give me a thousand male prostitutes, and I can have them standing in perfect formation."
"But the Andal knight refutes the queen's opinion," the little translator hesitated before turning to her master. "He says…"
"What did he say?" Kraznys demanded.
"He said that if you give him a thousand male prostitutes, he can make them stand just as neatly," the girl finished, translating Ian's words faithfully.
Kraznys nearly choked on his own fury. In all his years of selling the Unsullied, this was the first time he had ever heard someone compare them to male prostitutes.
"Tell that ignorant barbarian! Tell him how exceptional the Unsullied are!" Kraznys bellowed, no longer able to maintain even a veneer of civility. "The entire world knows the Unsullied are the masters of the spear, the shield, and the shortsword. The very best!"
Upon hearing the command, the little translator began her faithful recitation.
Ian did not listen closely; he already knew all he needed to about the Unsullied from his studies. He did not interrupt, however, as Daenerys was listening with rapt attention.
"The Unsullied are trained in the manner of the Old Ghiscari legions," the girl explained. "They are castrated at a young age, and their training lasts ten years. During this time, they will master the use of three types of spears."
Ian suddenly interjected, "Which three?"
Chapter 202 The Real Unsullied
In the tales he had heard, the Unsullied were always depicted with a single type of spear. The original histories, however, were often frustratingly vague on the details. So when Ian heard the instructor mention three distinct types, his interest was immediately piqued.
"Tell that barbarian he should be ashamed of his ignorance and arrogance!" Krazny mo Nakloz did not speak the Common Tongue, but seeing Ian finally ask a question, he felt his confidence return. He barked at the young translator beside him.
"He is asking specific, professional questions, Master," the girl said, not to Ian, but to Krazny.
"Then go and call Instructor Fermor." Krazny glanced at the translator, then remembered he needed her to remain. He turned to a slave girl fanning him from behind. "Hurry up, you stupid pig!"
The girl scurried off the platform and ran across the training square.
A few moments later, the man Krazny had called Instructor Fermor arrived on the high platform. He was a typical Ghiscari man, with a hairstyle even more fantastically sculpted than the slave master's. He served as both the primary instructor for the Unsullied of Astapor and as Krazny's assistant during sales.
Ordinarily, Krazny only needed the young translator to recite the well-rehearsed speech she had memorized. Most buyers of the Unsullied knew little of military matters; they would listen to the girl's narration, stand awed for a moment, and then happily pay and place their order. But when they encountered an expert who demanded details, the instructor was needed to answer their questions.
"Honored guests," Fermor said in the Common Tongue. While his accent was thick and his speech far less fluent than the young translator's, it was intelligible enough. "Do you have questions I might answer for you?"
"I would like a detailed explanation of the three types of spears used by the Unsullied," Ian said, adding, "as well as the formations they are trained to use."
"The Unsullied are trained from youth to master three spears," Fermor began. "The 1.2-meter throwing spear, the 2.5-meter one-handed fighting spear, and the 6-meter phalanx spear. They employ different formations and shields for each. Though we display them with only a small buckler, you can re-equip them at your own expense. With the one-handed fighting spear, they are skilled in the use of large oval shields or tower shields.
"In combat, you can deploy a portion of your Unsullied as a skirmish line with their throwing spears. Their dense volleys of javelins can blunt the charge of enemy chariots and cavalry before they reach your main phalanx.
"When they wield the longspears, they form the strongest defensive line in the world. They will fight to the death. Unless the enemy cavalry can punch straight through them due to a lack of depth in their formation, no one can hope to break their defense before the last Unsullied has fallen.
"And when they take up their fighting spears, they become the most formidable attackers. They possess the most refined fighting skills and the fastest attack speed. They can even keep pace with a heavy cavalry charge on the battlefield."
*Alexander's Royal Guard infantry,* Ian thought, the comparison coming to him unbidden. During the decisive battle at Gaugamela, Alexander's elite infantry had matched the attack speed of his Companion cavalry in the final, crushing charge. After the cavalry tore open Darius's center formation, the infantry poured into the gap almost instantly, sealing the Persian army's fate and securing the victory.
The functions of the Unsullied, as described, were remarkably similar to those of Alexander's guard—only far more potent. They endured longer training, were completely inured to pain, and fought not for coin or glory. They were purely and simply killing machines.
"You do not believe it?" Instructor Fermor interpreted Ian's silence as skepticism. "I wonder, have you heard the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor?"
"If I had not," Ian nodded, "I doubt I would have traveled all the way to Astapor."
The defense of Qohor by the Three Thousand took place more than four hundred years before the War of the Usurper. Khal Temok had led his *khalasar* from the east, crossing the Dothraki Sea and marching to the very walls of the city of Qohor. In desperation, the Qohorik hired two mercenary companies—the Bright Banners and the Second Sons—and subsequently purchased three thousand Unsullied. By the time the Unsullied arrived, Qohor's own army was in tatters and both mercenary companies had long since fled.
It was in this desperate hour that three thousand Unsullied stood before the city walls and faced Motkaao's twenty thousand Dothraki screamers. They broke the *khalasar* in a head-on battle, inflicting twelve thousand casualties for twenty-four hundred of their own. The surviving Dothraki cut off their braids in shame before the Unsullied lines and fled in despair.
"But I think," Ian's tone shifted, "that the version I have heard has been… embellished by your people over the years."
"What do you mean?" Instructor Fermor looked surprised. By this point, even the most demanding customers were usually ready to place an order. Why was this Andal pushing things further?
"How far is Astapor from Qohor?" Ian asked.
"Almost three thousand kilometers," Fermor answered truthfully.
"Qohor purchased the Unsullied only after receiving unfavorable news from the front. This slave army then had to make that long journey to the city. By that time, Motkaao had already nearly wiped out Qohor's original defenders and had also allowed the two mercenary companies, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons, to flee. So, before your famed Three Thousand made their stand, Motkaao's *khalasar* had been fighting Qohor's army for several months. Even if the Unsullied had failed to arrive, Qohor would not have fallen the very next day."
"That is—"
"Are you suggesting it was mere coincidence?" Ian pressed. "That after a three-thousand-kilometer march, an army just happened to arrive at the walls of Qohor the day before it was to be broken? Instructor Fermor, with your professional expertise, you must know that this part of the story was a later addition."
Fermor fell silent. He did not wish to admit it, but he could not refute it. A march of three thousand kilometers involved too many variables. To time an arrival so perfectly was absurd.
"In other words," Ian continued, "your Unsullied were not the only ones who fought for Qohor in that battle."
"Even if a few of Qohor's defeated soldiers remained, they were not worth mentioning!" Fermor defended himself hastily. "The Unsullied won the battle for Qohor! That is an indisputable fact!"
"Based on that," Ian said, ignoring the instructor's excuse, "we can deduce the effect the war had on the Dothraki before the Unsullied even arrived. From my own understanding, we know several key facts.
"First, Qohor's smiths are world-renowned, and they field the finest heavy cavalry in all of Essos.
"Second, the Dothraki have no craftsmen. They lack their own fletchers and bowyers. Most of their bows and arrows are captured in battle or collected as tribute from the city-states they dominate. Consequently, their supply of arrows is extremely limited."
Ian recalled tales and histories: Dothraki screamers often carried bows of three different kinds, a clear sign they were scavenged, not crafted. It was even said that Khal Drogo himself sent children to retrieve arrows from the battlefield after a fight, a practice Daenerys Targaryen had apparently found distasteful. These were not the actions of a people with a surplus of arrows.
Chapter 203: The Cost of Obedience
"The conclusion we can draw from this," Ian continued, "is that Motec's army had almost no arrows left when they faced the Unsullied. Why? Anyone who has used a bow knows it is easy to damage an arrowhead when shooting at an iron plate, let alone against the spell-forged steel of Qohor.
"The Dothraki, already short on arrows, must have damaged a great number of them while fighting Qohor's heavy cavalry. This was the key factor that forced them to rely solely on charging to break the Unsullied."
"Even if the Dothraki could only charge, for three thousand Unsullied to defeat twenty thousand Dothraki is an unprecedented victory!" Instructor Fermor declared loudly.
Ian could feel the man's agitation.
"It was a victory, yes, but it was not accomplished by the Unsullied alone, nor was it a true field battle! We have already concluded that the defense of Qohor did not begin on the day the city was about to fall. The city still had its own defenders."
*Who the hell came to that conclusion with you?* Instructor Fermor roared inwardly.
"Therefore, when the Unsullied arrived at Qohor, they did not have to rush immediately to meet the enemy. Instead, they had time to prepare. They formed up behind the city and built defensive positions, solving the two most difficult problems an infantry formation faces against a cavalry charge: the kinetic energy of the impact and the threat of being outflanked."
"Kinetic energy? What is that?" Fermor suddenly interrupted, then glanced at the young translator, Missandei, assuming it was some common term he had simply never heard.
But the young Naathi girl only shook her head helplessly, indicating she had never heard the word either.
"It is the force generated when cavalry charges," Ian explained simply, choosing a term the other man could understand.
"First is the force of impact. Even light cavalry, with horse and rider, weighs nearly half a ton. A few spears alone cannot absorb the force of such a strike. In that scenario, even if an Unsullied speared an oncoming Dothraki warrior, the corpse's momentum would still crash into the phalanx, killing or injuring the men behind it and scattering the formation. This would make an effective defense impossible against the next ranks of cavalry pouring through the gaps.
"Even with their absolute courage and discipline, even if they did not retreat a single step, twenty-four hundred Unsullied could not have held against twelve thousand Dothraki in such a charge. Therefore, they must have deployed barricades or dug trenches before their formation to absorb the force of the cavalry charge and significantly reduce the enemy's final impact speed.
"Second is the matter of outflanking. There is a detail in your description that says 'the Dothraki charged eighteen times in total.' What does this imply? Anyone with military knowledge knows that no army can be broken and regrouped so many times. It means the Dothraki attacked in waves, like a wheel.
"This suggests the Unsullied formed up behind the city and constructed sufficient fortifications on their flanks, forcing the Dothraki to abandon any attempt to outflank them. They could only launch an attack with a frontage equal to that of the Unsullied formation. The maximum number of troops they could commit at any one time was only one or two thousand, which greatly negated their numerical advantage.
"At the same time, there were likely many longbowmen on the walls of Qohor behind the Unsullied, providing fire support and using their arrows to wear down the Dothraki forces.
"So, when you ignore all these subjective and objective factors—that the Dothraki had almost no arrows left and could not annihilate the Unsullied from a distance, that the Unsullied were arrayed before the city walls so the Dothraki could not outflank them, that the Unsullied had prepared defenses to slow the cavalry charge, and that they had archer support from the walls of Qohor—only then does this battle transform into a legend, a military myth.
"And the slave traders have crowned the Unsullied with all the glory from the Battle of Qohor, simply to inflate their value. Am I wrong?"
Before he had properly understood these Unsullied, Ian would never have made such a judgment. For the Unsullied in the television series, even with all these advantages, defeating twenty thousand Dothraki screamers would have been impossible. But now, seeing this enhanced version of Alexander's phalanx infantry, he finally understood how the Battle of Qohor could have been won.
Of course, the most important factor in the Unsullied's victory was the Dothraki's utter lack of tactical sense.
A wise commander does not attack an enemy with soaring morale, nor do they charge a well-ordered formation.
Everyone knows that cavalry gains no advantage by charging a pike phalanx head-on. Yet, in the entire history of warfare, there are very few instances of pikemen defeating cavalry—most infantry victories relied on crossbows. Why? Because even the most brain-dead cavalry commander knows you do not charge a pike wall. Unfortunately, the Dothraki were not among them.
After hearing Ian's analysis, Instructor Fermor's face turned pale. As the trainer of the Unsullied, he knew their combat effectiveness better than anyone. Because of this, he had always found the outcome of the Battle of Qohor strange. He had rehearsed it on a sand table a hundred times, and despite dedicating his life to commanding the Unsullied, the result was always failure.
Ian's words had finally resolved his long-standing doubts. It turned out that the Good Masters of Astapor had been modifying the original story for centuries to drive up the price of the Unsullied, so much so that now, four hundred years later, they had successfully deceived even him.
Thus, although Fermor's gaze was mostly wary, it was now tinged with an undeniable reverence.
The great and benevolent Master Kraznys's face was equally ugly. The young translator had just relayed Ian's words to him verbatim. While he hadn't understood the military details, he had certainly understood the final part about inflating the price. He knew it was the truth.
For hundreds of years, while prices throughout Slaver's Bay had remained relatively stable, the price of the Unsullied had steadily increased. One silver coin could buy four to six healthy boys, yet today a single Unsullied could fetch a high price of twelve to twenty gold dragons, depending entirely on the bargaining.
Now that Ian had suddenly exposed this, Kraznys had to wonder if this man was here just to cause trouble.
"Ask this damned Westerosi barbarian if he wants to buy them or not!" Kraznys snapped, his patience wearing thin.
However, before the young translator could speak, Ian spoke again. "Alright, please continue with the introduction."
The girl paused and translated Ian's words for Kraznys.
"Then introduce them to him!" Kraznys growled, suppressing his dissatisfaction. His servant had already verified Ian's financial resources—several large chests of gold. If he could close this deal today, it would be the largest in Astapor's history. That was worth a little patience.
He poked the young translator with the tip of his whip. "Tell that Westerosi barbarian, these men have been standing here for a day and a night. As long as I do not order them to disperse, they will stand until they die. Even if nine hundred and ninety-nine of them fall dead on the bricks, the last one will stand motionless until death comes. They are absolutely fearless and absolutely obedient! Tell him that!"
The young translator once again took up her duty, translating the slaver's words for Ian. Then she continued on her own, "The Unsullied you see before you are all elites who have passed countless tests to earn the spiked helm. On average, it takes twenty castrated boys to produce a single Unsullied.
"Those who cannot run all day in full gear are killed during training. So too are those who cannot scale a mountain in the dark, walk across burning coals, or kill a baby."
"Kill a baby?" Daenerys interrupted the translator. She felt a tremor run through her body and grabbed Ian's sleeve to steady herself. "Where do they get the babies to kill?"
"Before earning the spiked helm, an Unsullied must take a silver coin, go to the slave market, find a newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes. Only then can we be sure that no weakness remains in his heart," the young translator explained quickly.
Daenerys felt dizzy. Her hand, clutching Ian's sleeve, slipped down until she was squeezing his hand for strength.
"They snatch a baby from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and then pay her a silver coin for her pain?"
"It is to compensate the slave's master. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal," Instructor Fermor interjected. "You are too soft. You cannot take back a kingdom with such a heart." He glanced at Ian, as if hoping a true general might convince his queen.
"In fact," Fermor continued, "I can tell you that far fewer fail the baby-killing test than fail the puppy test."
"On the day each boy is castrated, we give him a puppy. He must raise it for one year, and at the end of that year, he must strangle it with his own hands. Those who fail are immediately executed, and their flesh is fed to the surviving dogs. We find that this is the most important lesson of all."
"That's enough!" Daenerys cut Fermor off. She pulled Ian by the hand, leading him to the other side of the high platform.
"Can we not buy them?" she pleaded, once she was sure the slavers could not hear. "We are not just buying these Unsullied, but also the babies and the puppies they have killed!"
Without her experiences as a Khaleesi and the betrayals that followed, Daenerys was nowhere near as strong as she had been when she arrived in Astapor in the original books. Her first instinct was not to save these slaves, but to escape this filthy, wicked place.
But when she saw Ian's unchanging expression, she realized…
"You already knew all of this?" Daenerys exclaimed.
Chapter 204 No one understands dragons better than me
"I don't know what you mean, Your Majesty?"
"Here," Daenerys said, glancing down at the Plaza of Pride. "All of this."
"Earl Grafton described it to me in detail; he sailed here once." This was Ian's prepared explanation. Everything he knew of the place had been told to him by the earl. "It is also why I chose to come here in search of an army."
"Did he also tell you about the Good Masters?" Daenerys frowned, the words leaving a foul taste in her mouth. "The atrocities they commit against the slaves?"
Daenerys had been in exile with Viserys for many years and had long grown accustomed to the sight of slavery, but she had almost exclusively seen household slaves. She had witnessed their abuse, but she had never heard of cruelty on the scale of Astapor's.
"No. He told me only that the Unsullied are the finest army in the world, a fact I have just confirmed for myself."
"So you still intend to buy them? After learning all of this?"
"Yes, because finding an alternative will be difficult. Or—" Ian looked into Daenerys's eyes, his tone grave, "—does Your Majesty have another opinion?"
*They aren't even human!* Daenerys screamed in her mind. *They are eunuchs made of brick, as monstrous as the rest of Astapor—killing babies and strangling puppies, all for a spiked helm.*
But Daenerys said nothing. She knew she could not have a conflict with Ian here. Not in front of outsiders.
*But why? I am his queen! I should be the one to make the decision!* Daenerys grew more and more frustrated, though she wasn't sure who her anger was for. Was it for Ian, who had suddenly become so strange and cold-blooded? Or for her own cowardice, for not daring to voice her command? Or was it for this slave city itself, filled with nothing but stagnant heat, the stench of sweat, and peeling bricks?
Daenerys's silence satisfied Ian. It meant that over the past two months, he had successfully established his authority over her as a 'teacher'. Even as a 'queen', she did not dare to object to his opinions in public.
Therefore, Ian decided to end the test.
"I will buy them, Your Majesty. I will explain my reasons when we return to the ship..." Ian's voice softened to its usual gentle tone. "For now, I only need you to trust me, as you have before."
Daenerys hesitated, then finally gave her assent.
"Now, I need you to play along with me," Ian whispered to her.
With that, the two of them returned to face Krazny and the others.
"Ask this barbarian," Krazny snapped at the young translator. "Ask his bitch queen what her final decision is."
The translator girl turned to them. "Lord Krazny wishes to know whether you have decided to purchase the Unsullied."
"I do not like how you train them," Daenerys replied coolly. "And I do not like these eunuchs of brick."
"The queen says she does not like the Unsullied or their training methods," the translator quickly reported to Krazny. "But she did not refuse outright. She likely wishes to bargain."
"But the Lord Dragon Caller has convinced me," Daenerys continued, her voice firm. "He is an expert in military matters and the foremost commander of my army. I value his opinion, so we have made our decision. We will buy."
"She has changed her tune," the translator said quickly. "She says she is willing to buy."
"Did she make a counteroffer?"
"No. She said she changed her mind because of the Lord Dragon Caller's suggestion."
"Dragon Caller? Who is that?" Krazny looked around blankly, trying to identify such a person.
"It is the earl beside the queen. The knight announced their names when they arrived."
"Dragon Caller," Krazny repeated, looking Ian up and down. "What does that mean?"
"I do not know, Master. I only translate the Common Tongue they speak."
"Of course you don't know, you stupid ass! I told you to ask them!" Krazny struck the translator with his whip.
"Yes, Master," the girl said, nodding quickly before turning back to Ian. "Honored Dragon Caller, my master is most interested in your title. He wishes to know its origin."
*The origin is simple,* Ian thought. *I didn't want Daenerys to feel the dragons' birth was her doing alone, so I gave myself a title as well.*
But Ian had deliberately used the title for this very reason. His goal was to attract Krazny's attention.
"I am here to buy the Unsullied, not to sell dragons," Ian said with feigned impatience. "And you cannot afford my dragons. I have no desire to waste time on irrelevant matters."
As Ian spoke, the black dragon, Ion, flew from the balustrade and landed gracefully on his shoulder.
"Well? What did he say?" Krazny demanded.
"The Andal does not wish to discuss it. He wants only to purchase the Unsullied as quickly as possible. But he also said that we cannot afford his dragon."
"What does that mean? Is his dragon for sale?" Krazny's eyes lit up.
The translator turned back. "Lord Krazny would like to know... are your dragons also for sale?"
"If someone can meet my price, why couldn't it be sold?" Ian glanced at Krazny as if looking at a fool. Though the slaver could not understand the Common Tongue, he could feel the contempt in the man's gaze.
"But the dragon is an extinct creature," the translator relayed after another exchange with Krazny. "The beast on your shoulder is one of the only dragons in the world. How could you be willing to sell it?"
"That is why I said someone must meet my price. A dragon takes decades to mature, but I need an army capable of sweeping across Westeros now. If someone could provide me with such a thing, I would sell them not only the dragon itself, but also the method to train it, so they might become its true master."
"One needs Valyrian blood to train a dragon," the translator girl said, continuing to relay Krazny's words. "Otherwise, you must use a dragon horn. This is no secret. Have you come into possession of that legendary treasure?"
"I'm not talking about a dragon horn. I have no need for such things," Ian said with a shake of his head. "I have my own ways of taming dragons."
"Absurd! Do you take me for a fool? Or some unread barbarian?" Krazny grew furious upon hearing the translation.
"I had thought you a wise man," Ian retorted calmly, "but you are certainly acting the fool now."
The translator girl paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "He said that he took you for a wise man, but that you are not thinking with your wisdom at present."
"What is that supposed to mean? Ask him! What does he mean?"
"My master asks why you say this."
"Is it not obvious?" Ian raised a hand gently. The black dragon, Ion, slid from his shoulder and coiled at his feet.
"Tell your master to open his eyes and see. Do I look as though I have Valyrian blood? Am I holding that damned horn? Neither. Yet the dragon submits to me."
"This is ridiculous."
"Sometimes, reality is more ridiculous than the tales of poets. Dragons have been extinct for two hundred years, and in all that time, I am the first man to truly possess one." Ian's voice was low but carried across the dais. "The maesters of Westeros, the warlocks of Qarth, the shadowbinders of Asshai... no one understands dragons better than me. Whatever they might claim, they have never so much as seen a dragon's shadow. And practice is the only true measure of knowledge."
Krazny was, for a moment, speechless.
Chapter 205 Let's work! Astapor
"Your eyes have seen the truth, yet you insist on clinging superstitiously to books handed down three hundred or a thousand years ago. I thought the Ghiscari, who established the greatest civilization in the world, would better understand how to pursue the truth." Ian shook his head, as if he had finally lost his patience. "Very well, this topic ends here. As I said, you cannot afford my dragon."
"I can trade all the Unsullied for him!" Kraznys said loudly after hearing the translation.
The Unsullied of Astapor did not belong to him alone but to all eight Good Masters, yet he knew none of the others would object to such a deal.
Ian's offer was too tempting. Owning a chained dragon as a pet was a completely different concept from owning a tamed one. The former was just another curious addition to their collections; the latter meant that Astapor would have a Dragon King. This would revive the Ghiscari Empire!
Kraznys certainly knew that what Ian said contradicted the books he had read and the rumors he had heard, but so what? That Andal was right. The Ghiscari, founders of the world's greatest civilization, knew how to pursue the truth. And practice is the only measure of truth!
Grazdan closed his eyes, imagining the black dragon, Ion, resting on his shoulder.
In that moment, it seemed he was no longer a slave master of Astapor, but had transcended thousands of years to become a great Valyrian Dragonlord.
"How many Unsullied are there in Astapor?" Ian's question broke Kraznys's fantasy.
"In units of thousands, there are eight thousand, plus another six hundred. If you wait a month, you can have nine thousand. And if you are willing to wait a year, we can give you another two thousand," Kraznys said after a moment's thought.
"So, are eight thousand, nine thousand, or twelve thousand Unsullied enough to sweep Westeros?" Ian asked.
Kraznys's face darkened. Even a man as arrogant as he could not bring himself to utter such nonsense, so he could only look to Instructor Fermor for help.
Bragging about the Unsullied was Fermor's forte.
But when faced with Kraznys's silent plea, Instructor Fermor's face also fell. If he were dealing with some fool with more coin than sense, he might have been able to use his professional expertise to deceive the other party. But facing Ian, who had just exposed the 'Three Thousand of Qohor' as a marketing scam, Instructor Fermor did not know what to say.
"Perhaps, if their commander were you," Fermor managed at last, offering a weak compliment.
"If wars could be won with words, I wouldn't need a single Unsullied," Ian smiled contemptuously. "You and I both know the answer. No, this small force is far from enough. As I said, even if you gift me every eunuch in Astapor, it would not be enough to buy my dragon."
"On the contrary, I have brought enough gold to buy every eunuch here," Ian continued. "So, let's just have an offer, Master Kraznys. How many golden dragons to purchase the eight thousand, six hundred eunuchs you have now?"
"No." Kraznys stared at the black dragon at Ian's feet, unable to tear his eyes away. He was unwilling to trade the Unsullied for mere gold, because that would mean losing the opportunity to obtain the dragon forever.
"Why is he looking at Ian like that? Is he planning to rob him?" Rohr, seeing his cue to play his part, took a step forward and shielded Ian.
After the young translator conveyed Rohr's words to Kraznys, the Good Master was about to fly into a rage, but Ian beat him to it, turning to reprimand Rohr.
"What foolishness are you spouting?" Ian yelled at his man. "Would the wise Ghiscari go back on their word? Would ancient Astapor tarnish its own reputation? If I harbored even the slightest doubt of that kind, I would not have come so calmly to Astapor with a dragon and gold. Reputation is like a mirror. Astapor's mirror has been clear and bright for thousands of years. How could they possibly allow it to gain even a single crack?"
"What did he say?" Kraznys asked the young translator, who immediately repeated Ian's words in High Valyrian.
"Are you certain you didn't invent that yourself?" Kraznys looked at the girl with suspicion.
"I could not, Master," the young translator said, lowering her head. "His words are like poetry."
"No, you truly could not," Kraznys nodded. When he looked at Ian again, he no longer saw a mere 'barbarian.' To be able to understand the greatness of the Ghiscari people so profoundly—even if this man was a barbarian, he was the most civilized of barbarians!
To be honest, the thought of simply taking the dragon had never crossed his mind, conditioned as he was by the ways of Astapor. But after hearing Ian's words, he banished the notion completely.
Ian was right. Astapor's very existence relied upon its unblemished reputation. If he were to rob a man who came to purchase Unsullied, the foundation of the city's survival would be shattered.
Even if he truly could become the Dragon King, the price would be unacceptable. What's more, the act of robbery would undoubtedly anger the master of the dragon. If he refused to teach him how to tame the beast, it would be a total loss. The other Good Masters of Astapor would never let him hear the end of it.
So there was no hope? Kraznys looked at the black dragon beside Ian, and his heart sank.
"But eight thousand six hundred Unsullied are still not enough for us. Where shall we find new troops next?" Daenerys, seeing Ian's gesture, spoke the lines he had taught her.
"Yes, where are we to find an army?" Ian's expression turned suddenly sorrowful. "It would be wonderful if we could find more warriors like these." He gestured to the Unsullied in the Plaza of Pride. "Even if their quality was only half of theirs… no, even if it were only one-fifth."
"With ten thousand Unsullied as our main force, plus a legion of twenty thousand of lesser quality, and finally a few mercenary companies for cavalry, we would have an army strong enough to land directly in Westeros. It's a pity we cannot find a… a lesser version of the Unsullied," Ian shook his head with regret. "And just buying these will cost us most of our funds. We will have no money left to hire mercenaries."
From the corner of his eye, Ian saw the young translator quickly relaying his and Daenerys's conversation to Kraznys, whose expression became visibly excited.
"I have a proposal! Your Excellency," Kraznys rushed over to Ian, involuntarily using the honorific. "If you are willing to stay in Astapor for two years, we can provide you with a total of fourteen thousand Unsullied, and twenty thousand Ghiscari Legion soldiers as well, trained using our methods. Though their quality will be far from that of the Unsullied themselves, it will be more than enough to meet the requirement you just stated."
"And the price is my dragon, and the method to train him?" Ian asked, pretending to mull it over after listening to the translation.
"With the gold you save by paying with the dragon, you will have enough to hire the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, the Lancers, and the Golden Company all at once for a full year, as well as a fleet to take you across the sea," Kraznys said, thinking it all out for Ian.
"Can you ensure the quality of those Ghiscari Legionnaires?" Ian asked, sounding tempted.
"Guaranteed by the credibility of Astapor!" Kraznys declared, patting his chest.
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