Maekar began collecting the chests scattered on the ground, hauling them onto Morghul's back. As he picked up the loose coins from the spilled chest
he thought, 'Should have had him gather the coins before killing him.'
He sighed, closing the lid and fastening the chest securely with ropes.
Switching to High Valyrian, he commanded, "Fly, Morghul."
The great beast rose, wings beating in slow, hypnotic rhythm. Maekar leaned back into the saddle as they climbed eastward, away from Oldtown. The rising sun washed the world in an otherworldly hue, pulling him deeper into his thoughts.
'If I keep going at this pace, the curse will turn me into a machine. I'll become something less than human. It is happiness, sadness, rage, anger, lust, and greed—these things make us human. But as more time passes, as the memories and emotions of my past life fade, Renold will fade as well. I must create memories in this world too. I must feel again. But how? How can I ever have a father to look up to, a mother who loves me as deeply as the one I lost, a brother willing to lay down his life for me?'
Sadness welled in him, sharp and heavy, followed by the bitter realization.
'As long as I lack power, as long as Daemon and Rhaenyra remain threats, as long as even Aegon and Aemond keep running amok, as long as Otto plots and schemes, I will never find what I truly desire.'
His face twisted, resolve hardening into something near madness.
'I will never be a pawn on someone else's board. I will not be a footnote in another man's story. I spent my life fighting wars for presidents, only to see them smile and shake hands over the graves of my comrades. Never again.'
Morghul, perhaps stirred by the surge of feeling through their bond, loosed a roar that split the sky. The sound echoed across the empty air, defiant and alive. Yet as swiftly as they came, the emotions dulled and bled away, leaving the same hollow calm. This time, Maekar did not mind the loss. His course was set.
'Tyrosh lies fifteen hundred miles from here.'
'With the weight of the chests, two days at least… perhaps more.'
His mind turned not to comfort nor distraction but only calculation.
So he pressed on. Eastward, over the mountains of Dorne. Through the Prince's Pass, the barren Dornish Marches, and the glittering expanse of the Sea of Dorne. He passed above Weeping Tower, above Greenstone, pausing only when Morghul's strength demanded rest, landing wherever rock or shore offered brief respite. Each time, he tightened the ropes on the chests, mounted again, and took to the sky.
At last, the islands of Tyrosh broke the horizon. Their colors and banners were hidden from his view, but he could smell the sea winds that clung to them. He held Morghul aloft, high among the clouds where eyes could not follow, circling as a hunter would, searching below for a place to descend unseen.
Maekar brought Morghul down into a secluded stretch of forest that ringed the outskirts of Tyrosh. Midnight cloaked the land in silence, and the heavy canopy hid dragon and rider alike from curious eyes. Among the thick foliage and the cover of darkness, they settled unseen.
He dismounted, pried open the chests, and set the gold into the earth, covering it with soil and leaves until it seemed no different than the forest floor. Morghul he left behind, concealed in shadow, while he turned his steps toward the city.
The walk took no more than half an hour. Tyrosh rose before him, its walls and towers lit faintly by lanterns and the glow of the harbor fires. A city bound to trade never truly slept; its gates stood open through day and night. Guards lingered, but their scrutiny was light—merchants' wagons and cargo were searched, but lone travelers passed easily. Even the sword at his hip drew no notice. Westerosi knights, mercenaries, and sellswords were a common sight, and men with features like his—though never as sharp, never as true to Valyria—were scattered across Essos. Still, he drew up his hood, content to leave his face in shadow.
Untroubled, he crossed into the streets of Tyrosh. The air was thick with salt, smoke, and the noise of late revelry. At the first tavern he passed, Maekar pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Maekar stepped to the counter, set down a silver stag, and asked without hesitation,
"Where can I find slave sellers? Preferably Unsullied."
He would have preferred to buy them from the source in Astapor, but the journey was too long, even with dragonback. Time was not Maekar's ally.
Every slave city had merchants who bought Unsullied in bulk, then sold them again at a profit. Tyrosh was no exception.
The tavern keeper swept the coin from sight, wiping the table as if nothing had passed. In a low voice, he said,
"There is a man—Meros, the Bay Slaver. Deals only in Unsullied. You'll find him in his own tavern."
That was all Maekar needed. After getting directions, he turned and left at once, moving quickly through the streets until he came upon it—a three-story house of stone, not wood, rising over the narrow street. Without pause, he pushed through the door and made for the bar.
"I need Unsullied," he said flatly.
The clerk behind the counter only nodded, too accustomed to such requests to waste words. He gestured toward a guard at the side door. The guard opened it, waiting. Maekar followed.
Maekar followed the guard up the narrow stair, flight after flight, until they reached the third floor. A long hallway stretched ahead, ending at a single wooden door. The guard rapped upon it in a practiced pattern. From within, a voice granted entry.
The guard's hand came up, palm out, toward Maekar's sword. Maekar had expected as much. He unbuckled the weapon and surrendered it without a word.
Inside, the chamber was lit by a pair of oil lamps. It smelled of spice and wine. Meros sat sprawled on a low couch, a goblet in hand. He was a man past his prime—flesh soft, belly heavy, what little hair he had left silver and stringy. His pointed beard had been dyed a gaudy blue.
Meros gave a booming laugh, patting his stomach with the hand not holding the goblet.
"Hah! Welcome, guest. I hear you've come seeking my Unsullied."
Maekar lowered himself onto the couch opposite Meros, his posture rigid. as he gazed at the two unsullied standing behind Mero for protection before looking at the slaver himself.
"Yes. I require a certain number of Unsullied. How many can you provide—and at what cost?"
Meros smirked, swirling the wine in his cup.
"Straight to business. I like that."
He reached for a thick ledger, flipping to a marked page. His finger slid down a column of figures.
"I have ninety-seven Unsullied ready for sale. The price depends, of course, on the number you intend to purchase."
He looked up, his smile widening.
"Forgive me—I did not catch your name."
Maekar gave the faintest nod.
"Ronald," he said flatly. After a pause, he continued,
"I need fifty Unsullied. The price?"
Meros' eyes lit up. Few ever bought so many at once. He leaned forward, eager.
"Thirty gold a man. Fifty makes fifteen hundred. But for such fine patronage…" He spread his hands, smiling wide.
"Fourteen-fifty, good master Ronald."
Maekar inclined his head.
"The exchange must be done outside the city."
Meros' smile faltered. "Tyrosh is safe, Master Ronald."
Maekar's gaze was steady, unblinking.
"I am a foreigner, as you already know. I'm buying the Unsullied for protection. My gold waits with slaves outside the walls. You do not expect me to walk through Tyrosh carrying thousands of coins unguarded—do you?"
Maekar leaned forward.
"If betrayal is what worries you, then bring them all. Once you've counted your coins, you sell me fifty and keep the other forty-five for your own protection—along with whatever other guards you choose. The exchange will be only minutes beyond the walls. There is nothing to fear. For the trouble, I will add one hundred gold."
Meros' greedy nature tugged at him until at last he let out a long sigh.
"Tomorrow, then. We make the deal. But when you leave, you will take one of my slaves with you—to show him the place of exchange."
Maekar gave a single nod."Of course."
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