The following night, Maekar waited in a small clearing deep within the forest, a single chest set before him. Meros had insisted on darkness for the exchange—he feared parading too many Unsullied through the city by day might provoke the ire of Tyrosh's great families and, above all, the Archon, to the point he had to move his slaves in groups of five through the city.
Soon, the steady rhythm of marching feet broke the silence. Out from the trees poured more than a hundred figures: rank upon rank of Unsullied, their light armor glinting faintly in the moonlight, spears in hand. At their center walked Meros, flanked by two towering brutes—pit fighters by the look of them, scarred from head to toe, their bulk a stark contrast to the lean precision of the Unsullied. Beside them trailed a thin slave burdened with no weapons, clearly no fighter.
Meros' eyes darted about the clearing, then fixed on Maekar standing alone. His brows furrowed.
"Good master Ronald… Where are your slaves?"
Maekar shook his head.
"I sent them on an errand."
Then, without another word, he unlatched the chest and swung it open. Gold gleamed in the moonlight.
Meros' shoulders eased, his fears of betrayal dissolving at the sight. A confident smile spread across his face as he stepped forward with his guards, the unarmed slave shuffling behind. Kneeling with little ceremony, Meros plunged his hands into the chest and began counting. The clink of coin filled the night air, stretching on and on—nearly twenty minutes before the last piece was tallied.
Satisfied, Meros rose to his feet with a booming laugh.
"Good master Ronald—exactly one thousand five hundred and fifty gold coins. But tell me, how is it you hold so much Westerosi gold?"
Maekar, far too calm for a man surrounded by a hundred spears,
"I deal mostly with Westerosi merchants and nobles. My wealth is in their coin. I have done my part, Meros. Now do yours."
Meros chuckled again, then raised a hand.
"The agreed fifty are here."
At once, fifty Unsullied broke formation, stepping forward in perfect unison. Meros turned toward them, his voice carrying.
"You fifty—your new master stands before you. He is the good master Ronald. Your lives belong to him now."
Then, facing Maekar, Meros spread his arms in mock ceremony, smiling widely.
"Congratulations, good master. You are now the proud owner of the most fearless, most obedient slaves in the world."
Maekar inclined his head, voice low but firm.
"Completely loyal to me, then?"
Meros laughed, nodding.
"Their lives are yours to command."
Maekar stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the fifty.
"Unsullied!"
The soldiers straightened their spines as one, spears striking the ground in unison. The sound reverberated through the clearing, deep and sonorous, rolling through the forest like a vow.
Maekar then orders them to stand behind him. The fifty men move as one and stand behind Maekar in an orderly fashion. Meros, now satisfied with the deal and a bit unsettled by the strange feeling Maekar gave him—something he only noticed once his greed had subsided—quickly said,
"Well, good Master Ronald, if you ever need my patronage, you know where to find me. Have a wonderful night."
He turns around and moves with his men, wishing to reenter the city, though an unexplainable feeling of dread touched his heart.
He and his men had not moved five meters before the sound of giant stomping echoed, followed by the cracking of trees. Maekar then called out
"Meros, what would it take to take the rest of the Unsullied off your hands?"
Meros, his heart rate spiking, looked at Maekar, then at the sound drawing ever closer.
"Good Master Ronald, what is going on h—" He couldn't finish his question as Morghul emerged from behind them.
The black horned beast seemed especially hungry, its slightly gaping maw dripping saliva that scorched the ground with its heat. Its blood-red eyes, irises narrowed to a pinprick, regarded the humans before it as food.
Maekar spoke to the now trembling merchant.
"You haven't answered my question, Meros."
Terrified, Meros tore his gaze from the monstrous beast and looked at Maekar, the fifty men behind him now standing even straighter, as if witnessing something magical.
"So," Meros said,
"I had been dealing with a prince of blood. I'm guessing Ronald is a false name. May I know your name, Prince Targaryen?"
Maekar ignored him completely and said, "How about a deal, Meros? You're a merchant; you love deals. I take the rest of the Unsullied off your hands, and you get to keep your life."
Meros chuckled bitterly and answered,
"I have been dealing in flesh since you were in your mother's womb, boy. I know the look a slaver gives a slave. You are giving me the same look—a worthless look, as if at a bug. No matter what I do, I will die, won't I?"
He shook his head miserably.
Maekar glanced back briefly, then chose a random Unsullied.
"Come over."
The Unsullied hurriedly stepped forward, about to kneel, but Maekar lifted a hand.
"You can do that later."
The soldier straightened, rigid and expressionless.
"What are the chances," Maekar asked evenly,
"That the rest of the Unsullied would follow me?"
The man did not hesitate."If they are not handed over willingly, then even if he orders them to cut their own throats, they would, Master."
Maekar exhaled slowly. He turned to Meros, his tone soft but cutting.
"It would be a shame for all these good slaves to die here, don't you think? Why not hand them over… and I'll grant you a quick death."
For a moment, Meros trembled. Then—unexpectedly—he burst into laughter, bitter and sharp, as though courage had clawed its way out of despair.
"Go fuck yourself, you inbred boy!" He spat, venom thick in his throat.
He spun toward his men, rage in his eyes.
"Kill him!"
The Unsullied, without hesitation and without fear of the monstrous shadow looming behind them, leveled their spears. They began to step toward Maekar in unison—unyielding, disciplined, and ready to die as one.
But not all moved.
The two scarred guards froze where they stood, eyes darting between Maekar and the beast behind him, showing the difference in loyalty. The learned slave who had counted the coin had already collapsed, having fainted dead away the moment Morghul emerged.
Maekar sighed—surprised, almost impressed by their loyalty, and for the briefest heartbeat, pleased that he had gained such loyal subjects. But that flicker of admiration vanished like smoke. His voice dropped into finality.
"Kill them."
The beast had been waiting for nothing else. Morghul, who had strained against his own hunger and held his fire at his rider's command, released a restrained jet of flame—hot enough to sear flesh and metal, but controlled, so his prey would not be reduced to ashes, and his rider would remain untouched.
The night erupted into chaos. Screams tore through the forest. Steel bent and split. Spears clattered as men burned alive, writhing. Trees caught fire, crackling with fury.
And through it all, Maekar stood motionless, the inferno dancing in his eyes, with fifty silent Unsullied at his back—watching.