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Standing amongst the ruins of Moat Cailin, Robb was doing his best to ignore the cries of the injured and dying of those on the ground around him. The battle, if it could even be called that, had been a massacre. The Moat had once been one of, if not the, greatest stronghold in all of Westeros. Repelling invasion after invasion from the south. But after the unification of Westeros by the Targaryens centuries past, the Moat had fallen into disrepair. The twenty towers and the massive basalt curtain wall were reduced to little more than a wall barely three men tall with many parts sinking into the ground. Of the towers only three remained. And the once great keep was little more than a rotten husk. But despite its state, it was still a formidable structure. Even more so after his father had decided that Lord Nox would inherit the land and had since spent thousands upon thousands of dragons towards its renovation. And while it was not what it once was, it was still a formidable keep to assault. As these pathetic Southerners had learned the hard way.
The garrison that was stationed at the Moat, mostly smallfolk and builders, had put aside their tools and took up arms the moment the army was seen advancing on them. Despite their lack of numbers and lack of training, the defenders managed to hold out long enough, while only suffering minimal losses, for Robb and his small advance force to arrive. They were still outnumbered nearly two-to-one, but that mattered little when they were backed with the strength of the Moat.
The southerners were slaughtered nearly to the man once Robb ordered the gates to the Moat to be opened so that he and his men could ride out and meet the southerners head on. The southerners, having expected the north men to stay behind the safety of the Moat, were unprepared for the sudden charge, and were therefore unable to mount a proper defense before Robb and his men set upon them. Robb, his blue lightsaber alive and singing, cut through the southerners like they were nothing. While beside him Winter, Grey Wind, Lady and Nymeria set upon the attacking force like the wolves they were.
Hearing a man beg for mercy before being silenced, Robb looked over his shoulder and saw a heavily armored Stark man-at-arms with a spear, the tip of which was buried into the chest of a southerner who was wearing a mashup of ill-fitted leather armor. Watching the struggling man finally succumb, Robb could only shake his head. Granted, these southerners had come with the purpose of ending their way of life, but he couldn't help but feel some form of pity for these southerners.
Only perhaps a hundred or so had proper armor and decent weapons, let alone training. The rest were clearly smallfolk like farmers, stable hands, brick layers. Men from all walks of life, yet none of them were soldiers. And they didn't stand a chance against the well-armed and armored northerners. Robb's own armor, the same armor that his ancestor Bran the Builder wore, proved its worth. It was light, flexible, and gave him full mobility. Yet not a single blade nor arrow was able to even leave a scratch, provided he was struck.
Feeling a hand grab his boot, Robb looked down. A young face was staring up at him. The boy was his age…if not younger. His face was bloodied. His arm and leg mangled beyond all hope. And a large gash had opened his gut, his insides clutched desperately in his hand as he tried to keep them in. "P-P-Pleease…mo – mothe…"
Feeling his gut twist, Robb activated his lightsaber and swiftly ended the boy's suffering. 'This is the reality of war,' Robb thought morosely looking around as healers tried to heal who they could while others went about giving mercy with a sharp blade.
Feeling a surge of panic and anger from the Force, Robb turned sharply back towards the Moat. 'Talisa.'
All but running back to the Moat, Robb frantically sought out his wife. If he'd had his way, she would be back in Winterfell, caring for the potential child that was in her belly while seeing the day-to-day running of the North and educating Bran on how to be a proper Lord. But…Talisa was his weakness. And she was strong enough to stand alongside him, not hide behind the high walls of Winterfell while others risked their lives. It was something that he admired, and something that he knew won her great favor with their bannerman. But still…he couldn't shake the fear of something happening to her. He did manage to get one concession from her. Once they'd confirmed that she was with child and started to show, then she would stay at the nearest holdfast they had control of until they could secure a means for her to return to the safety of the North.
Entering the main courtyard of the Moat, Robb saw a dozen of Stark men-at-arms forming a wall in front of his wife and a man who was being pinned down by four other Stark men. He immediately noticed two things. The first was that his wife's darker complexion was slightly paler than normal. And second, was the dagger that was being wrestled from the hand of the man who was being pinned.
"What in the name of the old gods and the Force is going on here?!" Robb shouted, letting the Force enter his voice, a trick he had learned from Lord Nox.
Talisa looked startled. But after a quick meeting of their eyes, she looked down. Shame? Guilt? No, but…yes? The few emotions he could sense from her, something which had been amplified since their wedding to one another, were all a tangled web instead of her normally composed self.
"Forgive us, milord," one of the men said, bowing to him as the others kept struggling to hold the man down. "Lady Stark was seeing to the wound, milord. She…She began treating this fucker and…and he drew a dagger and made for her."
Rage. A rage even greater than the one he'd felt upon learning of his father's imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters raced through him. The Force rang in his ears. All but demanding not just this man's death, but his painful death. But even as he was imagining a thousand and one ways to kill the man who dared attempt harm towards his wife, his thoughts were immediately put on hold when Talisa simply touched his arm.
Looking into her dark eyes, his rage calmed, though his anger was still very much present. "My wife, the Lady Stark, is perhaps the gentlest, most loving woman to ever have been born," he said calmly, though his rage still very much apparent as he turned his attention to the pinned man on the ground. "Despite all you have done, coming here to the North with the intent on killing us all and ending our way of life, my wife still offered to treat your wounds. And how did you repay her kindness? With an attempt to kill her."
The man had ceased his struggles, but his glare had not lessened in the slightest. There was no shame in him. No guilt. Only hatred. Disgust. "She's nothing more than a foreign heathen whore married to a barbaric heathen!" The man shouted from his place on the ground. "My only regret is not actually gutting the whore when I had the chance!"
Any chance for mercy left as soon as those words left his lips. Glancing up towards Talisa, he saw in her eyes that even she no longer held any mercy for this man. Glancing his way, she gave him the slightest of nods before turning her back and walking away. No doubt to see to others who would be more receptive to her care.
"Bind his arms and legs," he said, his voice as hard as ice.
His men didn't question his orders. They grabbed some rope to tie his feet together and his arms tightly to his sides. The man didn't stop glaring. "I am not afraid to die at your hands, heathen! For I do so in the service to the Seven-Who-Are-One!"
Robb side-eyed the man. "Whoever said that I would be the one to kill you?" he asked, motioning for his men to pick the bound man up and follow him.
As they walked, Robb listed the man's crimes. "You came to the North unprovoked and declared us all heathens. Marching with a force set on killing any and all whose only crime is that they do not owe reverence to the same gods as you. You killed my people. Raped our women. But I would not stain my hands with your blood."
Reaching the edge of the ramparts, Robb looked over the edge and down into the murky moat below. The waters were still, but despite the still waters one could not see into the water's depths. There was no telling what awaited in the waters. But he knew. Any true man or woman of the north knew what waited in the waters of the marshes of the Neck. And even if he didn't know through tales, he could sense them through the Force.
Without a word, he jerked his head in the direction of the moat. The man let out a yell of confusion and a cry calling him a coward as he was thrown into the still waters. The man splashed and cursed as he hit the waters, fumbling about as he tried to find some sort of footing despite his arms and legs being bound.
"This is how you mean to kill me! Fucking idiot, heathen!" the man laughed, managing to right himself and stand despite his binds with his head just barely above the surface of the water. "I can simply walk out of here, you dumb fuc – AHHH!"
The fool was only able to give off a single cry of pain as the water shifted and he was pulled under. He surfaced again, screaming in agony as the water turned red. The man now firmly caught in the powerful maw of a lizard-lion that began thrashing the man about while its serrated teeth dug deeply into his flesh. Then a second lizard-lion surfaced, snapping hold of the man's legs. The two massive beasts, each easily twice as large as their newfound meal, began tearing and pulling the man apart.
'I wonder,' Robb pondered as he watched the man being torn to shreds by the lizard-lions. 'Is this the same righteous anger that my ancestor Theon felt when he brought death and destruction to the Andals after their failed invasion of the North? It's easy to judge his actions as harsh when looking back… But now that I am in the same situation as him… Can I truly say that my ancestor went too far with his actions? Perhaps yes. But I think I understand just why he went as far as he did.'
Turning his back on the feasting lizard-lions, he turned to one of his men-at-arms. "Find Theon and inform him that I wish to speak with him. And then gather all able-bodied prisoners. I have a task for them that I want Theon to help oversee."
His men looked strangely at him. "What task, milord? Whatever you need done, we would gladly see to it rather than putting our trust in these southern cunts."
"No," Robb replied sharply. "Our men need to rest. These southern cunts can work. It's only right that they give back something after they tried to take what is rightfully ours."
The men seemed agreeable, and just as they started to depart, Theon showed up. "So, how many of these southern greenlander cunts did you get, Robb?" Theon asked, smirking as he looked proudly at his bow while fiddling with the string. "I managed to take down four of the cunts. Well, five if you count the one bleeding out over there. And seeing as how he isn't likely to make it to nightfall, he counts."
"Five?" Robb nodded. "Respectable, Theon. But war isn't a game."
Theon smirked wider. "So, I got more than you then?"
Robb shook his head. "No, I got eleven Theon. More than double you."
Theon's face fell. "Fuck. Well, the next battle I'll just have to double you then."
"We'll see," Robb nodded. "But first, I have a task that I want you to oversee."
Theon held his head up higher and puffed out his chest. "Name it, Robb. I told you I would march with you till the end. And I meant it."
Robb was grateful for Theon. Even though they weren't related by blood, Robb did consider Theon a brother. Despite how much of an arse he could be at times. "I want you to oversee the prisoners. Take whatever men you need and the prisoners and prepare a proper…northern welcome for Tywin-fucking-Lannister and the southern cunts who are coming our way."
The Last Hearth was like many other keeps in the North. The tall walls made of stone and wood were imposing and built to protect the people from both attack and the harsh climate of the North that threatened their lives. The keep, and the homesteads within the walls, were not ornate or ostentatious, but rather built for strength and practicality. And the Umbers who held dominion over Last Hearth and the surrounding lands, mirrored their homestead almost perfectly. The Greatjon and his eldest son Smalljon both stood as giants amongst men, literally. Even Nox with his well above average height could only come up to each man's shoulder. The only one who could match the massive men was Tormund, who was standing with Nox and the two Umbers as the group of four watched the Umber men finalize their preparations for war, all the while keeping a wary eye on the thousands of Free Folk that they now found themselves marching with.
"Never did I think I would ever be marching south with a band of fucking wildlings," the Greatjon grumbled, eyeing the mass of free folk making camp outside his holdfast. "My father, and his father all the way back to the Age of Heroes, would be turning over in their fucking graves if they could see this."
Tormund grunted as he raised a chicken leg to his mouth before proceeding to devour nearly half of it in one bite. "As would mine, Umber. But as the lovely Karsi put it years ago at Hardhome: 'Fuck em, they're dead.'"
Greatjon grunted but didn't say much in response.
"What news have you received from Robb Stark and the other Lords and Ladies of the North?" Nox asked. Despite his ability to contact Robb at will, they did not keep daily conversations with each other as using the glass candles were draining, even for one of Nox's power. And the other keeps did not have glass candles or Force sensitives, so he was handicapped to the agonizingly slow pace of travel this world was limited to.
"Everyone has gotten off their asses and is preparing for war." The Greatjon replied, with no small amount of eagerness in his voice. "All the keeps are readying their men and marching towards Winterfell or straight to Moat Cailin. Robb Stark is showing his Stark blood is stronger than his southern blood. He's already marched to the Moat to begin reinforcing it. Just hope that he leaves some of those Andals for the rest of us! It's been centuries since those Andal fucks last tried to claim the North. Never thought I'd see them dumb enough to try again. But I'm glad they decided to try while I still draw breath."
Nox nodded. During their last talk via the candles, Robb had informed him that not only had he already reached the Moat, but that they had not been alone. Some five-thousand southerners had apparently decided to strike out at the Moat ahead of the rest of the army. A foolish notion. And one they paid for in blood. But that was merely the warmup of what was to come. For Nox knew that Tywin Lannister himself would be leading the next wave to descend on the Moat. And given the rate of travel, the Heir of Winterfell would have to hold his own against perhaps one of the greatest Lords and battle-commanders currently alive in Westeros. Not a promising proposition. But he had faith in his apprentice.
"We'll let the men rest for one day," Nox stated, turning his back on the encampment. "At first light, we ride for Winterfell then onwards to the Moat. I set the pace of march. Anyone who falls behind will be left to deal with whatever scraps of fighting is left."
"Ha, no worries there, Sorcerer," Smalljon laughed. "Half our men will probably outpace even you to the Moat!"
Shaking his head, Nox made his way into the sturdy keep and towards the small room he'd been given for the night. It certainly wasn't the height of comfort, but after sleeping out in the elements or within a tree for months on end, it was a very welcome change. Closing himself in the room, he immediately drew out the glass candle he had and began to meditate.
His Force-sight shifted, no longer was he seeing the room around him, instead he had a bird's eye view of Last Hearth and the surrounding land. He could see the thousands of Free Folk he had brought south of the Wall, as well as the hundreds of men of the North that were staging themselves around the keep in preparation for their march south. Shifting his sight, he saw more and more men, and even some women, gathering around the various keeps of the North, readying themselves to once again fight off Andal invaders.
Venturing further south, he saw the Moat. Robb had made it, and judging by the piles of bodies burning he could see, the young Heir of Winterfell had not been the first to arrive, but he had held strong and thrown back the first wave of their enemies.
Pushing further south, Nox began straining with the effort of keeping his sight strong, but the further and further he ventured the fuzzier things became. The last image he could see before he was forced to break his connection was a large mass of bodies moving north along the Kings Road. The main force of this Exalted March no doubt. And this wave he was positive was being led by Tywin Lannister himself.
Forcibly breaking the connection, Nox took his time to compose himself. Despite his ire about this war and its waste of resources he felt could, and should, be put to better use. Part of him, the part that was still deeply engrained in the Sith way of life, couldn't help but feel excited. Not just about the chance to fight, but also the chance to go against Tywin Lannister. The one man in all of Westeros that could give Nox even the slightest moment of hesitation. Despite not being Force-sensitive, Nox had no doubt that had Tywin Lannister been born amongst the Sith Empire, he would've become one of the greatest Moffs in the Empire. He was tactically brilliant. And his cunning was only match by his ruthless nature. In short, he was everything that Nox, as a Sith, could wish for in an enemy. While not his equal, Tywin was as close as an equal as Nox was likely to find on this world. And that would have to suffice. If nothing else, Tywin would serve as a good way of knocking the rust off his mind before the war against the undead began.
Standing at the bow of the ship, enjoying the feel of the wind on her face and the sun warming her skin, Daenerys watched with a wary eye as the port of Astapor slowly grew closer. In truth, if she could choose any other place to sail to other than Astapor, she would. But now that she was without Drogo and the Khalasar, she had little to no support. She could've perhaps sailed back to Westeros, sought sanctuary in the North using her ties with the Sorcerer and her nephew. But that was not the life she wanted. She didn't want to be a burden, nor beholden to anyone. She'd lived that life once, and that was enough. But still, she needed support. A dragon, while powerful, was not enough to make her dreams come to fruition. She needed soldiers. And according to everyone she'd talked to, there were no better soldiers than the Unsullied of Astapor.
"Khaleesi."
Turning her head away from the sight of the port, she spied her sworn-sword, Ser Jorah, coming up beside her near the bow of the ship. "Ser Jorah," she responded cordially before turning her attention back towards the approaching port.
The two stood in silence until Ser Jorah broke it, "is your arm healed?"
The reminder sent a sharp stab of pain in her arm. The day after they had set sail her curiosity to fully explore her new blade got the better of her and she brought it out in the confines of her cabin. The white blade glowed brighter than any candle she had seen. She began carefully moving it around, taking care to keep the white blade far away from Rhaego and Droga. Unfortunately for her, despite the blade producing no heat that she could feel, she underestimated just how truly dangerous the blade was. And because of that, her small bed ended up being cut in half, and she ended up cutting deeply into her left arm.
After that single instance of stupidity, she decided that she needed to learn how to properly learn how to handle her weapon. Unfortunately, Jon could only talk to her and show her. He couldn't physically be with her to aid and their time was exceedingly limited. No. Her best options were to either ask Ser Jorah to teach her the blade. Or one of her bloodriders. After watching all the men train on the limited space provided on the ship, she knew that she couldn't ask Jorah. It wasn't the man's skill that was in question. But she knew from watching him fight that she would not be able to fight like him. He used his size, strength, and armor when he fought. Three things that she did not have. So, instead, she continued her lessons with Rakharo.
Her bloodrider was clearly hesitant to continue what they'd started back in the Dothraki Sea without Drogo still around to lead him. After all women, especially a Khaleesi, did not fight like the men. But she persisted and he relented quickly enough. So, for the entirety of their voyage, she spent every waking moment that wasn't with her children with Rakharo learning how to move, how to incorporate her blade into being just an extension of her arm. And he did not take it easy on her. Each night she went to bed, her entire body ached. Each morning was almost painful to rise from her bed. But after a few days, the aches began to fade. She could feel her body getting stronger, faster. And she felt a thrill when she practiced with her blade that she'd never felt before. And while she knew that she was nowhere near even a proficient swordswoman, she was confident that she could at least hold her own in a fight should it come to it.
"As well as can be for now," she replied, now able to see the docks and the workers thereon.
She couldn't help but frown as she watched the people on the docks. Those who were working were in little more than rags. Scattered amongst the mass of workers were a handful of men dressed in fine clothes, carrying whips. And they were not afraid to use them if they spotted any worker… no. Any slave not working hard enough to their liking.
Ser Jorah saw where her eyes were being drawn to, and her sworn sword growled lowly at the sight of it. The growl persisted in his voice as he said, "There are other choices, Khaleesi."
"No, there are not." Daenerys replied firmly. "I cannot return to Westeros. Nor can I return to the Grass Sea of the Dothraki. My brother burned all bridges we had in the Free Cities. No. If I am to see my dream come to fruition, I must start here."
Coming into the harbor, Dany noticed a large statue of what looked like a cross between a woman, a dragon and some manner of beast for legs and a long-curled tail. 'A harpy,' she realized, keeping her eyes on the statue as their ship slowly drifted past and towards an opening on the docks. 'The idol of slavers bay and a symbol of the Masters power over those they keep in chains.'
Watching as their ship slowly pulled up next to the dock, Dany tried to keep her face impassive as she watched the slaves on the dock work quickly to tie the boat off. Only to be whipped by a large man behind them for not working fast enough to his liking. Pushing down her disgust, she looked over her shoulder at Irri and Jhiqui, "Stay on the ship with my children. Allow none to come near them while I am speaking with the 'Good' Masters."
Once the ship was fully docked, Dany departed with Ser Jorah and Rakharo right behind her. Her remaining bloodriders, Aggo and Jhogo, were going to stay on the ship to protect her children along with Irri and Jhiqui. It took all of her power not to react as she carefully observed the slaves and the way they were being manhandled by the 'Good Masters' on the docks as she slowly made her way back onto solid land.
Just as she was about to ask Ser Jorah to see if he knew where to head, they were approached by a half a dozen slaves that were carrying a large, gilded palanquin on their shoulders. The slaves purposefully put themselves directly into her path before a voice from the inside barked out several sharp orders, bringing them all to a stop as they then lowered the palanquin off their shoulders and onto the ground softly as to not disturb whoever was inside.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Dany stood her ground as the curtain covering the opening to palanquin was opened and an older man stepped out. The man had hair white as snow, wrinkles covering every part of his flesh that was visible beyond the confines of the rich tokar he was wearing. The man straightened himself out before his eyes landed on her. He didn't smile, nor did he show any surprise at her appearance. The man barked out a command in bastardized High Valyrian before approaching her with a skittish slave breaking away from the others and walking to the man's left and a pace behind.
Walking forward, the man gazed at her, but didn't bow his head in greeting. "Welcome to Astapor, Daenerys of the House of Targaryen of the former Valyrian Empire. I am Good Master Grazdan mo Ullthor of Astapor."
Daenerys remained impassive as she let the slave by the man's side change his words into the common tongue. She immediately wanted to respond that the slave was not necessary, but she held her tongue as one of Lord Nox's lessons came back to her. This man clearly suspected that she did not understand High Valyrian. A weakness for her, in his mind. And if he thought she was weak, then he would underestimate her.
"I appreciate your welcome, Good Master Grazdan mo Ullthor," she replied in the common tongue, keeping her eyes on the Good Master as the slave translated in High Valyrian.
Dany kept her eyes on the Good Master. The man did not show his disgust. But his words spoke all that she needed to know now that his suspicions had apparently been confirmed. "The dumb cunt doesn't even speak the language of her ancestors. How pathetic. Ask the dumb cunt what she wants in our city."
Dany kept her face impassive, not an easy task, but she kept her pose as the slave translated, albeit in a much kinder verbiage. "I am looking to purchase the services of an army of Unsullied."
As soon as the words were translated, the Good Master's eyes changed. No longer was he so utterly dismissive and disgusted of her. Now he gained a greedy glint in his eyes. 'Amazing how much one can change when you go from being a simple passerby to a potential buyer.'
"At least the ignorant cunt at least knows where to come to buy the best. Tell her to follow. Send word to Kraznys mo Nkloz that we have a potential buyer. If he is not at the Plaza of Pride before we arrive, then all of you will be decorating the Plaza of Punishment. Tell the ignorant cunt that we will be walking around the city before viewing the Unsullied."
Dany accepted the invitation, biting her tongue the entire time as the Good Master Grazdan showed her around the city. He made a point of calling out the various pyramids that were scattered about, as well as the various plazas, grand manors, and fighting pits. By midday, they entered a bustling city market that the Good Master called 'the Plaza of Pride', while also stating that it was here that they would be meeting with a fellow Good Master before they go to view the Unsullied.
Making their way around the market, Grazdan led her towards a specific area where a large man…very large man with an oiled black and red beard. By the gods…she'd thought that Illyrio was large…but this man. She swore his breasts must've been larger than her own! And she was producing mother's milk! Standing beside the large man was a small girl, maybe the same height and size of Dany. Her darker skin clashed with the golden collar around her neck and the white tokar that clung loosely to her body. "So, this is the last of the Valyrian Empire?" the obese man snorted. "At least she looks the part. Though I can find a hundred better bed slaves in Yunkai in less than a day."
"This is her," Grazdan nodded. "She says that she's here to buy some of our Unsullied."
The fat man snorted. "Doubt she has any coin to spare. Probably hoping she can flash her tits or ass at us and get a pity sum from us now that her pathetic khal is dead as well as her Beggar King of a brother. I guess that makes her a fucking pathetic Beggar Queen. Missandei, ask what the cunt wants."
The small slave girl stepped forward, her voice soft and sweet. Though Dany could hear the undercutting of strength that stayed in her voice despite her station. "The Good Master, Kraznys mo Nakloz welcomes you, Daenerys of House Targaryen, to the great city of Astapor. He inquires as to what has made you voyage to Astapor."
Dany decided to keep the charade of her not speaking Valyrian for the time being. "Greetings, Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, Khaleesi to Khal Drogo. I have come seeking the Unsullied knowing that there are few, if any, fighting forces that can match the prowess of the Unsullied."
Missandei repeated her words exactly to the Good Master, who merely scoffed. "The dumb cunt thinks flattery will work. Fine, let's show her what she wants but will never be able to afford. If nothing else, it'll be gratifying to have this dumb cunt groveling at my feet for the worst we have to offer."
Again, Missandei translated for her, albeit not word for word and with a significant amount of flattery. Following the Good Masters, Dany along with Jorah and Rakharo were led into what she recognized as a training field. Men, although given their age she wasn't even sure they could be called that, were training under the unrelenting sun high in the sky. They were practicing with spears, bows, shields, short blades. Anything and everything. Even bare-handed combat was being taught. And more. Boys were running around in circles. Practicing different formations. Even some standing under the sun wearing two or more layers of arms and armor. Hundreds. No, thousands were before her. All under the watchful eyes of the Good Masters who were carrying heavy chain whips and were clearly not afraid to use them against any they felt were not trying hard enough.
She had to bite her tongue as she watched as one boy who was running stumbled and fell over. The Good Master overseeing the running whipped the boy repeatedly until his back was little more than a bloodied mess. All the while, none of the other future Unsullied stopped what they were doing. Eventually the Master stopped, but only when it was clear that the boy was no longer going to get up. A fact emphasized when the Master used his whip handle to raise the boy's head, only to let it fall back down to the ground lifelessly.
"The weak are purged before they have a chance to become Unsullied," Kraznys said, with Missandei translating into the common tongue. "Only a third of all slaves bought to become Unsullied live through the training."
Dany could not deny that the Unsullied were impressive. Having lived with the Dothraki for so long, she felt she had gained an eye for martial prowess. And the Unsullied were skilled. But what was more, they were disciplined. But the training was, well, extreme. Only a third lived through their training? That was wasteful. "They are impressive. But does losing a third of all recruits truly match the skills they obtain? Would it not be better to have three times the number of soldiers after their training is completed?"
Kraznys scoffed. "The dumb cunt lives amongst savages for a brief time and thinks she knows all there is to know about war. We would kill 9 out of 10 of these slaves if it meant producing better Unsullied."
Missandei hesitated for a moment before responding. "The Good Master Kraznys said that while the training is harsh, it is necessary to keep the high standards expected of the Unsullied."
Dany nodded, accepting what Missandei said while trying to ignore Krazyns' continued insults towards her. Motioning them onwards, Kraznys led them towards another area of training where dozens of Unsullied were standing still in full armor under the full heat of the sun. Walking amongst the lines of Unsullied, she noticed the visible strain many were under just trying to keep their positions. "How long have they been like this?" she asked, admiration and disgust warring within her.
Kraznys shrugged, and for once Missandei did not need to twist his words as he spoke. "This lot has been in position for three days and three nights without food or water. And they will stay like this until they are given the order to move or until they die. Such is the obedience installed in the Unsullied."
Kraznys made a move with his whip, and the Unsullied parted as one, giving them a path to walk through. "The Unsullied have had all individuality stripped from them. They know only orders and fear nothing."
Beside her, Ser Jorah snorted, clearly not pleased with what he was seeing. "Even the bravest of men fear death."
Missandei hesitated before relaying what Jorah had said to Krazyns. The Good Master wrinkled his nose and scoffed. "Tell the old man he smells of piss and shit."
Missandei hesitated. "Truly, Master?"
Kraznys sneered and backhanded Missandei across her cheek, turning her head but not dropping her. The action made Dany want to lash out, but she held herself in check. "No, not truly you dumb cunt. Are you a girl or a goat to ask such a stupid thing? Tell the dragon whore and the old cock that the Unsullied are not men. And therefore death means nothing to them. Tell the whore-beggar-queen to watch closely."
Walking away, Kraznys walked up to one of the Unsullied and commanded the slave to take a step forward. The slave did so, and offered no resistance as the Good Master moved aside his shield and spear before pulling out the slave's dagger. As he cut loose the straps exposing the man's chest, Dany's gut sank as she got a sudden suspicion of what was about to happen. "Tell the Good Master that there is no need—"
"She's worried about their nipples. She does know that we cut off their balls." Without hesitation, he slowly cut the man's nipple off before holding it up to show her the bloodied piece of flesh in his hand. "Now back in line, I have no further need of you."
Once the Unsullied stepped back in line, Kraznys spoke again with Missandei translating word for word. "To earn his shield. An Unsullied is given a single silver coin and then sent to the slave market. They are then to find a newborn and kill it before it's mother's eyes. This ensures that there is no weakness left in them. And to prove that they are no longer men and will obey any order given."
The practice was…so barbaric that it was all she could do to keep the contents of her stomach in place. She loved her son, her daughter. Should any take them from her and kill them before her eyes… The pain was not one she would wish on even her worst of enemies. "The coin they… Is it given to the mother?"
Kraznys scoffed after Missandei translated. "Why would we waste coin on a slave? No. The coin is given to the slave's master as repayment for the loss of property."
Dany's heart plummeted even further. Her course was now set. She knew what she needed to do. "How many do you have to sell?"
Missandei relayed her question, earning a curious look from Kraznys. In response, Krazyns held up eight fingers, to which Missandei vocalized. "Eight thousand."
Eight thousand. Eight thousand mothers who had lost their child. And for what? "Tell the whore-beggar-queen that she has until tomorrow to make her offer."
Missandei lowered her head. "Good Master Kraznys gives you till tomorrow to make an offer. There are many other buyers who are interested in purchasing."
Without another word, Kraznys raised his whip, causing the Unsullied before them to separate creating a pathway between them. Missandei bowed her head towards Dany before stepping down from where they were standing and quickly moving to follow after the departing Master.