As near-divine apex predators, the three black dragons—dark destroyers of legend—naturally hated being shackled. Even though the restraints were fastened by their own mother, they hissed and roared, twisting and screaming in protest.
"Hiss! Grrr!"
The unsettling and unfamiliar sound instantly alarmed all the masters and slaves—except for the Unsullied standing below the platform. They remained utterly still.
Arrayed in 110 columns, 100 soldiers per line, the Unsullied stood as rigid as stone pillars, emotionless faces staring ahead.
They wore black linen tunics and bronze conical helmets, each capped with a sharp one-foot spike. At their waists hung short swords; in their left hands, round shields; in their right hands, long spears that towered above their heads.
As Drogo rode past, their sheer numbers overwhelmed even his veteran senses. No matter the angle, the scene was far more striking than anything he'd seen before. Unlike the unruly Dothraki horsemen he knew so well, the Unsullied were the epitome of discipline.
Their similar height revealed strict selection. Though eunuchs rarely developed strong physiques, the muscle tone beneath their tightly fitted clothing was evident—balanced, dense, and full of power.
Of course, only the first ninety columns bore the spiked helmets. The final twenty columns consisted of children younger than Daenerys—bareheaded but just as upright. Even as bloodflies crawled across their skin, they didn't flinch, didn't move. They were like lifeless wooden dolls.
Drogo wasn't surprised. These boys didn't fear pain or itching—not because they were born different, but because of what they drank: the so-called "wine of courage."
This drink, more like a narcotic than actual wine, was made from belladonna, bloodfly larvae, black lotus root, and other secret ingredients. From the day they were castrated, the wine of courage became their daily water. Over the years, it dulled their nerves until no torment could break them.
The masters' methods for forging soldiers were cruel beyond measure. But Drogo admitted the Unsullied were, in a way, fortunate: once chosen and given the spiked helm, they were guaranteed three meals a day—unlike other slaves, who never knew when they'd eat again.
But they had lost themselves. Neither man nor woman, they would never again know human pleasure.
Drogo had owned many eunuchs. They'd all grown fat—denied carnal joy, they sought comfort only in food.
But the Unsullied, stripped even of taste, wouldn't be moved even if offered roasted dragon meat.
Drogo respected their will—but pitied them deeply. "If I had to live like that, I'd have chosen death."
Daenerys, initially inspecting the Unsullied beside her husband, suddenly gagged. She had accidentally glanced at the punishment zone in the square. The sight of mutilated, bloodied bodies was too much. Her stomach churned violently, and she vomited a bitter mouthful—just like when Rhaego had kicked inside her womb.
Jorah immediately rode to her side, shielding her from the view.
But the gesture only saddened Daenerys more. She had hoped her husband, the ever-theatrical Drogo, would have been the one to protect her. Not the exiled knight.
Seeing Drogo dismount, Kraznys mo Nakloz greeted him from atop the platform, speaking on behalf of the masters:
"Khal Drogo, please step up so we may discuss in detail."
Though he spoke to the Khal, his gaze was locked on the dragons Daenerys held.
Drogo handed his reins to a tribesman, then called loudly:
"Bloodriders, the Khaleesi, Ser Jorah, and the khalasar members carrying the chests—follow me."
As they mounted the platform, Drogo ignored the seated masters and walked straight to the central seat. Without ceremony, he plopped down as if it were his own tent, and gestured for his companions to sit as well.
"You like pretending at elegance? Sit if you dare. I will," he thought.
Daenerys, seeing the stunned faces of the masters, felt uneasy. All eyes were fixed on her bold husband.
"So reckless… as always."
Marry a horse, follow a horse—she sighed, then sat beside him with her dragons.
With that, Drogo's group had flipped the power dynamic. They were no longer guests—they were the ones in control.
Kraznys mo Nakloz, desperate to complete the deal quickly—not with deception, but with what little leverage he still had—gave the others a discreet look.
The Harpy's Whip, which functioned like a scepter or military seal, was lost. If that fact got out, the Unsullied—who obeyed only direct authority—would no longer listen to him.
That was the real reason he held back the other masters from leaping at the dragons. Forget "honor" in trade or "market stability." He was barely holding on.
Still, the news hadn't leaked. So long as the thief didn't reveal themselves, Kraznys believed he could bluff his way through.
Rubbing his hands eagerly, he began his pitch:
"Khal, as you can see, before you stand all of Astapor's Unsullied. The spiked-helm soldiers are trained in spear, sword, and shield. Brave, disciplined, and more obedient than sheep—you've seen their worth firsthand. If they are to your liking, let us proceed with the transaction."
Drogo responded flatly:
"Didn't I ask you to pick the ten most formidable Unsullied for me to test personally? If I'm not satisfied, there's no deal. Everyone's interested in my offer—you included."
Kraznys had assumed the "foolish horse" was bluffing. But he had still selected ten elite soldiers—intending to humiliate Drogo before Pono arrived and undermined his standing.
He also mused: "Only a true Targaryen can tame dragons. If only there were a way to keep that silver-haired girl, too…"
Putting on a false smile, he replied:
"As you wish. I've prepared as requested. Please, come down to inspect them."
Drogo sneered.
"And what is my status? You want me to perform like a beast for the Ghiscari swine? Let them come up—I'll inspect them here."
One of the Grazdans, wearing silver tassels, couldn't contain himself. He forgot Kraznys's warnings and snapped:
"Stupid horse! Watch your mouth! You're lucky to have been born in the Dothraki Sea and to still cling to that ridiculous Khal title. If not for fear of the horse lords, the Great Masters would have had the Unsullied throw you all in the dungeon to feed the white lions!"
That comment irritated Kraznys more than Drogo. The idiot had struck the sorest point: the white lions were missing—and worse, so was the Harpy's Whip.
Drogo raised an eyebrow.
"Seems they've uncovered one of my aces. Good. Let's give them a taste of fear. You think I came here for fun?"
He growled:
"I didn't come to hear Ghiscari pigs grunt. Are your bold eunuchs coming up or not? If not, I'm leaving."
Kraznys, confident in his warriors, gave a faint sneer and shouted down:
"The eunuchs selected this morning—get up here!"
In an instant, ten Unsullied stormed up like the wind—calm, steady, unshaken.
Kraznys asked the one in front:
"What is your name?"
The soldier answered:
"Reporting, master. Today, I am called Grey Worm."
"Grey Worm!"
Upon hearing the name of one of Daenerys's most trusted companions from the story, Drogo opened his eyes wide and examined him carefully.
Grey Worm had an average build and height, a clean-shaven, stern face, wore a spiked helm, held a spear and shield, and his eyes—full of killing intent—locked on Drogo's.
He stood like a blade drawn from its scabbard.
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