One of the most horrifying truths about the Bay of Slaves was the ease with which its masters displayed mutilated rebellious slaves along their roads. Supposedly, it was a way to show their power, but for Aemond, it was another reason to detest them.
The men were exhausted, some barely able to walk due to the blisters on their feet. They had been traveling at this pace for too long, and their bodies were quickly breaking down. Five elephants had perished along the way, not to mention the horses.
Many tried to warn Aemond about the current state of his army, but he had refused to stop until, on a morning inspection, he saw his men in a deplorable condition.
"We will stay another night," insisted the white-haired man, frowning. Rumors among the soldiers said he was always so bitter that he hadn't taken a woman since leaving Lys.
As best they could, they set up camp to make it a more comfortable place. It was impressive to seeāmore than a thousand tents spread out across the desert, with a fluttering black dragon on their banners and gleaming golden skulls on top.
Red Keep, King's Landing
The Privy Council had gathered, this time with Tywin Lannister at the head of the table, fulfilling his role as Hand of the King. Everyone, as expected, competed to see who had the most useful information for the Lord, simply to please him.
It was foolish to believe that King Joffrey had more power than his grandfather.
"What about the Targaryen girl?" asked the Old Lion, keeping his stern gaze on the council.
"The little birds say she's still lurking in the hot Summer Sea," Varys replied cautiously, clasping his hands beneath his robe. "However, she is not who concerns me, milord," Lord Tywin raised his eyebrows for him to continue. "Aemond Blackfyre, the Fourth, grandson of the late Maelys the Monstrous and now self-proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"And why is he not dead?" asked the Queen Regent, the beautiful daughter of the Hand, Cersei. "So many false kings give me a headache."
"Ten thousand mercenaries of the Golden Company follow him, my queen," the eunuch backed up. "It would not be easy to send an assassin among so many warriors."
"What else do we know about this... Blackfyre?" Tywin inquired, showing a stoic but interested demeanor.
"They call him 'The Black Dragon,' in honor of his ancestor, milord," Littlefinger interjected before Varys could even begin to speak. "According to foreign tongues, he is a formidable warrior, fierce and cunning. In recent years, the Golden Company has not lost a single battle thanks to him."
"How is it possible that I have never heard of the Blackfyres since Maelys's death?"
"I am sure, milord, that after the last rebellion, the Blackfyres had no choice but to disappear into obscurity," Varys speculated. "However, it is unsettling to imagine what a 'formidable' warrior could do with ten thousand arbitrary warriors at his back."
"Where is this 'Black Dragon'?" asked Tyrion Lannister for the first time during the meeting, with a hesitant tone in his voice.
"He was last seen in Qohor, where he led his forces in the so-called 'Gray Battle,'" the spider quickly replied. He would not allow Baelish to steal his chance to speak again. "It was between him and a deserter from the company. They battled for hours, but obviously, Aemond Blackfyre emerged victorious."
"I want you to keep a close watch on every movement of this bastard," ordered the elder Lannister, standing up at the table, followed by the other counselors who bowed their heads in respect.
Each one went their separate ways, though, as curious as ever, Tyrion quickly sought out Varys, finding him in one of the many gardens of the fortress.
"Varys, my friend," the dwarf exclaimed, breathing heavily from the effort it took to catch up with him.
"Lord Tyrion."
"From a distance, he moves unsettlingly slowly, but when it comes to catching up, well, I can't say the same," he said aimlessly.
"How can I assist you, milord?" the eunuch asked with feigned surprise at being interrupted in his walk, when in reality, he was waiting to see which council member would approach him first.
"Am I correct in assuming this is about the so-called Black Dragon?"
"Never more so," they both began to walk, following the path Varys had taken earlier. "What exactly have you heard about him?"
"In war? A cruel, savage, and unbeatable warrior, whose silver hair is dyed red by the blood of his enemies. His sword has taken more lives than our king could even count. Swift as a Braavosi dancer, strong as a Dothraki, and agile as a Dornish soldier," Varys said, expressing the words that his little birds had whispered to him. "Politically? A good king who has not benefited from the legacy his family left him. Just, but with a firm hand."
"It sounds like you have a certain fanaticism for him," Tyrion mocked.
"It is simply curious to see how surprise pieces are added to the board."
"I don't think my father or my nephew would think the same, Lord Varys."
"Nor do I believe you think like them, milord," the counselor stopped and looked at his companion with a calm expression. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go obey your father's orders."
Astapor, The Bay of Slaves
The immense red brick walls rose before the white-haired man, who, solemnly, appreciated every detail of the city in front of him, focusing on the blood-red cobblestones that his horse began to tread, echoing with every step they took.
The army was stationed outside the city, now satisfied to know they had reached their destination and wouldn't have to leave in a few days. After setting up all the tents, tying up the horses, penning the elephants, and settling in, several mercenaries began to head to any brothel and tavern they could find in the city.
Aemond, suffering desperately from the heat, wore his lightest red doublet, with a three-headed dragon embroidered in black. He was prepared to speak with whatever Benevolent Master was interested in the Unsullied he would offer.
During the journey, he had decided that since he spent more time in the command tent than his own, he would make it his sleeping quarters as well. He had only what was necessary: a bed, a table with maps, and a few chests. He was content, especially since he had begun to notice the way his army viewed him as he passed by. It was no longer with appreciation and admiration. "They envy you," Herrath would repeat. "That's all." But it wasn't envy that he saw in those gazes, but disappointment. That was how they looked at his father. Aemond did not want to become his father.
Just the thought of being like his father drove him mad. He had always heard the conversations other commanders had about him; "There is no man more useless and weak than Aemon Blackfyre," Royland had once said. Aemond did not want to be useless or weak, but the possibility of being so, as previously mentioned, drove him mad, making him irritable to the point of not wanting to be around anyone. What a mistake to let a dragon be alone.
"All set, your majesty."
Then, along with his two best friends and his hand, the young king remounted his horse, this time to venture into the red city in search of the Benevolent Masters. His inner thighs ached, as did his groin, but he couldn't allow exhaustion to stop him once he had arrived.
The rays of the sun struck the red stones of the city violently, making it resemble the very hell that the four warriors rode through.
Slaves, their masters, and the citizens turned to look at them, intrigued by the presence of a king, two mercenaries, and a knight in their city. One platinum-haired person was already too much. Two did not bode well.
They passed through various streets until they reached the Plaza of Pride, where there was a red brick fountain with water smelling of sulfur, and in the center of the fountain stood a monstrous bronze harpy. It stood four feet high. It had a woman's face, golden hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory fangs. The yellowish water flowed from its large breasts. But instead of arms, it had bat or dragon wings; its legs were eagle talons, and its back sprouted the curved, venomous tail of a scorpion.
There, a group of Unsullied approached them and offered to guide them to the presence of the Benevolent Master Kraznys mo Nakloz, something Aemond instantly agreed to, speaking High Valyrian as if he were a native.
They were led to a sort of plaza where three Masters sat on their respective "thrones," with a dozen slaves watching them from atop the walls.
"Welcome, Black Dragon, to the presence of the Benevolent Master Kraznys mo Nakloz," said a young slave, standing to the right of the man. "The Benevolent Masters welcome you to Astapor and hope you find what you seek here."
"How many more platinum asses will I have to endure today?" asked Master Kraznys of his seven companions in High Valyrian, completely sure that, like the Targaryen, Aemond would not understand him, which led him to laugh. "Those who come for the Unsullied always suffer the same fate."
The king watched them closely, evaluating his options. His gaze fell upon the Unsullied nearby. They were sturdy, strong, and disciplined, trained from childhood to become the perfect soldiers. They did not show any emotion as their masters argued. Their eyes remained alert, their postures erect, and their movements precise.
He had seen their kind before, in his earlier campaigns. This was the final piece he needed for the massive army he had been assembling. He would not lose this opportunity.
