A full day had passed since the ten thousand Unsullied appeared upon the plain.
The camp no longer looked temporary.
Rows of dark tents stretched between the river and the western ditch, arranged with enough precision that the entire settlement resembled a military formation laid flat across the land.
Broad paths divided each section, allowing soldiers, wagons and animals to move without obstruction.
Supply carts formed a protected inner ring around the centre, while sentries watched from the surrounding hills.
The river provided clean water in quantities large enough to sustain the army.
Drinking stations had been established upstream, kitchens farther south and latrines well away from the banks.
Blue Bat had carried out every order without delay.
Mortarion stood upon the central rise as the morning sun spread across the camp.
Below him, the Unsullied trained.
A thousand soldiers advanced across the eastern field with shields locked and spears angled over one another’s shoulders.
Their steps landed in perfect rhythm, carrying the formation forward without gaps or confusion.
Another thousand waited opposite them, holding a defensive line behind a low wall of round shields.
A command sounded.
The advancing unit stopped.
Every spear lowered at once.
The formation became a forest of sharpened points.
Mortarion watched from behind the narrow opening of his helmet.
The black Valyrian steel had been cleaned during the night, removing much of the ash that had followed him from Old Valyria.
Under the sunlight, the crimson lines across the cuirass appeared more clearly, though they had not glowed again.
Dreaded Deliverance rested across his back.
Blue Bat stood beside him.
Like the other Unsullied, the commander wore a dark helmet, plain leather armour and a circular shield.
Nothing distinguished him except his position and the willingness of the surrounding officers to await his orders.
Mortarion had spent much of the previous evening learning the structure beneath him.
It was easy to understand.
Ten senior officers each commanded a thousand soldiers.
Beneath them, one hundred officers controlled formations of one hundred.
Each hundred was divided again into smaller files under experienced leaders responsible for maintaining spacing, discipline and communication.
Orders moved downward through the structure quickly.
Reports travelled upward in the same manner.
Mortarion did not need to shout across an entire battlefield or rely upon messengers who might misunderstand what they carried.
A single instruction given to Blue Bat could reach every senior officer within moments, then spread through the army in controlled stages.
The simplicity appealed to him.
Complicated command systems often existed to protect noble pride.
Lords demanded separate authority because of birth, wealth or political influence, even when they possessed little military ability.
Rival officers withheld information from one another, fearing that another man’s success would weaken their own position.
The Unsullied had none of those problems.
Their commanders had been selected through competence.
No officer claimed his position because his father had held it first.
Blue Bat had explained that the senior officers chose him because he understood the movement and supply of the entire army better than any other candidate.
Mortarion had already tested that judgement several times.
The commander answered questions without hesitation but did not pretend to know things beyond his experience.
When asked to assess the camp, he had identified its strengths and weaknesses accurately.
When ordered to organise sentries and scouts, he adjusted the numbers according to terrain without exceeding Mortarion’s instructions.
Blue Bat could think.
That mattered more than decoration or personal ambition.
“How quickly can the army form for battle?” Mortarion asked.
Blue Bat observed the training field.
“From a resting camp, the first thousand can be ready within fifteen minutes.
The entire army can form within forty if the paths remain clear.”
“Too slow.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
Blue Bat did not defend the number.
Mortarion looked down at the rows of tents.
“The wagons are too close to the southern formation.
If Anaxion moves through the camp, half the route will become unusable.”
“The wagons can be shifted east.”
“Do so.
Create three separate assembly routes.
If one is blocked, the others remain.”
“It will be done.”
Mortarion continued watching the exercise.
The two formations met.
Shields struck with a dull, unified sound.
Spears moved above them in controlled thrusts, stopping before their blunted tips could injure the opposing soldiers.
The front ranks absorbed the pressure while those behind supported them.
No man broke position.
Mortarion understood immediately why the Unsullied were valued so highly throughout Essos.
Ordinary infantry often became unreliable once formations collided.
Men stepped backwards to avoid blades, surged forward seeking personal glory or abandoned their place when fear overwhelmed discipline.
The Unsullied did none of those things.
They moved as parts of a single body.
That body was formidable.
It was also incomplete.
Mortarion shifted his attention towards the northern section of the camp.
One thousand men trained with short bows.
Their movements were controlled, and their arrows struck the practice targets with acceptable accuracy.
They were not true archers.
The bows lacked the range required to dominate an open battlefield.
The soldiers could provide support against lightly protected enemies, but they would struggle against dedicated bowmen firing from behind fortifications or across greater distances.
The Unsullied archers also retained spear and shield as their primary weapons.
Their training divided attention between two roles rather than mastering one.
Mortarion had commanded specialists in his former life.
Archers trained from childhood could place arrows through narrow gaps in armour.
Crossbowmen could threaten knights, while siege crews understood distance, tension and the movement of heavy engines.
Horse archers could exhaust an infantry formation without ever allowing it to retaliate.
His current army possessed none of those advantages.
There was no true cavalry.
Not a single mounted scout, lancer or heavy horseman served among the ten thousand.
The horses that accompanied the army existed only to pull wagons and carry supplies.
Some might be trained for riding, but there were not enough to form a meaningful unit.
The absence made the army one-dimensional.
The Unsullied could hold ground, advance in formation and resist charges.
They could storm walls if given ladders and sufficient numbers.
Against most forces in Slaver’s Bay, that might be enough.
Against a more complete army, it would become a weakness.
Cavalry could circle their formations, threaten the supply train and force exhausting marches.
Archers could harass them from beyond spear range.
A disciplined enemy might refuse direct battle entirely, wearing the Unsullied down through movement and hunger.
Mortarion did not find the problem alarming.
It was merely unfinished work.
No army began perfect.
The ten thousand provided a foundation stronger than most rulers possessed after decades of preparation.
Additional forces could be hired, trained or absorbed later.
Slaver’s Bay contained mercenaries, mounted warriors and sailors from across Essos.
The Free Cities employed specialists willing to fight for coin.
Mortarion had plenty of coin.
He had not yet understood exactly how much until that morning.
Blue Bat followed Mortarion’s gaze towards the archers.
“Their accuracy is improving,” he said.
“They are infantry carrying bows.”
“Yes, master.”
“That is not the same as being archers.
We will need men who do nothing else,” Mortarion continued.
“Longer bows, stronger draw weight and officers who understand range.
We also require cavalry.”
“The Unsullied can learn.”
“Some can.
I will not weaken excellent infantry by turning half of them into poor horsemen.”
Blue Bat inclined his head.
“Recruitment will be necessary,” Mortarion said.
“Or conquest.”
Neither possibility appeared to trouble the commander.
A shadow crossed the training field.
The Unsullied did not look upwards, though the horses pulling several supply wagons shifted nervously.
Anaxion passed overhead.
The dragon had taken flight shortly after dawn, circling the hills before travelling east.
Mortarion had allowed it to hunt, though he maintained a faint awareness of the beast through their bond.
Anaxion remained difficult to direct at a distance.
Mortarion could sense hunger, curiosity and broad impressions of the land beneath the dragon.
Clear commands became less reliable once they were separated.
The bond allowed connection, but it did not turn Anaxion into an extension of Mortarion’s body.
That would require time.
Anaxion banked above the river before descending beyond the southern edge of the camp.
The ground trembled when the dragon landed.
Several scouts had returned during the night with reports of wild herds farther west.
Mortarion had directed Anaxion towards them, hoping to keep the dragon away from farms and settlements.
A dragon capable of feeding itself reduced the burden upon the army.
A dragon that began taking livestock from Astapor’s territory would create unnecessary enemies.
Mortarion turned towards Blue Bat.
“Any word from the western scouts?”
“Two pairs sent ravens before dawn.”
“And?”
“Riders from Astapor have been observed along the main road.
Six men in the first group, eight in the second.”
“Were any of them soldiers?”
“Possibly.
Their clothing was too distant to identify clearly.
Two remained upon a ridge for several hours before returning east.”
Astapor was watching.
That was expected.
An enormous dragon had circled the city, followed one day later by reports of a large military camp appearing two days west.
Shepherds, traders and farmers would already be carrying rumours towards the gates.
They would also fear the answers.
Astapor possessed thousands of Unsullied at different stages of training, but many were merchandise awaiting buyers.
The ruling masters relied upon the obedience of those soldiers rather than personal military strength.
The sudden appearance of ten thousand fully trained Unsullied outside their territory threatened the foundation of their power.
They would wonder where the army came from.
They would suspect theft, rebellion or the intervention of another city.
Yunkai and Meereen would be blamed.
Volantis might also attract suspicion, particularly if Astapor believed a foreign power intended to control the slave trade.
The dragon made every explanation worse.
Mortarion felt no need to chase the scouts away.
Let them watch.
They would see tents, patrols and the outer edges of the camp.
The surrounding hills prevented a clear view of the entire army, especially from the eastern road.
Astapor might estimate several thousand soldiers without knowing the true number.
Uncertainty was useful.
“Do not interfere with them,” Mortarion said.
Blue Bat looked towards him.
“Even if they approach closer?”
“Observe them.
If they cross closer to our camp, near the outer sentry line, surround them and bring them to me alive.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
“No arrows unless they attempt to flee after being challenged.”
“It will be done.”
Mortarion looked east.
The Good Masters might send an envoy soon.
Curiosity would eventually overcome caution, particularly once merchants began complaining that the roads felt unsafe.
Mortarion was not yet ready to receive them.
He needed a name, a history and a clear objective.
Appearing before Astapor as Mortarion Krieg would be foolish.
The surname belonged to another world and carried no meaning in this one.
Its harsh sound did not resemble High Valyrian, Ghiscari or any common naming tradition in Essos.
He required a new house.
Aurion Belaerys’s armour, seal and crown provided the beginnings of one.
Mortarion could claim descent from a forgotten branch of House Belaerys, hidden beyond the known world after the Doom.
Such a story would be difficult to prove.
It would also be difficult to disprove.
A dragon, Valyrian features and a full suit of Valyrian steel offered more evidence than most noble claims possessed.
The Good Masters were merchants before they were historians.
They would believe whatever explanation allowed them to survive and profit.
Mortarion did not need to decide immediately.
He could remain simply Mortarion for a little longer.
Blue Bat received a signal from one of the nearby officers.
The commander listened briefly, then returned to Mortarion.
“The inventory of coin is complete.”
Mortarion turned away from the training field.
“Show me.”
They descended the rise and moved towards the centre of camp.
Unsullied stepped aside as Mortarion passed, lowering their heads without abandoning their tasks.
Some carried timber towards the western ditch.
Others repaired shields, sharpened spearheads or moved sacks from the supply wagons into covered storage.
The camp functioned without unnecessary noise.
Mortarion found the absence of drunkenness particularly pleasing.
Armies often became dangerous to themselves during periods of rest.
Soldiers gambled, fought and drank until discipline collapsed.
Officers ignored misconduct if the offenders belonged to influential families or had performed well in battle.
The Unsullied possessed no personal wealth beyond the wages assigned to them.
They did not quarrel over status or seek entertainment through violence.
Mortarion expected that to change gradually once they understood freedom and ownership.
Men without desire were easy to command.
Men with no ability to think beyond obedience were limited.
He wanted soldiers capable of judgement, which meant accepting that individuality would eventually create problems.
The coin wagons stood within the inner camp under constant guard.
Ten Unsullied surrounded each wagon, while an officer recorded every chest opened.
Heavy canvas had been stretched overhead to protect the contents from weather and conceal them from distant observers.
Blue Bat led Mortarion towards a long table.
Several coins had been arranged across its surface.
They were thick, bright and stamped with the image of a three-headed dragon upon one side.
The other displayed the face of a Targaryen king.
Mortarion recognised the currency immediately.
Gold dragons.
They were used throughout Westeros as the highest standard coin of the Seven Kingdoms.
One gold dragon could be divided into silver stags, while those silver coins were divided further into copper pieces.
The currency had value beyond the Narrow Sea, but it was not native to Slaver’s Bay.
Mortarion picked one up.
The coin carried the face of King Viserys Targaryen, though the likeness appeared younger than the ruler Mortarion remembered from the histories placed within his mind.
The detail created another problem.
A massive quantity of newly struck Westerosi currency appearing in Astapor would attract attention.
Merchants would ask how it had crossed the sea and why no trading fleet had carried it.
The Good Masters might suspect theft from the Iron Throne.
The Iron Bank or wealthy merchants could become interested if enough coins entered circulation at once.
Mortarion placed the dragon back upon the table.
“How much?”
Blue Bat handed him a thin wooden tablet covered in carefully marked numbers.
“Three hundred and fifty-two thousand, eight hundred and forty-one gold coins.”
Mortarion read the total again.
Slightly more than three hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons.
It was an extraordinary sum.
The wages of ten thousand Unsullied for a year consumed most of it.
Death had evidently calculated not only their payment but also the cost of replacement supplies, animals and military expansion.
Mortarion wondered whether the exact amount possessed meaning or whether the division of chests had produced the uneven total.
Either way, the wealth gave him options.
He could purchase ships.
He could hire mercenaries, craftsmen and experienced sailors.
He could acquire horses for cavalry, grain for future campaigns and tools for constructing a permanent base.
He might even buy land from a desperate ruler, though Mortarion preferred taking territory through strength rather than accepting ownership dependent upon another man’s recognition.
Astapor would gladly accept gold.
Its masters understood profit better than loyalty.
They sold the Unsullied to anyone capable of meeting the price, regardless of how those soldiers would be used.
Mortarion could enter the city as a buyer.
That would provide access to its markets, harbours and ruling class without immediate conflict.
It would also allow him to observe how Astapor’s Unsullied were trained and controlled.
However, spending Westerosi coins openly might reveal too much.
“How many chests?” Mortarion asked.
“One hundred and forty.”
“Separate ten thousand dragons from the rest.”
Blue Bat looked towards the officer recording the inventory.
“Place them into smaller boxes,” Mortarion continued.
“The main reserve remains sealed.
Only you and the officers assigned to the treasury may authorise access.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
“Record every coin removed.”
“It is already being done.”
Mortarion approved.
He turned one of the dragons between his fingers.
Gold itself retained value regardless of the image stamped upon it.
The coins could be melted and recast into local currency, though doing so required trustworthy metalworkers and time.
They could also be traded by weight.
A merchant cared about purity more than kings.
Mortarion could use a small number of dragons in Astapor without causing immediate alarm.
Westerosi traders visited ports throughout Essos, and gold dragons occasionally travelled with them.
Hundreds would be believable.
Thousands would not.
The majority had to remain hidden until Mortarion established a more secure base and developed a method of converting the wealth gradually.
He returned the coin to the table.
“Have any soldiers been paid yet?”
“No master.”
“Begin with one month’s wages.
Record each payment by unit.”
Blue Bat hesitated.
Mortarion noticed.
“What is it?”
“The soldiers have no use for coin while remaining in camp.”
“They will.”
Mortarion looked towards the rows of tents.
“Paying them establishes that their service has value.
They may choose to keep the coin, spend it later or return it to the treasury for safekeeping.”
Blue Bat considered the answer.
“They may choose?”
“Yes.”
The commander lowered his head.
“It will be done.”
Mortarion walked towards one of the open chests.
Gold filled it almost to the top.
The combined wealth of conquered kingdoms had once passed through his hands without belonging to him.
Emperor Aurellian controlled the treasuries, while Mortarion received estates and decorations he rarely used.
This gold belonged to Mortarion’s purpose.
He closed the lid.
“Strengthen the guard.”
“Twenty men per wagon?”
“Twenty by day.
Forty after dark.”
“Rotate them frequently,” Mortarion added.
“No guard remains beside the same wagon for more than four hours.”
“You expect theft?”
“Not from the Unsullied.”
“Then from whom?”
“Everyone else.”
The first strangers to enter the camp would notice the supply train.
Merchants, envoys and spies understood that armies required money.
If Astapor discovered the quantity of gold Mortarion possessed, diplomacy might quickly become an attempt at robbery.
Blue Bat issued the new instructions.
Mortarion remained near the treasury for several moments, thinking through the implications.
Three hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons could support an army.
It could also destroy one.
Wealth attracted allies who disappeared once payment ended.
It encouraged officers to become corrupt and rulers to believe every problem could be purchased away.
Mortarion would use the gold as a tool.
Nothing more.
The afternoon brought the return of some scouts.
Mortarion received them near the central command tent.
Two Unsullied knelt before him, their dark armour covered in dust from the eastern road.
Blue Bat stood nearby.
“Report,” Mortarion said.
The first scout lifted his head.
“Four riders observed upon the northern ridge three hours after sunrise.
They watched the camp and withdrew when one of our patrols moved closer.”
“Did they see you?”
“No.”
“Their appearance?”
“Red-brown cloaks.
Short spears.
Curved swords.
Their horses carried the mark of Astapor.”
The second scout continued.
“Another group travelled up along the river.
Three riders and one man on foot.
They examined the tracks left by the supply wagons before turning west.”
“They are attempting to estimate our numbers,” Mortarion said.
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
“Any merchants or civilians?”
“Two wagons stopped five miles east.
They turned back after speaking with the riders.”
Astapor was already controlling traffic.
That could become inconvenient.
If the Good Masters closed the road east of the city, nearby villages would lose access to the city’s markets.
The local population might blame Mortarion’s army, while supplies from independent traders would become harder to acquire.
It was another reason not to remain in the camp too long.
“How close are the nearest villages?” Mortarion asked.
“One lies half a day southeast.
Another lies north beside a smaller river.”
“Population?”
“Fewer than three hundred in each.”
“Soldiers?”
“Only local guards.”
Mortarion nodded.
“Do not enter either settlement.
Continue observing the roads.
If civilians approach, allow them through the outer patrol line but bring them to the camp under escort.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
The scouts withdrew.
Blue Bat remained.
“How long do you intend to stay?” the commander asked.
“Several days.”
“The camp can support us longer.”
“It can; however, it will not be necessary.” Mortarion looked towards the west.
“But the longer we remain, the more time Astapor has to understand us.”
“You prefer they remain uncertain.”
“I prefer to choose when they learn the truth.”
Blue Bat accepted the answer.
Mortarion spent the remainder of the day inspecting the army.
He watched units change formation beneath shouted commands.
He examined the shields, spearheads and armour issued to the soldiers.
The equipment was durable but plain, matching the appearance of Unsullied trained in Astapor closely enough to create confusion.
Some shields carried small scratches despite being newly summoned.
Several helmets bore dents suggesting previous use, as though Death had created the force with the signs of an existing army rather than an untouched collection of equipment.
Mortarion found the detail useful.
Perfect weapons and armour might have appeared unnatural.
He visited the healers next.
Their medical supplies were organised into sealed chests containing cloth, needles, knives, alcohol and basic medicines.
The healers understood battlefield injuries but possessed limited knowledge of disease beyond what was common in Slaver’s Bay.
That weakness concerned Mortarion.
Armies died more often from sickness than battle.
Clean water and organised waste disposal reduced risk, but epidemics ignored discipline once they entered a camp.
He would need trained physicians.
Astapor might possess some, though the best were likely owned by the Good Masters or purchased from other cities.
Mortarion also examined the animals.
The horses were strong enough to pull wagons but not bred for war.
Most lacked the speed and temperament required for cavalry.
The cattle, goats and sheep could provide meat, milk and trade, but their numbers would decline quickly if used to feed ten thousand men.
The army’s preserved food would last a year only under careful rationing and normal conditions.
Campaigning would increase consumption.
New supplies had to be secured long before the stores became low.
Every inspection confirmed the same conclusion.
The army was powerful but incomplete.
It required a base, trade and specialised recruits.
Mortarion returned to the central rise near sunset.
The sky had turned orange above the western hills.
Anaxion rested beyond the river, one wing spread across the grass while the remains of a large animal lay near its jaws.
The dragon had returned from hunting without approaching the camp’s livestock.
Mortarion felt drowsy satisfaction through their bond.
He sent approval in return; not feasting on the army’s livestock was a feat for the dragon.
Below him, the Unsullied prepared the evening meal.
Smoke rose from shallow cooking pits while officers inspected the night sentries.
The camp appeared calm.
Beyond the eastern hills, Astapor’s scouts continued watching.
Mortarion imagined the reports travelling towards the city.
A dragon larger than any living beast known to the Good Masters.
Thousands of Unsullied wearing dark armour.
A pale rider in black steel.
No banners.
No declared allegiance.
Curiosity would soon become action.
Mortarion entered the command tent.
It was larger than the ordinary soldier tents but remained practical.
A wooden table occupied the centre, surrounded by stools and several locked chests.
Dreaded Deliverance rested within reach, while Aurion’s bent crown, rings and seal remained hidden beneath the floorboards.
Oil lamps illuminated the canvas walls.
Mortarion removed his helmet and gauntlets before sitting.
His silver hair fell around his face.
The youthful features reflected in a polished metal plate still looked unfamiliar, though exhaustion had begun to harden them.
He opened one of the chests.
Inside rested the damaged Valyrian texts, several gemstones and the copied notes concerning dragon saddles.
Mortarion moved them aside and withdrew a rolled sheet of parchment.
Blue Bat had provided it earlier.
The map was broad enough to cover most of the table when opened.
It displayed the known world.
Westeros occupied the western edge, divided into kingdoms beneath the Iron Throne.
Essos stretched far beyond it, filled with Free Cities, ancient ruins, plains, deserts and empires that knew little of one another.
Mortarion placed small stones along the corners to keep the parchment flat.
Astapor lay near the entrance of Slaver’s Bay.
Yunkai stood north.
Meereen farther beyond.
To the west were the Free Cities, such as Volantis, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh.
The Stepstones rested between Essos and Westeros, scattered across the Narrow Sea like broken teeth.
Mortarion studied each possibility.
Astapor offered Unsullied, markets and a harbour, but little fertile land beyond what slaves cultivated.
Yunkai possessed wealth and food, though its armies were less impressive.
Meereen was the strongest of the three cities, with greater walls and population.
Volantis offered ships, trade and old Valyrian blood.
It would also resist any foreign power threatening its influence.
The Stepstones could control shipping but lacked the land required to support a large army.
Farther east, abandoned cities and weakened territories might be taken more easily, but distance would separate Mortarion from the wars he had been sent to influence.
He moved a finger across the map.
The coming Dance of the Dragons remained years away.
That gave him time.
Not enough to waste.
Mortarion placed a gold dragon upon Astapor.
A black stone marked his current camp.
Another coin rested upon Yunkai.
He considered routes, resources and enemies.
The tent remained silent except for the faint movement of the lamps.
Outside, ten thousand Unsullied waited for orders.
Anaxion slept beside the river.
Astapor watched from the west.
Mortarion leaned over the map and began plotting his future.