Astapor appeared beneath the morning haze like a city built from dried blood.
The city had already seen them coming.
Bells rang from the southern wall before Anaxion crossed the final ridge.
Soldiers gathered along the battlements, while crews dragged scorpions and heavy ballistae towards positions facing the sky.
The weapons were too small to kill Anaxion easily, but enough bolts striking the softer parts of his wings could cause serious injury.
Mortarion felt the dragon’s anger through their bond.
Anaxion saw the movement upon the walls and understood it as preparation for an attack.
Heat gathered within his chest while smoke escaped between his teeth.
Mortarion pressed one gauntleted hand against the dragon’s neck.
“They are frightened because they do not understand you.
We will land before that fear convinces one of them to make a mistake.”
Anaxion answered with a resentful rumble.
The dragon disliked turning away from a city that displayed weapons against him, though he followed Mortarion’s direction after only a brief struggle.
They descended towards a flat stretch of land several miles from the walls, close enough for Astapor to see the dragon but beyond the reliable range of its siege engines.
The fifty Unsullied chosen for the escort were already waiting below.
They had left camp the previous dawn and marched through the night, carrying only their shields, spears and enough provisions for the journey.
Two officers stood among them, identical in appearance to the soldiers they commanded.
Their authority could be recognised only by the way orders moved through the formation.
Anaxion landed hard enough to shake the ground.
The Unsullied remained in position as the dragon folded his wings.
Dust rolled across their ranks, but not one man turned away.
Mortarion unfastened the strap around his waist and descended along Anaxion’s foreleg.
The black Valyrian steel armour had been cleaned until its rippling patterns were visible beneath the morning light.
The dark crimson lines across the cuirass remained faint, though they gave the armour the appearance of containing embers beneath its surface.
Dreaded Deliverance rested across his back.
Malko mo Zheran waited with the Unsullied escort.
The Astapori representative wore a pale red robe bordered with gold.
A wrapped cloth protected his head from the sun, while several additional rings decorated his fingers.
Four mounted guards had accompanied him, though they remained well away from Anaxion.
Malko bowed as Mortarion approached.
“The Good Masters are grateful that you honoured your promise to remain outside the city with your dragon.
Many people have not slept since Anaxion first passed over the walls.”
“They would sleep more easily if their soldiers stopped pointing weapons at him.”
Malko glanced towards Astapor.
“The men upon the walls have been ordered not to loose unless the dragon attacks.
The Good Masters believed it would be unwise to leave the city entirely undefended.”
Mortarion understood the reasoning, even if Anaxion did not.
“Their caution is acceptable as long as their discipline holds.
If a frightened archer releases an arrow, Anaxion will not wait for the Good Masters to explain that it was an accident.”
“I will send another rider ahead to repeat your warning.”
Malko signalled to one of his guards.
The man turned his horse towards the city and departed at speed.
Mortarion returned his attention to Anaxion.
He pressed calm and the image of waiting into their bond, then directed the dragon towards a nearby hill.
Anaxion resisted.
The beast wanted to remain close.
Its distrust of the city combined with the growing possessiveness within their bond, producing a desire to follow Mortarion towards the walls.
“You cannot enter with me.
There is not enough space inside those streets, and your presence would turn negotiation into panic.”
Anaxion lowered his head until one molten-green eye stared directly at him.
Mortarion felt irritation, suspicion and hunger.
He placed one hand against the scales beside the dragon’s jaw.
“I will return before sunset.
You may hunt north of the city, but you will not take livestock from farms or approach the walls.”
Anaxion exhaled smoke across his armour.
The dragon finally turned away, climbing towards the low hill.
Once settled, he remained visible above the plain like a dark green fortress.
Mortarion faced Malko.
“We may proceed.”
The journey towards Astapor took less than an hour.
Mortarion walked at the head of the Unsullied rather than accepting the horse offered by Malko.
The black armour carried less weight than ordinary plate, though the heat beneath the sun remained unpleasant.
He ignored the discomfort.
Malko rode beside him.
“You could have brought a larger escort,” the Astapori said.
“The Good Masters expected several hundred men after seeing the size of your camp.”
“Fifty soldiers are sufficient for a peaceful visit.
If Astapor intended to murder me, five hundred would only provide more bodies inside the gates.”
Malko looked towards the distant hill where Anaxion rested.
“You believe the dragon provides greater protection.”
“I know that he does.”
The walls grew larger as they approached.
Red bricks formed several layers of fortification, with towers positioned around the main gate.
Harpy statues stood above the entrance, their wings spread, and their claws extended towards anyone arriving from the west.
The gate remained open.
Several hundred Astapori soldiers waited inside, armed with spears and oval shields.
Their equipment was polished, but their formation lacked the precision of Mortarion’s Unsullied.
The guards watched the dark-armoured infantry with undisguised suspicion.
Whispers spread among them.
The people crowding the nearby streets reacted more openly.
Merchants stopped beside their stalls, slaves turned from their labour, and children climbed walls to see the pale dragonrider in black steel.
Malko noticed the attention.
“Your soldiers have caused considerable interest.
The masters responsible for training Unsullied insist that no army of this size could exist without their knowledge.”
“They may insist upon whatever protects their pride.”
“They will ask where the men were trained.”
“They have already asked through you, and my answer has not changed.
They were not trained in Astapor.”
Malko studied the soldiers marching behind them.
“That answer will concern them more than silence.
The Unsullied are Astapor’s greatest creation and most valuable trade.
If another city has learned to produce them, the Good Masters will consider it a threat.”
“Then they should be relieved that I have not come to sell soldiers.”
“That may not be enough to relieve them.”
Mortarion looked towards the red pyramids.
“It will have to be.
I will not invent a more comforting answer simply because the truth damages their confidence.”
They passed through the gate without being searched.
No guard attempted to take Dreaded Deliverance or the Valyrian steel dagger.
The order had likely come from the Good Masters, who understood that demanding a dragonrider surrender his weapons would begin the meeting badly.
The streets beyond the walls were crowded and hot.
Buildings pressed close together, trapping the smell of sweat, animals, dust and human waste.
Slaves carried jars, baskets and bundles through the crowds while overseers cleared a path for Mortarion’s escort.
Astapor displayed its wealth without disguising the suffering that created it.
Open markets contained people rather than goods.
Men stood in lines beneath the sun while buyers examined their arms, teeth and backs.
Women and children waited inside shaded pens, each marked with a small tablet describing skills, age and price.
Mortarion observed everything without slowing.
He did not feel pity strongly enough to interfere.
The city’s practices were not his concern unless they affected his purpose.
Still, he recognised inefficiency wherever it appeared.
Many slaves moved slowly because they were starved, injured or exhausted.
Overseers responded with whips, gaining a few moments of greater effort at the cost of weakening the labourer further.
Cruelty had become habit rather than calculation.
Mortarion despised waste more than brutality.
The harbour came into view when the road climbed towards the largest pyramid.
Dozens of vessels crowded the water.
Long galleys rested beside merchant ships with broad hulls and high sterns.
Smaller coastal craft moved between them, transporting cargo from anchored vessels unable to reach the shallower docks.
Mortarion slowed enough to study the ships.
Most were not warships.
They possessed no reinforced rams, armoured towers or elevated platforms for archers.
Their decks were crowded with cargo, rowing benches and temporary shelters for crews.
They were exactly what he required.
Sixty would be enough.
The Unsullied could be divided among the strongest hulls, while the supply wagons were dismantled and loaded into cargo holds.
Horses and livestock would require specially prepared vessels, but there were fewer animals than men.
Grain, preserved food, weapons and tools could be distributed throughout the fleet so the loss of one ship would not destroy a single essential supply.
The journey would be uncomfortable.
Comfort was irrelevant.
Mortarion needed movement, not luxury.
The Good Masters received him within the upper levels of a stepped pyramid overlooking the harbour.
The fifty Unsullied remained in a shaded courtyard below, watched by twice as many Astapori guards.
Malko guided Mortarion through a wide hall lined with polished red columns.
Servants carried trays of fruit, wine and chilled water, while musicians played quietly behind a carved screen.
At the far end of the chamber waited nine Good Masters.
They reclined upon cushioned seats arranged in a half-circle.
Their robes were brightly coloured and heavily decorated with gold.
Several were enormously fat, their bodies supported by slaves kneeling behind them.
Others were thin and elderly, with curled beards or elaborate hairstyles arranged according to Astapori fashion.
Mortarion stopped before them.
He did not bow.
The Good Masters studied him in silence.
Their attention moved across his silver hair, violet eyes, black armour and the hilt of Dreaded Deliverance.
“Valyrian steel,” the man said.
His name, according to Malko’s earlier explanation, was Grazdan mo Ullhor.
He controlled several shipyards and owned portions of the western docks.
Mortarion answered him in High Valyrian rather than the local bastard tongue.
“A complete suit, as you can see.”
The use of the ancient language changed the atmosphere.
Several masters understood him immediately.
The others relied upon quiet translations from attendants.
A broad man dressed in orange silk spoke next.
“I am Grazdan mo Nakloz, and I speak first among those gathered here.
You call yourself Mortarion, yet you provide no family name.
You claim Valyrian blood, arrive upon a dragon larger than any seen in generations and command ten thousand Unsullied who were not trained in Astapor.
You must understand why we find your appearance difficult to accept without explanation.”
“I understand why you are curious.
I do not accept that curiosity entitles you to every answer.”
Grazdan mo Nakloz frowned.
Another master lifted one hand before the exchange could sharpen.
“You come seeking friendship, and so do we.
Perhaps the questions can be approached differently.
Are you an enemy of House Targaryen?”
Mortarion considered the question.
“I have never met a member of House Targaryen.
I possess no quarrel with them and no allegiance to them.”
“Does your dragon come from their stock?”
“Anaxion is a wild dragon born in Valyria.
He has never belonged to House Targaryen.”
The masters exchanged glances.
One whispered to another.
Grazdan mo Ullhor leaned forward again.
“You entered Valyria and returned alive?”
“I did.”
“With ten thousand Unsullied?”
“I entered alone.”
The shipmaster’s eyes narrowed.
“Then where did your army come from?”
Mortarion had expected the question to dominate the meeting.
“The soldiers are mine.
They were not stolen from Astapor, purchased from one of your rivals or trained by men attempting to imitate your methods.
They have no claim upon your city, and your city has no claim upon them.”
A thin master wearing green rings spoke from the left.
“You say they are not for sale, yet they are clearly Unsullied.
The training required to create such soldiers belongs to Astapor.”
“Discipline is not property.”
“The methods are.”
“Then you should guard your methods more carefully.”
A murmur moved through the chamber.
Malko lowered his gaze, perhaps hiding concern.
Mortarion remained still.
He had not come to flatter men who believed their knowledge made them untouchable.
At the same time, he needed their cooperation.
He allowed the silence to settle before continuing.
“I did not come here to damage Astapor’s trade.
I will neither sell my soldiers nor teach others how they were trained.
Their existence does not reduce the value of those produced in your city unless you choose to make an enemy of me.”
Grazdan mo Nakloz studied him.
“You speak of friendship while reminding us of your dragon.”
“I speak of reality.
Friendship is useful because the alternatives are expensive.
I require ships, while Astapor desires gold.
There is no reason to complicate a profitable arrangement with questions neither side needs answered.”
That reasoning appealed to them more than assurances of goodwill.
Grazdan mo Ullhor glanced towards the harbour beyond the open arches.
“Malko said you require enough vessels to transport your entire army.”
“Sixty galleys capable of carrying ten thousand soldiers, their equipment, supplies and necessary animals.”
Several masters laughed quietly.
Grazdan mo Nakloz did not.
“Sixty is not a small purchase.
Astapor has many ships, but not sixty sitting empty while their owners wait for a foreign dragonrider to arrive.”
“I did not expect them to be empty.
Existing cargo can be unloaded or completed before delivery.
I am also willing to purchase ships from individual merchants rather than only those owned by the Good Masters.”
“You would remove a considerable portion of Astapor’s merchant fleet,” Grazdan mo Ullhor said.
“Trade would suffer.”
“Temporarily.
The gold earned from the sale could finance replacements, and Astapor’s shipyards would remain busy for years.”
The shipmaster’s expression showed that he had already reached the same conclusion.
Another master spoke through a translator.
“Why sixty?
A hundred would be more appropriate if you intend to carry so many men and provisions.”
“A hundred would provide comfort and unnecessary space.
Sixty broad-hulled galleys will be sufficient if loaded correctly.
The wagons can be dismantled, the livestock divided and the soldiers carried in organised groups.
I am purchasing transport, not floating palaces.”
“You accept the risk of overcrowding?”
“My soldiers accept discomfort more readily than most crews accept discipline.”
Grazdan mo Ullhor rubbed his beard.
“What type of ships do you expect?”
“Simple galleys.
They must be seaworthy, broad enough to carry men or cargo and capable of sailing west without extensive rebuilding.
I do not require rams, armoured decks or siege engines.”
The masters appeared surprised.
Grazdan mo Nakloz folded his hands over his stomach.
“You command a dragon and an army, yet you do not seek warships.”
“I already possess the strongest weapon that could fly above a fleet.
Warships would cost more, require larger crews and take longer to gather.
My urgency is movement.”
“And where do you intend to move?”
“West.”
“That answer covers half the known world.”
“It is still the only answer you require.”
The Good Master looked displeased, but the others were more interested in the size of the sale than Mortarion’s destination.
Grazdan mo Ullhor began discussing numbers with two attendants.
Wax tablets were brought forward, and a slave knelt beside him to record calculations.
Mortarion accepted a cup of water from a servant but ignored the wine.
The negotiation continued for the better part of an hour.
The Good Masters described vessels scattered between private docks, merchant houses and shipyards.
Some could be purchased immediately.
Others were under contract carrying grain, slaves or construction materials to nearby cities.
Astapor could provide forty-two galleys from its own harbour within two weeks.
The remaining eighteen would have to be purchased from merchants expected to arrive or summoned from smaller ports along the coast.
Mortarion rejected the first delivery schedule.
“I will not pay for promises attached to ships that may never appear.
All sixty must be present and inspected before the final payment is released.”
Grazdan mo Ullhor spread his hands.
“You ask us to gather an entire fleet while refusing to reveal where it will sail.
The Good Masters assume risk by arranging this.”
“The risk ends once you receive payment.
My risk begins when I place ten thousand soldiers aboard ships chosen by men who may be tempted to sell rotten hulls at an inflated price.”
“We would never insult you with unsafe vessels.”
“You would if the profit outweighed your fear of being discovered.”
Several masters shifted in their seats.
Malko coughed softly into one hand.
Grazdan mo Nakloz answered with forced patience.
“Every ship will be inspected by our harbour officials.”
“They work for you.
I will bring my own inspectors once suitable shipwrights have been hired.”
“You do not possess shipwrights.”
“Not yet.”
The words carried enough certainty to end that line of resistance.
The first price offered was one hundred and sixty thousand gold dragons.
Mortarion refused without hesitation.
Grazdan mo Ullhor insisted the figure included sixty ships, replacement rigging, basic provisions for their crews and compensation to owners whose trade contracts would be broken.
Mortarion pointed out that many vessels were old, privately owned and unarmed.
Astapor was attempting to charge the value of warships for merchant galleys whose decks had carried livestock and slaves for decades.
The price fell to one hundred and forty thousand.
Mortarion offered one hundred thousand.
The masters reacted as though insulted.
Voices rose around the chamber as each attempted to justify additional costs.
Mortarion allowed them to speak without interruption until their arguments began repeating.
He then placed a single gold dragon upon the table between them.
“The gold I offer is purer than much of the currency passing through this city.
You will receive it in a form accepted from Braavos to Westeros.
I require ordinary ships, not masterpieces built for admirals.
Grazdan mo Nakloz’s expression hardened.
“Volantis will charge more.”
“Perhaps.
It will also gain the relationship Astapor refused.”
The Good Masters did not merely see the immediate gold.
They understood that Mortarion might become a powerful customer with access to Valyrian treasures, Westerosi currency and unknown trade routes.
Letting him leave for a rival city could cost more than the ships.
Grazdan mo Ullhor quietly conferred with Nakloz.
The price fell again.
One hundred and twenty-five thousand gold dragons.
Mortarion calculated the amount against his treasury.
It exceeded one third by several thousand and did not include crews, maps or harbour fees.
He remained silent.
The masters misinterpreted his stillness as uncertainty and began adding assurances.
The galleys would be supplied with replacement sails.
Water barrels would be inspected.
Hulls would be scraped and repaired before delivery.
Mortarion waited until they finished.
“One hundred and fifteen thousand gold dragons for the sixty vessels, with replacement rigging where necessary and enough barrels to carry water for the first stage of the journey.
I will pay crews separately after reviewing their experience.”
Grazdan mo Ullhor shook his head.
“We could not persuade the owners to sell at that price.”
“You are not persuading them for my benefit.
You will purchase their ships below the amount I pay and keep the difference.”
The shipmaster smiled slightly.
Mortarion had identified the arrangement they intended to hide.
Grazdan mo Nakloz leaned forward.
“One hundred and twenty thousand.
That is the lowest figure this gathering can approve.
A quarter will be paid immediately so contracts can be secured.
Another quarter will be paid when forty ships are gathered.
The final half will be released once all sixty are present.”
Mortarion considered it.
One hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons represented slightly more than a third of his treasury once the smaller costs of crews and inspections were included.
It was expensive for simple galleys.
It was also achievable.
The fleet would transform his position.
Without it, the ten thousand Unsullied remained bound to the land around Slaver’s Bay.
With it, Mortarion could move west, approach Westeros and choose where his strength would be used.
Gold existed to purchase power.
This purchase bought freedom.
“One hundred and eighteen thousand,” Mortarion said.
“Thirty thousand will be paid when the contracts are signed.
Thirty thousand more will be released after forty ships pass inspection.
The remaining fifty-eight thousand will be paid when all sixty vessels are assembled, repaired and ready to load.”
Grazdan mo Nakloz looked towards the others.
The masters whispered among themselves.
Several wanted the full one hundred and twenty thousand.
Grazdan mo Ullhor appeared more concerned with securing the transaction before Mortarion walked away.
At last, Nakloz nodded.
“One hundred and eighteen thousand gold dragons.
Astapor will provide sixty seaworthy merchant galleys within thirty days.”
“Forty days,” Grazdan mo Ullhor corrected.
“Thirty would force us to purchase ships before they return from existing voyages.”
Mortarion looked between them.
“Thirty-five days.
Every delay beyond that reduces the final payment by five hundred dragons per day.”
The shipmaster protested.
Mortarion did not change the condition.
Thirty-five days gave Astapor enough time to gather the fleet while preventing the Good Masters from delaying indefinitely in search of cheaper vessels.
Grazdan mo Nakloz eventually raised one hand.
“We accept thirty-five days, provided delays caused by storms or attacks at sea are judged fairly.”
“Evidence will be required.
The word of a merchant who wishes to avoid losing gold is not evidence.”
A thin smile appeared upon the Good Master’s face.
“You negotiate as though you have spent your life among merchants.”
“I have spent my life among men who wanted more than they deserved.
The language is similar.”
Even Grazdan mo Ullhor laughed at that.
The agreement was written upon parchment in High Valyrian and the local Ghiscari dialect.
The document listed the number of ships, the schedule of payment, minimum standards for the hulls and the requirement that Mortarion’s inspectors approve each vessel.
The Good Masters refused responsibility for hiring crews.
Mortarion accepted that condition.
Captains and sailors would be easier to judge separately, and men directly employed by him would be less likely to remain loyal to Astapor.
He added a clause allowing him first access to experienced navigators, shipwrights and sailors seeking contracts within the city during the next thirty-five days.
The masters demanded a commission for every person hired through their markets.
Mortarion agreed to a modest fee rather than waste time arguing over a small amount of gold.
When the final document was placed before him, he read every line twice.
Grazdan mo Nakloz watched with growing impatience.
“You distrust us greatly for a man seeking friendship.”
“I distrust everyone involved in a transaction worth one hundred and eighteen thousand gold dragons.”
Mortarion pressed Aurion Belaerys’s black stone seal into the warm wax.
The sphinx appeared beneath his hand.
The masters noticed the symbol.
Several exchanged confused looks, though none dared interrupt the signing to ask which ancient house it represented.
Grazdan mo Nakloz added his mark, followed by Grazdan mo Ullhor and the other masters responsible for the harbour.
The deal was complete.
Thirty thousand gold dragons would be delivered from Mortarion’s camp on the following day under guard.
Astapor would begin buying, recalling and preparing the ships immediately.
A formal meal followed.
Mortarion endured it because leaving too quickly would suggest contempt and weaken the appearance of amicable relations.
The Good Masters asked careful questions about Valyria, Anaxion and Mortarion’s future plans.
He answered only what served him.
He described the ruins as unstable and poisoned, discouraging them from sending expeditions in search of whatever he had left behind.
He confirmed that Anaxion was bonded to him but avoided explaining how recently that bond had formed.
When asked whether he intended to settle in Slaver’s Bay, Mortarion replied that his journey would eventually carry him west.
He did not mention the Dance of the Dragons.
He did not mention Death.
He did not mention marriage, Westerosi lands or the enemy gathering beyond the Wall.
Those plans belonged to him alone.
Before leaving the pyramid, Mortarion walked onto a high terrace overlooking the harbour.
Sixty ships were hidden among the vessels below.
Some already rested against the docks.
Others were days away, sailing between ports without knowing they had been purchased by a dragonrider.
Malko joined him at the railing.
“The Good Masters remain uneasy about you.”
“They accepted my gold.”
“That does not remove their fear.”
“It does not need to.
Fear may keep them honest where friendship fails.”
Malko looked towards the western horizon.
“Do you truly intend no harm against Astapor?”
“As long as Astapor honours the agreement, I have no reason to harm it.
Your city is more useful to me as a trading partner than a ruin.”
“That is not the most comforting assurance I have heard.”
“It is more valuable than a comforting lie.”
Malko could not argue with that.
Mortarion returned to the lower courtyard.
The fifty Unsullied formed around him immediately.
Astapori guards watched them depart with the same suspicion they had shown upon arrival, though none attempted to interfere.
Outside the walls, Anaxion waited upon the hill.
The dragon sensed Mortarion before seeing him and rose to his feet.
Relief moved through their bond, hidden beneath irritation at having been left for most of the day.
Mortarion approached and placed one hand against the dark green scales.
“The city has agreed to provide what we need.”
Anaxion answered with an image of open sky and distant prey.
Mortarion almost smiled.
“Yes.
We will leave this place soon.”
He climbed onto the dragon’s neck and secured himself between the raised scales.
The Unsullied escort would return to camp by road, while Mortarion carried the signed agreement ahead.
Anaxion spread his wings.
The guards upon Astapor’s walls watched nervously as the dragon launched from the hill, but no bolt followed them into the sky.
Mortarion looked down upon the harbour as Anaxion circled once.
The Good Masters believed they had sold him sixty ageing merchant galleys for an outrageous sum.
They believed fear and urgency had allowed them to take nearly a third of his treasury in exchange for ships without rams, armour or weapons.
Perhaps they were correct.
Yet gold could be recovered.
Time could not.
In thirty-five days, Mortarion would possess a fleet capable of carrying ten thousand Unsullied and their supplies beyond Slaver’s Bay.
Astapor had not sold him warships.
It had sold him the road to Westeros.