For the next month, Mortarion devoted himself to preparing the army for departure.
The temporary camp east of Astapor grew busier with each passing day.
Wagons were emptied, supplies counted, and equipment separated according to the ships that would eventually carry them.
Tents remained standing, but the camp no longer possessed the appearance of a settlement intending to endure.
Everything was being prepared for movement.
Mortarion had purchased sixty merchant galleys, though acquiring the vessels solved only the first part of the problem.
Ships required experienced crews, and men accustomed to marching in formation could not simply be ordered aboard unfamiliar decks and expected to cross half the known world without difficulty.
The Unsullied did not fear the sea, but few possessed any understanding of it.
Most had never stood upon a moving deck.
They did not know how to secure cargo against storms, respond to leaks or distribute their weight when a ship turned sharply.
Their discipline would allow them to learn quickly, though discipline could not replace experienced sailors.
Mortarion therefore began hiring.
Astapor attracted traders from every coast surrounding Slaver’s Bay.
Sailors arrived from Volantis, Qarth, New Ghis and the smaller ports scattered along the Gulf of Grief.
Some belonged to merchant companies, while others survived by accepting temporary contracts from whichever captain offered the most coin.
Mortarion interviewed their captains personally.
The first group claimed they could sail through storms that would frighten the Drowned God.
When Mortarion asked how they would respond to losing a mast in rough water, their captain offered a collection of vague boasts rather than a useful answer.
Mortarion dismissed them.
Another crew presented certificates bearing the marks of several merchants.
The documents appeared impressive until one of Mortarion’s hired shipwrights noticed that three signatures had been written by the same hand.
Those sailors were removed from the camp before they could finish inventing an explanation.
Mortarion had no interest in filling his ships with men who mistook confidence for ability.
Competent sailors cost more, but they justified the expense.
He selected men who understood long voyages, rationing and the repair of damaged vessels while at sea.
Every captain had to demonstrate knowledge of currents, wind and the dangers of sailing through unfamiliar waters.
Mortarion also questioned the ordinary sailors.
A captain could claim excellence while hiding the incompetence of those beneath him.
He asked deckhands how quickly they could shorten sail before a storm, how they would respond to fire in the hold and what signs warned that a hull was taking water.
Some stared at him in confusion.
Others answered without hesitation.
Those were the men he hired.
The Good Masters offered to sell him complete crews of slaves already trained for service aboard merchant vessels.
Mortarion considered the proposal but refused to rely entirely upon men whose only experience came from obeying a whip.
He did purchase several skilled slaves individually, including carpenters, sailmakers and men capable of repairing rigging.
Once brought to the camp, they were informed that they would serve under military contracts rather than remain property.
The decision confused them.
One elderly shipwright named Horon had spent thirty years belonging to the same Astapori merchant family.
His hands were permanently bent from work, while pale scars crossed his back beneath a faded linen shirt.
When Mortarion told him he would receive wages, the man initially believed the words concealed some form of punishment.
“You purchased me from Master Grazdan,” Horon said carefully.
“The price was paid, and therefore this one belongs to you.”
“You belong to no one,” Mortarion replied.
“I paid to remove the claim he held over you.
From this moment, you work for me because you have accepted a position and will be compensated for it.”
Horon looked towards the Unsullied guards standing nearby.
“What happens if I refuse?”
“You will leave the camp without wages and find employment elsewhere.
However, if you accept and then abandon a ship during a voyage, you will be treated as a deserter.”
The old shipwright took several moments to understand the distinction.
“You would allow this one to leave after spending gold to purchase him?”
“I spent gold because your work was recommended by three captains who dislike one another.
That suggests your skill is genuine.
Keeping an unwilling craftsman imprisoned would not improve the quality of my ships.”
Horon lowered his head.
“This one will serve.”
“You will also stop referring to yourself as though you are an object.
I require a shipwright, not an expensive tool capable of speech.”
The habit did not disappear immediately, but Horon proved worth the coin spent upon him.
He recognised weaknesses in hulls that less experienced inspectors overlooked and possessed an almost instinctive understanding of timber.
Mortarion appointed him as the senior shipwright responsible for examining the purchased fleet.
Several other craftsmen worked beneath him, including three free men from Volantis and two brothers who had sailed out of New Ghis for most of their lives.
They did not always agree, but their disagreements concerned the condition of ships rather than personal pride.
That was acceptable.
The first vessels were inspected within days of the agreement.
Mortarion expected the Good Masters to test the limits of the contract by offering damaged ships among those fit for travel.
To his surprise, the earliest galleys were old but serviceable.
Their hulls showed wear from years of cargo voyages, and several decks required replacement boards.
None suffered from extensive rot, broken rudders or concealed leaks.
The Good Masters appeared to possess enough dignity to avoid obvious deception.
Mortarion suspected fear contributed more than honour.
The contract allowed his inspectors to reject any vessel that failed to meet the agreed standard.
Attempting to pass a rotting hull would delay payment and risk provoking the dragonrider whose camp remained only two days away.
The Good Masters preferred profit without unnecessary danger.
Horon completed the inspection of the seventh galley while Mortarion watched from the dock.
The ship had a broad hull, two banks of oars and enough deck space to carry several hundred Unsullied during favourable weather.
It lacked a ram and possessed no defensive towers, though neither feature mattered for transport.
Horon struck the outer planks several times with a small hammer before stepping back.
“The wood is old, but it remains strong.
There are repairs beneath the waterline, although they were completed properly rather than covered with tar to hide damage.”
“How long will it survive?” Mortarion asked.
“With care, perhaps another fifteen years.
If you drive it through storms and neglect repairs, it may last only three.”
“I am not purchasing it for fifteen years.”
Horon glanced towards him.
“Then it will serve.”
The ship was accepted.
Others required more negotiation.
The twelfth galley arrived with a rudder that moved poorly and rigging weakened by salt.
Grazdan mo Ullhor argued that replacing both fell beyond the agreement because the vessel remained capable of sailing.
Mortarion disagreed.
“A ship that can sail only while the weather remains kind is not seaworthy,” he told the Good Master.
“The rudder will be replaced, and the rigging will be repaired before this vessel is included among the sixty.”
Grazdan spread his hands in irritation.
“You purchased merchant galleys, not newly built ships.
Age cannot be treated as a broken promise.”
“I accepted age.
I did not accept negligence.”
“The vessel completed a voyage from Yunkai only six days ago.”
“That proves it survived the journey.
It does not prove I should trust it with five hundred soldiers.”
Grazdan looked towards Horon, apparently expecting the former slave to support Astapor’s position.
Horon kept his gaze lowered but answered honestly.
“The rudder may hold for another journey, although the damage will worsen.
The upper rigging should be replaced before sailing west.”
Mortarion turned back towards the Good Master.
Repair both, or replace this galley with another.”
Grazdan muttered something beneath his breath but accepted the demand.
The inspection process became more efficient after that.
The Good Masters realised Mortarion would reject any attempt to lower the agreed standard, while Mortarion learned which defects could be repaired without delaying the fleet.
By the end of the second week, twenty-three vessels had passed inspection.
Their crews were less complete.
Some captains agreed to remain with the ships after their sale.
Others had no desire to serve a mysterious dragonrider commanding ten thousand Unsullied.
Several abandoned their contracts the moment they learned Mortarion intended to sail west.
Mortarion allowed them to leave.
A frightened captain was dangerous.
Those who remained were offered wages above what they ordinarily earned from merchant work, though the contracts included strict conditions.
Theft from military stores would result in execution.
Deliberately abandoning another ship in distress would be treated as desertion.
Captains were required to obey Mortarion’s chosen fleet commander once one had been appointed.
Mortarion had not yet selected that commander.
Several men possessed enough experience, but none had earned his complete confidence.
He divided temporary authority among three senior captains while continuing to observe them.
One was a Volantene named Belicho Var.
He had crossed the Summer Sea repeatedly and understood how to move large numbers of ships without allowing them to scatter.
Another was a weathered Ghiscari captain named Orro, who had survived two shipwrecks and seemed to remember every dangerous current between Meereen and Valyria.
The third was a Lysene woman named Maelyra, whose merchant galley had been sold despite her protests.
Rather than abandon the ship, she negotiated a new contract directly with Mortarion and demanded double the ordinary wage.
Mortarion offered half against the normal amount.
Maelyra accepted after arguing for another hour.
He appreciated that she understood her value without pretending she possessed no price.
Navigators proved even more important.
Mortarion approached several within Astapor, hoping to find men capable of leading the fleet accurately towards the west.
The direct route to Westeros would cross waters controlled or influenced by Volantis, the Free Cities and whoever remained powerful in the Stepstones after Prince Daemon’s war.
A mistake could strand sixty ships upon hostile shores.
The first navigators he questioned knew only the routes around Slaver’s Bay.
Others had travelled west but relied upon familiar coastlines rather than stars, currents or written charts.
Mortarion wanted men capable of adjusting when storms drove the fleet away from the expected path.
He eventually hired six.
Each was assigned to a different section of the fleet so the loss of one vessel would not leave every ship directionless.
Their charts were copied and compared, revealing several disagreements over reefs, seasonal winds and suitable ports.
Mortarion encouraged the arguments.
Men who agreed too quickly often concealed ignorance.
The navigators spent evenings inside the command tent, discussing possible routes across a larger coastal map.
Blue Bat attended several meetings, learning how the movement of ships differed from marching armies.
The commander listened carefully before asking in High Valyrian, “Would the fleet remain together throughout the journey, or would each group follow its own navigator?”
Belicho Var answered before Mortarion could.
“If all sixty ships remain packed together, a sudden change in wind could cause collisions.
We should divide them into groups while keeping each section close enough to signal the others.”
“How great a distance should remain between those groups?”
“That depends upon the weather and visibility.
In clear water, perhaps several hundred paces.
During a storm, we may be fortunate to see the nearest ship.”
Blue Bat turned towards Mortarion.
“If the fleet becomes separated, the army could arrive in different lands.”
“It could, which is why every captain will receive the same emergency destinations,” Mortarion replied.
“If they lose sight of the fleet, they will sail towards the first agreed harbour.
If that proves impossible, they will continue towards the second.”
Maelyra leaned over the map.
“You have not chosen those harbours.”
“Not yet.
I will decide before the army boards.”
The captains had repeatedly asked where the fleet was going.
Mortarion continued withholding the final destination because he had not fully chosen it himself.
Volantis offered a powerful port but remained dominated by families proud of their ancestry.
Arriving with ten thousand Unsullied and Anaxion might be interpreted as a challenge.
The Stepstones offered a route towards Westeros but little food or fresh water.
Sailing directly to the Seven Kingdoms would introduce Mortarion before he had created the lineage and political strategy required to survive among its lords.
The fleet gave him freedom.
He would not waste that freedom through a rushed decision.
The Good Masters continued attempting to learn more about him.
They invited Mortarion to feasts, private meals and inspections that did not require his presence.
Each gathering began with trade and eventually turned towards the questions they truly wanted answered.
They were curious about the seal pressed into the fleet contract.
The ancient black stone displayed a sphinx, its weathered form surrounded by curling Valyrian script.
Some Good Masters claimed to recognise it from histories of the Freehold, though their explanations contradicted one another.
One suggested it belonged to a family destroyed a century before the Doom.
Another insisted the symbol represented dragonkeepers rather than dragonlords.
A third claimed the seal had been used by Valyrian sorcerers who bred unnatural creatures beneath the Fourteen Flames.
Mortarion corrected none of them.
During one evening meal, Grazdan mo Nakloz examined the ring for several moments before speaking.
“You use a seal connected to Old Valyria but refuse to name the house it represents.
That silence encourages dangerous speculation.”
“Speculation is dangerous only to men who act upon it without evidence.”
“You could end the uncertainty by explaining where you found it.”
“I could, but your curiosity does not create an obligation.”
Grazdan took a slow drink of wine.
“We are preparing sixty ships for a man whose past remains hidden.
Surely you understand why the Good Masters wish to know whether they are assisting a lost prince, an exile or something more dangerous.”
“You are assisting a customer who has already honoured the first payment.
That should matter more than a story about ancestors who have been dead for centuries.”
Another master leaned forward.
“And the Unsullied?
Are their origins also too ancient to discuss?”
“Their origins do not affect your payment.”
“They affect Astapor.
If another city can create soldiers identical to ours, the foundation of our trade is threatened.”
Mortarion set down his cup.
“My army will not be sold, nor will I teach your rivals how to imitate it.
I have already made that clear.
If the Good Masters continue treating every meeting as an interrogation, our amicable relationship will become unnecessarily tiresome.”
Grazdan raised one hand.
“We intend no insult.
Astapor has simply never seen a man arrive from Valyria with a dragon, ancient steel and an army that should not exist.”
“That is understandable.
You may ask about Valyria itself, provided you accept that I will answer only what I choose.”
The masters immediately changed their approach.
Mortarion told them of the crimson skies and black glass roads.
He mentioned the stone men encountered within a ruined courtyard.
He explained that greyscale survived among the ruins and made even ordinary exploration dangerous.
When asked about other creatures, Mortarion described the pale limb that had pushed through the wall of the dragonkeepers’ hall.
“I did not remain long enough to examine it,” he said.
“The limb possessed too many joints and claws shaped unlike those of any creature I recognised.
Fighting an unknown abomination inside a narrow chamber would have achieved nothing.”
One of the masters laughed nervously.
“You speak of it as though avoiding the creature required no fear.”
“Fear is useful when it warns a man against stupidity.
I had no reason to discover whether the creature could kill me.”
“And Anaxion?” Grazdan asked.
“Did you find him within those same ruins?”
“Anaxion found me.”
Mortarion described the dragon landing before him without explaining the role Death played in selecting its name.
He spoke of the difficulty of establishing a bond and the dragon’s unwillingness to accept commands.
The Good Masters listened with fascination.
They had heard stories of House Targaryen and its dragons, but few possessed any understanding of how a rider claimed one.
Mortarion revealed enough to make the account believable while preserving the details that might one day be useful only to him.
Giving them fragments of truth improved the relationship.
Complete silence encouraged fear and conspiracy.
Limited answers allowed the Good Masters to feel trusted without giving them knowledge capable of weakening Mortarion.
The arrangement suited both sides.
Anaxion’s bond with Mortarion strengthened throughout the month.
They spent long periods resting near one another beyond the camp’s southern boundary.
Mortarion would remove his helmet and sit beside the dragon’s foreleg while reviewing maps, reports or lists of supplies.
Anaxion sometimes ignored him entirely.
At other times, impressions moved through the bond without warning.
Hunger, irritation and curiosity entered Mortarion’s thoughts alongside glimpses of distant herds or the movement of clouds above the sea.
The dragon gradually learned that Mortarion’s presence did not always lead to commands.
That understanding made obedience easier when commands were necessary.
They also took to the sky whenever Mortarion’s duties allowed.
The first flights remained unpredictable.
Anaxion obeyed directions only when they aligned with where he already wished to travel.
Commands to rise, descend, or turn were ignored almost as often as they were followed.
Mortarion repeated each word with the same tone and accompanied it with clear intentions through the bond.
Progress came slowly.
Anaxion learned the difference between a request to circle and an order to land.
He began responding to the pressure of Mortarion’s legs and the movement of his body, though sudden prey could still distract him.
One journey carried them north along the coast as far as Meereen.
They remained high enough to avoid provoking its defenders, but Mortarion examined the city from the air.
Its walls stretched around a vast population, while enormous pyramids rose above the streets.
The great pyramid dominated them all, taller and more imposing than anything in Astapor.
Meereen’s bells rang when Anaxion’s shadow passed across the outskirts.
Soldiers gathered upon the walls, and the city’s masters likely spent the following days arguing over whether the dragonrider intended to return.
Mortarion did not descend.
The journey was intended to train Anaxion and allow Mortarion to understand the coastline, not begin another negotiation.
They returned to camp before nightfall.
Anaxion ignored the command to fly south twice before finally obeying, but followed the route accurately once he turned.
When Mortarion directed him to land near the river, the dragon descended without circling the camp or frightening the livestock.
It was a small achievement.
Mortarion treated it as important.
By the end of the fourth week, Anaxion followed roughly half of the commands given to him.
Some responses remained delayed, and others required Mortarion to reinforce the words with an image through their bond.
It was not enough for battle.
A dragon used in war had to turn when commanded, attack the intended target and withdraw before anger carried it beyond control.
Anaxion remained too independent for such precision.
Mortarion did not expect immediate perfection.
The bond was only weeks old.
Soon, the repeated commands would become instinctive.
Until then, Mortarion would not place Anaxion in situations where a single misunderstanding could burn allies alongside enemies.
The thirty-fifth day approached.
Fifty-seven ships had passed inspection.
Two more waited for repairs to their decks and rigging.
The final galley had been sighted approaching Astapor from the north, its owner apparently unaware that the Good Masters intended to purchase it before its cargo had even been unloaded.
Blue Bat entered the command tent shortly after sunset.
“The army can be ready to march towards Astapor within two days,” he reported.
“The wagons marked for dismantling have been separated, and every unit has been assigned to a preliminary ship group.”
Mortarion looked up from the harbour records.
“How quickly can the camp be emptied once the final vessel is accepted?”
“Three days if we preserve the outer ditch and palisade.
Four if you want everything removed.”
“Leave the ditch.
Recover the stakes and usable timber.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
Blue Bat studied the lists spread across the table.
“Have you chosen where the fleet will sail?”
“Not yet.”
“The captains are becoming uneasy.”
“They are being paid to sail, not to feel comfortable.”
“That is true, although some argue that provisions cannot be distributed properly without knowing the length of the journey.”
Mortarion considered the concern.
“They are correct.
Prepare the fleet for a voyage of ninety days.
If our destination is closer, the excess supplies will remain useful.”
Blue Bat lowered his head.
“It will be done.”
Mortarion rose and stepped outside.
The camp had changed considerably since the army first appeared.
Soldiers moved among packed equipment while craftsmen prepared wagons for transport.
Sailors hired in Astapor occupied a separate section near the river, their tents less orderly but kept under strict watch.
Beyond the hills, sixty ships were nearly ready.
Mortarion possessed the army, wealth and dragon required to become a power within this world.
Soon, he would possess the means to move them wherever opportunity appeared.
Anaxion rested beneath the evening sky, dark green scales almost black in the fading light.
Mortarion felt the dragon’s awareness touch his mind.
Departure.
The impression carried anticipation rather than reluctance.
Mortarion approached and placed one hand against Anaxion’s scales.
“The dead lands are behind us,” he said quietly.
“Soon, these shores will be as well.”
Anaxion opened one molten-green eye.
Far to the west, Astapor’s harbour filled with ships purchased by an unknown dragonrider.
Further west waited Volantis, the Stepstones and the continent that would one day tear itself apart beneath dragon wings.
Mortarion had spent the month gathering the tools required for the next stage of his second life.
The time for preparation was almost over.