The camp disappeared piece by piece beneath the morning sun.
For more than a month, the plain west of Astapor had held ten thousand soldiers, hundreds of tents and enough wagons to supply an army for a year.
Defensive ditches scarred the western approach, while packed earth marked the broad paths between the formations.
Cooking pits, storage areas and training grounds had transformed the empty land into something resembling a military town.
Now the Unsullied dismantled it with the same discipline used to build it.
Canvas was folded into uniform bundles.
Tent poles were tied together and loaded onto wagons, while ropes, stakes and tools were counted before being placed into marked crates.
Nothing useful was abandoned.
Even the sharpened timbers from the unfinished palisade were pulled from the earth and stacked for transport.
The ditch remained behind.
Mortarion saw no value in wasting hours filling a defensive trench that would soon belong to the grass and rain.
Anyone investigating the abandoned camp would understand that a large army had occupied the plain, but Astapor already knew that much.
The Good Masters had watched every stage of the preparation.
Their riders appeared upon the eastern ridges each morning, observing from a distance while the army prepared to move.
They no longer attempted to hide themselves.
Relations between Mortarion and Astapor had improved enough that secrecy served little purpose, though neither side mistook profitable cooperation for trust.
Mortarion stood upon the central rise while Blue Bat approached with the final report.
The Unsullied commander wore the same dark armour as every soldier beneath him.
Dust covered his sandals and greaves after hours spent moving between units, but his posture remained straight.
“The last tents have been packed, Master Mortarion.
Every formation is prepared to march, and the supply officers have completed their final count.”
“How much was lost during the month?”
“Three barrels of grain spoiled after water entered one wagon.
Two goats died from sickness, and one horse broke its leg yesterday morning.
The animal was killed before the injury worsened.”
Mortarion considered the report.
The losses were insignificant for an army of ten thousand.
“What about the coin?”
“The remaining treasury has been divided between eight wagons.
Each will travel beneath a separate guard until the gold is transferred aboard the ships.”
Mortarion had insisted that the wealth be separated.
One hundred and eighteen thousand gold dragons had been spent purchasing the fleet, while additional coin had paid the sailors, navigators and shipwrights.
The expense had removed more than a third of his original treasury, yet what remained still represented a fortune great enough to attract every thief and ambitious ruler in Essos.
Placing all of it upon one vessel would be foolish.
Once the army boarded, the gold would be distributed between several ships and concealed beneath ordinary supplies.
Mortarion expected the captains to know that treasure travelled with the fleet, but none would learn its exact location.
“Have the western scouts returned?” he asked.
“The last pair arrived shortly before dawn.
The road remains clear, and Astapor has stationed guards along the route to prevent merchants from interfering with the march.”
“That was more consideration than I expected from the Good Masters.”
“They want the army gone without disorder.”
Mortarion almost smiled.
“Then we share the same desire.”
He turned towards the southern edge of the former camp.
Anaxion rested near the river, watching the movement around him.
The dragon had grown accustomed to the soldiers during the month, though the supply animals still reacted whenever he lifted his head or unfolded his wings.
Mortarion could feel his impatience.
The emptying camp confused Anaxion less than it interested him.
Images of distant coastlines, open skies and unfamiliar prey passed through their bond.
The dragon understood that they were preparing to leave, even if the importance of ships remained beyond his concern.
Anaxion had no need for wooden vessels.
Mortarion and the army did.
“Begin the march,” Mortarion ordered.
“The first units should reach Astapor before midday on the second day.
Keep enough distance between the formations to prevent the road from becoming blocked.”
Blue Bat struck one fist against his chest.
“The order will be given.”
The commander turned towards the waiting officers.
Commands moved through the army.
The first thousand Unsullied formed upon the western road, their dark shields resting against their sides and their long spears held upright.
Behind them travelled supply wagons loaded with food, spare equipment and the dismantled remains of the camp.
More formations followed.
The army stretched across the plain in a disciplined column.
Dust rose beneath thousands of marching feet, carrying above the soldiers until the rising sun turned the air pale gold.
Mortarion watched them pass.
He had commanded far larger armies in his previous life.
Legions had once filled valleys beneath his banners, supported by cavalry, siege engines and war beasts bred for destruction.
Those armies had belonged to the Aurellian Empire.
The ten thousand Unsullied belonged to Mortarion alone.
That difference gave them a value numbers could not measure.
They were the foundation of whatever name he would build in this world.
How others viewed them would depend upon the battles they fought and the discipline they displayed.
Mortarion did not intend for them to arrive in the west as an unknown army seeking permission to exist.
They would arrive with a reputation.
The Disputed Lands offered the opportunity to create one.
The territory lay between Tyrosh, Myr and Lys, claimed and reclaimed by the three cities through centuries of war.
Borders changed whenever armies marched, while towns and fortresses exchanged rulers so often that allegiance became a matter of survival rather than loyalty.
Sellsword companies thrived there.
A captain with enough men could enter the service of one city, fight several campaigns and change employers when another offered more coin.
Victories created reputations quickly, particularly when won against forces supported by one of the Free Cities.
Mortarion had no intention of selling his army permanently.
A temporary agreement might be useful, but the greater purpose was recognition.
Defeating Tyroshi forces would prove the Unsullied under his command were more than an unexplained imitation of Astapor’s soldiers.
The Tyroshi maintained experienced armies, hired sellswords and possessed enough wealth to field cavalry, archers and siege equipment.
They were not helpless Ghiscari merchants protected by slaves.
A victory against them would carry weight.
It would also place Mortarion closer to Westeros.
From the Disputed Lands, his fleet could reach the Stepstones, the Free Cities of Braavos and Pentos, and the Narrow Sea.
Merchants travelling between continents would carry stories of the dragonrider and his army long before Mortarion crossed west himself.
A reputation formed in battle might make future negotiations easier.
It might also attract enemies.
Mortarion accepted both outcomes.
He waited until half the army had begun its march before approaching Anaxion.
The dragon lowered his head as Mortarion climbed along the familiar gaps between his scales.
The leather straps around Anaxion’s neck had been improved during the month.
Shipwrights and leatherworkers had reinforced them without fastening anything tightly enough to resemble chains.
Mortarion remained unwilling to repeat Aurion Belaerys’s mistakes.
He secured himself and placed one hand against the warm scales.
“We are going west first, towards the red city.
You will remain above the army and avoid descending among the horses.”
Anaxion responded with an image of the harbour and its crowded ships.
The dragon remembered Astapor.
Mortarion felt dislike rather than fear.
“You will not burn it.
The city has honoured its agreement.”
Anaxion released a deep rumble.
Mortarion repeated the command through the bond, combining it with images of calm flight and open water beyond the harbour.
The dragon unfolded his wings.
Soldiers continued marching as Anaxion launched from the riverbank.
Several animals pulled against their harnesses, though their handlers had learned how to maintain control.
Mortarion guided Anaxion above the army.
From the air, the column appeared even larger.
Ten thousand Unsullied formed a dark line across the dry countryside, broken by wagons, herds and supply carts.
Scouts travelled along both sides, watching the hills and roads despite Astapor’s promise of safe passage.
The city appeared before noon.
Its walls rose from the reddish earth, while the pyramids beyond dominated the horizon.
Bells began ringing when Anaxion’s shadow crossed the outer farms, though the sound lacked the frantic urgency of his first approach.
Astapor had been warned.
The gate remained open.
Good Masters, merchants and citizens crowded the walls to watch the army arrive.
Astapori guards stood along the roads, keeping civilians away from the marching column and preventing carts from blocking the approach to the harbour.
Mortarion directed Anaxion away from the walls.
The dragon circled above the shoreline before landing upon an open stretch of beach south of the docks.
His arrival sent sand and salt water into the air, scattering labourers who had believed themselves far enough away.
Mortarion descended and removed his helmet.
The harbour had become a place of controlled disorder.
Sixty galleys waited across several docks and anchorages.
Their sails had been lowered, revealing repaired masts and fresh rigging.
Crews moved across the decks while cargo was loaded through side hatches and lowered into holds.
Some had two banks of oars, while others relied more heavily upon sails.
Several possessed high sterns and broad cargo decks.
Others were longer and narrower, though Horon had approved each one as capable of carrying the assigned soldiers and provisions.
Mortarion did not require beauty.
He required every ship to remain afloat.
The first Unsullied formation entered the harbour district.
No cheering welcomed them.
Thousands of Astapori watched in silence as the dark-armoured soldiers marched between the warehouses.
The sight of foreign Unsullied remained disturbing to a city that considered their creation its greatest achievement.
Several training masters stood near the road, studying the army with open resentment.
They examined the spacing between ranks, the shape of the shields and the soldiers’ response to commands.
Mortarion allowed them to watch.
They could learn little from observation alone.
Blue Bat reached the docks at the head of the first formation.
Horon and the three senior captains waited beside a large wooden board displaying the fleet assignments.
Each thousand-man formation had been divided between six vessels.
The strongest galleys carried the largest groups, while ships assigned to livestock and heavy supplies held fewer soldiers.
The arrangement placed roughly one hundred and fifty to two hundred Unsullied aboard most ships.
Conditions would be crowded.
The men would sleep in shifts wherever deck and hold space allowed.
Training would become difficult, while cooking and sanitation demanded strict control.
Blue Bat had created schedules for everything.
Soldiers would rotate between upper decks and the sheltered spaces below.
Latrine buckets would be emptied according to the captains’ instructions, and drinking water would be rationed under guard.
The Unsullied began boarding.
No formation rushed towards its vessel.
Each unit waited until cargo officers confirmed that the previous group had cleared the dock.
Spears were bundled and lowered aboard separately to avoid accidents, while shields remained with their owners.
Mortarion watched the process beside Horon.
“How many ships still require work?” he asked.
“None that will prevent departure.
Three have repairs that should be completed before evening, but they concern deck boards and storage partitions rather than the hulls.”
“And the rudders?”
“All inspected this morning.”
“Water barrels?”
“Filled and sealed.
The captains have been warned not to break the seals until the fleet leaves the harbour unless there is an emergency.”
Mortarion looked towards the line of waiting galleys.
“You believe they will reach the Disputed Lands?”
Horon appeared offended by the question.
“They will reach the Disputed Lands if the captains do not sail them into rocks or storms.
I inspect wood, Master Mortarion.
I cannot repair the future before it happens.”
“That is a reasonable limitation.”
The old shipwright looked towards Anaxion resting on the beach.
“Will the dragon follow the fleet?”
“He will fly with us when he chooses.
Anaxion cannot remain in the air throughout the entire voyage, so we will stay near coastlines and islands whenever possible.”
Horon studied the dragon’s size.
“No ship could carry him.”
“No ship will attempt it.”
Anaxion would hunt along the coast and rest upon isolated shores.
When the fleet crossed larger stretches of open water, Mortarion would ride with him and guide the dragon towards the next land.
The bond had improved enough to make the plan possible.
It had not improved enough to remove every risk.
Malko mo Zheran arrived as the treasury wagons reached the docks.
He wore a formal crimson robe and travelled with a group of servants carrying covered trays.
Behind him came Grazdan mo Ullhor and four other Good Masters involved in the sale of the fleet.
Grazdan had chosen fewer jewels than usual, perhaps out of respect for the heat.
Gold still decorated his fingers and throat.
“Master Mortarion,” Malko called as they approached.
“The Good Masters wished to bid you farewell before the final ships departed.”
Mortarion turned towards them.
“I had wondered whether you came to ensure I took every soldier with me.”
Grazdan mo Ullhor smiled.
“Astapor has grown accustomed to your presence, although some masters may sleep more peacefully once the dragon is no longer resting beside the city.”
“They should remember that Anaxion can return faster than these ships can sail away.”
Malko’s smile weakened.
Mortarion allowed the warning to settle before continuing in a calmer tone.
“Your city fulfilled the agreement.
Every vessel was delivered within the established time, and my shipwrights found no attempt to conceal damage severe enough to endanger the voyage.”
“That sounds almost like praise,” Grazdan said.
“It is an acknowledgement of competent business.
Praise should not be required when men perform the duties for which they were paid.”
“You remain a difficult customer.”
“I paid one hundred and eighteen thousand gold dragons for merchant galleys.
Difficulty was included in the price.”
Grazdan laughed, while two of the other masters exchanged quieter remarks.
Whatever fear remained, the Good Masters appeared satisfied with the outcome.
Astapor had received an enormous quantity of gold without losing soldiers or territory.
Its shipyards would spend years replacing the vessels sold to Mortarion, creating further work and profit.
Malko gestured towards the covered trays.
“The masters have brought gifts for your journey.
Wine, spices and preserved fruits from the eastern markets.
They are not included in any agreement and require no further negotiation.”
Mortarion inspected the offerings.
Accepting them carried little risk after the food was examined.
“The gesture is appreciated.
The supplies will be distributed among the command vessels.”
Malko lowered his head.
“You have not told us where the fleet will travel.”
“The Disputed Lands.”
The answer changed the expressions of the Good Masters.
Grazdan mo Ullhor looked west across the sea.
“That region consumes armies and coin with equal hunger.
Tyrosh, Lys and Myr have fought over it longer than any man remembers.”
“That is why I chose it.”
“You intend to sell your army?”
“I intend to use it.”
Malko glanced towards the boarding Unsullied.
“Against whom?”
“The Tyroshi.”
Several masters began speaking among themselves.
Tyrosh existed far enough away that Mortarion’s plans did not immediately threaten Astapor, but war in the Disputed Lands affected trade routes throughout western Essos.
Grazdan narrowed his eyes.
“Have the Myrish hired you?”
“No agreement has been made with Myr.”
“Then the Lyseni?”
“No.”
“You would enter the war without an employer?”
Mortarion looked towards the ships.
“I will arrive without one.
That does not mean I will fight without purpose.”
The Good Master considered the answer.
Tyrosh controlled territories, fortresses and roads valuable to its rivals.
Mortarion could negotiate after demonstrating strength, though he preferred to understand the local conflict before binding himself to any city.
He did not intend to arrive as a desperate sellsword asking for employment.
He would arrive as a force capable of changing the balance of the war.
Malko spoke more cautiously.
“Tyrosh possesses experienced generals and many sellsword companies.
Its forces are not like the guards protecting Astapor’s markets.”
“I would be disappointed if they were.”
“You may find their cavalry difficult.
Your army has none.”
“The Tyroshi will not be allowed to choose every condition of battle.”
Grazdan studied Mortarion for several moments.
“Is this why you bought sixty ships?
You intend to land where their army is weak and force them to respond.”
“The fleet gives me choices.
That is more important than any single plan.”
The fleet would sail west along the coast, passing the ruins of Old Valyria before continuing towards Volantis.
From there, they would enter the waters leading towards the Disputed Lands.
Mortarion did not plan to sail into Tyrosh itself.
The island city possessed strong walls, warships and a harbour designed to resist attack.
Assaulting it with merchant galleys would be madness.
Instead, he would target Tyroshi forces operating upon the mainland.
Their garrisons and field armies protected towns, forts and supply routes across contested territory.
A decisive victory there would establish Mortarion’s reputation without sacrificing the fleet against coastal defences.
Anaxion offered an advantage the Tyroshi could not easily answer.
The dragon could scatter cavalry, burn supply camps and destroy siege engines.
Mortarion would not waste him against stone walls when men and horses provided more vulnerable targets.
Grazdan mo Ullhor extended one hand.
“I hope your war brings the fame you seek.
Astapor would benefit from having a powerful friend in the west.”
Mortarion looked at the offered hand before accepting it.
“Continue honouring our agreements, and friendship will remain profitable.”
Malko lowered his voice.
“The seal upon your contract has caused much discussion.
Some masters believe it belongs to an ancient Valyrian house associated with sphinxes and sorcery.”
“Let them discuss it.”
“Will you continue using it?”
“Until I choose a name better suited to my future.”
Malko appeared disappointed that Mortarion offered nothing more.
He had spent the entire month attempting to understand the young dragonrider and had learned only fragments.
Mortarion respected the persistence, though not enough to reward it with secrets.
The last treasury wagon reached the docks.
Blue Bat supervised as locked chests were separated and carried onto eight ships.
Armed Unsullied surrounded each group of labourers, while officers recorded the location of every chest.
Mortarion returned his attention to the Good Masters.
“Our business is complete for now.
Astapor will receive word if I require further supplies.”
Grazdan raised an eyebrow.
“You expect to return?”
“I expect merchants to travel farther than armies.
There is no reason future business requires my presence inside the city.”
“That is true.
A successful campaign may also create captured goods requiring buyers.”
Mortarion understood the suggestion.
Weapons, armour, animals and prisoners could all be sold through Astapor’s markets.
The Good Masters were already considering how to profit from a war taking place thousands of miles away.
“You will be contacted if I possess anything worth trading.”
The farewell ended without ceremony.
The Good Masters withdrew towards the city, leaving servants to deliver their gifts.
Malko remained long enough to watch the final formations enter the harbour.
By sunset, most of the army had boarded.
The docks groaned beneath the movement of the last wagons.
Wheels were removed and loaded separately while animals were guided onto reinforced ramps.
Horses resisted the smell and movement of the ships, forcing handlers to cover their eyes before leading them aboard.
The cattle proved easier.
The goats attempted to escape at every opportunity.
Mortarion boarded the fleet’s temporary command ship shortly before darkness.
The vessel was one of the largest galleys purchased in Astapor.
Maelyra commanded it, while Belicho Var served as the senior captain responsible for coordinating the fleet until Mortarion selected a permanent commander.
A raised stern provided enough space for maps and signalling equipment.
The cabins below were cramped but functional.
Blue Bat joined Mortarion near the stern.
“The final count is complete.
Nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven soldiers have boarded.”
Mortarion looked towards him.
“Thirteen are missing?”
“Twelve scouts remain outside the city and will board the final galley before dawn.
One soldier broke his neck while loading a wagon this afternoon.”
The first death since the army’s arrival.
“Was the accident caused by negligence?”
“The ramp shifted when a rope snapped.
The equipment has been inspected, and the damaged rope was destroyed.”
“Record his name and wages.
Whatever he earned belongs to the unit treasury until we establish whether these soldiers have anyone they consider family.”
“Yes, Master Mortarion.”
Mortarion looked across the harbour.
Lanterns marked the sixty ships.
Their hulls rose and fell against the docks while sailors completed final checks.
Astapor glowed beyond them, red pyramids standing dark against the remaining light.
Anaxion rested on the beach.
The dragon would follow once the fleet departed, though Mortarion sensed his dislike of the ships.
They moved unnaturally in Anaxion’s mind, resembling prey that smelled of timber, rope and men.
Mortarion hoped familiarity would prevent him from attempting to seize one.
Blue Bat joined him at the rail.
“What will be expected of the army when we reach the Disputed Lands?”
“We will gather information before choosing a battlefield.
The Tyroshi forces may outnumber us, but they depend upon sellswords whose loyalty lasts only while coin continues.”
“Will we serve Myr?”
“Possibly, if its rulers offer useful terms.
An alliance would provide supplies, maps and knowledge of the Tyroshi positions.
However, I will not allow them to treat this army as another company to be discarded after a campaign.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we will act independently until victory makes them reconsider.”
Blue Bat watched the lanterns across the harbour.
“Tyroshi soldiers may never have faced Unsullied in such numbers.”
“They have certainly never faced Unsullied supported by a dragon.”
Mortarion’s plan did not require a prolonged war.
He needed one victory significant enough to spread across Essos.
A destroyed Tyroshi army, captured fortress or broken siege would establish the name Mortarion before his fleet ever approached Westeros.
The reputation had to be carefully shaped.
He did not want to become known only as a dragonrider who burned helpless enemies.
Anaxion inspired fear, but Mortarion’s own command had to inspire respect.
The Unsullied would win the battle upon the ground.
The dragon would ensure the enemy could not escape it.
Before dawn, the twelve scouts returned and boarded the final vessel.
Astapor’s harbour gates opened fully as the first ships pushed away from the docks.
Oars entered the dark water in steady lines, carrying the galleys beyond the crowded anchorage.
The fleet departed in six groups of ten.
Each group followed a lead ship carrying one of the hired navigators.
Signal lanterns hung from the masts, allowing captains to maintain their position while the sky remained dark.
Mortarion stood at the stern of the command galley.
The oars moved beneath him in a steady rhythm.
Sailors shouted instructions as ropes were released and the sails rose to catch the morning wind.
Astapor began shrinking behind them.
The Good Masters watched from a high terrace overlooking the harbour.
Mortarion could not distinguish their faces at the distance, though their colourful robes remained visible against the red stone.
They had sold him the means to leave.
They would likely spend years wondering whether that decision had created a future ally or released a threat upon the west.
Anaxion launched from the beach.
The dragon crossed above the final ships, his wings casting a moving shadow across their decks.
Sailors ducked instinctively, while the Unsullied remained in their assigned positions.
Anaxion circled the fleet before moving towards Mortarion’s vessel.
Through their bond came open sky, salt water and anticipation.
Mortarion raised one hand.
“Turn towards the west and remain above the leading ships.
We have a long journey before us.”
The command carried both words and intention.
Anaxion turned without resisting.
The dragon flew above the leading galleys as the fleet left Astapor behind.
Ahead lay weeks of sailing, unfamiliar ports and a disputed country where three cities had spent centuries shedding blood without achieving lasting victory.
The Tyroshi forces waiting there knew nothing of Mortarion.
They had not seen ten thousand dark shields advance together.
They had not heard Anaxion’s roar above a battlefield or watched green fire fall upon their cavalry.
That ignorance would not survive for long.
Mortarion had arrived in this world without a house, land or reputation.
In the Disputed Lands, he would begin earning all three.