The ruins of Old Valyria disappeared behind a wall of crimson smoke.
Mortarion remained pressed against Anaxion’s neck as the dragon carried him north over the Smoking Sea.
The poisoned islands gradually vanished beneath the clouds, leaving only scattered peaks of black stone rising from the boiling water.
Volcanic light glowed beneath the vapour like embers beneath ash.
The journey was far from comfortable.
Anaxion had accepted him, but the dragon was not yet a trained mount.
It responded more easily to images and emotions than spoken commands, often altering course whenever movement below attracted its attention.
Twice, Anaxion descended towards shapes swimming beneath the sea, forcing Mortarion to direct it back towards the northern horizon.
Every correction irritated the dragon.
The bond carried flashes of hunger and resistance into Mortarion’s mind.
Anaxion understood that they were travelling somewhere, but cared little for maps, borders or Mortarion’s need to reach civilization quickly.
The dragon had spent its life hunting wherever instinct carried it.
Following a fixed course was entirely foreign.
Mortarion did not expect immediate obedience.
Even the finest war hounds required training before they followed commands without hesitation.
Anaxion possessed greater intelligence, but also far more independence.
Their bond allowed understanding, not effortless control.
Time and repetition would correct that.
For now, Mortarion concentrated upon remaining mounted.
The leather strap around his waist prevented him from being thrown during sudden turns, though every movement pulled painfully against the armour.
His thighs burned from gripping the dragon’s neck, while his shoulders ached from holding the raised scales ahead of him.
The flight also offered no protection from the cold.
The heat of Valyria faded rapidly as they travelled north.
Wind tore across Mortarion’s armour and slipped through every opening around his neck and helmet.
The black plates that had suffocated him among the ruins now became cold enough to numb the skin beneath them.
He endured it without complaint.
Below, the Smoking Sea gradually became calmer.
The water lost its reddish glow, and the clouds thinned until the horizon opened before them.
Mortarion saw ordinary blue water for the first time since beginning his second life.
Beyond it lay Slaver’s Bay.
Astapor stood upon its southern coast, a city of red brick where Unsullied were trained and sold.
Yunkai lay farther north, wealthy from its trade in slaves and surrounded by fertile lands worked by those it held in bondage.
Either city could provide food, ships, information and a place from which Mortarion could plan his next move.
Astapor offered the greater military value.
He could learn how the Unsullied were organised, supplied and commanded before summoning the ten thousand soldiers promised by Death.
He might also acquire interpreters, craftsmen and officers familiar with the region.
Yunkai offered greater wealth and access to established trade routes, though its rulers would likely be less prepared for the arrival of a dragonrider.
Mortarion had not yet chosen between them.
His condition might make the decision for him.
His water was nearly gone, and hunger had begun to weaken his concentration.
Anaxion could cross the distance quickly, but Mortarion did not know how long the dragon could fly before needing to rest.
Land emerged beneath the northern horizon as a thin line of brown and red.
Mortarion leaned forward against Anaxion’s neck, studying the coast through the narrow opening of his helmet.
After the black ruins of Valyria and the endless blue of the Smoking Sea, the sight of living land appeared almost unnatural.
The coastline stretched in both directions, broken by shallow bays and stretches of red earth.
Sparse woodland gathered farther inland, though much of the terrain remained dry and sun-scorched.
Roads cut through the land like pale scars, connecting settlements surrounded by fields, walls and watchtowers.
Civilisation.
Anaxion felt Mortarion’s attention sharpen.
The dragon lowered its head and began to descend.
“Not yet,” Mortarion commanded.
Anaxion ignored him.
The world below grew rapidly larger.
Mortarion saw fishing boats scattered near the coast and shepherds guiding small herds across the dry grasslands.
Several figures stopped and pointed towards the enormous shadow passing over them.
Panic followed.
Men abandoned their animals and ran towards nearby buildings.
Fishermen lowered their sails and attempted to turn towards shore.
A wagon overturned when its horses reared, spilling clay jars across the road.
Mortarion felt Anaxion’s interest.
The dragon had noticed the livestock.
“Higher,” Mortarion ordered.
Anaxion continued descending.
Mortarion pressed the image of the open sky into their bond, followed by a sharp warning against hunting near the settlements.
Anaxion resisted with a surge of hunger and irritation.
The dragon had not eaten since leaving Valyria.
Mortarion understood the need, but allowing Anaxion to descend upon the first herd they encountered would announce their arrival through fire and slaughter.
The people below might belong to Astapor, one of its neighbouring settlements or an independent landholder.
Their allegiance mattered less than the message such an attack would send.
Mortarion did not intend to reach civilisation as a mindless destroyer.
Not before understanding the forces waiting there.
“Higher,” he repeated.
This time, Anaxion responded.
The dragon climbed reluctantly, though its gaze remained fixed upon the animals below.
Mortarion felt resentment through the bond, followed by a powerful image of flesh tearing beneath blackened teeth.
“You will feed,” Mortarion said.
“But not there.”
They continued north along the coast.
The land became more heavily settled with every passing league.
Villages appeared beside irrigation channels, their homes constructed from reddish brick.
Fields spread outward in rectangular sections, filled with grain, olives and unfamiliar crops growing beneath the intense sun.
The people working those fields wore little more than simple cloth around their waists.
Many were chained together.
Mortarion studied them from above.
Long lines of slaves moved beneath the supervision of mounted overseers.
Some carried baskets filled with harvested plants, while others dragged ploughs through the dry earth.
The overseers used long whips, striking anyone who slowed or collapsed.
The sight produced no immediate disgust within Mortarion.
Cruelty was not unusual.
His former empire had relied upon prisoners, conscripted labourers and conquered populations to build roads, fortifications and siege engines.
Men frequently worked until their bodies failed because a campaign demanded completion.
The difference here was ownership.
These people did not labour as punishment or temporary obligation.
They were property, bought and sold alongside animals and tools.
Mortarion had not yet decided what place slavery would hold within the order he intended to create.
He understood its usefulness, but also its weaknesses.
A population forced to work through fear rarely produced more than the minimum required to avoid punishment.
Slaves also carried resentment that could become rebellion whenever authority weakened.
The Aurellian Empire had crushed enough uprisings for Mortarion to recognise the danger.
Astapor would provide a useful example.
The city appeared before midday.
At first, Mortarion saw only a reddish haze upon the northern horizon.
Towers emerged gradually from the heat, followed by walls, pyramids and densely packed buildings stretching along the coast.
Astapor was larger than he expected.
Its outer walls were built from red brick, reinforced by square towers and heavy gates.
Beyond them, streets wound between markets, barracks, temples and compounds belonging to the city’s ruling families.
The great pyramids dominated everything.
They rose above the lesser buildings like artificial mountains, each formed from thousands of bricks the colour of dried blood.
Gardens crowned several of their flat summits, where trees and fountains created islands of green above the city.
Mortarion understood the display.
The ruling Good Masters had built upward so everyone beneath them would be forced to look towards their wealth.
Anaxion’s shadow reached the southern districts.
The reaction was immediate.
Bells rang from the walls.
Crowds scattered through the streets, abandoning stalls, carts and animals.
Guards rushed towards towers and battlements, though many stopped when they saw the size of the creature approaching.
Archers gathered along the walls.
Mortarion counted their positions.
The city’s defences were not impressive.
The walls could resist raiders and ordinary armies, but they had not been designed to withstand a dragon.
One sustained attack from Anaxion could melt the gates, ignite the markets and turn the narrow streets into rivers of fire.
Astapor’s strength did not rest in stone.
It rested in the Unsullied.
Training yards occupied large sections of the city.
From above, Mortarion saw formations of soldiers moving between long barracks.
Their black helmets, spears and round shields reflected the sunlight as they marched.
Even at a distance, their discipline was clear.
One group turned in perfect unison while instructors walked between the ranks.
Another held formation beneath the midday heat without shifting or lowering their weapons.
Boys trained nearby, smaller and less controlled than the soldiers but already moving according to the same rigid commands.
Mortarion watched them closely.
Death had promised ten thousand Unsullied when Mortarion chose to summon his army.
Seeing the soldiers in their place of origin confirmed the value of that decision.
They were not warriors driven by individual glory.
They were a weapon created through repetition, pain and the removal of choice.
Such men could form the centre of an empire.
They could also become useless if deprived of officers capable of thinking beyond orders.
Mortarion would need to understand their command structure before summoning his own force.
Anaxion circled the city.
The dragon did so without being instructed, drawn by the movement and noise below.
Mortarion allowed one circuit, using the opportunity to study Astapor’s layout.
The harbour lay along the western side of the city.
Merchant ships crowded the docks, flying banners from across Slaver’s Bay and the Free Cities.
Smaller vessels moved between them, carrying cargo, passengers and chained labourers.
Several ships attempted to leave when Anaxion appeared.
Others remained trapped behind them.
Mortarion saw cranes lifting cages from one deck.
Men, women and children stood inside, pressed together beneath the sun while buyers waited upon the quay.
Astapor was not merely a city that used slaves.
It existed because of them.
From the air, Mortarion saw lines of people displayed beneath coloured awnings.
Buyers moved between them, inspecting bodies with the same care they might give horses or cattle.
The Good Masters controlled an industry built upon human suffering.
Mortarion did not care enough to condemn them for that alone.
What concerned him was power.
Astapor trained the finest infantry in the region but sold those soldiers to foreign rulers.
Its masters possessed the means to create disciplined armies, yet preferred immediate profit over conquest.
They surrounded themselves with wealth while relying upon slaves who outnumbered them many times over.
It was an unstable arrangement.
A competent ruler could take the city with surprisingly little bloodshed if the Unsullied were separated from their masters.
Mortarion filed the thought away.
He had not come to conquer Astapor today.
Entering the city would expose him at his weakest.
He was exhausted, hungry and carrying treasure that might be recognised as Valyrian.
His armour and dragon would inspire fear, but fear without understanding could turn every nearby ruler against him.
More importantly, Mortarion had not yet summoned his army.
A dragonrider could threaten a city.
A dragonrider commanding ten thousand Unsullied could negotiate from a position of certainty.
Anaxion completed another circuit.
The archers upon the walls had nocked arrows, though none dared release them.
Several siege engines were being turned towards the sky.
Their crews moved frantically, attempting to position heavy bolts against a creature already beyond their effective range.
Mortarion looked down at the city.
Landing inside Astapor would create chaos.
The streets were too narrow for Anaxion, and the dragon’s weight would crush roofs and market stalls.
Even an open plaza might not provide enough room for its wings.
Landing beyond the walls would be safer, but it would still allow the Good Masters to surround him with soldiers before he understood their intentions.
Mortarion needed time to recover.
He also required a secure location where he could remove the armour, examine his supplies and determine how to present himself.
He turned Anaxion east.
The dragon resisted, drawn towards the smell of animals and people below.
Mortarion pushed a stronger image through the bond.
Open land, hunting and distance from the city.
Anaxion banked reluctantly.
They passed over Astapor’s western wall.
The countryside beyond contained fewer villages.
Roads continued along the coast and inland, though the fields gradually gave way to dry plains, low hills and scattered trees.
Mortarion searched for water.
Several narrow rivers flowed towards the sea, but most passed through farms or settlements.
He wanted isolation without sacrificing access to food and fresh water.
A suitable region appeared after several hours.
Low hills rose above a broad plain two days’ travel east of Astapor by road.
A river curved between them before emptying into a sheltered bay.
Trees clustered along its banks, while herds of wild animals moved across the grasslands farther inland.
No large settlement stood nearby.
Mortarion saw only a handful of distant huts and an abandoned watchtower upon the highest ridge.
The location offered water, shelter and a clear view of anyone approaching from Astapor.
It would serve as a suitable site to land and rest.
Mortarion directed Anaxion towards the hills.
The dragon descended eagerly when it saw the herds below.
This time, Mortarion did not stop it.
He selected a clearing near the river and pushed the image into their bond.
Anaxion ignored the precise location, diving instead towards a group of large horned animals grazing near the edge of the plain.
The herd scattered.
Anaxion swept over them, seized one creature between its claws and carried it several hundred feet before landing.
The impact broke the animal’s body beneath the dragon’s weight.
Mortarion remained mounted until Anaxion settled.
He untied the leather strap around his waist and climbed down carefully.
His legs nearly failed when his boots touched the ground.
Hours of gripping the dragon’s neck had left the muscles trembling, while exhaustion spread through every part of his body.
Mortarion removed his helmet.
The air tasted dry and warm, but clean.
After Valyria, it felt like breathing for the first time.
Anaxion began tearing into its kill.
Mortarion walked towards the river, carrying his bundle and weapons.
He knelt beside the water and inspected it before drinking.
The current was clear, with small fish moving between the stones.
He removed one gauntlet and filled his hand.
The water possessed no metallic taste, sulphur or ash.
Mortarion drank until the pain in his throat eased.
Astapor remained beyond the eastern horizon, unaware of whether the dragonrider who had circled its walls intended trade, conquest or destruction.
Mortarion had not yet decided himself.
For the next two days, he would recover, examine the surrounding land and determine how best to approach the city.
He would not arrive as a starving wanderer seeking mercy from slavers.
He would enter Astapor prepared.
The Good Masters had seen his dragon.
Soon, they would meet its rider.