When the bottom of the merchant ship scraped against the murky riverbed of Astapor’s harbor for the first time, a foul odor swept over them aboard the hot breeze—sweat, filth, cheap spices, and despair, all blended together.
Viewed from the sea, the Red City of Slaver’s Bay looked grand and imposing.
The massive pyramids reflected the sunlight through the heat waves, looking like the tombs of ancient kings.
But as the ship glided into port, that grand shell was peeled away, revealing the rotten, stinking flesh beneath.
On the docks, bare-chested slaves hauled heavy cargo like cattle under the overseers’ whips.
Their eyes were hollow and numb, as if their souls had died and left only breathing husks behind.
Not far away, a child who had just been tagged with a price tag cried in terror; an overseer slapped the child across the face, cutting the weeping short instantly.
Daenerys stood at the prow, her small hands gripping the bulwark so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Her purple eyes, which should have reflected the stars and the sea, burned like twin fires of rage.
She had seen slaves in the Magister’s manse in Pentos, but at least they had been decently dressed and maintained a veneer of dignity.
Here, human life was blatantly priced, and dignity was trampled without restraint.
She turned her head to look at Victor, her voice trembling: “Is this…
the place you spoke of?” “Yes, my Queen.” Victor’s tone was calm, though his gaze beneath his cloak was cold as ice.
“A city of sin built on blood and bones.
And the cradle of your future army.” Ser Jorah Mormont looked grim.
He averted his eyes, unable to watch any longer.
Memories of capturing escaped slaves for gold burned within him, bringing a belated wave of guilt.
Brow furrowed, he murmured, “Your Grace, the people here…
they believe only in gold and the whip.
We…” He wanted to ask what they should do, but swallowed his words.
He knew that he was no longer the one making decisions.
They rented a modest room in an obscure corner of Astapor.
Once settled, Victor changed into a rough linen robe common among the locals, wrapped his Valyrian steel sword in ragged strips of cloth, and vanished into the bustling marketplace.
Jorah felt uneasy about this, believing they should stick together.
Daenerys stopped him: “Let Victor go.
He knows what he’s doing.” Daenerys’s trust was not misplaced.
In just a single afternoon, Victor returned.
He brought back not only enough flatbread and fruit for everyone, but also detailed intelligence that left even Jorah astounded.
“The Good Masters Council consists of twelve of the wealthiest slaving families.” On a rough map, Victor outlined Astapor’s power structure with charcoal.
“Their mouthpiece, a fool who loves to show off, is named Kraznys mo Nakloz.” “The Unsullied are their pride and their most valuable commodity.
Training begins at age five—brutal beyond belief, with fewer than one in ten surviving.
They are castrated, stripped of their names, and brainwashed with absolute obedience.
Their arms consist of spears, shortswords, and round shields.” “Kraznys is extremely greedy and immensely arrogant.
He looks down on all foreigners and takes special delight in using broken High Valyrian to mock buyers who don’t understand it.” Victor explained everything smoothly, as though he had lived there for decades.
Jorah couldn’t fathom how he had accomplished this.
Perhaps he had bought a few drinks for some drunken mercenaries in the filthiest tavern, or paid a copper coin to a peddler for a piece of useless stone in the busiest slave market.
Such efficiency and precision filled Jorah, accustomed to knightly duels and noble diplomacy, with awe and strangeness from another world.
“But…
we have nothing to trade for eight thousand Unsullied,” Jorah said, his worries resurfacing after hearing the briefing.
“Your Grace, they won’t sell their entire army for gold.
They’re rich enough to match kingdoms; they believe only in strength.” Daenerys also looked nervously at Victor.
This was the most critical and difficult step of the plan.
Victor chuckled and tapped the map lightly with his finger.
“No, Ser, you are mistaken.
Our bargaining chip is neither dragons nor gold.” He looked up, his gaze sweeping over both of them, and said word for word, “It is their greed and their stupidity.” “We are going to put on a grand show.” A spark characteristic of a master con artist glinted in Victor’s eyes as he laid out his bold plan.
“First, we will make them believe we are ignorant eastern nobles with more money than sense.
That will lower their guard.” Then, a playful arch curved his lips.
“I will have the dragon put on a demonstration during negotiations—a performance terrifying enough to shock them to their core, yet making them think I might actually let them have it.
I want greed to swallow their reason whole.” “The most crucial part is creating the rules.” Victor drew a circle on the map, enclosing all of Astapor.
“I will propose a method of transaction that appears immensely favorable to them—one that makes them feel they’re getting an unbelievable deal, making them eager to close it immediately.
I will demand an open transfer tomorrow at the Plaza of Punishment, before the eyes of the whole city.” “They will hand over the eight thousand Unsullied first, along with the command—the scourge of the Harpy.” “And only after we secure the command will we pay.” Jorah couldn’t help interrupting: “But the moment they get paid, they’ll turn on us!
On their home turf, we stand no chance!” “Precisely.” Victor nodded.
“Which is why we never intended to let them receive payment in the first place.
Between the moment Her Grace receives the scourge and the moment they expect their payment, there is a tiny window.
A fleeting second.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“And that window…
is all the time we need to turn everything upside down.” Daenerys was captivated by this tightly woven, audacious plan.
She felt nervous, but even more excited to take part in such a grand deception.
“Then so be it,” she decided decisively.
That afternoon, a humbly worded request in the name of House Targaryen was delivered to the Good Masters Council.
The letter stated that a mysterious eastern scholar wished to represent the Targaryen princess to negotiate a massive trade for the Unsullied.
When Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz received the request, he scoffed aloud.
A beggar princess and some eastern fraud out of nowhere dared talk about a massive trade?
Still, he was somewhat intrigued by this so-called massive trade.
He decided to grant them an audience, treating it as a monkey show to thoroughly humiliate them.
He readily agreed.
The next day, at the Plaza of Punishment, a grand show capable of deciding the fate of Slaver’s Bay was about to begin.