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Seated in the courtyard that the Good Masters had specially arranged for Daenerys, Clay waited with remarkable patience throughout the long night.
Someone else weakening the power of the slave-traders was, as far as Clay was concerned, an outcome to be welcomed.
Though two of the Good Masters had already offered up their heads in the previous night's chaos, it was evident that the faction led by Kraznys mo Nakloz had failed to gain complete control over the situation.
Remaining in the courtyard, Clay leisurely sipped cup after cup of Astapor's famed craft-brewed ale, his ears attentively tuned to the sounds echoing through the streets.
The sound of hurried footsteps, the clamor of combat, bodies collapsing and being dragged across stone, desperate pleas and agonized howls of the dying—all of it blended into the night's uniquely grim lullaby, a requiem for Astapor.
In the distance, high above the city center, the flames engulfing the Great Pyramid raged on, adding yet another spectacle to this chaotic night.
If Clay's memory served him right from his strolls through Astapor, that pyramid was none other than the palace where Kraznys mo Nakloz himself resided.
It seemed the two beheaded Good Masters had indeed belonged to formidable interest groups. Their sudden deaths had triggered fierce retaliation. And tonight, the bloodshed would run deep—how deep, only time would tell.
Daenerys lay reclined on a soft mattress, her gaze filled with unease as she stared at the sky now stained crimson by firelight. Only now did she realize just how cruelly calculated Clay's parting words had been.
The Good Masters of Astapor had harbored grudges against one another for a long time. Yet with five of them locked in an evenly matched stalemate, the balance had remained tenuously intact.
Now, with the arrival of a dragon, that fragile equilibrium had been shattered in the blink of an eye. And armed with Clay's verbal endorsement, Kraznys mo Nakloz and his faction had seized the opportunity to unleash their long-suppressed ambitions.
However, behind every Good Master stood vast networks of vested interests. Though they loathed one another in silence before, how could they possibly accept the death of a single Master as sufficient cause to surrender?
Therefore, retaliation had been inevitable. Clay had foreseen this long before. The reason he granted these slave-traders one more day was to ensure they had enough time to tear each other apart.
It was a deliberate gambit cast into the open. From the moment Clay whispered the news that only three of them would be allowed to survive—and told it to Kraznys mo Nakloz alone—it had ceased to be something anyone could alter.
That bloated, greasy slave-trader had no path left but to follow Clay's will. There were no other choices available to him.
After watching half the night's spectacle unfold, Clay finally set down his cup and walked toward Daenerys's chambers. Being a Dragonrider was a job that demanded diligence both by day and, evidently, by night.
The night passed without further incident—too full of duty to allow for idle chatter.
…
Morning came once again…
When Clay looked out through the window at the massive Great Pyramid, its summit no longer burned, though its once-golden sides were now marred with scorched black scars.
If he wasn't mistaken, the towering harpy statue that once stood proud at the pinnacle had toppled entirely. Just what had these people done last night to bring down something that massive? Their desperation truly knew no bounds.
A sharp smack rang out, cutting through the silence. The sudden sting of pain stirred Daenerys from her slumber. She turned over lazily, casting a sidelong glance at Clay. Part of her longed to drift back into sleep, but then his voice cut through the quiet.
"Don't go back to sleep. It's time to get up. We need to go and see just how well that fellow Kraznys mo Nakloz has cleaned up the city for us."
Now fully awake, Daenerys rubbed the spot where he had struck her, hesitation flickering in her eyes before she asked softly,
"Clay… what if he didn't manage to carry out what you asked of him?"
Clay looked at her, his expression calm. He reached out and gently pulled her hand away from where she had been shielding the sore spot.
Then, without a word, came another slap.
Smack!
"..."
Clay stepped down from the bed, his voice cool and composed.
"Then I won't mind letting this city burn a little more fiercely."
By the time the two of them were dressed and ready to leave, Kraznys mo Nakloz had already arrived at the entrance of Clay's courtyard, respectfully flanked by the only two other Good Masters who had survived the blood-soaked night.
"Let our guests come in," Clay said with a faint smile, glancing toward the door. "After all, they've kept their end of the deal, have they not?"
He gave a signal, and Ser Barristan, who stood guard nearby, stepped forward and opened the gate, allowing the three men to enter.
The richly embroidered tokar draped around the slave-traders' body bore conspicuous stains of thick, dark blood. Against the pristine white fabric, those blotches stood out like gaping wounds.
Clay guessed that the man had personally taken action somewhere in the city. Such stains could not have come from ordinary soldiers locked in skirmishes. If the Free Companies loyal to the other Good Masters had truly fought their way to Kraznys's doorstep, it would not be this portly, obsequious man standing here with a submissive smile stretched across his round face.
"Your Grace," Kraznys began in a tone of utter servility. "I have, as you requested, delivered to you the heads of two traitors. This lowly one stands ready to obey your every command."
Though the monstrous blue-and-gold dragon was not in sight, the mere memory of it was enough to chill Kraznys to the bone. He had no doubt that the Dragonlord standing before him could summon that terrible creature at any moment, sending it diving from the heavens in a storm of fire and death.
He had seen it happen two days ago. What he thought would be a venture of staggering profit had instead become a nightmare that haunted every breath he took.
Clay was long accustomed to bloodshed. He had cut his way south through more than ten thousand Lannister soldiers. He had seen more corpses than he could count. Severed heads no longer stirred even the faintest ripple in his heart.
With an impassive face, he lifted the lid of the wooden chest. Just one glance confirmed what he needed to know—Kraznys had not tried to deceive him. These were indeed the heads of the two Good Masters.
"Kraznys," Clay said evenly, "I noticed your palace seemed to have been set ablaze. How much of Astapor do you still control?"
The slaver gave a slight shudder before replying,
"Your Grace, there were still some fools under those two who refused to submit. They dared to raise their hands against Your Grace's will, so I personally slit their throats last night. As of this moment, Astapor belongs entirely to you, my noble king."
"Excellent. Then that means you and the two men standing behind you are the only three who managed to survive. Is that right?"
"Ah… yes, Your Grace."
Clay looked at the three of them—men who had strutted with such arrogant pride just two days prior. A strange smile slowly crept onto his face as he spoke.
"Very well. In that case, I want the three of you to choose one among yourselves—the one who contributed the most last night. I shall reward that person."
The mere mention of such a selection made all three surviving masters tense visibly. Their eyes met in a moment of shared instinct, the same unspoken thought flashing between them—this likely was not going to end well.
And yet, none of them dared to dismiss it either.
What if this was truly a test from the Dragonlord—a method of selecting one among them to govern Astapor on his behalf? The position would bring unimaginable wealth and power, far beyond anything they had once held.
These men had survived in their privileged positions as Good Masters not because they were brave, but because they were cunning. They were well-versed in reading between the lines of danger and opportunity. Now, each one of them felt greed stir in his heart, enticed by the promise of favor. But death loomed just as close, and the fear it brought made their ambition falter.
Clay waited with perfect patience, allowing them to stew in their thoughts. He was in no rush.
"My lord, I believe it is I who shed the most blood in your service," Kraznys mo Nakloz finally spoke up, his voice syrupy with false humility.
Once again, it was Kraznys—the boldest among them—who dared to speak what the others were thinking but did not have the courage to say.
His obese frame, paired with his overly theatrical tone, made something twist in Clay's stomach.
"You two have no objection, I take it?"
Clay turned a smiling gaze on the other two, and Kraznys also subtly cast a glance toward his companions, the men now tied to his fate.
Seeing both of them silently shake their heads, Clay shifted his focus back to Kraznys mo Nakloz. His face, plastered with a trembling, ingratiating smile, was marked by fear, excitement, and—most notably—an intent he had tried to bury deep but had failed to hide from Clay's sharp gaze. A flicker of murder. Greed sharpened into danger.
"Step forward, Kraznys mo Nakloz."
Clay's voice rose into the same exaggerated register, mimicking the man's earlier pomp, a performance that did not go unnoticed.
From a short distance away, Daenerys stood watching quietly. Beside her, Ser Barristan Selmy furrowed his brows and leaned in to ask her in a low voice.
"Your Grace, what is King Clay doing? That slave-trader cannot be trusted."
Daenerys's violet eyes curved slightly as she replied in a soft murmur.
"It's time for blood."
The moment her voice faded, a flash of steel tore through the air. A severed head flew skyward, trailing a crimson arc of blood that fanned into the air like a banner of justice.
The blood was boiling hot. The message, unmistakable.
For those foolish enough to entertain treacherous thoughts, this was the truest reward!
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[Chapter End's]
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