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Kraznys mo Nakloz was dead.
With a single, decisive stroke, Clay severed his neck. The blow didn't just take his life—it completely destroyed his nervous system. The body collapsed soundlessly, not even a twitch left in it. Only the blood, dark and thick, flowing freely across the floor, bore silent witness to the violence of his end.
Everyone present, save for Daenerys, stood frozen in stunned disbelief. This man had just killed a Good Master without a flicker of hesitation, as if ending a life was no different from drawing breath. The blood had sprayed across his face, yet Clay only wiped it away calmly, with not so much as a twitch in his expression.
It was in that moment that all of them truly understood: this Dragonlord was no idle prince lounging in a palace. He was a battle-hardened warrior, a ruthless warlord who had walked through fire and slaughter. Only such a man could take a life so cleanly and show no sign of disturbance afterward.
The two other Good Masters who had accompanied Kraznys mo Nakloz—both of them also named Grazdan—stood with wide, bloodshot eyes. Just moments ago, they had watched this ambitious peer of theirs dream of rising to fame overnight. Now, he was nothing more than a lifeless corpse sprawled on the ground. Neither of them could bring themselves to speak.
An overwhelming sense of relief surged through them. Thank the gods they had backed down earlier. Had they dared to vie for the Dragonlord's favor, had they tried to contest the position of regent ruler, they would likely be lying in a pool of their own blood as well.
The Dragonlord needed loyal stewards, yes. But he would never tolerate one who harbored thoughts of rebellion or usurpation.
Though they were still alive, fear gripped them like iron chains!
Clay's blade now hung loosely at his side, its tip dripping blood in slow, steady drops. The crimson beads fell onto the brown floor tiles, pooling into a dark stain at his feet.
The air was thick with the sharp, metallic scent of blood, and though these two had seen death many times before, a shiver ran down their spines. Their limbs turned cold, and nausea stirred in their guts.
With a look of contempt, Clay gave Kraznys's corpse a light kick, sending it sprawling a few inches farther across the floor. Then, his gaze—cold and heavy as solid ice—shifted toward the two men whose tokars were already soaked with nervous sweat.
"Gentlemen," he said, a faint smile curling his lips, "I still have one more reward to offer. Would either of you care for it? I'm a very generous man, after all."
To Clay, his smile was warm and friendly, like a breeze on a spring morning. But to the two Good Masters, it was like a blade of winter wind cutting straight to the bone.
"Your Grace… please… spare us!" the taller Grazdan cried out, suddenly collapsing to his knees. He threw himself forward, groveling in the bloodstained dust, his body trembling uncontrollably.
The mere sight of Clay's smile had destroyed the last of his courage. Whatever defiance or pride he once possessed was now crushed beyond repair. He had witnessed the Dragonlord's fury firsthand, and its shadow would linger in his heart forever.
Behind him, the older Grazdan—whose authority had long since been stripped away by Kraznys, leaving him nothing more than a powerless puppet kept merely to make up the numbers—could only sigh in helpless resignation.
He had outlived the other four Good Masters. He had held his position longer than any of them. From the moment Clay appeared and Kraznys mo Nakloz raised his blade against the others, he had known that everything was lost.
Their only real chance of survival had been unity. If they had stood together and gambled on Clay needing Astapor intact, they might have forced him to hold back. But the moment internal strife erupted, that hope had vanished like smoke in the wind.
Now, all the mighty rulers of Astapor had become little more than clay in the Dragonlord's hands. He could shape them into anything he pleased. Round or square, high or low—it made no difference. They no longer had the power to resist.
At first, he hadn't fully grasped the gravity of the situation. He had even thought of gathering the others for a private conversation, to discuss their next steps. But that same night, a bloodstained dagger had come right up to his face, and reality struck him harder than any words could.
Now, seeing that final Good Master lower his head and bow like a beaten dog, Clay gave a slow, approving nod. This had gone exactly as he had planned. From the beginning, he had only ever intended to spare two of them—just enough to help him manage the city.
Why not three?
The answer was simple. If three men were left in charge, there was always the chance two might join forces to push the third aside. That would spark another power struggle, and eventually, it would spiral back into chaos. But with only two, the balance was much easier to control. Let them squabble with each other, let their rivalry keep them in check.
As for Kraznys mo Nakloz, his ambition had simply been too great. Clay had been watching them closely, reading every expression and every glance. The others had certainly ogled Daenerys, enchanted by her beauty. But Kraznys alone had worn a look that hinted at something more than mere desire. He had entertained thoughts of taking what was not his.
Clay had no intention of surrounding himself with eunuchs. It was only natural that men would be drawn to Daenerys—after all, she was descended from the Valyrian dragonlords, her beauty as radiant and untamed as dragonfire itself.
But there was a difference between desire and madness, and Clay had no intention of tolerating madmen in his ranks. Even one was too many. Any man who couldn't control himself had to be removed the moment he showed signs of becoming a threat, without hesitation or mercy.
A ruler must have a clear mind. Handing over the reins of power to a man like that would be like planting a landmine beneath his own throne.
And so, Clay had deliberately told Kraznys that only three of the Good Masters would be allowed to live. At the same time, he had quietly passed the death sentence on the unstable slaver—long before the blade ever touched his neck. That fool, too blinded by arrogance to know his place, had been marked for death from the very beginning.
"Of course, I never said I would kill the two of you. I told you I had a reward to offer. Death or glory—both are gifts from me. Do you understand that now?"
"Yes, yes… Your Grace is absolutely right."
The two slave-traders remained prostrate on the floor, their foreheads pressed firmly against the stone, not daring to lift their heads. Even though Clay had said he would spare their lives, neither of them dared to draw breath too loudly.
They simply couldn't bring themselves to trust this man. Not even a little.
"Enough. Get up. Now listen carefully."
Everyone in the room, except for Daenerys, held their breath. All awaited Clay's decree, the judgment that would determine the fate of Astapor.
None of them dared to hope that the other cities of Slaver's Bay would lift a finger to help. As long as Clay didn't openly denounce slavery the way Daenerys had, even if he declared himself Emperor of Valyria reborn, the other cities would likely hold their noses and accept it.
After all, why waste coin and soldiers fighting someone else's war when there was no gain to be had? The rulers of those cities—be they the Wise Masters of Yunkai or the Great Masters of Meereen—no matter what title they clung to, were not the kind to sacrifice their comfort for an abstract cause.
"From now on, Astapor has only the two of you left. I do not care what methods you use, but the production of Unsullied must not stop. Not for a single day."
That was Clay's foremost concern. Astapor was his military reserve. If the Unsullied production line collapsed, then the only value the city held would be the massive wealth accumulated by its former masters.
The two Grazdans exchanged glances. The older of the two lowered his voice and murmured, "Your Grace, with all due respect, the production of Unsullied was largely under the control of that bastard Kraznys mo Nakloz. The rest of us held only scraps of authority."
Of course, Clay already knew this. It was one more reason why Kraznys had to die. The man had been intimately familiar with every part of the system, and if he ever decided to tamper with the process, Clay wouldn't even know where to begin unraveling his tricks.
"Then it was him. Now he is dead. So you two will take over. I have no patience to hear your whining. If you cannot manage it, I will find someone else. There is no shortage of men in this city who dream of taking your place."
Clay's voice was utterly devoid of feeling, and the moment those words fell, both slave-traders bowed their heads again. Only now did they fully realize that to this Dragonlord, it mattered not who ruled Astapor beneath him. So long as his will was obeyed, they were all interchangeable.
And with that realization came fear. They knew full well how many greedy eyes were watching their position from the shadows. Whatever thoughts they might have had of slacking off were instantly swept away. They dared not risk losing everything.
So they waited, silent and obedient, as Clay continued.
"I will return to Astapor from time to time. But while I am gone, each of you will hold half the city's governing authority. The two of you must keep each other in check."
Clay had deliberately created two opposing factions. He was perfectly willing to tolerate a degree of infighting between them, even if it slowed the city's efficiency. What he absolutely would not allow, however, was for the two of them to one day reconcile and conspire against him beneath a façade of loyalty.
Kraznys had murdered two of his fellow Good Masters precisely because their interests had clashed within Astapor's original power structure. That delicate balance of rivalries had collapsed. Now, in its place, Clay was redrawing the system from the ground up.
He split the governance of the city cleanly down the middle, granting each of the two remaining slave-traders an equal share of authority—identical in scope, identical in power. And above them both, the highest authority remained firmly in Clay's grasp.
Under this arrangement, it was only a matter of time before these two factions became mortal enemies. The friction between them would steadily intensify, until they were locked in a state of utter opposition. And from then on, countless matters of importance would require Clay to personally step in and arbitrate.
But that was exactly what he intended!
By the time such conflicts took root, Clay would have already drained Astapor of everything he needed. Once he established a solid connection between Slaver's Bay and Westeros, he could govern this city remotely. There would be no need for him to run back and forth himself, even if for him it was nothing more than the press of a boot to the stirrup—or rather, a simple ride atop his dragon.
He turned to the two men and issued a new decree.
"From this moment on, you both belong to the banner of House Targaryen. Black field, red dragon. I don't want to see a single one of the old flags flying here again. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
At present, Clay still could not invoke the name "Manderly." So for the time being, he would drape himself in the banner of House Targaryen and let that legacy speak for him.
"As for the Temple of the Graces and the Green Grace who resides within it, I have no intention of interfering. Tell them this—so long as they support my rule, I shall grant them the honor and station they desire."
"I am sure they will remember Your Grace's kindness."
At this point, Clay had said everything that truly mattered. The core of the city's governance had been restructured, the future of the Unsullied had been addressed, and the local religious order had been appeased. The remaining details, the small and mundane matters, were no longer his concern.
But just then, Daenerys stepped forward, her voice gentle as she leaned close to Clay and reminded him softly.
"Clay, you haven't said anything about the city's foreign affairs. Astapor is a trading city-port. Now that the Unsullied are in our hands, this city needs a new source of revenue."
She had a point!
Last night, in the quiet moments after their fierce lovemaking, during the interlude between passion and sleep, Clay had talked at length about his plans for governing Astapor. Judging by his expression now, it was obvious that trade and diplomacy had slipped his mind completely.
"Well, you're right, Dany."
He offered her a warm smile and gently took her hand. Then his eyes turned back toward the two former masters who still knelt before him, and his voice once more rang with calm authority.
"I assume both of you still maintain your contacts with friends in Yunkai and Meereen, don't you?"
"Your Grace… we… that is…"
"There's no need to explain. I'm not accusing you of anything. What I mean is this—keep those contacts. Maintain the relationships. Tell them I have no intention of interfering with the slave trade here. Let them know that they may continue their dealings as before. My rule won't cut into their profits."
"Yes… of course, Your Grace."
"Also, I am well aware that Astapor has accumulated a large stock of slaves that can't be sold off all at once. That doesn't matter. Put them to work. I don't care whether it's weapons, food, or any other kind of production. Put them to use. I'll find you a suitable buyer."
He did not speak the words aloud, but Daenerys understood instantly. That buyer would be none other than Clay himself.
With his armies expanding, the demand for weapons and armor would only grow, and food supplies would have to increase accordingly to sustain them.
As for whether Clay could afford the cost?
What a joke. Did they really think he would come up short?
Anyone who doubted that had clearly never heard of the Iron Bank of Braavos.
Clay knew those generous gentlemen of finance far too well. So long as the terms were right, there was no sum they wouldn't be willing to lend.
Let Braavos bleed to fund Astapor's new economic development.
Clay was moved to tears just thinking about it.
Come, let us raise a glass to the greatness of the Iron Bank!
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[Chapter End's]
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