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His tone was light, completely devoid of any weight, and yet, Kraznys mo Nakloz could smell the overwhelming scent of blood behind those words.
Only three out of five would be allowed to live. And the Dragonlord had not specified who—a problem he had now tossed directly into the lap of the slaver.
Should he tell the remaining four this grim truth?
Once fear takes root in the heart, even the simplest of statements from the one you fear become subjects of obsessive scrutiny. Kraznys mo Nakloz dared not test the boundaries. What would happen if, come tomorrow, there were more than three left—or fewer?
From his perspective, it was his boldness that had won him this firsthand information. And that in itself, he believed, was akin to being handed a temporary stay of execution. It gave him the upper hand, or so he thought, in dealing with the others.
Just as the Dragonlord had said—he had not named names. He only wanted a number.
"Did you understand me?" came the voice again, still calm but brimming with a quiet menace. "Don't even think about playing any tricks. I have a temper, and it's not a gentle one. Such a beautiful city... do you want to hear the lovely wails it makes when it burns?"
Clay's smile accompanied the words, but it chilled Kraznys mo Nakloz to the bone.
He paid no mind to the slaver's nervous stream of reassurances. With a flash of steel, the blade danced briefly, and the command whip—the symbol of control over the Unsullied that hung around Kraznys's neck—fell into Cray's hand.
"This," Cray said, examining the gem-encrusted whip, "we'll call it a gift from you to me. I'll return the favor—you don't have to accept mine, that's your choice. But now, I'm asking you for a gift. That's not unreasonable, is it?"
He flipped the scepter casually in his hand. Its material was hard to place, perhaps bone or some kind of stone, but it hardly mattered. Clay had no interest in such trivialities.
With a lazy toss, he flung the whip to the man behind him, Barristan Selmy, and said, "Hold onto that. Go gather the best of this slaver's merchandise and give me full control of Astapor. Anyone who dares resist… you have my leave to erect gallows in the Plaza of Punishment."
Clay cast one last glance at the slaver, whose face had gone deathly pale and whose body now trembled uncontrollably. He sneered and left him with a final remark.
"Once our esteemed Good Masters have sorted out among themselves who lives and who dies, we'll sit down and have a little talk about the future of this city."
In the earlier demonstration, Barristan had already seen clearly how the whip functioned. Though he still felt a measure of distaste for the Unsullied, the decisiveness and dominance Clay had just displayed filled him with a profound sense of respect.
This... this is what a ruler ought to be—ruthless, commanding, and decisive in killing.
Of course, he was not without a softer side. The hand that had so gently held Daenerys's was the clearest testament to that.
"Is this the true king the gods have gifted to Westeros?" Barristan Selmy asked himself silently, but no answer came.
Rather than dwell on it, he turned his gaze to Daenerys. She gave him a slight nod. With that signal, he raised the Unsullied's whip.
His voice, though hoarse and tinged with an imperfect accent, rang out in High Valyrian—a tongue he had studied in his youth.
"Unsullied! Hear my command!"
Though the old man's cry did not carry far, it hardly mattered. The moment his voice rang out, the ranks of the Unsullied snapped into order as one.
"Take over the defense of Astapor. Anyone who resists, raise your spears and blades and show them blood!"
There was no answer, no shout of acknowledgment. But as his words faded into the air, squads of Unsullied surged forward under their temporary commander's direction, scattering into every corner of Astapor like a tide of silent discipline.
Watching the scene unfold with satisfaction, Clay turned to Daenerys, who still stood slightly dazed by the speed of events. He gave her a light pat and offered her an invitation.
"…Daenerys. Bring your three children. How would you like to see the world from the sky?"
The young queen turned back to look at him. Her gaze shifted to the massive creature behind him—who also happened to be watching her intently. A flicker of hesitation crossed her features.
"I thought dragons could only have one rider?"
"Oh, please. That brute—if I want to take someone with me, he won't complain."
Clay's eyes swept over Daenerys' figure, wrapped in that silvery-white gown of hers. He gave her a slow, deliberate look before commenting with a faint, thoughtful tone.
"Hmm. You don't look very heavy. Gaelithox should have no problem carrying you."
Daenerys responded with a grand, exaggerated roll of her eyes.
By now, she had grown used to this kind of interaction with Clay. She had already come to accept this strange rapport between them. After all, she knew all too well what kind of situation they were in.
"Come on. Let's go," Clay said, his voice warm with amusement. "I'll give you a proper tour of Slaver's Bay."
With a keen sense of timing, Gaelithox bowed his head and lowered his massive body without needing Clay to say a word. The great dragon lay low to the ground, offering his back so the two of them could mount him with ease.
Clay gestured toward the jagged ridges along Gaelithox's spine, watching Daenerys steady herself and grip the nearest one. After making sure she had a firm hold, he gave Gaelithox a firm pat.
With a powerful beat of its wings, the dragon took a few running steps before leaping into the air. And just like that, for the first time in her life, Daenerys left the ground behind and soared into the sky.
…
Clay already had a clear idea of what would happen in Astapor. His public and ostentatious departure had been entirely deliberate. He wanted the power structure there to collapse and reshuffle without restraint or hesitation.
The reason he insisted on taking control of the Unsullied was simple. He had no intention of watching those precious warriors get burned to ashes should the situation spiral out of control.
He was certain that man would not dare defy his orders. By the morning two days from now, Clay fully expected to see two bloodstained heads delivered to him. As for which unfortunate souls would end up beneath the blade, he honestly couldn't have cared less.
It was now dusk. Clay flew with Daenerys across most of Slaver's Bay, letting her indulge fully in the dream of riding a dragon. Once that excitement had run its course, he steered Gaelithox toward a remote, uninhabited clearing deep within the mountains and guided the dragon to land.
There were things he needed to say to Daenerys, truths that could not be left unspoken. This moment, quiet and removed from prying eyes, offered the perfect chance.
With the ease of one long practiced in wilderness travel, Clay used a looted longsword to gather dry branches and twigs from nearby. Soon, he had fashioned a simple firepit. He did not need to give Gaelithox any commands. The dragon, as if knowing what was expected, opened its maw and let out a single, low breath. In an instant, the firewood was reduced to glowing embers.
The flames flickered to life. After a full day of flight, the great beast was weary. Gaelithox coiled its enormous frame into a resting position and nestled close beside them, its bulk radiating a comforting warmth.
Daenerys looked at Clay. He met her gaze calmly. Then, suddenly, the young queen broke into a soft laugh.
"Clay Manderly," she said, the corners of her lips curled in a smile, though her tone was sincere and thoughtful, "I must admit… you're truly something else."
"How so?"
Now that the door had been opened, Clay had no intention of refusing the opportunity to speak with her more deeply.
Cradling a lopsided little wooden bowl—one of Clay's makeshift creations—Daenerys took a delicate sip of cold spring water. The starlight shimmered in her violet eyes, reflecting the infinite night sky. Her voice was low, almost wistful.
"Do you know? I always believed I was the last dragon in this world. No matter how many people followed me or how many voices spoke around me, I always felt alone."
Clay fell silent for a moment, then spoke with a quiet steadiness.
"Ever since your brother died, hasn't it been that way?"
"Yes… after Viserys left me, that was exactly how it felt. I just kept moving forward. If it hadn't been for the birth of my three children, I think I might have lost all hope for the future."
Clay nodded slowly, offering his understanding. He could well imagine the burden she carried. A woman, alone in a foreign land, trying to raise an army strong enough to overthrow a dynasty—how could that not be a near-impossible task?
Take away the glow of destiny, and by the logic of the world, her journey should never have been possible.
But he said nothing to comfort her. He knew Daenerys had no use for such words.
"And then," she continued, her gaze lingering on him, her voice touched with an almost amused irony, "I met you. Gods… this sounds like something straight out of a poorly written romance tale, doesn't it? But that's how it happened."
She looked into his face, her crimson lips forming the words slowly, savoring the memory.
"At the time, I was in the middle of a discussion with my advisors about the dragons. Suddenly, Drogon and Rhaegal became extremely restless. They rose into the sky, agitated. And then… you came."
"You appeared from the clouds, riding that enormous dragon of yours."
"While everyone else panicked or cowered in fear, I actually had only one thought in my mind at that moment."
She paused, her eyes dancing with a mischievous light as she smiled at him.
"I realized I was not the last dragon in this world after all. Do you understand what that means?"
Clay offered her a faint smile but held his tongue. Of course, he understood perfectly well what she meant. But she wasn't really looking for an answer.
"I still can't quite understand it… where did you even find such a colossal dragon? Its name is Gaelithox, right?"
"Yes."
"A beautiful name. It's the name of the God of Sun, Moon, and Stars, isn't it? Did you name him?"
When she received his nod, Daenerys lowered her eyes and nodded slowly in return. Her expression shifted into something more complex, as if emotions too tangled to name were stirring beneath the surface. She looked up at him again and, after a moment's pause, spoke in a quiet and deliberate voice.
"Why didn't you come for me a year earlier? If you had come, I would have married you, Clay Manderly."
"It's not too late now, is it?"
Clay replied without hesitation. His tone was calm but direct. There was no need to pretend—Daenerys surely already understood the purpose behind his arrival. She was a Targaryen, after all.
A sudden silence fell between them. The only sound that remained was the soft crackling of the firewood, sending sparks dancing into the night air. Daenerys kept her gaze fixed on Clay, and he did not look away.
After a long while, she let out a breath and laughed gently. There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice when she finally spoke.
"Yes. It's not too late."
The unspoken wall between them had finally been broken. Both of them felt the tension ease from their shoulders. These past days together had been strained, the emotions between them tangled and heavy. Neither had dared to speak first.
But now that the words had been spoken, the silence was no longer a burden.
"However, there's one thing I must ask of you. I need an answer."
She looked at him steadily, her voice low but unwavering.
"Clay, if I marry you, then knowing the kind of man you are, I suspect you would rather place the crown upon your own head than stand beside me as husband. Am I wrong?"
She did not wait for a reply. The answer was already clear to her. Instead, she continued speaking, her tone calm and resolute.
"In the future, if we truly succeed in defeating the usurper's descendants and reclaim the Iron Throne, then tell me this—will the dynasty that follows bear the name Targaryen or Manderly?"
Clay looked at her for a moment and then smiled.
"You won't compromise, will you?"
"No, I won't. That is my bottom line. My children must bear my name. The legacy of House Targaryen must continue through me."
Clay had expected as much.
"And I, in turn, made the same promise to my grandfather, Wyman Manderly."
He paused, then added in a steady voice.
"So, our children will bear both our names. In return, the vast lands of House Manderly will become the royal domain. How does that sound to you?"
Daenerys said nothing at first. She understood this was the greatest concession Clay could make. After all, Clay Manderly had no real need for her now.
With a giant dragon at his command, the name Manderly alone could become the foundation of a new dynasty of dragonlords. She was, in truth, the one who stood to benefit.
She pushed those thoughts aside and gave a quiet laugh.
"Speaking of children with a woman you haven't even married yet. That's hardly proper."
"Does the Mother of Dragons wish for a child?"
"Hard to say. But perhaps… now might be a good time. Don't you think so, Clay Manderly?"
Gaelithox turned his massive head and glanced at the two humans beside the fire. With a low huff, he exhaled softly and shifted his body, draping one great wing protectively over the three young dragons still sleeping nearby.
He had always been remarkably perceptive…
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[Chapter End's]
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