Chapter 322: The Unsullied

Morning sunlight bathed the courtyard, casting a golden glow on the twisting vines that climbed red brick columns. Bright yellow persimmon flowers bloomed serenely, adding a gentle charm to the scene.

"Good morning, Samwell. Care for a cup of sour persimmon wine?"

Daenerys sat languidly on a hanging chair, her crimson lips curved in a soft smile. One arm crossed her chest, the other holding a goblet. Her silver-gold hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her long, delicate legs swung idly beneath her silk dress. Her demeanor was relaxed, almost mesmerizing.

"Good morning, Dany," Samwell responded with a smile as he approached. "Drinking so early in the day?"

"It's an Astapor tradition," Daenerys quipped, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "A cup of sour persimmon wine in the morning helps you endure the day's heat."

"Why not?" Samwell accepted a goblet from her handmaiden, Irri, and thanked her before taking a sip.

The wine was tart and slightly sweet, with a faint alcoholic fragrance. It was indeed refreshing.

"Did you meet that familiar face last night?" Daenerys asked.

"I did," Samwell replied, his tone casual. "But he didn't seem very happy to see me."

Daenerys was about to press further when Samwell placed his goblet down and extended a hand toward her.

"Give me your hand," he said.

Surprised, Daenerys hesitated for a moment but eventually placed her right hand in his.

Samwell opened his palm, revealing a bracelet adorned with a ruby. He set it gently in her hand.

"Is this for me?" Daenerys asked, her curiosity piqued. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a flicker of firelight within the ruby, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Am I imagining things?"

"Yes, it's a small gift from me," Samwell said with a knowing smile. "The ruby symbolizes luck and protection."

"Thank you!" Daenerys's lips curled into a sweet smile. "Help me put it on."

Samwell obliged, fastening the bracelet around her wrist.

Daenerys lightly touched the ruby, feeling its warmth spread through her skin. A sense of sweetness filled her heart.

At that moment, Jorah Mormont entered, his tone brisk as he announced,

"Your Grace, the Good Master of Astapor has agreed to meet with us."

"Good. Let's go." Daenerys rose, draping a light scarf over her head. She naturally took Samwell's arm as they walked out together.

Jorah frowned at the sight and was about to follow when Samwell turned to him and said,

"Just the two of us will go. You stay here."

Jorah objected immediately, "That's unacceptable. The queen's safety—"

"Samwell and the dragons will protect me," Daenerys interjected firmly. "You'll wait here at the inn."

"Yes, Your Grace," Jorah relented reluctantly.

Outside, a luxurious carriage awaited them. An Unsullied soldier, wearing a spiked helmet, invited Daenerys aboard in a monotone voice.

She smiled politely, thanked him, and stepped into the carriage with Samwell's assistance. Her three dragons followed, clambering inside.

Samwell entered last. He intended to sit beside Daenerys but found Rhaegal and Viserion already occupying the space. Drogon clung stubbornly to her skirts, refusing to move.

"Is your dragon… here?" Daenerys asked hesitantly.

She still harbored some doubts about Samwell's plan. If the Unsullied refused to obey them, Cleopatra would be their only means of escape.

"Don't worry. She's here." Samwell pointed upward.

Daenerys lifted the curtain and squinted at the sky. It took her a moment to spot a faint white speck blending into the clouds.

Only then did she feel reassured. Turning back to Samwell, she asked sheepishly,

"Am I being overly cautious?"

Samwell chuckled.

"Not at all. You're the bravest woman I've ever met. Most women would have broken long ago after enduring what you've faced—assassination attempts, betrayal, death…"

"My brother broke," Daenerys said softly. "If he'd been braver, he might still be alive."

"This is a game for the bold. Without a strong heart, no one survives to the end."

The carriage moved slowly through the streets and soon arrived at the Plaza of Pride.

Through the window, Samwell could see rows upon rows of Unsullied soldiers.

The temperature had already soared past forty degrees, and waves of heat radiated from the sunbaked bricks. The distorted air made Astapor's pyramids look like shimmering mirages.

Yet the Unsullied stood unwavering in formation beneath the bronze harpy statue. Ten rows of a hundred soldiers each stood perfectly still, their cold, lifeless eyes fixed forward.

The carriage halted before a high platform at the edge of the square.

Samwell exited first and helped Daenerys down.

A slave girl with delicate features approached them.

"Esteemed Mother of Dragons, the Good Master Kraznys awaits you."

She led them and the dragons onto the platform, where Kraznys, a tall, lean man with dark skin and streaked red-black facial hair, awaited. Dressed in a gold-fringed tokhar robe, he held a short whip, lazily waving it in the air.

"Dragon girl, come and inspect my merchandise," he said impatiently. "Each one is a fine soldier. You won't regret buying them."

At his command, the Unsullied lowered their spears and shields, unbuckled their swords and armor belts, and stood bare-chested for inspection.

The soldiers varied in height but were uniformly lean and muscular. Sweat trickled down their faces, but none raised a hand to wipe it away. Their eyes—black, brown, or blue—showed no emotion, only an eerie emptiness.

"How are they trained?" Daenerys asked.

Kraznys prodded the slave girl with his whip.

"Tell her."

The girl explained,

"The Unsullied are selected at the age of five and trained from dawn to dusk each day. They are taught to master the use of short swords, shields, and spears. The training is so rigorous that only one in three survives. Those who endure earn their spiked helmets and become true Unsullied."

Kraznys added smugly,

"They've been standing here since last night, without food or water. They'll stay until I command otherwise, even if it means dying where they stand. That's the courage of the Unsullied."

"That's madness, not courage!" Daenerys exclaimed, her tone tinged with anger.

Kraznys laughed dismissively.

"It's obedience. You might find stronger, faster, or smarter soldiers, but none more obedient than the Unsullied. That's why they're castrated—men are ruled by their desires, leading to unnecessary complications.

"The Unsullied, however, possess something far more valuable than strength: discipline. One-on-one, they might not match your armored knights, but in formation, they'll prevail. They're the rebirth of the Ghiscari legions—utterly obedient, utterly fearless!"

Samwell interjected,

"The Unsullied have never fought Westerosi knights, have they?"

"No," Kraznys admitted. "But you've surely heard of the Three Thousand of Qohor. When twenty thousand Dothraki attacked Qohor, three thousand Unsullied repelled them."

"The Dothraki aren't Westerosi knights," Samwell countered with a smile. "Our knights wear steel armor."

"My Unsullied have steel will!" Kraznys snapped. To prove his point, he stormed down the platform and struck an Unsullied across the face with his whip.

Blood dripped from the soldier's cheek, but he didn't flinch.

"Do you want more?" Kraznys taunted.

"If it pleases my master," the Unsullied replied emotionlessly.

Kraznys drew the soldier's sword and ran its blade down his torso, leaving a crimson trail. Then, with cruel precision, he drove the blade into the soldier's groin.

Daenerys gasped, clutching Samwell's arm.

"What is he doing?"

Samwell placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"They feel no pain," Kraznys declared proudly, returning the sword to the soldier, who replied,

"It is my pleasure to serve my master."

"The Unsullied drink courage wine from a young age," Kraznys explained as he climbed back onto the platform. "It deadens their senses and makes them immune to fear. Do you still think your armored knights can best them?"

"Each Unsullied earns his spiked helmet by killing a crying infant in front of its mother…"

Daenerys trembled with rage, clutching Samwell's arm tightly. She whispered fiercely,

"Kill him, Samwell! Kill them all! Burn this vile place to the ground!"

Samwell held her trembling hand, smiled at Kraznys, and said,

"Good Master, we'll take your Unsullied."

"Ha! That's right!" Kraznys laughed. "How many do you want?"

Samwell's smile grew wider:

"All of them."

(End of Chapter)