Chapter 38: The Road to Astapor

**Arren's Perspective**

The Dothraki camp moved like a living, breathing beast across the dry plains of Essos. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the intense heat radiated off the earth, causing the air to shimmer in the distance. They were nearing Astapor, the city of red brick, where the Unsullied—the most feared warriors in all the Free Cities—were trained, bought, and sold like cattle. The thought weighed heavily on Arren's mind.

The camp buzzed with energy as the khalasar drew closer to their destination. Though the Dothraki were not directly interested in the Unsullied, the warriors were intrigued by the prospect of reaching the city. The Unsullied were infamous even among the Dothraki, known for their unbreakable discipline and emotionless efficiency in combat.

Arren moved through the camp with a steady pace, blindfolded as always, though nothing escaped his senses. The heat, the sound of horses and warriors preparing, the scent of roasted meats from the fires—everything was heightened for him. His role had changed since Drogo's death, but Daenerys still needed him. He had become more than just a protector; he was now an advisor, though perhaps she didn't always see him as such.

The tension in the camp had been rising. They were approaching Astapor, and Daenerys's intentions were clear: she wanted an army, and she wanted the Unsullied. The men and women who had chosen to follow her, to serve her, knew they were on the cusp of something monumental, but they also knew the risks. Astapor was not a city easily conquered. It was a place ruled by slavers who held no love for outsiders, especially one who came speaking of freedom and dragons.

Arren stopped near a group of Dothraki warriors who were sparring with one another, the sound of steel clashing filling the air. He could sense their growing impatience. They were not a people who enjoyed waiting, and the thought of purchasing slaves to fight for them was strange to their culture. But this was Daenerys's plan, not theirs, and they followed her now.

A voice broke through the cacophony of the camp. "You're quiet again."

Doreah's soft tone pulled Arren from his thoughts. She approached him with a smile, her golden hair catching the light of the setting sun as she stepped closer. "What's on your mind?"

He didn't answer right away, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "Astapor," he said at last. "It'll be different from anything Daenerys has faced before."

Doreah tilted her head slightly. "Do you doubt her?"

"No," he said quickly. "I don't doubt her. But Astapor isn't just a city—it's a place built on cruelty, on power. The Masters there won't fall easily. And the Unsullied..." He paused, his brow furrowing beneath the blindfold. "They are not ordinary soldiers."

Doreah's playful smile faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. "The Unsullied follow orders without question. Daenerys will use them to free the world."

Arren nodded, though his thoughts remained troubled. He had seen countless warriors in his time, but the Unsullied were different. They had no will of their own. They were tools, nothing more. And while Daenerys spoke of breaking chains, she would need to wield that power carefully if she was to survive the challenges ahead.

Before he could say more, Daenerys approached. Her silver hair flowed in the wind, her expression resolute. There was something in her eyes, a mix of determination and quiet resolve that always struck him.

"Are we ready?" she asked, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension.

Arren nodded. "The camp is prepared. The men are ready. It's only a matter of time now."

Daenerys glanced toward the horizon, where the walls of Astapor would soon come into view. "The Unsullied will be mine," she said quietly, more to herself than to him. "With them, I will have the army I need."

"You'll have an army," Arren replied, his voice calm. "But it's not just soldiers you need. Astapor is dangerous. The Masters won't part with their warriors easily."

Daenerys turned to him, her gaze steady. "I know that. But I've come too far to turn back now."

Arren remained silent, his thoughts swirling. The city ahead held not only danger but opportunity. But he knew that no plan ever survived the battlefield. As they neared the city of slaves, he could only hope that Daenerys understood what she was walking into.

---

#### **Perspective of the Masters of Astapor**

In the heart of Astapor, deep within the red-brick walls of the city, the Masters sat in the cool shade of a luxurious garden, surrounded by lush foliage and fountains that trickled softly into marble basins. Their robes were rich and colorful, their fingers adorned with gold and jewels, the very symbols of their wealth and power. 

Daenerys Targaryen was coming to their city, and they were not impressed.

"The girl thinks she can buy an army," one of the Masters said, leaning back in his chair with a sneer on his lips. His voice was heavy with disdain, and the others nodded in agreement.

"Let her come," another Master added, swirling a cup of wine in his hand. "She'll pay whatever we ask. They all do."

There was a chorus of laughter, each Master reveling in the comfort of their superiority. They had ruled Astapor for decades, generations even. The city was theirs, and they had long ago learned that no one could challenge them. They controlled the Unsullied—those perfect soldiers who did not think, did not question, and did not rebel.

"And what of her dragons?" one Master asked, his voice filled with skepticism.

"Dragons," scoffed the eldest of the Masters, a man with skin like parchment and eyes sharp as knives. "There are no dragons. Only stories to frighten children. The last dragons died long ago."

"There have been reports from the Free Cities," the youngest of the Masters said, his brow furrowed in concern. "Astapor is not the first city to hear rumors of Daenerys Targaryen. She freed the Dothraki slaves."

The eldest Master waved his hand dismissively. "Dothraki slaves are nothing. Let her free as many as she likes. It does not matter. The Unsullied follow only the one who holds their contracts. She will come, she will beg, and we will sell her what she wants—for a price."

The others chuckled again, their arrogance palpable. The city of Astapor had stood for centuries, a beacon of power in a world of chaos. They did not fear a girl who claimed to be queen.

Let her come. They were ready.

---

#### **Illyrio Mopatis's Perspective**

In the opulent halls of his mansion in Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis sat at a large, ornate desk, the soft candlelight flickering against the gold and ivory decorations that lined the room. He had just received word from one of his informants in Astapor. Daenerys Targaryen was moving toward the city, her dragons at her side, and she intended to buy the Unsullied.

Illyrio's eyes narrowed as he re-read the letter. The young queen had come far since he had first set her on this path. Her dragons were no longer rumors—they were real, and they were growing. And now, she sought to add the Unsullied to her growing army.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the armrest. This was exactly what he had hoped for when he had arranged her marriage to Khal Drogo all those years ago. Daenerys was building power, and she would soon be ready to make her claim for the Iron Throne. But there was something else that intrigued him now—something that had reached his ears from multiple sources.

The *cursed warrior*.

Arren.

The man was said to be blind, yet undefeated in battle. He traveled with Daenerys, his loyalty to her unwavering, and his skills in combat unmatched. Illyrio had heard the tales, but he had dismissed them at first. Legends, he had thought. Myths. But the reports kept coming, and now he was beginning to wonder if there was more truth to them than he had originally believed.

Illyrio dipped his quill into ink and began writing a letter to his old friend, Varys.

*Daenerys moves toward Astapor. The dragons are real, but there is another I wish to learn more about. The cursed warrior who fights at her side—blind, they say, yet undefeated. We may need to keep an eye on this one.*

He paused, the quill hovering over the parchment as he considered his next words. Arren could be a problem in the future. If Daenerys became too powerful, too independent, she might reject the alliances Illyrio had planned for her. He had hoped to eventually secure her betrothal to his own son, but with someone like Arren by her side, that could become complicated.

For a moment, Illyrio considered having the man dealt with—quietly, of course. Men like Arren could disappear without a trace, especially in a place like Astapor.

But then again, killing him now might cause more problems than it would solve. The warrior was clearly useful, and Daenerys's trust in him seemed complete. No, it was better to keep