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King's Landing, The Red Keep
1st Moon of 58 AC
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The silence in the deepest passageways of the Red Keep was not the silence of peace, but of well-buried secrets. King Jaehaerys I Targaryen knew very well the fortress his uncle Maegor had finished in blood, and he knew that the best political decisions were not made beneath the Iron Throne, before the gaze of a hundred courtiers hungry for favor, but within the walls of empty rooms that absorbed whispers without returning an echo.
That night, inside his private chambers, only three men occupied the space illuminated by a seven-branched bronze candelabra. Beside the king stood Septon Barth, his Hand, a man whose coarse hands, more accustomed in his youth to books and tools than to light labor, were tightly intertwined. Across from them, stripped of his banners but clad in heavy chainmail and a leather doublet bearing his house's colors, sat Lord Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, Warden of the Stone Way and the most powerful lord in Dorne after the Martells of Sunspear.
The tension in the room was thick; the Yronwoods, unlike the other houses of Dorne, maintained a certain correspondence of letters with the Iron Throne, but those missives were driven more by courtesy and a curious approach to the dragons than by true friendship. Thus, although Lord Yronwood was in no immediate danger, he was still on enemy ground. On the other hand, the Yronwoods had never willingly accepted the supremacy of House Martell—a resentment that dated back to the arrival of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships centuries ago. Furthermore, the recent political ineptitude of Prince Oberyn Martell, along with a military race armed with pride and contempt for all others, had pushed the patience of the Lord of the Stone Way to its absolute limit.
"Prince Oberyn closes his eyes to his son's actions; he sees only the best in people and his close associates, while his spawn threatens my house, hunts in my domains, and does as he pleases without consequences," Lord Yronwood began, his deep voice weathered by the dry climate of the Dornish mountains. "My house has shed more blood protecting Dorne than the Martells have ever bought with their foreign marriages, and even now, they seek to subject Dorne to another war."
Jaehaerys interlaced his fingers on the table, observing the Dornish lord calmly. "Your discontent with Sunspear is no novelty to my ears, milord," the king replied. "The maestars record three rebellions and two dozen border disputes between your lineage and the Martells since before the Conquest. However, risking your neck crossing the Storm Marches to sit in my private chambers requires something more than a complaint about a boy whose balls haven't dropped yet or the bruised pride of your knights. Speak clearly: what threatens the balance of Dorne that forces you to seek the shadow of the dragon?"
Lord Yronwood leaned forward, pulling out a small map of the border between the Dornish Marches and the Stormlands.
"A madness, King Jaehaerys. A madness dressed in pride and ambition that will ignite the south if it is not cut from the root," the Bloodroyal declared. "Prince Morion Martell is weaving a web in the shadows that his father Oberyn seems unwilling to stop. My spies in the Arbor and along the Torrentine have confirmed that Morion has formally strengthened ties with Ser Borys Baratheon."
Septon Barth raised his eyes from the map, squinting beneath his thick brows. "Ser Borys?" the King's Hand intervened, his voice slow but heavy with gravity. "Lord Rogar's brother. The one who fled south cursing his own blood's name after the birth of the heir to Storm's End. An exiled and embittered man is a dangerous instrument, Your Grace."
"And more dangerous still when given an army, Septon," Yronwood countered. "Ser Borys is not alone in the Marches. He has established direct contact with the Vulture King, whose outlaw bands are multiplying once more in the Red Mountains like rats after the harvest. But what makes this a threat to the Iron Throne is the gold and steel flowing from the other side of the Narrow Sea. Factions from Myr and Tyrosh—men who hate the peace Your Grace has imposed on the trade routes—are financing a mercenary fleet. Morion's plan is simple and bloody: use the Vulture King's forces and the galleys of the Free Cities to launch a massive assault against the Reach and the Stormlands."
Jaehaerys did not move, but his eyes flashed with anger. An attack of that magnitude would not only destabilize the south, but it would also drag the Iron Throne into a war of attrition on terrain where dragons had already fallen in the past.
"And what does Ser Borys gain in this game?" the king asked.
"The Storm Throne, Your Grace," Lord Yronwood said with a cold smile. "Morion has promised him the backing of Dornish spears to depose his brother and claim Storm's End, arguing that the seat of the Durrandons belongs to him by right of primogeniture and was denied to him with the birth of Lord Rogar's son. In exchange, Borys will guarantee that the Stormlands will not intervene when Morion extends his borders into the marches of the Reach."
Silence reigned in the room once more as Jaehaerys processed the information. The political chessboard of the south was turning into a deadly trap. If he allowed Morion to attack, the Reach would demand vengeance, and the peace of the realm would be shattered. But intervening directly in Dorne meant bringing a war to the Iron Throne that had not yet begun.
"And what is your stance on this board, milord?" Barth inquired, observing the features of the Lord of Yronwood. "Your house controls the passes. You could stop the Vulture King's forces before they ever leave the mountains."
"My house will not shed a single drop of blood to shield the blunders of a Martell prince who despises us," the Dornish lord stated firmly. "I came here to propose a pact, King Jaehaerys. If the Iron Throne helps me overthrow the weakened lineage of Sunspear and installs House Yronwood as the rightful Princes of Dorne, I will ensure the mountain passes are sealed forever. I will deliver Morion Martell's head to you, dismantle the alliance with Ser Borys before the first galley from Myr touches our shores, and Dorne will cease to be a thorn in the side of your kingdom."
Jaehaerys looked at Barth for a brief moment. The Septon remained motionless, his face expressionless, but his fingers traced the hem of his robe—a sign the king knew well: it was time to negotiate from a position of strength.
"Promising Sunspear is a colossal task, Lord Yronwood," Jaehaerys said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "The Martells are loved by the smallfolk of the south, and their walls have resisted dragonfire in the past. However, the Iron Throne cannot allow Morion's madness and Borys Baratheon's ambition to jeopardize the peace I have fought so hard to build. I accept your alliance. The Iron Throne will back House Yronwood's claims against Sunspear when the opportune moment comes. In return, your forces will provide us with the necessary military intelligence on Morion's movements and cooperate with my men when the dragon banners cross the marches."
Lord Yronwood let out a held breath, a wave of relief he tried to mask behind a stern nod of his head.
"It is a pact of blood and stone, Your Grace," the Bloodroyal said, rising from his seat. "My messengers will travel by secret routes. You will know every move Morion makes before he even orders his horses saddled. With your permission, I must return south before the absence of the Warden of the Stone Way raises suspicion in the eyes of Prince Morion's spies."
Jaehaerys nodded, bowing his head in a gesture of farewell. Barth escorted the Dornish lord to the door hidden behind a heavy tapestry depicting Valyrian riders, ensuring the corridors were clear before letting him depart under the custody of a completely trustworthy Kingsguard.
When the door closed and the heavy iron bolt clicked into place, Septon Barth returned to the table. The candelabra had already consumed half its candles, and the shadows in the room seemed to have lengthened. Jaehaerys remained standing, staring at the map of Dorne, his hand resting on the hilt of Blackfyre.
"It is a dangerous gamble, Your Grace," Barth commented, breaking the silence with his usual measured tone. "The Yronwoods are proud and treacherous by nature when it comes to their feud with the Martells. If they think we are using them for our own ends, they could join Morion and set the marches ablaze with even greater fury."
Jaehaerys let out a low laugh, a sound devoid of joy that echoed against the stone walls.
"Using them, Barth? We are saving them from their own myopia," the king said, sliding his fingers over the drawing of Sunspear on the parchment. "Lord Yronwood believes this is a dispute over the title of prince and the control of Dorne. He believes that swapping the pierced sun banner for a portcullis will keep Dorne exactly as it is, only with his family on the highest dais. He does not see the full picture."
"And what is that picture, my king?" Barth asked, though in his heart he already sensed his monarch's answer.
"This madness of Morion Martell and Ser Borys is the perfect opportunity the Iron Throne has been waiting for half a century," Jaehaerys declared, turning to his Hand with a gaze charged with implacable resolve. "My grandfather Aegon tried to conquer Dorne with fire and swords, and he failed because he united all Dornishmen against a common enemy. Maegor tried the same, and only managed to have the sands swallow his armies. But now... now they themselves are cracking their own walls. Morion is inviting the mercenaries of Essos and the traitors of the Stormlands to pillage our realm, while Yronwood seeks our help to stab his own sovereign in the back."
The king took a step toward the window, looking out at the distant lights of the city's harbor beneath the starry night.
"We are not going to help the Yronwoods rule Dorne, Barth. We are going to use Morion's treason as legitimate justification in the eyes of the Seven and all the lords of Westeros to march south with the full might of the realm. When Morion launches his attack against the Stormlands, he will become the gateway to war; a breaker of the king's peace. We will enter Dorne not as foreign conquerors, but as peacemakers coming to quell a rebellion and restore order at the request of their own lords. And when Sunspear falls, there will be no independent Prince Yronwood. There will be a Warden of the South who will bend the knee to the Iron Throne. We will conquer Dorne once and for all, Barth. And we will do it using their own ambitions as the chains that bind them to the crown."
Barth nodded slowly. The diplomatic and military machinery of the Iron Throne began to move, not with the roar of dragons, but with the silent advance of conspiracies and crumbs that would choke the south.
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Essos, Astapor
1st Moon of 58 AC
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The heat of Astapor always carried the stale taste of old blood and red brick dust. Even in winter. From the top of his stepped pyramid, Kraznys mo Nakloz observed the horizon of the Summer Sea while a Lysene slave, whose eyes had been gouged out to ensure discretion, fanned him with large ostrich feathers dyed a pale pink. Kraznys wore a tokar of the finest linen, so light that it floated on the sea breeze, with fringes of gold thread that clinked against the cobblestones of the terrace. For a Good Master of the lineage of Ancient Ghis, the world was divided into two immutable realities: those who were born to hold the whip and those whose sole purpose was to feel it on their backs.
However, that morning, the immutability of Astapor was shaken by a vision that made Kraznys catch his breath, letting the smoke from his hashish pipe irritate his throat.
From the north, where the dead silhouette of the Valyrian peninsula lay in the distance, emerged a fleet unlike anything the Astapori had ever recorded in their port ledgers. They were not the low, heavy galleys of Volantis, nor the round-bellied ships of independent merchants from the Free Cities or the Summer Islands. They were twenty deep-draft vessels, aligned with a military symmetry that denoted a terrifying discipline. Their hulls were wide, built of dark woods that gleamed under the sun as if they had been treated with unknown oils, and their sails, square and taut, bore an emblem that was already causing negotiation tables from the Narrow Sea to the East to tremble: the purple dragon embracing a sword upon a black field. The banner of Xandar.
"They advance against the current without difficulty," murmured Podhar zo Loraq at his side, another of the Good Masters, whose hand trembled slightly as he held his far-eye. "Look at the design of the masts, Kraznys. Those ships cut through the water as if the current itself were afraid of them."
"They are the ships of the upstart," Kraznys replied, spitting toward the lower gardens of the pyramid. "The one who calls himself the Grand Khal, the King of Xandar. They say his ships are assembled in days, using pre-cut timbers and techniques that his engineers guard under penalty of death. But ships do not eat, Podhar. Gold does. If they have come to Astapor, it is because they need what only the bloodline of Ghis can provide: human steel."
The port of Astapor, usually a beehive of shouting in the Ghiscari dialect, orders from overseers, and the muffled weeping of newly landed human cargo, fell silent when the Xandarian fleet cast anchor in the deep bay. There was no chaos in the maneuvers. The brigantines veered in unison, furling their sails with a chronometric synchronization that suggested each sailor operated as part of a single invisible gear.
From the flagship descended a barge ornamented in bronze, escorted by twelve soldiers who wore neither the light fabrics of the south nor the rusted armor of ordinary mercenaries. They wore breastplates of a polished, grayish steel, with closed helms that concealed any trace of humanity. In the center of the retinue, standing tall and with a calm smile, was Ismael, the Minister of Trade of Xandar.
The meeting was arranged for that same afternoon in the Plaza of Pride, a space flanked by the monumental bronze statues of the Harpies of Ghis, whose claws held heavy chains over the heads of those present. The red brick ground, worn by the shoes of generations of soldiers, radiated a suffocating heat. The Good Masters had gathered on a dais covered by purple silk awnings, surrounded by three lines of Unsullied in perfect formation, motionless under the relentless sun, their three-pronged pikes pointing toward the sky.
Kraznys mo Nakloz occupied the center seat. Beside him, a young slave girl poured wine sweetened with honey into gold cups. When Ismael entered the plaza, accompanied only by two secretaries carrying heavy leather cylinders and a native translator from the Free Cities, Kraznys did not rise. In Astapor, showing respect to a foreigner was a sign of commercial weakness.
"It is an honor to receive the emissaries of Xandar in the cradle of true strength," Kraznys said in a low Valyrian, allowing his translator to adapt his words to the Common Tongue with a deliberately condescending tone.
Ismael listened to the translation without his smile fading a single millimeter. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, swept across the lines of Unsullied guarding the plaza, evaluating their posture, the rigidity of their shoulders, and the total absence of fear or will on their faces.
"I appreciate your hospitality, Magnificent Kraznys," Ismael replied, speaking directly in a fluid, aristocratic High Valyrian that left the translator of the Good Masters without a function, a detail that caused Podhar zo Loraq to adjust his tokar with discomfort. "In Xandar we are not accustomed to wasting time in unnecessary preambuls when the business of an empire awaits. I have not come here as a straggling merchant looking for a hundred or two hundred men to guard a caravan. I have come on behalf of King Caspian, and my intentions are as vast as the Grass Sea that my lord now rules."
Kraznys arched an eyebrow, taking a sip from his cup.
"Vast? The money of the khalasars is usually scarce, Xandarian. The Dothraki plunder and trade, but they do not understand the intrinsic value of Ghiscari coin. What does your king desire?"
"We desire absolute strength, Kraznys," Ismael said, taking a step toward the center of the dais, standing just a few feet away from the Good Masters. "Xandar wishes to buy every Unsullied that the city of Astapor has in its barracks, in its training fields, and in its breeding ledgers. I do not speak only of the cohorts that are already ready for sale. I speak of the veterans who guard your walls, of the youths who have just passed the test of the boy and the puppy, and of the children who barely hold a wooden sword in your inner courtyards. We want an entire generation of your human steel. Every last one of them."
A murmur of surprise and disdain ran through the Good Masters sitting in the shade of the awning. Kraznys mo Nakloz let out a harsh, loud laugh, a laughter that echoed against the red bricks of the plaza.
"Every Unsullied?" Kraznys said, looking at his peers with amusement. "The northerner has lost his mind in his steppes. Does this man know the price of a single trained Unsullied? It takes ten years of discipline, the cost of feeding, the loss of those who die in the process, the value of the gelders and the masters of arms. Buying an entire generation would leave the treasuries of Pentos or Braavos in absolute ruin. You do not have that much gold in your newly founded kingdom. Your ships are beautiful, but pride does not pay the bills of the Good Masters."
Ismael did not flinch. With a deliberate gesture, he signaled his two secretaries. They stepped forward and placed a map of Essos and a document sealed with the purple dragon stamp onto the low table of the Good Masters.
"Suspicion is the virtue of merchants who fear being deceived, Magnificent Kraznys," Ismael declared in a firm, serene voice. "But Xandar does not compete by the rules of the old market. We do not come to haggle over the price of human flesh. My king's directive is clear: Xandar will pay triple the standard market value for every Unsullied you deliver to us. If a buyer offers you a hundred coins for a soldier, Xandar will give you three hundred. We will triple any known competing offer that comes from the Free Cities, from the east of Yi Ti, or from anyone who still seeks to rebuild through the lances of the Unsullied."
The Good Masters leaned forward immediately. Kraznys's laughter died away, replaced by a greedy intentness that Ismael recognized instantly. Tripling the market value for thousands of soldiers meant a mountain of gold that would secure the opulence of Ghiscari families for three generations.
"Triple..." repeated Podhar zo Loraq, his fingers moving as if he were counting invisible coins. "It is an astronomical sum. But if we hand over all our soldiers to you, Astapor would be left defenseless. Who would protect our pyramids from the incursions of the horselords or the pirates of the Summer Sea?"
"Therein lies the brilliance of my king's proposal," Ismael continued, unfolding the document on the table. "Xandar does not come to strip you of your security; it comes to become your sole and definitive partner. The offer of triple the value is subject to a clause of absolute and perpetual exclusivity. Astapor will sign a treaty by which it commits to making Xandar the sole legitimate buyer of Unsullied in the known world. You will not be able to sell a single military slave to any other power, faction, or individual without the express and signed consent of the crown of Xandar."
Kraznys mo Nakloz narrowed his eyes, his political mind processing the implications hidden behind the gleam of gold.
Kraznys mo Nakloz, who was already stretching out his fingers eager to touch the gold in the open chest, stopped dead. The word exclusivity floated in the hot air of the plaza with the weight of an invisible chain. The Good Master slowly withdrew his hand, and his face took on an expression of cold, aristocratic cunning. The Good Masters exchanged quick glances, weighing the minister's words.
"An absolute monopoly," Kraznys said, his voice losing the warmth that the gold had provoked. "The king of the north is a shrewd visionary, Ismael. He wishes to deprive Meereen, Yunkai, Qarth, and the buyers of the Free Cities of the best infantry in the world. He wants the entire world to have to kneel before Xandar if it wishes to protect its walls."
"It is a advantageous commercial alliance, Magnificent," Ismael pressed. "Your flow of wealth would be guaranteed by the most prosperous empire in Essos."
"Your gold is tempting, Xandarian, and your galleys are jewels that we accept with pride," Kraznys replied, standing up and adjusting his tokar with deliberate solemnity. "But Astapor is not a vassal province of Xandar, nor are the Good Masters artisans who work for a single lord. The sovereignty of Ancient Ghis is cemented in our freedom to sell our product to whoever has the gold to pay for it. If we signed this treaty of exclusivity, we would become servants to your economic whims. If tomorrow your king decides he no longer needs more soldiers, Astapor would starve. If Qarth, Tyrosh, or the Magisters of Pentos come with mountains of treasures, we have the sacred right to open our gates to them."
Podhar zo Loraq nodded firmly beside Kraznys.
"We will not close the market that has fed our pyramids for centuries for an untrustworthy treaty," Podhar sentenced. "We accept triple the value for the twelve thousand Unsullied. We accept the ten war galleys and the ten chests of gold that your king, in his immense courtesy, has brought to our plaza as a token of respect. But the contract of exclusivity will not be signed. The pikes of Astapor will remain for sale to the rest of the world, just as our tradition dictates."
Ismael kept his gaze fixed on Kraznys. In his mind, he calculated the variables with the speed of the pragmatic man that he was. The primary objective of the High Council and Caspian's secret directives was to provide Xandar with an infantry force immediately—an anvil for their civilization. Securing twelve thousand Unsullied at once, emancipated and turned into the Royal Guard of the Spear under Xandar's control, was a colossal military achievement. A total monopoly on sales would have been the perfect stroke, but forcing the issue with the proud and stubborn Good Masters could jeopardize the delivery of the soldiers who were already ready. Xandarian pragmatism dictated securing the strength first.
"The crown of Xandar respects the traditions of Ancient Ghis, Magnificent Kraznys," Ismael replied, relaxing his posture and showing a perfectly measured inclination of his head. "My king is a man of realities. If the Good Masters prefer to keep their gates open to the fluctuations of the external market, Xandar will not impose chains on its partners. We will content ourselves with the twelve thousand men under the terms of the agreed triple value. The gift of the ships and the chests remains intact, as proof that our word is as solid as the steel of our swords."
Kraznys mo Nakloz smiled, pleased to have maintained his city's commercial sovereignty against the envoy of the emerging empire, without having lost a single gram of the offered bounty.
"Bring the parchment," Kraznys ordered his scribes. "Record the sale of the twelve thousand souls to the kingdom of Xandar. We shall seal this pact with the wax of the Harpy. If your king seeks men who know no fear, he may take them."
"The destiny of those twelve thousand men will be decided by my king, and it will be magnificent," Ismael concluded, maintaining an unperturbed countenance as he watched the Good Masters stamp their seals onto the pages of the simplified contract.
The evening began to fall over Astapor, tinting the pyramids a deep red that evoked the color of blood and old brick. In the port, the ten Xandarian war galleys changed their banners for those of the Harpy of Ghis, while Ismael's boats began to transfer the first cohorts of Unsullied toward the brigantines of Xandar.
Ismael had failed to lock the padlock of the global monopoly, leaving a gap for the Free Cities to continue seeking military strength in the south. However, he looked at the lines of disciplined warriors boarding his ships: twelve thousand men who, upon stepping onto Xandarian timber, would cease to be slaves and become free soldiers loyal to the Golden Tree. Xandar now had its iron anvil. The balance of military power in Essos had shifted definitively, and the return journey was only just beginning.