Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 314: The Liberation of the Unsullied V

In the Plaza of Pride, the Unsullied stood in disciplined ranks, a hundred soldiers per formation. From the front, they resembled a dense forest of steel. From above, they appeared like rows of steadfast brown shields, covering the square in an unbroken line.

Above them, a great dragon soared through the sky, but none of the Unsullied looked up. Their helmets, crowned with spikes, remained steady as a rumor spread quietly among the ranks: if they served the silver-haired young ruler long enough, they would be set free. If they earned military merit, their path to freedom would be even shorter.

Freedom. A strange word to them. Though their faces remained blank, a fire flickered in their eyes—one that couldn't be extinguished. The masters of Slaver's Bay had broken their bodies and tried to crush their souls, but the Unsullied were still human. And as long as there was hope, they were different.

Conwyra had become that hope.

The moment they saw him, they recognized the scent of one of their own. Yet his eyes were different—full of life and spirit. Conwyra had told them that he had adopted three children, who would inherit his surname.

Surnames. Another strange word to the Unsullied. Almost all of them secretly remembered their first and last names, the ones they were forced to forget. They thought they would die nameless, like worms crushed on the battlefield or leaves blown away by the wind, never to be remembered. But the idea of passing down a surname stirred something deep within them—an ember of identity long buried.

At that moment, Conwyra moved among the Unsullied, leading his soldiers with purpose. To them, he was a torch in the darkness, a flame that cut through the void. Yet, despite the warmth, it wasn’t enough. The moment he left their line of sight, the Unsullied felt an emptiness in their chests, a deep sense of loss, as though they were waking from a dream too soon.

Some of the younger Unsullied glanced up at the Good Masters on the platform. The eight most powerful Good Masters of Astapor owned nearly all of the Unsullied in the city. For now, those masters held their fates in their hands. But everything would change once the sceptres were passed.

Viserys stood on the high platform, scanning the crowd below. Almost the entire slave population of Astapor had gathered to witness the event, from the smallest child to the eldest slave. The only ones absent were the eight Good Masters themselves, who stood apart, isolated in their power.

Viserys cast another glance at the three dragons circling above the square. The largest, a yellow dragon, had grown to the size of a van—far larger than the young dragons from the original timeline. In Daenerys’s story, even Drogon, the largest of her dragons, had been no bigger than an ostrich at this age.

But these dragons, Viserys’s dragons, were far more formidable. A single pass from them could burn everything below to ashes.

But before that could happen, he needed to secure the Unsullied’s sceptre.

At this moment, Kraznys launched into his final round of boasting about the Unsullied.

"Your Grace Viserys," he began, rubbing his hands together eagerly, "the Unsullied are the most obedient soldiers you will ever command. The only thing they know is to follow orders. No matter how dire the battle becomes, they will never desert or surrender. They have only two choices: they will either win victory for you or die on the battlefield."

He paused, hoping for a reaction, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Good," Viserys replied flatly after a long silence, giving nothing more.

Viserys was waiting for the scepter, the key to controlling the Unsullied. He glanced around but saw no sign of it. His patience was wearing thin. Sensing his thoughts, Hoyt stepped forward and asked directly, "The Unsullied only obey the commands of the one holding the scepter. Can we have it now?"

At this, the slave owners exchanged uneasy glances. Kraznys, who had been leading the conversation, looked particularly unsettled. He forced a smile and replied, "Your Grace, the scepter will be handed to you before you leave with the Unsullied."

Why the delay? Why am I being treated differently than Daenerys? Viserys thought, frustrated.

"Why wait?" Regis interjected, his tone sharp with impatience. "We've already negotiated the price."

The slave owners, however, had their reasons for stalling. When they learned Viserys was coming, they had conducted a thorough investigation into his past dealings, and one incident in particular made them cautious—the Tyrosh incident. Viserys had seized control of Tyrosh with the help of a slave revolt. That, more than anything, had made them wary of him.

Because of this, they were treating Viserys very differently from how they had treated Daenerys. They weren’t about to hand over the scepter before he was safely "gone."

"Your Grace, you’ve bought the entire Unsullied force at once, which means you now hold the most powerful army in Slaver’s Bay in your hands..." Kraznys trailed off, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t exactly admit that they didn’t trust Viserys because of his history of inciting slave revolts. That would be far too blunt.

After all, it would be akin to kicking a powerful buyer while they were down.

"So, you're telling me you didn’t bring the scepter with you today?" Viserys asked, his tone laced with barely concealed irritation.

"Well... that’s true," Kraznys admitted nervously, "but don’t worry, Your Grace, we will certainly provide you with the most beautiful Unsullied scepter."

No scepter... A bold idea flashed through Viserys’s mind.

At that moment, the dragons circling above seemed to sense his thoughts. The largest, a yellow dragon, let out a sharp roar as it swooped down toward the platform.

The slave owners, who had never seen a dragon up close, recoiled in fear.

Instinctively, they stepped back, their once confident expressions replaced with panic. The sheer size of the dragon, now as large as a carriage, sent waves of terror through the gathered slavers. Even the mere sight of a beast that size would’ve been enough to make them quake, let alone a dragon descending upon them.

Whooosh—whoosh—

The sound of the yellow dragon’s wings filled the air as it hovered above the platform, its wingspan nearly five meters wide. The force of the wind it generated sent the slave owners’ elaborately adorned robes billowing wildly.

"What is he doing?" one of the Good Masters whispered in fear, watching as Viserys, calm and composed, made a light leap and mounted the dragon's back with ease.

“He can ride a dragon already? How have I never seen him ride before?” another slave owner muttered in disbelief.

A sense of dread swept over them. This was no longer the hesitant buyer they thought they were dealing with—this was something far more dangerous.

The yellow dragon shifted its weight, flapping its wings powerfully as if preparing to take flight. The force of the gusts stirred up dust and debris, sending the slave owners staggering back further.

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