Under the relentless, scorching sun of Slaver's Bay, the yellow-brick walls of Yunkai felt like an oven.
On the battlements stood a crowd of Wise Masters, their high, lime-stiffened hairstyles drooping in the heat, their heavy silk tokars bordered with gold fringe dragging in the dust. They watched the allied host massing on the plains below, and a mixture of primal terror and deep-seated resentment flashed in their dark eyes.
Pazahar zo Myraq, standing barely five feet tall jumped up and down on his platform, his gold-tasseled silks rustling. "They have blocked every gate! The Wolf, the Stag, and the Rose... they have surrounded us just as we once surrounded Meereen!"
Pazahar was the commander of the "Heron Force", the ridiculous stilt-walking soldiers who had been trampled into a pink pulp by their own panicked war-elephants during the battle. The mercenaries had mockingly dubbed him "Little Pigeon" because of his short stature, and now, without his stilts or his soldiers, his authority was as hollow as his empty treasury.
"Where are the dragon-hunting scorpions we purchased from Lys?" a robust female general demanded, her hand resting on the hilt of a curved Ghiscari blade. She wore an exquisitely carved breastplate of black steel, featuring a gold-embroidered Harpy clutching chains.
She was a formidable woman, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, and she was convinced that if she had held the command during the previous battle, she would have brought down a dragon. Instead, the kinsman who had replaced her had died before the first arrow was even nocked.
"They were on the Volantene ships," Mayazon zo Rahzan, the "Second Ding-Dong" shivered, his voice a pathetic squeak. "But the fleet never arrived. They say the Stag and the Manderlys burned them near Dorne."
Mayazon's lips were blue with terror. His brothers had been burned to cinders by Rhaegal's green flames outside Meereen, and the memory haunted his dreams. His legs trembled so violently under his heavy tokar that two sturdy slaves had to stand behind him just to keep him upright.
"If the Volantene ships are gone, the scorpions are at the bottom of the sea," the female general spat. "We cannot hold these walls against three dragons without artillery. The Dragon Queen spared us once, but this Westerosi Regent... they say he is a butcher who flays his enemies and throws their ashes into the bay."
"I heard the same," Fazarha zo Fazar nicked "Rabbit Tooth" because of his receding jaw and massive front teeth, whispered, his pink tongue darting out in terror. "A spy from Meereen says the Karstark boy drove the masters of the Great Pyramid into the arena and let the white dragon play with them before turning them to ash. If we stay, we are next."
"Then we must think of a way to survive!" the female general commanded, crossing her arms over her breastplate.
"How?!" Mayazon zo Rahzan shrieked. "The Ghiscari legions have fled! The mercenaries are waiting for the gates to fall so they can plunder our vaults! And the Dothraki are circling our rear like wolves! I am leaving! I will take my gold and my slaves and board a ship for Qarth!"
"It is too late for flight," the female general sneered, pointing toward the western horizon. "Look at the sea. The Karstark fleet has already established a blockade. We have no road left."
In the distance, the black-sailed galleys of the allied navy were slowly closing the net.
The Wise Masters degenerated into a screaming, panicked mob. Men with ridiculous titles, the "Drunk Conquerors," the "Wagging Butt Generals," and the "Perfume Heroes" were all shouting at once, their faces pale behind their heavy makeup.
"Bah!" The female general spat on the flagstones. "A bunch of grown men, and all you know how to do is shiver like wet dogs? Hand over your private guards to me! I will lead them to the walls and we will show these Westerosi the price of Ghiscari blood!"
"You'll lead us to a funeral!" the Drunk Conqueror, a bloated master named Ghezzo bellowed. He had been clutching a half-empty bottle of Tyroshi pear-brandy, but now his eyes were clear with a sudden, vicious resolve. "The dragons will turn us to charcoal if we fight! The only way we survive is the Queen's mercy!"
Before the female general could draw her blade, Ghezzo lunged. His dagger flashed in the sunlight, driving deep into the soft flesh of her neck.
A wet, bubbling gasp escaped her lips. She fell to the stone, her hands clutching the wound as blood soaked her black steel breastplate. Ghezzo stood over her, his chest heaving, his face splattered with red.
"We cut off her head," the Drunk Conqueror gasped, wiping his blade on his silk robe. "We carry it to the Queen. We tell her this woman was the one who insisted on the war. We surrender the city, and we live. Who is with me?"
"I am!" Little Pigeon shouted. "We surrender!" Rabbit Tooth agreed.
In the face of 50,000 spears and three dragons, the pride of Old Ghis evaporated. They would trade their general's head for a chance to run away with their gold.
As the dusk fell over the siege camp, Viserion's massive cream-and-gold form descended. The white dragon flapped his wings, landing near the central pavilion with a force that sent dust swirling through the tents.
Eddard slid down from the dragon's neck. He wore his silver plate, but his head was bare, his bald scalp smooth under the stars. The smell of charred mutton and ozone clung to his cloak.
"Lord Eddard," Marselen, the commander of the Mother's Men stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "The Queen is waiting for you in the command pavilion."
"Good," Eddard said, tossing his riding crop to a guard. "Let's see what the masters have decided."
The grand pavilion was a palace of black silk, emblazoned with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of lemon-grass and roasting pork.
Kneeling on the rugs were a dozen Wise Masters of Yunkai, their heavy tokars so encumbering they required their slaves to hold them upright. It was a pathetic, glittering display of wealth and cowardice. Beside them, on a silver platter, lay the severed head of the robust female general.
Daenerys sat on her high-backed chair, her short silver hair a downy halo in the torchlight. She looked at Eddard as he entered, her purple eyes bright with relief.
"Lord Eddard, please, sit," she said.
Eddard sat beside her, his grey-blue eyes scanning the cowering masters. "What is this, Dany? Did they bring us dinner, or are they just here to show off their jewelry?"
"They have offered surrender," Daenerys explained, a tentative joy in her voice. "The Wise Masters have agreed to stop the slave trade, yield the city of Yunkai to our administration, and open the gates without a single drop of blood being spilled. The only condition is that they are allowed to depart with their families and their personal wealth."
Eddard's expression turned to iron. "No."
The word was a flat, heavy stone dropped into the quiet of the tent.
"No?" Daenerys asked, her brow furrowing. "But Ned, the city is ours without a fight. My soldiers won't have to bleed on the walls."
"A surrender with their wealth is not a victory, Dany," Eddard said, his voice level and cold. "The gold they want to carry away is the very blood and marrow they squeezed from the slaves we just freed. If you let them leave with their chests of gold, they will simply ride to Volantis or Qarth, hire another mercenary army, and buy a new fleet of scorpions. You aren't winning a peace; you're just funding their next campaign."
Eddard looked down at the cowering masters. "Yunkai's walls are built of yellow clay, not granite. My giants can turn them to gravel in a single morning. If we storm the gates, the city is yours, the slaves are free, and their gold stays in our vaults to pay our soldiers and buy grain for the winter."
The kneeling masters erupted into a frantic, weeping chorus of pleas, throwing themselves at the Queen's feet. They knew Eddard was a man of the North, a man who measured his treaties in steel, not in promises.
Daenerys looked at the weeping masters, her purple eyes filled with a deep, lingering conflict. She was still the "Mhysa" who hated the sight of blood, but she looked at Eddard's bald head - a permanent reminder of the price he had paid to tame her dragon and she knew his cold, transactional math was correct.
Eddard raised his hand, silencing the masters' cries, and looked at the young Queen.
"Let me handle the terms, Dany," Eddard said softly. "A soft heart is a beautiful thing for a girl, but it is a luxury a Queen cannot afford in Slaver's Bay."
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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