Razdal, believing Daenerys was desperately trying to hide her greed, smiled and said, "If you agree to leave Yunkai, we will offer you gifts no less generous than these, allowing you to fully appreciate the Wise Master's generosity."
*This queen, who just barbarically seized eight thousand Unsullied, has probably never seen so much gold and jewels,* Razdal thought with disdain.
Daenerys glanced indifferently at the two bronze chests, showing no sign of greed. She already commanded over eight thousand elite warriors; with them, gold and jewels would naturally follow.
Remembering the frail slaves who had trembled slightly while carrying the chests earlier, Daenerys's lingering softness toward the Wise Master vanished completely.
"For the sake of these gifts, I will spare your lives—provided you release all your slaves. Otherwise, once I take Yunkai, buying back your lives won't be so simple."
Razdal seethed at her words. "You took Astapor through deception and barbarism! Yunkai has tall, sturdy walls, brave warriors, and powerful allies!"
"If you think you can take Yunkai with just three immature dragons, be warned: we'll shoot them down!"
*Hiss!*
*You think you can shoot us down? You're not ready yet. You'd need a few more ballistae to even stand a chance.* Drogon roared at Razdal, sparks flying and nearly igniting his magnificent robes.
"Your people promised you'd guarantee my safety!" Razdal shouted, frantically patting out the flames on his clothes.
"I did promise, but you chose to provoke my dragon. I can't help you now," Daenerys said with a smile.
"Lift the chest and let's go!" Razdal knew further negotiation was pointless. He barked at the four slaves.
Having witnessed Drogon nearly set the Wise Master ablaze, the emaciated slaves approached the chest cautiously. The moment one reached out, Drogon let out another roar.
Threatening to kill them while also demanding they carry away the chest? Drogon wasn't one for such compromises.
Seeing Drogon's ferocious expression, Razdal dared not speak further. Two larger dragons still circled overhead. If their roars attracted them, his death would be utterly pointless.
Furious, Razdal flicked his sleeve and boarded his sedan chair, leaving without a backward glance.
Once the slave owner was gone, Drogon flew to the chest of gold coins. He scooped up a handful, watching the coins cascade through his claws with a satisfying clatter. His little heart pounded with excitement.
Most of the coins in the chest were newly minted, their brilliance dazzling.
Though they had plundered considerable silver and gold from Xaro's mansion and Astapor, none of it had ever been displayed so lavishly in a bronze chest.
Seeing the golden glint in Drogon's fiery eyes, Daenerys smiled and asked Missandei to fetch a small cloth pouch. She set aside a portion specifically for him.
The coins in the pouch couldn't compare to the spectacle in the chest. Drogon clawed through them several more times, indulging his fascination before finally relenting.
"Ser Jorah, have you identified which mercenary group patrols the city walls?" With the negotiation deadline less than an hour away, Daenerys wanted to know her counterparts.
"They are the Second Sons, numbering around two thousand. They have a long history and formidable combat strength. Some knights and nobles have joined them in the past to hone their skills."
After hearing Jorah's report, Daenerys couldn't help but feel worried. While the Unsullied were formidable, they would undoubtedly suffer heavy losses in the battle against the mercenary group. With the subsequent siege, she dared not imagine how many Unsullied would remain.
An hour later, the Second Sons arrived as promised, still led by three men. The leader was tall with a gruesome scar across his left cheek.
Jorah introduced them: the man in the center was Mero, the Second Sons' captain; to his right stood the shorter Prendahl; and to his left was a handsome man with a full beard named Daario.
Is this one of the Dragon Mother's lovers? He's not bad-looking, but with me around, he doesn't stand a chance. Drogon seemed to sense something upon seeing Daario.
"L-lovers?" Daenerys didn't understand the term Drogon had used in his mind, nor how he seemed to know Daario would be connected to her.
She couldn't help but glance at Daario. He certainly had a masculine aura, but she felt no interest in him.
Noticing her gaze, Daario flashed what he considered a charming smile and nodded.
"So you're the Mother of Dragons?" Mero asked, glancing at Drogon with mild surprise as he strode forward. He was stopped by Barristan just as he neared Daenerys.
"Old man, can you still swing that sword?" Mero taunted, looking at Barristan's white hair.
"Killing you would be no problem!" Barristan replied with a smile, his gaze unconcerned.
"Hmph!" Mero sidestepped and continued, "No wonder you look familiar. That whore I screwed the other day was wearing the same blue dress—though she had nothing underneath. She was wearing nothing underneath." He made a move to lift Daenerys's skirt.
*Hiss!*
Drogon nearly spewed fire. Had the Second Sons not been invited, he would have burned them all to ashes on the spot.
Barristan, guarding Daenerys, drew half his longsword with a *shing*.
"I'm no sheltered Wise Master who's never seen blood. I didn't realize this little dragon of yours was so fierce!" Mero tilted his head, unfazed by Drogon's threat.
"You want my Second Sons? Kneel before me, and I'll grant them to you," Mero said, settling into his chair and looking down at them.
"Ugh!"
Mero felt a sharp pain in his neck. A shadow flashed before his eyes, and blood gushed from his throat.
Daario and Prendahl, seated in the parlor, finally reacted, drawing their scimitars and longswords from their waists as they stared in shock at Drogon, who had already settled steadily on Daenerys's shoulder.
They hadn't misseen. It was the little dragon that had slashed Mero's throat. He had moved too swiftly; by the time they reacted, he had already cut Mero's neck and returned to Daenerys's shoulder.
Jorah and the others understood what had happened when Mero clutched his bleeding neck. They swiftly drew their swords, also turning to stare at Drogon in astonishment.
They knew Drogon was formidable. Even when shrunk, he had made Rhaegal and Viserion scream in agony. But they had never imagined his speed and precision could be so monstrous.
The entire sequence—from flapping his wings to slashing the throat and returning—had been seamless. Not only Mero, the victim, but even Jorah and the others hadn't seen Drogon's movements clearly.
Mero's eyes, wide with terror, stared at the gushing wound on his throat, the pain searing his scraped windpipe. He didn't doubt for a moment that Drogon could have severed his throat with a single wingbeat.
*Why isn't your mouth dirty anymore?* Drogon asked calmly, fixing his gaze on Mero.
He thought he had struck the wrong place earlier. He should have aimed lower, to make Mero taste Theon's pain. But during the fight, he had wanted to try something else—to ensure Mero could never be so insolent again.
Daenerys stroked Drogon's back with satisfaction. She used to prefer patting his head, but after he dodged her a few times, she realized he didn't like having his head touched.
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