15: Chapter 15 The Smell of Blood

There were no gems at the docks of Astapor. No silk. No spices.

Only row after row of slave trading platforms. Built of wood, with people standing on them. Naked. Price tags hanging around their necks.

The sun beat down mercilessly.

No one spoke.

Daenerys Targaryen stood at the prow, her fingers gripping the railing. Her knuckles were white.

"This place... is filled with the scent of suffering."

Drogon lay perched on her shoulder. His slit pupils swept across the docks.

The Unsullied. Standing in rows upon the plaza, their black skin glistening under the scorching sun. Bronze helmets, with spikes on top pointing straight up at the sky. No one moved. No one blinked. Living men had turned into statues.

"Suffering. Fear. And greed."

Drogon's voice was very soft.

"Mother. The 'Great Masters' here are more deserving of death than the merchants of Qarth."

He sniffed the air.

"I can smell the stench of their rotting souls."

Jorah spat on the ground behind them. Barristan Selmy—the old knight who had just followed them from Qarth—kept his hand on his sword hilt, silent. His eyes were watching the Unsullied. Not as slaves. But as warriors.

Drogon was watching too.

Eight thousand of them. All eunuchs. Castrated from a young age, fed courage potions, doing only three things every day—training, killing, waiting to die.

Their combat ability was immense. Their loyalty was absolute.

Drogon licked the corner of his mouth.

If this unit could be recruited, Daenerys Targaryen's startup team would officially be legitimized.

A man sat in the council chamber.

Or rather, he was sprawled. He was too fat. His buttocks were sunken into an ivory chair, his belly folded into three layers, his fingers covered in rings.

Rubies. Sapphires. Emeralds.

And a ring made of dragon glass.

Drogon's pupils locked onto that ring. It was square. Pitch black. The face of the ring was engraved with inscriptions in Old Valyria.

Dragon glass from Westeros? No. Not from Westeros. The vibration was different. Older. Purer.

The fat man was speaking. Muttering away, not in the Common Tongue, but in Low Valyrian. Drogon understood it—the "Language Mastery" from the system covered dialects as well.

"Three dragons. All of them. In exchange for eight thousand Unsullied."

Beside him stood a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Brown skin. Curly hair. Amber eyes. She was translating. Her voice was very soft; she dared not look up at Daenerys Targaryen.

The fat man spoke again. This time, he pointed at Drogon.

"Vezhof. Rizh. Kiz."

Waste. Lizard. Worthless.

The girl froze. Her lips trembled, and she dared not translate.

Daenerys Targaryen's gaze turned cold. Jorah's hand pressed onto his sword hilt.

Drogon spoke first. In a High Valyrian accent—ten times more standard than the fat man's. Ancient grammatical pronunciation, even the intonation was the kind used in the King's Landing court four hundred years ago.

"He says I am a worthless lizard?"

The fat man's smile froze on his face.

Drogon flew up from Daenerys Targaryen's shoulder. Hovering in front of the fat man. His slit pupils fixed on the man's eyes. Three inches away.

"Very well. Keep translating for him—"

He lowered his head, staring at the dragon glass ring on the fat man's hand.

"Tell this pig. That ring on his hand. I want it."

The translator girl was stunned. Her mouth hanging open, forgetting to close it.

The fat man understood—he understood High Valyrian, he just couldn't speak it fluently. The fat on his face quivered three times.

Then he laughed.

Not out of fear. But out of greed.

The look in his eyes when he looked at Drogon changed. Not looking at a monster. Looking at a price tag.

"Good! A dragon that can speak—even more valuable!"

The fat man's Common Tongue was terrible. Every word dripped with excitement.

"All of them! Three dragons—in exchange for eight thousand Unsullied! Hand over the dragons, hand over the whip!"

He held up a whip. Gold handle. Rubies inlaid on the pommel. The whip itself was braided from rhinoceros hide, oily and glistening. That was the commander's whip of the Unsullied. Whoever held this whip was the master of the eight thousand Unsullied.

Daenerys Targaryen stared at the whip. Silent.

Drogon was counting her heartbeats. Three seconds. From eighty-something it spiked to one hundred twenty, then dropped back to eighty.

She was calculating. Not calculating the price. Calculating the risk.

Then she tilted her head. Looking at Drogon.

"Drogon."

Her voice was very soft. Drogon heard what was inside it. Not an order. Not a discussion. It was trust.

Do you want me to agree to him?

Drogon rubbed against her cheek.

"Agree to him."

His voice was low enough that only she could hear.

"Do not worry about us. I already have a—surprise."

Daenerys Targaryen looked at him for a second. Turned her head. Said to the fat man.

"Deal."

The fat man laughed, his three chins shaking.

Drogon sank into his consciousness.

The system panel lit up in the darkness.

At the very bottom of the attribute bar, an icon was flashing. A symbol of a human and dragon overlapping. It had always been gray before. Now it was glowing with a dark red light.

"Bloodline 355 detected. Element 55. Hidden conditions met—"

He didn't finish reading. He scrolled straight down.

"Draconic High-Tier Talent 'Shape-Shifting (Basic)'. Unlock conditions: High-Intelligence Soul + Transcendent Bloodline Awakening + Sufficient Dragon Glass Energy Reserves. Spend 500 attribute points to unlock?"

"Note: Upon shaping, you gain a human form, retaining some draconic characteristics. Attribute inheritance rate 80%. Skills like Dragon Breath can be partially converted into humanoid martial arts."

Drogon's eyelid twitched.

Shape-shifting. Becoming human.

He had been a human for twenty-eight years in his previous life, and a dragon for only a few months in this one. Now he had to change back?

A scene flashed through his consciousness.

Daenerys Targaryen kneeling in the ashes. Tears on her face. Holding three eggs in her arms. Lips cracked. Voice trembling.

"Please... come out..."

He closed the note.

"Unlock."

"500 attribute points deducted."

"Shape-shifting transformation started. Estimated time: 3 hours. Do not suffer fatal damage during this period."

He clicked on Bloodline again.

"Remaining 305—add all to Bloodline."

The numbers began to jump. 355. 400. 500. 600.

Stop.

660.

Consciousness withdrew from the system. He opened his eyes. Daenerys Targaryen was signing the contract. Beside her, Rhaegal and Viserion were locked in iron cages. The two little ones were curled up, their wings trembling. They felt something—not Drogon's killing intent. It was his silence.

Daenerys Targaryen finished signing. She turned to look at him.

Drogon closed his eyes.

Beneath his scales, a dark light began to flow.

Three hours. Just in time for when they were ready to make their move.