Chapter 37: The Second Sons
Razdal believed Daenerys was merely putting on a brave face. Smiling politely, he said,
"If you are willing to withdraw from Yunkai, then in addition to these gifts, we will offer you treasures no less generous—enough for you to truly appreciate the magnanimity of Yunkai's Wise Masters."
Inwardly, he sneered.
This queen who seized eight thousand Unsullied through brute force has probably never seen this much gold and jewelry in her life.
Daenerys glanced calmly at the two bronze chests. Not the slightest trace of greed showed on her face.
She already commanded more than eight thousand elite soldiers. With such strength at her disposal, gold and jewels would come sooner or later.
Her gaze drifted to the frail slaves who had carried the chests, their arms still trembling from the weight. Any lingering softness she might have felt toward the Wise Masters vanished completely.
"I will spare your lives," Daenerys said coolly, "on one condition: you release all your slaves voluntarily. If you refuse, then once I take Yunkai by force, buying back your lives will not be so simple."
Razdal's face flushed with anger.
"You seized Astapor through deceit and barbarism! Yunkai has tall, strong walls, brave warriors, and powerful allies."
"If you think three half-grown dragons are enough to take this city, then beware—we can shoot your dragons out of the sky!"
Hiss!
[You think you can shoot me down? You'll need a few more scorpions before that even becomes a possibility.]
Drogon let out a sharp hiss. Sparks burst from his jaws, scattering onto Razdal's robes and nearly setting the fine fabric ablaze.
"You promised my safety!" Razdal shouted, frantically slapping at the flames licking his sleeves.
"I did," Daenerys replied with a faint smile. "But if you insist on provoking my dragon, there is very little I can do."
"Take the chests—we're leaving!" Razdal snapped at the slaves, realizing there was nothing more to be gained here.
After witnessing how close Drogon had come to burning the Wise Master alive, the frail slaves hesitated nervously. One of them reached toward the chests—
—and was met with another sharp hiss from Drogon.
Threaten his life and still expect to take the gold away? Drogon was not that accommodating.
Seeing the dragon's ferocity, Razdal dared not argue further. Two far larger dragons still circled overhead; if his shouting drew their attention, he would die without even knowing why.
With an angry sweep of his sleeve, Razdal climbed back into his palanquin and departed without a backward glance.
Once the slave master was gone, Drogon fluttered over to the chest filled with gold coins. He plunged a claw inside and scooped up a handful.
As the coins slid through his talons with a bright, chiming clatter, his small heart began to pound wildly.
Gold.
So much gold.
Most of the gold coins in the chest were newly minted, dazzling to the eye.
Drogon had seized plenty of gold and jewels at Xaro's manse and in Astapor, but nothing compared to the visual impact of seeing them piled high inside gleaming bronze chests.
Seeing the golden light flicker like flames in Drogon's eyes, Daenerys smiled and had Missandei bring over a small cloth pouch, filling it with coins specifically for him.
Coins in a pouch were nothing compared to the spectacle of the open chest. Drogon scooped up several more handfuls, letting the gold cascade between his claws until he was finally satisfied.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys asked, "have you confirmed which mercenary company is stationed around the city walls?"
With negotiations less than an hour away, she wanted to be clear about who she would be dealing with.
"They're the Second Sons," Jorah replied. "Around two thousand men. A long-established company with solid combat strength. Some knights and minor nobles have even joined them in the past to gain experience."
Daenerys felt a knot tighten in her chest. The Unsullied were formidable, but fighting a mercenary army would still cost lives—and after that, there would be a siege. She did not dare imagine how many Unsullied might be left afterward.
An hour later, the Second Sons arrived as agreed—three men in total.
The leader was tall, with a savage scar running across the left side of his face.
Jorah introduced them. The man in the center was Mero, captain of the Second Sons. To his right stood Prendahl, shorter and stockier. To his left was a bearded, strikingly handsome man named Daario.
[So this is one of her's future lovers? He does look decent—but with me here, he's out of luck.] Drogon thought.
"Lover…?" Daenerys didn't quite understand the term in Drogon's thoughts, though it sounded like he already knew Daario would somehow be connected to her.
She glanced at Daario again. He was certainly masculine and confident—but she felt no particular interest.
Catching her gaze, Daario offered what he clearly believed was a charming smile and nodded.
"You're the Mother of Dragons?" Mero asked, briefly eyeing Drogon as he stepped forward—until Barristan stopped him short.
"Old man," Mero sneered, glancing at Barristan's white hair, "can you still swing that sword of yours?"
"Killing you wouldn't be a problem," Barristan replied mildly, smiling.
"Hah." Mero stepped aside and continued crudely, "Now I know why you look familiar. I killed a whore once who wore blue like that—nothing underneath, though." He reached as if to lift Daenerys's skirt.
Hiss!
Drogon nearly unleashed flame. If the Second Sons hadn't come under invitation, he would have burned them where they stood.
Barristan half-drew his sword in an instant.
"So you're not some pampered Wise Master," Mero scoffed, tilting his head despite Drogon's threat. "Didn't expect your little dragon to be this fierce."
"You want my Second Sons?" he said, dropping into a chair and gesturing downward. "Kneel here, and I might consider it."
—Thk!
Mero felt a sharp pain at his throat.
A blur flashed past his eyes, and blood began pouring down his neck.
Only then did Daario and Prendahl react, drawing blades in shock as they stared at Drogon—now calmly perched once more on Daenerys's shoulder.
They hadn't been mistaken.
That small dragon had sliced Mero's throat and returned in the blink of an eye.
Jorah and the others drew their swords as well, equally stunned.
They all knew Drogon was dangerous—he had already beaten Rhaegal and Viserion while much smaller—but none had imagined such terrifying speed and precision.
Strike. Cut. Return.
One seamless motion.
Mero clutched his bleeding throat, terror flooding his eyes. He had no doubt that Drogon could have killed him outright with a single wing stroke.
[Not so foul-mouthed now, are you?] Drogon regarded him calmly.
He thought he might have cut the wrong place. Perhaps lower—so Mero could experience Theon's particular suffering. If fighting broke out later, he might yet get the chance.
Daenerys stroked Drogon's back gently. She had once liked to pat his head, but after he dodged her a few times, she finally learned he didn't like that.