Game of Thrones: I am Dothraki, not a barbarian

Chapter 87 Clues to the Slave Market

"Who are they?" asked Rahalo.

I just came out to get some fresh air and was attacked. What bad luck! It seems that no matter which world, it doesn’t end well for men to accompany women shopping!

He knew that he had offended many people, and that what was to come would eventually come, but he just didn't know who was the mastermind behind it.

"They have the marks of slave traders on them, like the emblems of shops."

Qiao La stripped off the assassins' shirts, pointed at their shoulder blades, and said firmly:

“Every slave trader would leave a mark on his goods to prevent them from escaping and to facilitate transactions.

As long as we follow this mark, we can find out who the buyer is and who the buyer is. "

Laharo stared at Jorah, trying to catch any abnormality on his face. Was his appearance here at this moment a coincidence, or did he have another purpose?
After all, he already has a criminal record.

After thinking about it, he rejected the idea. He knew Jorah's background very well. He was an honest man and a bootlicker. He would not have any bad intentions, otherwise he would have killed him in the first place.

He was confident that if he couldn't even control Jorah, he might as well retire early and sell salted duck eggs. He was destined to have no chance of ascending to the Iron Throne in this life.

Rahalo waved his hand casually. "I'll leave this matter to you. After all, you and these slave traders are in the same business."

Is there a problem, Ser Jorah?"

Jorah lowered his head, placed his right hand on his chest, and said respectfully, "As you command, Khal Rahalo."

After saying that, he squatted down, pulled out a dagger, and cut off the slave brand along with a large piece of flesh on his back.

Rhaharo gave Jorah a meaningful look, then left with Daenerys and the others.

Jorah wrapped the piece of meat in his tattered cloak and began searching the slave markets around Pentos for clues.

On this day, he came to a slave market in the southern part of the city, which was as busy as ever.

Under the scorching sun, the air was filled with the stench of sweat, blood and rotting flesh. Flies buzzed incessantly over garbage and dirt. The sounds of hawking, chains and whips hitting flesh rose and fell.

In the central open space, several slaves were lined up with their bare chests, their hands and feet shackled, and their bodies covered with grease to highlight their muscle lines in the hope of being sold at a good price.

A slave trader stood next to him, loudly introducing his "goods" to the buyers, with a beaming face and saliva flying all over his mouth.

On the other side of the open space, a group of young slaves were locked in cages. A buyer looked at their teeth and eyes, pinched their arms and legs, and judged whether their bones and muscles were strong enough to withstand long-term labor.

Several thugs gathered around an iron barrel with burning charcoal, picked up branding irons, and stamped the master's mark on the slaves. Smoke rose, accompanied by the smell of barbecued meat. The slaves screamed in pain from the burns, but the sound was soon drowned out by the noise.

In the corner of the market, a middle-aged man with scabies on his face sat behind a wooden table, chewing tobacco and holding a piece of oil-stained parchment, on which he kept writing names.

His name was Clovis, and he was one of the most famous brokers in Pentos. He made his living by bringing masters and slaves together.

Whether selling or buying, or having any special requests, he can do it as long as enough gold royals are paid.

Then Jorah recognized him, walked over, suddenly shook out his cloak, and slammed a piece of rotten and smelly flesh on the table.

Countless white maggots were wriggling densely on it, emitting a disgusting stench, but the slave mark was still clearly visible.

Jorah had been carrying this piece of flesh with him for three days.

The climate was hot and humid, and the flesh quickly rotted and deteriorated. Laharo's mission had been very difficult for him, and now he had no place to vent his anger.

"The man with this mark on his body attempted to assassinate Khal Rahalo," he said in a deep voice. Clovis frowned, his eyes wandering between the flesh and Jorah for a long moment, and he scolded, "Take it away quickly, I have never seen this mark before."

Jorah leaned over, staring at him intently, and said in a deep voice, "Answer whatever I ask. That will make things simpler. Perhaps if you look closer, you'll remember."

As soon as he finished speaking, Jorah grabbed Clovis' hair and pressed his face into his flesh.

Clovis wanted to scream, but as soon as he opened his mouth, it was filled with rotten flesh and wriggling maggots, and waves of pungent stench went straight into his nose.

He struggled violently to break free, but Jorah's hand was like an iron clamp, pressing his head firmly. The more he struggled, the more he poured into his mouth.

Seeing that their master was in trouble, four or five thugs immediately dropped their branding irons and ran over. They were all muscular and had fierce eyes.

Jorah had a blank expression on his face. He pulled out his dagger, pressed it against Clovis' neck, and shouted to the thugs who had gathered around him:
"I am Jorah Mormont, serving Khal Rhaeholm. Anyone who dares come up here will have to plan for their own death!"

The thugs' charge came to an abrupt halt, and they looked at each other, with a flash of fear in their eyes.

Although they were superior to others in the slave market, they were actually just slaves, and they usually bullied men and women by relying on their strength.

But who is Laharo?

That was a man who dared to pierce the heart of even the governor with thousands of arrows. Crushing these slaves to death was like crushing a group of ants.

"Why don't you think about it again?" Jorah pressed Clovis's head and said in a cold voice.

Clovis's stomach was churning and he couldn't help but vomit, but his mouth and nose were blocked, so he swallowed the gastric juice mixed with maggots and minced meat back into his mouth.

His body and mind suffered a thousand points of critical damage, and he finally collapsed and could only nod desperately.

"I'm sorry," Jorah said, releasing his hand. "I forgot you were speechless."

"Pah, pah, pah..." Clovis yelled at the top of his lungs, "I recognize him! The owner of the brand is Sirius, the slave trader from the slave market west of the city! A bastard from Slaver's Bay!"

After hearing this, Jorah turned and left without saying a word, while Clovis slumped in the chair in a mess, breathing heavily, his eyes full of fear.

In an alley not far away, two people were hiding in linen cloaks, staring at Jorah's back.

A strand of blue hair appeared under the hood of one of them. It was Aegon VI Targaryen, known as "The Little Griffin".

He had originally planned to come here to deal with Clovis, but he was a step too late, so he whispered to another person:

"Jorah is getting close to the truth, what should we do?"

"Then let's destroy the next clue before he does."

The man who was speaking was a large man with scars crisscrossing his face. His right ear looked as if it had been gnawed by a dog, and his left ear was completely gone.

He is Franklin Flowers, a former sergeant of the Golden Company, Jon Connington's most loyal subordinate, and a comrade-in-arms who has shared life and death with him for many years.

In the Battle of Pentos, the Golden Company was broken up, and the soldiers and knights either surrendered, fled, or joined other mercenary groups.

Only he felt unwilling to give up. After lurking in the wilderness for a while, he prepared to come back and seek revenge on Laharo.

He sneaked into the city alone to check the situation and accidentally met Little Griffin who was also seeking revenge on Rahalo.

(End of this chapter)