章節 2: Astapor
[Gulf of Grief. 21st day of the 7th moon. 299AC]
She pushed herself up from the floor, wiping the sweat from her brow as she grabbed the cup of water on the desk and gulped it down greedily. Ser Jorah had asked why she did the strange movements once before, and she told him a lie that she'd read about it in a book from Yi Ti. He seemed to take that as the truth and left her to her business, though he no doubts found her odd for doing so.
She turned around and looked at herself in the looking glass.
'Fuck...'
In just two weeks, she'd lost what little fat remained; her chest was smaller, not that she truly cared for that; her stomach was flatter and tighter, and her arms, legs, and back were toned and, in her opinion, fuckin' rockin'.
By all rights, it shouldn't be possible to look this... ethereal? 'Okay, calm down with the ego stroking,' Daenerys thought, her nose scrunching up in self-disdain.
But no matter what Daenerys thought, she knew she looked incredible. She felt like she could charm anyone in the world into her bed. Not that she would be charming anyone into her bed-
At least, not any men... Wink wink. 'Jesus Dany...'
Ignoring the sudden realization that she is now gay.
Daenerys lived an entire life as Jaime, thirty years, so why would she ever switch teams just because she lost the benefit of a shlong? Though, she did somewhat miss it... Not enough to cry about it, but either way, she missed it.
Anyway. Daenerys would never let a man touch her that way again; the nightmares of what that savage cunt did to her still woke her up in the night, shaking and aching and crying. Only her dragons could calm her down—Viserion, the gentlest of her sons, was the one to do so most nights as he cuddled up to her and allowed her to hold him like a giant, scaly teddy bear. His warmth soothed her.
Alright, enough about the trauma her... husband gave her.
She shook her head and closed her eyes, the pressure coming to her quickly. This was about all she could do, for now, at least. Not much, but hey, it was something. It still annoyed her, but she knew that one day she'd figure out how to strengthen her power and bring out its full potential. Well, she hoped so.
Opening her eyes, she saw the dim violet that always accompanied the pressure. So faint you would never notice unless you were looking for it. She shook her head, and the glow faded.
Daenerys opened the trunk and took out the dragonbone bow, and what a beauteous weapon it was. It was made of, you guessed, dragonbone, and the grip was black steel, etched with the image of a Dothraki warrior firing an arrow as his horse reared. It was the same bow she had given Aggo on the day her dragons were born, but when he died in the Red Waste, he had returned it to her, "Give it to the one who shall replace me," he had told her as she brushed out his braids and died on her lap.
'I'll do him one better,' Daenerys thought. 'I'll use instead.'
It felt right in her hands; the smooth black bone weighed less than anything of its size had any right to, and the resistance as she pulled the bowstring back felt as if she pulled air, but she knew that it would not hinder the strength and speed of an arrow fired.
She remembered it being used once, though she had not seen it with her own eyes. Drogo had killed the Hrakkar that made up her favourite piece of clothing while wielding the bow, said it pierced through the thick hide as if it were a babe's flesh. The white-lion skin cloak was more rigid than any leather armour, and she loved it. It wasn't hot, it wasn't heavy, and it just fit perfectly. That it matched her hair was a bonus.
'Hopefull dad's archery lessons paid off," she thought, remembering the painful days after each lesson. She missed him even more now, knowing that the father she was lucky enough not to meet in this life was a royal cunt.
How would David have reacted to being in this world? 'He'd probably throw himself off the side of the Wall.' The thought amused her greatly.
—————
[Astapor. 28th day of the 7th moon. 299 AC]
Daenerys walked down the gangplank, taking in the sights of the crumbling red-bricked walls, the trees, vines and flowers that grew on the terraces of the pyramids dominating the bay shore, the red dust clouds that seemed everpresent, the unguarded watchtowers and the rotting would that made them. And the old crumbling harpy above the harbour snarled with its ivory teeth bared.
'So this is Astapor,' she thought, unimpressed. In the show Jaime watched, the city seemed far grander, more livable, and just plain "cooler." But this was... it was...
"This is... sad," Daenerys muttered.
"It is not the grandest, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah agreed. "But the Good Masters are as wealthy as any and have powerful friends in Meereen and Yunkai, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Volantis, too, if the Priests of R'hllor decide it so."
"Still," she said, covering her mouth when a gust of red dust blew past. She coughed, cursed internally at the stains on her white cloak, and heard Ser Jorah cough. "A modest khalasar could crack this city like a nut and spill out the rotten seed inside. Though, I suppose the Unsullied void any thoughts of doing so." Ser Jorah, Belwas, and Jhogo all nodded their agreement.
As she and her small khalasar walked through the streets, Daenerys noted that everything, like EVERYTHING, was made of the same red bricks that made up the wall. The pyramids, the buildings packed together so close you could not walk through the alleys without feeling claustrophobic, the fighting pits she was unlucky enough to walk past. Even the older stalls in the market were made of those same bricks.
'Brick and blood built Astapor, brick and blood its people,' she thought, remembering. 'Ash and bone is Astapor, and ash and bone its people, indeed.'
People eyed her as she walked; from the cramped alleys, the stalls in the plaza, and the windows in the run-down house, slaves and slavers looking at her as if she was a mythical creature. She couldn't fault them that; they'd likely never seen a woman of the Old Blood of the Dragonlords before. She WAS a god-like beauty, after all,
'Stop that,' she thought, chewing her cheek in annoyance. 'Your ego's bigger than Trisha's tits, Dany!'
She spied a seamstress showing off her clothes not far from the Plaza of Pride. Ordering more apt clothing, Daenerys tossed the women a pouch of coins. She also had a few cloaks and half-capes made because, why not?
When she arrived at the Plaza of Pride, the first thing that caught her eye was not the immense bronze harpy in the centre or the Unsullied standing in groups of a hundred, but the girl with dusky skin and golden eyes that stood beside the fattest man she had ever seen. She inspected the Unsullied, but her eyes were on the girl mostly. Missandei, she remembered. She was a mix between the show and the book versions; the curly hair of the actress who played her and the golden eyes of Naath. Her eyes looked sad, and Daenerys yearned to see how they looked when she was happy. 'Would they sparkle?'
Only now did she take in the harpy standing over the fountain in the centre of the plaza. It was a monstrous thing of hammered bronze. She stood twenty feet taller than even Daenerys, with a woman's face, gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Yellow-gold water gushed from her heavy breasts, and in her claws, a thunderbolt of pure gold shimmered in the sunlight.
'So this is the harpy of Ghis that impressed my brother so,' she thought. Old Ghis had been brought to heel five thousand years ago by her ancestors, its legions shattered by her people, its walls pulled down, and its streets and buildings turned to ash and cinder by the dragons of Valyria, its very fields sown with salt, sulfur, and skulls. The gods of Ghis were dead, and so too were its people.
These pretenders that claimed themselves the heirs of that once great empire were poor substitutes, Daenerys felt. Their gods are different, their laws dissimilar, their culture different, no doubt, and their people far less imposing. Their language was not even the same; how could they claim to be the heirs when they could not speak the tongue of the empire?
"Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes," the slaver Belwas named Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to Missandei. That cemented the urge to kill the man in her. "I deal in meat, not metal. Tell her to look at the soldiers and see how magnificent my creatures are. Even the sunset savage can see that, surely."
His Valyrian was twisted and throaty; he sounded oddly like a growling Chihuahua. Dany understood him despite the roughness of his accent. 'Their language is even a poor copy of the original,' she thought, biting her smirk back.
"The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?" Missandei's voice was clear, clipped, and calm. She sounded lovely to Daenerys's ears.
"Very," Daenerys answered. "Though I hope this fat cunt will sell them to me." Missandei held her gasp and translated for the Master, leaving out the insult. Ser Jorah looked at her, at the Master, and breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that he didn't understand a lick of the common tongue.
"My Master says he will, for the right price," Missandei told her.
It went on for almost three hours back and forth; they spoke about prices and argued over how many Daenerys could afford with the treasure she'd brought along with her from Qarth. Gold and jewels, most fake, but some real. Not that she was going to give any of it to this pig.
Kraznys spat out insult after insult, and Daenerys returned each one with the same distaste. Poor Missandei struggled to keep the translation polite, but Daenerys knew it was wearing on the girl. She felt a little guilty, not for mocking the pig, but for making Missandei work this hard.
"I wish to purchase them all," she said. "All or none."
Kraznys laughed, wine spilling from the brim of his golden tankard and wetting his red beard. The man slapped his belly, saying she could not afford all the Unsullied AND the boys still in training, cut or not.
She had had enough of this and pulled a page from the original Dany's book. "I will give you my treasure, ships, and one dragon for every Unsullied you have to sell, including the boys." She gave Ser Jorah a sharp glare when he went to protest and watched Missandei quickly translate to the fat man.
Kraznys and the other Good Masters spoke in heated whispers. Some argue that a better client may come along later, and others want the gold and dragon instead of losing the chance.
"Three dragons," Kraznys said greedily.
"One."
"Two and all the Dothraki." Grabby fuck.
"I told you already. My treasure, ships, and ONE dragon."
Kraznys huffed and sat back on his throne, ignoring the other masters as they almost shouted at him to accept. He glowered down at Daenerys, whose eyes glowed as she looked through him. Kraznys looked away, unnerved, and nodded, agreeing to the deal.
Walking the docks to her ships, she glimpsed the cloaked man tailing behind them with a dagger gripped tightly in his right hand. She had wondered where he was, why he wasn't with Belwas on the ship in Qarth. But it seemed he was arriving like in the show. Not that she minded; she wasn't in the mood to put on a mummery for however long it took until he told her his real name.
The ball rolled against her ankle. Dragonbone. 'Wasn't this supposed to be a rare thing? Never mind that.' She looked at the girl standing on the pier beside the gangplank, a dainty little thing with dirty blond hair and amber eyes. She picked up the ball, put her hand on her, and shook the ball a little. She heard the rattle inside then, the faint tapping against the bone. The girl nodded, smiling as she pointed to the ball and twisted her hands together.
Daenerys's smile fell into a scowl, her eyes glowing as she threw the ball into the water, never to be seen again. The girl hissed, her lips turning blue and her eyes pitch-black, her nails growing longer and sharper and dripping with dark green goo. She heard Ser Jorah and her bloodriders move, but the cloaked man was quicker as he rushed by. But before he drove the dagger through the girl's skull, she fell back into the water and vanished.
Daenerys spun on her heel and looked at the warlock on the crumbling red walls. It was hissing at her so loud it sounded like a frog being squished, green goo spilling from its mouth, staining its teeth and dripping down its ragged cloths. 'Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew! Look at that, yuck, fucking- I'm going to puke.'
But she managed to hold it in as she turned around. The cloaked man was walking to them, sheathing the dagger in his swordbelt under his cloak. Ser Jorah, Rakharo and Jhogo stepped in front of her, gripping the hilts of their respective weapons. 'It doesn't matter what they do,' she thought. 'If he wanted to kill me, we'd all be dead already.'
He stopped walking, pulled back his hood and removed the cloth from his face. Daenerys nearly gasped at the majesty of his white beard. Ser Jorah, however, did gasp at the sight of him. He held his sword even tighter, and Daenerys could feel the nervousness from the bear knight.
"You know this man, Ser Jorah?" She played the fool.
"Aye, I know him. Ser Barristan Selmy," Ser Jorah told her. "The finest knight the Seven Kingdoms ever saw, and the Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard. I watched him cut down nearly three dozen men on Pyke. Robert used your sword to knight me, Ser."
"Aye, I remember you, Ser Jorah," Ser Barristan said, his blue eyes narrowed. "You saved Lord Stark's life that day. He was greatly disappointed when he heard of your... extracurricular activities."
'Damn,' she thought, 'the old knights got shade to dish out. ' She decided then and there that she liked Ser Barristan the Bold Selmy.
"Salutations, Ser," Dany smiled. "I've heard many things about you. You, good Ser, are a personal hero of mine."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said, a small smile hidden behind his beard. But his face quickly grew serious. "The Bastard King Joffrey Waters removed me from a post I've had for half my life. I have never been more shamed. Not a day later, as I left White Sword Tower, was I set upon by men calling for my head."
"And they lost theirs instead," Dany finished, and he nodded, touching the pommel of his sword. "Now, you wish to serve a dragon once again?"
"Aye, Your Grace. I was Kingsgaurd to your grandfather; he laid the white cloak over my shoulders. I implore you; allow me to join your Queensguard," Barristan said, dipping to a knee and bowing his head low.
She was glad he mentioned Jaehaerys instead of Aerys, her grandfather being a topic she'd much like to discuss with the knight late; had he spoken of Aerys, she might have sent him packing... 'Doubt that...'
"Belwas, Ser Jorah, how do you feel about adopting an older brother?" Belwas grinned, Ser Jorah nodded uncertainly, and Ser Barristan lifted his head with a broad smile.
—————
[Astapor. 30th day of the 7th moon. 299 AC]
Daenerys dressed in her new clothes—a pair of black breeches with inlays of red and gold silk down her thighs, a dark red blouse with little black dragons sewn into the collar, and a brilliant black leather belt etched to look like scales. A small red ruby kept the belt clipped around her waist, where she had a notebook strapped along with a dagger.
She flattened her blouse, tucked it into her breeches, and looked at herself in the looking glass. She tilted her head, smiled, and nodded; this is much more her style. What madness took her over, she didn't know, but she turned around and looked over her shoulder.
"DAMN." She blushed, not meaning to have shouted.
Shaking her head and slapping her cheeks, she tied her hair back with a second braid as opposed to the one she had been doing since Qarth. Maybe it was a little premature, but she was confident she'd be winning this "battle" with the Masters today.
What battle? You ask. Well, she'd be taking the Unsullied today. Yes taking. How scandalous!
Anyway. Daenerys spoke to Drogon, or rather, spoke AT Drogon, telling him that she wasn't giving him away, nor would she ever do such a thing to him or his brothers. And that this was simply a trick to gain power and start her campaign. Her grumpy son agreed in the end, but only after being promised an entire cow as a reward.
The Unsullied were necessary; they and as many men as she could gather before sailing to Westeros were all necessary. She didn't know what shape Westeros would be in by the time she was ready if they'd be under Cersei Lannister, Stannis Baratheon, or even Renly. The news didn't travel this far east, so she had no way of knowing the state of her Kingdoms.
Whatever state it was in, whenever she DID return, it would be with enough men to trample any opposing forces. She needed the iron throne, the Kingdoms united, to face the Long Night. Night King or the more horrifying Others, those icy fuckers were problems that needed to be dealt with, even if she didn't want to. She just hoped she wasn't the Promised Prince, so someone else had to fight the Walkers instead.
'How many candidates were there again?' Her, Jon Snow, if he is her brother's son, Stannis Baratheon, Arya Stark could be another, but that's just her thinking about the show; there could be thousands of others too. 'Fuck, I don't like not knowing.'
It doesn't matter. It was still many years before Daenerys sailed to Westeros. 'Seven,' she thought or hoped. She wanted her dragons to be far greater before crossing over. She would keep her eyes east, not west, and conquer what she can for now. 'I say that like it'll be easy.' She scoffed, shaking her head before leaving her cabin.
Her dragons begrudgingly climbed into the cages, sulking and looking away from her when she went to give them some reassurance. They hated this, and she hated it too. Dragons are supposed to be free, never locked away to grow sickly and die off like the dragons of her family had years before.
"After this, I will never lock you away," she whispered to them, touching each of their tails. "Never." And despite their annoyance at her, they trilled happily at the love in her voice.
—————
Daenerys had come to realize as he begged and pleaded and begged again for his life that Kraznys mo Nakloz was an ugly crier. He snotted all over himself, sobbing with his face pressed into the red brick. Around her, the Unsullied slaughtered the Masters of Astapor while her dragon sons set the walls and watchtowers in multi-coloured flames.
She glimpsed Belwas cleave a man clean in half, his legs running for a moment longer before falling a few feet ahead of his torso. The slaver's face was etched in agony as he saw his legs jerking and spurting buckets of blood in front of him. She might have emptied her stomach if she hadn't lived through the Red Waste or the House of the Undying; this was nothing compared to those horrors. The smell, however, the smell was.
Blood, smoke, ash, that was all she could smell clearly. But looking down at the broken Kraznys as he sobbed beneath her boot, the blood of his brethren flowing into his open mouth, she sensed something even more keenly than the other scents.
Fear.
She chuckled, kicked Kranzys in the chin, and spat on him before drawing her dagger and driving it into his stomach, making sure to miss his vital organs. She wanted him to suffer, to die slowly. This man was a monster among monsters, and Kraznys deserved nothing less than anguish.
When done with him, Kraznys lay writhing in pain on the foot of the raised platform in front of the lined-up Unsullied, his dazed eyes staring blankly at the clouds as her dragons flew overhead. His stomach had ten stab wounds, perfectly placed so he would survive until he had no more blood to lose. He wasn't dead; that was good. Let him suffer a while longer.
It was when the sun was setting over the horizon when all the Unsullied returned from the city. They fell in line with each other effortlessly, and even the young boys in training stood resolute. She pitied those boys, the younger ones, most of all. Five thousand boys, ranging from three to five and ten—five thousand babies no longer predestined to die.
'Gods...' Just thinking about that made her sicker than anything. She spat on Kraznys again, cursing him and all his fucking friends to the depths of whatever hell houses the worst of the worst. Her dragons sensed her anger and screeched, not quite roaring yet, but she heard them loud and clear.
She sighed deeply, calming down. 'Thank you.' And she heard the voices.
Mother.
Make them fear.
Fire and Blood.
She opened her eyes and looked to her left. Missandei stood stiffly, her hands in front of her, her golden eyes staring down at the pile of Masters stacked as high as the thrones they once sat. Though her golden eyes sparkled, and Daenerys smiled.
She picked up the whip off the ground, its silver handle stained red with the blood of the man who held it. These men served this whip so fiercely, so loyally. 'Fuck that. These are men, not dogs.'
She lifted her eyes, violet shimmering in the sun, and gripped the handle tightly. Ser Jorah, Barristan, and Belwas looked at her, troubled. Belwas eyed the whip for a moment before looking at her again. "Dovaogēdy! Ao issi dāez vali hae hen bisa tubis. Lo ao jaelagon naejot henujagon, naejot return naejot skoros lentor ao emagon, jikagon. Jikagon, se ao daor sagon judged nykeā ōdrikagon syt doing sīr. Ivīlībagon āeksion hae addemmagon killers, visit aōha homelands, nykeā join issa. Join issa se dāez ry lī qilōni kostagon daor glaesagon hae dāez vali hae ao gaomagon sir. Nyke jaelagon naejot qūvy ilagon se āeksia, naejot hakogon ilagon pōja pyramids se hoskagon, hae nyke emagon rūsīr these kesīr. Nyke jaelagon naejot gūrogon pōja cities, dāez se slaves, se tepagon, zirȳ lives bona issi sȳrkta than se ones pōnta sir glaesagon. Jāhor ao ivīlībagon pōja freedom hae nyke jāhor?"
(Unsullied! You are free men as of this day. If you wish to leave, to return to what family you have, go. Go, and you not be judged or hurt for doing so. Fight for gold as paid killers, visit your homelands, or join me. Join me and free all those who can not live as free men as you do now. I wish to tear down the Masters, to pull down their pyramids and pride, as I have with these here. I wish to take their cities, free the slaves, and give them lives that are better than the ones they now live. Will you Fight for their Freedom as I will?)
She threw the whip onto the pile of dead Masters. Rhaegal swooped down, unleashing his yellow-gold flame and burning the vile things to ash and cinder. It started small, ten, then five and ten, a hundred and soon, all eight thousand six hundred Unsullied banged their spears on their shields. The five thousand boys stomped their feet; they had not gotten their spears yet. She'd see that rectified soon.
'That is some Spartan shit right there,' Daenerys thought, her eyes sparkling.
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