The dragon carried Viserys as it soared low over the heads of the Unsullied, casting a massive shadow across the Plaza of Pride. The wings of the dragon blotted out the sun, and its shadow swept across the disciplined ranks below.
Viserys looked down at the soldiers beneath him, most of them between fourteen and twenty years old. Their features betrayed their diverse origins—natives of Slaver's Bay, Dothraki, men from the Free Cities, Westerosi, and those with dark olive skin from the Summer Isles. Their hair ranged from black to red, flaxen to yellow, and every shade in between. Eyes of grey, green, blue, and gold stared blankly ahead.
These soldiers had come from all corners of the world, only to be ruthlessly castrated and shaped into warriors—human bricks in a faceless wall.
Suddenly, Viserys noticed a few Unsullied stealing glances at him from the ranks. Their eyes were far from numb; in fact, there was a flicker of something unmistakable—a spark of hope. They gazed up at the great dragon circling overhead, and for the first time in years, something in them stirred.
Viserys smiled. I know what these soldiers want, he thought. Conwyra's influence is spreading. He's shown them they are more than just tools of war—they long to reclaim their humanity.
"Unsullied!" Viserys called, his voice deep and commanding. He infused his words with magic, making them thunder across the square like a distant storm. His tone was firm, resolute, and full of passion.
The slave owners on the high platform watched in confusion, their expressions darkening. What is he doing? they thought, baffled by his sudden display.
"Is he trying to command the Unsullied directly? Impossible!" Kraznys muttered to himself, his voice trembling. "No one can command the Unsullied without the scepter. It can't be done!"
But as the slave masters exchanged nervous glances, their confidence wavered. Their eyes, once filled with the certainty of hunters, now reflected fear—fear of the man on the dragon.
"Unsullied!" Viserys called again, his voice echoing like a thunderclap. "From this moment forward, I, Viserys Targaryen, am your king! And you—" he paused, his voice swelling with power, "—you are my chosen warriors. I swear to defend your right to freedom with my life!"
His words reverberated across the square, echoing off the stone walls and into the hearts of those listening.
The slave owners were frozen in place. Kraznys's breath came in short, panicked bursts as a sense of dread crept over him. What is he going to do? he thought, feeling as if he were being stalked by something far more dangerous than a mere man.
The slave masters stirred anxiously, as if they had just heard the growl of a wild beast. Even the animals and birds nearby seemed to sense it—fear radiated from every corner of the Plaza of Pride.
"Impossible! No one can control the Unsullied without the scepter!" Kraznys gasped, each word more desperate than the last, as if he were drowning in panic.
Around him, Jorah, Regis, Hoyt, and the others instinctively gripped the hilts of their swords. Gerrold, silent and focused, had already drawn his bow, the tension in the air sharp as the arrow nocked in place.
Viserys's voice boomed across the square like rolling thunder. "Now! I give you your first order: Kill all those in robes! Kill the slave owners! Kill their guards! Destroy anyone who enslaves you and fight for your freedom! Kill!"
The force of his words was electrifying, echoing off the stone walls and shaking the hearts of everyone present.
"No—you can't! You'll make enemies of all of Slaver's Bay!" Kraznys wailed, his voice breaking under the weight of terror. But before he could utter another word, a shadow flashed across the platform.
The blue dragon, Vyrgion, swept down with terrifying speed, its talons driving deep into Kraznys's back.
"Ahhhhhh!" Kraznys screamed as the dragon lifted him high into the sky, his shrieks echoing through the square. At a height of 300 feet, Vyrgion flung him back down like a ragdoll, and with a roar, blasted him with a jet of black-red flame.
Just as Kraznys was plummeting to the ground, the green dragon, Baleris, swooped up, catching him mid-fall and tossing him even higher. His cries were drowned out as another wave of searing black-red fire consumed him completely.
The other slave owners stood frozen in horror, mouths agape as their leader was incinerated before their eyes.
Crunch.
Gerrold's arrow flew straight into the mouth of Grazdan, the tallest of the Good Masters. The arrow lodged deep, cutting off his final breath as he collapsed.
With two of the eight Good Masters dead in an instant, the others finally understood Viserys's plan. Even the dimmest among them realized the bloodbath that was unfolding.
"Help! Help! Protect us! Guards!" they cried, but their voices trembled with fear. The guards, too, were paralyzed, trembling at the sight of dragons and the carnage around them. They had never faced an enemy like this—a roaring dragon, hellish crimson flames scorching the sky.
Jorah, Regis, and Hoyt charged forward, swords drawn, cutting down anyone in their path. Chaos erupted on the high platform as blood spilled, the slave owners desperately trying to flee. But it was too late.
In a matter of moments, more than half of the Good Masters lay dead or gravely injured.
At that moment, the Unsullied in the square sprang into action. A panicked slave owner barely had time to react before a spear pierced through his abdomen. His entourage soon found themselves surrounded, overwhelmed by the relentless force of the Unsullied.
On the bleachers, the remaining slave owners tried to mount a last, futile resistance. But their efforts were in vain—Viserys, riding atop the yellow dragon, descended upon them.
"Dracarys!" Viserys commanded.
The yellow dragon unleashed a torrent of black and red flames. As the largest of the dragons, its fire burned with the intensity of blood-red embers and the darkness of a starless night. In seconds, dozens of human torches dotted the ground, their screams swallowed by the roar of the flames.
Dust, steel, and fire spread swiftly through the city. The stench of gunpowder and blood filled the air, and the cityscape was soon painted with the chaos of battle. By sunset, It had fallen under Viserys's control, and the Free Cities shook under the weight of the dragon's conquest.
From noon until dusk, the battle raged like an unstoppable force. Even as the sun set, the city, like a wild beast, showed no signs of calming.
Viserys's forces swiftly secured high-value targets: pyramids, treasuries, and supply depots. Cartloads of gold, silver, gems, grain, and weapons were hauled away, bound for his fleet. Among the activity, a small-eyed clerk named Jace, brought from Tyrosh, approached Viserys to deliver his report. The Astaporian accountants and clerks, now under military compulsion, worked tirelessly to take inventory of the spoils.
"Your Grace," Jace began, "the total value of the gold, silver, gems, and other precious stones we've seized is estimated between 6 and 9 million golden dragons. We've also acquired 3,768 suits of armor and weapons. As for grain, we control over 1.4 million pounds in the warehouses. However, even with the 70 merchant ships we've captured from the slave owners, we may not be able to transport all of it."
Viserys listened, pleased with the outcome. The spoils of a single city yielded immense wealth. His targets had been carefully chosen—only the grand slave owners who ruled from pyramids were looted. Smaller slave owners and civilians were spared from his wrath, though whether they fell victim to their own rebellious slaves was of little concern to him.
Beyond the familiar names of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor, the Free Cities of Slaver's Bay also included New Ghis, Tolos, and Elyria. Viserys knew it would be impossible to conquer all six cities at once, so he had focused on securing the wealth of the three richest: Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor.
And he knew that soon, the perfect opportunity would arise to complete his conquest.