The red brick walls of Astapor loomed on the horizon as Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen—approached the city. The air was thick with the oppressive heat of Slaver's Bay, and the faint, acrid scent of human suffering clung to the breeze. The city itself was a monument to cruelty, its towers and markets built on the backs of those who had no freedom to call their own. But Jon wasn't here to liberate the oppressed. He wasn't Daenerys Targaryen, driven by righteous fury. No, Jon had a singular purpose—power. The Unsullied were the finest soldiers in the known world, and with them, Astapor itself would serve as the foundation for his rising empire.
Beside him, Ghost padded silently, his white fur stark against the dusty road. Behind them, nestled among the hills outside the city, Ancalagon and the newly hatched dragons—Rhaegal, Meleys, and Silverwing—waited. The dragons were still too young to unleash their full fury, but their presence was enough to tip the scales in Jon's favor. Astapor wouldn't know what hit it.
A City Built on Flesh
Astapor was a city of blood and bronze. The streets were narrow and winding, choked with the stench of sweat, waste, and the iron tang of old blood. Slavers barked orders in the harsh tongue of Ghiscari, their whips cracking against the backs of the enslaved. The Red Harpy, the symbol of Ghiscari pride and dominance, adorned every building, its cruel visage a reminder of who ruled here.
Jon moved through the crowded streets, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders to conceal Dark Sister and his Valyrian features. The whispers of the stolen dragon eggs had begun to spread across Essos, and while his name remained hidden, Jon took no chances. He couldn't afford mistakes—not now.
As he approached the training yards of the Good Masters, Jon's gaze shifted to the rows of Unsullied soldiers standing at perfect attention. They were a sight to behold—thousands of men, their expressions blank, their movements precise, their discipline unbreakable. They were not men. They were weapons, honed and perfected through years of brutal training and unspeakable cruelty.
Jon felt a flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or anger—but he crushed it swiftly. He didn't need to save them. He needed to use them.
Meeting the Good Masters
Jon was led into the grand hall of the Good Masters, where the city's ruling slavers lounged on gilded chairs, their bellies fat with greed and their fingers dripping with jewels. At the center of them sat Kraznys mo Nakloz, a broad-shouldered man with oily skin and a sneer that seemed permanently etched onto his face.
Kraznys spoke in Valyrian, his tone condescending as he inspected Jon like a piece of livestock. But Jon, fluent in the ancient tongue thanks to his Targaryen blood and visions from the weirwood, let the insults roll off him. His face remained impassive, his posture relaxed. He was a wolf among sheep, and they didn't even realize it.
Beside Kraznys stood Missandei, the translator. She was young—eighteen at most—with warm brown skin and intelligent eyes that flickered with quiet defiance. Her voice was steady as she translated Kraznys's words, though Jon could hear the subtle disdain she tried to hide.
"I wish to purchase an army," Jon said calmly in Valyrian, making both Kraznys and Missandei pause. The slaver's sneer faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of surprise.
"All of them," Jon continued, his grey eyes locking onto Kraznys. "I want every Unsullied in Astapor."
The hall fell silent. Even Missandei's usually steady gaze faltered.
Kraznys laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "All of them?" he repeated incredulously. "That is a… considerable purchase."
Jon's lips curled into a faint, cold smile. "I can pay."
And he could. Not with gold, but with fire.
The Bargain
Negotiations stretched late into the evening. Kraznys, ever the greedy fool, was quick to agree to Jon's terms when the young man offered something no one else could: a dragon. The largest of his brood—Ancalagon—was to be traded for the entire Unsullied army, along with their officers and trainers. The Good Masters couldn't resist the lure of such power. They believed themselves capable of controlling a dragon, of bending it to their will.
They were wrong.
The exchange was set to take place at dawn in the central plaza, where all of Astapor could witness the historic trade. Jon retired to his chambers for the night, but sleep eluded him. His mind churned with thoughts of what was to come, of the power he was about to seize. He stared out at the city from his window, watching the flickering torchlight dance along the red brick walls.
Tomorrow, this city will burn.
The Betrayal
The dawn broke over Astapor, painting the sky with hues of orange and crimson. The city's square was packed with onlookers—slavers, merchants, and slaves alike—gathered to witness the unprecedented transaction. The Unsullied stood in perfect formation, their spears gleaming in the early morning light. Jon stood before them, his face calm, his posture relaxed. In his hand, he held the whip that symbolized ownership of the Unsullied.
Kraznys approached, his greedy eyes fixed on the crate that contained Ancalagon. The dragon growled softly from within, the sound vibrating through the wood like distant thunder.
"The dragon is yours," Jon said smoothly, handing over the chain that supposedly controlled Ancalagon. In his other hand, he tightened his grip on the whip.
Kraznys sneered, barking orders at Jon in Valyrian, believing the foreigner still ignorant of his insults. "You are a fool, buying an army of eunuchs! When the dragon kills you, I will take them back and keep your gold."
Jon's expression didn't change. He let Kraznys revel in his perceived victory for a heartbeat longer before speaking, his voice low, cold, and clear in perfect Valyrian.
"A dragon is not a slave."
Kraznys froze, his face paling as he realized his mistake. But it was too late.
Jon dropped the chain, and Ancalagon erupted from the crate in a storm of fire and wings. The dragon's roar shook the very walls of Astapor as he unleashed a torrent of flame, incinerating Kraznys and the nearest slavers in an instant. The crowd screamed and scattered, but the Unsullied remained motionless, their training overriding any instinct to flee.
Jon raised the whip high, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Unsullied!"
Thousands of helmeted heads snapped to attention.
"You are mine now," Jon declared, his voice steady and commanding. "You will obey my orders. You will march under my banner. But you are no longer tools of these slavers. You serve me."
There was no cheer, no outcry from the Unsullied. Only silence, and the rhythmic pounding of spear butts against the ground in acknowledgment of their new master.
Claiming Astapor
With the Unsullied at his command, Jon moved swiftly through the city, crushing any remaining resistance with ruthless efficiency. The Good Masters who hadn't perished in Ancalagon's fire were dragged from their homes and executed in the streets, their wealth seized to fund Jon's growing army.
But Jon didn't free the slaves. He wasn't here to play the hero or ignite a slave rebellion. Astapor would remain a city built on chains and blood, but now those chains served him. The economy of Slaver's Bay would fuel his rise, and the fear of his dragons would keep the city in line.
Missandei approached him after the dust settled, her intelligent eyes studying him carefully. "You could have freed them," she said quietly.
Jon met her gaze without flinching. "I'm not here to free Astapor. I'm here to conquer it."
She nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. But she didn't leave. She knew power when she saw it, and Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen—was power incarnate.
The Dragon Revealed
As night fell over Astapor, Jon stood atop the great pyramid, the city sprawled below him like a conquered beast. The Red Harpy banners were torn down and replaced with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, its crimson sigil stark against the night sky.
The dragons circled overhead, their roars echoing across Slaver's Bay. The Unsullied lined the streets below, their spears raised in silent salute.
Jon raised Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel catching the moonlight, and his voice carried over the city.
"I am Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The blood of the dragon runs in my veins. Astapor belongs to me now, and soon, the world will know my name."
The people of Astapor—free and enslaved alike—fell silent, their eyes fixed on the man who had conquered their city with fire and blood.
Jon knew the world had changed that night.
He was no longer a shadow, no longer a secret.
He was fire. He was blood. He was the dragon reborn.