The fires of conquest still smoldered in Astapor. The once-proud slavers now cowered in the shadows, their power shattered beneath the heel of Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen. The Unsullied patrolled the red-bricked streets with ruthless efficiency, their emotionless faces a constant reminder of the city's new master. High above, the Red Harpy banners of Ghiscari pride had been torn down and burned, replaced with the crimson three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The symbol fluttered in the hot breeze, casting a shadow over a city that had known nothing but chains and cruelty.
But Jon had not come to free them.
He had come to rule.
The Weight of Power
The great pyramid of Astapor had become Jon's seat of power. Once a symbol of the Good Masters' dominance, it now served as a fortress from which he would extend his influence over Slaver's Bay. The Unsullied maintained strict order in the streets, stamping out any hint of rebellion with ruthless precision. The slaves worked, the markets reopened, and life resumed under the shadow of Jon's dragons.
Yet beneath the surface, the city simmered with tension. The sudden fall of the Good Masters had left a vacuum of power, and while fear of Jon's dragons kept the populace in check, the scars of centuries-long oppression did not heal overnight. The freedmen whispered in dark corners, unsure of their new master's intentions, while the remaining slavers plotted in hushed tones, waiting for an opportunity to reclaim their lost power.
Jon felt the weight of the city pressing down on him, but he welcomed it. This was the crucible in which he would forge his empire.
Missandei of Naath
Among the spoils of his conquest, Jon had claimed Missandei as his personal slave. The young woman, barely eighteen, had served as Kraznys mo Nakloz's translator, her sharp mind hidden behind a mask of subservience. But Jon had seen the fire in her eyes, the intelligence that burned beneath the surface. She was more than just a slave—she was a valuable asset.
Missandei stood quietly beside him in the great hall of the pyramid, her posture perfect, her eyes lowered in practiced submission. But Jon could feel her watching, assessing, learning. He respected that. He needed people who could think, who could adapt.
"You speak many languages," Jon said one evening as they reviewed reports from the city's various districts. His voice was calm, measured.
"I do, my lord," Missandei replied, her tone neutral.
Jon studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Good. You'll assist me in more than just translation."
Missandei's eyes flickered briefly to his, a spark of curiosity flashing before she quickly lowered her gaze again. "As you command."
She was his slave in name, but Jon knew she could become more. Not just an assistant, but an advisor. Perhaps even… something else. But not yet. There were more pressing matters at hand.
The Iron Fist
Jon ruled Astapor with an iron fist. The Good Masters who hadn't perished in Ancalagon's fire were publicly executed, their bodies displayed as a warning to any who might challenge his authority. The slave markets remained open, but under strict regulation. Jon introduced reforms designed to slowly dismantle the foundations of slavery without sparking open rebellion.
Slaves were allowed to buy their freedom if they could afford it—a small, almost insignificant change, but one that planted the seed of autonomy. Harsh punishments were imposed on slavers who abused their property to the point of death. It wasn't mercy. It was control.
The people of Astapor learned quickly. Disobedience was met with swift, brutal consequences, but those who served loyally found unexpected protections under their new ruler. Jon wasn't interested in liberating the city. He was interested in owning it.
And own it he did.
The Whispering Winds
Though Astapor was firmly under his control, Jon knew his position was far from secure. The suddenness of his conquest had shocked the neighboring cities of Yunkai and Meereen into temporary silence, but that wouldn't last. The slaver lords would not tolerate a Targaryen usurper in their midst. They would gather their forces, forge alliances, and strike when they believed him vulnerable.
But Jon wasn't vulnerable. He was waiting.
Each night, he climbed to the top of the pyramid, watching the horizon as the sun sank beneath the waters of Slaver's Bay. His dragons circled overhead, their shadows flickering across the city like omens of fire and blood. Ancalagon, now fully grown, was a beast of terrifying beauty, his black scales shimmering in the moonlight, his eyes burning with a deep, primal intelligence.
Jon could feel their power growing, his bond with them deepening. When he closed his eyes, he could see through their eyes, feel the heat of their fire in his veins. He was no longer just a man. He was something more.
Preparing for War
Jon's next move was clear. Yunkai and Meereen were the heart of the slaver empire, and if he was to secure his hold over Slaver's Bay, they would have to fall. But conquest alone wasn't enough. He needed to break them, to shatter their spirit so thoroughly that no rebellion could ever rise from the ashes.
In the war room of the great pyramid, Jon studied maps of the region, his sharp eyes tracing the trade routes and supply lines that connected the three cities. Missandei stood beside him, her knowledge of the slaver cities proving invaluable.
"Yunkai relies heavily on its mercenary forces," she explained, pointing to a spot on the map. "The Second Sons and the Stormcrows protect their interests. Without them, the city is vulnerable."
Jon nodded thoughtfully. "Then we divide them. Sow discord among the sellswords. Make them question their loyalty."
"And Meereen?" Missandei asked.
Jon's eyes darkened. "Meereen will fall last. I want them to watch. I want them to fear."
Missandei said nothing, but Jon could see the flicker of unease in her eyes. She understood the ruthlessness of his plan, the cold efficiency with which he intended to dismantle the slaver empire.
But she didn't protest.
The Calm Before the Storm
For now, the cities remained silent, their rulers too shocked by the sudden fall of Astapor to mount an immediate response. But Jon knew the storm was coming. The slavers wouldn't remain passive for long. And when they finally moved against him, they would find a Targaryen ready to meet them with fire and blood.
Jon stood on the balcony of the great pyramid, the night air cool against his skin. Below, the city of Astapor pulsed with uneasy life, the people living under the shadow of his rule. Ghost lay at his feet, ever watchful, while the dragons roamed the skies above.
Missandei approached quietly, her presence a familiar comfort in the oppressive silence.
"Do you ever wonder," she asked softly, "if there's another way? A way without so much… fire and blood?"
Jon turned to her, his grey eyes hard but not unkind. "No."
Missandei held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding, accepting his answer even if she didn't understand it.
Jon looked out over the city once more, his heart steady, his purpose clear.
The world would bend to his will.
Or it would burn.