With the overthrow of the Great Masters, the vast population of freedmen now had the power to choose. At present, Astapor was a city awaitin
With the overthrow of the Great Masters, the vast population of freedmen now had the power to choose. At present, Astapor was a city awaiting rebirth, its systems in disarray and its future uncertain.
At dawn the next day, as the sun began to rise, Drogo ordered the Bloodriders to travel throughout the city to seek out respected representatives among the freedmen in the Red Brick City.
If a royal council was to be held, it had to include the voices of those who truly understood the needs of the people.
Among Drogo's followers, most were warriors without political minds. Only Jorah Mormont, with his wealth of experience, stood out—after all, the old bear had once ruled an island.
As for the Bloodriders, the newly appointed Unsullied commander Grey Worm, and others—they were brave and ruthless in battle, but had no concept of governance or civil administration.
Though Astapor was but a speck on the vast map of the world, it was still widely known—one of the three great powers in Slaver's Bay.
Drogo believed that even if the city's hierarchy and bureaucratic systems were not yet in place, the founding of a new government must be carried out with ceremony and gravity.
Even if the council ended up being chaotic and lacking order, and even if all decisions ultimately fell to him, he firmly refused to allow the noble lords who still resided in the pyramid to participate—not because he resented wealth or favored the poor, but because, in his mind, those so-called "Sons of the Harpy," the Ghiscari nobles, were likely to become saboteurs who resisted reform.
Astapor's economy had always depended on the slave trade. Now that this source of wealth had been destroyed, it was hard to imagine these lords taking it lying down.
But Drogo had already made his decision—any Ghiscari noble who dared to incite rebellion, whether in secret or openly, would be dealt with swiftly: exile at best, execution at worst.
The royal palace stood at the heart of the great city—a golden pyramid, towering over all of Astapor.
It had once belonged to the Great Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. Last night, Drogo and Daenerys had moved in, as it was the only residence worthy of their status.
Drogo stood quietly at the balcony railing. After waking with him, Daenerys had taken over an hour to wash, dress, and adorn herself. She now approached, accompanied by her new handmaiden Missandei.
Daenerys already had two handmaidens, and hadn't planned on taking in another. But after Drogo explained that Irri and Jhiqui would be assigned new duties, and introduced the intelligent and multilingual Missandei, the golden-eyed Naathi girl quickly won her over.
Though young, Missandei was wise and courageous—qualities Daenerys deeply admired, as they reminded her of her own rise from suffering.
From the Khaleesi of a nomadic horde, Daenerys had now become the queen of a thriving trade city. Today, she shed her traditional painted leather vests and sweat-stained linen trousers for the flowing tokar robes favored by Astapor's noblewomen.
The yellow silk, decorated with beads, was light and airy, revealing just enough to stir the imagination—perfect for the heat of Slaver's Bay. Combined with her silver sandals and a crystal crown inlaid with emeralds, she looked more like a dazzling young princess than a regal queen.
She had tried to persuade Drogo to adopt local customs, to dress in more stately royal garments. He refused. However, he did compromise by wearing a woolen tunic beneath his usual Dothraki painted vest—still savage by local standards, but slightly more modest.
He hoped to correct the city's overly liberal customs, and promote the concept of "conservatism" as part of his reforms. Leading by example, he hoped to reduce unnecessary temptation—and, in turn, lower crime.
Though still not entirely pleased with his wife's revealing outfit, Drogo decided it was acceptable. At least it left only suggestion for the imagination.
Daenerys's transformation from her Khaleesi days was truly striking. To Drogo, it felt like the first time he had seen her in Pentos. He held back the urge to reach for her, choosing instead to fix his gaze on the three young dragons circling the pyramid.
Though still far from maturity, the dragons could now hunt on their own. Swallowing a sheep whole was no longer a problem.
But dragons were creatures of destruction. That was what worried Drogo. What if they turned on loved ones—or their own people?
He'd considered chaining them up. But doing so would only breed resentment and stunt their growth. That was a path better left unexplored.
Seeing her husband frown and fall silent, Daenerys assumed he was troubled by matters of governance and joined him in watching the dragons at play.
Suddenly, Drogo clapped his hands sharply and startled her.
"No sacrifice, no victory! Sometimes we must lose a part to protect the whole."
Based on the vicious cycle he'd seen in the novels—how Daenerys's blind affection for her dragons had led to disaster—Drogo had come to a conclusion.
The dragons would be the key to his future conquests. As long as they obeyed him, they would be unstoppable weapons. So what if they ate corpses? He couldn't control them anyway—and trying might cost him dearly. Let Daenerys, their mother, deal with that problem.
Daenerys was confused by his cryptic words. "Is something troubling you, my sun and stars?" she asked.
Drogo forced a calm expression. "Not yet. If something happens, I'll let you know."
She looked uneasily toward the dragons sunbathing atop the pyramid. "Is it Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion? Are they worrying you?"
"They're growing faster than I expected," he said. "Soon, they'll be strong enough to leave Astapor and fly far beyond our reach."
Only someone who truly saw them as children would say something like that. Daenerys was quietly moved—her dragons were her pride, her power, her future.
Even so, worry crept across her face. "No matter how far they fly, they'll remember us. We're their parents."
Drogo nodded, then said with meaning, "They are your children. I hope they inherit your kindness—and your hatred for the wheel of history."
Daenerys now understood what troubled him. The night before, while Irri had been helping her bathe, she'd mentioned what the dragons had eaten after the riot ended.
Horrified at first, she had calmed once she learned it had only been corpses.
"If it ever comes to that," she said solemnly, "I'll do what I must. If the dragons become dangerous, I'll chain them. They may be my children—but so are my people."
It was a foolish decision, and Drogo deeply disagreed. But he held his tongue—for now.
"When the time comes, I'll reason with her," he thought.
The sun was nearing its zenith. Knowing it would take time for his men to find suitable representatives, Drogo ordered Missandei to ask the kitchens to prepare lunch.
Before she left, he asked, "You were once Kraznys mo Nakloz's personal translator. Do you know of a butcher named Cleon?"
Surprised, she answered, "Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish to summon him?"
"Not yet. Just pretend I never asked."
"Yes, Your Grace."
After she left, Daenerys, puzzled, asked, "Do you know this Cleon?"
"I've never met him. But I've heard of him. He was a butcher in Grazdan's kitchens—supposedly the finest pig-slayer in all of Astapor. He's gained some fame in Slaver's Bay."
In truth, Drogo only knew of Cleon because of the novels.
Daenerys giggled. "So what, you want to learn pig-slaughtering from him?"
Drogo smirked. "I've slain lions. I don't need lessons on pigs. But I think he has talent—and leaving him in a butcher's stall would be a waste. He might even make a decent king."
At first, Daenerys thought he was joking. But when she saw his expression darken, she began to pray for that poor butcher.
After lunch and a short rest, Aggo returned with news: they had found representatives of the freedmen—a doctor, a scholar, and a priest.
These three were said to hold great respect among the people, as they had long offered their services for free.
Drogo was amazed. According to the novels, when Daenerys left Astapor to wage war on Yunkai, she left behind a ruling council made up of a doctor, a scholar, and a priest.
But soon after, Cleon killed them and took power—earning the title "The Butcher King."
With many pressing matters ahead, especially the looming threat of Ben Plumm and Bhorno, Drogo decided it was time to leave for the temporary council chamber set up in Pride Plaza.
Standing tall, he placed his left hand behind his back and bent at the waist, extending his right hand like a true gentleman.
"My queen," he said, "raise your skirt lightly with your right hand, and place your left in mine. Let us lay the foundation of our dream paradise together."
Such a refined gesture was unfamiliar to Daenerys, but she found it charming and sweet. Following his lead, she lifted her dress and took his hand, and together, they walked out—romantic and graceful.
Outside the pyramid, a luxurious carriage awaited, its curtains drawn, along with a red stallion. Dothraki riders and a company of Unsullied, led by Grey Worm, stood guard.
Grey Worm saluted with a fist to his chest, bowing slightly: "Your Grace. My Queen."
The Dothraki were more casual. They lowered their heads and muttered: "Khal. Khaleesi."
Despite the cultural differences, Drogo and Daenerys accepted both forms of address.
Drogo, with the bearing of a Dothraki king, mounted the red stallion. Daenerys climbed into the carriage, resting upon soft, cool cushions—the image of a queen in full regalia.
The Khal led the way. Their retinue followed, surrounding the carriage with an imposing presence.
As they moved through the city, trembling merchants knelt in fear, while freedmen chased after the carriage—some crying "Father!" some begging for justice, others simply shouting that they were hungry.
Drogo returned each look with a chilling but serene smile, nodding silently. He said nothing—these were problems that all came with reform, and today was only the beginning.
When they arrived at Pride Plaza, they saw that the towering Harpy statue had been torn down.
In its place, the city's craftsmen—out of love for their new king—had begun building a new symbol.
From the iron frame taking shape, Drogo could already envision it.
A monstrous creature with three heads, the body of a horse, and the wings of a dragon. Two heads resembled young dragons—and the central head was that of a horse.
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