The grand hall that hosted the first cabinet meeting had once been where the Great Masters convened—a court for their self-serving rule. Now
The grand hall that hosted the first cabinet meeting had once been where the Great Masters convened—a court for their self-serving rule. Now, it served as the temporary council chamber of King Drogo.
Why temporary? Though once a warlord commanding from tents in the wilderness, Drogo wasn't unsettled by the space itself—but by its decor.
The vaulted ceilings and purple marble walls glimmered with gold, yet something malevolent lingered. The flayed skins of slaves hung as trophies, casting a sinister shadow over the room.
The throne of Kraznys mo Nakloz had been a grotesque harpy carved in gilded oak, with arms outstretched as if to cradle its occupant. To sit upon it felt like nestling in the embrace of a demon.
Drogo stood before it and ordered, "I will not sit on a harpy's lap. Remove this cursed thing!"
Obedient Unsullied hauled it away and replaced it with a simple wooden chair cushioned with cloth. Some felt it lacked kingly gravitas, but Drogo didn't care. Soon, he would have a throne that matched his rule.
He sat. Daenerys took her place beside him. The rest stood below the dais in two sparse lines, declining to use the chairs along the hall's edges.
To Drogo's left stood his three bloodriders and Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied. On his right: Jorah Mormont, still unacknowledged formally, and three freedmen representatives—a doctor, a scholar, and a priest.
The doctor, Ang Kratzny, was a Ghiscari man with amber skin, a broad nose, and deep-set eyes. Grey Worm, having never received his aid, glared at him with contempt. But Ang was unbothered—he was used to hatred.
There were Ghiscari eunuchs among the Unsullied too. Drogo, discerning as always, saw no threat in Ang. If freedmen praised him, he wasn't allied with the pyramid lords.
The scholar, Malposi, claimed to hail from Oldtown, home of the Citadel. Yet he wore no maester's chain. Drogo suspected he had been cast out or rejected.
Daenerys, noticing the Westerosi stranger, watched him with curiosity and a faint trace of nostalgia.
The priest, Aeno Adelaide, was a Lazareen—cousins of the Dothraki—with bronzed skin and almond-shaped eyes.
Drogo, having pondered deeply the night before, remained quiet for a time before ordering Missandei to summon Irri and Jhiqui. He also called for the Qartheen merchant Xaro Xhoan Daxos, still a prisoner.
The others assumed Drogo would pass judgment on Xaro, and wondered why he involved the two handmaidens.
As always, Xaro entered in tears. Whether genuine or performative, it was hard to say, but his demeanor was pitiful.
Fear haunted his eyes. Was this to be his execution?
"Xaro Xhoan Daxos," Drogo declared, "you were once Qarth's wealthiest merchant and one of the Thirteen. I won't weigh your past sins now. I've summoned you here to offer counsel on how best to govern Astapor."
Despite past offenses, Drogo was practical. If Xaro was to eat and drink in his court, he would offer value.
Relieved, Xaro expressed fervent gratitude and pledged to serve loyally.
One bloodrider objected: "Blood of my blood, he once disrespected the Khaleesi with his words. How can a prisoner be allowed at such a sacred council?"
"Because I need wisdom," Drogo replied firmly.
Aeno added, "The King speaks true. Even criminals must redeem themselves—by whatever means."
Drogo offered the priest a nod of approval.
The meeting commenced. At Drogo's signal, Missandei announced the session in both Dothraki and High Valyrian:
"By command of Drogo I, the mightiest Khal of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Father of Dragons, Subduer of White Lions, Breaker of Chains, and King of Astapor, the First Council begins!"
Far from excessive, the titles commanded reverence. The atmosphere grew solemn.
Drogo urged all present to speak freely, and gradually, the room relaxed under his confident leadership.
The King and Queen proposed reforms, and after much heated debate, Drogo finalized new laws: land redistribution, civil protections, and strategies to stabilize the city.
He appointed Malposi to begin surveying Astapor's farmland and dividing it among freedmen.
Malposi hesitated. "Your Majesty, though many Great Masters have fallen, half the land remains in the hands of pyramid nobles. This plan may be met with fierce resistance."
Drogo replied coldly, "I am the King. The nobles may keep their pyramids, but their lands will be reclaimed and redistributed. Freedmen are like blank pages now—they own nothing. I freed them, and I will feed them. Land hoarded as gardens or hunting grounds has no place in the new Astapor. My rule is one of equality. If the people starve, the city has no future. Go forth with confidence—my khalasar will remove any obstacle."
Moved to tears, Malposi dropped to his knees. "You are like the Seven made flesh, scattering darkness and delivering us from silence. You are our savior!"
Drogo didn't care for divine praise, but allowed it.
Turning to his most forceful bloodriders, he commanded:
"Aggo, take a hundred riders. Help Malposi map the lands. Confiscate noble grain reserves, leaving them only enough to survive. Those who resist, throw into the fighting pits to taste the blood and sand they once enjoyed!"
"Jhogo, lead the rest of the khalasar. Search the city. Rich or poor, powerful or weak—any who looted or hoarded food must return it. Price gougers are to be punished without mercy!"
Both replied, "Yes, blood of my blood!"
Drogo sneered. "No one profits from war under my nose."
"Irri, Jhiqui!"
The two handmaidens trembled. "K-Khal, what do you command?"
"I name you heads of Astapor's Women's Council. Stand proud and assist the Khaleesi."
Daenerys was startled, then pleased.
The women knelt. "We are unworthy, Khal. We only know how to serve."
Drogo explained, "Your task is to care for the old, the sick, and the weak. Find skilled women and train them. Let them build their futures."
Grateful, they vowed to serve faithfully.
Turning to Daenerys, Drogo said, "When the stores are accounted for, oversee the grain's distribution."
She nodded. "I will see it delivered to every soul in need."
Drogo smiled. Let her play the benevolent queen while he remained the iron hand.
He continued: "Ang Kratzny. Aeno Adelaide. You are now leaders of the men's council. Help the freedmen find shelter and work."
Both knelt. "We shall not fail you, Majesty."
"Tend to the wounded. Pray for the dead," Drogo added.
He sighed. So much remained undone—education, law, governance. But he had only so much time and manpower.
Reports indicated that Pono and his khalasar might arrive in two weeks. That would be the true trial.
Drogo assigned Jorah to mentor Grey Worm, teaching him command strategy and softening the Unsullied's blind obedience. They were to train 3,000 new recruits and prepare them as city guards.
He ordered a draft of all able-bodied men—many destitute freedmen would leap at the chance.
To Grey Worm he said, "Tomorrow, have 5,000 Unsullied dig a trench ten fathoms wide and deep, a hundred paces outside the walls."
"Yes, Majesty!" Grey Worm snapped.
Jorah objected gently. "Khal, should soldiers be digging? Such labor is better suited to freedmen."
Drogo chuckled. "Who said it's just a moat? Who said it has nothing to do with war?"
Chastened, Jorah bowed. "Forgive me, Khal."
To Rakharo, Drogo commanded: "Take 500 Unsullied. Cut enough timber to build twenty pyramids. Half for catapults. The rest—sharpen them into stakes."
"Yes, Khal!"
As night fell, Drogo rose from his throne, glaring down at the assembly.
"If history itself is our greatest foe, then we must rise with rebel hearts—and destroy all that stands in our way!"
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