The outcome of the battle was decided. What followed was cleaning up the battlefield and tallying the casualties. With a heavy heart, Drogo
The outcome of the battle was decided. What followed was cleaning up the battlefield and tallying the casualties.
With a heavy heart, Drogo personally inspected the grounds, overseeing the cremation of fallen warriors soaked in blood. He led all in bowing their heads in solemn silence, honoring their bravery and ensuring they were remembered with the glory they deserved—even if they could no longer witness it.
According to the records kept by Maester Marpoce and others, of the nine thousand Unsullied who fought valiantly, eight hundred perished and nearly a thousand were wounded. The freedmen and former Khalasar warriors, serving mostly in support roles, suffered far fewer casualties.
Facing such overwhelming numbers of ferocious mounted warriors, this loss rate was considered acceptable. Everyone who survived held deeper admiration for Drogo—without his brilliantly calculated strategy, the casualties might have doubled, and victory may have slipped through their fingers.
Pono's once 10,000-strong army of braided warriors had been severely decimated, with just over 7,000 surviving and surrendering to swear allegiance to Drogo.
Of course, these were only the fighters. There were also the late-arriving logistical teams—those herding livestock and transporting supplies—plus the elderly, women, children, and shackled slaves. In total, their numbers again exceeded ten thousand.
The Dothraki Khalasar had always been nomadic. Once their mounted warriors were subdued, the rest of the people would submit, either becoming loyal followers of the new Khal—or his playthings.
Mounted on his flame-colored steed, Drogo looked over the densely packed crowd of Dothraki below and felt a surge of emotion.
Once upon a time, he had commanded a 100,000-strong Khalasar. Now, it was finally starting to feel like those days again.
After the funeral rites, Drogo gathered all the warriors in the former punishment square, now renamed Freedom Square. He ordered a portion of livestock previously hoarded by Pono to be slaughtered and had barrels of fine wine brought up from the Good Masters' cellars to reward the soldiers.
While the cooks prepared food, Drogo stood atop a platform and promoted his three most loyal bloodriders to Khals, each commanding 2,000 warriors.
Aggo, Rakharo, and Jhogo were overwhelmed with joy. They humbly accepted the congratulations and stammered through their acceptance speeches with clumsy tongues.
Daenerys was pleased by her husband's appointments. These three had once been unremarkable young men within her Khalasar, elevated to bloodriders only because there was no one else. Now, having proven themselves worthy, their rise felt both just and satisfying.
Soon the feast began. Ten men sat in circles on the ground, eating meat, drinking wine, and laughing heartily.
They had meat and wine—but no women serving them. Many Dothraki who didn't yet know the rules boldly made requests to the Khal.
They were harshly rebuked. Drogo declared that the essence of freedom was equality—no one was to force a woman to do anything against her will.
Of course, even as he said it, he knew the truth: many women in Astapor still weren't free.
Surrounded by leaders of mixed quality, Drogo rose now and then to raise his wine bowl in toast, exuding the casual and rugged style of a barbarian king.
While the Khal was full of cheer, the Khaleesi's heart was heavy. Her most loyal Queensguard had turned out to be a spy—Varys's informant from King's Landing.
Daenerys knew Jorah's past and the reasons behind his betrayal. He had wanted to wipe away his crimes and return home with honor.
He had once confided in her about his past, and she had pitied him—a knight exiled for love.
But now, that pity had turned to burning hatred. Still, how could anyone be completely without feeling?
She found herself recalling the tragic tale Jorah had once told her.
Jorah Mormont was born on the ethereal and bitterly cold Bear Island, son of Jeor Mormont, who would later become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
Bear Island was covered with ancient oaks and dense forests, dotted with fragrant hawthorn blossoms. Clear rivers flowed through steep hills, and grey stone cloaked in moss signified fertile soil. The Mormont hall, built of massive timber and surrounded by earthen fences, stood proudly among a people who fished and farmed to survive.
As a lord and a knight with a record of battlefield honor, Jorah lived comfortably enough—though the isolation of his land kept him poor.
His life took a dramatic turn during a tourney held by Robert Baratheon outside Lannisport. There, he fell for the daughter of the Lord of Oldtown, the beautiful Lynesse Hightower.
He won her favor and fought for her, eventually becoming the champion after a string of victories—even tying nine times with Jaime Lannister.
King Robert crowned him the victor, and Jorah gained both the hand of the lady and the approval of her father.
At first, married life with Lynesse was blissful. Jorah believed he was the happiest man alive.
But Lynesse, spoiled by luxury, soon grew tired of the barren, impoverished Bear Island.
To please her, Jorah spent every coin he had—and then some. Drowning in debt, he crossed a line no knight should, turning to the forbidden trade of slavery.
Slavery was outlawed in Westeros. Lord Eddard Stark placed a bounty on his head, and Jorah was forced to flee with his wife.
But Lynesse's loyalty didn't last. She left him for the merchant prince Tregar Ormollen, becoming his favored concubine.
Daenerys cursed inwardly: You once bore the title of Queensguard. I would've restored your honor! Once I reach Westeros, I would've cleared your name. But you chose the usurper over me—the one who gave you a place at her side!
Her heart ached. She drank alone, surrounded only by her three dragons—tamed for now by her maternal love—feasting on whole sheep beside her. Their savage nature and foul stench kept others away.
When the dragons weren't flying, the white lion cub would come to play. Its haunting red mark between the brows was yet another reason for her solitude.
The victory feast raged into the early morning. Many warriors without assigned housing simply lay where they had eaten, using the earth as bed and sky as blanket.
But the King, despite having the most luxurious quarters, did not sleep at all. The storm that was Daenerys had raged through the night.
No matter how poor his rest, Drogo rose with the sun to tend to affairs, dark circles shadowing his face.
The city lacked enough housing, but Drogo wasn't concerned. The Dothraki didn't enjoy living in stone buildings. With a single command, his people set up camp outside the city, pitching their tents and returning to their familiar way of life.
Efficient and swift, Drogo resolved matters with little patience.
He couldn't bear the sight of the Ghiscari with their oily, twisted, multi-colored hairstyles—like devil horns. He ordered all such heads shaved flat, insisting that no one should stand out in appearance. Equality was the rule.
Tradition shattered, the Ghiscari saw the truth: the King hated them. Though they longed to mock the Dothraki hairstyles in return, none dared speak. They submitted silently.
With appearance and housing dealt with, the next step was compensation for the wounded and rewards for the Unsullied.
This too was easy. Drogo ordered the Good Masters' vaults broken open. Their coins—bearing the harpy—were melted down and reminted.
One side now bore the new sigil of a dragon and a horse. The other was stamped with a single word: Freedom.
When the new coins were ready, they were distributed to every soldier who had fought in battle—a reward and a gesture of gratitude.
After all, these metals had once belonged to slavers. Drogo felt no guilt. They were simply paying what they owed.
"Marpoce," Drogo said to the venerable scholar, "I name you Prophet of Enlightenment. The crown will fund the hiring of every scholar in Astapor. Choose a pyramid and turn it into an academy. All children under twelve must attend."
Education was Drogo's top priority—a lesson from another life. He dreamed of a Red-Brick City known not for labor and chains, but for raising literate, capable, and civilized people.
Time passed. After two weeks of reform and reconstruction, Astapor was finally running the way Drogo had envisioned.
The freedmen had expanded farmland toward the fertile banks of the Worm River—a bold move, ordered by the Khal himself. With a strong army under his command, Astapor now stood as the unchallenged overlord of Slaver's Bay.
And his warning to others was simple: Anyone who opposes freedom will wear the chains they once wielded.
He knew the merchants outside Slaver's Bay would love buying once-proud slave masters.
The nearby cities and lords dared not resist. Watching their fertile lands seized, they swallowed their rage and submitted.
Afraid Drogo might return to his old raiding ways, they rushed to present him with lavish gifts, desperate not to fall behind.
The royal treasury swelled daily with gold and gems, but Drogo was still dissatisfied.
The other two titans of Slaver's Bay—Meereen and Yunkai—had yet to send emissaries or tribute.
That might have been tolerable—if not for worse news.
Drogo's spies reported that the so-called Wise Masters of Yunkai and the Great Masters of Meereen had hired massive mercenary companies to blockade Astapor's trade routes.
No matter how much wealth one hoarded, if it couldn't be spent, it was worthless.
If the people of Astapor were to survive until the next harvest, action had to be taken.
It was time to show these so-called "Wise" and "Great" Masters who was truly wise… and truly great.
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