Astapor, once ruled by the Good Masters, had prioritized the export of Unsullied and other slaves, while paying little attention to agricult
Astapor, once ruled by the Good Masters, had prioritized the export of Unsullied and other slaves, while paying little attention to agriculture or industry—which they deemed beneath them. As a result, after Drogo took control, the food needed to feed tens of thousands mostly came from the reserves hoarded by the masters.
The Good Masters could afford their extravagance because the three major powers of Slaver's Bay—Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen—had long cooperated to monopolize trade in the region. With this alliance, they had no reason to worry about supplies.
Now that Astapor had changed hands, the interests of the Wise Masters of Yunkai and the Great Masters of Meereen had been severely impacted. Naturally, they refused to recognize Drogo's freedom-centric reforms. By cutting off Astapor's trade routes, they were sending a message: bring back slavery and we can talk. If not—then starve, or flee.
Drogo saw through their motivations. He knew full well that the slave lords of Yunkai and Meereen didn't care who sat on Astapor's throne. As long as slave trading resumed and profits flowed, they were happy to keep the peace.
But Drogo had no intention of bending. Shaped by values from another world, he remained ruthless—but only toward enemies.
The freshly sown fields were far from yielding any bread. Reopening the Khyzai Pass trade route had become a pressing priority.
Aggo, blunt as always, had suggested: "My blood of my blood, if we just raid the surrounding towns, we'll survive this rough patch."
The idea had crossed Drogo's mind. But Daenerys had firmly opposed it. She said it would solve nothing—feed themselves, starve others. If the slave lords had nothing to eat, their slaves would suffer first. If they did that, how were they any different from the Good Masters?
Drogo agreed, and the idea was shelved.
Still, the powerful and arrogant deserved no pity. Drogo had a clear strategy in mind to restore trade.
Since war was inevitable, he decided it was time to upgrade his warriors' equipment and reduce casualties.
He ordered all unused or broken metal tools in the city to be surrendered to the armory. The materials would be melted down to forge new armor, arakhs, and reinforced iron spears.
Daenerys objected again. She hated the sight of armored soldiers—it reminded her too much of the usurper's men.
But pampering a wife had its limits. Drogo ignored her unreasonable protests. Her vendetta was personal. His duty was to his warriors' lives.
Ten days later, the new weapons and armor—emblazoned with the emblem of a dragon and horse fused—were completed. Rakharo distributed the gear based on combat readiness.
Previously, both Unsullied and braid-warriors preferred lightweight attire. Now encased in heavy metal, many found it harder to move and fight.
Drogo had planned to march immediately. But seeing their discomfort, he postponed the campaign to give everyone time to adjust and fight at full strength.
The newer freedmen and Unsullied without spiked helmets envied the old veterans' gear. Drogo made it clear: if they wanted better equipment, they had to earn it with merit.
During this period, Drogo personally supervised training. His frustration boiled over at times—he even made a few Unsullied cry.
That shocked him. The Unsullied were emotionless war machines. Now they were… crying?
"Did cutting off their Courage Wine awaken their feelings?" he wondered.
Grey Worm, now commander of the Unsullied, had another explanation. They admired Drogo so deeply that they cried out of shame for disappointing him.
Drogo got goosebumps. He wasn't used to this… eunuch-style devotion.
Even without Ser Jorah Mormont, his former mentor, Grey Worm had grown quickly. Smart and tireless, he impressed Drogo.
One day, while overseeing training in Freedom Square, a braid-scout reported that an envoy delegation from Yunkai and Meereen was on its way.
"Heh," Drogo sneered. Then he turned to his commanders: "Drink ten bowls of fermented mare's milk—it helps digestion. Then join me at court to welcome the Ghis piggies."
The commanders blinked in confusion. Jogo asked, "My blood of my blood, why do we need horse milk to meet the slave lords' lapdogs?"
"To put out fires," Drogo said cryptically, before riding off.
With Daenerys's help, they dragged the three young dragons into the throne hall.
All the tribal leaders gathered. But the envoys were late. The commanders, full of mare's milk, squirmed.
"Khal, please, may I go relieve myself?" one begged.
Drogo gave them a stern look. "Commanders must endure. Don't shame yourselves. Besides, you'll need your precious 'relief' soon. The Ghis envoys might need some… extinguishing."
As the sun dipped behind the hills, the envoys finally arrived, riding white camels.
The hundred-man delegation was led by two envoys in gold-tasseled tokar robes. Grazdan mo Eraz of Yunkai was lean and sharp-eyed. Grazdan mo Loraq of Meereen was fat, freckled, and smug. Both wore the typical horned hairstyles of the Ghiscari elite.
Their attendants wore towering helmets to protect their absurd hairdos. Their outfits were standard Ghis fashion: mustard-yellow tunics and cloaks stitched with bronze disks.
Only the lead envoys were allowed into the hall. The rest were stopped outside.
The Grazdans looked puzzled at the red-faced commanders. Still, they didn't bow. They simply glared at Drogo.
Grazdan mo Eraz spoke first, voice filled with disdain.
"Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor are heirs of the ancient Ghiscari Empire—glorious and mighty. Our walls are mountains, our coffers overflow, our warriors are fearless. You dare defile the harpy's will with your foolish reforms? Leave Astapor with your barbarians, or face the consequences."
Drogo rested his cheek on his palm, eyes narrowed.
"I have the best cavalry, the deadliest infantry. Astapor's wealth is mine. No—Slaver's Bay's wealth is mine. Whatever I want, I take. Whatever I want to change, I change. You Ghis piglets don't know who I am? Everyone fears Drogo."
The envoys hesitated. Everything he said was true. Their forces were slaves and mercenaries—no match for the Unsullied or the Dothraki.
Grazdan mo Eraz glanced at his counterpart. Time for soft diplomacy.
Grazdan mo Loraq sighed.
"We had hoped our presence would be symbolic, but clearly we must speak. Though you committed atrocities in Astapor, we Ghiscari are generous. We bear no grudge. We even brought you a gift."
He clapped. Servants entered with two large bronze chests.
Drogo waved a hand. "Let them bring it in. Then kick them out."
His guards obeyed. One servant tried to dodge the boot—he got chased down and kicked anyway.
"So barbaric!" the envoys cried. "Is this a throne hall or a pirate's cabin?"
Drogo grinned. "You haven't seen barbaric yet. What garbage did you bring me?"
Nervously, Loraq opened the chests. Inside was a fortune in gold—100,000 golden marks.
"A token of the Great and Wise Masters' generosity. Take the gold, and leave Slaver's Bay."
Drogo snorted. "A monkey might take a banana and leave. But I'm no monkey. Even the petty lords offered more than this."
Enraged, Grazdan mo Eraz shouted, "You savage! Don't think your eunuchs and herders scare us. We can hire mercenaries who'll drown you in spit!"
Drogo's smile vanished. Cold and deadly serious, he said, "I have dragons. And plenty of gold. Tomorrow I march on the Khyzai Pass. Withdraw your mercenaries and lift the blockade—or face dragonfire."
Veins bulged on the envoy's forehead. He roared, "You'll regret your arrogance! Fly near Yunkai or Meereen, and arrows will rain down! Slaying dragons isn't hard!"
Drogo laughed. "Is that so? Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion—let's give him a sample. Small flames only—I want him alive to carry my message."
He called out, "Dracarys!"
All three dragons blasted smoke-heavy fire. The tokar robes ignited instantly.
Both envoys screamed, rolling on the floor.
"Hot! Help! Gods help me!"
Drogo chuckled. "Hold on, noble envoys. Help is coming."
He turned to his squirming commanders. "You've waited long enough. Go put out the fire."
With twisted smiles, the men waddled toward the screaming envoys.
Drogo smirked. Then, as an afterthought, he reached over and gently covered Daenerys's eyes.
"My moon and stars," he said politely, "some sights are not meant for you."
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