Dragon King of Ice and Fire

Drogo and his companions passed through the foul-smelling alleyways, their path flanked by the deep red bricks of the city, until they arrived at Proud Square. There, the sheer grandeur of the architecture took them by surprise.

At the center of the square stood a red-brick fountain that gave off a dense sulfurous steam. Rising from its center was Astapor's defining symbol: a massive bronze statue of a harpy, over twenty feet tall, exuding an aura of oppressive awe.

The statue bore the face of a beautiful woman—luxurious golden hair, ivory eyes, and bared fangs. A murky stream flowed from a disturbingly weighted place between her legs. Her arms were bat-like wings, her legs those of an eagle, and from her back trailed a coiled, venomous scorpion's tail. Grotesque and seductive all at once.

The old Ghiscari Empire had fallen more than five thousand years ago. Its gods and people were long dead. The current inhabitants of Astapor were of mixed descent, many of whom no longer even spoke Ghiscari.

The common tongue in Slaver's Bay was that of the Valyrian conquerors. After Valyria's downfall, the city fell under the rule of its elite slavers, who styled themselves the Good Masters.

Still, vestiges of Ghiscari culture remained. That towering harpy in the square was proof of it. But unlike the original harpy of Old Ghis, who clutched a lightning bolt, this one held a heavy chain with open shackles at each end.

This was not the harpy of Old Ghis.

This was the Harpy of Astapor—a symbol of two things:

That this was a city built upon the sale of slaves.

That once, the Ghiscari had resisted the Valyrians with bloody defiance, fighting for freedom.

Drogo had once been greedy—and in many ways, still was. In the past, every time he passed through Proud Square, he had dreamt of hauling the bronze harpy to Vaes Dothrak as a monument to his greatness.

Now? Even if someone offered it to him for free, he wouldn't bother. It was a burdensome trophy. Just something to look at. A chicken bone—not worth chewing, yet hard to discard.

As Missandei walked ahead, Drogo urged his awestruck and drooling bloodriders to keep up. Soon, the young slave girl led them into a luxurious, brightly lit reception hall.

The space was refined. The walls were lined with diamond-shaped stained glass windows, and soft breezes flowed through branching corridors, carrying floral and fruity fragrances.

There was no grand table—only a courtyard-like setting with stone stools and tables. The eight Good Masters who ruled Astapor were seated around the space, while nearby stood rows of Unsullied warriors: linen-clad, short swords at their hips, spears in hand, shields on their backs, helms bristling with spikes.

The Good Masters made no move to acknowledge Drogo. They whispered among themselves and sipped fruit wine from tall goblets.

The Unsullied were statues—still and silent, not even blinking.

Only when Missandei approached and softly announced, "Good Masters, the Khal has arrived," did the eight turn their heads and look at Drogo.

None of them stood. They smiled thinly and said:

"Without the braid, you're actually quite handsome. That the great Drogo could rise from death through blood magic—truly a marvel. Welcome, our honored guest."

Their tone was hollow, mocking.

But when their eyes landed on the snarling Snowball, their expressions changed.

"Is that... the blood-marked heir of the legendary white lion pride?!"

"Hmph. So that bastard Pono has already spread word of me throughout Slaver's Bay."

Drogo was disgusted by their flippant attitude, but seeing their awe for Snowball eased his temper slightly.

He had always been proud, but he knew these so-called "Sons of the Harpy" by name—almost all variations of Grazdan, in honor of the founder of Old Ghis.

All eight looked more or less alike—grotesquely obese, with amber-colored skin, wide noses, onyx eyes, and hair either black, deep red, or a mix of both. These were the features of modern Ghiscari blood.

They wore tokar robes—garments only permitted to free men in Astapor. The tassels on their robes marked their status: two had silver, five wore gold, and the eldest Grazdan had tassels of white pearls.

Though the elder Grazdan was the most senior, the true leader was Kraznys mo Nakloz, whose oiled beard glistened under the lights. He commanded the most Unsullied—and the deepest coffers.

And in this world, power ruled.

So Drogo kept most of his attention fixed on Kraznys.

But when they continued to pretend he wasn't there, he clenched his teeth and spoke:

"Ghiscari, I'm here to talk business—not to have you drool over my beast."

Kraznys, who had bought many of Drogo's captives in the past, replied casually:

"You've brought more slaves to sell?"

The city guards had already reported the size of Drogo's entourage—numbers, mounts, warriors. Kraznys had no interest in old men or children.

Drogo glared at him and said, slowly and clearly:

"No. I've come to buy Unsullied."

This made all eight slave masters turn to him in surprise. To them, Dothraki Khals did not buy slaves—they took them. Honor dictated it.

One of the gold-tasseled Grazdans sneered:

"A Khal spending coin on slaves? Now I've heard everything. Oh—but I forgot. You're not even a real Khal anymore."

Drogo's rage surged. Even if it meant stepping into their trap, he responded coldly:

"My khalasar may be scattered, but don't forget—when my father Barlbo vanished, I became the undisputed ruler of the Great Grass Sea with even fewer warriors than I have now!"

The eldest Grazdan narrowed his eyes and replied calmly:

"But now you are the weakest of all Khals. That is a fact."

"You dare insult Khal Drogo? You're courting death!"

Hot-blooded Aggo roared, drawing his arakh and lunging forward.

Grazdan curled his lip and waved a mottled hand. The Unsullied moved.

"Aggo. We're here to do business."

Drogo seized his arm, holding him back. He had counted—fifty Unsullied. He could escape, but his bloodriders likely could not.

The spears were barely two feet away when Drogo chuckled coldly and said:

"When I speak, I mean it. Do you really want to turn away the biggest client Astapor has ever had?"

The Good Masters exchanged glances. He wasn't joking.

With a wave, they ordered the Unsullied to stand down.

"How many Unsullied do you want to buy?" they asked in unison.

Drogo smiled.

"If I'm going to break history—then I want every single one you have."

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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire

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