Astapor (1)

The Super Soldier Serum burned through my veins like liquid starlight.

I'd taken it the moment we dropped anchor, retreating to my cabin as the transformation began. Every muscle fiber tore itself apart and rebuilt stronger. My bones ached as they densified. My heart hammered against my ribs like a caged beast before settling into a rhythm that felt... more. More efficient. More powerful.

When it was over, I stood before the small mirror in my quarters and barely recognized myself. I was still Viserys—still had his silver-gold hair and violet eyes—but everything else had changed. My shoulders were broader, my frame more imposing. When I flexed my hand, the wooden beam above my head cracked just from the slight pressure.

A soft knock interrupted my examination.

"My lord?" Boromir's voice carried through the door. "The harbor master approaches."

I pulled on a fresh doublet, noting how the fabric strained across my new physique. "Enter."

Boromir stepped inside, then stopped short. His eyes widened as he took in my transformed appearance.

"Seven hells," he breathed. "What—"

"Magic," I said simply. "Are your men ready?"

The Gondorian captain recovered quickly—I'd give him that. "Aye. Though they're nervous about the... smell."

I could sympathize. Even through the cabin's closed windows, Astapor's stench was overwhelming. Centuries of slavery, blood, and human misery had soaked into the very stones. The harbor master's boat was already alongside, filled with Good Masters in their ridiculous tokars and enough perfume to choke a dragon.

"Tell the men to breathe through their mouths," I advised, strapping on blackfyre. The familiar weight felt different now—lighter, more manageable. "And keep their hands on their weapons."

---

The Good Masters were exactly what I expected: pampered, arrogant, and utterly convinced of their own superiority. They climbed aboard my ship like they owned it, their silk slippers clicking against the deck as they surveyed my crew with obvious disdain.

The leader—a grotesquely fat man whose tokar could have sheltered a small village—stepped forward with arms spread wide.

"Welcome, welcome to glorious Astapor!" His voice was honey over poison. "I am Kraznys mo Nakloz, Good Master of the Great Pyramid. We are honored by your—"

His words died as Aserion landed on the mainmast with a bone-jarring thud. My dragon had grown again during the voyage—now nearly the size of a small horse, with wings that blocked out the sun. His obsidian eyes fixed on the slavers with undisguised hunger.

"—presence," Kraznys finished weakly.

I smiled, letting the silence stretch. The Super Soldier Serum had sharpened more than just my body—my mind felt clearer, more focused. I could read the micro-expressions on their faces, smell their fear beneath the perfume.

"Good Master Kraznys," I said finally, my voice carrying easily across the deck. "I am Viserys Targaryen, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and the last dragonlord of Old Valyria."

The title rolled off my tongue like a prayer. Or a threat.

"I've come to Astapor to purchase your Unsullied."

Kraznys' eyes lit up with greed. "Ah, yes! The finest soldiers in all the world! Utterly obedient, fearless in battle, skilled beyond—"

"All of them."

The slaver blinked. "I... forgive me, Your Grace, but did you say—"

"Every. Single. One." I stepped closer, and he instinctively backed away. "How many do you have?"

"Eight... eight thousand, Your Grace. But surely you cannot mean—"

"Eight thousand Unsullied. Plus all the boys still in training. I'll take them too."

The other Good Masters began muttering among themselves in Valyrian, their voices sharp with excitement and calculation. I caught fragments—dragon, gold, impossible price.

They had no idea what was coming.

"The cost would be..." Kraznys licked his lips, his pig eyes calculating. "Considerable. Perhaps we should retire to the city, discuss terms in comfort? Away from this... maritime atmosphere?"

I glanced at Boromir, who nodded curtly. My Gondorians were already forming up, their armor gleaming despite the voyage. The Braavosi crew watched from the rigging, hands drifting toward their weapons.

"Of course," I said pleasantly. "Though I should warn you—my dragon gets irritable in confined spaces."

Aserion chose that moment to loose a small jet of flame, just enough to singe the air above the slavers' heads. They flinched as one, and I had to suppress a laugh.

---

Astapor was worse than I remembered from the show.

The streets reeked of human waste and despair. Slaves shuffled past in chains, their eyes dead and hopeless. Children—some no older than eight or nine—bore the scars of training that would either make them Unsullied or kill them trying.

The Good Masters rode in palanquins carried by muscled slaves, chattering about prices and profit margins while people died in the gutters around them. More than once, I saw Boromir's hand drift to his sword hilt, his face thunderous with barely contained rage.

"Stay focused," I murmured to him as we passed a slave market where children were being examined like cattle. "Soon."

The Great Pyramid loomed ahead, its red brick walls stained dark with what I hoped was rust but knew was blood. Atop it, the bronze harpy spread her wings in eternal dominion over the city's suffering.

As we climbed the broad steps, I activated one of the system's simpler functions:

[Scan: Kraznys mo Nakloz]

Strength: 2

Intelligence: 6

Combat Ability: 1

Special Traits: Wealthy, Arrogant, Believes Dragons Can Be Tamed

The last trait made me smile. Oh, this was going to be fun.

---

The negotiation chamber was a testament to Ghiscari excess—gold-veined marble, silk tapestries depicting ancient glories, and enough perfumed oil burning in braziers to stock a pleasure house. The Good Masters arranged themselves on cushioned benches while slaves served wine and honeyed locusts.

I took the offered seat, noting how the carved chair groaned under my enhanced weight. Aserion perched on the armrest, his tail coiled around my wrist like a living bracelet.

"Now then," Kraznys said, settling his bulk onto a reinforced divan. "Eight thousand Unsullied and six hundred boys in training. The price would normally be... prohibitive. But for the last dragonlord..." He spread his hands in mock generosity. "Perhaps we can reach an accommodation."

"Name your price."

"One dragon."

The chamber fell silent except for the crackling of the braziers. I could feel the other Good Masters leaning forward, their greed practically visible in the air.

I pretended to consider it, stroking Aserion's spines. The dragon purred—actually purred—under my touch.

"Which dragon?" I asked finally.

"The black one. He would make a fine addition to our... defenses."

I nodded slowly, as if weighing the offer. Inside, I was laughing. These fools had no idea what dragons truly were. They saw a weapon to be bought and sold, not a force of nature given form.

"Very well," I said. "But I want to inspect the merchandise first. All of it."

Kraznys beamed. "Of course! Tomorrow at dawn, we shall show you the Plaza of Punishment. You will see warriors without equal, bred for war and loyal unto death!"

As we were escorted to our quarters in the pyramid's guest wing, I caught Boromir's questioning look. The Gondorian captain was too disciplined to speak openly, but I could read the concern in his eyes.

That night, as Astapor settled into its restless sleep, I stood on the balcony overlooking the city. Aserion perched beside me, his obsidian scales drinking in the moonlight.

"Tomorrow, we burn it all down," I whispered to him. "Every. Last. Bit."

The dragon's purr sounded almost like laughter.

Far below, the chains of eight thousand slaves rattled in the night breeze, but soon—very soon—they would rattle no more.

Fire and blood were coming to Slaver's Bay.

And I was bringing both.