Astapor (2)

The morning sun beat down on Astapor like a bronze hammer, turning the red brick walls into furnaces that radiated heat in shimmering waves. I'd left Aserion perched atop the Great Pyramid—his presence alone was enough to keep the Good Masters nervous—and decided to explore the city on foot. The Super Soldier Serum had left me restless, energy thrumming through my enhanced muscles like caged lightning.

Boromir had offered to accompany me, but I'd declined. I needed to think, to plan, and the Gondorian captain's barely contained rage at the sight of slavery would only draw unwanted attention. Better to let him drill the men while I scouted.

The streets of Astapor were a maze of narrow alleys and broad plazas, all connected by the common thread of human misery. Slaves shuffled past in chains, their backs bent under loads that would have staggered oxen. Overseers cracked whips with casual brutality, and the Good Masters lounged in their palanquins like bloated spiders at the center of their web.

I'd dressed simply—a plain brown tunic and breeches, with a hooded cloak to hide my distinctive Valyrian features. Blackfyre hung at my hip, the ancient Valyrian steel blade disguised in a worn leather scabbard. To any casual observer, I was just another sellsword seeking employment in the slave markets.

The disguise worked. I moved through the crowds unnoticed, listening to conversations in High Valyrian, Ghiscari, and the bastard tongue of the slave markets. Information flowed around me like water—which Masters were feuding, which slave trainers were producing the best fighters, where the next shipment of "fresh meat" would arrive.

It was near the Temple of Graces that I heard the commotion.

"Please, I've done nothing wrong!" The voice was high, desperate, and spoke in accented High Valyrian.

I rounded the corner and stopped short. Three men had cornered a young woman against the temple's wall—sellswords by their look, with the lean, hungry faces of wolves. The woman was perhaps eighteen, with silver-gold hair that caught the sunlight and violet eyes that blazed with defiance even as fear flickered in their depths.

Valyrian features. In Astapor. That was... unexpected.

"Nothing wrong?" The largest of the three men laughed, revealing teeth like broken stones. "Walking around with that face, those eyes? You're either a runaway bed slave or you're lying about your station, girl. Either way, we're entitled to compensation."

"I'm a free woman!" she snapped, pressing herself against the wall as the men closed in. "I have papers—"

"Papers can be forged," the second man said, reaching for her arm. "But that face... that's pure Valyrian stock. Worth a fortune to the right buyer."

The third man, silent until now, drew a curved dagger. "Stop struggling, girl. Make this easy on yourself."

I was moving before I realized it, the Super Soldier Serum flooding my system with adrenaline and enhanced reflexes. My hand found the nearest man's shoulder and spun him around with enough force to dislocate his arm. He hit the temple wall with a wet crack and slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The other two turned, hands reaching for weapons, but they moved like they were underwater compared to my enhanced speed. I caught the dagger-wielder's wrist and twisted—the bone snapped like a dry twig, and his scream echoed off the temple walls. The blade clattered to the cobblestones.

The leader, the big one with the broken teeth, managed to clear his sword from its sheath. He was fast, I'd give him that. Probably had some skill too. In another life, he might have been dangerous.

But I wasn't the man I used to be.

I swayed aside from his thrust, the blade passing close enough to part the air beside my ear. My return strike—a simple backhand—caught him across the jaw and lifted him off his feet. He sailed three yards before hitting a fruit vendor's stall, scattering oranges and pomegranates across the street.

The entire fight had lasted perhaps ten seconds.

I turned to the woman, who was staring at me with wide violet eyes. This close, her Valyrian heritage was unmistakable—the aristocratic bone structure, the way she held herself despite her fear, the subtle arrogance that came with dragonlord blood.

"Are you hurt?" I asked in High Valyrian.

She shook her head, still pressed against the wall. "No, I... who are you?"

I pulled back my hood, letting my own silver hair catch the light. Her eyes widened further as she took in my features—the mirror image of her own heritage written in flesh and bone.

"A friend," I said simply. "Your bloodline is... unusual for these parts. May I ask your name?"

She hesitated, glancing at the groaning forms of her attackers. "Aenys," she said finally. "My name is Aenys."

"Aenys." I tested the name, noting how it rolled off the tongue like old Valyrian poetry. "And your family? Your origin?"

"Lys," she said quickly—too quickly. "I'm from Lys. My... my family sent me here on business, but the ship was attacked by pirates. I lost everything, including my guards."

The lie was polished, practiced, but I could hear the tremor beneath it. Whatever her true story was, it was more complicated than a simple merchant's daughter from the pleasure city.

"Lys," I repeated, letting her know I heard the deception without calling her on it. "Beautiful city, or so I'm told. The pillow houses are supposed to be legendary."

A flush crept up her neck. "I wouldn't know about that."

Of course she wouldn't. I was beginning to suspect that "Aenys" was no more from Lys than I was from Dorne. But whatever game she was playing, it wasn't my concern. I had bigger fish to fry—literally, if things went according to plan.

"Well, Lady Aenys of Lys," I said, offering a slight bow. "I suggest you find better accommodations than wandering the streets alone. Astapor is not kind to the friendless."

She straightened, some of her earlier spirit returning. "Thank you for your aid, ser. I... I'm in your debt."

"No debt," I replied, already turning away. "Just... be careful."

I walked away before she could respond, pulling my hood back up as I melted into the crowd. Behind me, I heard her light footsteps hurrying in the opposite direction, probably eager to put distance between herself and any more unwanted attention.

But as I walked, I found myself thinking about those violet eyes and the way she'd said "Lys" like it tasted bitter on her tongue. There were mysteries in this city beyond slavery and dragons, it seemed.

---

The fighting pits of Astapor were located in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, close enough to the seat of power that the Good Masters could enjoy the spectacle without rubbing shoulders with the common rabble. The main pit was a circular depression carved from the red rock, surrounded by tiered seating that could hold perhaps a thousand screaming spectators.

But it was the smaller training pits that interested me—the ones where hopeful fighters tested their skills against seasoned veterans, where reputations were made and broken on the blood-soaked sand.

I'd spent the better part of an hour watching the matches, studying the fighters' techniques and gauging the crowd's reactions. The Astapori loved their blood sports, cheering for particularly brutal kills and throwing coins when a fighter showed exceptional skill or creativity in dispatching his opponent.

The current match was ending as I approached the betting circles—a Dothraki exile with a curved arakh had just opened a Tyroshi sellsword from groin to sternum, painting the sand crimson. The crowd roared its approval as the loser's body was dragged away by slaves.

"Fresh meat!" the pit master called out, a scarred Ghiscari with gold teeth and arms like tree trunks. "Who thinks they have what it takes to face Jhogo the Bloodrider?"

The Dothraki—Jhogo, apparently—raised his bloody arakh to the crowd, his bronze skin gleaming with sweat and gore. He was big, fast, and from the pile of bodies being dragged away, quite experienced at his trade.

Perfect.

I pushed through the crowd to the pit master's booth. "I'll fight him."

The scarred man looked me up and down, taking in my plain clothes and relatively bulky build. Without the bulk that the serum had added, I probably looked like a seasoned warrior to his experienced eye.

"You have coin for the entry fee?" he asked with a gap-toothed grin.

I tossed a gold honor onto his table. "Will that suffice?"

His eyes widened at the sight of the coin—worth more than most fighters saw in a year. "Aye, that'll do. What's your name, boy?"

"Ben Dover," I said with a straight face, enjoying my own private joke from the old world.

He squinted at me suspiciously. "Ben... Dover? That's a strange name."

"Family name," I replied. "Very old."

"Have you ever killed a man before." asked the pit master.

I thought of the pirates we'd fed to the sharks, the soldiers who'd die in my war against Volantis, the countless unnamed faces that will fall to dragon fire. "Once or twice."

"Good! Jhogo's killed seventeen men in the pits. Let's see if you can make it eighteen, eh?"

---

The sand was hot beneath my feet as I stepped into the pit, Blackfyre naked in my hand. The crowd's roar washed over me like a physical force, but the Super Soldier Serum filtered out the distraction, leaving my mind crystal clear and focused.

Jhogo stood at the opposite end of the circle, his arakh gleaming in the afternoon sun. He was bigger than I'd thought—nearly seven feet tall and built like a bull, with ritual scars covering his chest and arms. His topknot was braided with small bells that chimed as he moved, and his dark eyes held the flat, predatory look of a born killer.

"You look soft, little lordling," he called out in the Common Tongue, his accent thick but understandable. "Jhogo will open you slow, let the crows feast on your entrails while you still breathe."

I pulled back my hood, letting my silver hair catch the light. His boasting died in his throat as recognition dawned in his dark eyes.

"You," he breathed, his face twisting with rage and hatred. "You are the coward who killed Khal Drogo!"

The crowd murmured in confusion, but I just laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "Ah, one of Drogo's little puppies. I was wondering when you'd show up."

"OATHBREAKER!" Jhogo roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You used dark magic! You fought without honor! You are—a coward!"

"Your khal was a little bitch," I said conversationally, enjoying the way his face darkened with fury. "Crying like a child when my blade found his heart. Tell me, did you weep when they burned his body? Did you cut your hair and wail like a woman?"

Jhogo's scream of rage was barely human. The crowd loved it, howling for blood as we began to circle each other. But this wasn't going to be a careful, tactical fight. This was personal.

He came at me like a man possessed, the arakh whistling through the air in a vicious overhead chop that would have split me from crown to groin. But the Super Soldier Serum made his fury-driven attack seem sluggish. I stepped aside and let the blade bite sand, then brought my knee up into his exposed ribs.

The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him staggering backwards, clutching his side. But Dothraki were tough bastards—he recovered quickly and came at me again, this time with more controlled fury.

"I will take your head back to Vaes Dothrak!" he snarled, unleashing a flurry of strikes that would have overwhelmed any normal fighter. "The crones will curse your bones for a thousand years!"

"You'll have to catch me first," I taunted, weaving between his attacks like a dancer. Blackfyre sang as it turned aside his strikes, Valyrian steel ringing against Dothraki iron.

The fight was a brutal ballet of violence. Jhogo fought like a man possessed, his arakh carving deadly arcs through the air while his bells chimed a funeral dirge. He was skilled—better than I'd expected—but rage made him sloppy. Every missed strike left him open, every wild swing gave me an opportunity.

I opened a line across his shoulder, then another along his thigh. Blood flowed freely, staining the sand beneath our feet. The crowd was screaming now, sensing something epic in the making.

"Stand still, coward!" Jhogo roared, lunging forward with everything he had.

I caught his wrist as the arakh descended, my enhanced strength easily stopping the blow. His eyes widened in shock—no normal man should have been able to match a Dothraki warrior's power so easily.

"My turn," I said, and drove my fist into his solar plexus.

The punch folded him in half, driving the air from his lungs in a explosive gasp. He stumbled backwards, wheezing, and I pressed my advantage. Blackfyre became a silver blur, striking again and again, opening wounds across his chest and arms.

But Jhogo was far from finished. With a desperate surge of strength, he managed to catch me with a backhand that sent me staggering. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I tasted copper on my tongue.

"Yes!" he bellowed, raising his arakh high. "Now you bleed like mortal man!"

He came at me again, and this time I let him get close—close enough to smell his sweat and rage, close enough to see the triumph building in his eyes. At the last second, I dropped low and swept his legs, sending him crashing to the sand.

Before he could recover, I was on him. My hands found his throat, enhanced fingers digging into flesh and muscle. His eyes bulged as I lifted him off the ground, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.

"Tell Drogo I said hello," I whispered.

Then I twisted, hard.

The sound was like breaking branches—vertebrae separating with wet pops as I literally tore his spine from his body. Blood sprayed across the sand as I held up the grisly trophy, vertebrae still connected by sinew and gore.

The crowd fell silent for a heartbeat, stunned by the sheer brutality of the kill.

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, then exploded into pandemonium. The crowd was on its feet, screaming my false name like a battle cry. "BEN DOVER! BEN DOVER!"

I dropped the bloody spine and raised Blackfyre to the sky, letting Jhogo's blood run down the fuller. The blade gleamed like liquid starlight, and for a moment I felt like what I truly was—a dragonlord of Old Valyria, heir to fire and blood.

The pit master was pale as milk as he counted out my winnings—the betting had been heavily in Jhogo's favor, so my victory had cost him a small fortune. But the spectacle had been worth it. Word of this would spread throughout the city by nightfall.

"Magnificent!" he called out, though his voice shook. "Simply magnificent! Tell me, Lord Ben, would you be interested in more matches? I have a Braavosi water dancer arriving next week, and a Summer Islander with a goldenheart bow—"

"Perhaps," I said, wiping Blackfyre clean on Jhogo's ruined topknot before sheathing it. "But not today."

As I climbed out of the pit, I caught sight of a familiar figure in the crowd—violet eyes wide with shock above a concealing veil. Aenys had been watching the fight, and from her expression, she'd recognized me despite my earlier disguise.

Our eyes met for a moment across the cheering throng. Then she melted back into the crowd, disappearing like smoke on the wind.

Interesting. The mysterious girl from Lys was full of surprises.

But that was a puzzle for another day. Right now, I had a city to burn and an army to steal. The Good Masters thought they were trading with a desperate exile, but tomorrow they would learn the truth.

Fire and blood were coming to Slaver's Bay.

And for them aswell.