Azhor zo Vhezannar
Azhor zo Vhezannar stepped onto the dust-choked streets of Astapor, the Red City, a stark contrast to the shimmering coastal beauty of Qarth. Even through the veil of a fine silk scarf, the air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, charcoal smoke, and something acrid and metallic—a smell he had come to associate with the very essence of this place. The sun, a relentless hammer in the cloudless sky, baked the red brick pyramids, turning their colossal forms into shimmering mirages that promised only more heat. Everywhere, the Harpy's symbol, a grotesque woman with bat-like wings and talons, was etched, carved, and painted, a silent, menacing omnipresence.
His guides, Kraznys mo Nakloz and Greizhen mo Ullhor, walked on either side of him, their presence a discomfiting blend of deference and barely concealed superiority. Kraznys, a mountain of oiled flesh with a chinless face that seemed to melt into his jowls and fingers heavy with gold and jade rings, oozed an arrogance that even his most practiced courtesies could not entirely mask. His eyes, small and black, darted about, hungry and acquisitive. Greizhen, by contrast, was a leaner, older man, his skin a patchwork of sunspots and wrinkles, his gaze unnervingly placid yet penetrating. He spoke less and observed more, like a predator patiently stalking its prey.
"The Plaza of Pride," Kraznys boomed, his voice a greasy rumble, gesturing with a hand that seemed perpetually damp. "Where our most exemplary Unsullied are presented to the world, a testament to Astapor's strength and her discipline." Azhor nodded, forcing a polite, if weary, smile. He knew the Plaza of Pride, a vast expanse of cracked flagstones dominated by an immense, multi-armed harpy statue, its bronze wings spread in a perpetual, menacing embrace. Today, it was mostly empty, save for a few vendors hawking cheap trinkets and water and the distant, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. The true spectacle, Azhor knew, lay elsewhere.
They continued their circuitous route, winding through narrow alleys where the shadows offered brief, tantalizing respite from the sun. The city was a maze of red brick, each building a repetition of the last, save for the occasional, garish banner advertising a fighting pit or a pleasure house. Dust lay thick on everything, disturbed by the constant shuffle of bare feet and the groan of handcarts.
"And here," Greizhen murmured, his voice a dry rasp, as they emerged into another, smaller square, "the Plaza of Punishment."
The contrast was immediate and brutal. Here, the ground was stained a darker hue, the air thick with a different stench—iron and fear. Around the perimeter, wooden posts stood like skeletal sentinels, some still bearing the rotting remains of unfortunate souls, others recently vacated, their surfaces dark with lingering blood. A constant hum of hushed whispers and low moans emanated from a nearby structure, a windowless pyramid where the Good Masters’ infamous discipline was meted out. Azhor felt a prickle of unease, a cold sensation that had nothing to do with the heat. The cruelty of Astapor was not just a story; it was a living, breathing entity. Kraznys, oblivious or uncaring of Azhor's faint discomfort, merely puffed out his chest.
"A necessary reminder, honored guest. Discipline is the bedrock of our society, the very foundation of the Unsullied's unmatched prowess."
They were led next to one of the city's celebrated fighting pits. The roar of the crowd, muted at first, grew into a deafening crescendo as they approached. Inside, the arena was a whirlwind of dust and motion. Young men, barely more than boys, some clad in crude approximations of Ghiscari legionary armor—bronze plates and segmented skirts—clashed with blunted spears and practice swords. Their shouts were raw, their movements desperate, betraying the very real fear of injury, even in mock combat. In a separate, smaller pit, a more gruesome display unfolded: a snarling pit bull, its ribs visible beneath mangy fur, lunged at a chained man, whose screams were quickly swallowed by the baying crowd. The air vibrated with a primal energy, a cocktail of bloodlust, anticipation, and the faint, sweet smell of sweat and fear.
Azhor watched, his face impassive, but inside, a cold calculation was at work. These men, these boys, were merely raw material; their lives were cheap. But the Unsullied, the perfected product of this brutal system, were a different matter entirely. He needed an army, an instrument of control, and Astapor was the forge.
"Impressive," Azhor finally said, turning to his hosts, his voice carefully neutral. "The dedication to training is... evident." The words tasted like ashes in his mouth.
Later, in a grand audience chamber within Kraznys’s personal pyramid, the real business began. The room was oppressively opulent, draped in heavy silks dyed in shades of crimson and gold, and filled with the cloying scent of exotic incense. Kraznys sat on a throne-like chair, his bulk overflowing its dimensions, while Greizhen occupied a more modest but equally ornate seat beside him. Azhor was offered a low divan, forcing him to look slightly upward, a subtle power play that did not escape his notice.
"Now, Lord Azhor," Greizhen began, his gaze unwavering, "you come to us as an honored guest, a noble of Qarth, exiled, as we understand it."
But Qarth is a city of wonders, guarded by walls and mysteries, yet you speak of exile. We confess, our agents' reports from the Queen of Cities have been disjointed and unsettling. His eyes narrowed fractionally. "What transpired in Qarth? What manner of beings now rule your fabled kingdom?"
Azhor took a slow, deliberate breath, allowing a flicker of genuine anger, tempered by a convincing veneer of fear, to cross his features. This was the moment. He had rehearsed this story a dozen times during his long voyage, honing every detail, every tremor in his voice.
"They are... demons," Azhor began, his voice dropping to a low, intense register, "masquerading as gods." He saw a subtle shift in Greizhen's expression, a tightening around the eyes. Kraznys, meanwhile, merely grunted, picking at a sliver of dried fruit with a jeweled fingernail.
"First, she came. A woman of impossible beauty, wings of purest white unfurling from her back, a halo of light surrounding her head. Ame-no-Uzume, they call her. She appeared as if from the very stars, with golden hair like spun sunlight and eyes that promised both heaven and hell. Many—too many—were enchanted; they worshipped her on sight." Azhor paused, letting the awe and terror of his description sink in. "But she is no goddess of mercy. When the Undying of Qarth, in their arrogance, sought to test her, she merely raised a lance, and a pillar of light, a force of pure destruction, descended from the heavens, reducing the House of the Undying to cinders and dust. A thousand warlocks, their power millennia in the making, were extinguished in a single, terrifying flash."
Kraznys finally stopped nibbling his fruit, his small eyes widening slightly. Greizhen remained placid, but Azhor saw the minute tension in his jaw.
"Then came the other," Azhor continued, his voice now laced with a bitter tremor that was not entirely unfaked. A man in black, Valyrian steel armor gleaming like polished night. His hair was black as a raven's wing, his eyes the color of fresh blood. Lord Daedalus. He moved with a grace that was both terrifying and utterly inhuman. He spent but a single hour in the plaza of the Sorrowful Men, the greatest mercenaries Qarth has ever known, a legion sworn to protect our city. An hour, and he wiped them out. Every last one. Their blood painted the stones. He called them 'ants' and we, the merchant princes, the purebloods... He made it clear we were no different."
Azhor let his performance build, allowing his voice to crack with a carefully calculated mix of anger and despair. "They call themselves gods, and many, cowed by their power, worship them as such. But I tell you, good masters, they are demons. Invaders. They came to destroy our way of life, to remake Qarth in their own image. They seized our trade, our wealth, our very sovereignty." Azhor’s hand trembled as he raised it to his forehead, as if to ward off a terrible memory. "They are monsters, not gods."
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the crackle of burning incense. Greizhen’s placid expression finally broke, giving way to a frown of genuine concern, though it was quickly smoothed away. Kraznys, however, scoffed, a dismissive sound that vibrated through his ample chest.
“Sorcerer Lords, you say? Foolishness!" Kraznys declared, waving a dismissive hand. "If these 'Sorcerer Lords' are foolish enough to let nobles and merchant-princes like yourself, Lord Azhor, go into exile rather than simply eliminating them, then perhaps their reign will be short-lived. What true ruler allows a potential enemy to wander free?”
Azhor merely sneered, a flicker of genuine contempt escaping his carefully constructed facade. "They saw us as ants, Good Master. Inconsequential. A nuisance, perhaps, but not a threat. They did not understand the resilience of human ambition." He paused, then sighed demonstrably. “But even so, without an army, there is little hope of reclaiming Qarth. They are too powerful, too ruthless.”
"Thus, you sailed to Astapor," Greizhen concluded, his voice low, his sharp eyes fixed on Azhor. It was not a question but a statement of fact.
Kraznys, seizing the opportunity, clapped his hands. A trio of Unsullied, faceless and unblinking, marched into the room, their movements synchronized and their stance unwavering. They stood as still as statues, their sharp spears gleaming. "Behold, Master Azhor! The finest fighting men in the known world! Unmatched in discipline, fearless in battle, unflinching in the face of death. Each one a living weapon, loyal unto the grave."
Azhor studied them, his gaze lingering on their impassive faces and their lean, muscled frames. He had seen Unsullied before, of course, but now, with a mission in mind, he saw them differently. He considered the descriptions of the Flame Wings Daedalus had provided him.
"Truly impressive, Good Master," Azhor said, allowing a flash of genuine admiration to show. "They might just hold their own against the Archangel Flame."
Greizhen caught the name, his head tilting slightly. "Archangel Flame? Another of these... beings?"
"Monsters," Azhor corrected, a shiver running down his spine that was less an act and more a memory of Daedalus's cold description. "The Winged Woman summons them. They appear as shining knights, encased in brilliant white armor, with great, luminous wings unfurling from their backs and halos glowing behind their heads. They wield swords of pure flame that burn with an unearthly heat." He swallowed, forcing a look of fear. "They are... very lethal. The bronze weapons of the Qartheen, even our finest steel, were useless against their armor. It merely shattered or melted like wax."
He saw the subtle shift in Kraznys’s demeanor, a hint of unease beneath the bluster. Greizhen, however, was clearly calculating.
“Their numbers?” Greizhen asked, his voice tight.
“When I fled, they numbered in the hundreds,” Azhor replied, forcing a grimace. “And more were summoned each day. If I do not act now, if I do not retake Qarth before their numbers swell to legions, then the entire Slaver’s Bay is at risk. Qarth is merely their staging ground. They will not stop there. These ‘Great Ones’ seek dominion over all.”
Kraznys and Greizhen exchanged a long, uneasy look. The threat to their livelihoods, their power, and their city was a far more potent motivator than any noble’s plea. If Azhor's tales were true, if these 'gods' and their 'demons' were as powerful and numerous as he claimed, then even the Slaver's Bay, with its famed Unsullied, might well be at risk. The thought of losing their monopoly on violence, their very means of wealth, was a palpable fear in the room.
"How many Unsullied," Greizhen finally asked, his voice slow and deliberate, "would Master Azhor be willing to purchase for this most... perilous endeavor?"
Azhor met his gaze, unflinching. “All of them."
A stunned silence fell. Kraznys’s jaw went slack, momentarily stripping away his oily composure. Greizhen’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock then pure avarice crossing their depths.
“All of them?” Kraznys finally managed, his voice a squeak. “Master Azhor, we speak of… many thousands. Ten thousand Unsullied, plus their trainees, would cost a fortune! An exiled noble, however wealthy, has that kind of gold."
Azhor smiled, a thin, humorless curve of his lips. “Five million gold honors, Master Kraznys. In coin of the realm, to be paid on delivery. And fifty thousand more for the two thousand trainees, to be paid upon their completion.
The sheer audacity of the sum made both good masters' eyes bulge. Kraznys, ever the more impulsive and greedy, recovered first. “Done!” he roared, slamming a meaty fist on the table beside him. “Done, honored guest! Let the Harpy herself bless this alliance!"
Greizhen, after a pregnant moment of internal calculation, finally nodded, a tight smile on his face. “Indeed. For the sake of Astapor, for the sake of Slaver’s Bay, Azhor zo Vhezannar."
Azhor offered a strained smile in return, a mask of gratitude that barely concealed the triumph coiling in his gut. The Harpy, indeed. Her blessings meant nothing to him. Only power mattered.
Back in the manse Azhor had purchased wholesale, a sprawling, neglected property overlooking the harbor, he finally allowed himself to relax, if only marginally. The salty tang of the sea air was a welcome cleanser after the suffocating heat and dust of the city's interior. Several slaves, gifts from the good masters—a slender cupbearer, a pair of silent handmaidens, and a burly, scarred guard—moved about him with practiced efficiency, anticipating his every need. They tended to his discomforts, offered chilled wine, and prepared a simple, unappetizing dinner. The food was bland, the wine a thin pear brandy of the Tyroshi, a poor substitute for the ambrosial Golden Apple White he’d had the privilege of sampling during one of Lord Daedalus’s feasts in Qarth. But the mission came first.
He dismissed them after dinner, his voice firm but polite. The slaves bowed and retreated, leaving him in the cavernous, dimly lit main chamber. Relief, cold and sweet, washed over him as the heavy wooden door swung shut. Finally, alone. Or so it seemed.
He took a long, fortifying draught of the Tyroshi brandy, its sweetness doing little to cut through the knot of tension in his stomach. "Is the room secure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, directed at no one yet at everything.
A dozen heartbeats passed, punctuated only by the distant lapping of waves against the docks. Then, his own shadow, cast long and distorted by the single oil lamp, flickered, stretching and contracting as if it had a life of its own. A voice, disembodied and utterly devoid of human warmth, echoed from the very air around him, a whisper that seemed to come from inside his own mind.
“The room is secure, Azhor zo Vhezannar. Two slaves were eavesdropping. They are unconscious now. Should I dispose of them?”
Azhor felt the familiar prickle of alarm, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He had spent almost a month on the sea voyage, communicating with these ‘servants of the Great Ones,’ these unseen entities that served Daedalus with a terrifying, absolute loyalty. Yet, their presence, their impossible nature, still made his skin crawl. It spoke volumes of the Great Ones' power to command such beings with such ease. How could mortal men hope to contend with such forces?
"No," Azhor replied, his voice regaining its composure. "Just put their minds in confusion. Let them believe they simply fell asleep and dreamt of nothing. They are likely spies sent by the Good Masters, testing my security, probing for weaknesses. It is better to feed them false information, to let them report nonsense, than to kill them and alert their masters.
“Understood,” the chilling whisper replied, and the shadow settled, resuming its normal, inanimate form.
Azhor let out a slow breath, trying to steady his nerves. He reached for the silver band on his left hand, a simple, elegant ring with a circular blue stone set into its surface. Another piece of power from his patron. Azhor didn’t know what the item did exactly, only that his lord had explained to him that the ring would protect him. He had felt its subtle hum, its comforting weight, throughout the day, a constant reminder of Daedalus's watchful presence.
"Then I will contact the Great One," Azhor said, speaking to the now silent servant. "Inform him of the deal. Ensure no one eavesdrops.
He walked towards a large, ornate wooden box he had hidden under his bed, pulling it out with a soft grunt. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a mirror. It was exquisite, far clearer and smoother than any Myrish-made, its surface reflecting the lamplight with an eerie, perfect clarity. He lifted it carefully, its weight substantial, and held it before him.
He touched the smooth, cold surface of the mirror and intoned, "King Daedalus."
A minute passed, stretched taut by anticipation. Then, the mirror's surface rippled like disturbed water, its perfect reflection dissolving. In its place appeared not his own visage but the magnificent, chillingly handsome face of Lord Daedalus. His black, short hair framed a regal countenance, and his ruby-red eyes, even through the mirror, seemed to bore into Azhor's very soul. He could feel the power, the sheer, unbridled authority his Lord exuded, even across hundreds of leagues. It was a tangible force, pressing down on him, commanding reverence.
Azhor bowed his head, a gesture of profound respect that was now instinctual, born of awe and a healthy dose of fear. "My king," he greeted, his voice low and reverent.
Daedalus got straight to the point, his voice a calm, deep rumble that resonated not with sound, but with pure will. "Status of your mission, Azhor."
"The Good Masters have agreed to the terms, my Lord," Azhor replied, keeping his voice steady, his gaze fixed on the powerful image in the mirror. "Ten thousand Unsullied, along with two thousand trainees, for five million and fifty thousand gold honors." He watched Daedalus's face carefully, noting the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lord's mouth when the name "Good Master" was mentioned, a faint ripple of contempt that quickly vanished.
Lord Daedalus nodded, his ruby eyes unwavering. "Good. The gold will be transferred as promised. Be sure to remain vigilant, Azhor, until you sail away with the Unsullied. Astapor is a nest of vipers, and their gratitude is as fleeting as their loyalty." His gaze sharpened, piercing. "And whatever you do, do not take off that ring. Do you understand?"
"Understood, my king," Azhor responded immediately, bowing his head again.
The image of Lord Daedalus shimmered, wavered, and then dissolved, replaced by Azhor's own pale reflection in the exquisite mirror. He carefully placed the mirror back into its ornate wooden box, stowing it once more beneath the bed.
He retrieved his glass of Tyroshi pear brandy and sat down heavily. He slowly drank the wine, tasting its cloying sweetness, a stark reminder of the sacrifices he was making. Pear brandy, indeed. A poor, poor substitute for Golden Apple White. But such petty discomforts were inconsequential. Missions came first. Alliances were transactional, and trust was a liability. Azhor knew this truth well. He had seen his own father and elder brother, consumed by their pride and greed masked as Qartheen traditions, fall before the Great Ones, deeming them mere sorcerers, not true threats. They had underestimated King Daedalus, and they had paid the ultimate price, leaving Azhor free to rise from the ashes of his family’s ruin.
The Unsullied were not for reclaiming Qarth in the way the Good Masters imagined. His lord had far grander designs than simply restoring a petty noble to his city, and Azhor, who had learned the hard way that power was the only true currency, was ready to play his part in those designs. Whatever they may be.
Oznak zo Pahl
The desert sun, a pitiless forge, beat down upon Oznak zo Pahl, turning the copper and jet scales of his armor into a shimmering, oppressive second skin. Dust, fine as ground bone, rose in a perpetual haze from beneath four thousand marching feet, coating the warriors of Meereen in a uniform ochre. Oznak, champion of Meereen, rode at the head of the column, his famed ram’s horn braids stiff with pomade, catching the light as he surveyed the endless, undulating expanse of the Skahazadhan. Pink and white, the proud colors of House Pahl, were woven into his saddle blankets and the plumes of his helmet, a stark contrast to the drab browns of the landscape.
His uncle, the shrewd and wealthy Morrec zo Pahl, had finally secured the council’s permission to bring the Lhazareen city of Hesh to heel. Lesser men, Oznak knew, would imagine a glorious expansion of Meereenese dominion, a simple triumph over unsophisticated barbarians. Oznak knew better. It was Qarth that had spooked Morrec and, by extension, the entire Zo Pahl household. Rumors had trickled down the trade routes: a pair of Sorcerer Lords, they called them, had seized control of the ancient mercantile city. Oznak scoffed at the whispers, dismissing them as the superstitious prattle of fearful merchants. More likely, it was some overly ambitious prince, cunning in the ways of coin and politics, who’d allied himself with a shadow-binder from Asshai. Nothing more. Qarth was a problem for Qarthans. Hesh was a problem for Oznak.
He cared little for the intricate web of politics and fear that had led them here. All Oznak truly desired was a worthy target, a challenge against which he could prove his prowess. The champion of Meereen would bring glory to his family name, to the copper pyramid of his city, and most importantly, to Oznak zo Pahl himself.
Beneath the rhythmic crunch of marching sandals, he heard the low murmur of his men, their voices thick with crude anticipation. “Peace-loving fools,” one sneered, “they’ll fall like ripe dates from the tree.” Another chuckled, “Only good for the market, those shorn sheep.” A surge of shared derision rippled through the ranks. Oznak, ever the disciplinarian, snapped a stern order for silence, his voice cutting through the dry air like a whip. “Quiet your tongues and focus on the road! Glory comes not from chatter but from steel!” But inside, a smirk tugged at his lips. He agreed with them, of course. These Lhazareen, these “sheep men” with their odd gods and peaceful ways, were ripe for the plucking. An easy conquest, a simple, profitable transaction of flesh for coin. It would be a fine day for Meereen.
Days later, the dusty plains gave way to sparsely cultivated fields and then the squat, sunbaked walls of Hesh. It was smaller than Oznak had imagined, less a city and more a fortified town, its mud-brick structures blending into the landscape. A single gate stood open, and from it emerged a small procession, led by a man draped in simple woolens, clutching a crooked staff. A priest of the Great Shepherd, no doubt. Their queer faith, Oznak thought, for a people who kept no weapons beyond their staffs and slingshots.
Oznak reined in his steed, allowing his cavalry to fan out, a menacing crescent of bronze and copper. He dismounted, striding forward with the confident gait of a man who owned the very ground he walked on. “I am Oznak zo Pahl, Champion of Meereen!” he boomed, his voice resonating with an arrogance honed by countless victories in the fighting pits. “On behalf of the Great Masters of Meereen, I demand the immediate surrender of your city and all its inhabitants. Resist, and you will know the full, terrible wrath of the Harpy’s chosen!"
The priest, a man with a weathered face and eyes that seemed to hold the vast, empty wisdom of the desert, merely smiled. It was a gentle smile, not defiant, but something far more unsettling. It held no fear, no anger, only a quiet, almost pitying understanding. This placid reception, so contrary to the expected terror or outright belligerence, infuriated Oznak. He was accustomed to deference, to quaking fear or desperate defiance, not this serene acceptance.
“Your gods are false, old man,” Oznak spat, stepping closer, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his falchion. “Your people are children masquerading as men. Do you truly believe your quiet prayers can withstand the might of Meereen?
The priest’s smile did not falter. He simply inclined his head. “The Shepherd guides the flock, even through valleys of shadow. He will not abandon us."
Oznak’s anger boiled over. This wasn’t merely defiance; it was insolence! He was being mocked, not with words, but with an infuriating serenity. He raised his hand, the heavy signet ring of House Pahl glinting. “Then perhaps the Shepherd can catch this!” he snarled, and with a swift, brutal backhand, he struck the priest across the face. The old man stumbled, falling to the dust with a soft gasp, his staff clattering beside him.
But as the priest lay there, unmoving, Oznak felt a flicker of unease. There was no blood, no sound of a broken nose, just a strange, almost ethereal silence. Something is not right, he thought, a cold tendril of doubt coiling in his gut. The silence hung heavy, then was shattered by a sudden, terrifying swish.
Before Oznak could react, a dark cloud erupted from the walls of Hesh. Hundreds, then thousands, of arrows, fletched with crude feathers, descended upon them like a sudden, deadly rain. A man beside Oznak, his subordinate and shield-bearer, reacted instinctively, throwing his massive bronze Ghiscari shield over Oznak’s head and his own, the heavy thud of arrows impacting the metal a deafening drumbeat.
“Curse it all!” Oznak roared, scrambling for cover. “The Lhazareen were supposed to be peaceful fools!” His rage warred with a rising panic. This was no simple conquest. He barked orders, his voice raw. “Shields up! Lock formation! Turtle! Hold the line and wait out the arrows!” The disciplined Ghiscari legions, forged in the brutal traditions of Old Ghis, responded instantly, their bronze shields rising to form an impenetrable carapace. But the surprise, the audacity of the Lhazareen, had been a bitter taste.
Jaenera Tagaros
From the ramparts of Hesh, Jaenera Tagaros watched, a cynical smirk playing on her lips. She leaned against a rough-hewn merlon, her silver-blonde hair pulled back tightly beneath her helmet, her purple eyes tracking the incoming Ghiscari host. The initial volley, crude but effective, had sent them scrambling.
Her smirk, however, was short-lived. Too bad her dragon, Vezdriāxys, was still too small to ride into battle. Vorgoryr’s dragon, Vīzarys, was even smaller than hers. Still, they had grown past the size of a horse in just one month after hatching. Their growth was unprecedented; she knew this because she had learned by heart every known dragon record in her family library when she was but a child. Her god, Daedalus, had explained that it was due to the oversaturation of magic around himself and his wife, the Winged Goddess, Ame no Uzume.
“The famous Ghiscari lock-step,” Vorgoryr, her younger brother and second-in-command, commented dryly from beside her. He was more reserved, more grounded, his dark hair a stark contrast to her own pale mane. “Even against simple arrows, they’re a formidable sight."
Jaenera nodded, her eyes narrowed. “Formidable, yes. But not invincible.” The Meereenese infantry, now a slow-moving bronze tortoise, began an inexorable crawl towards the walls. Behind them, a growing trail of slumped, arrow-riddled bodies marred the dusty ground. The Lhazareen militia, barely a month trained under her watchful eye, were little more than arrow folders; their aim was unsteady and their discipline fragile. She had given them the basics and taught them how to stand and loose, but they were no Dragon’s Fang.
As the Meereenese closed the distance, their own archers began to loose, sending a deadly hail of barbed shafts arcing towards the ramparts. The siege had begun in earnest. “Alright!” Jaenera’s voice cut through the din, clear and powerful, carrying over the clash of wood and steel. “Dragon’s Fang, rally! We defend these walls! Let the sheep soak up the first wave, but when they break, we hold!"
Her thousand seasoned sellswords, a grizzled, motley crew loyal to her and, more importantly, her new gods, took their positions. Jaenera, however, did not merely command. She moved along the rampart, a force of nature. Her left arm, adorned with a simple, leather bracer, pulsed with an angry, blight-orange glow. With a savage grin that stretched her youthful features, she unleashed the power her king had so graciously bestowed upon her.
"[Flare]!" she shrieked, the command a guttural roar. A bolt of raw, incandescent fire erupted from her palm, streaking across the gap between the wall and the enemy. It struck a Meereenese warrior, whose copper scales offered no protection against its magical heat. The man screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing sound, as he ignited like a dry brushfire, his armor glowing red-hot before he collapsed in a smoking heap. Another bolt followed, then another, each one claiming a life, incinerating flesh and bone in a dazzling, terrifying display.
'Oh, my God of Magic Daedalus, my winged goddess Ame no Uzume,' she thought, a thrill of pure, ecstatic power coursing through her veins. This is true power! This is the glory you promised! The magic, raw and potent, felt like an extension of her very will, a divine gift that allowed her to scythe through her enemies with contemptuous ease. The terrified shouts of the Meereenese, the awe on the faces of the Lhazareen, and the renewed vigor of her Dragon’s Fang all fueled her delight. She laughed, a giddy, dark sound, as another man burst into flames, his comrades scattering in terror from the burning figure. This was better than any sword fight, any tactical maneuver. This was power, unbridled and beautiful.
“You’re enjoying this a bit too much, Nera,” Vorgoryr muttered, his voice laced with his usual blend of exasperation and concern. He parried a stray arrow with his shield, his eyes still fixed on her. “Try to conserve some energy, sister. We don’t know how long they’ll keep pressing."
“Conserve?” Jaenera shot back, her purple eyes alight with battle-lust. “My King has granted me a wellspring! A feast for the gods, little brother! And these Meereenese vultures are but the appetizers!” She let out another laugh, casting another [Flare], which detonated amongst a cluster of enemy shield bearers, sending shrapnel and screams echoing across the battlefield. “Besides,” she added, catching her breath, “a little show boosts morale, doesn’t it?"
Vorgoryr just shook his head, a faint, fond smile playing on his lips despite the chaos surrounding them. “Just don’t forget your sword, Commander,” he advised, turning to bark orders at a hesitant Lhazareen archer. “Magic or not, a good blade still serves a purpose."
Jaenera smirked. He was right, of course. For all her infatuation with the divine power of her new patrons, she was still a sellsword, a warrior forged in the brutal realities of Essos. And her sword, her trusty steel, was as much a part of her as her own heart.
Oznak zo Pahl
Oznak zo Pahl was livid. He had made it to the ramparts, a bloody, arduous climb over fallen comrades and the increasingly desperate, yet surprisingly resilient, Lhazareen. He had expected a flight of sheep, a broken rabble, but these pastoral fools had somehow grown spines. They fought with a desperate ferocity he hadn’t believed them capable of, their crude spears and farm implements surprisingly effective in close quarters.
But what truly blinded him, what had turned his furious advance into a meat grinder, was the appearance of the Dragon’s Fang. The Sellswords, a mercenary company with a reputation for merciless effectiveness, usually took contracts only in the tumultuous harbors of Slaver’s Bay. Meereen itself had employed their services more than once to quell rebellious villages or guard trade routes. Yet here they were, fighting for these sheep herders, their numbers few but their skill undeniable.
Oznak fought with desperate, brutal strikes. For every man of his own he lost, three Lhazareen lay dead, their humble robes soaking crimson. His falchion, a magnificent piece of Ghiscari steel, sang a deadly song, cleaving through bone and sinew. Yet, despite his personal tally, the enemy had the numbers and the cold, professional efficiency of the Dragon’s Fang beside them. He had to act. He had to break their will, and there was only one way to do that.
That bloody Valyrian bitch. Jaenera Tagaros. She threw her accursed fire magic around like a madwoman, incinerating his men with casual ease. No doubt she had sworn herself to those so-called sorcerer lords in Qarth and traded her soul for this grotesque power. Oznak had seen what her magic could do and had narrowly dodged a jet of flame that had utterly consumed the man behind him, leaving only a scorched outline on the stone. He cursed her, cursed her name, her blood, and her very existence.
He pressed forward, cutting down a Lhazareen with a savage roar, his eyes fixed on her. She was a whirlwind of motion, her silver hair a blur beneath her helmet, her purple eyes burning with an almost feral glee as she unleashed her fiery doom. He needed to get close, to negate her magic, to silence her. He needed to take out the commander.
Then, his chance came. The madwoman, after unleashing a particularly devastating burst of flame that sent a dozen of her warriors screaming, suddenly stopped. Her arm, which had glowed with an unsettling light, dimmed. She cast no more spells. Instead, she drew a sword, a wickedly sharp steel blade, and began to cut through his men with a more conventional, though no less deadly, skill.
‘She’s run out!’ Oznak thought, a surge of triumphant adrenaline washing over him. Out of whatever cursed magic powers her spells! This was it. This was his opportunity. He bellowed, a challenge that cut through the chaos, and charged, his heavy falchion raised.
Their blades met with a deafening clang, steel against steel. The impact vibrated through Oznak’s arm, a surprisingly strong response. She was quick, impossibly fast, dancing around his heavy blows, her sword a silver blur.
“Oznak zo Pahl,” she said, her voice a low growl, surprisingly devoid of her earlier manic glee, yet laced with a mocking familiarity. “I’d recognize those ridiculous horns anywhere. Tell me, does your barber charge extra for the stupidity, or is it a family trait?"
“I will have your tongue for that,” Oznak snarled, his eyes wide with surprise and rage. She knew him. Perhaps from a past contract, a fleeting encounter. “Valyrian whore who sells her soul for petty tricks!” he screamed, pressing his attack. “Your sorcery means nothing against true steel!"
Their blades locked, a clash of bronze and iron. The fight was a whirlwind of steel and skill, a deadly dance amidst the carnage. Oznak pressed hard, his strength and superior armor giving him an advantage, but Jaenera was quick, surprisingly agile for a woman who had just expended so much magical energy. She blocked, parried, and dodged with a fluidity that spoke of years wielded on countless battlefields. She recognized him, no doubt, and he, her. Past encounters, fleeting and insignificant in the grand scheme, now coalesced into this singular, desperate duel.
The fight lasted only a dozen heartbeats, yet it felt like an eternity, each clang of steel echoing the frantic beat of Oznak's own heart. He knew he was the better fighter, the champion. She was running on fumes; that much was clear. He feigned a lunge, drawing her blade wide, then pivoted, bringing his powerful falchion around in a sweeping arc. He caught her iron sword, not cleanly, but in the cross-guard of his own weapon, trapping it with a powerful twist of his wrist. With a savage wrench, he twisted, tearing the steel from her grasp. It spun through the air, clattering harmlessly to the stone rampart.
Jaenera fell back, hitting the battlements, defenseless.
Oznak stood over her, his shadow long in the setting sun. He raised his falchion for the killing blow. "Out of tricks, witch?" he sneered. Raising his falchion for the killing blow. His blade descended, aimed at her exposed neck.
But as his eyes met hers, there was no terror. Only a chilling, knowing smile. And then, he saw it.
“You really are a vulture, Oznak,” she whispered. “All greed, no eyes."
Her left arm, the one that had pulsed with fire just moments before, began to glow again, an angry, blinding bright orange. Before Oznak could even register the danger, the light intensified, erupting in a searing, blinding flash of orange-yellow. A scream tore from his throat, a primal sound of utter agony as searing pain flared through him, an unbearable heat that seemed to consume his very being. His vision swam, filled with the blinding afterimage. He vaguely registered, through the haze of unbearable pain, the madwoman, Jaenera, bending and picking up his sword, her expression of one cold, chilling smile. He felt the phantom weight of his own weapon in her hand, saw it swing, and then… darkness.
Jaenera Tagaros
Jaenera Tagaros let out a tired smirk, the taste of ozone and blood sharp on her tongue. The plan had worked flawlessly. Oznak zo Pahl, the champion of Meereen, had been just as predictable as she’d hoped. All those Meereenese were the same, truly: all swagger and boast, all vulture and no true warriors. They saw what they wanted to see and believed what their gilded arrogance told them. He had assumed her magic had run dry, that her switch to cold steel was a sign of weakness. Fool.
The feigned exhaustion had been a masterful performance, if she did say so herself. She had let him catch her blade, let him disarm her, watching the surge of smug satisfaction bloom across his face. It had been worth the momentary risk, just to see that look of utter, deluded triumph before the light of [Flare] consumed him. The brief, blinding burst of magic from her palm, channeled into his chest at point-blank range, had done its work. Even the thickest skull, the most arrogant mind, could not withstand that.
With a practiced motion, she bent and retrieved Oznak’s own magnificently crafted falchion from the ground. It was heavy, a fine piece of Ghiscari steel, and surprisingly well-balanced. She held it high for a moment, letting the flickering torchlight glint off its polished surface. Then, with a grunt of effort, she heaved Oznak’s head from the ground; its face wasn’t as charred as his body. She made sure of that. The body slumped, still burning. Not very elegant, perhaps, but certainly effective.
"Meereenese dogs!" she roared, her voice amplified by something more than mere lungs, a faint magical resonance still clinging to her. She lifted Oznak’s severed head, letting his ram’s horn braids dangle grotesquely. "Behold! Your champion, Oznak zo Pahl! The Harpy’s chosen falls to Hesh!"
A collective gasp, then a roar of terror, erupted from the Meereenese ranks. Their bronze shields wavered. A few men, then dozens, then hundreds, broke formation, throwing down their weapons and fleeing in a chaotic, panicked rout. The sight of their champion’s head, held aloft by the "Valyrian witch" who had been incinerating their comrades, was too much. The tide had turned, definitively and devastatingly.
Vorgoryr trotted up beside her, his face grim but his eyes holding a familiar, weary amusement. "Well done, Nera. A clean end to a messy affair. "Should we give chase?"
Jaenera grinned, a savage, blood-splattered smile that seemed to stretch her youthful face thin. "No need, little brother," she said, letting Oznak’s head drop to the stones with a wet thud. "Let them run." She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, leaving a smear of red. "Our king has sent a welcoming committee."
The Meereenese army, broken and demoralized, fled into the twilight, their panic-stricken cries echoing across the plains. They ran for miles, their desperation fueling their speed, until the pale light of the rising twin moons cast long, distorted shadows across the desert.
Then, from the dark ridges of the distant mountains, they saw them. Not a welcoming committee, but a vision of pure, ethereal dread. Shining white figures, like knights forged of moonlight and starlight, descended from the sky on vast, feathered wings. Behind each helm, a halo glowed with an unholy brilliance, and in their hands, they wielded swords of pure, living flame. The "Wing Demons," as the Meereenese had whispered in fearful rumors, were no myth. They were real.
The screams, already raw with terror, became impossibly louder and sharper as the winged figures descended upon the fleeing host. The swords of flame cut through flesh and armor as if they were water, leaving behind only ash and smoke. There was no mercy, no quarter, only the swift, brutal judgment of the gods. Soon, the last cries faded into the desolate night. No one was left alive. Oznak zo Pahl’s ambition, his contempt, and his arrogance had cost him not only his life but also the lives of four thousand Meereenese warriors. The cost of underestimating the "peaceful fools" and the "Valyrian whore" had been paid in full. Hesh was safe, for now, under the watchful, terrifying gaze of its new divine protectors.
Daedalus
For thousands of years, the “Greatest City that Ever Was or Ever Will Be” had been defined by the stagnant opulence of the Pureborn and the serpentine whispers of the House of the Undying. That world was dead. It had been incinerated, transmuted, and replaced by something far more terrifying: efficiency.
High atop the Hexarch Bastion, on the tenth floor, which had been carved out of thin air and solid stone, Alex, or as he was known to the citizens of this city, Daedalus, stood by a window of enchanted glass. He looked down at the city, his ruby eyes glowing with a faint, rhythmic pulse that mirrored the humming power of the tower itself.
Behind him, the room was a masterpiece of architectural arrogance. Using a combination of the tenth-tier spell [Create Greater Item] and his specialized [Alchemist] job class, Alex had turned the upper floor into a chamber that made the Hall of a Thousand Thrones look like a drafty barn. The color palette was a calculated psychological weapon: gold for divinity, black for authority, and white for purity.
He had spent hours personally transmuting the metals. In the corporate hellscape of 2138 Neo-New York, Alex had been a man who could barely afford a clean air filter for his apartment. Now, as the Mystical Artificer, he could turn lead into gold with a thought, though he preferred to use more durable alloys of his own design.
The grand chamber’s dominant color scheme was a rich interplay of gold, black, and white, accented by subtle grays. It was a visual feast, designed to overwhelm, to impress, and ultimately, to subjugate through sheer aesthetic dominance. The central focal point was a tiered platform, reached by ornate steps carved from polished dark marble veined with gold. Upon this platform rested two magnificent thrones:
His obsidian throne consumed light.
Hikari’s golden throne reflected it.
Darkness and radiance.
Authority and divinity.
The symbolism was unsubtle by design.
“The contrast is a bit much, don’t you think?"
The voice was light and melodic and carried the weight of a thousand singing harps. Alex turned to see Ame-no-Uzume—Hikari—approaching him. Her white dress was flowing around her like liquid moonlight. Her golden hair shimmered beneath the chamber lights while six enormous white wings shifted lazily behind her.
“The Qartheen responds well to ‘too much,’ I said before.” Alex replied dryly. “If we aren’t blinding them with gold, they start thinking they’re our equals again. It’s a tedious cycle to break."
Hikari giggled. She adjusted the [Ring of Karmic Equilibrium] on her ring finger. She walked beside him, sapphire eyes drifting toward the city below.
Qarth shimmered beneath the desert sun.
The restored southern plains beyond the walls had become visibly green now, spreading outward like a stain against the red wasteland. Farms stretched across formerly barren land while irrigation canals glittered beneath the light.
The transformation still felt surreal. Three months ago the region had been dying. Now it looked alive.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Hikari murmured knowingly.
Alex smirked faintly.
“I spent twenty years in a corporate megacity where the average citizen couldn’t afford fresh fruit without debt financing. Let me enjoy building functional civilization.”
“You sound like a city planner who discovered magic.”
“I am a city planner who discovered magic."
That earned another laugh.
Below them, tiny figures moved through the streets like ants.
Nobles. Former slaves. Merchants. Builders. Children. All living beneath the shadow of gods.
The former slaves called them saviors. The nobles called them monsters. Increasingly, both groups were correct.
Shira
The air near the lower markets no longer tasted of copper and waste. Instead, as Shira navigated the cobblestone streets, the breeze carried the intoxicating, yeasty scent of warm crust and honey. She clutched a basket of fresh bread to her chest, the warmth seeping through her thin tunic and against her skin. To anyone else, it was a mundane morning errand, but to Shira, it felt like walking through a waking dream.
That alone still felt miraculous.
Only three months had passed since she was the property of a spice merchant who viewed her as little more than a ledger entry. Before him, she had been a prize in the iron grip of a slaver from Astapor, her days measured in the sting of the lash and the weight of the yoke. Before that, the details were a grey, indistinct fog. Chains, she had learned, did more than bind the limbs; they blurred the memory, eroding the soul until there was nothing left but the instinct to survive.
Freedom had restored her memory, but it had done so with a sharp, painful clarity. She remembered names now. She remembered the faces of those she had lost. But most importantly, she could look at the boy running beside her and remember that he was hers—not a future piece of collateral, but a child with a destiny of his own.
Her youngest son, Elian, darted through the crowd, careful not to collide with the bustling traders. He wasn't carrying a water jug or a heavy crate of stones; instead, he clutched a wooden slate from the new academy. The boy could write now. Actual letters, curved and elegant. The language of God, they have called it. He spent his evenings sitting on their small porch, proudly scratching words into the dirt with a stick, explaining the mysteries of arithmetic that Shira barely understood.
None of that should have been possible. Not for people like them. In the world Shira had known for thirty years, literacy was a weapon of the highborn, of the masters, and bread was a luxury for those who didn't bleed for a living. Yet, here they were, walking in the light of a new sun.
As they passed beneath the sprawling shadow of an Archangel Flame gliding overhead, the bustling market fell into a rhythmic, instinctive hush. People bowed, not out of the groveling fear they once showed the old lords, but out of a profound, soul-deep reverence.
The angel was the celestial messenger, resembling a knight forged from living silver. Its enormous wings of light beat with a slow, hypnotic power. A flaming sword rested easily in its gauntleted hand. When Shira had first seen them, she—like everyone else in the city—had collapsed in a fit of screaming terror. They had expected judgment. They had expected the Long Night.
Then, the food houses had risen. The celestial beings hadn't brought fire and brimstone; they had brought grain, medicine, and a terrifyingly efficient peace. Now, the children pointed upward with wide, excited eyes, and the adults lowered their gaze, acknowledging the guardians who patrolled the skies, escorted the trade caravans through bandit-ridden wastes, and occasionally carried injured laborers directly to the hospital.
They were gods that healed. Gods that were built. The concept remained a jagged pill to swallow for those used to the cruelty of men.
At the central square, the atmosphere shifted from the ethereal to the industrial. Workers were unloading massive shipments of grain from the northern plains, working under the watchful eyes of the new armored police. Shira paused, watching a foreman try to offer a small pouch—undoubtedly a bribe—to a patrolling officer to bypass the quality inspection.
The officer didn't take the pouch. He didn't even look at it. He simply placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on the man’s shoulder, his silence more deafening than a shout. The foreman paled, tucked the coins away, and returned to work with frantic energy.
There were no beatings. No extortion. No casual cruelty.
The police terrified the populace for an entirely different reason: they were incorruptible. Vorgoryr Taragos had transformed the city guard into something frighteningly disciplined. Officers were paid a living wage, housed in clean barracks, and punished with absolute severity for the slightest hint of misconduct. And if the human supervisors missed a transgression, the invisible King’s Shadows certainly wouldn't.
Crime hadn't just decreased; it had collapsed. Smuggling still existed in the dark corners, of course, but it was a desperate, dying trade. Men no longer paid bribes to avoid the law; they lived in a constant, trembling state of honesty because they knew the Bastion prisons were cold, and the justice of the Wings Goddess was swifter than a heartbeat.
For Shira, the trade-off was a blessing she thanked the heavens for every night. She no longer had to hide her son when the guards walked by. She no longer had to wonder when the next lashing would be.
For powerful people? That was more complicated.
Valdaro mo Rhazdal
Inside one of Qarth’s upper districts, Valdaro mo Rhazdal stared at a financial ledger while trying not to sweat through his silk robes. The minister of finance missed the old days. Not because they were better—gods no. The old system had been dysfunctional garbage run by senile Pureborn and drug-addicted warlocks, a chaotic mess of shifting alliances and backroom poisonings. But at least it was understandable.
Now he served immortal beings capable of turning lead into gold and summoning fortresses out of thin air. Negotiating trade tariffs with literal gods created unique professional challenges; how does one audit a deity who can simply rewrite the laws of supply and demand? Valdaro looked around his office uneasily. Everything was beautiful now, and that was perhaps the most irritating part.
The Bastion’s aesthetic influence had infected the city like a slow-moving, elegant rot. New architecture was everywhere—clean, unforgiving geometric lines, reinforced stonework that resisted the desert salt, and arches that defied the gravity they should have succumbed to. Even the wealthiest merchant princes had begun mimicking the style, not out of taste, but because they desperately craved divine approval. Valdaro hated how much he admired the efficiency of those curved, glowing spires. He especially hated how profitable it had all become.
The abolition of slavery should have been the funeral knell for the Qartheen economy. The city had been built on the broken backs of those in chains, and Valdaro had spent months anticipating the inevitable collapse. Instead, commerce had simply exploded. Free citizens, it turned out, actually spent money on things other than basic survival. Healthy workers produced more than the downtrodden, and educated laborers improved efficiency to a degree that made Valdaro’s ledger look like the scribblings of a madman. The gods had somehow turned morality into profitable economics, and it was deeply, infuriatingly suspicious.
A sharp, rhythmic knock interrupted his internal grievances.
“Enter,” he rasped, smoothing his robes.
A servant bowed with a practiced grace. “My lord, the latest reports from the southern farms. The overseers sent them by courier, as requested."
Valdaro accepted the scroll, his fingers trembling slightly. He unrolled it, and his eyes widened. Crop yields had doubled again. It was impossible—absolutely, mathematically impossible. The restored soil around Qarth now produced harvests comparable to the fertile reach of Westeros. Fruits grew to the size of human heads, livestock remained inexplicably immune to the common blights, and the irrigation channels ran with water that tasted too fresh for the desert heat. The commoners called it a divine blessing; Valdaro privately suspected terrifying magic, or was it its divine blessing now?
Either way, the profits were soaring. And that, he knew, created dangerous thoughts among the nobilities.
Fear still dominated the upper classes—the memory of the Warlock’s destruction, Bastion’s creation, and the swift humbling of the Pureborn remained fresh. But greed was a far better motivator than terror. The merchant princes looked at the Bastion and saw an existential threat, but when they looked at their growing fortunes, they saw opportunity.
Trade routes had expanded rapidly under the new "divine protection." Pirates who once plagued the coast vanished—often along with their ships—overnight. Caravan losses, once a standard line item in any ledger, had plummeted to zero. Even the shipyards were building monstrous vessels with hull designs larger than anything the Ironborn or the Volantenes could dream up.
Valdaro set the ledger down and looked out his window toward the horizon, where the Bastion hung like a silver needle stitching together the sky and the sand. The gods were, by all accounts, quite terrifying. They were cold, inscrutable, and possessed a power that made mortal politics feel like a suggestion rather than the rule. But as Valdaro watched a line of merchant ships glide into the harbor, he had to admit the truth. Being ruled by terrifyingly competent immortals was turning out to be extremely lucrative.
That realization was spreading through Qarth’s elite like wildfire, burning away years of tradition and replacing it with a new, gilded addiction. Valdaro sighed, picked up his quill, and began to calculate the next quarter’s tax revenue. If he were to be a bookkeeper for the divine, he might as well be the richest bookkeeper in the world.
Daedalus
The doors to the Grand Chamber swung open with a silent, magical grace. The thirty men and women waiting outside—the new elite of Qarth—shuffled in.
To a man, their jaws dropped. Even though they had seen the Bastion rising from the crater of the House of the Undying, the interior was something else entirely. The amphitheater-style seating, the massive golden chandelier that burned with eternal, heatless flames, the dark columns with golden capitals—it was a temple to a power they couldn't comprehend.
Leading the procession was Xaro Xhoan Daxos. The man who had once been the prince of merchant princes now looked like a man who had been told he was the lead actor in a play where the director might execute him if he missed a line. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the white marble floor.
"Your Majesties," Xaro’s voice echoed.
Alex took his seat on the obsidian throne and adopted his regal pose. Mata, the Level 80 Doppelganger, stood beside him in her preferred human form—a stern, beautiful woman in her thirties with raven hair. She functioned as their chief of staff and, more importantly, a ‘stand-in' when necessary.
"Rise," Alex commanded. "The High Council of Qarth will commence. Xaro, the date."
Xaro stood, clutching a scroll. "It is the tenth day of the seventh moon, 282 years since Aegon’s Conquest, Your Majesty. We gather to report on the progress of the Qarth reformation."
The meeting began. This was the "experiment" Alex and Hikari had discussed at length. In YGGDRASIL, they were players; in the real world of 2138, they were cogs. Even with Hikari’s high status, she was still a tool for her father. Here, they were architects of civilization. They wanted to see if they could drag a medieval society into the future using a blend of absolute monarchy and meritocratic bureaucracy.
Rhesaar mo Tahl Vezhys, the minister of trade and the son of the former Spice King, stepped forward. He was younger than the old Pureborn, more flexible, and significantly more terrified of being turned into a toad.
"Trade has... been restored, Your Majesty," Rhesaar reported, his voice trembling only slightly. "The harbor is full. However,... there are questions. From the Summer Isles, from Volantis, even from the Free Cities. They ask of the 'Stone Giant' that rose where the House of the Undying once stood. They ask who truly rules Qarth."
"And what do you tell them?" Hikari asked, leaning her chin on her hand, her three pairs of white wings fluttering softly.
"We tell them the truth, Your Majesty," Rhesaar said quickly. "That Qarth is the seat of the living gods. That the Old Pureborns are gone, and a new era of prosperity has begun. Many merchants from afar are... skeptical, but when they see the Archangel Flame, they tend to be very respectful."
Alex nodded. "Keep the truth simple. We aren't here to hide. We are the sovereign power of this city. Anyone who wishes to trade is welcome. Anyone who wishes to subvert us is invited to test the thickness of my tower’s walls with their heads. And the naval project?
Rhesaar’s face lit up with a spark of genuine excitement. “The two... Man-o-wars. They are two-thirds finished, my Lord. The shipbuilding guild is working day and night. They have never seen such blueprints. The way the hull is reinforced, the rigging... Master Xzoma has taken to sleeping in the drydock. He calls the designs "the breath of the Creator."
Alex felt a ping of satisfaction. The Man-o'-wars were a care package. The nobles of Qarth were greedy; if you gave them a way to dominate the Summer Sea that didn't involve magic they couldn't understand, they would follow you to the ends of the earth. He had promised the merchants a discount on these new, superior vessels. In exchange, they gave him their absolute loyalty and a small portion of their profits.
“Xzoma is calling me a god again, isn’t he?” Alex asked dryly.
“The God of Craftsmanship, specifically, Your Majesty.” Rhesaar confirmed. “The title is spreading not just in Qarth but Lhazar as well. The shepherds there have heard of how you turned the red sands into green pastures. They believe you are a brother to the Great Shepherd...or even the Great Shepherd himself."
“I’ll settle for 'reliable business partner,'” Alex muttered, though Hikari shot him a playful, knowing look.
God of Craftsmanship. Jaenera, bless her zealous heart, had already crowned him God of Magic. He and Hikari had debated this at length. Technically, they weren't 'gods' in the traditional sense of this world. But how did one explain that to a medieval populace when one could annihilate the House of the Undying with a flick of her spear, summon hundreds of archangel flames more powerful than any warrior, or create a fortress like the Bastion out of thin air?
The next man to speak proved the previous point. Valdaro mo Rhazdal, the Minister of Finance, stood to deliver his report. He was the son of the Copper King, a man who had lived his life surrounded by wealth, yet as he looked up at the tiered platform, his eyes were wide with a mix of terror and reverence.
“Finance is... beyond stable, Your Majesties,” Valdaro said, clutching a scroll. “The abolition of slavery was expected to cause a depression, but the influx of free labor and the new circulation of currency have actually increased the flow of gold. The former slaves are buying grain, clothes, and tools. The market is more vibrant than it has been in a century. It is a testament, Your Majesties, to your profound foresight and your unparalleled wisdom in liberating these souls and harnessing their potential." He laid the flattery on thick, a well-practiced art among Qartheen nobles.
He then, perhaps emboldened by his own words, ventured a suggestion. "I did wonder, Your Majesties, if it would not be a most fitting gesture to mint a new currency. A coin, perhaps, bearing the likeness of our divine rulers, to celebrate the auspicious beginning of your benevolent reign?"
Hikari’s voice, firm and devoid of the previous warmth, cut through the sycophancy. "No, Valdaro. For now, we will continue to use the Gold Honor. There is no need for such a change yet. Stability is paramount."
Valdaro's florid face flushed an even deeper shade of red. His gaze, moments before, had lingered a beat too long on Hikari's magnificent breast, a habit ingrained from years of sizing up bed slaves and Lysene courtesans. Now, abruptly remembering who she was and, more chillingly, who her husband was, his eyes snapped up, then down again, seeking the safety of the floor. He bowed, an almost comical bob, before practically collapsing back into his seat. Alex allowed himself a small, internal smirk. Some habits die hard, even under the threat of divine retribution.
Zarro Dolth was next. He was a different breed of man—a former captain of the Silk King’s guard, now the chief of the police force after the reassignment of Vorgoryr. He was pragmatic and scarred and wore the new blue brigandine armor of the police with a soldier’s grace.
“The city is secure,” Zarro reported, his voice gravelly. “Your Majesties. The city guard is performing its duties without incident. There has not been a single report of misconduct, theft, or violence within the city walls since the last council. The new recruits, both former guards and freed fighting slaves, are integrating well under the new command structure. The presence of the Archangel Flames, of course, ensures an unparalleled level of peace."
Zarro hesitated, glancing toward the shadows of the pillars where several shadow demons lurked, invisible to most but felt by all.
“My Lord... the people are at ease with the police. And they appreciate the Archangel Flames that patrol the skies. A white knight in armor is a sign of protection. But... I must voice a concern regarding the Dragon’s Fang. Commander Jaenera is... well..."
Hikari laughed, a bright, silvery sound. "Jaenera is fine, Zarro. She is in the Lhazar hinterlands, ensuring our 'grasslands' subjects remain undisturbed. Her temperament is... passionate, but her loyalty is absolute.
"She burned a man's ears off for suggesting you were merely a very talented sorceress," Zarro muttered. "The man was a Yin envoy. It was a diplomatic nightmare."
Alex leaned back. Jaenera was an anomaly. Oh, sure, she was a zealot that had indeed left quite the impression on Qarth. Her notorious zealotry for Hikari's and Alex’s divinity had manifested in rather… emphatic ways, most famously in the complete and utterly violent purge of the Tourmaline Brotherhood. Alex had told her to ensure no innocents were caught in the crossfire. She had, to her credit, mostly complied. But more importantly to himself, Jaenera is a mage or, rather, has the potential to become one. In her, Alex had felt something he hadn't felt in any other human in this world: a spark. Not the vast, overflowing ocean of mana that he and Hikari possessed, but a tiny, flickering candle.
He had spent a week teaching her. It had been frustrating. She couldn't understand the mathematics of tier magic, but her faith—a white-hot, fanatical devotion—seemed to bridge the gap. She had learned [Flare], a simple 2nd-tier fire spell. In YGGDRASIL, [Flare] was what you used to light a campfire or annoy a low-level slime. In this world, in the hands of a Valyrian-blooded fanatic, it turned her into a living flamethrower, and with the newly hatched dragons bonding with her and her brother, he estimated her magical level would increase. The Tagaros siblings shape up to be his and Hikari’s enforcers in this new empire they are building.
"Jaenera is where she needs to be," Alex said. "Protecting the Lhazareen border. The Meereenese think they can test our influence by harassing our trade partners. They found out they were wrong. Zarro, if your men are afraid of her, tell them to be glad she’s on our payroll and she will remain outside Qarth for the foreseeable future."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
Zarro bowed, though he didn't look entirely reassured. He, like many of the older generation, remembered the Tourmaline Brotherhood as a powerful faction. To have them wiped out in a single afternoon by a woman was a terrifying reality.
The reports continued. Shakhra, an aged woman who had spent forty years in chains as a healer. She spoke with quiet dignity. My Lords, Lady. The hospitals are running smoothly. Sickness in Qarth is practically nonexistent. Our stores of food and water are abundant, a blessing made possible by the hundreds of farmers now cultivating the newly revived lands around the city."
For Alex, this was the most interesting part of the "experiment." They were taking a stagnant, slave-based society and jump-starting it into a centralized, educated meritocracy. It was a testbed. If they could make it work in Qarth, they could make it work anywhere.
“The Red Waste is no longer red,” Shakhra noted, a smile touching her weathered lips. “The southern plains are green with corn and fruit trees. The farmers say the soil feels... alive."
Alex nodded. Terraforming the desert had been a slow-going project even with the help of the dryads, but the results were worth it. The southern expanse, once barren, was now a verdant agricultural region, feeding a city that had once relied on imports. He mused internally about the northern part, his initial plan to turn it into a magical forest, a sprawling preservation zone for magical plants, rare ingredients, and perhaps even a haven for creatures he could summon, like the griffins now nesting happily in the Bone Mountains. The idea of introducing a true magical ecosystem to this world appealed to the alchemist in him.
Morde, the minister of education, broke Alex out of his delicious musing. My Lords, Lady. The number of Qartheen who can read and write increases by the day. Our academies are overflowing with eager minds. However, further projects, particularly regarding the expansion of our curriculum and the establishment of more specialized schools, require our Lord Daedalus's direct input."
Alex merely nodded, acknowledging the task. He would design a curriculum that would drag this world, kicking and screaming if necessary, into a new age of enlightenment.
Alex straightened. This was what he had been waiting for. For three months, he and Hikari had been building their "laboratory" in Qarth. They had modernized the city, broken the old power structures, and established a hierarchy that relied on their overwhelming power. But Qarth was just one city.
Finally, Xaro Xhoan Daxos returned to the podium, his voice taking on a new, more urgent gravity: "Your Majesties. Intelligence has arrived from Westeros. It appears the Targaryen dynasty has provoked a rebellion. The Mad King, Aerys Targaryen, has burned his Warden of the North and his heir. The great houses of Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon have risen in open rebellion. The Seven Kingdoms are at war with themselves.
The room went silent. To the nobles of Qarth, Westeros was a distant, barbaric land of sunsets and strange gods.
"The Targaryens," Hikari mused. "The blood of old Valyria. The same blood that Jaenera carries. The same blood that supposedly gave them dragons."
"They don't have dragons anymore, Your Majesties," Xaro pointed out. "Just old bones and fading flame."
Alex tapped his fingers on the obsidian armrest. A civil war. Chaos. The perfect distraction for the rest of the world. He didn't care about the Iron Throne. Not yet. But he did care about resources. He cared about expansion. He cared about the fact that Qarth was a "tall" kingdom, but he needed a "wide" one to truly test the limits of his power.
He stood up. The effect was immediate. Every noble, every minister, and every guard in the room dropped to their knees as if hit by a physical weight.
"Qarth is a great city," Alex began, his voice dropping an octave. "But it is just one in a desert. To the west, Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen continue to trade in human flesh. They look at what we have built here, and they feel a mixture of envy and contempt. They think we are 'new money' gods. They think our walls of glass and gold will shatter if they push hard enough."
He walked to the edge of the platform, looking down at them.
"We have spent three months building a foundation. We have turned a city of snakes into a city of subjects. We have fed the hungry, healed the sick, and educated the ignorant—not out of some misplaced sense of mercy, but because a healthy, literate population is more efficient for a new empire."
Hikari stood up as well, her wings flaring out to their full twelve-foot span. The light from her halo—a passive cosmetic effect she refused to turn off—illuminated the room with a blinding, celestial glow.
"The time for peace is over," she said, her voice carrying that 'karma-driven' conviction. "We cannot have a world where we build hospitals while our neighbors build torture chambers. It’s an affront."
"And an insult," Alex added.
He looked at Mata. "Mata, mobilize the first wing. Three hundred Archangel Flames and 20 Principality Observations."
A collective gasp went up from the council. They had seen archangels. Each one was a towering figure of light and steel, capable of cleaving through a man with a single swing of its flaming sword, and Principality Observation was even more powerful. Three hundred was not an army; it was an apocalypse.
"By your command, Lord Daedalus," Mata said, bowing low.
"The slave trade is a cancer on this continent. We shall begin with Slaver’s Bay," Alex continued. He looked at Xaro. "Write a declaration of war. Address it to the Good Masters of Astapor, the Wise Masters of Yunkai, and the Great Masters of Meereen. The cause is unprovoked aggression against Hesh—our protectorate."
"I will lead the invasion of Astapor," Hikari said, her voice serene but carrying an undercurrent of thunder. "I have heard of the Unsullied. Of how they are made. Of the puppies and the infants. It is an affront to the very concept of life."
Alex nodded. "I have already sent Azhor zo Vhezannar—undercover, of course—to purchase ten thousand of them. They are sailing toward Qarth as we speak. When they arrive, Hikari, they will be yours. You will break their mental chains and give them a reason to fight that isn't the lash."
With his wife's nod of consent, he turned his gaze back to the council. “I will command the invasion of Meereen personally. I want their libraries, their infrastructure, and their smithies. We will turn the Great Pyramid into a secondary bastion."
The person here was trembling now. Not just out of fear, but out of a sudden, intoxicating realization. They were on the side of the winners. The old world was dying, and they were the pallbearers who would inherit the estate.
"This world is broken," Ame-no-Uzume said, her voice echoing with the authority of a max-level Paladin. "It is ruled by petty men with petty dreams. We are not petty. We are the architects of the new dawn. Go. Prepare the city. For the angels are about to go to war.”
The meeting adjourned not with a murmur but with a frantic, disciplined rush. The ministers fled to their offices, their minds racing with the logistical nightmare and glorious opportunity of a world war.
Hikari walked over to the edge of the dais, looking out through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Below them, Qarth was a hive of activity. Thousands of people moved through the streets, appearing like ants from this height. The new hospital, the academy, the markets—it was a shimmering oasis in the red waste.
The invasion of Meereen and Astapor would not be a war of attrition. There would be no long sieges, no desperate charges, no heroic last stands for the slavers. It would be a surgical removal of an obsolete system by two beings who viewed the world as a canvas and magic as their brush.