Baelon weaved through the streets of Astapor, a large group trailing close behind him.
While the city's masses flowed toward the Plaza of Pride, drawn by drums, banners, and the hollow spectacle of obedience, he did not.
As they advanced, Baelon lifted a hand.
A spark of flame bloomed in his palm.
At first, it was little more than a flicker, a trembling ember dancing atop his skin as though unsure whether it was permitted to exist.
Then it swelled, fed by nothing visible, curling and twisting before drifting toward a nearby storehouse roof.
With the crowd rushing to watch the Unsullied perform their drills, most of the city had been left unattended, including this storehouse.
However, that was not it.
As the group pressed through the winding streets, spark after spark bloomed into existence.
Each spark festers into fires.
If one looked from above, flames could be seen dancing across the district like scattered stars.
With Baelon's efforts, the flames did not rage into anything great. However, their smoke and light were enough to cause panic.
Not only amongst the people of Astapor but also among his own men. He could hear their gasps. Feel their reverent and fearful gazes licking the back of his head.
He knew the look in their eyes without the need to turn; it was the same one men had worn when dragons darkened the sky above them back in Westeros.
It meant nothing to him.
He was not Helaena. He did not crave their admiration, nor did he mistake it for loyalty. So long as they followed orders and did not falter when blood was required, their feelings were irrelevant.
"Silvo," Baelon said, glancing sideways.
The young man matched his stride easily. Amber-skinned and lean, with black hair pulled back and sharp, restless eyes.
"We take the great pyramids first," Baelon continued calmly. "On my command, you charge with me. No hesitation."
Silvo inclined his head without breaking pace. "Of course, Lord Baelon."
Soon, the Pyramid of Nakloz rose before them, its immense stepped form dominating the surrounding district.
It was both the home and treasury of a Great Noble house of Astapor, a great line of Good Masters.
And, unlike the ceremonial pyramids nearer the plaza, this one was squat and brutal, its lower levels reinforced with iron-banded gates and guarded by Unsullied standing in perfect, lifeless ranks.
Baelon slowed.
The heat from the distant fires licked at the air, and shouts echoed faintly from elsewhere in the city.
'Confusion was already spreading. Good.' He mused.
His hand closed around the hilt of his sword.
The blade slid free with a whisper, its steel catching the light as though thirsty for more.
Baelon stepped forward alone, but it was enough to catch the attention of the few remaining Unsullied that had been left to guard the pyramid.
The Unsullied guards moved together, spears angling, shields locking, but they were too slow. One heartbeat was all Baelon needed.
He crossed the distance in a blur.
Then—
Steel flashed.
In a single arc, his blade passed through helm, neck, and collarbone alike. The Unsullied did not scream.
Rather…they could not.
They simply fell, bodies collapsing in near-perfect symmetry, blood spilling across the pale stone steps.
Silence followed.
Baelon did not pause to admire his work. He turned back to the stunned men behind him, sword still dripping red.
"Come now," he said simply. "Follow me."
His men broke out of their reverie.
And then?
They charged.
For wealth.
For glory.
For freedom.
***
In the scorching heat of the Astapori morning, Helaena stood among the crowd with her hood drawn low, the coarse fabric clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
The Plaza of Pride stretched out before her in brutal grandeur. It was a vast, open expanse of stone stained dark with red, much like the rest of the city.
Towering pyramids ringed the plaza, their stepped sides draped in crimson and orange banners, each embroidered with scenes of conquest, chains, and kneeling figures.
Drums thundered in slow rhythms, their beat echoing between the stone faces of the pyramids, vibrating in the chest like a second, borrowed heartbeat.
Citizens pressed shoulder to shoulder, whilst merchants and visitors mingled with slaves who had been granted temporary leave to watch, though none doubted they would return to their chains once the spectacle ended.
At the far end of the plaza, a raised sandstone platform loomed.
Upon it stood the Good Masters of Astapor.
They were resplendent in excess, robes of dyed silk and heavy brocade spilling over rounded forms, their fingers weighed down by rings of gold and jade.
Some wore collars of beaten bronze inlaid with gems; others draped themselves in perfumes so thick they cut through the heat.
Their faces were oiled and powdered, cheeks flushed from wine and indulgence, eyes gleaming with smug anticipation as they surveyed the sea of bodies before them.
Slavery had made them soft.
One of the Masters stepped forward, his robes trailing behind him like a banner.
In his hand, he held a whip, its leather braided and tipped with barbs of polished bone. He raised it high, letting the crowd fall into silence.
"Today, we of Astapor," he proclaimed, arms spreading wide, "celebrate our glory. Our prosperity. Our history."
The whip cracked.
At once, the Unsullied moved.
From the edges of the plaza, legions of them marched into view, their formation flawless, their steps perfectly synchronised.
Bronze helms gleamed beneath the merciless sun, shields locking together with cold precision.
Not a single face showed emotion. Not a single eye wavered. They halted as one, spears snapping upright in unison.
Helaena's breath caught.
She knew what it took for them to stand there.
Castration. Beatings. Years of starvation and humiliation. The killing of animals…and infants.
A childhood carved away piece by piece until nothing remained but obedience.
A flicker of pity crossed her eyes.
'Not anymore,' she thought—no, she hoped.
Today was the Day of the Unsullied, a grand display held for merchants, dignitaries, and prospective buyers alike.
Cruelty masquerading as tradition. A catalogue of suffering, polished for their purchase.
Around her, the slaves in the crowd whispered among themselves, their voices barely audible beneath the drums.
"They say there ought to be today," murmured a gaunt man beside her, eyes fixed forward.
"Trouble?" Another sighed. "The Unsullied are all here. The streets will be empty, just like they are every year. But has there ever truly been an issue?"
"Their forces are spread thin, yet still enough to slaughter us," a woman whispered, clutching her child closer.
Helaena listened in silence, her fingers tightening beneath her cloak.
Above them, the drums beat on.
And Astapor, blind to its own arrogance, continued to celebrate the chains that were already beginning to crack.
'It seems Silvo has already spread the rumours…' Helaena felt her heart pound painfully against her ribs.
Still, it seems like their guesses were right. Even with rumours, the slaves did not have the courage to spark even a thought of resistance.
Baelon had entrusted her with an important task, one that required her to stand alone.
And, the weight of that responsibility pressed in on her from all sides, suffocating her.
For a fleeting moment, she closed her eyes.
Images surfaced, fleeting but with unsettling clarity.
The dream where she had taken her own life.
The magic they had learned together.
The dragons, they claimed.
Years spent preparing, planning, enduring, all to escape the gilded cage that had once defined their existence.
Her fingers curled beneath her cloak.
'I am no longer that scared little girl…' Helaena opened her eyes. 'I may not be able to help Baelon much in battle, but… this is something only I can do.'
Soon, the masses around her and the Good Masters ahead became unsettled. Worry and confusion threaded through both their words and bodies.
Ahead of her, one of the Good Masters descended from their platform, his silk robes billowing as he barked orders.
Looking around, Helaena noted everyone eyeing smoke curling skywards in the distance.
Clearly, it had caught their attention.
One breath. Two breaths.
Helaena forced herself to remain calm.
Baelon had trusted her with this.
She remembered his words clearly, spoken without doubt or hesitation.
"You are unique, Helaena. This task can only be left to you, and you alone."
She drew a steadying breath and pressed down the anxiety, the fear, the tightening knot in her chest.
Someone believed in her.
Someone she held dear, perhaps more than she yet understood.
The crowd began to stir in earnest. Shouts rippled outward as more smoke rose from the distant districts of Astapor, dark plumes curling into the bright morning sky.
Panic followed swiftly.
"This is it…" Helaena whispered.
Drawing upon the strength granted by the Blood Bond ritual, she pushed forward, forcing her way against the tide of people trying desperately to flee the plaza.
Shoulders collided with hers. Voices cursed. Hands shoved her aside.
She did not stop.
Closer.
And, closer.
And, closer still.
Until she was only a few steps away.
The Good Master raised his whip high, his face slick with sweat as his gaze darted across the plaza.
"Rȳbagon sȳz!"Maintain formation!
The Good Master shouted, his voice sharp with rising panic as he pointed to a group of the Unsullied.
"Skorī dārys! Vēzos qintir—!"You, there! Investigate the smoke—!
Before the Unsullied could respond, another of the Good Masters hurried forward, robes gathered in trembling hands.
"Have you lost your mind?" he hissed. "If the slaves see them leave the plaza, they will riot! Keep the legions here!"
A third Master shoved past them both, his face flushed with anger. "And leave our estates unguarded while the city burns? My household lies in that district! I will not have my wealth turned to ash for the sake of ceremony!"
The platform dissolved into shouting.
Hands gestured wildly, rings flashing in the sunlight as voices overlapped, orders contradicted, commands rescinded as quickly as they were given.
Some demanded the Unsullied be dispatched to investigate the fires at once; others screamed for the legions to remain, fearing the crowd more than the flames.
The Unsullied stood perfectly still.
Not from hesitation, but because no complete, unambiguous command had been given.
All they had been told was to maintain formation, to which they obliged.
Their training allowed no room for interpretation. Incomplete orders meant no order at all.
They did not think. They could not think. At least not yet.
The whip-holder's face paled as he realised it.
"This is madness! SILENCE!" he roared, raising the scourge high as he turned back toward the formation.
Helaena's breath caught as the crowd around her thinned, bodies peeling away until she stood dangerously exposed.
'Now!'
She raised her hand.
Fhwoom!
A sphere of flame burst into existence before the whip-wielding Good Master, hovering in the air. Heat washed over the plaza in rolling waves.
The Unsullied did not flinch.
Their hands merely tightened around spear and shield, eyes fixed upon the man who held their leash.
Unfortunately for them, their master had lost all composure.
"W-what is that?!" He screamed, stumbling backwards. He tripped over his own robes and fell hard onto the stone, scrambling away from the flames like a cornered animal.
In his terror, the whip slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the ground.
Seeing this, Helaena moved.
In but a moment, she stepped forward and seized the whip, its leather warm beneath her fingers.
The plaza fell silent as she straightened up.
Then, with a sharp, practised motion, she cracked the whip against the stone.
Snap.
Every Unsullied turned toward her.
"Vestriarzir iā plaza!" Hold the plaza!
Helaena commanded.
"Gōntanāzmi Gōntī Perzys disarmās. Ānogārī civili protectās. Kepa va morghūljagon ūndegon ao sȳz bē."Disarm the Good Masters. Protect the civilians. No killing unless ordered.
The Unsullied moved at once. Those at the front moved swiftly, carrying out her instructions before relaying them to their comrades further away.
They surged forward as a silent wave, forming walls of bronze and shield between the panicking Masters and the crowd.
In little time, the Good Masters' protests were cut short as they were dragged down, stripped of their finery and reduced to sobbing men in the dust.
When the chaos finally stilled, Helaena stepped forward once more as she eyed the Unsullied who had returned to their ranks in silence.
She raised her voice, letting it carry through the plaza, betraying not a hint of her nervousness.
"Zaldrīzes ñuhyzor jemēbagon, lōgor morghūlzi, lōgor lenton." You have served your masters who treated you as tools. As property.
She swallowed, feeling their eyes on her, then continued.
"Daor ñuha ñuhys issa." I am not your master.
A ripple passed through the ranks.
"Azantys vestri." I offer you freedom.
Helaena declared.
"Se ēdrutās ao sȳrī hen lenton kostōba, sȳz ao istas daor qrinunty. Se ēdrutās bantis… ao jemēbagon tubis, vēzos, hontes, se ao morghūlī ao īlōn issi." If you wish to leave this place, you may do so unchallenged. If you wish to stay…you may serve as soldiers by choice, for pay, with dignity, and with your lives your own
Her grip tightened on the whip.
"Ēdruta ao issa." The decision is yours.
Thus, for the first time in Astapor's long, blood-soaked history, the Unsullied were given something they had never been trained to understand.
A choice.
Silence fell thick upon the Plaza of Pride.
The Good Masters who had been seized and forced to their knees burned holes into Helaena with their glares, faces twisted with fury and disbelief. They spat curses in High Valyrian, promises of retribution, of suffering yet to come.
But… they knew.
They all knew.
There was nothing they could do.
Around them stood the Unsullied, bronze helms gleaming beneath the cruel sun, spears planted firmly against the stone.
Not one so much as glanced at their former masters. Their attention lay elsewhere.
On her.
The plaza's legions stood unmoving, disciplined even now, their blank gazes shifting only between Helaena and the whip coiled in her hand.
It was a strange thing, that simple length of leather had ruled their entire lives, yet now it looked… small. Fragile.
Helaena drew a slow breath.
Then fire blossomed.
Flames licked along the whip in her grasp, crawling over the leather hungrily.
Helaena loosened her fingers as the burning whip fell to the stone.
It crackled. Once. Twice. Then collapsed into a heap of ash.
"Nyke jurnegon bēvilza se ūndegon."I will not go back on my word.
Helaena said, her voice steady despite the thunder in her chest. She had not known she possessed such resolve.
"Nyke ziry iksos daor sȳrī, daor tolī dārys hen pain."I will not rule you with chains, nor command you with pain.
She lifted her chin, meeting the empty gazes before her.
"Skoros iksan."The choice is yours.
For the first time, she noticed uncertainty rippled through the Unsullied ranks.
The gaze beholding something rather than emptiness. They felt…human.
"Ao ūndegon nyke jagon?"Will you follow?
Helaena asked softly.
"Vēzos ēdruta?"Or will you stay?
She repeated her words. This time, with greater certainty, as the scourge remained a heap of ash.
Time stretched.
Then, from the front rank, one soldier stepped forward.
His movements were measured. He planted his spear before him and removed his helm.
His skin was darkened by sun and scar alike, his expression more solemn rather than hopeful.
"Nyke gīmī Grey Fist."I am called Grey Fist.
He said.
His voice was calm, but the plaza leaned closer all the same.
"Gīmī ñuha jagon ao,"If we follow you.
He continued, "skorī iksan sȳrī?"What are we to be?
Helaena's fingers curled at her side.
"Ao bēvilza."You will live.
She said.
"Daor perzyssy. Daor lentrot. Ao ēdan sȳndrorī azantys. Ao jorrāelza. Ao sȳrī umbagon gevī, daor iksos."Not as tools. Not as property. You will eat as free men. You will be paid for your service. You will be given purpose, not obedience.
She swallowed, then pressed on.
"Ao kepa gīmī. Ao sȳz ñuhon lenton. Se ānogar lo ao rūklon, se ao ēdruta jagon, ao daor pāsagon.Daor bē astōr. Daor kostilus."Youwill have names. You will choose your paths.And if one day you grow weary, if you wish to leave, you may do so and face no pursuit. No punishment.
Grey Fist studied her for a long moment. Then he inclined his head and stepped back into formation.
He leaned toward his brothers.
Whispers passed from helm to helm, from rank to rank. Low, restrained.
Even in their uncertainty and decisions, they remained disciplined.
The murmurs spread outward like ripples in water, then slowly flowed back again, returning to the front.
Silence reclaimed the plaza.
Sweat clung to Helaena's palms.
She had hoped for a fraction. A tenth, perhaps. Enough to justify Baelon's faith in her. Enough to give them a core around which to build.
Half would have been a miracle.
Grey Fist stepped forward once more.
"Ziry ossēn ñuhon qelbar issa." He said "Ziry ossēn ñuhon iā mērī, Ziry daor ossēn ñuhon sȳz bē gīmī." We have been made to kill. We have been taught to endure.We have never been allowed to choose.
He sank to one knee.
"Se nyke sagon iksan jorrāelagon…tubis ziry ābrar jagon. Daor kostilus issa—" If what you say is true…then we will all follow. Not because we are commanded—
Behind him, spears struck stone.
Once.
Twice.
Thousands of times.
"—yn ziry jagon jorrāelagon."—but because we wish to.
Helaena's breath caught.
All of them.
The words Baelon had once spoken echoed in her mind.
You are unique, Helaena. This task can only be left to you, and you alone.
She smiled.
Not the careful smile of a princess. Not the guarded one of a child in exile.
But a genuine one.
"Se skoros, rȳ…"Then rise…
She said softly, but then paused. "…daor sȳz lentrot, daor sȳz azantys. Yn sȳz valī. Valī azantys."…not as slaves, not as soldiers. But as men. Freed men.
And so…they rose.