300 AC
*DAENERYS III*
The Plaza of Pride was a furnace.
Astapor's midday sun beat down on the red bricks and made the air shimmer. Daenerys Targaryen could feel sweat trickle down her spine under the blue tokar she had borrowed, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The stink of it was worst of all — not the sweat of the eight thousand Unsullied standing in ranks, for they did not sweat. It was the masters in their tokars, sweating perfume and fear, and the dragons in their chains.
Drogon pulled at his chain and hissed. The iron had chafed the black scales at his neck raw.
Kraznys mo Nakloz drank wine from a skull-shaped cup. He was a small man made large by fat, his beard oiled into a yellow spike, his tokar fringed with Myrish lace that must have cost a fortune.
"This one tells you that you are a fool to think one dragon is worth eight thousand soldiers," said Missandei, the little scribe girl from Naath. Her voice did not tremble, but her hands did. "This one says you are a child and know nothing of war."
Daenerys smiled. She had practiced that smile in Qarth.
"Tell the Good Master that I thank him for his wisdom," she said sweetly.
When Missandei translated, Kraznys laughed and said something crude about her breasts.
Ser Jorah's hand went to his sword. Daenerys stopped him with a look. Ser Barristan, old and white-bearded and still calling himself Arstan, stood like a stone.
"Tell him I accept," Daenerys said. "A dragon for an army."
The deal was struck. The whip — a heavy thing with a dragon-bone handle and long leather thong — was placed in her hand. It was heavier than it looked.
Kraznys stepped forward, grinning. "Give me the dragon," he said in his mongrel Valyrian. "Give me the black one, little whore."
Daenerys looked down at the whip. Then at the Unsullied. Eight thousand faces, all the same. Boys cut and made perfect. Her children, if she took them.
Then at Drogon.
Drogon looked back. He knew.
Daenerys took a breath of that hot, bloody air, and when she spoke, she did not speak in the bastard Valyrian of Astapor. She spoke in High Valyrian, the tongue of dragonlords, pure and clear and terrible.
*"Dracarys."*
For an instant Kraznys did not understand. His smile stayed. Then it melted.
Drogon reared, his chain snapping like thread, and opened his jaws. Flame, red and yellow and black at the heart, poured from him in a roaring river. Kraznys mo Nakloz became a pillar of fire. His tokar burned, his oiled beard burned, his skull cup melted.
He shrieked. It was not a long shriek.
The other Good Masters shrieked louder. "Dragon! Sorcery!"
"Dracarys!" Dany shouted again, and this time Rhaegal answered, and Viserion, green and white fire, white and gold fire, burning whips, burning masters, burning the good red bricks of Astapor black.
Jorah drew his sword. Barristan was already killing.
In the middle of fire and screaming, Daenerys stood holding the whip. Then she let it fall.
The sound of it hitting brick was louder than the fire.
"Unsullied!" she cried, in the Common Tongue, in bastard Valyrian, in High Valyrian, in every tongue she had. "You are free! I free you! Will you fight for me? As free men!"
Eight thousand spears were lifted.
Grey Worm, at the front rank, was the first to kneel. Then he slammed the butt of his spear against the bricks.
Once.
Eight thousand spears answered.
Once.
The sound cracked Astapor like a bell.
And when the smoke cleared, Astapor was no longer a city of slaves.
STORM'S END........ >
Aegon stood at six-one, seventeen name-days, the body of a Baratheon and the face of a Targaryen.
Hair silver-blond but not pure — black streaks at the roots from his Baratheon blood, wavy, falling to his shoulders, damp from the crypts.
Eyes, the true mark. Violet with a storm-grey ring around the iris, like Rhaegar's eyes caught in a storm. When angry, they glow purple.
Face lean, cheekbones sharp like Rhaegar, but jaw square like Robert Baratheon. Light stubble, not shaved, boy trying to be a man. Build — broad shoulders, leather armor too tight across chest, arms scarred from training with Ser Cortnay master-at-arms.
Not bulky like Robert at 18, but wiry strong, built for dragon riding.
Marks faint burn scar on right palm from first blood sacrifice to Voidscale, never healed. And a small ash-black scale on left forearm where Aegnis sleeps curled.
His dragons has developed in the dragon ranch each reaching the size of a cow calf, though not big enough to ride on, they can move in the air and fly, the create spark of fire though not dragonfire, they're big enough to kill small target in the woods.
Aegon sneaks into the woods to release them, so they can hunt for their food, he make sure they don't stray, and always hunt deep in the woods.