Chapter 24: The Lash and the Flame
The proclamation had been delivered, the war drums of the Targaryen conquest of Essos now beating a thunderous rhythm that echoed from the Disputed Lands to the very gates of Qarth. King Baelon I Targaryen had set his colossal war machine in motion, and the ancient cities of Slaver's Bay, blissfully unaware of the true scale of the doom approaching, prepared their defenses as they had countless times before against barbarian hordes or rival city-states. They had never faced a foe like Baelon, nor a force wielded with such calculated, overwhelming power.
The Crimson Shores of Astapor
Prince Aemond 'One-Eye' Targaryen was the first to bring his King's wrath to Slaver's Bay. Vhagar, ancient and terrible, blotted out the sun as she descended upon Astapor, her roar a cataclysm that shattered the desert silence for leagues around. Below, the Legion of the Storm, its ranks swelled by Tyroshi sellswords eager for plunder and pardons, marched in perfect formation, their black banners snapping in the hot wind.
Astapor, the Red City, famed for its peerless Unsullied, met the threat with disciplined defiance. Lines of spearmen, their faces impassive behind their spiked helms, formed unbreakable phalanxes upon the city's wide plazas and before its brick-red walls. The Good Masters, from the viewing platforms of their stepped pyramids, watched with a confidence born of generations of slave-soldiers who knew no fear and felt no pain.
That confidence shattered when Vhagar unleashed her first torrent of fire. It was not the wild, untamed flame of a lesser beast, but a directed inferno, a molten river of destruction that Aemond expertly guided along the battlements. Brick and bronze melted like wax, and even the legendary discipline of the Unsullied wavered as men were incinerated where they stood, their formations broken by dragonfire that turned packed earth to glass.
"They fight bravely, for chattel," Aemond muttered, his single sapphire eye gleaming with a predatory light. The magical vow to Baelon pulsed, a cold reminder of his servitude, yet the thrill of destruction, the sheer intoxicating power of commanding Vhagar in her element, was a potent opiate. He had been born for this.
He led Vhagar in sweeping passes, her flames consuming siege engines, toppling guard towers, and sowing terror. Where the dragonfire cleared a path, the Legion of the Storm advanced, their war cries a stark contrast to the eerie silence of the Unsullied who met their charge. The fighting was brutal, the Unsullied living up to their reputation, dying but rarely breaking until overwhelmed by numbers or dragonflame. Aemond, observing from above, noted their effectiveness, their lack of self-preservation. Such material Baelon would covet.
By day's end, the outer defenses of Astapor were breached, the Red City's famed Plaza of Pride a charnel house. Aemond sent a terse report to Baelon: "Astapor engaged. Outer defenses broken. Heavy resistance. The Good Masters will soon learn the price of defiance. Vhagar is… content."
The Golden Cage of Yunkai
To the north, Lord Roland Crakehall, aboard his flagship, the Volantene Fury, commanded the blockade of Yunkai. The Yellow City, known for its gilded cages and its training of bed slaves rather than warriors, relied more on its thick walls, its hired sellsword companies, and its allies than on the martial prowess of its own citizenry.
Crakehall, a man of duty rather than brilliance, followed Baelon's instructions to the letter. The combined fleet of Westerosi warships and conscripted Volantene galleys formed an iron ring around Yunkai's port. No ship entered or left. The Wise Masters of Yunkai sent outraged envoys, protesting this violation of their sovereignty, offering tribute, then veiled threats.
Crakehall received them, listened impassively, and repeated Baelon's decree: unconditional surrender, the abolition of slavery, and the acceptance of the Iron Throne's suzerainty. The envoys departed in sputtering fury, and the siege began in earnest. Trebuchets, constructed by engineers from Baelon's Royal Academy branch in Volantis, began to hurl stones – and more gruesomely, diseased animal carcasses – over Yunkai's walls. The psychological impact was as significant as the physical damage. The Wise Masters, unaccustomed to such direct and relentless pressure, began to bicker amongst themselves.
The March on Meereen
King Baelon I Targaryen himself led the grandest of the three armies towards Meereen, the Great Pyramid of the city a distant, shimmering promise on the horizon. He rode Silverwing, her scales like hammered moonlight, a vision of Valyrian grace and power. Beside and above them, unseen by mortal eyes save Baelon's, slithered the colossal form of Umbraxys, a living shadow whose mere presence seemed to draw warmth from the air and still the desert winds.
Baelon's army was a spectacle of disciplined might. The core legions of Westeros, veterans of countless campaigns, marched alongside the newly formed cohorts of freed Volantene slaves. These former slaves, now clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, their loyalty fanatically sworn to the King who had broken their chains, were eager to prove their worth and visit upon the slavers of Meereen the same liberation they had received. Their officers were a mix of Westerosi veterans and promising individuals from their own ranks, rapidly promoted by Baelon's meritocratic, if ruthless, system.
Baelon had spent the preceding weeks not merely marching, but observing. Through Umbraxys's senses, he mapped the terrain, noted the disposition of Meereenite patrols, and felt the subtle currents of magic that crisscrossed the ancient lands. His scholars from the Royal Academy were already translating intercepted Meereenite communications, analyzing their defenses, and identifying potential weaknesses within the Great Masters' council.
He learned of their Ghiscari legions, their brazen beasts, their pit fighters. He learned of Daenerys Targaryen's ancestor, the first Daenerys, who had married into Dorne, but also of another, more recent Daenerys who had, for a brief, chaotic time, ruled this very city. The irony was not lost on him. She had dragons, and a claim. But she lacked vision, and true power, Baelon thought, his lips curving into a humorless smile. She sought to break chains out of sentiment. I break them to forge stronger ones, bound to me.
As they drew within a few days' march of Meereen, Larys Strong contacted him via their linked amulets. The Master of Whisperers' voice was, as always, a dry rustle in Baelon's mind.
"Your Grace, word from Braavos. Your campaign has… alarmed the Sealord. Their fleet is on high alert, though they make no overt moves against our shipping yet. More interestingly, my agents confirm increased activity within the House of Black and White. Helaena's 'faceless child'… the whispers grow louder. They say a contract has been considered, though the target remains shrouded. The price for a dragon, or a king who commands them, is astronomically high. Perhaps too high, even for the Iron Bank, should they be the backers."
Baelon considered this. "A cornered rat may still bite, Larys. But Braavos is a problem for after Meereen. For now, they watch. Let them. Let them see what happens to those who cling to their outmoded traditions." He paused. "Have you identified this 'faceless child'?"
"Not with certainty, Your Grace. Many possibilities. The nature of these assassins is… elusive. But the profile suggests someone young, easily overlooked, yet exceptionally skilled. Potentially with a personal vendetta, if the whispers of their god demanding sacrifice for past wrongs against escaped slaves hold any truth."
Baelon dismissed it with a wave of his hand, though a sliver of Umbraxys's ancient caution resonated within him. "They will not reach me. Focus on Meereen. I want to know every division among the Great Masters, every sellsword captain whose loyalty can be bought."
"It is being done, Your Grace."
That evening, as the army made camp, Baelon stood with Umbraxys, their minds intertwined. Silverwing rested nearby, her great head resting on her forelegs, her silver eyes watching her master.
"The Great Pyramid of Meereen," Umbraxys conveyed, images flooding Baelon's mind – of the immense structure, the teeming city, the thousands of slaves toiling under the whips of their masters. "A beacon of their arrogance."
Voldemort, within the ageless form of Baelon, felt a surge of cold purpose. "It shall become a beacon of my new order, Umbraxys. Their armies will break, their masters will kneel or be extinguished. And from their populace, we will swell our legions further. Imagine it – Unsullied, Ghiscari, pit fighters… all reforged in my image, loyal only to the Iron Throne."
His gaze was fixed eastward, towards the unseen city. He could almost taste the fear that would soon grip Meereen, the despair of the Great Masters, the dawning, terrified hope of the enslaved. The game continued, and the board was being swept clean, one piece, one city, at a time.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of violet and blood. Tomorrow, or the day after, they would arrive at the gates of Meereen. And the last of the great Slaver Cities would face its judgment, delivered by the lash of his legions and the flame of his dragons.