Slaves obey, men choose: chapter 27: Fireflies II

Okay, progress report. Targaryen edition. Because apparently, saving a city from itself and building a utopia from the ground up just wasn't enough paperwork. Now I had to deal with the messy, emotionally fraught fallout of two walking, talking symbols of a fallen dynasty landing on my doorstep. The surprise I had planned for the city tonight felt simple by comparison. Smiths? I could give them magic metal and a blueprint. Former slaves? I could give them homes, health, and language. But what do you give the last two kids of a family that built its legacy on fire and blood, especially when they’ve decided, with a desperation that was frankly exhausting, that you’re their long-lost nephew?

I let the afternoon sun warm my face, its light fractured into a thousand dancing colors by the crystalline windows of my tower. This was my breather. The calm before I had to go be King Aegor, Architect of Tomorrow, for a few thousand people. My magic was a net cast over the city, a web of awareness that hummed in the back of my skull. It was less about spying and more about… connection. If a kid scraped a knee in the new gardens, I’d feel the flicker of pain. If some pissed-off god decided to drop by for a rematch, the wards would scream a warning long before the first brick shook. This was what power was supposed to be. Not the gross, sweaty domination of the slavers, but a quiet, certain safety. The knowledge that the system would hold, that my people would be okay, even if I decided to take a day off. Which, let’s be real, wasn’t happening anytime soon.

The murmur of voices pulled me back. My household—my weird, cobbled-together family of former slaves and strays—was going about its business. And there, looking uncomfortably regal in chairs that probably cost more than the Crownlands' annual tax revenue (a thought that made my skin crawl, knowing that wealth was built on suffering), sat Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen.

The Panaceas had done their work. It was jarring. Yesterday, they’d looked like what they were: two kids who’d been chewed up and spat out by a cruel world. Today, they looked like they’d stepped out of a Targaryen propaganda poster. Viserys, in particular, was almost unrecognizable. The panacea had smoothed out the sharp, hungry edges, fixed the poorly healed breaks in his bones, and dialed down the cortisol levels that had been slowly cooking his brain. The guy had been a walking time bomb of stress-induced illness. In another life, he’d have probably stroked out before Khal Drogo ever got a chance to give him a golden crown.

Now, he just looked… calm. Serene, even. It was weird. Had I accidentally baked magical Xanax into my miracle healing fruit? Was I the world’s most benevolent, unintentional pharmacist? Another question for the ever-growing ‘To Ponder Later’ list. Right next to ‘How to ethically deconstruct feudalism’ and ‘How to stop people from worshipping you.’

A gentle tug on my hair. Then Daenerys’s voice, small and hesitant. "Sorry."

"Don't be, Dany. You're fine," I said, not turning. I just relaxed my shoulders, a signal she’d learned meant ‘all good.’

This had become a thing. The hair-braiding. It started when a few of the women, the ones with Valyrian features who’d been prized as luxury items by the Masters, asked if they could touch it. My hair, this stupid silver-gold that marked me as ‘exotic’ in this hellscape, was a novelty. A slave with this coloring could fetch five thousand regular souls. So, yeah, they were fascinated. I’d said yes, because why not? It was just hair.

But it had turned into something else. A ritual. A quiet space where people just… talked. No titles, no kneeling. Just hands working through strands and conversations flowing around me. When Daenerys saw it, her eyes got that heartbreakingly hopeful look, and she asked if she could join. How do you say no to that?

So here I was, King and Archmage, getting my hair braided by a future Dragon Queen while I tried to diplomatically deprogram her brother. Power could raise cities and rewrite biology, but it couldn’t replicate the simple, human comfort of someone doing something nice for you just because.

I shifted my focus to Viserys, who was watching us with an expression I couldn’t quite pin down. "I hope the rooms are acceptable," I said.

I’d put them on my floor. For him, it was a status thing, proof he was being treated like the royalty he believed he was. He didn’t need to know that every former slave in Astapor now lived in a home that was, in its own way, just as comfortable as this tower. Let him have his illusions. For me, it was practical. Better to keep the potentially magical, definitely traumatized Targaryens where I could keep a subtle, magical eye on them. My little tussle with the Great Stallion had confirmed it: my presence was turning the world’s magic dial to eleven. What would that do to the girl who was supposed to be the original catalyst? Caution wasn’t paranoia; it was basic common sense.

"They were… adequate," Viserys replied, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. Then, almost a whisper: "It reminded me of home."

The admission hit me right in the chest. They’d slept for fifteen hours straight. Their bodies finally feeling safe enough to truly rest. Viserys had woken up, eaten enough for three people, and then gone out to see my city. My city. Which he insisted on calling "my nephew's kingdom," a phrase that was giving me a migraine sharper than any spell-casting hangover.

The rumor was out, of course. The Lost Prince Returned. My people had latched onto it with the same fervor they’d latched onto my accidental godhood. The truth—that the original Aegor was a nobody who died for nothing, and I was just a lucky soul from another world—was messy and unsatisfying. The story they preferred—a royal child, enslaved, who died and returned with divine power to break chains—had poetry. It had meaning. You can’t fight a good story.

"So," I said, pulling myself back to the present. "What did you think of Astapor?"

"It is… happy," Viserys said, and he sounded genuinely astonished, like he was describing a mythical creature. "The people are hopeful. They believe tomorrow will be better. It's the only city I've ever seen where the ruler is loved, not just feared." His violet eyes locked onto mine. "It reminded me of what they said about Rhaegar. But more. If he had been loved like this, the rebels would never have dared."

I looked out the window at my city, glowing in the late afternoon sun. "Maybe you're right about that part," I conceded. "But I’ve told you, Viserys. Rhaegar wasn't my father. I'm not a Targaryen. Still, a better version of him might have delayed your family's fall. But it wouldn't have stopped it."

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Simple question for you. What was the real foundation of your house's power?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Our dragons."

"Wrong." I leaned back, careful not to disrupt Dany's work. "The dragons were the tool. What are your house's words?"

"Fire and Blood," they both said in unison, the old pride flashing in their eyes.

"Exactly. Fire and Blood. The foundation was violence. The threat of it. The reality of it. You conquered through superior force. The problem with that foundation is what happens when you inevitably turn that force on each other." I let that hang in the air for a moment. "The Dance of Dragons. You gutted your own strength. A dynasty built on fear only works as long as you're the scariest thing around. The second you're not, it all comes crashing down. A kinder Targaryen king might have made the fall slower, gentler. But the core problem remained."

I could see the gears turning in Viserys's head, the desperate hope. "So… if we had dragons again… or something with similar power…"

"It's not about the power itself," I said, cutting him off gently. "It's about what you build with it. You came with Fire and Blood. The thing about ruling through fear is that humans are petty. We remember insults longer than kindness. And fear has a expiration date. It curdles into rage. The kind of rage that makes ordinary people storm a dragonpit and slaughter the monsters they used to tremble before."

Anger flashed across his face, quick and hot. "The Targaryens made Westeros great!"

"We made it a unified kingdom," I corrected. "But did we make it good? If you had, your lords would have defended you to the death. Their own smallfolk would have turned on them for suggesting rebellion. People are cruel, yeah, but they're also fiercely loyal to those who genuinely care for them. Who would you choose? A king who ensures your kids are fed and your future is secure? Or one who calls you 'smallfolk' like you're dirt, who burns your father alive for a perceived slight?"

"You speak of my father!" he shouted, surging to his feet. The room went dead quiet. I felt my guards tense. "Your grandfather! He was kind! Would you believe the lies of the Usurper? That we were mad? When it was one of our own sworn swords who stabbed him in the back? When the animals who murdered your aunt and cousin were knights? Knights raised by Rhaegar himself!"

The words echoed in the sudden stillness. He was trembling, a portrait of wounded pride and fury.

"It's hard not to wonder," I said, my voice deliberately calm, "when hearing something you dislike makes you shout at someone you claim is family. Is this how you spoke to Daenerys when she displeased you? Your mother and brother would be so proud."

The effect was instant. It was like I’d punched the air out of him. He crumpled back into the chair, the anger replaced by a wash of shame so palpable I could almost taste it.

"To answer your question," I continued, softer now, "I don't think your father was born mad. I think he was broken. By Duskendale, by pressure, by a system that was rotten at its core. He may have loved you. But a fire that keeps you warm can still burn others to ash. Aerys burned people alive. That's not a lie; it's a fact."

He couldn't meet my eyes anymore. "I just… I don't understand why you think it's impossible for us to reign forever," he whispered, and in that question, I heard the core of his entire being—the need for all the suffering to have been for something eternal.

"Nothing is forever, Viserys," I said, almost pitying him. "Even if a perfect Rhaegar had ruled for a hundred years, eventually an idiot would inherit the throne. Someone weak, or cruel, or just stupid. Because your right to rule came from conquest, from Fire and Blood, not from the consent of the people you ruled. A Targaryen dynasty that lasted would have to be something completely new. Something alien to everything your ancestors stood for. It would have to be built on service, not supremacy."

The concept was clearly foreign to him. Feudal minds don’t think in terms of public service.

"We live in a world of stories," I finished, my gaze drifting to Daenerys's reflection in the window. "And everyone wants a good ending. I've found the best endings usually come from simple, honest souls. So, here’s the only thing I want you to think about while you're here. A simple choice. Would you rather rule a hell all by yourself? Or would you rather build a paradise, and prosper in it with everyone else?"

The throne he craved wouldn’t be freedom. It would be a gilded cage that would stab him in the back and suffocate everyone he loved. I couldn’t stop him from chasing it. But maybe, just maybe, I could offer him a glimpse of a better dream.

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In the lofty towers of a city reborn, a proud falcon perched upon its golden parapet, feathers glinting like the breath of dawn. Below, a hungry crow circled in the autumn sky, wings ragged with famine.

“Come, cousin,” called the falcon, voice steady as marble, “join me here. See how the city thrives. All I ask is that you share its air, hunt alongside me, and care for its people. You will feast as I do.”

The crow, weak yet sharp-eyed, drifted close. “A fine offer,” he croaked, “but at what cost?”

The falcon bowed his head. “Merely your freedom. Be seen with me from the ramparts, stand watch when the city stirs, speak only kind words of hope and peace. In return, you will never go hungry. You will be admired.”

The crow hovered, hunger gnawing at his bones. He’d once roamed free over forests, reliant on his cunning and flight, but those days brought peril and uncertainty.

“You speak of freedom lost,” said the falcon gently. “But here, your wings will not falter—only your heart will trade its wild beating for contentment and purpose.”

The crow looked at the city for a long moment. Its bronze rooftops glowed like ember in sunset, and for the first time in seasons he imagined peace. At last, he landed beside the falcon.

In the days that followed, he spoke hope to the city, hunted for its markets, mourned for its fallen. His hunger subsided; his feathers filled out; admiration followed. He was saved—until one dawn, the falcon’s handler presented a silver band, curved to fit—not around the crow’s leg, but his wing.

“Your voice too wild,” said the handler. “We shall silence it.”

The crow tried to fly but found his wing tethered. As the crowd cheered the falcon’s perfect guardian, he understood: traded freedom for praise, he’d lost both.