Slaves, obey, men choose: Chapter 24: Ignis Libertatis

Sunlight, warm and thick as melted gold, poured through the arched branches of the towering form of Nemesis. Not far away from where I was,

Sunlight, warm and thick as melted gold, poured through the arched branches of the towering form of Nemesis. Not far away from where I was, I could feel like a breeze, how Astapor breathed. Not the ragged, fearful gasps of its past, but a deep, contented sigh. Around me, the scent of jasmine and other good scented plants and flowers from the newly created gardens outside and inside Astapor mingled with the distant, rhythmic clang of hammers on steel from the forges – not crafting chains like in the past, but tools, reinforcements made with iron changed by my magic. I could feel the city’s pulse through the silver roots of Nemesis, thrumming beneath the streets, a counterpoint to the frantic beat of my own annoyance.

Expected. I’d expected many things today. Prepared for them, even. Contingencies nested within contingencies like intricate puzzle boxes.

An armada of slavers appearing on the horizon, sails painted with the snarling beasts of Ghis or the flayed man of Volantis? Ready. The Unsullied knew their formations, the newly empowered soldiers drilled relentlessly, and Nemesis could unleash localized storms that would turn the sea into a churning graveyard. The air defenses – shields woven from concentrated sunlight, many other bad surprises and hardened air – shimmered faintly on standby.

A resurgence of the Great Stallion’s followers, attempting some arcane ritual to rip the sky asunder, to take revenge? It should not been the case with how I personally killed the great stallion but, still, I was prepared. After all, didn’t the quote what is dead may never die exist in this world?

My Archmage essence hummed beneath my skin like a reservoir of pure potential, one eager to be called, to be wielded. Spells I had created based on the medias I had consumed in my past life, the least of them akin to weapons of mass destruction.

The wards etched into the city’s very bones pulsed with protective energy, with the faith the people of Astapor had in me, had in a better tomorrow, ready to unravel hostile magic like rotten thread.

A plague, conjured by some desperate magister in  Asshai or Qarth? Anticipated. The healing trees from which my panaceas grew from,  endlessly bettered, now infused with life-energy drawn from Nemesis and filtered through my own understanding of biology and magic, stood ready. The subtle network of magic, bolstering the innate resilience of every soul within Astapor’s embrace, was a constant, invisible shield. Even resurrection – the one of everyone in Astapor if they died even if I was not there was a grim possibility I’d mapped. The cost would have probably been truly insane had it not been for my Archmage essence.

Gods, monsters, treachery, famine… I had plans. Complex, layered, often brutal if needed plans. I’d braced myself for the stench of new battlefields, of having to kill people again even though I didn’t like it, even though my essences made sure that I would not forget any blood spilled.

What I had not prepared for, what no amount of cosmic foresight or paranoid planning could have anticipated, was the sheer, stubborn delusion currently sitting across from me, sipping mint tea with trembling hands.

Viserys Targaryen. The Beggar King. Son to the Mad King. Blood of the dragon. Seller of his sister. A man whose eyes, once perpetually clouded with a volatile mix of entitlement and fear, now shone with a terrifying, fervent certainty. Beside him, Daenerys, a pale ghost wrapped in travel-stained silks, watched me with wide, hopeful violet eyes that mirrored her brother’s conviction, though laced with a fragile awe.

And the source of their misplaced faith? Me.

"You must understand, Aegor," Viserys insisted, leaning forward, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "The likeness… it is uncanny. Beyond coincidence! Silver hair, yes, common enough in Lys, perhaps, but the eyes… the exact shade of amethyst as my mother’s, as Rhaenys’s! The curve of the jaw, the way you hold your head – it speaks of Rhaegar’s lineage! And the age… it aligns perfectly! You would be around 14 or 13 name days, yes? Aegon would have been the same!"

The only reason why I was even humouring any of this was because I could see through the soul of the two Targaryens, through their memories and those factors together made me see before me children, children who had to grow too quickly, who had to sacrifice so much to survive, children whose future no matter how wrong, cruel, right, glorious it could be was not set.

I sighed, the sound escaping like steam from an over-pressured valve. This wasn't the first pass. We’d been circling this drain for an hour. Every denial I offered, every logical brick I laid down, they seemed to use as mortar for their fantasy castle.

"I remember being here, Viserys," I stated, my voice flat, deliberately devoid of the power that could shake the room. I needed him to hear the mundane horror. I did something I hated doing, that I rarely did, I let the memories more precisely the negative ones of the original Aegor outside of the deepest part of my mind "I remember the taste of cheap wine forced down my throat by a fat merchant from Pentos. I remember the sting of the lash for not smiling convincingly enough. I remember the cold stone floor of the pleasure house cellar where they threw us when we were… not doing good enough.  My earliest, clearest memories? Chains. Filth. Pain. Violation. The smells. The touch. The stench of despair thick enough to choke on. Not dragon dreams. Not a red keep. Not a mother’s lullaby. This city, in its darkest, most vicious incarnation, is the cradle I remember."

Daenerys flinched. Viserys waved an almost dismissive hand, his gaze fixed on my face like a starving man staring at a feast. "Memories can be stolen! Suppressed! I read once that the mind to protect himself could obscure things! Think, Aegon! If you survived the Sack, snatched away by some loyal servant amidst the chaos… what safer place to hide you than across the Narrow Sea? Disguised, lost among the countless slaves? It’s the last place the usurper’s assassins would look!"

A low murmur rippled through our surroundings as if people were seriously taking in consideration Viserys’ words. It was going to be like how I told them so many times I wasn’t a god and how if anything, it resulted in their worship becoming worse, isn’t it? Ser Barristan Selmy, standing stiffly near the door, his old face a mask of conflicted grief, shifted uncomfortably. My own Unsullied commander, Kaelon, his face impassive as ever, gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod. Even him? Irritation, sharp and hot, pricked at me. It was bemusing, truly, how easily my household – people who treated me with a reverence bordering on the divine one moment, then fussed over me eating enough vegetables the next – seemed swayed by this desperate fairy tale. Did the prospect of royal blood make their liberation grander? More palatable to Westerosi sensibilities? The looks they exchanged weren't just polite interest; there was a dawning, unsettling acceptance in some eyes.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Viserys. Consider the logistics. A loyal servant, amidst the absolute carnage Tywin Lannister unleashed in the Red Keep, snatches the Crown Prince – a babe known throughout the realm – spirits him across the Narrow Sea, evades Varys’s little birds, Robert’s bounty hunters, everyone… only to then sell him into slavery in Astapor? Not to some hidden Targaryen loyalist in the Free Cities? Not kept safe to be a figurehead? But sold to a pleasure house? Does that strike you as the action of a loyalist?"

He opened his mouth, but I pressed on, my voice gaining an edge. "And even if, by some twist of fate so perverse it defies all reason, I was that child… ripped from a cradle of privilege only to be broken on the wheel of Astapor’s vilest trade… what would it change?" I swept my hand towards the open window, towards the vibrant, impossible city below. "Would it alter the scars on my soul? Would it erase the years spent as a commodity? Would it make the screams of the people who died in the fighting pits any quieter in my memory? Of the people like me who literally became trash the moment, they, no, we broke? We died?Would it change what I built here? What I’m working to realize?"

I stood, the movement fluid but carrying a weight that seem to silence the world. I walked to the edge of the the jasmine gardens and turned back, to look at Astapor, to look but towards the Streets, where the old pleasure houses stood repurposed or destroyed into would be schools, hide and seek spots by the children of Astapor and workshops.

"This," I said, my voice low but resonating with absolute conviction, "is the only home I have ever truly known. For the worst… and for the best. This is where I learned cruelty wears silk and smiles. This is where the weight of iron around my wrists became more familiar than any mother’s touch I might have forgotten. This is where I saw lives extinguished like guttering candles because they ceased to be profitable. This is where I learned the terrifying ease with which flesh yields to pain, and spirit breaks under despair."

I looked at them all, those born kings and slaves. I face them, I faced Viserys, my amethyst eyes meeting Viserys’s desperate purple ones. "But this is also where I learned my own strength. Where I shattered my chains, and then shattered the chains binding thousands. Where I saw fear in the eyes of Masters as they realized their whips were useless. This is where the sick rose from their deathbeds healed, where empty bellies were filled not through charity, but through the dignity of shared labor, through my magic. This is where former slaves dared to smile at a future they shaped. Where warriors I forged from despair stood beside me against men, monsters, and gods, and did not flinch. They bled for an idea, Viserys. They died, for me. For freedom. Not for a crown, not for a bloodline. For the simple, revolutionary notion that no one owns another."

I gestured towards Astapor, bathed in the afternoon light, the impossible silver tree, Nemesis, piercing the sky like a beacon. "You speak of a stolen throne? A stolen home?" My laugh was short, harsh. "Look around you! This is my home. This is my throne – not gilded wood, but the trust of people who chose liberation. The seat of my power isn't in some drafty Westerosi hall; it's in the defiance I kindled in their hearts. It's written in the stones they laid for their own homes, in the songs their children sing without fear. Astapor is me, and I am Astapor. Its pain birthed my fury. Its hope fuels my purpose."

Viserys flinched as if struck. His face, pale was now flushed a deep, mottled red. His hands clenched so hard it almost seemed as if he wanted to make himself bleed, knuckles white. I saw the familiar storm of rage brewing in his eyes, the entitled prince insulted. He opened his mouth, likely to unleash a torrent of threats or recriminations about birthright and destiny.

But then… something shifted. The rage didn't erupt. It seemed to collide with something else within him – a profound weariness, perhaps, or the sheer, undeniable presence of the city near the two of us, toward what others and I built from nothing, just with dreams. His gaze darted to Daenerys, who was watching me with rapt, almost tearful attention, then back to the impossible sight I had made real beyond the gates, beyond the giant tree. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden silence.

He looked down at his own trembling hands, then back up at me. The conflict in his eyes was naked, raw. Pride warred with… something else. Something desperate and fragile.

"Not change anything?" His voice was a rasp, scraping against the silence. "You say it wouldn't change anything?" He took a shuddering breath. "But it would! It would mean…" He struggled, the words seeming to physically pain him. "It would mean you have a family. That you are not alone in this world. That you have a birthright, a throne, a home that was stolen from you… from us."

He surged to his feet, not with imperial fury, but with a frantic, almost pleading energy. "Our family! Our legacy! The Iron Throne is ours by blood and right! The Usurper sits on it only because of treachery and butchery! If you are Aegon…" He stopped, his chest heaving. The next words came out in a rush, stripped bare of any sign of arrogance, carrying a shocking, terrible sincerity: "If you are Aegon… then it is your throne. Your birthright. Not mine."

He paused, the enormity of his own admission hanging heavy in the air. I could hear gasps around me, looks of shock and surprise. Everyone seemed to want a throne in this world and Viserys was one of the people wanting it most, who anyone knew wanted one. Daenerys stared at her brother, her lips parted in stunned disbelief. Even Grey Worm’s stoic mask cracked for a fraction of a second, revealing profound surprise.

Viserys looked directly into my eyes, his own wide and strangely vulnerable. "Yes," he whispered, the word raw. "Yes, I would. I would give it up. For you. For our house."

Shock.

I won’t lie. It hit me like a physical blow, a sudden vacuum in my chest. My carefully maintained composure, my self-assured poise, momentarily faltered. This… this was not the Viserys Targaryen i had read in the books of my past life, that I had watched on TV be an absolute cunt. I was sure of it now. My sight hadn't misled me. This wasn't the man who’d call his sister a whore and sell her for an army. This was… something else. Something broken, yes, but clinging to a twisted shred of familial loyalty I hadn't believed him capable of. The sheer, unexpected honesty in his sacrifice, however misguided, was disarming. For a fleeting moment, I saw not the Beggar King, but a lost boy, orphaned and hunted, desperately latching onto the last flicker of his shattered dynasty in the only way his warped understanding allowed – by offering its crown.

I stared at him, not the surface of his soul, him, truly seeing him for the first time. The lines of strain around his eyes, the premature grey streaking his silver-gold hair, the way his fine clothes hung slightly loose on a frame worn thin by constant flight and fear. He believed it. With every fibre of his being, he believed I was his nephew, and he was willing to surrender the singular obsession that had defined his wretched existence for it. The love, however twisted and dynastic, was real in that moment.

The silence stretched, thick and charged. The scent of jasmine felt suddenly cloying. The distant sounds of the city – children laughing, a blacksmith’s rhythmic hammering – seemed muffled, distant. Viserys held my gaze, waiting, a terrible hope warring with the dread of rejection in his eyes. Daenerys looked between us, her small hands clasped tightly in her lap, tears shimmering unshed on her lashes.

I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the immense, silent presence of Nemesis, the thrum of Defiant works through the city like golden threads, the quiet strength of the  souls Unsullied guard, the complex tapestry of lives I was responsible for. The weight of Westeros, of Robert’s actions and rage against me, of the Game of Thrones, pressed in, a future storm gathering on a distant horizon. Could I ever sit on that monstrosity of swords? Could I rule through birthright and fear, the very systems I was dismantling here? The thought was anathema.

I opened my eyes and sighed. Truly, this world surprised me time and time again after I thought it could not. The shock receded, replaced by a profound, bone-deep exhaustion with the whole tangled mess of bloodlines and thrones I was sure now I would have to deal with.  I looked at Viserys, not as a potential uncle, but as a man drowning in a dream he couldn't wake from.

"I still think," I said, my voice quiet but firm, cutting through the tension, "you are profoundly mistaken. I am not your nephew. The child Aegon Targaryen died in the Red Keep, torn from his mother's arms. I am Aegor, born in chains, forged in Astapor's filth." I held up a hand as he made to interrupt. "But even if, by some cosmic jest, the blood of the dragon runs in these veins… it changes nothing fundamental. My vision of rule, of what a leader should be… it stands in direct opposition to the Iron Throne’s very nature. It rejects the divine right of kings, the subjugation of the smallfolk, the endless, bloody game of dynastic ambition. My throne," I gestured again to the city, "is built on shattered manacles and shared purpose, not conquered swords."

I rose fully, the movement commanding and attracting the gaze of all present. My gaze encompassed both Targaryens. Viserys looked stricken, his fragile hope crumbling. Daenerys’s tears finally spilled over, tracing silent paths down her cheeks.

"Sooner or later," I continued, my tone shifting, becoming less argumentative, more… final. "Robert Baratheon’s gaze will turn east. His fear, his rage, his drunken paranoia… they will be directly fixed upon Astapor. Upon me. Upon the challenge to the very order that props him up. That confrontation is inevitable. It’s a storm gathering, and I will meet it when it breaks."

I took a step towards them, not threateningly, but closing the distance. My voice softened, imbued not with royal decree, but with the hard-won certainty of sanctuary offered.

"But for you two…" I looked at Viserys, then at Daenerys, meeting her wet, violet eyes. "The running ends here. The fear of knives in the dark, the constant flight… it stops. Today."

I spread my hands slightly, a gesture encompassing the world around us, the city beyond. "You are welcome in Astapor. Welcome to stay as long as you wish, or until fate dictates otherwise. No assassin will reach you within these walls. No slaver’s knife, no Usurper’s hired blade. You will be safe."

My gaze hardened slightly, locking onto Viserys’s despair. "No titles will be demanded. No obeisance. Only what is asked of every soul who finds refuge here: basic human decency. Respect for the freedom of others. Respect for the peace we’ve built."

I paused, letting the words settle. The World was utterly silent as if greedily listening, awaiting for my words. “It may not be what you wanted, maybe it will be what you need. Maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong. In any case…”

A small, genuine smile touched my lips – not the smile of a king, but of a man offering shelter from a long storm. "So," I said, my voice clear and calm, resonating under the afternoon sky. "Welcome, Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. Welcome to the land of the free. Welcome to the end of your run."

I met Viserys’s bright eyes, the ones that shone as if an oasis in the desert had been found, as if salvation had finally come then Daenerys’s tearful, hopeful ones.

"Welcome home."