Chapter 39: Flames of Astapor

**Arren's Perspective**

The city of Astapor loomed before them, its red-bricked walls radiating heat under the unrelenting sun. As they entered through the gates, the stench of sweat, blood, and rot assaulted Arren's heightened senses. He moved in silence beside Daenerys, his blindfold firmly in place, but he didn't need sight to feel the oppressive weight of the city's cruelty. Every corner of this place stank of suffering.

The streets of Astapor were narrow, lined with slaves and merchants, their eyes hollow, their bodies thin and worn. But it was the sight—or rather, the presence—of the Unsullied that gnawed at something deep within Arren. The clattering of their spears, the sound of leather straps snapping as whips lashed at their backs, all of it stirred memories he had long tried to bury.

Kraznys mo Nakloz, the slaver leading them, spoke in his sharp, condescending voice. His words were full of mockery as he described the Unsullied, warriors bred and broken, stripped of their will and reduced to mere tools. Arren listened as Missandei translated, her voice soft but precise.

"The Unsullied obey without question. They feel no pain, no fear, no hesitation," Kraznys boasted. "You could cut off their arm, and they would continue to fight. They live to serve their master."

Arren's jaw clenched as they passed a group of Unsullied standing at attention in the training yard. A whip cracked in the air, and one of the soldiers flinched slightly, his fingers loosening around the spear he held. It was a small mistake, barely noticeable, but the reaction from the slaver overseeing them was swift and brutal.

The slaver struck the Unsullied across the back with such force that Arren could hear the flesh splitting open. Again, the whip cracked, and the soldier staggered but did not fall. Blood ran down his back, soaking into the red dirt below, but still, he stood, his face devoid of any emotion. The other Unsullied remained still, not daring to move or react. 

Arren's stomach twisted, and his mind was dragged back to a time he had tried to forget.

*"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."*

Those words. The words that had ruled him for so long, seared into his soul as deeply as the pain from the chains that had once bound him. The pit where he had fought as a slave—where he had been nothing but a weapon for others to use, to shape, to break. He had been no different from these Unsullied once. Shackled in mind and body. 

Helpless.

As Arren watched the soldier being beaten for such a small mistake, the memories of his own failures in the pit clawed at him. The endless brutality, the punishments, the cold indifference of the overseers. He could still feel the lash of the whip across his own back, could still hear the jeers of the men who told him he wasn't ready. *Never ready.*

The constant beatings, the lessons in pain, the mantra they drilled into him day after day. 

*"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."*

It was supposed to be a motivator, but instead, it had become a chain of its own. No matter how strong he became, no matter how many battles he won, those words lingered in his mind like a poison. He had carried them with him for years, and even now, free from those who once controlled him, they ruled his steps in subtle, insidious ways.

Arren's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to share this burden, to speak of it to someone—anyone—but the words stuck in his throat. Who could he tell? Doreah, with her easy smiles and light heart? Daenerys, his khaleesi, who was focused on far greater things than his past suffering? 

No. He had carried this weight alone for so long, and it seemed that would never change.

And yet, as he stood in the middle of Astapor, watching the brutality of the slavers, he felt the crushing weight of it more than ever. The helplessness, the hopelessness of it all. These men, these Unsullied—they were no different than he had once been. Trapped, broken, and made into weapons for someone else's war.

Arren was lost in his thoughts when Daenerys's voice cut through the air, sharp and decisive.

*"Dracarys."*

The word snapped Arren back to the present, and his body tensed as he turned toward the sound of her command. There was no hesitation in her voice, no faltering.

The chaos erupted instantly. The roar of dragons filled the courtyard, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. The air grew thick with heat as flames burst from Rhaegal and Viserion's jaws, melting through the iron bars of their cages as if they were paper. The Masters of Astapor screamed in horror, their smug arrogance dissolving as the fire spread, licking up the red-bricked walls and setting the city ablaze.

Kraznys's last moments were filled with disbelief and rage, his face contorted as the flames consumed him. The slaver had believed himself untouchable, but now, he was nothing more than ash in the wind.

Arren stood beside Daenerys, his sword at the ready, but it was not his blade that would claim the city—it was the dragons. He had seen destruction before, but there was something different about this. This wasn't just war. This was Daenerys's justice. And it was swift, unforgiving.

---

#### **Missandei's Perspective**

Missandei had seen many things in her time as a slave, but never anything like this.

She had stood by her master's side, translating every word he had spoken to Daenerys Targaryen, every insult and every lie. The Masters of Astapor had treated Daenerys like a fool, mocking her as they prepared to take her dragons in exchange for their precious Unsullied.

But now, as she watched the city burn, Missandei realized the young queen had played them all.

The conversation had begun simply enough. Daenerys had asked to purchase one hundred Unsullied—an impressive number, but not out of reach for a woman of her standing. The Masters, greedy and arrogant, had laughed and asked for an absurd price in return.

"I will give you two of my dragons," Daenerys had said, her voice steady.

The shock on the Masters' faces had been almost comical. They had rushed to accept the deal, their eyes gleaming with greed. Kraznys had smirked as he handed Daenerys the whip, believing he had outsmarted her. The whip that symbolized control over the Unsullied, the power to command an army of perfect soldiers.

But Daenerys had known exactly what she was doing.

Missandei had watched as Daenerys's hand closed around the whip, sealing the deal. And then, she had made her final demand: "Give me the girl."

Missandei had barely dared to breathe. She had been nothing more than a tool to the Masters, a translator to be sold off like a piece of furniture. When Kraznys had handed her over without hesitation, it had only confirmed what she had always known—her life had never mattered to them.

But now, standing beside her new queen, Missandei felt something she had never experienced before. Hope.

The moment Daenerys had uttered the command—*Dracarys*—the world had changed. Fire engulfed the city, burning away the cruelty, the chains, and the lies of the Masters. The Unsullied stood in perfect formation, awaiting their new orders, while the slavers who had once held their reins screamed in terror.

Missandei's heart raced, her thoughts spinning as she tried to process what was happening. Daenerys had outwitted them all. She had turned the Masters' own greed against them, and now, they were paying for their arrogance with their lives.

But then something caught her eye—a movement in the crowd, subtle but deliberate. An Unsullied, moving with precision, separated from the others. He wasn't moving toward the chaos; he was heading straight for Daenerys.

Missandei's blood ran cold. She had heard the whispers among the slaves, the rumors of assassins hidden among the Unsullied. The Masters of Astapor always planted one—a failsafe, a weapon to use if any of their buyers ever defied them.

The assassin moved swiftly, a blowgun in hand, his target clear. Missandei's heart pounded as she watched in horror. He raised the weapon to his lips and fired a dart, its deadly tip aimed directly at the queen.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The dart sailed through the air, its path unerring. Missandei's breath caught in her throat. She could not move, could not speak, as she watched the dart streak toward Daenerys.

But then, a blur of motion—a figure stepping between the queen and death.

Arren.

The blindfolded warrior moved with lightning speed, his sword flashing upward in a perfect arc. The dart split in two, falling harmlessly to the ground at Daenerys's feet. The assassin never had a chance to fire again. Arren's sword was already buried in his chest, ending the threat before it could begin.

#### **Missandei's Perspective (Continued)**

Missandei's chest heaved, her heart still racing as the assassin crumpled to the ground, his body lifeless and limp at Arren's feet. The poisoned dart lay shattered in two on the red dirt, harmless now, but the threat it carried hung in the air. 

Her eyes flicked from the body to the blindfolded warrior who had saved Daenerys with such precision, and her awe deepened. Arren stood motionless, his sword still gleaming in the hot sunlight, as if the moment had never shaken him. His head was slightly tilted, as though sensing for more danger, his stance unwavering. How could a man who couldn't see move with such deadly accuracy? It was something beyond skill. There was a deep, unshakable calm about him—something that seemed to border on the supernatural.

Daenerys, for her part, stood still as well, her expression unreadable as she glanced at the dart on the ground and then at the body of the assassin. Her dragons circled overhead, their roars still echoing as flames devoured the slavers' city. The fires of Astapor raged on, but in that moment, time seemed to hold its breath. 

Missandei knew then that no harm would ever befall the queen as long as Arren stood by her side. His presence, his silent protection, was more than that of a simple guard. It was as if he had always been there, a shadow ready to cut down any danger that dared approach her. 

"Khaleesi," Missandei said softly, breaking the stillness. She had expected to say more, but the words escaped her.

Daenerys turned slowly, her eyes locking onto Missandei's for the first time since the fires had begun. For a brief second, Missandei saw something flicker behind those violet eyes—relief, perhaps, or the quiet acknowledgment of just how close danger had come. But it was quickly replaced by her usual calm, steely demeanor.

"Thank you, Missandei," Daenerys said, her voice even, despite the chaos swirling around them. She stepped forward, past Arren, who still stood like an unmovable force, and approached the waiting Unsullied.

Missandei watched her new queen closely. Daenerys was unlike anyone she had ever known—calm, calculating, and brave in ways that defied reason. She was not a master. She was something more, something that inspired loyalty not through fear, but through sheer will and presence.

The fires blazed brighter now, spreading through the streets, consuming everything in their path. Daenerys's dragons swooped low, their massive wings kicking up dust and ash as the flames spread.

---

#### **Arren's Perspective**

The stench of burning wood and flesh filled Arren's nostrils as the chaos of Astapor continued to unfold. The dragon fire scorched the city, and the panicked screams of the slavers were nothing but background noise to him now. 

But in that moment—when the assassin's dart had sliced through the air—everything had slowed to a crawl. Arren had sensed it, the sudden change in the rhythm of the crowd, the almost imperceptible shift in the assassin's breathing, the subtle movement as he raised the blowgun.

It had been instinct, more than anything else, that guided him. His sword had acted before his mind even registered the danger. He didn't need to see the dart to know exactly where it would strike. He had learned these things long ago—back in the pit, where survival depended on sensing everything around him. Back when the overseers beat him for flinching, for making even the smallest mistake.

*"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."*

Those cursed words again, echoing in his mind as they always did when he found himself reacting without thought. His time in the pit had shaped him into the warrior he was now, but it had also left scars deeper than any whip could leave. Watching the Unsullied now—watching them stand motionless as their city burned—reminded him of the helplessness he had felt back then. Shackled in body and mind, trained to be a weapon and nothing more.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather grip slick with the blood of the assassin. For a moment, he considered sharing that part of his past—his burden—with someone. Daenerys, perhaps. But how could he? She had her own burdens to carry, her own fight ahead. 

As he stood there, surrounded by flames and death, Arren felt the weight of those long-buried memories pressing down on him. The pit was far behind him, but its shadow lingered in his mind, always pulling him back. He had escaped it, but had he ever truly left it?

Then, Daenerys's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Unsullied!" she called, her voice carrying over the din of the fires. "You are no longer slaves. You are free men. Will you fight for me, as free men?"

The Unsullied stood motionless, their spears held at perfect attention. For a moment, the silence was deafening, and Arren could sense the weight of Daenerys's words hanging in the air.

Then, slowly, one by one, the Unsullied raised their spears high in the air, their faces still emotionless but their actions clear. They had chosen. They would follow Daenerys, not as slaves, but as free men.

Arren's heart swelled with a strange mixture of pride and something else—something deeper, more personal. Daenerys had done what no one else could. She had given these men a chance at freedom. A chance he had never been offered when he was in their place.

Perhaps, he thought, there was hope yet—for them, and for him.

---

#### **Missandei's Perspective (Continued)**

Missandei watched, awe-struck, as the Unsullied raised their spears in silent agreement. These men—warriors who had known nothing but obedience and pain—were now free. And they had chosen Daenerys Targaryen.

The slavers had fallen, their city reduced to ashes, and the woman who had once been mocked and dismissed now stood victorious. Missandei couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for the queen. Her cunning, her bravery, and her unyielding sense of justice had turned the tables on the Masters of Astapor in a way no one could have predicted.

But as the flames crackled and the smell of burning flesh filled the air, Missandei felt a new emotion stirring within her. It was more than admiration. It was loyalty. Daenerys had not only freed her, but she had freed thousands of others—she had given them something no one else had: hope.

And with Arren at her side, the blind warrior who had protected Daenerys with such unwavering precision, Missandei knew that no harm would ever reach the queen. The bond between the two—Daenerys and her silent protector—was something she couldn't fully understand yet, but it was clear that the two were connected in ways that went beyond simple loyalty.

Missandei looked at Arren, the man who had saved Daenerys from certain death, and felt a sense of calm settle over her. As long as he stood by the queen's side, they would be safe. She would serve her queen loyally, just as the Unsullied now would.

And together, they would see Daenerys rise to claim what was rightfully hers.

---

As the city of Astapor burned, Daenerys turned away from the flames, her expression determined. The Unsullied, now her army, followed in disciplined silence as she led them out of the gates, their chains broken, their loyalty unshakable. 

And by her side, as always, stood Arren. The cursed warrior. The protector.

Their journey was only just beginning.