chapter 22 a better astapor

Four months had passed since I took control of Astapor. It had been a slow transition—far slower than I liked. The Dothraki are a nomadic people, and with their vast herds of horses, they devoured every blade of grass in sight. The city, unused to such demands, strained to accommodate them. Thankfully, I had anticipated this. All excess corn from my other holdings is being shipped in to feed the horses. I'm also gathering the finest of their steeds and sending them to my breeding farms. I want a bloodline of horses that will be the envy of the world.

Meanwhile, the slaves have been put to work, turning the chaos of Astapor into a model of efficiency. They haul the city's waste to designated sites where anything of use is salvaged. The rest—rubbish and filth—will be burned once I get the dragons. Fire cleanses all, and for a time, at least, there will be no waste in this city.

Astapor, once defined by slavery, is transforming under my rule. The slaves are now working the land, growing crops. I had new hoes delivered—fitted with wheels and pulled by oxen—and vast tracts of land have already been tilled. I'm having irrigation systems constructed, and I've devised something they'll credit me for in the years to come: a massive desalination system. The salt water of the sea will be made fresh, and the salt left behind will be sold across Essos and Westeros.

But Astapor will be more than self-sustaining. I'll see to that. While the West is flush with food, I'll focus on spices and cotton. The former will drive trade, and the latter will give me a monopoly on fine clothing and textiles—pillows, cloths, anything that can be woven. Livestock, too, is being raised, ensuring the city can sustain itself and more. The only resource we lack is wood. Yet even that is no longer a concern. Thanks to my arrangement with the North, I now have an endless supply of cheap, high-quality timber, on the condition that Stark replants what he takes. If he doesn't, I'll cut off his access to my markets and let him starve in his forests. I've effectively shackled him while keeping the wood flowing—a victory, even if he doesn't see it.

Astapor is changing rapidly. In just two months, it's unrecognizable. I've already selected the man who will govern in my stead, i have people I've trained for years. Once they start families, their children will marry mine. A dynasty is built through blood, after all. I'll need many children every cities ruler and every minor and major lord will be of my blood from essos to westeros and in the future spread to the lower regions of society as bastards and commoners spreading my blood in all parts of society , and like Genghis Khan, my bloodline will stretch across the world. Even if my dynasty falls, pieces of it will remain. And if magic truly returns, perhaps I'll find a way to live forever. But first, the Night King must die. If I don't kill him, everything I build will be for nothing. I won't come back as one of the undead—a puppet in his army of death. No, I'll kill him, then sit on the ashes of the world, watching as they worship me.

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

"My khal," a Dothraki guard says.

"Yes?" I reply, my voice cold.

"Your woman is waiting for you."

I smile to myself, thinking of her olive skin, bare beneath the furs in my bed.

"Very well," I say, rising from my chair. My lion—massive, far larger than any man—rises too, barely fitting through the door as I leave to ease my mind after another day of hard work.

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Tywin's POV

As I approach the door to my son's study, I'm met by two guards. They aren't my men. I know their loyalty lies elsewhere. No threats will work here; one wrong word, and I'll join the growing pile of skulls in the middle of the city—skulls from thieves, rapists, murderers. No one is spared. Crime in the Westerlands has plummeted, making it the safest region in the known world, but the price is constant executions. And I, Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, must tread carefully in my own lands.

"Tell my son I'm here," I say, swallowing my pride.

Moments later, the door opens. His voice calls out from within. "Let him in."

I step inside to find Tyrion surrounded by mountains of paperwork, a goblet of wine untouched beside him. He doesn't look up.

"What do you want?" he asks, his tone sharp, indifferent.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. "What in the Seven Hells is your son doing?"

Finally, Tyrion looks up, meeting my gaze with that infuriating smirk. "Haven't you heard? He's a khal now."

"To a horde of savages," I snap.

His eyes narrow. "His savages. Remember that."

I grit my teeth, knowing better than to press. That boy—no, that man—is far beyond anyone's control now, even mine.

"He's taken a city, Astapor," I continue.

"And?"

"He commands an army—"

"Yes, one needs an army to conquer cities," Tyrion interrupts, returning to his work, as though my words are of no consequence.

I force my voice to stay level. "What does he plan to do next?"

Tyrion stops writing, leans back in his chair, and meets my eyes. "I have no idea, Father. And that's the beauty of it."

I bristle. "When will he return?"

Tyrion shrugs. "Today, tomorrow, a moon from now… or perhaps years. He enjoys his surprises, doesn't he?"

The conversation is pointless. I see it now. Tyrion is as much in the dark as I am, and I, Tywin Lannister, am helpless to do anything but wait. I turn to leave, my rage simmering. Before I reach the door, Tyrion's voice cuts through the silence.

"Don't bother me again unless it's important."

I leave without a word, fists clenched, knowing that in the Rock, at least, I still hold power. For now.