Chapter 27: The Butcher of Astapor

With the first light of morning, the camp was broken down, the banners were raised, and the horses began to neigh as they prepared to continue the journey. It was supposed to be a quick trip. That was Aemond's order the day they left Meereen, and although Daario was doing his best with his men, they were not the Golden Company, which annoyed him, though not as much as Daario Naharis' voice.

"I'm sure you must remember me, Your Highness," Daario said when he came up beside him at the front. "We can't be too far apart in age. I remember you. Are you sure you were born in Tyrosh?"

"I'm as Tyroshi as you are, unfortunately," Aemond would have loved to say he was born in Westeros, at the Red Keep or Dragonstone like Daenerys, but no, he was born in a dark room in the mansion where he lived, with his mother losing strength as he emerged from her.

"I still don't understand how the Blackfyres survived all this time without the Targaryens knowing about them. All of Essos knew about you, even after Maelys."

"Yes, well, there was always someone who kept us hidden, and the fact that my father did not rebel when the Usurper took the crown helped us to be forgotten in the West."

"That was smart."

"No, it was stupid. It was his best chance. The realm was wounded and directionless, the usurpers were weakened, but he was too young and foolish to see it. I'm sure my grandfather's deformity had something to do with my father's intellectual abilities"—and he didn't say this cruelly, but he often remembered how his father struggled to articulate thoughts or would stare at a fixed point for hours without speaking.

"How did your father survive the last rebellion?" the mercenary asked with interest.

"From what I remember of the stories, the day they learned the Targaryens were sending their men, my grandfather had been in the Steps of Stone for a year and a half. My grandmother was raising my father, who must have been ten years old, in Tyrosh. News flew fast. Some said the reds were winning, others said the blacks"—he paused to watch a flock of vultures pass by—"My father described his mother as a woman who looked much older than she actually was. She always walked hunched over and needed cushions to sit. As a child, he didn't understand why, but now he did. It couldn't have been easy being the wife of someone called 'the Monstrous.' But that doesn't matter. Days passed and news stopped arriving, but what did arrive, riding a horse and accompanied by two others carrying a large sack, was a young knight in golden armor and a white cloak."

"A Kingsguard?"

"Ser Barristan Selmy. What the horses carried was my grandfather's body. He told my grandmother that he had promised to bring the body to that house and never speak of it. He gave my father the Blackfyre sword, accepted food from the maidservants, bowed, and left. Of course, everyone thought it was a trap, and they even fled through a back exit. For weeks, they stayed hidden, waiting for the red dragon banners to appear, but nothing, no one. My grandmother sent my father to the Golden Company for protection, though it was against his will, and she stayed in the mansion waiting for another white-cloaked knight to come to kill her, but nothing. She wasn't stupid; someone must have done something to prevent that from happening, so she devoted her remaining time to investigating, but she barely saw my father marry my mother."

"You could say you were the lucky one in the family," Daario added to lighten the mood, which he succeeded in doing as Aemond smiled at the thought.

"I was the only one fortunate enough to be away from the wars but chose to get involved in one."

He often wondered what might have happened if he had let the entire company go with the false Aegon or if he had simply refused the position. They would still be the Golden Company, feared in every corner of Essos, and no one would dare challenge them. He would have had hundreds of other benefits, but he wouldn't be a king, he wouldn't be an heir, he wouldn't have a dragon, he wouldn't be what he was destined to be.

By the evening of the forty-first day of travel, Aemond's host arrived at the gates of the Red City of Astapor. The city seemed to even express different emotions from what he remembered the day they left. The red walls appeared to bleed when the setting sun's rays hit them from the west, and at that moment he wondered if the blood simulating to fall was that of the Good Masters or the slaves.

They were quickly granted entry, and although he had expected to find a city in chaos, full of dismembered corpses on the sidewalks, he saw that all the faces of those who came to greet them were filled with the hope that it would be Daenerys entering through that door. Their hopes were short-lived when they saw that it was Aemond. He didn't care much. He wasn't there for the love of the people of the East, nor did he want it. His only mission was to remove from the throne the butcher of a king who was beginning to wreak havoc in his wife's name. That was why he wasted no time in directing his entire delegation to the center of the city, to the very spot where they had executed the Good Masters.

"King Aemond, the Black Dragon!" exclaimed the man who seemed to be Cleon. He was a tall man, as tall as Aemond, with shoulders twice as wide as normal, a belly protruding from the tunic he wore, and thin legs that seemed out of place with his body. Two large gold earrings hung from his ears. "It is my explicit pleasure to receive such an honored presence in my city."

"I take it you must be Cleon," said the silver-haired man, ignoring the flattery from the other. "The butcher."

"Great King Cleon, Your Majesty," he corrected immediately, trying to ignore Aemond's disinterest. "It is a great honor to have you here, although I must admit I was expecting the Great Mother of Dragons."

"I come in her stead. Reports from Astapor alarmed the queen, which is why she sent me to see for myself what is happening"—he took a breath, dismounted his horse, and looked at Cleon as if he were a mere vagabond—"So, will you tell me why it is not the council selected by the queen that is receiving me?"

"I killed those traitors myself. They were conspiring against our queen and I discovered them, but, Your Highness, would you not prefer to have this discussion inside my pyramid? You will find greater comfort with a glass of wine."

"I will not drink anything with you until I know the truth, but my companions would be satisfied with more than one barrel."

"As Your Highness commands."

When they entered the pyramid, they found it was not much different from the last time they had been inside. This reassured him in some way. He had been told that when the Usurper ascended the throne, he removed everything the Targaryens had put in place, that red was dyed gold, and that the dragons were as buried as the silver-haired ones. Seeing that the banners of his wife's house still flew made him know that they were still loyal to her, but for how long?

"Now then," the butcher said shamelessly sitting on the throne that once belonged to his wife, or in his case, to him. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything," Aemond positioned himself in front of him, with Daario at his side, who had declined a glass of wine. "I want to know why you are sitting on my queen's seat, why you call yourself king, why I am notified that there are Unsullied in training, and why I suspect that under my nose you have reinstated slavery."

"Falsehoods, my king, falsehoods!" Cleon roared with a loud laugh. "It was those whom the Mother of Dragons appointed to the position, the healer, the scholar, and the priest, who wanted to commit such crimes. I, wishing to fulfill my queen's will, have beheaded them with my own butcher's axe. I am king because being king earns respect."

"You have not been appointed."

"And you?"

At that moment, Aemond's gaze changed, and Cleon would regret those two words for the rest of his life.

He stepped forward, climbing a step closer to the butcher's throne. He looked at him the same way Viserion looked at the next calf he would eat. Experts knew that when a dragon looked at you that way, there was no escaping.

"You should be more cautious with your words," the king said with a tone of lightness, though few took it as his real intent. "Who knows, you might offend the wrong person."

He climbed another step.

"Now I will tell you what you will do"—another step forward. At a certain point, he had advanced so much that, standing, he was above the butcher who was still seated on the throne—"You will get your fat ass up, take your things, and return to the butcher's stall you came from. And what I will do is sit on that throne, choose three of the most trustworthy people I see, and then I will go to sleep."

"I don't think you understand. I am the king of Astapor," Cleon repeated, feeling powerless under the white-haired man, but still not standing, wavering between what would be worse for him.

"Not anymore, goodbye," Aemond gestured for him to leave his seat, but Cleon looked at him incredulously. The Astapori looked behind the monarch at Daario, who was trying to stifle his laughter along with the other mercenaries. They were mocking him.

"I will not tolerate this"—with a firm stomp, Cleon stood up, and although he wanted to appear threatening, he could do nothing against the figure in front of him—"I have done more for the queen than you. I have given her an entire city, put it at her feet. And you? You take advantage of her titles and deeds? You should be ashamed."

"Maybe you should marry her, yes"—he started looking around for a table that held the glasses and then looked at the mercenaries who accompanied him—"Daario, could you do me a favor?"

"Whatever Your Majesty commands," said the Tyroshi with an exaggeratedly elegant tone that made his companions laugh even more.

"Cut off two fingers from this idiot and get him out of my pyramid."

"Right away."

Then Aemond moved aside, allowing four mercenaries to grab the butcher, who was writhing as much as his body allowed. The men dragged him down the stairs to the table the silver-haired man had seen earlier and placed his right hand on the surface. Daario, even more irritating than Aemond, began to play with his signature dagger before allowing its blade to remove the ring and little fingers.

He liked this punishment; he would use it more often. It was like a warning.

After hearing the butcher scream and whimper, he ordered them to take him out of the pyramid to avoid hearing his voice any longer, but before they did, he reminded him that the next time he tried to undermine his authority or that of his wife, he would take much more than two fingers.

Cleon had three wives, one with three daughters and the other two pregnant. He sent them to where his men had left the butcher, his old butcher's stall if he heard correctly. Hopefully, there they would help him recover and survive in the business. It was no longer his problem.

He ordered Daario and his mercenaries to conduct a sweep to ensure that everyone with a whip was either hanged or slit-throated, or died in whatever way the mercenary who captured him preferred—the only order was that they die.

He knew the butcher had only given him a lie about what was truly happening. Children had been kidnapped to become Unsullied, the markets had no food, and there were mountains of corpses in the alleys. At that moment, it was evident that when he arrived, the people were expecting Daenerys to free them from that slaughterhouse.

For that reason, he himself left the pyramid with his sword already drawn. He asked to be taken to the place where Cleon had been left, and upon finding him still sobbing over his lack of fingers, he ran Blackfyre through his throat without giving him even a chance to say a word. Then he dragged his body to the plaza and left it there for all the citizens to see that they were free once more.

"This is what happens to my enemies, our enemies. No one will harm you while we are here," he assured them before returning to the pyramid as if nothing had happened.

And by midnight, he sat in one of the chairs in the main room with a wine glass filled to the brim. Small violet drops dripped from his hand onto the floor, but he didn't mind too much. He gazed at the stars with intrigue. He always wondered what one would look like up close. It was a whim he would never shake. Maybe someday, with his dragon, he would fly so high he could touch one.

He would never be satisfied, and he knew that well.