As she entered, the Braavosi envoys rose to greet her. They were several in number, clad in long cloaks of deep blue and silver, their hoods drawn back to reveal sharp, intelligent eyes. The Free City of Braavos was renowned for its powerful fleet, skilled warriors, and economic might. But it was also a city of principals, one that prided itself on its opposition to slavery– a value that Hermione shared. She saw the potential partnership as not only a means to strengthen Pentos's military but also to cement the city's transformation into a beacon of justice and progress. The eldest, a man with silver-streaked hair and a measured smile, stepped forward.
"Lady Hermione of Pentos," he said smoothly, inclining his head. "The Titan watches over this meeting."
"And may he continue to do so," Hermione replied, returning the gesture. "Pentos welcomes the emissaries of Braavos with open arms. I trust your voyage was smooth– though knowing Braavosi seamanship, I never had any doubt."
A ripple of amusement passed among them. The second envoy, a lean man with a braided beard, chuckled.
"The seas were kind, my lady. As was your hospitality in ensuring we were well received."
"Hospitality is the foundation of all lasting agreements," Hermione said, gesturing for them to sit. She took her own seat at the head of the table, allowing a pause as goblets were placed before them.
"Let us drink, then, to fruitful discussions and honest dealings."
"To prosperity, then." The eldest envoy raised his cup.
Hermione began the discussion with measured confidence.
"Pentos is a city on the cusp of transformation," she said, her voice steady. "We've abolished the bond-servant system and are restructuring our economy to ensure prosperity for all citizens. But prosperity is fragile without security."
She gestured to a map of the Narrow Sea and surrounding regions.
"Our position makes us a key trade hub, but also a target for raiders and rival powers. We seek Braavos's expertise in developing a disciplined military and expanding our navy. In return, Pentos will guarantee trade agreements favourable to Braavos, as well as shared access to our markets."
The bankers exchanged glances, intrigued but cautious. One of them, a sharp-eyed woman named Tyanna Vorel, leaned forward.
"What assurance do we have that Pentos will uphold these agreements? Your city has a history of instability."
"Because I'm building a new Pentos." Hermione met Tyanna's gaze without flinching. "One founded on principles that align with Braavos's own: justice, freedom, and opportunity. I know the value of partnerships. We're stronger together."
Though Hermione regrained from mentioning her dragons outright, Illyrio subtly hinted at their existence during the talks.
"The Princess Regent has resources at her disposal that few can claim," he said with a knowing smile. "Resources that could shift the balance of power in Essos."
The implication was clear, and the Braavosi representatives took note. Dragons were a symbol of power, and even the possibility of their involvement made Hermione's proposal far more compelling.
After days of negotiation, an agreement was reached. Braavos would provide military advisors to train Pentos's forces and shipwrights to help expand its navy. In return, Pentos would grant Braavos favorable trade terms and a permanent seat on the new Council of Representatives.
As a gesture of goodwill, Hermione also offered to host a cultural exchange between the two cities, fostering mutual understanding and cooperation. The Braavosi representatives, impressed by her vision and diplomacy, left the meeting with a newfound respect for the young Princess Regent.
Upon their return to Pentos, Hermione wasted no time implementing the terms of the agreement. Braavosi advisors arrived within weeks, setting up training camps for the Pentoshi military. Former bond-servants were recruited into the army, given opportunities to earn wages and rise through the ranks– a move that further solidified Hermione's reputation as a reformer.
The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows along the walls of the chamber as Hermione studied Melisandre, the red priestess's expression unreadable. Their discussion weeks prior had left Hermione with much to consider– their discipline, their unwavering obedience, and the terrible price of such perfection.
Melisandre had sown the seed of an idea, and though Hermione detested the notion of purchasing warriors bred in chains, she could not ignore the strategic advantage they would provide. Would it be better to leave them to their fate, or claim them and offer them true freedom?
She summoned her most trusted advisors. Melisandre arrived first, gliding into the chamber with silent certainty. Next came Jorvan, a Braavosi diplomat with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. Then came Marcus, a seasoned Pentoshi sellsword, and finally Lyra, a scholar who had years studying the histories of Essos.
"The Unsullied," Hermione began, her voice steady. " I am considering making the journey to Astapor."
"You would align yourself with the slavers of Slaver's Bay?" Jorvan scoffed. "Braavos will not look kindly on such dealings."
"Nor do I," Hermione admitted. "But an army that does not falter, that does not break in the face of chaos– that is not something to dismiss lightly."
"They are the finest soldiers in the world, my lady." Marcus leaned forward. "If you mean to claim power, there are few better weapons."
"Weapons, yes." Lyra frowned. "But at what cost? If you buy them, do you not become complicit in their suffering?"
"Their chains are temporary. A greater purpose awaits them." Melisandre's voice was like a whisper of flame.
Hermione looked from face to face, weighing their words.
"If I go to Astapor, I do not go to buy an army– I go to change their fate"
"And who will accompany you on this noble quest?" Jorvan arched a brow.
"I would take all of you with me," Hermione's decision was swift. "If you would come."1
The Braavosi diplomat studied her for a long moment before nodding.
"I will come. If only to ensure you do not lose yourself in this endeavor."
Hermione smiled faintly. "Then it is decided. We leave for Astapor at first light."
The morning of their departure, Hermione gathered her retinue before the dragons. Their small yet powerful forms shifted restlessly, golden eyes gleaming in the dawn. The decision to bring her dragons and Aquila, her gryphon, on the journey was not one Hermione made lightly. It was a choice born out of necessity, strategy, and something deeper– an understanding that power was not simply held but demonstrated.
As she sat in the candlelit study of her chambers, parchment and ink scattered before her, Hermione traced the contours of a map of Essos. The road to Astapor was fraught with peril: bandits, slavers, and worse still, those who dealt in whispered plots and unseen blades. Travelling with her dragons and the gryphon was not just a display of power– it was a declaration that she was not to be underestimated.
Melisandre watched her from across the table, eyes flickering like embers in the dim light.
"You fear treachery on the road," the priestess observed.
"I expect it." Hermione's quill stilled.
"And yet, there is more."
"Astapor is a city of slavers." Hermione leaned back in her chair, exhaling. "Men who buy and sell life without a conscience. If I am to deal with them, I must be more than a foreign noble seeking an army. I must be something they cannot ignore."
She turned her gaze to the open balcony, where the silhouettes of Morgana, Godric, and Rowena could be seen against the moonlight, their young wings stretching in the cool night air. Below in the aviary, Aquila rested on a perch reinforced with iron, her keen eyes ever watchful.
"The dragons are still small," Hermione continued, "but their presence alone commands awe. A whisper of what they will become is enough to sow both fear and respect. And Aquila.."
Melisandre's lips curled into something resembling a smile.
"A creature of the skies, a guardian forged from legend."
"A Gryphon is more than a beast of war," Hermione nodded. "It is a symbol of dominion over land and sky. If I enter Astapor with dragons at my side and Aquila above, they will see me as more than just another buyer. They will see me as someone who wields the power of the old world. Someone who cannot be controlled."
She stepped forward, extending a hand, her voice calm yet firm.
"Morgana, Godric, Rowena– meet those who will travel beside us."
The dragons responded, Morgana releasing a low hum, Godric flicking his wings, and Rowena watching with sharp curiosity. The retinue observed in fascination, some with awe, others with hesitation.
Melisandre's gaze was reverent. "They know their mistress."
Jorvan, arms crossed, regarded the creatures warily.
"Let us hope they remain loyal."
"They are as loyal as those who earn their trust" Hermione smirked.
At dawn, as she stood before her company, Hermione's attire spoke of both regality and battle-readiness. She wore a fitted leather jerkin reinforced with silver-threaded embroidery, shaped to allow ease of movement while maintaining an air of noble authority. Beneath it, a dark, high-collared tunic bore the sigil of her house– an intricate fusion of dragon and gryphon, entwined as one.
Her trousers were of deep indigo, layered with plated guards at the knees, designed for the long ride ahead. A flowing sable cloak, fastened by a silver gryphon clasp, billowed behind her, lined with silk that caught the early morning light.
Strapped to her hip was a rapier with a hilt adorned in braided silver, its blade thin but deadly, forged by the finest Braavosi smiths. Beside it, in a custom-fitted holster, rested her wand– polished and perfectly balanced, ready at a moment's notice.
Her boots, lined with fine steel plates and enchanted for swiftness carried her with effortless grace as she mounted Aquila. The great gryphon let out a resounding cry, the wind from her wings stirring the dust beneath them.
Hermione adjusted her gloves– crafted from dragonhide stowed away in her beaded bag, both elegant and practical– before looking to her assembled retinue.
"We ride for Astapor," She declared, her voice unwavering. "I will meet you at the gates."
The dawn air was crisp, the scent of salt from the nearby harbor mingling with the incense burning in the city's temples. The gates of Pentos stood open, their iron-bound wood seeming both welcoming and foreboding. The gathered crowd was hushed, a sea of expectant faces watching as their princess prepared to depart.
At the head of the assembled retinue, Sirius stood tall, his dark cloak trimmed with silver, fastened by the sign of their house– the proud crest of Misagaenys. His sharp eyes, shadowed by years of experience, studied Hermione as she prepared the last strap on Aquila's saddle.
Hermione stood at the gates, her cloak billowing slightly in the sea breeze. At her side, perched on a small wooden frame, were her three dragon hatchlings. Their scales shimmered in the rising sun– one a deep onyx she had named Morgana, another a fierce bronze she called Godric, and the third and largest, a silver-blue she had named Rowena.
He stepped forward, his boots stirring the dust as he closed the distance between them. When Hermione turned, she found his expression unreadable, save for the slight flicker of something deeper– pride, concern, perhaps even admiration. He reached out, clasping her forearm, his grip firm, grounding.
"You ride not just for yourself," Sirius murmured, his voice low but carrying weight. "This is the beginning of House Misagaeny's claim to power. Astapor is but the first city. From its walls, we will carve out something greater, something worthy of legend. You must show them what we are."
"And if they refuse to see?" Hermione met his gaze without wavering.
Sirius smirked, something dangerously knowing in his expression.
"Then we teach them. We do not beg for a seat at the table– we take it."
She nodded, understanding the unspoken truth in his words. House Misagaenys has no deep roots in this world, no banners flown in Westeros, no ancestral keep built upon the bones of old kings. They had only themselves, their strength, and the fire that burned within them.
The hush of the crowd deepend as Sirius turned from Hermione to face them.
"Behold your princess!" He called, his voice ringing through the morning air. "She rides forth not as a diplomat, not a petitioner, but as a conqueror! When she returns, she will not come alone!"
Aquila, sensing the shift in the moment, spread her vast wings, her feathers catching the early sunlight, gilded in gold and white. Above them, Morgana, Godric and Rowena wheeled in the sky, their cries shrill and commanding.
Sirius turned back to Hermione, his hand finding the pommel of his sword.
"Go now, daughter of mine, and remind the world why House Misagaenys must never be forgotten."
Melisandre regarded the creatures with reverence.
"They are fire made flesh," She murmured. "The world will soon know their power."
"And the city will not soon forget this day." Jorvan folded his arms, casting a wary glance at the dragons. Some whispered of old Valyria, others of prophecy. Some watched with awe, others with fear.
Hermione breathed in deeply, feeling the pulse of expectation in the air. With one last look at Sirius, she grasped Aquila's reins, the great gryphon tensing beneath her. The time for words had passed. With a sharp cry, Aquila leapt forward, her wings beating against the air, sending dust spiraling into the sky. Behind her, her retinue spurred their mounts into motion, banners snapping, steel gleaming.
As Pentos shrank behind them, Hermione did not look back. She was not leaving home. She was riding toward destiny.
The days of travel were grueling, the sun beating down upon them as they rode across the arid plains of Essos. Their caravan moved with careful efficiency, making camp by sunset and breaking it again before the first light. Hermione rode at the front, Aquila soaring overhead, his keen eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Rowena, Morgana and Godric took turns flying ahead, their young forms growing stronger with each passing day.
The first week was spent traversing the coastal roads of Essos, where the scent of salt clung to the air and the waves crashed violently against the cliffs. Seabirds cried overhead, their sharp calls punctuating the rhythmic march of horses' hooves against packed dirt. Fishermen along the shores paused in their work to gawk at the sight of dragons wheeling overhead, and children scrambled to the roadside, whispering rumors about the warrior-princess who rode with a gryphon at her side.
The distance spanned hundreds of miles across the harsh, unforgiving terrain of Essos, a land of shifting sands, rocky outcroppings, and treacherous river crossings. What began as a determined march quickly turned into a test of endurance.
Each day began at the break of dawn, Hermione and her retinue rising before the sun touched the horizon. They traveled in tight formation, wary of bandits and slavers that prowled the roads between the cities. Scouts rode ahead, ensuring the path was clear, while the dragons, still young but fiercely protective, took turns soaring overhead. Their shadows stretched long across the land, a reminder to those who might think of challenging them.
Aquila often flew ahead, her keen eyes searching for fresh water sources and safe resting spots. She returned at dusk, her wings beating against the dying light, carrying news of the land ahead. The great gryphon was more than a mount– he was a guardian, a hunter and a symbol of their strength.
By the second week, they had moved inland, cutting through the golden fields of the Plains of Andalos. The landscape stretched for miles, endless rolling hills dotted with abandoned stone ruins from a time before the Valyrians. At night, campfires flickered under the vast sky, and Hermione's court sat around the maps, planning their arrival in Volantis.
"The Free Cities know power," Jorvan muttered over his cup of wine, "but Volantis is ruled by its priests and old blood. If we pass through, we'll need to be careful."
"Well take what supplies we need, then." Hermione nodded. "Pay what we must, and move quickly. No distractions."
One evening as they made camp near a crumbling ruin, Hermione made a bold decision.
"Aquila must not fly alone," She said, her gaze sweeping across her gathered warriors. "There are gryphons in the wilds, scattered and unclaimed. If we are to build something lasting, we must not only gather an army of men but one of the skies."
"You would send her to find others?" Jorvan frowned. "Wild gryphons do not easily submit. They fight, they kill, they–"
"They follow strength," Hermione interrupted, her voice steady. "Aquila is the strongest of the ones that we have. If she finds others, if she brings them back, they will not just be creatures– they will be the vanguard of House Misagaenys."
Melisandre watched from the fire's glow, a knowing smile upon her lips.
"The flames whisper of wings yet to come."
Hermione stepped up to Aquila's side, running her fingers down the thick feathers of the beasts neck.
"Go, my friend. Find others like you. Let them see what we are building."
With a piercing cry, Aquila launched into the sky, disappearing into the vast unknown.
For days, they rode, the absence of the gryphon weighing on Hermione's mind. But she had faith. When the time came, when the fires of revolution burned in Astapor, she knew that Aquila would return.
With reinforcements.
In the fourth week, they reached the outer territories of Volantis, where the heat grew oppressive, and the land turned to marsh and riverlands. Here, the RhoyneRiver cut through the land like a silver ribbon, and boats laden with spices, silk, and slaves drifted past them. The sight of the latter made Hermione's stomach twist, a reminder of why they were heading to Astapor in the first place.
Melisandre observed the flowing waters with an air of reverence.
"A great war is coming. This land will burn before it bends." Was all that she had to say.
The party spent only two nights in Volantis, where they resupplied and gathered intelligence. News of their dragons had preceded them, and whispers filled the streets. When they departed, the air was thick with both awe and fear.
By the sixth week, they entered the Savage Lands of Slaver's Bay. Here, the road grew dangerous, and patrols of slave traders lurked at the edges of the horizon, tracking their movements. Hermione's court rode with weapons at the ready, and their dragons flew lower, their presence an unspoken warning to those who would dare approach.
One night, as they camped near a dried riverbed, Hermione stood beside Rowena, watching the stars. In the evenings, beneath the light of the stars, Hermione gathered her court in the center of their encampment. Maps were unrolled, strategy debated. Astapor was a city of walls, its people hardened by centuries of slavery and subjugation. A direct assault would be folly.
Jorvan, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, tracing a line along the coast.
"The slavers rely on the fear of their reputation. Their fear can be turned against them. If we can inspire the slaves to rise up before we strike, their forces will already be divided."
"The flames have whispered of chaos within the city." Melisandre nodded. "There are those who hunger for freedom, but they lack a spark. We must be that spark."
"We'll need inside men." Marcus, sharpening his blade, grunted. "Slaves who are willing to take up arms the moment the fighting starts."
Hermione studied the map, fingers tapping lightly against it's surface.
"If we can break their trust in the masters before the first sword is drawn, we will not need to fight alone."
"We're close now," she murmured. "Astapor lies beyond the next stretch of desert."
Marcus, tending to his blade, smirked.
"We'd best make sure we are seen as more than just travelers. We want them to see our Princess, and know that we come to claim an army."
The walls of Astapor rose before them, red as blood under the setting sun. From the ramparts, guards and slavers peered down at the approaching company, their gazes wary, their hands resting uneasily on their weapons.
A hush fell over the streets as Hermione and her retinue rode through the gates, her banner flying high, emblazoned with the sigil of House Misagaenys. The dragons swooped low, their scales gleaming like fire in the dying light, and the people of Astapor– masters and slaves alike– watched in silence.
As they passed deeper into the city, Hermione felt the weight of horror settle upon her chest. The streets were lined with slaves, their bodies gaunt, their eyes hollowed by years of suffering. Children, their ribs pressing against sickly skin, huddled in doorways, avoiding the lashes of their overseers. She saw a woman struggle to carry a heavy load, her back marred by fresh welts, while a slaver looked on impassively. A man knelt in the dirt, his hands bound, his lips cracked from thirst, and no one spared him a second glance.
Hermione clenched her fists at her sides. Her court saw it too, the unspoken fury darkening their expressions. Marcus muttered a curse under his breath. Jorvan looked away, his jaw tight. Even Melisandre, usually composed, murmured something in the tongue of her god, a rare trace of anger lacing her words.
A corpulent man in flowing robes stepped forward, his golden chains jingling as he gave a shallow bow.
"Welcome to Astapor, great lady," he said, his voice a practiced blend of reverence and calculation. "You honor us with your presence."
Hermione remained seated on her mount, her expression now unreadable.
"I have come to discuss business," she said simply, though there was ice in her tone.
"Of course," the man nodded quickly, his gaze flickering between the dragons. "You must be tired from your long journey. Allow us to offer you the finest luxuries our humble city has to offer."
Her gaze flickered once more over the silent, suffering masses. She exhaled slowly.
"No luxuries," she said cooly, turning back to the slaver. "Only business."
And as she dismounted, Hermione swore to herself that by the time she left this place, Astapor would never be the same again.
The heat in the great plaza of Astapor was suffocating, the sun high and unforgiving as Hermione stood before the Good Masters. The air carried the thick scent of sweat, exotic perfumes and blood– reminders of the transactions that had taken place in this city for generations. The red brick walls loomed around her, and behind her, her retinue stood tense, their hands near their weapons.
At the forefront, the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz smirked as he paced before the line of Unsullied. His fine robes, embroidered with gold thread, billowed slightly in the breeze as he surveyed Hermione with open amusement.
Melissande, the enslaved translator, stood beside him, her posture straight, her expression carefully neutral. Though the slaver sneered as he spoke, his words laced with contempt, Melissande's voice was smooth and controlled, masking his insults with polished courtesy.
"You have traveled far, Lady of Misagaenys," She translated, omitting the slaver's snide remark about foreigners knowing nothing of war.
"Yet you bring few warriors of your own. Perhaps you have reconsidered your ambitions?"
Hermione met his gaze with cold calculation.
"I have come to purchase all of them," she said, motioning toward the thousands of Unsullied standing at attention.
Melissande relayed her words, keeping her voice steady and impassive. Kraznys barked a laugh, exchanging an amused glance with the other slavers. His response was sharp, dismissive.
"He says all of them would be… a costly sum," Melissande translated, her voice even as she softened his crude skepticism. "And he wonders if you have the means to meet such an expense."
Her retinue stirred uneasily behind her. Marcus muttered under his breath, and Jorvan shot her a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable.
"I have something greater than gold," Hermione stated evenly. She lifted her hand, and at her command, Rowena descended from the sky, her silver-blue wings folding as she landed with elegant precision beside her. A collective gasp rippled through the gathered slavers and spectators.
"A dragon," Kraznys whispered, barely containing his hunger for power as his eyes gleamed with greed as he leaned forward.
"The Good Master inquires whether you would truly part with such a creature."
Hermione nodded.
"A dragon that will grow beyond twelve meters in length. A beast of flame and fury, greater than any warhorse, more devastating than any army." She let the words sink in, watched as the slavers' expressions shifted from skepticism to covetous desire.
Murmurs spread through the Good Masters as they conferred amongst themselves. One of them, a gaunt man with rings on every finger, leaned forward.
"He asks if you would trade this creature for our Unsullied," Melissande translated, though Hermione noted the slaver's narrowed gaze as he weighed her offer.
"I will trade Rowena," Hermione inclined her head softly. "For every Unsullied in your possession, all their weapons, and the translator girl." She motioned toward Melissande, who held Hermione's gaze for the briefest moment before schooling her expression into perfect neutrality.
Her retinue reacted instantly.
"You would give them a dragon?" Jorvan hissed. "Have you lost your–"
"Silence." Hermione's voice was iron, cutting through his words before he could finish.
Marcus swore under his breath, but he stepped back, exchanging uneasy glances with the others. Melissande, though outwardly composed, shifted her weight slightly as if reassessing Hermione's plan.
Kraznys smirked, clearing believing himself victorious.
"A fair trade." He waved a hand toward one of his servants who promptly brought forth a whip– its handle etched with the sigil of the good masters.
"The mark of ownership. Once you hold it, the Unsullied will be yours."
Hermione stepped forward, took the whip, and turned to face the small century before her. They stood motionless, awaiting her first command.
She lifted the whip high and cracked it over the air.
"Advance," She commanded.
Without hesitation, the Unsullied stepped forward in perfect unison, their spears raised, shields locked into place. The sight of such unyielding obedience sent a ripple of unease through her retinue.
"Halt!" Hermione demanded, watching slightly pleased as the Unsullied did as she commanded.
"Ask the bitch to help us control our dragon." one of the slavers growled.
"A dragon is not a slave." She snapped at the Good Masters.
"You speak Valyrian?" Kraznys gasped, looking between Hermione and the dragon that refused to kowtow to him.
Hermione turned, her expression hard as steel. She stepped forward, her voice ringing through the plaza.
"I am Hermione Misagaenys," She declared, her words echoing off the blood-red walls of the city. "Princess of Pentos. Daughter of the ancient dragonlords of House Misagaenys of old Valyria. Valyria is my mother tongue, born from ash and smoke across the Smoking Sea." She took another step forward, her eyes locking onto Kraznys, who suddenly looked far less sure of himself.
"Unsullied!" She shouted, her voice clear and unwavering. "Slay the masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who holds a whip, but harm no child. Strike the chains of every slave you see!"
A heartbeat passed. Then another. And then–
The unsullied surged forward. Spears found flesh. Shields bashed skulls. The screams of the Good Masters filled the plaza as their fat, pampered bodies were run through with cold steel.
A corpulent slaver tried to flee, but an Unsullied thrust a spear into his gut, twisting until he collapsed to his knees, his blood pooling at his feet. Another man raised his hands in surrender, only for a blade to pierce his throat before the plea could leave his lips.
Guards scrambled to defend their masters, but they were cut down with ruthless precision. A bloated overseer attempted to crack his whip at an Unsullied, only for the warrior to grab it midair, yank the man toward him, and drive a dagger into his eye.
At that precise moment, a deafening cry shattered the sky. Shadows streaked across the sun as a horde of gryphons descended upon Astapor.
Aquila had returned– with an entire flock of her kind.
Screeching and clawing, the gryphons swooped into the panicked crowd, rending flesh and tossing men into the air. Limbs were torn from bodies, talons shredded silk robes and flesh alike. Blood splattered the red walls of Astapor as men shrieked and died.
Hermione turned to the chaos, watching as the city of slavers burned.
She turned to her stunned retinue, a slow smirk forming on her lips.
"Did you really think I'd give them one of my dragons?"
Ahaaaa,
When I was writing this particular chapter I was kicking my feet. I remember watching the show, and seeing this scene play out and just being filled with awe at just how awesome Dany was!
I really wanted to encapsulate it, but add in a few twists as well to mildly show the differences between the original and the fanfic.
Let me know your thoughts as always! A single review goes a lot for morale with a busy schedule.