The red walls of Astapor still smoldered, blackened with soot, streaked with the blood of those who once called themselves masters. Smoked curledinto the sky in lazy tendrils, carrying with it the last echoes of the day's slaughter. The streets were littered with the corpses of slavers and overseers, their fine slices soaked through with crimson, their whips and chains cast into the dust. The air smelled of fire, death, and something else– something lighter. Something like freedom.
As the last cries of the dying faded, Hermione rode to the center of the great plaza atop Aquila, her mighty gyrphon. Her massive wings stretched once, sending a powerful gust across the broken city. The Unsullied stood before her, thousands stron, their faces impassive, their spears still slick with the blood of their former masters. They had done as she commanded. They had slain the slavers, shattered the chains, but now, for the first time in their lives, they waited without direction.
Aquila's talons clutched the remains of a shattered statue– one that had once been a monument to Astapors power. Now it was rubble beneath her feet. Hermione sat tall in the saddle, her cloak of deep indigo stained with soot and dust. Rowena, Godric, and Morgana circled high above, their distant roars echoing through the streets.
She raised a hand. Silence fell over the Unsullied.
"You are no longer slaves."
Her voice rang clear across the plaza, cutting through the heavy air. Thousands of men stood frozen, their expressions unreadable. They had lived their entire lives bound to the will of others their bodies and minds shaped by brutal discipline. They had fought battles, endured horrors, but never had they been gived a choice.
"You owe me nothing." Hermione's eyes swept across them. "I did not free you to claim you. You are not mine. You are not anyone's."
A gust of wind swept through the plaza, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing beyond the city walls. The silence stretched, thick and uncertain.
Then, slowly, the first Unsullied lowered his spear, lifting the butt of it and striking it against the ground.
Once.
Twice.
The sound was dull at first, a soft thud against the scorched stone. Then another joined him. And another. The rythm grew, spreading like a wave through the ranks of the Unsullied, until the entire army stood, spears pounding in unision. A slow, measured beat– steady, unrelenting. Their faces remained unreadable, but the weight of the sound was undeniable. It was not submission. It was not servitude.
It was respect. Aquila spread his wings, letting out a piercing cry that sent shivers through the assembled ranks. The beat of the spears continued, a pulse through the ruined heart of Astapor, a city that had once claimed to break men into perfect soldiers. Now, those same soldiers stood free, choosing, for the first time, to follow.
Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself to feel the gravity of what had just happened. When she opened them, she straightened in her saddle.
"The choice is yours," she said. "Follow me, if you wish, and I will lead you to something greater than slavery. Or walk away, as free men. No one shall harm you, this I so swear."
She did not expect an answer in words. But as the spears continued to pound, she understood.
They had already made their choice.
The city had fallen, but governance had yet to rise. Hermione chose to stay, overseeing the delicate shift from the brutal rule of the Good Masters to something more structured– an extension of Pentoshi influence. As the sun hung low in the crimson sky over the city, long shadows casted across the plaza where a great gathering had formed. The air was thick with the scent of incense and salt, carried on the sea breeze, as citizens crowded the edges of the square, murmuring in wonder and fear. Before them, Hermione and Melissandre stood, cloaked in dark and crimson robes, surrounded by braziers flickering with blue and silver flames.
The Unsullied, lined in perfect formation, stood silently at the center of the square. Their eyes, ever calm and disciplined, betrayed a spark of uncertainty. They had known discipline, pain, and sacrifice– but today they faced something beyond all that: dragonfire, not as a weapon of death, but as a trial of rebirth.
Upon a raised platform at the heart of the square, Hermione stood tall, her eyes gleaming like a molten gold in the firelight, her dragons perched nearby– Rowena, Morgana and Godric watching intently. At her side, Melissandre whispered final prayers to the old gods of flame and blood, her red eyes glimmering with certainty.
A large, shallow basin carved from blackened obsidian stood before them, filled with oils, herbs, and crushed gemstones– moonstone and red crystal for clarity and strength, powdered iron for protection, and fragments of Valyrian glass to tether the magic to the old blood.
Hermione raised her hands, voice strong and clear, echoing through the plaza.
"Today, we call upon fire not as a destroyer, but as a healer. Today, we seek to give back what was taken. No blade will cut away the scars left behind, but in fire, you shall find yourselves reborn."
A murmur rippled through the crowd– hope and disbelief interwoven.
Melissandre stepped forward, lifting a vial of dragons blood mixed with oil, letting crimson drops fall into the basin. The liquid hissed as it touched the oils and herbs, releasing a sharp, pungent scent that filled the square.
Hermione reached to the sky, speaking in the smooth, ancient tongue of Valyria, her words woven with power.
"From fire, rise anew."
Rowena let out a low rumble as Hermione turned to the Unsullied, her gaze steady.
"To walk through fire is to claim your freedom. To be untouched is to know you are whole."
She stepped toward the basin and lifted her hand, beckoning Godric closer. The red dragon prowled forward, eyes burning as Hermione extended her hand toward him.
"Dracarys."
Godric exhaled a stream of brilliant orange and gold flame. It washed over Hermione, encircling her in a torrent of fire that licked hungrily at her robes. Yet when the fire died, she stood untouched, her skin glowing faintly as though kissed by the sun itself. The crowd gasped as whispers spread like wildfire.
"She stands unburnt," someone murmured in awe.
Hermione turned, her voice unwavering. "You see? Fire does not destroy if you command it. And today, it will not destroy you."
Melissandre gestured for the first Unsullied to step forward. The soldier, broad and scarred, hesitated only a moment before moving to stand at Hermione's side.
Melissandre held out her hand, placing a rune-inscribed pendant of obsidian and iron around his neck, a charm of protection woven with Hermione's own magic. Then she dipped her fingers into the burning basin and traced a line of flame down his brow, leaving a faint mark that glowed before fading.
Hermione whispered softly, "You are more than what they made you. Step forward and claim that truth."
The unsullied turned to Godric, standing firm, though sweat beaded his brow. Hermione nodded once.
"Dracarys."
Fire poured from Godric's maw, washing over the unsullied like a tidal wave of flame– and when it cleared, he stood tall, unburnt, his eyes wide in stunned relief.
A roar of awe and triumph rose from the gathered crowd. People wept oopenly, some falling to their knees as others cheered and called his name.
One by one, the Unsullied approached, and one by one they were bathed in flame, walking through it unscathed. Hermione and Melissandre guided each of them, placing runes and whispering words of strength until the ritual was complete.
By nightfall, as the last embers faded and the dragons took to the sky, the people of Astapor looked upon their soldiers not as broken men, but as reborn warriors– fire-kissed and whole.
Hermione stood beside Melissandre as the crowd continued to cheer.
"It worked," she whispered softly, her voice filled with emotion.
Melissandre's crimson eyes glowed faintly. "It did. Fire cleanses– and gives back what was taken."
As Rowena and Morgana circled high above, Hermione looked to the horizon where Yunkai and Meereen lay beyond. The people of Astapor had seen a miracle– and now, she would ensure that those still in chains would see it too.
Her court had mixed reactions.
Marcus, ever the pragmatist, leaned against a crumbling column, arms crossed.
"You should be heading to Yunkai, not playing steward in this graveyard."
Jorvan, always the diplomat, merely sighed. "Conquest means little if the conquered city collapses into chaos the moment you leave."
Melisandre, watching from the shade of a broken tower, murmured, "Fire burns away the past, but without direction, even the strongest flames turn to embers."
It was Melissande, the newly freed translator, who spoke last.
"They will not trust you easily," she said. "You freed them, but they have only ever known masters. They fear freedom almost as much as they craved it."
Inside the broken hall of a former master's palace, Hermione and her court had gathered. The air was tense, still thick with the echoes of the massacre.
Marcus was the first to speak, his voice low, wary. "I've seen bloodshed before, but this was different. This was justice, wasn't it?"
Hermione met his gaze evenly. "There was no other way. If we took every single Unsullied, they would have raised more against us regardless. Cruelty, as much as we want it too, cannot be removed gently."
Jorvan paced, clearly unsettled. "It was a massacre. Are we to be remembered as liberators or conquerors? The line between the two feels thin."
Melisandre stepped from the shadows, her voice calm and assured.
"Fire does not choose between good and evil. It burns. The world has been cleansed today."
Melissande, the former slave, spoke softly, her eyes wide with lingering shock. "They deserved worse. The Good Masters were cruel beyond measure. You gave the slaves what they never dared to hope for. Freedom."
Jorvan sighed deeply, "At what cost? Are we no better than those we killed?"
Hermione's voice cut through the debate. "We are better," she said firmly. "Because we fight not to rule, but to free. If violence was necessary, it was because it was the only language the masters understood."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Then we accept the blood on our hands."
Hermione's gaze softened slightly. "Yes. We accept it, and we carry it forward– because our work here is not finished. Astapor must be rebuilt, but it will never be the same. It will never again belong to slavers."
Silence settled upon them, the weight of their actions heavy in the air.
"Then we will stand by you," Jorvan finally conceded. "For whatever comes next."
Hermione straightened. "And next, we rebuild."
Hermione knew they were correct in their own ways. Rushing to the next conquest would undo all she had fought for, but staying would test her leadership in ways she had never known.
So she stayed.
Dawn had barely broke, casting long shadows across the bloodstained streets, where remnants of the Good Masters' reign had been washed away in crimson tides. The city was silent but for the cries of the wounded and the distant murmur of waves lapping against the docks.
Hermione stood at the heart of the square, flanked by Jorvan, Marcus, Melisandre, and Melissande, her small court gathered in a solemn assembly. They had liberated the city, but now came the true test– rebuilding. Around them, the people of Astapor watched, some with hope, others with uncertainty. Many bore the scars of enslavement, of suffering that no swift rebellion could erase.
She turned to a group of healers, garbed in simple robes, their hands stained with the work of the morning.
"See to the injured first. Ensure food and clean water are given to those in need. I want no one to go without aid today."
"It will be done, princess." The eldest among them, a woman named Ismara, bowed deeply. "Supplies are low, and there are many who still fear to step beyond their doors. They do not yet know if they are free."
Hermione nodded, understanding the weight of Ismara's words. Fear did not vanish with the fall of tyrants– it lingered like a shadow.
Turning to Jorvan, she spoke in a low voice.
"We need to establish order. Have patrols move through the city, not as conquerors, but as protectors. Any looting, any harm done to the innocent, will be met with swift justice."
"It will be done, Princess." Jorvan inclined his head.
Marcus, surveying the nervous crowd, folded his arms.
"They need a symbol," he murmured. "Something to prove to them that you are not merely another master taking the place of the old."
"Power is more than a blade," Melisandre nodded thoughtfully. "It is the belief that tomorrow will not be worse than today. If they do not see change, they will not believe in it."
Hermione considered their words before stepping onto the stone platform that had once been the Good Masters dias. The very place where countless had been sold, weighed, and deemed unworthy of choice. Now, it would serve a new purpose.
She lifted her chin and spoke, placing her wand at her throat so that her voice would carry over the square.
"People of Astapor, you are free. No longer will chains dictate your lives. No longer will your children be born into servitude. But freedom is not given– it is built, forged by those who stand together, who refuse to be bound by fear. Today, we rebuild, not as masters and slaves, but as a people."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, disbelief warring with hope. A former slave, a young boy no older than ten, stepped forward hesitantly.
"And if new masters come? If more ships bring more chains?"
"Then they will find a city that does not bow." Hermione met his gaze, unwavering. "A people who do not break. They will know that Astapor belongs to the free."
Silence hung for a moment, and then a cry rose from the crowd. One voice, then another, until the square echoed with the sounds of a people finding their voice once more.
"That should do" Melissande smirked slightly.
Marcus exhaled and glanced at Hermione. "So, what now, Princess?"
She turned to face her court, determination burning in her eyes.
"Now, we build a future worth fighting for."
Later that evening, Hermione sat at a wooden desk within the former quarters of the Good Masters, now repurposed as a command center. The room was dimly lit, the single flickering candle casting long shadows over the parchment before her. Dipping the quill into ink, she began to write:
Sirius,
The city is ours. The Good Masters are no more, and their cruelly has ended in the slaves they so often used against others. But Astapor is fragile. This new freedom does not come easily, and the people fear that another tyrant will take the place of the old. I will not let that happen. We are tending to the wounded, rationing what little we have left, and ensuring that the streets are safe. There is much to be done, but I will remain here to see it through.
I am sending you word through the first of my freed warriors, a man named Kael, once numbered among the Unsullied. When you receive this, know that the fight is not over– but we have taken the first steps toward something new.
Your daughter,
Hermione
She sealed the letter with wax. Stepping from her office, she led Kael through the city's quiet streets to the courtyard where the gryphons were kept. A towering beast with feathers as dark as midnight and piercing golden eyes stood waiting, its powerful wings tucked close to its sides.
"He will ensure you reach Pentos swiftly," Hermione said, fastening a small satchel of provisions to the saddle. "You carry more than a message, Kael– you carry the truth of our victory."
Kael nodded, placing a hand on the gryphon's side before mounting. With a final bow to Hermione, he gave a sharp command, and the beast launched into the sky, its wings slicing through the cool dawn air. She watched as it carried him beyond the city's walls, toward the sea and the future that lay ahead.
The midday sun bore down upon the scorched streets of Astapor, casting long shadows over the city that had just begun to stir from the ashes its past. The Good Masters were gone, their rule shattered, yet the scars of their cruelty remained embedded in the walls, in the people, and in the very air they breathed. Hermione stood at the balcony of what was once the Masters' grand hall, now repurposed as her command center, surveying the city below.
The challenge had become clear: starvation threatened to unravel everything they had fought for. The grain stores had been raided and torched in the chaos of the uprising, and what little food remained was scarcely enough to feed even a fraction of the city's freed population. Without immediate intervention, desperation would turn to unrest, and unrest would give rise to new conflicts.
Gathering her council, Hermione faced Jorvan, Marcus, Melisandre, and Melissande in the dimly lit chamber. Maps of the surrounding lands were spread before them, hastily marked with the known locations of fertile farmlands and trade routes.
Marcus broke the silence first.
"Princess, we cannot rely on what remains here. The fields beyond the city walls are barren, and the fisherfolk have fled, fearing retaliation from slavers who may still lurk in the waters. If we do not act now, we may lose the people's trust."
"Fear is a sickness," Melisandre nodded in agreement. "Hunger is what feeds it. The people must see that their liberators have not abandoned them. We need grain, livestock, salt, anything that can sustain us for the weeks to come."
Jorvan traced his fingers along the parchment, his brow furrowed.
"Pentos, Lys and Braavos have vast trade networks. We may have to send word to King Sirius to reach out on our behalf and offer them an arrangement– safe passage through Astapor's ports and exclusive rights to its goods in the future– we might have him convince them to send relief supplies."
Hermione considered his words, then turned to Melissande. "How many ships do we have in working condition?"
Melissande hesitated. "Three, perhaps four, that are seaworthy. But we would need strong navigators and trusted men to see that the shipments reach us safely."
Hermione nodded. "Then we send envoys to my father. The kingdom of Pentos does not beg, but we will negotiate. Melissande, take a contingent of freed soldiers and ride to the outer villages. Offer them protection and fair trade in exchange for their surplus grain and livestock. Jorvan, I want you overseeing the docks– no merchant ships are to leave without my direct approval, and I want every capable fisherman back on the waters by week's end."
Her gaze flickered toward Melisandre. "As for the people, they must see that we are not merely rulers but caretakers. Organize rations, distribute what little we have, and keep order in the streets. The sight of bread in their hands will do more for morale than a hundred promises."
"It will be done." Melisandre inclined her head before leaving the room.
Later that evening, as the first envoys set sail toward the Free Cities, Hermione stood on the docks, watching the ships fade into the horizon. Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. They may have won the people their freedom, but now they had to fight for their survival.
Grey Worm had not expected to be chosen. Among the freed Unsullied, many had wandered, lost without command, without purpose. Some had left Astapor altogether, seeking new lands, new battles, new names. Yet, when Melissande called for soldiers to accompany her beyond the city walls, it was Grey Worm who had stepped forward.
"You were once a warrior of discipline," she had said to him. "Now, you must be more than that. You must be a shield, not just a sword."
He had not hesitated. He had chosen his name for a reason. His old name had been that of a slave; this one, he had given to himself. Grey Worm. The name of the day he had been freed. The name of survival.
Now, he rode at the head of a small contingent of freed soldiers, their figures casting long shadows as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon. At his side, Melissande rode with quiet poise, her sharp eyes surveying the fields stretching beyond the city of Astapor. This was not a battlefield, yet the stakes were just as high. Hunger threatened their people, and survival depended on the farmers and fishmongers of the outer villages.
Their first stop was a wheat farm, where an elderly farmer and his sons worked tirelessly beneath the oppressive heat. The fields, though fertile, showed signs of struggle– drought had withered portions of their crops, and fear of past masters had kept them from venturing too far into the city's affairs.
Grey Worm remained mounted, his sharp gaze scanning the fields, but it was Melissande who took the lead. She dismounted gracefully, brushing dust from her tunic before approaching the farmer.
"You have seen the fall of the Good Masters," she began, her voice is calm but unwavering. "Their rule is over. Astapor is free, but its people must now survive on their own. To do that, we need your help."
The farmer wiped his brow, eyeing her warily. "Ain't never been free, miss. Not Truly. The Masters are dead, but hunger is its own kind of chain. We share what we can, but our own families come first."
Melissande nodded, stepping closer. "We do not ask you to starve," she reassured. "We ask you to stand with us. The city needs grain, and we will not take it from you without payment or fair trade. What you give now will be returned in protection and in new trade agreements. The docks will reopen, the markets will flourish again. Help us, and we help you.
The farmer studied her, then glanced toward Grey Worm, who remained silent but watchful. After a long pause, the man exhaled deeply, glancing at his sons.
"A fair bargain. We will share what grain we can spare, but we expect your word to hold."
"You have it." Melissande smiled faintly, offering a respectful nod.
Their next stop was the fishing village by the coast. The scent of salt and freshly caught fish filled the air as boats bobbed along the docks. The village leader, a stout woman named Yara, stood with arms crossed as they approached. She narrowed her eyes at the arriving group, her weathered face betraying years of hardship.
"You come asking for fish? We barely have enough nets left to fish with," she said, nodding toward the weathered boats. "The Good Masters took most of our best, left us with scraps. If you want our help, we need something in return."
Melissande met her gaze without hesitation. "We do not come as masters, only as allies. Astapor is rising again, and we need to ensure all who suffered under the Masters now thrive. If you aid us now, we will see your docks repaired and new nets provided. You will have protection from slavers who might return, and your village will be among the first to benefit from the new trade routes."
Yara's sharp eyes studied her for a long moment before she let out a short laugh. "You speak well, and plainly. I like that." She nodded toward her people. "Give us the nets, and we'll fish for your city. But if you break your word, we will not soon forget."
Melissande gave a solemn nod. "We will not break it."
As the night fell and agreements were made, Grey Worm and Melissande rode back toward Astapor, their mission a success. The people outside of the city had suffered under the Good Masters just as those within had. Now, for the first time, they were choosing to stand together.
Hermione worked to establish order among the freed slaves, meeting with leaders who emerged from the chaos. Ensuring with her magic that tools were multiplied and repaired making it easier for the people to farm both the land and sea. She ensured that grain stores were properly distributed, that no man with a whip took power under a different name. She made decrees in the open air of the plaza where every man, woman, and child could hear them.
And the gryphons–
The gryphons had come in force, more than she had expected. They perched on the rooftops, their sharp eyes ever watching. Their wings cast shadows over the city, a symbol of power and protection. Aquila, ever loyal, remained at her side, but others had begun to pair with warriors among her Unsullied.
She had not expected it, but the gryphons had become a part of the new order.
"Use them wisely," Melisandre had warned, watching one of the great beasts preen its wings. "They are creatures of the sky, not of walls. Chain them, and they will rebel."
So she did not chain them.
Instead, she formed them into a new wing of her army– scouts, messengers, warriors of the air. The sight of a gryphon soaring above Astapor became as familiar as the sight of Unsullied marching below. And so the days passed. The fires dimmed, the smoke cleared, and the city of Astapor stood– no longer a place of chains, but a place of change.
Thank you for all the lovely reviews, thank you for one of the readers for suggesting I move this story over onto ao3, I'll def be considering it moving forward! I look forward to seeing all of them, I've gotta say though, i've been spending my time looking into different crossovers and there's so many of them but not a whole lot of good ones with Hermione. I've been reading some Naruto ones, twilight, other GOT, what's a crossover that you wish there was more of?