Chapter 6: The Masters' Dread – Reactions from the Towers of Power
The call of Daenerys Targaryen did not only reach the chained and the broken. It echoed upward, through the thick stone walls of pyramids and the gilded halls of pleasure houses, into the ears of those who had long believed themselves untouchable. The slaver masters of Essos—the Good Masters of Astapor, the Wise Masters of Yunkai, the Great Masters of Meereen—heard the words "God wills it" not as a prayer, but as a death knell. What began as mockery soon curdled into fear, then rage, then something colder: calculation.
Kraznys mo Nakloz, Good Master of Astapor
Kraznys had personally overseen Viserys's crucifixion. He remembered the silver-haired fool hanging there, silent except for prophecies of fire. Ten days the man lasted—no water, no mercy—yet he never begged. When the disciples stole the body and the slaves began whispering of a ghost appearing in the night, Kraznys laughed in his private chambers. "A parlor trick," he told his fellow masters over spiced wine. "The silver bitch will come with her rabble. We have Unsullied. We have walls. We have gold."
But the laughter died when the first reports arrived: slaves slipping away at night, guards hesitating at their posts, the bible pages appearing in barrack corners like poison. Kraznys ordered floggings, crucifixions of suspected converts. He nailed three Unsullied who had been heard murmuring prayers to the wall of the Plaza of Punishment as an example. "Let them see what happens to traitors," he snarled.
Yet the whispers grew. One morning he found a crude three-headed dragon scratched into the door of his own bedchamber. Below it, in shaky Valyrian script: "The shepherd suffered. The flock will rise." Kraznys's hand trembled as he traced the carving. For the first time in decades, he felt small. He doubled the watch, hired more sellswords, sent ravens to Yunkai begging alliance. In the quiet hours, staring at the empty cross still standing in the plaza, he began to wonder if the man he had killed had truly come back—and what that meant for men like him.
Grazdan zo Galare, Wise Master of Yunkai
Grazdan was older, wealthier, more cautious than Kraznys. His towers overlooked the pleasure gardens where silk-clad boys and girls once served his whims. When word of the martyrdom reached him, he dismissed it as eastern superstition. "The Targaryens are gone," he told his council. "A dead beggar changes nothing."
Then the caravans stopped coming. Merchants from the east claimed the roads were unsafe—pilgrims heading to Meereen, armed with nothing but red rags and bibles. Slaves in his own household grew insolent: a kitchen boy met his eyes for a heartbeat too long; a bed-warmer hummed a strange hymn while brushing his hair. Grazdan had the boy whipped until his back was raw meat. The girl vanished the next night.
Reports flooded in: Astapor fallen, its pyramids burning, its Good Masters crucified in mockery of their own sport. The Wise Masters of Yunkai gathered in panic. "They march north," one said. "Forty thousand now—maybe more." Grazdan felt ice in his veins. He had always prided himself on reading men, on knowing when to bribe, when to threaten. But this was different. This was not an army for gold or land. This was faith.
He ordered the gates barred, the elephants armored, the alchemists to prepare wildfire. Yet in his opulent bed at night, he dreamed of silver hair and violet eyes staring down from a cross, whispering, "Vengeance comes on wings of fire." He woke sweating, clutching the sheets. For the first time, Grazdan considered flight—selling what he could, fleeing to Volantis or Qarth. But pride and fear warred within him. He would fight. He had to. To admit the Dragon God was real would mean everything he had built was ash.
Hizdahr zo Loraq, Great Master of Meereen
Hizdahr was different. Younger, ambitious, already maneuvering to become one of the ruling council. He had watched the crucifixion from a high balcony, intrigued by the spectacle. When the reports of resurrection came, he smiled thinly. "Useful," he murmured to his advisors. "Fear is a weapon. Let the slaves believe their ghost-king walks. It will make them reckless—and easier to crush."
He underestimated the tide.
Slaves in Meereen's pits began refusing to fight. Harpy masks appeared on walls overnight, painted red instead of gold. Whispers of the bible spread through the fighting pits like plague. One champion, a towering pit fighter named Goghor, knelt in the sand before a match and refused to rise until his master promised to free his sister. When the master refused, Goghor killed three guards with his bare hands and fled into the undercity.
Hizdahr ordered purges. He burned suspected converts alive in the Great Pyramid's plaza, their screams meant to drown out the hymns. But the more he killed, the more appeared. The Sons of the Harpy turned against him—some joining the new faith, others simply fleeing. His spies reported Daenerys's army growing daily: pilgrims from Astapor, Yunkai, even Volantis. They carried no gold, only red banners and unbreakable will.
In his private garden, surrounded by caged birds and silk awnings, Hizdahr paced. His hands shook as he poured wine. "They call him Messiah," he said to his favorite concubine. "They say he died for them." She looked away. "And if he did?" she whispered.
Hizdahr struck her across the face, then immediately regretted it. Not out of guilt—for her—but because the question lingered. If a dead man could inspire this, what chance did living men have? He sent envoys to Volantis begging for sellswords, to Qarth for warlocks, to anyone who would listen. Deep down, he began to fear the silver queen not as a conqueror, but as something worse: proof that the world he ruled was ending.
The Collective Fear of the Masters
Across the bay, the masters shared frantic ravens, secret councils, bribes to mercenaries. They mocked the faith in public—"peasant superstition," "dragon delusions"—but in private they spoke in hushed tones of miracles, of a man who died and returned, of a queen who bled on a pyramid and called down a holy war.
Some prepared to fight. Others quietly liquidated assets, sent families east. A few even burned their own copies of the bible in secret braziers, hoping fire would ward off fire. But none could silence the growing chant that drifted on the wind from Meereen:
"God wills it."
In their towers of brick and gold, the masters felt the ground shift beneath them. The slaves were no longer just property. They were believers. And believers, once awakened, were the most dangerous army of all.
From the Spiritual Space, Alex watched their fear bloom like black flowers. He felt no pity—only a cold satisfaction mixed with unease. The game had become something larger, something that even he could no longer fully control.
(Word count: 1492)