Astapor's harpy crashed down, shattering into cold bronze fragments.
That deafening roar—like a new era's overture.
The entire city plunged into frenzied celebration, slaves shouting with hoarse throats a common name—"Dragon Lord."
Daenerys was shocked by these mountain-and-sea-like sound waves, instinctively gripping Lynn's arm tighter.
Those violet eyes reflected distant towering flames and countless celebrating figures.
"They..."
"I gave them rebirth, Dany."
Lynn watched this chaotic yet vital tableau before him.
"From today, we're their liberators. All of Astapor's common folk will fight for us."
Daenerys's heart pounded.
An unprecedented sense of responsibility and mission arose within her.
However, liberating a city was far harder than destroying it.
When vengeance's flames gradually died, celebration's roar returned to quiet—a more severe problem faced everyone.
Food, order, and the future.
The Good Masters' pyramid estates were burned, granaries looted empty in chaos.
Astapor became a giant island—hundreds of thousands of freed slaves standing blankly on ruins, not knowing where tomorrow led.
Though Lynn liberated them, both sides lacked trust foundation.
But Lynn was obviously prepared.
Next day, when first morning light illuminated this devastated city, eight thousand Unsullied had taken over all streets.
They were no longer numb killing soldiers—they were order's guardians.
Grey Worm had been promoted by Lynn to Unsullied Commander-in-Chief.
Under Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont's command, they quickly cleared street corpses, established temporary food distribution points, using seized grain to cook large pots of wheat porridge.
These slaves only knew—after changing rulers, their days were better than before. That was enough.
And Lynn turned his gaze toward those craftsmen just freed.
Astapor, Punishment Plaza.
No more blood scent here—replaced by scorching heat waves from hundreds of hastily built furnaces.
Over a thousand blacksmiths who once crafted luxury ornaments and torture devices for Good Masters now gathered here, looking with awe and curiosity at that man standing on the high platform.
Lynn said no nonsense. He had Unsullied carry up several huge wooden boards.
When black cloth covering the boards was removed, all blacksmiths gasped in disbelief.
Charcoal-drawn on boards—armor styles they'd never seen.
Full-body plate armor wrapping the human form completely.
From fierce helmets to metal gauntlets covering every finger, to streamlined breastplates and leg armor—every design achieved ultimate protection.
Its complex, intricate structure far surpassed any lord's knight armor across the Westeros continent.
This was Lynn's memory-based recreation of Earth's late medieval Europe's top-tier Gothic plate armor.
And an upgraded, reinforced version.
Though very heavy, protective performance improved by more than one tier.
"The Unsullied are the world's best infantry, but they lack sufficient protection."
Lynn's voice, through an Unsullied translator, clearly reached every blacksmith's ears.
"Dothraki charges, Volantene heavy crossbows—all can easily tear through their lines."
"I need you to forge new armor for them."
"Armor to resist cavalry, to make swords chip on impact."
Blacksmiths discussed among themselves—attracted by the blueprint's perfect creation, yet shocked by its astonishing craft difficulty.
An old blacksmith with graying beard, arms thick as normal men's thighs, stepped forward—the most prestigious craftsman here.
"My lord."
He asked in broken Common Tongue.
"We're willing to serve you."
"Only... forging such a suit of armor—the steel and man-hours consumed will be astronomical. We..."
He didn't continue, but the meaning was obvious.
They had no money, no materials.
"Materials—I'll have them shipped from Volantis and Qarth. You needn't worry."
Lynn interrupted him.
"As for payment..."
Lynn looked at Daenerys beside him.
Daenerys understood, having Unsullied behind her bring up a heavy wooden chest.
The lid opened—a chest full of golden dragon coins, blinding in sunlight.
"Five gold dragons per qualified armor suit."
The entire plaza instantly fell deathly silent.
Five gold dragons!
In Astapor, even the top craftsman laboring a year for Good Masters might not receive one gold dragon reward!
And now—they only needed to forge one armor suit!
After brief silence—mountain-collapsing, sea-surging cheers!
"For Meereen!"
"For the Dragon Lord!"
Blacksmiths raised their thick arms, those soot-blackened faces bursting with unprecedented enthusiasm.
They didn't cheer for money—but for that respect.
Everyone was willing to work for Lynn—Lynn saved them from suffering.
Inside the estate.
Jorah Mormont looked at that massive budget, brows furrowed.
"My lord, eight thousand Unsullied, plus subsequent reinforcements—at least ten thousand armor suits needed."
"Fifty thousand gold dragons..."
"The wealth we seized from Good Masters—mostly spices, silk. And slave contracts are all voided. Converting to coins takes time, and..."
"And far from enough, right?"
Lynn finished the latter half for him.
Jorah Mormont nodded.
Lynn smiled, walking to the window, watching those distant roaring furnaces reignited.
"Money isn't a problem."
He finished speaking, then walked into the estate's deepest quiet room, ordering no one disturb him.
In the quiet room, Lynn sat cross-legged.
He closed his eyes, his entire aura seemingly vanishing instantly, merging with surrounding air.
An invisible mental force—centered on him—instantly spread outward.
It passed through scorching red earth wastelands, crossed the Narrow Sea's vast blue waves, following a mysterious trajectory invisible to mortals, spanning the entire world.
King's Landing, Red Keep.
Sansa Stark sat at her desk handling soap business.
She'd changed much.
Shedding girlhood's naivety, brows carrying a trace of superior composure and dignity.
Since Lynn left King's Landing, she'd quietly controlled this city's trade backbone with Varys and Tyrion's help.
Now her produced soap sold throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Today, she felt inexplicably restless.
A familiar aura surged into her mind.
A voice directly sounded in her soul's depths.
"Sansa."
"Sansa."
"Sansa..."
It's Lynn!
Sansa's body trembled violently, those blue eyes instantly filling with joy.
"I need money. A large sum."
"Through the Iron Bank, issue an anonymous draft to Pentos's Illyrio's Governor's Palace."
"Amount—fifty thousand gold dragons."
That voice came quickly, left quickly.
When Sansa recovered, familiar scenery remained before her.
But she knew—that wasn't hallucination.
She stood, without hesitation, turning toward the Hand's Tower.
When Lynn emerged from the quiet room again, dusk had fallen.
He'd solved the money problem, but his mood wasn't light.
Because a bigger trouble remained imprisoned in the estate.
Viserys.
Since being publicly slapped in the plaza that day, Viserys had been confined to his own room.
Walking past the corridor, Lynn clearly heard roars and smashing sounds from inside.
He pushed open the door.
The room—a complete mess.
Exquisite Meereenese carpets slashed to pieces, Valyrian glass vessel fragments scattered everywhere.
Viserys disheveled, that luxurious robe already torn apart by himself.
He was like a beast trapped in a cage—those pale purple eyes bloodshot with madness.
Seeing Lynn, he showed no fear—instead lunging like a mortal enemy!
"You thief!"
He roared.
"You stole my army! Stole my throne! And stole my sister!"
"You ruined everything!"
His flashy gilded longsword thrown somewhere—now only using nails to claw Lynn's face.
Lynn didn't even bother dodging.
He just raised his hand, easily gripping Viserys's wrist.
CRACK.
A crisp bone-breaking sound.
"AAAH—!"
Viserys screamed shrilly, his wrist twisted at a grotesque angle, white bone even piercing skin.
Lynn released his hand, letting him curl up like a dead dog, wailing in agony.
"I kept you only because your Targaryen surname can help your sister gain some old dynasty supporters."
Lynn looked down at him.
"I thought a clever beggar, after receiving promises, would know how to play his role."
"But I was wrong."
"You're not a beggar. You're just a mad dog."
Lynn crouched, gripping Viserys's chin, forcing him to look up, directly meeting his eyes.
"You think I truly need your ridiculous alliance?"
"You think your so-called true dragon blood actually has value?"
"Let me tell you a secret, Viserys."
"Your blood's only use—is to awaken something more valuable."
Viserys's pupils contracted sharply.
He saw in Lynn's eyes—killing intent colder than the Land of Always Winter.
He finally realized—this man never intended to let him sit the Iron Throne alive.
He himself—just a sacrifice.
"No... you can't kill me..."
Fear completely overwhelmed madness. He began begging incoherently.
"I'm a king! I'm your wife's brother! Dany... Dany won't agree!"
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