The Stepstones, Throat-Cutting Isle Main Island, The Godswood
"Under normal circumstances, a slave master has only two tools in his chest: the lash and starvation. Some sophisticated masters might find other ways to break a spirit, but the core remains the same."
Jon stood before the assembled merchants like a professor before a lecture hall, tapping a wooden pointer against a makeshift blackboard. His gestures were fluid and deliberate; he wasn't just speaking—he was teaching. He needed these men to understand that slavery wasn't just a moral rot; it was a bad investment.
"Why is a Westerosi farmer so eager to beg his Lord for the right to clear land?" Jon asked, wiping away a cluster of chalked names to draw a diagram of the Westerosi social strata. "Because the more he clears, the more he sows, and the more he sows, the more he keeps. Even a serf has the hope of a full belly and a warm hearth for his children."
He circled the "Smallfolk" and "Peasant" tiers on the board. "Because they possess a fragment of freedom and a mountain of hope, they work harder. Hope, gentlemen, is a more powerful fuel than the fear of a whip will ever be."
"So, you are suggesting we simply import the Westerosi feudal system?" Trang Taip asked, acting as the unofficial spokesman for the skeptical group.
"No," Jon replied firmly, striking a line through the word Nobility. "Feudalism is an upgrade over slavery, yes, but the landed gentry are a stagnant class. Their obsession with bloodlines and hereditary laziness eventually stifles the very productivity the system creates."
"Well said!" a spice merchant called out. "I've dealt with Westerosi lords. They'll look down their noses at a man with a million dragons in his hold just because his father didn't own a castle."
Jon knew his audience. The merchant-princes of the Free Cities and the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms were two sides of the same coin, but the merchants were driven by hunger—a hunger for growth that slavery currently blocked. By promising to topple the old hierarchies of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys, Jon was offering them the world.
"This is my proposal," Jon said, his chalk screeching against the board as he wrote in large, bold letters. "THE CONTRACT SYSTEM."
He broke down a concept that felt alien to them: labor as a commodity. He proposed set working hours, standardized pay, and the right for a worker to buy their own time.
"Do you think a slave can even read a contract?" a Lysene trader scoffed.
"They don't need to read it yet," Jon countered. "They need to feel the rule. A rule that is as immovable as the 'Lannisters Always Pay Their Debts.' When the rule becomes a part of the culture, trust follows. When trust follows, productivity explodes. You won't need overseers if the man in the field knows that ten extra bushels of grain equals a silver stag in his own pocket."
The merchants murmured. They were calculating. They were used to the high overhead of housing and guarding unwilling slaves; Jon was offering them a self-regulating workforce.
"Gold is good," Jon said, leaning over the podium. "But gold without restraint makes us no better than the monsters we serve. To gain true power, we must abolish the system of man-eating-man."
Most of these men had been stepped on by the slave-monopolies. Some were former slaves themselves. Jon had gathered the outcasts of the commercial world to build his new empire. Salladhor Saan, standing at the back, watched Jon with a look bordering on religious awe. Since witnessing the dragon transformation, Saan had become Jon's most fervent disciple among the "worldly" men.
"The Chainbreakers exist to level the field," Jon declared. "We will provide the steel and the fire to protect this new order. Now, who among you is willing to sign the first Holy Covenant of our Alliance under this Heart Tree?"
Whoosh—!
As if on cue, a sudden gust of wind rattled the leaves of the ancient Weirwood. The red, hand-shaped leaves danced in the air, brushing against the faces of the merchants like a ghostly caress. The atmosphere turned heavy, ancient, and undeniable.
One by one, they stepped forward. The first covenant was signed. Every member pledged to work toward the abolition of slavery in exchange for the military protection of the Chainbreakers.
"Now that we are one body," Jon said, signaling his companions. Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry moved through the crowd, handing out leather-bound pamphlets. "These are our founding principles. It is a draft. Read it. Critique it."
The pamphlets were a blend of modern political philosophy and Westerosi pragmatism.
"All men are born equal in potential..."
"The right to faith is personal and absolute..."
"The Chainbreakers obey the Manifesto above all leaders..."
The common folk would see the word "Freedom" and follow. The smart men would see the word "Stability" and invest. Jon's Targaryen blood was just the garnish; this Manifesto was the main course.
"'Freedom is the highest law'... 'None shall strip another of their agency'..." Trang Taip read the lines aloud, looking at Jon as if he were a visitor from another world. "Jon, did you truly write this? It sounds... divine."
"I am merely a man standing on the shoulders of giants," Jon replied enigmatically. "I have seen their thoughts, and I am bringing them to this world."
The merchants stood in stunned silence. Whether Jon was a prophet or a madman mattered less than the fact that his ideas were infectious.
"Enough philosophy for today," Jon said, his tone shifting back to that of a general. "We must discuss the immediate future. Our distractions have worked."
He laid out two intelligence reports. His "System Thieves" had been busy.
"Our skirmish with the Lysene fleet at Bloodstone has bore fruit. The Tyroshi 'Purple Sails' believe Lys is weakened and are preparing to strike their bases. While they tear at each other's throats, we will move. It is time to test the true strength of my 'God-Blessed' legions."