At least now I had a pretty decent idea of where in the timeline I'd landed—definitely before Season 2. No dragons in the sky, no fire-breathing revolution tearing the place apart. Just the usual quiet nastiness of the slaver cities doing what they do. The Good Masters were still sitting pretty, which meant things were... stable. In a messed-up kind of way.
I didn't rush. Just kept it slow, casual, letting myself melt into the background of the city. Dusty streets, sun-baked walls, people who didn't meet your eyes. Same old, same old.
Eventually, I found one of the bigger estates. You could tell from a block away—massive gates, polished stone, and enough gold trim to scream look at me, I exploit people. A house built on the backs of the broken.
The place glowed in the last stretch of daylight, golden and quiet. Outside, eight Unsullied stood guard, perfectly still. Statues with spears and dead eyes.
I held my breath and moved. Slow and careful, one foot at a time. One false step and I'd end up a Draco-kebab. The Disillusionment Charm was still holding.
Thread the needle. Don't die. Easy.
I slipped between the guards. They didn't blink. Didn't twitch. No sign they saw anything at all.
The second I cleared the courtyard arch, I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding.
"Bloody terrifying," I muttered, wiping my palms on my robes.
The place inside was... honestly not bad. Clean, kinda elegant in a dry-climate way. Big pots full of flowers, some trailing vines. Smelled like someone was cooking with every spice known to man—cinnamon, cumin, maybe garlic? Hard to tell. Wind carried it from somewhere deep inside.
Two servants scurried past, bare feet silent against the stone. Heads down. No eye contact. Moving like ghosts, just trying not to be noticed.
Time to make myself useful.
I slipped deeper into the house, careful to avoid the more well-lit corridors.
With one last glance around, I ducked into a side room. Looked like a study.
Rich people always had hiding spots—secret compartments, floor panels, hollow statues. Nobody who owns this much gold just leaves it in a pot. I started checking the room.
And then—
Clomp. Clomp.
Footsteps.
Shit.
I immediately cast the spell again to keep myself hidden as voices and footsteps filled the study.
I saw the group enter. Mostly men in flowing robes and smug expressions. I was about to tune them out—until she walked in.
Yellow dress, collar around her neck, bare shoulders, perfect posture. My heart stumbled for half a beat.
Missandei.
Not just any slave. The translator—Daenerys's future right hand. Which meant the man taking a seat at the head of the room was none other than Kraznys mo Nakloz himself.
"Vezof azantyssy jēdoti!"
Right, he only speaks Low Valyrian.
Missandei, standing calmly beside him, translated.
"Bring the Unsullied of the new batch."
"Gēlen ābrar jēda vēttan."
"Last year, the selling was high," she translated again, smooth and emotionless.
I tuned them out. Let them talk about slaves and profits and all the other horrible things that passed for normal here. I had more important things on my mind.
What now?
I'd made it this far—snuck into the estate of one of the most powerful slavers in Astapor.
But plans? Yeah, those were... pending.
Honestly, I'd been winging it.
I figured Game of Thrones was the perfect world to gather resources. Tons of instability, cities that ran on gold and fear, people desperate for power. The kind of place where someone with modern knowledge could thrive—if they played it right.
But I hadn't exactly mapped out anything. Just vague ideas.
Trading modern stuff for gold. That was the big plan.
Pens, soap, snacks—hell, even matches would blow their minds here. Sell to the right merchant, build a network, get rich. Easy enough.
Because let's be real: I couldn't just travel from city to city playing Robin Hood, robbing every rich bastard along the way. That was time-consuming, dangerous, and honestly? Exhausting.
So—trade.
Trade was the way forward. Safer, smarter, scalable.
And he seemed like a good person to make a deal with.
My eyes turned to Kraznys.
Arrogant. Rich. Convinced everyone else was beneath him.
A perfect tool to stabilise myself here.
But before meeting him, I needed to gather more information. And who could be a better choice than the one who translated his words to everyone else?
Let's check out the polyglottic slave.
*"*************
Should Daenerys already have her childrens?
Any suggestions
Plot idea's