Chapter Text
The Westerosi were supposed to be civilized. By all accounts from her brother, from Jorah, from Ser Barristan, the Westerosi were supposed to be civilized. And yet so far she’d seen much that would make the Masters of Slavers Bay proud.
Daenerys Targaryen held her disgust behind a mask of calm indifference as she walked the dungeons of this place—what had Jorah called it? The Dreadnaught? No, that didn’t sound quite right. He’d told her she didn’t need to be here for this, but after it had become apparent that many, if not most, of the prisoners in the dungeons were young women or girls, she’d known this was something she’d have to face. Even if the lot of them were guilty, she couldn’t imagine a crime deserving of the brutality she saw inflicted on these girls.
“Shh,” she hushed to a girl of no more than twelve years. “You are free now. I will protect you.” The girl stared up with bloodshot eyes. The front of her dress was caked in old blood, and she looked to have not eaten in some time. They’d been unable to coax her out of her cell, meeting only with terrified shrieks, which was why Dany was here now.
She ran her fingers through the girl’s tangled locks. The poor creature sniffled and clung to Dany’s skirts, but in the end had not put up a fuss as she’d been led from the tiny cell and handed off to Missandei. “See that she is fed and cleaned.” Those were the standing orders concerning the prisoners for the moment.
The men were more difficult to deal with, since it was uncertain if they were being held for legitimate charges or not. Nobody liked the thought of releasing potential rapists and murderers, and so the guards—or those who had surrendered during the short skirmish—were brought in to determine appropriate response per prisoner.
As she’d guessed, many of the remaining prisoners’ crimes were either petty or not deserving such punishment. This one stole a loaf of bread; that one had not properly stabled a horse, which had then gotten sick.
It was becoming more and more difficult to keep her mask up. Civilized indeed.
Who were the lords of this keep? The Boltons, her mind supplied from her brother’s lessons. Bannermen of the Starks, who had sided with the Usurper to take her father’s throne. They had a horrid sigil—a flayed man on a cross. She’d seen their work on some of the prisoners, swaths of skin flayed away to reveal pink underneath. Not all of the Boltons’ victims had survived.
“Your Grace.”
Her head snapped up. The surrendered guards had taken to her new title—or soon-to-be title, in any case—easier than even she had. It took her a disoriented moment to realize she was being hailed to the end of the hall.
This was the lowest level, the darkest and dankest of the dungeons. They had not come across a living prisoner in some time.
“There’s one alive in here,” called one of her own men, an Unsullied soldier named Black Louse who had taken well to his language lessons, even if his accent was still very thick.
She picked up her pace.
“In there,” Black Louse said, pointing to a cell too dark to see into. “He won’t come out. Shall I…?”
She held up her hand to silence him. To the Bolton guard she asked, “What is this man’s crime?”
The man shrugged. “He’s a turncloak.”
“But he’s not been executed?”
Again, the man shrugged.
A turncloak, a traitor. In Essos such cowards were put to the sword. But this prisoner was a traitor to the Boltons, to the Starks, to the Usurper.
“Give me a torch.”
“Your Grace—”
She only had to hold out her hand and Black Louse relented any protest, rushing to provide her with his own torch. Holding the light aloft and gathering her skirts, she entered the tiny cell. And immediately threw a hand over her mouth and nose. The smell was awful in a way she had been unprepared for. It brought back memories of slave quarters, human beings forced to live among their own filth. Black Louse had said there was someone alive in here, but she was hard-pressed to see in all the…dirt. But no, there was something alive, something moving just out of the periphery of her light. It shrank away as she drew near.
“Shh…” she hushed as she had to the girl earlier. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of Westeros, and I will not let anyone hurt you.”
The creature whimpered.
“Do you have a name?”
Heavy breathing.
“Reek.”
She held the torch higher to illuminate the old man. He was so thin, he looked like he would shake apart under his own trembling.
Dany turned to the door, where her armed guard and the unarmed Bolton guard stood watching her. “This one needs to be fed and cleaned as well.”
Black Louse nodded curtly and entered. The old man screeched as he was advanced upon. He struggled and pleaded to be left along as he was yanked—rather more harshly than Dany would have liked—to his feet. He was crying and shrieking and he would hurt himself if he carried on like this.
Dany drew near and placed her palm against his gaunt cheek. He stilled, probably more startled than anything.
“Shush now,” she whispered. “You are free. I will protect you.”