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Chapter Text

Missandei took a deep sip of lukewarm water from her flask, wishing it was cold but grateful to at least have something to drink. Even with a cotton veil shielding her from the worst of the midday sun, she was glad they would soon leave the close, sunbaked walls of the Khyzai Pass for the open hills and pastures of Lhazar. Beautiful as the sandstone mountains were, the heat was not to her liking. She did not regret her decision to ride along with the others, rather than flying ahead on Rhaegal, but she was more than ready to wash off the grime of the road, change into fresh clothes, and sleep on a soft mattress rather than bedding down on the hard ground.

“We will be in Hesh by nightfall, Missandei! I used to visit with my family when I was a girl, before our village was attacked. I remember the first time I ever saw it…I thought that the Great Shepherd himself must live there, so great were the walls to my young eyes. Of course, now I know that Hesh is quite small compared to Meereen or Volantis, but it is a lovely city, I think you will find it quite charming.”

Missandei smiled at Ornela, who had been riding beside her all day. They were lagging a bit behind the rest of their group, as Missandei’s horse had picked up a stone in its hoof the previous day and she did not want to lame the creature by pushing it too hard. She did not think she had ever seen her friend so relaxed or so happy, and her excitement only seemed to grow as they came closer and closer to her homeland.

Ornela was certainly not the only one in their party who was eager to see Lhazar. They travelled with all the other Lhazareen-born dosh khaleen, as well as Lhazareen freedmen from the Bay of Dragons who now served in their cities’ governments. They travelled as part of an embassy meant to formalize an alliance between Lhazar and the former slave cities. Although Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor were developing their own farming and fishing industries, they still could not produce enough food to support their growing populations, and so maintaining a good relationship with Lhazar, whose crops and herds were abundant, was of the utmost importance. In addition to providing the Lhazareen with a new market for their surpluses, the Bay of Dragons offered them better access to the broader world. 

Much of the conversation during their journey was in Lhazareen, and Missandei had enjoyed watching her khas competing over who could learn that language the fastest. Despite their efforts, their skills still lagged behind the khas of the dosh khaleen, who admittedly did have an unfair advantage of hearing Lhazareen spoken far more often than her own guards, but the rivalry was a playful one. Fonno and Lavakho were guarding her and Ornela today, and even now Lavakho was teasing Fonno over his inferior accent. Despite his disrespectful outburst towards Vorri on Dragonstone, Lavakho had become a dedicated and loyal member of their khas, and Missandei had even noticed him and Ornela exchanging lingering glances and soft smiles when they thought no one was looking. After all that she had endured, she did not know if her friend would ever want to marry again or take a lover, but she wished her nothing but happiness. Fonno had finally overcome his initial shyness around Missandei and jested with her like the rest of her khas, though she suspected he was still a little bit in love with her.

Despite the importance of their mission, their journey felt more like a pleasure expedition with such good company and beautiful scenery, and Missandei was glad that she had come along. Although she held no official position in the Bay of Dragons or elsewhere, she was curious to visit Lhazar, and no one had objected to her request to join their embassy. After all, even if she travelled as an ordinary woman and not the Dragonspeaker, it could not hurt to remind potential allies that the Bay of Dragons counted dragonriders among their friends.

Rhaegal had remained in Meereen with the rest of Missandei’s family, as she had not wanted to give any indication of violent intentions towards Lhazar. There was no slavery amongst Ornela’s people, and so they were no enemies of hers, yet she knew that the presence of a dragon, even when that dragon came in peace, could be terrifying.

She missed all of her family dearly, but Rhaella most of all. Having never spent time with small children, Missandei had not realized how quickly they grew and changed, and she was loath to miss any moment of her niece’s life. The babe was halfway to her first nameday, and already she had a bright, sunny personality, favoring everyone with gummy smiles and watching the world around her with fascination.

She loved nothing more than accompanying them on flights, giggling and cooing from her sling across her mother’s chest or Missandei’s whenever they took her flying, and on the rare occasions she was fussy, taking her to Viserion and letting her pat his face with her plump hands soothed her. And although Vorri had threatened that Rhaella would never learn to crawl or walk if she was always being held, the night before Missandei’s departure she had unexpectedly inched her way across a rug to join her playmate, Okho’s son Jorro, much to everyone’s delight.

Missandei’s days were still busy, as she served as an unofficial advisor to the new governments of freedmen across Essos, worked to improve access to education across the continent, and began planning their upcoming campaign against Qarth, but she had never been happier. She knew that her efforts were bearing fruit all across the world, with more people living in freedom, peace, and prosperity than ever before, and that made every moment of hard work satisfying. And there were so many moments of joy-seeing freed children learning to read and write, flying together as the dragons filled the air with their song, watching Grey Worm doze with Rhaella curled up peacefully on his chest.

A scream shattered Missandei’s peaceful musings.

The narrow, winding canyon meant that the rest of their party was out of sight, but the sound echoed all around them. It was a single, wordless cry, and a shiver of alarm crept down Missandei’s spine. Though she kept her face carefully composed, she sensed in her bones that something was wrong.

In the calmest voice she could muster, she called, “Fonno, ride ahead and see what’s happened.” With a nod, the young man obeyed, trotting his horse forward and out of sight around the next bend.

“Likely it’s nothing,” she told Ornela, trying to reassure herself as much as the other woman, but even to her own ears she sounded unconvincing. Although the Khyzai Pass was considered safe, the threat of brigands was always present for travelers…and they were no ordinary caravan of merchants. Nearly a third of the dosh khaleen, freedmen with great influence, and the Dragonspeaker herself-they were all valuable targets, and any of them would fetch a handsome ransom. Though they had not made this journey widely known, nor was it kept a strict secret, and Missandei knew that there were many who would pay well for her head.

Where moments before the atmosphere had been relaxed and convivial, now they were all on edge. Lavakho had drawn his arakh and was watching the pass ahead of them intently. Ornela’s hands trembled where they held the reins, her eyes darting about wildly. Although Missandei was maintaining her composure, inwardly she was fighting back panic. Without her armor, without her dragon, she felt naked, knowing that she was helpless against whatever was happening ahead.

“If we are under attack, you must get out of this pass,” Lavakho said in a low voice, reverting back into Dothraki. “Ride hard and fast through whatever is happening ahead. Don’t stop, for anyone or anything, until you reach Hesh.”

Missandei gave him a sharp look. “We cannot abandon the others, they may need our help.”

He shook his head curtly. “Dragonspeaker, we three could not make a difference, and I swore to Daenerys who is blood of my blood that I would keep you safe.” 

Missandei understood he spoke the truth, but the knowledge that she could not protect others, and in fact could not even protect herself, left a bitter taste in her mouth.

But before she could respond, there was another sound-a twang, followed by a dull thud. Her gaze dropped from Lavakho’s shocked face to the arrow that seemed to have sprouted from his body. It had pierced him all the way through, and he dropped his arakh with a clang to touch the arrowhead protruding from his chest.

He choked out go just as the second and third arrows struck him, sending him toppling from his saddle into the dust.

Cold fear gripped Missandei, and all she could do was stare in horrified disbelief, unable to comprehend what was happening. Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement-men armed with bows perched on the stone walls surrounding them. She wanted to heed his final words, but she felt frozen in place, transfixed by her fear.

Ornela’s scream finally broke her from her trance. She urged her horse forward and Ornela did the same, even as more arrows rained down around them. They rounded the next bend in the canyon, and for a moment she thought that perhaps they would be able to make their escape.

Then there was a terrible animal shriek of pain, and Missandei had only an instant to realize that Ornela’s horse had been shot before it careened sideways into her own mount, launching her from her saddle and sending her flying through the air.

She slammed into the ground, her head striking a rock and sending a crack of pain through her entire body. The impact knocked the wind from her entirely, and for a moment all she could do was lie there, sprawled on her back and staring up at the sky, trying desperately to breathe even as terror threatened to choke her. Lavakho was dead, Fonno gone along with the rest of her khas, and they were alone and unarmed. Had she survived so much just to die in this lonely corner of Essos?

“Missandei, come on, we need to run-” Suddenly Ornela was above her, grabbing her hands and hauling her onto her feet. She knew that Ornela was right, but the ground seemed to be pitching about wildly beneath her feet, like a ship sailing a storm-tossed sea. Running was entirely out of the question; it was all she could do to stay upright and stumble after her friend.

Yet even though Missandei was undoubtedly slowing her down, Ornela did not let go of her hand, towing her along as their attackers fired arrows down at them.

Despite the deadly accuracy displayed earlier, not a single arrow struck either woman, and even through her confused haze, Missandei realized that they were being driven further along the canyon. To what end, she did not know, but there was nothing else they could do but run.

They rounded another turn, only to see a man blocking their path. He was perfectly ordinary looking, tall and pale, save for the splashes of blood all over him, and did not seem at all surprised to see them.

Missandei and Ornela tried to retreat, but a flurry of arrows prevented them from going back the way they had come.

“Which of you is the Dragonspeaker?” The man demanded in heavily accented Dothraki, looking back and forth between them. Dressed in plain, dirty clothes and with their hair covered, Missandei and Ornela looked somewhat alike, at least enough to confuse the man.

Missandei tried to say that she was the one he was looking for. If she was the target of this attack, perhaps they would let the others live if she gave herself to them. But the breath had not yet returned to her, and all that came out was a wordless rasp. She could not make herself heard.

In contrast, Ornela’s voice rang out clear and strong as she pushed Missandei behind her with a sweep of her arm.

“I am she. I am the one you seek.” Ornela proclaimed boldly as she drew herself up to her full height, imperious and commanding. In that moment, all traces of her earlier fear had vanished-she was proud and brave, a khaleesi in all her glory.

Nothing changed in the man’s expression even as he pulled a dagger from his belt, and when he spoke it was utterly without emotion.

“I am so sorry,” he said, then he plunged the blade into Ornela’s chest.

As long as Missandei lived, she would never forget the sound her friend made as she crumpled backwards into her arms. Ornela did not scream or cry out, just let out a soft little oh as the life left her body. Missandei sank to the ground beneath Ornela’s weight, unable to do anything but hold her and watch in helpless horror as she died.

He wanted me, she thought, hysteria rising up inside her, He wanted me, he wanted the Dragonspeaker but Ornela took my place, she died for me.

The murderer, the assassin-the small part of her still capable of rational thought whispered the Sorrowful Man-took a step towards her, and she forced herself back up. There was nowhere to run, but she would die on her feet.

She wanted to rage at the man, to scream in his face, Kill me and my family will hunt you down, even if you flee to Asshai or north of the Wall they will not rest until they find you. And when they do, Grey Worm will cut you into little bits and Daenerys will feed them Rhaegal and make you watch, but the words did not come, so she used what little voice she had to snarl every Qartheen curse she knew at him.

But before he could come any closer, another arrow sang through the air and struck home-but this one came from behind the man, piercing his skull. Missandei did not know if she had ever been so relieved as when she saw Fonno galloping towards her, guiding his horse with his knees as he let loose arrow after arrow into the archers above them. Even from a distance she could see that he was injured, but somehow, miraculously, he still lived.

“Thank the Great Stallion you’re alive, Dragonspeaker, I feared I was too late." Fonno reined up beside her and dismounted, quickly taking stock of her injuries, but when he tried to lift her into the saddle, she resisted.

More than anything Missandei wanted to go with him, to ride away from this waking nightmare, but she could not leave Ornela here in the dust. That was what had happened to Ornela’s baby daughter so many years ago, abandoned behind the khalasar like she was nothing.

“Missandei, we have to go! There is nothing more we can do for her!” It was the first time he had ever used her name, and that along with the conviction in his voice made her acquiesce. She let him help her onto the horse before lightly vaulting into place behind her, and she only had a moment to take hold of the pommel before the horse sprang forward.

She knew full well that Fonno was right, that she could not repay Ornela’s sacrifice by letting herself be slaughtered, but something broke inside her as they rode away from her friend’s body. If they survived, Missandei vowed, she would come back for Ornela and Lavakho to ensure that they were not left for the carrion crows.

In minutes they had left the canyon, where another horrifying sight awaited them: the rest of their party, all dead, the bodies of freedmen and guards and dosh khaleen mingling with the corpses of their attackers. A fresh wave of fury washed over her, yet she never got the chance to ask Fonno what had happened.

As they trotted past a boulder, a man lunged out from behind it and stabbed Fonno’s horse in the chest. The poor creature collapsed and the assassin grabbed Missandei’s arm, trying to wrench her away, but Fonno slammed into him and knocked him to the ground. For a moment they struggled, grappling with each other until the other man was able to draw his sword and slash wildly at Fonno. Her last defender had no armor or shield to protect him, so all he could do was raise his bow in an attempt to block the blow. The blade cleaved through the wood and into Fonno’s chest, and he let out a grunt of pain. Yet even as his killer let out a whoop of triumph, Fonno managed to take hold of the dragonglass dagger hanging from his belt-something that many survivors of the Battle of Winterfell still carried-and cut the man’s throat.

He let out an agonized groan as Missandei gently rolled him onto his back, away from their final attacker. She didn’t know what to do-there was no assuring him that he would recover from what was clearly a fatal wound, and she would not lie to someone as valiant as Fonno.

His eyes, bright with unshed tears and the knowledge that he was dying, fixed on her face, and he choked out, “I failed you, Dragonspeaker. I do not deserve the honor, but please…burn me…let me ride in the Night Lands…”

She shook her head, desperate to reassure him. Her voice was hoarse but she was finally able to speak, “No, no, you saved me, Fonno. All the world will know that you fought bravely and honorably, and I swear to you that I will light your pyre myself. No khal could ask for more of his bloodrider, and Daenerys will be proud.”

Fonno gave a weak nod, then stretched out his arm and let out a terrible sound of pain. Realizing he was reaching for his broken bow, Missandei grabbed it, gently placing it in his outstretched hand, and he smiled faintly as his fingers curled around the bloodstained wood. He tried to tell her something, yet speech eluded him, so she took his other hand in hers, squeezing it gently to let him know that she understood.

Missandei had no bandages for his wounds, no poppy wine to ease the pain of his passing. All she could offer this man who had given his life for her was her presence, so that at least he would not be alone as he breathed his last. It felt insignificant but it was all she had to give.

By the time Fonno was gone, his blood had soaked her clothes and the sand beneath them, and when she collapsed beside him, she thought she could taste it on her lips.

Missandei would never know how long she lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her heart was racing in her chest and despite the heat of the sun on her face, she was cold down to her bones, making her tremble as though she had never left Winterfell. When she felt a burst of warmth in her chest, at first she thought she had died, until great gusts of air buffeted her face.

Rhaegal, she realized. He’s here.

She murmured his name, desperately glad not to be alone. His presence seemed to be chasing away the oppressive chill that hung over her, and he felt like the only real thing left in the world.

He rumbled and nudged her gently with his nose, but she was too weak to rise, too weak to do anything but groan. Her eyes fluttered shut once more, and he gave a trill, low and forlorn, then pushed her again, less gently this time.

Forcing her eyes open, she saw that he had flattened himself on the ground beside her, wing outstretched, and was trying to get her onto his back. He was making this as easy as possible, but she had to get up.

You can do this, Missandei told herself, You must return. Fonno and the others did not sacrifice themselves for you to die in the desert.

With great effort, she rolled onto her belly, gasping as the world spun around her.

You must do this, Missandei. You must. If you want to see Grey Worm again, if you want to see Daenerys again, you must.

Unbidden, a terrifying thought came to her: what if they had been attacked too? Rhaegal was alone, with no sign of Daenerys, even though surely she had felt Rhaegal’s distress at Missandei’s pain and fear through their bond. She was certain that only something terrible could keep Daenerys from coming to her as fast as Drogon’s wings could carry her. Images flashed through her mind-Grey Worm bleeding and dying in some Meereenese alleyway, Daenerys with her throat cut, Rhaella defenseless and alone in her cradle. She had to go to them, to ensure that they were safe and alive, and protect them if need be.

Tapping into some previously unknown well of strength, Missandei grabbed onto the spines protruding from his scales and hauled herself up into a sitting position. A wave of dizziness and nausea rushed over her, and for a moment she had to lean against him to rest.

Grey Worm, Daenerys, Rhaella. She repeated their names in her mind over and over again, picturing their faces as she slowly, laboriously dragged herself onto her dragon. All the assassins in the world would not keep Missandei from her family. Every time she faltered, Rhaegal would make a sound of encouragement, urging her on even as he held perfectly still to help her.

Lavakho, Fonno, Ornela. Her refrain grew to include their names and those of all her companions. All of her companions-her guards, the dosh khaleen and the freedmen-were murdered for the crime of riding with her, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing more.  

She had to live so that she could find those responsible for this massacre and repay them in fire and blood. Some of her attackers had been Sorrowful Men of Qarth, and though they were sometimes hired by outsiders, her gut told her that this plot was born and nurtured to fruition within the Queen of Cities. The Pureborn, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the Thirteen, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers-all of them were heavily involved in the slave trade, and the city’s economy was built on the backs of enslaved people. The masters of Qarth must have suspected that the dragons were coming for them next, and decided to strike first.

But they had miscalculated, because both dragonriders yet lived-Daenerys was alive and well too, Missandei told herself, she could not consider the alternative-and now had a personal motivation to see Qarth’s rulers cast down and utterly defeated.

The thought of Rhaegal channeling the heat of her fury to transform the desert sands around Qarth into glass, of reducing the Hall of a Thousand Thrones to nothing more than a pile of burnt rubble, and of dragonflame melting Qarth’s triple walls, gave Missandei the final burst of energy she needed to pull herself into place on Rhaegal’s back. Once she was settled, he took off, taking her away from that place of blood and death.

Chapter Text

Missandei drifted slowly from sleep into wakefulness, taking stock of how she felt. She was desperately thirsty, her belly ached from hunger, her head throbbed, and she was sore all over, but she was alive and in one piece, and for that she was grateful.

Where had Rhaegal taken her? It must have been somewhere safe, else she would not still be breathing. Slowly she opened her eyes, wincing at the bright light. It took her a moment to recognize the golden-brown material above her as sandsilk, and for a moment she wondered if Rhaegal had carried her all the way back to Vaes Dothrak. This was undoubtedly a Dothraki tent, but she did not hear any of the usual sounds of people and animals that were ubiquitous in the sacred city. 

Instead, she heard a familiar voice murmuring softly in Valyrian, and she turned her head as quickly as she dared.

Grey Worm sat on a cushion beside her with Rhaella in his lap, speaking quietly to her as she gnawed determinedly on her favorite toy, a coral teething pendant that Xanda had sent as a gift. Daenerys was curled up against him on his other side, her head resting on his shoulder as she dozed. Both were badly bruised, with one of Grey Worm’s eyes nearly swollen shut and Daenerys’s lip split, but otherwise they seemed well enough.

Her family was alive. The sight of them sent a wave of relief crashing over her, so great that for a moment it threatened to overwhelm her. Clearly they had suffered some sort of attack too and had not escaped unscathed, but they were alive and together, and for now, that was good enough.

Missandei tried to speak, but her throat was so dry all that came out was a sound somewhere between a rasp and a croak.

Yet even that was enough to get Grey Worm’s attention. His gaze snapped to her, and she only had a moment to register the utter relief in his eyes before he shifted the baby to her mother’s lap and gathered Missandei in his arms.

Grey Worm rocked back and forth on his knees as he held her close, his entire body shaking with sobs as he breathed her name over and over again, like a prayer. Even as he crushed her to his chest Missandei clung to him, as if that could ensure that they were never parted. She rejoiced in the desperate pounding of his heart against hers, a constant reminder that he still lived and breathed, that death had not stolen him from her.

“I thought I was going to die,” Missandei gasped out, her voice breaking, “or that if I lived I had lost you all, you and Daenerys and Rhaella, and then I would want to die, I cannot live without you, oh, Grey Worm-”

“No!” He pulled back so he could look her in the eye as he said fervently, “Remember what you told me in Winterfell. You promised I would never lose you, that nothing would part us, and that has not changed. That will not change.”

It was strange, because although she had nearly been murdered before, somehow this felt different. Before she had been vulnerable and powerless, unable to protect herself, much less others. But ever since becoming a dragonrider, she had learned what it was to feel safe and strong, had grown accustomed to that security. This attack was a terrible reminder that as long as any master drew breath, Missandei could never be truly safe. No freedman would be, until every last slaver was dead.

 Yet Grey Worm’s words comforted her, because in her heart she knew them to be true. Grey Worm and Daenerys, Rhaegal and Rhaella, Drogon and Viserion-they were hers, just as she was theirs, and Missandei would not let anyone or anything take them from her.  

She nodded and kissed him on the lips, careful not to graze any of his bruises. Though she had no words to express the depth of her feelings, she knew he understood.

Missandei reached out for Daenerys, pulling her and Rhaella into their embrace. Daenerys leaned in until their foreheads touched, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“Missandei, I swore to ride through the world at your side, to share a single life with you, to live and die as blood of your blood, and to that I hold,” Daenerys said solemnly. Not wanting to be left out, Rhaella babbled some nonsense baby talk, and despite everything, Missandei smiled.

And only then, with the three people she loved most in all the world safe in her arms, did Missandei feel like she was able to breathe again.

They remained locked together in comfortable silence for a long time, until Daenerys pulled back.

“I will send for Vorri and the other healers, they wanted to be informed when you woke up, but I will return soon,” she explained, getting to her feet and setting Rhaella on her hip. Though her voice was still thick with tears, she managed a small smile before she left.

Grey Worm carefully helped Missandei into a sitting position, arranging the cushions about her. She was still dizzy, but being upright already made her feel more like her usual self.

“Is there anything for me to eat?” Missandei asked hopefully, but Grey Worm shook his head.

“The healers said we should wait until they could examine you, but you can have as much to drink as you’d like.”

She nodded eagerly, and he filled a cup from a pitcher set near her pallet.

Grey Worm lifted the cup to her lips and she drank down its contents eagerly, the cool water soothing her dry throat. It took three more cups before Missandei’s thirst was finally quenched.

Now able to speak normally, she asked, “Where are we?”

He took her hands in his own, stroking them gently. “In the tent of the dosh khaleen on the terrace of the Great Pyramid in Meereen. You were barely conscious when Rhaegal brought you back yesterday, and when I tried to carry you inside, you fainted and your heartbeat grew weaker. The healers thought this would be best, so you could stay close to him without being out in the sun.”

Missandei had known Rhaegal was near since she woke up-his proximity elicited something unmistakable in her-but she wondered whether her fainting when they were separated was a mere coincidence or something more. There was so much to the bond between dragon and rider that they simply did not understand. She knew that she drew emotional succor from Rhaegal, so perhaps he could lend her physical strength too.

Grey Worm continued, “Rhaegal didn’t want you out of his sight, he was angry when he couldn’t follow you into the tent. Daenerys calmed him, but all three dragons are on edge. They won’t leave the terrace, and if she stays away from them for too long, they grow anxious and call for her.”

That didn’t surprise her either. Rhaegal and his brothers would have felt every bit of their terror and pain, rousing their protective instincts. That was what had happened at Winterfell, though at least now Missandei and Daenerys could share the responsibility of keeping the dragons calm.

Just then Daenerys returned with a fussy Rhaella, who reached for Missandei with her chubby hands, and Daenerys asked, “Do you feel strong enough to hold her?”

“Oh, yes,” Missandei replied, stretching out her arms for her niece. She knew that she could not fly at the moment, but cuddling Rhaella was the next best thing.

Missandei buried her face in Rhaella’s hair and took a deep breath. Her sweet baby scent and the warmth of her small body comforted Missandei, grounding her, until finally she felt ready for what would undoubtedly be a painful conversation.

“Tell me what happened here first, and when Vorri comes, I will share my tale.” Even the thought of having to speak of all those deaths, of Ornela and the dosh khaleen and so many others cut down in cold blood, made tears sting in her eyes, and so she wished to avoid doing it twice.

Neither Grey Worm or Daenerys spoke immediately. They were both clearly exhausted, with deep shadows under their eyes, and from the stiffness of their movements Missandei suspected that they had other injuries concealed beneath their clothing. What had happened to them?

Finally Daenerys broke the silence.

“Grey Worm and I were returning to the pyramid from a visit to one of the schools. I did not take a large guard, just Fearless Sun and Okho, I never thought…”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, and Missandei remembered something Daenerys had said long ago, that she had no enemies among her children. And though that was true, Missandei knew the masters hated them just as much as the freedmen loved them.

“We were set upon in the street. A man called me over to present me with a gift, and when I reached to accept it, he took hold of me and tried to stab me with his other hand as he said, ‘I am so sorry.’ It all happened so quickly…if my horse had not startled, he would have driven his knife into my breast, and I would not be here now. I was thrown and struck my head on a paving stone, knocking me senseless. Okho caught the man before he could make another attempt, and restrained him so he could be brought back to the pyramid for questioning. Rhaegal left before I woke up, so I could not follow on Drogon, but I knew once he reached you that you would be safe.”

Then Daenerys looked to Grey Worm. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw, and Missandei could tell he was struggling to control his emotions.

“Fearless Sun and I were attacked from behind. These killers call themselves Sorrowful Men, but I name them cowards, for only such men would use a poisoned blade. Fearless Sun took the knife meant for me, and he died there in the street. His killers did not survive him long, and I pray that whatever hell I sent them to is a painful one.”

Missandei felt another pang of grief that Fearless Sun, that promising young Unsullied who had guarded her so diligently during Grey Worm’s absence in Volantis, was gone too. He was a kind, bright man, eager to please and to experience all that life had to offer, and he deserved so much more than such a pointless death.

She knew that Grey Worm mourned any and all deaths among his men, but she saw how heavily this one weighed on him. It was so similar to Ser Barristan’s murder, which Grey Worm was still burdened with guilt over, and she took his hand in her own, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He was clearly done speaking for now, so Daenerys continued,“They were somehow able to slip into the pyramid and overpower the guards on our chambers. Larra had just put Rhaella and Jorro down for their nap, but thank the gods she heard the struggle and kept her wits about her. She grabbed them both and ran for the terrace, and by the time the assassins caught up to her out there, Viserion had come.”

A note of satisfaction crept into Daenerys’s voice, and Missandei thought she knew why.

“Let me guess. The Sorrowful Men were prepared to slaughter an unarmed woman and babies in their cradles, but not to face a dragon.”

Daenerys gave a bitter little laugh. “Indeed. Viserion made short work of them and stayed with Larra and the children until we returned.”

Missandei was grateful for Larra’s quick thinking, yet it still frightened her to think that without Viserion’s timely arrival, the assassins likely still would have succeeded. Her hatred for the Sorrowful Men and those who commanded them only intensified. How cruel and cowardly must one be, to send murderers across the world to kill a child who had not yet seen her first name day? Did they fear the dragons so much that even an infant in swaddling clothes was a threat, just because she might someday grow into a dragonrider?  

Daenerys anticipated Missandei’s next question, “Larra and Jorro were not harmed, though Larra is quite unsettled and wants to return to Vaes Dothrak as soon as possible. Understandably she no longer wanted to stay in the pyramid, so Okho set up their tent beside ours. She told me that the dragons make her feel safe.”

The irony in that was not lost on Missandei. High lords in Westeros and masters in Essos alike were terrified of their dragons, yet for a freedwoman like Larra, they represented protection, a safe haven for her and her child.

“As soon as you returned, we sent out riders to help bring the survivors and the dead back to Meereen, though it will be some time before they can reach Lhazar. Do you think any of the dosh khaleen will wish to stay in Lhazar?”

Missandei’s stomach lurched at Daenerys’s words as she realized that they thought that at least some of her party had survived. They had not even considered the possibility that Missandei was the only living witness to what had happened in the canyon.

Just then, Vorri entered the tent and Missandei felt her heart break anew at the other woman’s evident delight in seeing her alive and well. She could not lie to them, but how could she tell them the devastating truth?  

It would only grow more difficult the longer she waited, so she held up a hand to forestall Vorri’s examination and forced herself to recount what had happened.

Again and again her voice broke as she spoke of the attack, of Ornela’s sacrifice, of Fonno’s bravery, of all the lives lost because of the Qartheen desire to kill the Dragonspeaker, a freedwoman who dared to break the chains of others. Even as Grey Worm held her hand, she found she could not look at him or any of the others, knowing that seeing their grief would shatter what little composure she had left.

Finally she was finished, and through the haze of tears she made herself look at Vorri. “I am so sorry, kristasof.”

Missandei would never forget the look on Vorri’s face as the terrible reality set in. She let out a soul-wrenching, almost inhuman keen of pain, staggering back beneath the weight of her grief. Wailing, she rent her garments and raked at her face with her nails, tearing gashes in her flesh. Daenerys, who was also weeping, caught her hands in an effort to prevent her from harming herself, and the two women sank to the floor of the tent, holding each other as they mourned.

Rhaella, clearly disturbed by the noise, began to sniffle, and Missandei tried to soothe her even as tears ran down her own face.

The dosh khaleen were so much more than the widows of dead khals. They were the keeper of Dothraki wisdom and history, the beating heart of their people, and any attack on them was an attack against the very soul of the Dothraki. Their persons were sacrosanct, so the murder of any of them, let alone nearly a third of their number, was unprecedented. Beyond that, Missandei knew that to Vorri, the other women were her sisters and daughters. And to lose so many people you loved in such a brutal and unexpected way…it was unimaginable. They were no warriors, just an unarmed group of women finally returning to the land they had been stolen from. The thought broke her heart, to know that they were so close to Lhazar yet were murdered before they could see home again…

I am so sorry. Those four words reverberated in Missandei’s mind, the last thing any victim of a Sorrowful Man would ever hear. She had spoken them out of instinct in an attempt to comfort Vorri, but now she would never be able to separate them from Ornela’s final moments. The veneer of civility over their cruel irony, the idea that apologizing made stealing someone’s life for profit any less repulsive, left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her friend’s killer had died too quickly, too easily-Fonno’s arrow through his skull was a mercy he did not deserve.

There would be no such reprieve for those who had given his orders or any of the masters in Qarth. Missandei intended to make them all truly sorry before she was through with them.

She did not realize she had spoken those words aloud until she saw Daenerys nod.

“We will make them pay,” she swore, her voice barely louder than a whisper though her eyes blazed with fury, “we will make them pay with fire and blood.”

Missandei could not agree more. The same potent combination of pain and determination that had coursed through her veins when she destroyed the slavers terrorizing Naath filled her now, a need for vengeance and justice that could only be quenched by slaver blood.

She looked Vorri in the eye, grief and rage threatening to choke her as she said, “The Milk Men were fierce against old women on horseback. Let us see how they fare against women on dragons.”

Beyond the walls of the tent, all three dragons roared.

By the time they had recovered their dead and brought them back to Meereen to be properly burned, Missandei’s bruises had faded, though she was certain that the wounds to her heart would never fully heal.

It was a still, hot evening when the Dothraki gathered on the plain outside of Meereen to send those stolen from them to the Night Lands. The rays of the setting sun fell upon a grieving people, heartbroken and angry. The non-combatants would depart for Vaes Dothrak on the morrow, and would likely cross paths with the khalasar on its way to Meereen for the upcoming campaign against Qarth.

As she took her place before the pyres, Missandei wondered at how similar this felt to that fateful night outside of Winterfell, when so many of their people burned and Daenerys rose.

Of course, many things were different now. The air around her was warm and dry, and there was no crowd of hostile Westerosi to contend with. Daenerys stood at her side, not cold and stiff on a pyre, and three dragons flanked her instead of only two. But the dragons were in much the same mood as they had been at Winterfell: angry and uneasy, hissing and snapping without provocation at anyone who came too near. Just like Grey Worm, they were more protective of Missandei and Daenerys than ever before, and Missandei was already dreading how Viserion would rage when he and Rhaella were forced to part.

Daenerys had wanted to send him back to Vaes Dothrak to guard Rhaella, but Missandei convinced her that her daughter would be safer as just another child amongst the khalasar. Larra offered to take care of her, saying that she had enough milk for Jorro and Rhaella both. The children were near enough in age to pass as twins, and Rhaella’s pale coloring could be attributed to Larra’s Lysene heritage, if anyone looked too closely.

If the worst should happen, if she, Grey Worm, and Daenerys all fell in battle against Qarth, Rhaella would still have a family to raise her. No matter what, she would be safe, and she would be loved.

The thought made her heart ache. It was so unfair-all Missandei wanted was peace, to love her family and watch her niece grow up, to finally live the life that had been stolen from her by the slavers who took her from Naath. Yet until the Qartheen masters and the rest of their ilk were destroyed, the simple, quiet life she craved would be out of reach.

Instead of one great pyre as at Winterfell, each of their dead would burn separately. Missandei felt her heart ache as each body was laid in its place: all the dosh khaleen who had travelled with her to Lhazar, near a third of their total number, the brave men of her khas and that of the dosh khaleen. Though he had not been Dothraki, Fearless Sun would burn too, like his Unsullied brothers in Westeros. The Meereenese freedmen slaughtered in the pyramid had been laid to rest in crypts beneath the city with great honor in a ceremony a few days prior.

She knew each and every one of their names, and she repeated them in her mind, promising their shades justice and that they would never be forgotten.

Grey Worm was just behind her and Daenerys, and even without looking at him, she could feel the tension radiating from him. He had not wanted them to come at all, fearing another potential attack, but Missandei was not afraid. Even without her Valyrian steel armor clinging to her like a second skin and the presence of her guards, Grey Worm, and all three dragons, she did not think the Qartheen would strike again tonight.

Only Rhaella seemed unaffected by the grief and fear permeating the very air they breathed. She was dozing in the sling holding her against her mother’s chest, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. In some strange way Missandei envied her, longing for a time when she had been oblivious of the world.

Once all the bodies had been laid in place, Daenerys passed Rhaella to Grey Worm and stepped forward to address her people.

Though her heavily accented Dothraki was thick with grief, her voice was loud and commanding, ringing out into the night.

“The Milk Men of Qarth think they can hide behind the Red Waste and their great walls, even as they murder dosh khaleen. I will take my khalasar east, farther than any khal before me, to make them answer for their crimes against our people! We will break their walls beneath our hooves and burn them in their stone houses. Those who call themselves the Sorrowful Men will weep tears of blood as we cast them down, and the ones who gave the orders will beg for the mercy they showed our people before we are done with them. Are you with me?”

The khalasar answered her with a wordless roar of acclamation, waving their arakhs and bows in the air.

“I, Daenerys, will do this. This I vow before the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. I swear it on the life of my daughter, on the lives of my sons both living and dead, as the stars look down in witness.”

Despite the heat, Missandei shivered at the implication of Daenerys’s words: this was an ancient and solemn oath, invoking the most sacred elements of the Dothraki faith, and it could only be fulfilled through victory-or death.

But she was not afraid, even though her heart was racing.

“The Milk Men were fierce against old women and babes in the cradle,” Daenerys had to shout to make herself heard over the uproar, her version of Missandei’s earlier words inspiring even greater fury, “We will see how brave they are when they face warriors and women on dragons!”

If their enemies were anyone other than slavers who had tried to murder Missandei and her family, she might have felt sorry for them, for the terrible wrath that was about to be unleashed upon them.

But her heart held no pity for masters and those who would slaughter innocents. For them, she had only the dragon’s mercy.

As Daenerys spoke, each of the dragons had come forward to stand with their rider, adding their calls to the clamor. Missandei felt Rhaegal’s bellows reverberating in her bones, and she hoped that somehow the Qartheen could hear this. She wanted them to know their doom was coming.

“I promise you justice! I promise you vengeance!” Daenerys cried out as she took her place beside Drogon. “I promise you fire and blood!”

She looked at Missandei, her chest heaving with exertion, and as one they sang out, “Dracarys!”

The dragons filled the air with fire, engulfing the pyres instantly, but it was Rhaegal’s flame that set Fonno’s pyre ablaze, just as Missandei had sworn to him as he died in her arms.

Chapter Text

In Missandei’s experience, no two cities were the same when viewed from dragonback, and Qarth was no exception. It was surrounded on three sides by the desolate sands of the Red Waste, so vast that they seemed to extend forever. On the fourth side were the rich blue-green waters of the Jade Gates, where a massive fleet of galleys controlled by the Pureborn bobbed in close formation. That blockade prevented them from landing close to the city, but it had also cut off the trade that was Qarth’s lifeblood, bottling up the merchant ships of half a hundred cities in its great port. Missandei thought there were likely thousands of vessels trapped in the harbor, and the ships unlucky enough to be outside the harbor when the blockade began had been forced to sail away.

The sight made her smile, because each ship carried a king’s ransom in silk or spices or some other luxury, so the longer they sat in the harbor, the more money the merchant-princes of the city would lose. War was bad for business, and knowing that their presence was sapping away at all that ill-begotten wealth pleased Missandei greatly. Not as much as killing the masters would, but it was a good start.

Its natural defenses meant that Qarth was not an easy place to approach with an army, by land or sea, and she was not surprised that the city had never been taken before. Any attackers had to contend with the famous triple walls, built of red sandstone, grey granite, and black marble, each taller than the last. All the walls were lined with scorpions, of course, but Missandei and Rhaegal were flying so high above the city that even warships looked like nothing more than toys, and the few bolts loosed in their direction tumbled harmlessly to the ground.

From this vantage point, the bright buildings in every color imaginable stretched out below her were undeniably beautiful, but she knew that it was all built on untold human suffering. As in Volantis, enslaved people outnumbered the masters five to one, but as Qarth was more ancient and far more populous than any of the Free Cities, nearly a million souls lived in chains behind those splendid walls. A million people…it was such a massive sum, almost incomprehensible, and if she let herself linger on it overlong, she would be overwhelmed by grief and anger. Despite all that she had seen and experienced, Missandei had never been able to harden her heart to such things.

Her gaze sought out one particular palace, taller than the rest and with a gilded roof that shined so bright that it was almost painful to look at. The Hall of a Thousand Thrones was the seat of the Pureborn who had ruled Qarth since before dragons came forth from Old Valyria, and though they jostled with the various merchant princes for control of the city, it remained the beating heart of Qartheen politics and authority.

The Hall made a tempting target, and Missandei knew it would be so easy to give Rhaegal the command and drop down within the city walls just as they had in Tyrosh. Likely it would only take a single dragon to melt the gilt roof and burn the Pureborn where they sat; Daenerys had even told her that their thrones were made of wood, providing readymade kindling for their pyre...

But she only allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy for a moment. That building was filled with the Pureborn, but there would be slaves there too, and Missandei would never harm innocents. They had come to liberate Qarth, not conquer it, and so they would not plunge the entire city into fire and blood. Their plan was subtler and more complex than the obvious approach of simply burning it all down, but if it succeeded, the enslaved people of Qarth would be free and their attackers would be punished with minimal loss of life.

To that end, she turned her attention back to the ships in the harbor, taking in all that she needed to know before urging Rhaegal back to their camp.

They were encamped on an arid plain some distance from Qarth, though still near enough that it was visible on the horizon. Even high up on Rhaegal’s back, she could smell the potent combination of smells that she associated with the khalasar: a blend of manure and horses, the smoke of cooking fires mingled with the scent of leather warmed by the sun. More than ten thousand Dothraki warriors had come to Qarth to avenge their murdered dosh khaleen, and Missandei hoped that their odor reached Qartheen noses and offended their delicate sensibilities.

The Dothraki horses barely reacted even as Rhaegal flew low above their heads. After spending years in close proximity to the dragons, they were remarkably accustomed to them, although they usually sent horses-and men-into a panic with their presence. 

Soon they were above the center of the camp, where the other commanders were waiting for her. Rhaegal’s brothers called to him in greeting from where they stood near their mother. Missandei and Daenerys had decided it would be safest to keep them on the ground and away from the city except when absolutely necessary. They would not give Qarth the opportunity to use scorpions or any other weapons before the battle, and thus far the dragons had remained obedient, despite their obvious dislike of having their freedom curtailed.

Missandei worried most about Viserion, who hated being separated from his rider. When Rhaella departed with the khalasar traveling back to Vaes Dothrak, he tried to follow, and only through the combined efforts of Missandei, his mother, and his brother had they been able to keep him in Meereen. Even now, many weeks later, he still filled the air with mournful cries and had to be coaxed into eating. His plaintive calls reminded Missandei of nothing so much as the way Drogon and Rhaegal had grieved after he was murdered north of the Wall. She suspected that only a reunion with Rhaella would set him aright.

But, she reminded herself, this was only temporary and would be over…when?

Soon, she hoped. Soon they would all be together again. They would not besiege the city-even if the Dothraki agreed to such a strategy, they could not provision the khalasar for the months or even years it would take to starve Qarth out-and so would risk everything on a single pitched battle. It would be victory or death.

“What did you see, blood of my blood?” Daenerys asked as Missandei dismounted Rhaegal and joined them. The kos were there, of course, as was Grey Worm, even though there were only a few dozen Unsullied in their forces. They would not ride with the khalasar against the Qartheen forces, but they would still have an essential role to play in the battle to come. 

Vorri stood beside Daenerys, her face hard and still. Most of the dosh khaleen had returned to the safety of Vaes Dothrak, but Vorri and a few others refused, insisting that they would accompany the khalasar to Qarth. They were determined to see justice done for their slaughtered sisters, even at the risk of their own lives.

Despite Vorri’s outward composure, grief was etched deeply into her face, and Missandei thought that she had aged more since the attack than in all the years they had known each other. She spoke little and smiled less, and her booming laugh no longer rang out through the camp. Missandei hoped that vengeance would bring Vorri peace, and perhaps even make room in her life for joy once again.

“It is as you suspected. The Pureborn fleet controls the straits, but none of the guilds have contributed ships to the blockade. Though the harbor is overcrowded, foreign vessels have not docked at any of the wharfs belonging to the guilds, even where there are empty berths. I counted more men guarding each guild’s ships from their rivals than walking the city walls. The Pureborn and the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the Ancient Guild of Spicers…they made a show of uniting against us, but there is no more trust between them than before. It will not be difficult to foster division amongst them.”

Her words were met with nods of satisfaction and approval, and Missandei shared a knowing look with Daenerys. Their plan, conceived on the journey to Qarth, could finally be set in motion.

The sky had just begun to lighten when Missandei joined Daenerys on the deck of their flagship. Grey Worm was still asleep in their cabin, but Missandei had awoken early and was too restless to remain in bed with him. Though she knew she should rest while she could, instead she had gotten dressed and went to find her sister.

Daenerys greeted her with her usual warmth, despite the dark shadows under her eyes. She had not cried when she bid Rhaella farewell for what could be the final time and passed her into Larra’s arms, but as soon as they were alone, she collapsed in Missandei’s arms, her body wracked with great, heaving sobs. All Missandei could do was hold her, helpless to provide any real comfort, helpless to do anything but promise herself and any gods who were listening that she would see their family safely through this war.

After, Daenerys drank a bitter concoction and bound her breasts to dry up her milk, and if she shed any more tears, she did not weep where anyone else could see it. Some secrets were only meant to be shared between a rider and their dragon.

They stood for a while in comfortable silence, watching the sun creep above the horizon, until Daenerys spoke. 

“In Qarth, etiquette and protocol are esteemed above all else. The city’s leaders will wish to observe the proper courtesies by sending a delegation to meet with us and discuss terms, even with the blood of our people on their hands. They know full well that we do not make peace with slavers, so it will be a farce, but I believe we can make it a useful one.”

Missandei looked at her, intrigued. She had never been to Qarth, but she trusted Daenerys’s experiences from her own time there.

“The guilds and the Pureborn scheme and squabble with each other continuously, always grappling for wealth and control of the city. Despite their lofty manners they are not above sabotaging each other, or even other members of their guilds. They have no reason to keep faith with one another, even if they make a pretense of putting those differences aside in face of our invasion. It would not be difficult to sow seeds of doubt amongst them and…encourage their suspicions of their countrymen. If we can turn them against each other, then it will be that much easier for us to take the city with as little loss of life as possible.”

It had been much the same in Astapor, and Missandei found her reasoning to be sound. Razing a city to the ground was easy, but overthrowing its leaders without harming innocents was far more complex, and anything that discomfited their enemies would benefit them.

“They will never agree to a meeting where I am present. The Pureborn and merchant princes of Qarth would rather burn to embers in their palaces than stoop to negotiating with a freedwoman as though she were their equal.” Missandei was not angered by this fact, because she did not care what any slaver thought of her, but her presence could make the situation more difficult to manipulate.

Daenerys shot a meaningful look towards their dragons, soaring in lazy circles above the ships. “That can certainly be arranged.”

And despite the gravity of the situation, her open disdain towards the rulers of Qarth made Missandei smile. She would never tire of humbling masters, and she had an idea that would serve their purposes just as well.

“I think we should use that to our advantage. Whatever envoys they send to meet with us will undoubtedly bring a large entourage of slaves. While you treat with the masters, I can speak with them and ensure they understand that we are on their side. No matter the city, the masters’ control is never as strong as they would like to believe, and knowing that we are coming could inspire people to rise up and strike their own chains.”

Daenerys returned her smile. “You are quite right, dearest Missandei. We shall extend an invitation to the Pureborn, the Thirteen, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers…but not the Tourmaline Brotherhood. Though they have fewer ships and are less ancient than the other guilds, they are proud and possess a reputation for teachery, as well as ill-concealed ambitions to become the foremost merchants in Qarth. Let them feel scorned and let the others be suspicious of their true loyalties.”

The day after her flight over the city, Missandei watched as the Qartheen envoys made their way towards Daenerys’s tent but remained out of sight, as she had no desire to interact with any of them. After all, she had known far too many masters in her life, and fundamentally they were all the same-cruel, selfish, and utterly lacking in humanity.

Instead her attention was focused on those who accompanied them: slaves to guard them and lead their camels, to carry their sunshades, bear them upon their shoulders in ornate palanquins, and cool them with fans of peacock feathers. Most seemed to hail from the easterly part of Essos, with some having the distinctly shaped heads of the Jogos Nhai and others the bright eyes of Yi Ti, but she thought she glimpsed a few who might have hailed from as far west as the Summer Isles or the Great Grass Sea, and many were clearly of Qartheen descent themselves, pale and tall. The majority of them were men, young and strong, though there were a few greybeards amongst them as well as a smattering of women. Some looked tired and resigned, others utterly impassive, and anger sparked in the eyes of a few.

Yet they all shared one thing in common: thick metal collars about their necks, marking their status as property.

She waited until the masters were ensconced within the tent before she made her approach, accompanied by Grey Worm, Stalwart Shield, Hero, and the rest of the Unsullied. Even though she wore her Valyrian steel ringmail, Grey Worm insisted that they would stay close to her. Missandei did not think she was in any danger, not from these people, but she saw the wisdom in having Unsullied with her for this plan. They would provide protection, but perhaps more importantly, they were the most famous group of freedmen in the world and having them at her side would show that freedom was possible.

Grey Worm walked just a step behind her, ready to pull her behind him at any sign of trouble. Stalwart Shield and Hero each pulled a cart, one heavily laden with jugs of water, the other with cloth-wrapped packages containing bread, dried meat and fruit, and nuts. The food was not as fresh or abundant as Missandei would have liked, as they had had to transport it from Meereen, but it was likely better than whatever the masters provided them.

Qartheen was not her preferred language, she had practiced extensively on the journey from Meereen, and so she felt reasonably confident as she addressed the group, who regarded her curiously.

“I am Missandei Dragonspeaker. As a child I was stolen from my home on Naath and enslaved in Astapor for many years. The masters told me that I was nothing and no one, that I had no future, no family, and no hope. Now I stand before you, a free woman, beloved by my family and free to make my own choices, and the people who hurt me are all dead. There are no more masters in Astapor, and I burned the slaver fleet that terrorized Naath myself.”

Missandei paused, letting her words sink in. Though they all seemed to be listening intently, she could not say how they were reacting. How much did the average slave in Qarth know about her or Daenerys, about all they had done and what they still hoped to do?

“I have come to your city with Daenerys, the one they call the Breaker of Chains. Together, alongside the free Unsullied and freedmen from every nation under the sun, we have liberated the slaves of the Slaver’s Bay and the Free Cities. The masters may have told you that we are here to burn Qarth to the ground and slaughter you all, but as you well know, they are liars. We are not here to destroy the city. In fact, we share a common enemy-those who have enslaved you sought to murder me and mine for the crime of breaking chains. Our purpose is twofold: to strike your chains and those of every other slave in Qarth, so that you may rule yourselves and punish those who have harmed you, and to avenge our murdered people. Although we wish to achieve this without violence, if your masters refuse to surrender we will attack at first light tomorrow. But I swear to you, no slave will come to harm at our hands. Not the soldiers sent to fight us, not those of you who labor at the docks or in the manses, none of you. Your lives are as precious to us as our own, and our fire is for the masters alone.”

At her signal, Hero and Stalwart Shield pulled back the thick cloths covering the carts to reveal their contents. Missandei knew she could not convince them of their intentions-because no matter what she said, ultimately she was unknown to these people, who had more reason than most not to trust freely-but she hoped that this gesture would help prove her sincerity.

And beyond that, she would take any action that she could to ease the suffering of enslaved people. She knew that they would be free soon-because their plan would succeed, she would not consider otherwise-, but the hope of freedom did not parch a dry throat or fill an empty belly.

“Take as much as you wish, to eat now or to bring back to your families. I offer this freely to you, and all I ask is that you remember who your true enemy is when the sun rises tomorrow.”

At first they came to her slowly and hesitantly, just a few brave individuals approaching a strange woman making promises that must have seemed impossible. She handed these first comers parcels of food and water jugs, and seeing this, soon all the rest surrounded the carts, eagerly availing themselves of the provisions.

Most murmured a word of thanks or said nothing, but one grizzled man, standing straight and tall despite his many scars, accepted his portion with two whispered words.

Freedom. Dracarys.

Long ago, Xaro Xhoan Daxos had told Daenerys that the Pureborn and merchant princes would never listen to a Dothraki, so she had dressed in the fashions of their city during her audiences in the Hall of Ten Thousand Thrones and the various guild halls. It had not helped her cause then, and she was even less inclined to flatter Qartheen snobbery now. And so, although she still had several of those breast-baring gowns, she was not wearing one for this meeting. Dany chose to present herself as entirely and unmistakably Dothraki, clad in a painted vest and horsehair leggings. That morning Missandei had woven one bell into her braid for each of her victories, making her hair a cascade of silver and gold and bronze that tinkled softly whenever she moved.

About her waist she wore a belt of silver medallions, a gift from the dosh khaleen after Rhaella’s birth. They had commissioned it in secret and were so excited to surprise her with it…she remembered the delight in their faces, how happy they had all been. No one could have guessed that less than a year later, nearly a third of them would be dead and the survivors plunged into deep mourning. Dany knew the other women worried for her and Missandei whenever they went to war, but they had little concern for their own safety. In all the long history of the Dothraki, no woman of the dosh khaleen had ever died by violence, and their massacre in the Khyzai Pass had shaken her people to their very core. Like the loss of so many riders at Winterfell, these events had impacted her people in ways that would persist long after they were all gone. 

Although Dany was not as close to most of them as she was with Ornela, all the murdered women had been dear to her, and now they joined her other beloved dead in haunting her dreams.

All of the dosh khaleen had lost their blood kin, but together they had built something new, a family bound not by blood but by choice. And despite the strange position she occupied among the Dothraki, as khal, khaleesi, and dosh khaleen all at once, they had welcomed her with open arms, preparing her body for her funeral pyre and bringing her daughter safely into the world. With them Dany had learned what it was to feel a mother’s care, to be surrounded by warmth and wisdom and love, and she would never forget all they had taught her.

Torture and summary execution were illegal in Meereen, but it seemed the Sorrowful Man that Okho had managed to capture alive had apparently been unaware of that. He was so terrified of facing the dragons that he eagerly confessed all the details of the plot in exchange for the promise of a quick, clean death. He and his associates had been ordered by the leaders of their organization to kill Daenerys, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Rhaella by any means necessary. Once the deed was done, all the murderers involved would receive a truly absurd sum of money in addition to their normal pay as reward for ridding the slavers of their great enemy. Well, their great enemies…and an infant who was marked for death despite not having yet seen her first name day.

Apparently the killers had argued amongst themselves on the journey to Qarth about who would kill Rhaella, as they would receive a smaller bonus for an easier task. Long ago Khal Drogo had crowned Viserys in molten gold for threatening Rhaego, and Daenerys could not deny that part of her wished to give this Sorrowful Man the same fate. These were men who were reluctant to murder her daughter, not because she was a babe in arms, but because there was less profit to be made from her death.

And his words confirmed what Missandei had suspected-that Ornela and the other dosh khaleen, Fonno and Lavakho and Fearless Sun and all the rest were simply been collateral damage. The assassins knew they would not be compensated for any deaths other than those of their targets, but they did not care how many innocent lives they destroyed to achieve their goals.

Some called the Lhazareen Lamb Men, for they were not a warlike people, but Dany thought that Ornela had been braver than any Westerosi knight or hero from a song. She must have known what would happen to her, yet something-love for Missandei, belief in her campaign against slavery, perhaps both-had given her the strength to step between Missandei and her would-be killer, to boldly look death in the eye and proclaim that she was the one he sought. Ornela was not famous in the way that Missandei, Grey Worm, or Dany herself were, but the impact of her sacrifice was immeasurable. Hundreds of thousands of people would be freed thanks to her courage, though they would never know her name, much less the way her face lit up when she smiled or the sound of her laugh. Her kindness, her humor, her loyalty…all were gone forever, extinguished from the world by the cruel whims of masters.

The Dothraki believed that any child who died before they were old enough to ride did not enter the Night Lands and was instead reborn, but Ornela always remained steadfast in her certainty that she would see her daughter again someday. Daenerys hoped with every breath in her body that her friend had been right. She offered up a silent prayer that Ornela’s shade had been greeted in the Night Lands or the endless pastures of the Great Shepherd by her baby, the one she had never gotten a chance to name but still loved more than anything. The thought made her eyes sting with tears, but she blinked them back as she prepared to face those responsible for so much pain.

The Qartheen held great disdain for the Dothraki, thinking them little more than stinking horse-loving savages, so Dany was not at all surprised when the envoys struggled to conceal their scorn when they entered the massive sandsilk tent and found it full of Dothraki. Though Grey Worm and the other Unsullied were with Missandei, she was far from unguarded. Vorri and the other dosh khaleen were seated in a position of honor as Daenerys stood before them, and they were surrounded by Okho, Temmo, and other members of their khas.

The Qartheen were as she expected: bejeweled and heavily perfumed, their tall, pale bodies swathed in the finest silks and samite. One of the Thirteen was even wearing a cloak of tiger fur despite the heat. Dany wondered if she should call for her hrakkar in order to match. All of them made a great show of wincing and wrinkling their gem-studded noses at the Dothraki.

Their herald announced and named each member of the delegation, and Dany was not surprised that only the Thirteen and Spicers had sent representatives. Though the power of the Pureborn was not what it once was, they still considered negotiations with foreigners and the like to be beneath their dignity.

Daenerys knew how such meetings usually began in Qarth, with mutual declarations of praise and flattery and likely the shedding of a few strategic tears, but she lacked the patience for such performative niceties. She offered them no refreshments or seats, but instead said bluntly in Valyrian, “I see that the Pureborn have chosen not to avail themselves of this opportunity to discuss peace. Why?”

She did speak some Qartheen-though not nearly as much or as well as Missandei-but she would not offer them any concessions. They should consider themselves lucky that she was not addressing them in Dothraki. 

Shock rippled through the group at her rudeness-in Qarth, it was perfectly acceptable to murder an enemy, but ignoring etiquette was unthinkable.  

One of the Thirteen-the one wearing the tiger skin, who seemed to have some authority over the others-said unctuously, “Any supplicant who wishes to gain an audience in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones must first make a sacrifice in the Temple of Memory, offer a bribe to the Keeper of the Long List, then send a persimmon to the Opener of the Door. Only after they have been summoned by receiving the traditional blue silk slippers may they speak to the Pureborn. This is how civilized men have sought the attention of the Pureborn since time before time. As you have done none of these things, you cannot be presented to them.”

Though he said nothing that she did not already know, Dany let him speak. Her task was to sow discord amongst the masters, it was true, but primarily she was meant to distract them, to keep them occupied in her tent long enough that Missandei had the chance to convey her message to the slaves accompanying them. If the Qartheen wished to aid her by speaking at length on irrelevant topics, she certainly would not stop them.

Daenerys chose her words carefully, trying to make each and every one a pointed insult even as she feigned confusion. “Thank you for the explanation, my lord. But I must admit I am still uncertain as to why they have not joined you today. I am not a supplicant seeking an audience with the Pureborn, but rather, someone sitting on the threshold of their city with a large army and three very large dragons. Even though your city sent assassins against my family and committed an unspeakable crime against my people, I am still giving you the chance to surrender without bloodshed. To be sure, I am a woman and know little of such things, but I cannot understand why they would not be eager to accept such generous summons.”

Immediately she saw by their appalled expressions that she had succeeded. None of these men may have particularly liked or respected the Pureborn, but what she said offended Qartheen honor, and that was not something any of them were going to let pass.

“The Pureborn are not summoned by anyone, particularly not you, khaleesi.”

Daenerys marveled at how quickly his courteous mask slipped as his tone shifted from ingratiating and smooth to openly hostile. He spat out that final word with such contempt that her title almost sounded like an insult, but the only reaction he got from her was a bland smile.

“It is good to see you know who I am.”

“We know exactly who you are-an ignorant, unnatural savage who seeks to upend the proper order of the world. The Free Cities were too weak to destroy you, your rabble, and the beasts you command, but we will succeed where they failed.”

She smiled again, though this time with an edge. “Finally you are speaking plainly. Allow me to do the same. All of you will order each and every master to free all people held in bondage and distribute their wealth to those they enslaved, and do the same yourselves. The masters, yourselves included, will be tried by the freedmen to be judged and receive whatever punishment they see fit. Henceforth Qarth will be governed by an elected council of free people, and slavery will never again be practiced in your city. Those among you who sent Sorrowful Men against my people will surrender yourselves to the dosh khaleen to face their justice. These are our terms.”

Dany let her eyes roam over them, and though some met her gaze, most looked away. They saw the fire that burned within her, and they feared it, as well they should.

“You have the rest of today and tonight to make your decision. Refuse, and by the time the sun sets tomorrow, the people of Qarth will be free and you will all be dead. Accept, and some of you will live to face your trials. The Myrish masters did so, and a few yet live by the mercy of those they enslaved. In Lys, Tyrosh, and Volantis, the masters fought, and they died. The choice is yours.”

The man wearing the tiger skin retorted with a sneer, “The Queen of Cities has never been taken, not when dragons ruled the world nor when Dothraki destroyed the cities of our ancestors. You will break before our walls, just as your betters have before you.”

“Perhaps it comforts you to believe so, but you must know that is not true.”

She took hold of her braid and pulled it over her shoulder, letting them see its length. “You are learned men, are you not? You know what this means. Dothraki only cut their hair when they are defeated, and a bell is added for every victory. My hair has never been cut. Count my bells as they sing to you of the many battles I have won, of masters burned from Astapor to Tyrosh. When my khalasar rides, one can hear the ringing of their bells even over the thunder of their hooves. What chance do you have against us?”

Dany missed the beginning of the man’s response-likely more bravado and hollow posturing-as a flicker of motion at the tent’s entrance caught her eye. It was Hero, signaling to her that Missandei’s task was complete, so she could now end this mummer’s farce.

Trying to hide her relief, she turned her attention back to the merchant speaking and immediately regretted it.

“…Our men have orders to take you alive, so that you may watch as warlocks and shadowbinders butcher those monsters you call children and your people are slaughtered. The Unsullied are too valuable to kill, so they will be sold, and we will make a slave of you too. And where is that Naathi bitch Missandei? I wished to see her for myself, as we have not yet decided whether she will be sold or killed. If she is as beautiful as they say, we could make a handsome profit selling her to a pleasure house.”

He smirked at her, clearly delighting in his cruelty, and for the first time during the audience, real anger flared up in Daenerys. She had expected such foul words from the masters, and though she was unfazed by insults directed to her, threats towards her people or her family enraged her.

Yet she never got the chance to reply.

“Khaleesi, if it pleases you, let me take his lips and tongue. I would make a gift of them to the Dragonspeaker.” Despite his accent, Okho’s Valyrian was perfect, and he took care to enunciate each word as he stared the man down, blade in hand. He would not attack unless she gave permission, but he wanted to ensure that the Qartheen knew precisely what his intentions towards them were.

“It would please me greatly,” Dany agreed, “but not yet. After the battle, blood of my blood.”

To the Qartheen, she said, “The Dragonspeaker has more important things to attend to than suffering the presence of fools not worthy of speaking her name. You have our terms-now get out before I feed you to my children. Their hunger for slaver blood is quite insatiable.”

The man opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say more, but Okho took a step towards him, and the Qartheen hurried to get away, some stumbling over the hems of their elaborate garments in their haste.

“Surrender, or tomorrow your lines shall end.” Daenerys called out as they fled the tent. It was not a warning, but a promise. 

Chapter Text

It was the darkest, deepest part of the night—what the Westerosi called the hour of the wolf—yet Missandei was still awake. In the tent she shared with Grey Worm, she sat perched on their camp bed with her small writing desk balanced on her lap as she wrote by the light of a flickering lamp. She was alone, as Grey Worm and Daenerys were immersed in spiritual preparation for the battle with the Unsullied and Dothraki, with reading of auspices and omens, then prayers and rites to ensure victory. Missandei had been invited to join them, but as neither the Lady of Spears or the Great Stallion were her gods, she instead chose to pass that time finishing her last few letters. Though she hoped with all her heart that they would never have cause to be read, she did not want to pass from this life leaving anything unspoken to her loved ones.

She wrote the first letters in Meereen, a pair dispatched to Xanda and Yara to thank them for their friendship and loyalty. Missandei had considered whether to include an entreaty to protect Rhaella in the event that she, Grey Worm, and Daenerys fell in battle, but ultimately decided not to. There was no way to safely communicate to them in writing where Rhaella was hidden without risking interception, so instead she finished the letters by saying that she hoped her friends lived long, happy, prosperous lives, and that she wished nothing but love and joy for them. It was what they deserved.

Missandei was certain that if all three of them perished, anonymity would be Rhaella’s greatest protection. When Daenerys passed her into Larra’s care, she vanished into the vast khalasar, just one child of many in the caravan journeying across the Great Grass Sea to Vaes Dothrak. Larra would raise her alongside Jorro, as the two children were born only a few days apart, near enough to pass for twins. Larra was Lysene, so it was plausible that she would bear a silver-haired babe like Rhaella. More importantly, the freedwoman cared deeply for Daenerys’s daughter, and Missandei knew that no matter what happened in the battle, she would be raised with love.

She had written more letters, for Vorri and others she cared for, but she had put off those for Grey Worm and Daenerys until they reached Qarth. It would be too strange to pen words of farewell to them and continue to see them every day, but now that the battle was imminent, she had no more excuses to delay.

Yet once she set her mind to it, their letters came readily enough, though not without a few tears staining the pages. She wrote of her love for them, of her gratitude for the life they had built together, and though she hoped that these were all things they already knew, it did not hurt to repeat them.

Strangely, Rhaella’s letter was the most difficult to write, perhaps because it would be read by a person who did not yet exist and was therefore as a stranger to Missandei—Rhaella as an adult, a woman grown. What would she be like, when she was old enough for such a letter? Missandei had pondered over that for a long time, because if she fell in battle today, Rhaella would know her only through stories. In the end, Missandei decided to record for her niece her own memories, the things that gave her joy that Grey Worm and Daenerys might not think to tell her.

What poured forth from her quill was not a coherent narrative but snippets meant to paint a picture of their family:

…I have known your mother for many years, yet I have never seen her smile the way she does when she holds you…

…Sometimes when your mother’s other children fill the air with dragonsong, you babble in response, and I wonder if you somehow know already that they are your brothers. Already you are happiest when you are with Viserion, or if your mother or I take you flying…

…I think that your Uncle Grey Worm would carry you with him everywhere if he could. He loves going about with you strapped to his chest, showing you the world and explaining it all. Vorri has told him that you are too young to understand, but to me it seems like you are fascinated by everything, watching it all and listening to his every word…  

…When you are fussy, he can always soothe you, and though he tries to hide it, I know that it secretly pleases him to be your favorite…

…From the moment I first felt you stir beneath your mother’s heart you have given me so much happiness. If you ever have cause to read this letter, then I am long dead and likely no more than a name to you. But know this: I loved you fiercely.

After she finished, she read back through those precious memories of her family and smiled, hoping beyond hope that this would not be the end of their story.

Once the ink was dry, Missandei rolled up the parchment and placed it carefully with the others. She left the tent to find Daenerys or Grey Worm, but to her surprise, Grey Worm was standing not far away. He was looking towards the city, hands clasped behind his back in his customary stance, but at her approach he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close.

Following his gaze, she saw dozens of fires in the Qartheen harbor, and above them all, Drogon, a great black shadow against the night sky as he bathed the ships in flame.

“Daenerys went without me? Why?” Missandei was puzzled, because as far as she knew, she and Daenerys had planned to carry out this final diversion together. They would fly to the great harbor and set fire to the wharfs belonging to the Pureborn, the Thirteen, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers, forcing the masters to divert some of their attention and soldiers from the walls to put out the fires and salvage what they could of their goods before they drifted out to sea. By targeting the docks rather than the ships themselves, no slaves would be harmed, and with any luck, it would also sow further division between the Tourmaline Brotherhood and the other factions ruling the city, as their property alone would be spared. Certainly it was a task that could be completed by one dragon, but it would go faster with two, and Missandei was never one to pass up the opportunity to cause trouble for the masters.

“Daenerys told me that the Qartheen made many threats—towards the Dothraki, the Unsullied…and you.”

As he spoke, Grey Worm’s hold on her tightened, and Missandei stroked his back lightly, wishing she had the words to reassure him.

“But that is nothing new, my love. Every master in Essos would pay good coin for any of our heads, that has not stopped me from flying to war beside her before, nor will it tomorrow.” She tried to keep her tone light, but a shudder still ran through him.

“I know that, and Daenerys does too. I do not know what it was they said, but it troubled her greatly, whatever it was. She told me that she worried for your safety, so it would be best if she carried out this night attack alone.”

Missandei frowned. She understood that concern, but somehow Daenerys’s reaction seemed disproportionate to the hollow words of some frightened masters. Was there something more that made her fear so much for Missandei’s life? Like some of her ancestors, Daenerys sometimes dreamt of things to come, and she wondered…

But that conversation would have to wait for after that battle.

“If any harm comes to me, I trust that you and Daenerys will give the Qartheen cause to regret it.”

The excitement of the assembled khalasar was palpable as the sun crept above the horizon, illuminating the Qartheen force riding out to meet them. As Missandei and Daenerys walked through the crowd, cheers followed them, and Missandei tried to return every greeting and acclamation without showing any of the anxiety coiled in her belly. She was dressed in full armor: a breastplate over Visenya’s coat of Valyrian steel rings, gauntlets and greaves covering her limbs, and her Valyrian steel helm tucked under one arm. In short, she was protected as anyone about to go to war could be.

But much to Missandei’s frustration, Daenerys had chosen to dress in Dothraki fashion for this battle. Her armor and dragon helmet remained in her tent, and instead she wore only a light leather vest and horsehair trousers that would offer no protection against an arrow or blade. Aside from her silver medallion belt and the bells chiming in her hair with every step, there was no metal on her body.

That morning they had argued fiercely about Daenerys’s refusal to take what Missandei saw as sensible measures to ensure her own safety. Daenerys insisted that she would fight as a khaleesi this day, and as her riders eschewed armor, it would shame her to wear it. As Missandei, Grey Worm, and the Unsullied were not Dothraki, they were free from such restrictions, but she could not ask her men to take risks that she avoided herself. Though Missandei understood her stance, it did not sit well with her. Going to war with the two people she loved most in the world, knowing that there was a chance that one or both of them might not survive, was already excruciatingly difficult for her, and seeing Daenerys put herself in even greater danger only made things worse.

But despite their disagreement, they walked hand-in-hand to where their dragons waited, drawing comfort from each other as always.

In one way their appearances were alike: both bore thick grey streaks across their faces. Before departing from Meereen, the surviving dosh khaleen had collected ashes from the pyres of their murdered sisters. Some of the women, like Vorri, had kept their faces stained with ash ever since the murders in mourning, but today, the day that those deaths would finally be avenged, all would wear it. Though Missandei had never been khaleesi, they had honored her with a smudge of her own, and she was grateful to have Ornela with her in some small way.

Rhaegal did not chirp his usual greeting, and Missandei knew that like her, his attention was already focused on the battle to come. But when she pressed a kiss to his snout, he gave a little rumble of satisfaction, and she smiled.

Once both women had mounted their dragons, Daenerys addressed the khalasar, pitching her voice loudly so that all could hear.

“Yesterday the Milk Men boasted to me that their walls have never been breached, that our campaign is destined to fail, and even now they send their forces against us. Tell me, blood of my blood, did they speak true?”

Ten thousand voices rang out in furious denial, and Missandei glanced back towards Qarth, wondering if the masters of that city yet realized what they had brought upon themselves.

“I thought not. Everywhere in Essos, the masters learned to run and hide at Viserion’s roar, from the shadow of Rhaegal’s wings, at Drogon’s flame, but it seems that these Qartheen have missed the lesson. Shall we teach them what it means when they hear the thunder of our hooves?”

The response was just as unanimous, but this time, the riders were shouting out their agreement, and though Missandei did not join in the call, she agreed wholeheartedly.

With a sharp smile, Daenerys gestured towards Qarth, eliciting hisses and taunts from the crowds.

“Those fools believe that their city of cowards cannot be taken, and to that I say…they have never faced you, the greatest khalasar to ever ride! You, who trampled the risen dead beneath your hooves, are not frightened by men with milk in their veins. I promised you vengeance and justice, now let us take it, with fire and blood!”

As soon as the final word left her mouth, the khalasar burst forward, and among the thundering of hooves and the blast of war horns, all three dragons took flight. Viserion only flew beside his brothers for a moment before peeling off towards the harbor, where he would harry the Pureborn fleet and prevent any slavers from escaping by sea, but Rhaegal and Drogon flew with the army.

Their foes grew larger on the horizon, and for once Missandei felt herself fighting to maintain control, her pain and anger spilling through their bond into Rhaegal even as his own fury poured back into her. All he wanted, all she wanted—because in that moment she felt there was no difference between them, no him or her, only them—to do was to burn and kill, to lay waste to everything before them. She wrestled down that urge and turned her attention to the approaching enemy.

The famous Qartheen camel corps was assembled before them, thousands of highborn men with copper armor flashing brightly in the sun. Among the mounted warriors were men on foot, bound to the camelry’s ornate saddles by chains connected to the collars on their necks.

Though this was not an unexpected sight, it still sent a fresh wave of rage through Missandei. Their enemies were not foolish—they knew that horses despised the scent of camels and would likely refuse to charge them. Even if the khalasar forced a charge, many of the enslaved men would be trampled beneath their hooves or killed in the chaos when the two armies collided. And as they had expected, the Qartheen had taken inspiration from the Tyroshi archon, who had used slaves as human shields against the dragons. But instead of threatening to hang slaves from the city walls, they had taken that diabolical evil a step further and brought them onto the battlefield to ensure that the women would not rain down fire upon them.

Yet despite its cruelty and cunning, this tactic from the Qartheen was predictable, and so, they had prepared a plan to counter it. 

With a burst of speed Drogon and Rhaegal surged ahead, leaving the riders behind as they bore down on the Qartheen army. Missandei chanced a glance behind her, just long enough to confirm that the mounted Unsullied were following behind the khalasar, as they were meant to.

As soon as they were within range, the Qartheen let loose a volley of arrows. Instinctively Missandei leaned forward, letting Rhaegal’s thick scales and her armor shield her, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Drogon pull up slightly so the arrows bounced harmlessly off his belly.

Before the Qartheen could get off another volley, the dragons were upon them.

Snarling and snapping, Rhaegal and Drogon dove low, so close to the ground that Missandei could smell the strange musty odor of the camels. Though they breathed no flame, the force beneath them erupted into chaos as the camels panicked at the dragons and their terrible strangeness. The sight and sound of the dragons, even their smell—it was enough to drive the camels to madness.

Any attempt at shooting Missandei or Daenerys abandoned, the noblemen were now struggling to keep their seats. As Missandei circled above, she saw some thrown by their mounts, others dragged from their saddles by their enslaved captives, but as soon as they hit the ground, the result was the same. Everywhere she looked beneath her, the masters were being stabbed and trampled and torn apart, as they deserved. Those who remained mounted were clearly trying to regroup so they could fight their way free, but they never got the chance.

The khalasar—ten thousand strong, every one of them screaming for Qartheen blood—had caught up.

Instead of crashing into the camelry and riding over them, the riders parted and galloped around them like fast-moving water flowing past a stone. The Qartheen were encircled and cut off from any possibility of retreating into the city before they knew what was happening. The Dothraki peppered them with arrows, their aim so precise that only nobles toppled from their saddles, with no bolts striking slaves.

But Missandei had no time to appreciate their lethal accuracy. She called out a command and urged Rhaegal forward to the city gates, knowing without looking that her khas was following close behind.

The outermost wall was made of dull red sandstone that contrasted sharply with its bright copper-banded gate, an inviting target that shone prettily in the early morning sun. Its defenders were scurrying to their posts, taking up positions with bows drawn or loading the scorpions, shouting all the while. There were slaves there too, chained to the scorpions to protect the soldiers from dragonfire, and she felt another surge of hate in her heart at the sight.

As the Qartheen fired their first volley, Missandei felt a strange sick thrill that this battle, which she had been anticipating for so long, was finally here. Her vengeance was at hand.

She urged Rhaegal down until he was flying just above the ground, far lower than usual, and the arrows soared over her head as they came to the gate.

Around her she heard cries of dismay from the defenders as they realized that their precious scorpions, the only weapon that could hope to bring down a dragon, were not built to fire down at their target, and were therefore as useful as a bale of hay in the Great Grass Sea.

For the first time that day—but what would certainly not be the last—she called out, “Dracarys!”

The wooden gate was consumed in an instant by Rhaegal’s flame, the melted copper running in bright orange rivulets through the sand, and easily they entered the outermost ring of Qarth through the newly made gap. Though the second wall and its iron-banded gate were close at hand, Missandei did not advance on it just yet. Instead, she and Rhaegal circled between the first and second walls as she waited for her khas to catch up. The Qartheen defenders on the walls and ground below her were panicking, as they clearly had not expected her to get past their defenses so easily, and only a few kept their heads about them enough to try to attack. But the scorpions on the outer wall could not be turned around to fire inwards, and Rhaegal was still too close to the ground for the scorpions on the middle wall to be used effectively. Most of the soldiers ran towards the second gate, hoping to find safety. But the defenders on the second wall did not let them through.

Her khas galloped through the ruins of the first gate, shouting as they rode down the fleeing Qartheen or shot them with arrows, and Missandei smiled as she and Rhaegal bore down on the second gate.

The second wall was built of grey granite and taller than the first, but her strategy was the same, and watching the gate burn and melt at her command made Missandei smile.

But as soon as she laid eyes on the third and final gate, the word dracarys froze in her throat. For a moment all she could do was stare down in horror at the people bound to the third and final gate, screaming and calling out despite the heavy collars about their necks. They were plainly terrified that she would burn them anyway, that she would weigh their lives against those of everyone in the city and find them to matter less than taking the city.

No doubt that was what the masters would do—they certainly had no qualms about killing innocents—but for Missandei, it was never an option.

Missandei’s mind raced as their careful battle strategy fell to pieces in an instant, and for a moment she felt as though the golden eyes studding the gate were looking at her with scorn, mocking her. Grey Worm and his Unsullied could not enter the city and capture its rulers until the trapped slaves were free and she could destroy the gate, but the constant torrent of arrows from Qartheen archers kept her khas from reaching them. Nor could she unleash Rhaegal’s flame against the defenders on the wall because they had hostages too, slaves of every age chained to the scorpions and scattered amongst them to deter a direct attack.

She knew that she had to make a decision and make it quickly, because with every moment she hesitated, more lives were lost. On the ground, her khas were still fighting fiercely, but they were easy targets between the second and third walls, and taking heavy losses. They would never retreat unless commanded to, and she was entirely certain that they would fight to the last man.

Yet Missandei was just as certain that she could not let that happen. As loath as she was to fall back and allow the masters any victory, no matter how small, she could not let her riders squander their lives while she came up with a new plan. They would have to regroup with Daenerys, Grey Worm, and the rest of the khalasar to decide what to do next.

But she never got the chance to give the order to pull back. Rhaegal sensed it first—a terrible wave of cold completely at odds with the unrelenting Essosi sunshine. Where moments before she had been sweating beneath her armor, suddenly her entire body felt clammy and shivers wracked her. Missandei knew this feeling, had experienced it once before in the crypts beneath Winterfell. But how was that possible? They were a world away from Westeros, the Long Night was over and the Night King defeated.

It should not have been, yet somehow it was.

Then she saw them: shadowy hands reaching up from the walls to catch them, grasping and greedy and wrong, and a cloud of darkness that swallowed them both in an instant. 

Rhaegal cried out in alarm and tried to fly away, but it was too late. The shadows had them, and the words in her throat died as the cold overcame her.

Daenerys felt Rhaegal’s fear an instant before she heard his panicked cries over the clamor of battle, and it made her blood run cold. All thoughts of the battle beneath her fell away as she looked for her terrified child.

It took her a moment to comprehend what she was seeing. Rhaegal was in the air above the innermost wall of Qarth, fighting to stay aloft as thick black tendrils wound their way about his neck and body, trying to pull him down. They were shadows yet also not—now solid, now insubstantial, but inexorable as they engulfed Rhaegal and Missandei in a dark haze that obscured her vision of them. With a shudder, Dany remembered the shadows that Mirri Maz Durr had danced with so long ago. They were the same ones she had seen in her dream just two nights past, consuming Missandei and Rhaegal, and she knew that the threat of shadowbinders had not been an empty one.

In the darkness whirling around her sister and her son, Dany glimpsed shadowy hands reaching for Missandei, and she realized that they were trying to tear her from Rhaegal’s back. Fear rose up in her throat, choking her as memories flashed through her mind—Rhaego struggling in her womb against the foul sorcery that stole his life, Viserion bleeding and screaming until the ice claimed him, Rhaegal pierced by scorpion bolts and falling from the sky, Missandei in chains, her head toppling from her shoulders, Jon’s kiss and then a knife in her breast.

Westeros killed my sons and my sister, the witch and Jon murdered my babies inside me, I cannot lose them again-

She urged Drogon forward with fire on her lips and terror in her heart.

Grey Worm was as familiar with the dragons and their calls as with the voices of his own men, so he recognized the fear and pain in Rhaegal’s roar immediately. Amidst the chaos of the battle, it took him a moment to find them, but when he did, his heart seemed to freeze in his chest at the sight: Missandei clinging to Rhaegal’s back even as living shadows tried to separate them, to bring the dragon and his rider down.

The instant that he saw Missandei in peril, all of Grey Worm’s training, that legendary Unsullied discipline beaten into him through years of torture, fell away. All he could think of was reaching her, protecting her, saving her, and nothing else mattered. Forgetting the battle plan, forgetting his men, he urged his horse forward, galloping through the outer gate.

Above him Drogon roared as he flew over the walls, yet to Grey Worm’s surprise, no flame rained down on the shadowbinders. What was staying Daenerys’s fire?

As soon as he passed through the second gate, he understood. There were slaves everywhere—bound to the gate, to the ramparts, and all around the defenders on the wall. It was well-known that the women never burned slaves, and so the Qartheen had used that against them, to draw Missandei into a trap and prevent Daenerys from freeing her.

The only way to save Missandei was to kill the sorcerers, and to do that without harming the slaves, he would need to fight them hand-to-hand. But how to get to the top of the wall? It was not so high only fifty or so feet, but climbing it would take too long, even without the constant shower of arrows from the Qartheen. What he needed was a way onto the wall from above…and suddenly, he knew what he needed to do.

“Daenerys!” Grey Worm shouted as loud as he could as he waved his arms, trying to get her attention. Somehow, miraculously, she heard him and understood what he wanted her to do, turning Drogon around and bringing him down. Grey Worm leapt off his horse and ran towards them.

The riders around him scattered as Drogon descended in their midst, and even as he landed with a crash, Grey Worm was scrambling up his side. Daenerys caught hold of his arm and pulled him into place behind her, and within half a heartbeat, they were in the air again.

“If you get me close enough to the wall, I will kill them,” he said, and Daenerys nodded. She was trembling in his arms, likely from the same potent mixture of terror and fury that was coursing through him at Missandei’s plight. Part of him wanted to offer some words of comfort, but he knew that there would be no peace for either of them until Missandei was safe.

As they neared the wall, Grey Worm forced himself to look away from Missandei in order to take stock of the men he needed to kill. A dozen or so soldiers were guarding the shadowbinders, who stood together on a raised platform and were chanting in some strange tongue as they worked to rip Missandei from her dragon’s back. The magicians were further protected by the presence of around twenty slaves, bound to the platform to prevent an attack from the air. This ambush had been well-planned, Grey Worm conceded reluctantly, but he was determined that it would not succeed.

As Daenerys brought them close, Grey Worm permitted himself a final look at Missandei. Above them Rhaegal was still fighting hard against the shadows, twisting in the air as he resisted their strength, and through it all Missandei clung to him, refusing to be parted from her dragon.

Hang on, my love, we are coming for you.

Grey Worm let go of Daenerys’s waist and stood up, taking a moment to find his balance on the dragon’s wide, swaying back.

Taking a deep breath, he leapt from Drogon down onto the rampart, the momentum carrying him into a somersault as he landed on the sun-warmed black granite wall.

The first man was upon him in an instant, and Grey Worm plunged his sword into his belly as he rose to his feet. Before he could pull his weapon free, another Qartheen ran towards him with an angry shout, and instinctively Grey Worm charged him, catching him unawares and throwing him over the rampart.

Retrieving his sword, he advanced on the next soldier, who met him with steel raised. As they fought, another soldier began to shoot arrow after arrow at Grey Worm, forcing him to dodge arrows. It should have been an easy kill, but the bowman’s relentless arrows drove him back.

Abruptly the archer stopped and screamed a single word. Grey Worm spoke no Qartheen, but as a great shadow fell over them, he realized it could only mean dragon.

Drogon caught the soldier in his great jaws, tearing him in half with no more effort than it took for a man to bite into an apple.

The man fighting Grey Worm had turned to look and now seemed frozen by fear, his sword loose in his hand as he gaped at the bloody ruin of his companion. Taking advantage of his distraction, Grey Worm grabbed hold of him and cut his throat in one smooth motion.

Four down, eight more to go, he told himself grimly as he faced the next wave of soldiers.

The narrow rampart forced them to attack him one by one, and he cut them down with brutal efficiency. If he had failed as an Unsullied earlier when he abandoned his men and their mission, he redeemed himself now. He had never fought so furiously or desperately before, not even in the war against the dead, because nothing and no one mattered more to him than Missandei. He refused to live in a world without her, and he would drown Qarth in blood before he let them harm her.

There were only a few soldiers left when the combined scream of woman and dragon rent the air, but it was not Missandei and Rhaegal. Grey Worm looked up to see Daenerys clutching at the arrow piercing her shoulder––a lucky shot from someone farther down the wall. Cheers went up from the Qartheen, who clearly hoped that the injury would make her retreat. Yet even as she bled, Daenerys did not relent, urging Drogon forward to snatch up two more soldiers. Grey Worm heard the satisfying crunch of bone as they were crushed by Drogon’s claws, and he thought they were likely dead before they hit the ground.     

He needed to end this, now. Who knew how long Missandei could hold on, how long Rhaegal could resist the shadows? And Daenerys would never pull back until Missandei was safe, even at the cost of her own life.

Only a single soldier stood between Grey Worm and the shadowbinders, and he dropped his sword as he turned to flee. But Grey Worm was faster, and he lunged forward, taking the man’s head from his shoulders with a single powerful sweep of his blade. There would be no mercy for the masters or those who chose to fight for them.

Finally, the way to the shadowbinders was clear, and without hesitation he picked up a discarded Qartheen spear and threw it at the nearest sorcerer, striking the man in the chest and sending him toppling from the platform. As he ran closer, he realized that the trapped slaves were shouting at his approach, and though he could not understand their words, he saw in their faces that they were cheering for him, urging him onwards.

He jumped onto the platform and buried his sword into a shadowbinder’s chest, twisting it and letting himself savor the man’s screams of pain. He ripped his blade free, noting with satisfaction that even warlocks bled. Another shadowbinder tried to run, but Viserion swooped down to pluck the man from the rampart and fling him through the air, and the final warlock died pleading for his life beneath Grey Worm’s blade.

A combination of relief and exhaustion overcame him, and Grey Worm dropped to his knees as he watched the shadows disappear. Rhaegal shot into the air, the sound of his wings like a thunderclap, and a wave of heat washed over Grey Worm as Missandei sang out dracarys and her dragon threw back his head to fill the air with flame, venting their fury.

Viserion and Drogon were close behind him, and for a moment all three dragons flew around each other in a mesmerizing dance, a blur of cream and green and black until they seemed as one. They were the three heads of the dragon, and nothing could stand against them.

The distant sounds of shouting and the clang of metal on metal told Missandei that the masters were not yet entirely subdued, yet for now, her and Daenerys’s parts to play in the battle were done. Though they were within Qarth’s innermost wall, she was not concerned at all about their safety. Rhaegal was curled protectively around them, and Drogon and Viserion flew in lazy circles just overhead.

When Daenerys was shot in Westeros, she had torn out the arrow herself, but that had not been as deep a wound. The barbed Qartheen arrow would be far more difficult to extract, Vorri said, and so she had called upon the most skilled battlefield healers among the khalasar and Unsullied to assist her in the task. Though Missandei had no skill in healing, she would not be parted from Daenerys and so she held her hand through the entire gruesome process.

Daenerys had not made a sound, not when they cut the arrow free of her shoulder or trimmed away the damaged flesh, nor when they cleaned the wound with a sharp-smelling ointment to ward off infection or stitched it closed. Missandei had only relinquished her hold on Daenerys long enough for Drogon to breathe flame over her. Her wounds could not be cauterized, but fire had helped heal her before, and they were hopeful it would continue to aid her healing.

Now Daenerys rested on a makeshift pallet, having refused to consume any milk of the poppy to dull her pain until the day’s fighting was done. Missandei sat beside her, still holding her hand as they spoke quietly of inconsequential things.  

Daenerys’s grip on Missandei’s hand was tight, but Missandei welcomed it. Her friend’s warmth, the familiarity of their entwined fingers, and the heat radiating from Rhaegal were immensely comforting for Missandei after her encounter with the shadowbinders. Though she was physically unharmed, the attack had shaken her to her very core, and she did not doubt that if Grey Worm and Daenerys had not killed the sorcerers, she and Rhaegal would have died. Their foul magic was suffocating, stealing the air from their lungs and the fire from their blood. Though only a few minutes had passed trapped in crushing darkness that was too cold for even the memory of warmth, it had felt endless, and she knew it would linger with her forever. She longed to mount Rhaegal again and fly for hours, for days, drinking in the sun until she felt like herself again.

It frightened her, too, to know how close she had come to losing Daenerys. Sheer luck had prevented the arrow from piercing her throat or her heart, and Missandei made a silent promise to herself that she would not let her friend go to war unarmored ever again.

Rhaegal rumbled and lifted his head, revealing Grey Worm approaching them on foot. Though his face was dirty and splattered with blood, he appeared unharmed, sending a wave of relief through her. By the time she had dismounted Rhaegal, he and the other Unsullied had already entered the city proper to capture the leaders, so they had not had a chance to properly reunite after the battle.

He greeted both women with a kiss—Missandei’s on her lips, Daenerys’s on her cheek—then updated them on the battle’s progress.

“All three guilds have surrendered, and the Sorrowful Men too. A few of the Tourmaline Brotherhood tried to flee by ship, but their galley slaves rose up and captured them instead. My men are bringing all of them here to face judgement.”

Though this was undoubtedly good news, Missandei knew it could not be everything Grey Worm needed to tell them. His was not the demeanor of a man reporting a complete victory.

Missandei passed him a waterskin, and he took a long, grateful drink before continuing, “We cannot get a clear answer from any of the slavers about who sent the assassins. They accuse the other guilds, members of their own guilds, or say that the Sorrowful Men acted of their own volition. Thus far they have not been harmed…but I am willing to question them sharply, if that is your wish.”

From her pallet, Daenerys shook her head, her voice weak but her words clear. “No. Any information they give under torture will not be reliable, and I will not cheat those they have enslaved of their opportunity for vengeance.”

“She is right, Grey Worm. You remember how it was in Astapor—people will say anything when put to the knife.” Missandei interjected, “Let us not waste any more time on the masters. Rather, ask the slaves who served the different guild leaders and labored in their halls. Masters speak openly in front of their slaves, they do not think slaves have the wit to understand their conversations or remember what it is we hear, but I have no doubt that they know the truth.”

“As you say.”

Missandei could tell that Grey Worm was not entirely pleased with their decision and likely wished to spill more slaver blood—an urge that Missandei understood entirely—but torture would not bring them closer to their goals.

He continued, “The Pureborn have barricaded themselves inside the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. They sent word that they have taken hundreds of slaves with them and will cut their throats if we make any attempt to breach the building.”

More hostages, Missandei thought, her blood running cold. More people threatened with violence. When would it end?

Even as she asked herself that, she knew the answer: when the slavers were all dead. Only then could it finally be over.

Daenerys asked, “Do you think this is a bluff or that they speak true?”

The Pureborn must have known that the Hall could not withstand any kind of siege. It was not built to be defensible, and likely held no provisions—especially not the delicacies that the Pureborn were accustomed to—so this could only be a temporary reprieve for them. To Missandei it seemed like a desperate act, the foolish last resort of people who found themselves backed into a corner…but that did not make it any less dangerous for the enslaved people trapped inside.

Grey Worm hesitated. “I cannot be certain, but…I have spoken with those who say they saw others being taken by their masters into the hall, and they would have no reason to lie.”

High above them Drogon roared as Daenerys tried to sit up, but Missandei carefully pushed her back down.

“No, Daenerys. You fought bravely and honored our people today, but you are too weak to fly,” she told her, her tone gentle yet firm, “Save your strength, blood of my blood. I will chase these vile creatures from their den and bring them here to face justice.”

To forestall the argument that she knew was coming—because even grievously injured, Daenerys was not the kind of woman who could sit back and let others risk their lives in battle—she asked, “Only Pureborn are permitted beneath the dome inside the main hall, correct?”

Though she had resisted the temptation to destroy the Hall during her scouting mission above Qarth, the thought had taken root in her mind, and even now it was growing into a plan.

“Yes, Xaro told me that slaves enter to clean the hall but never when the Pureborn are present. When they are enthroned, only an invited guest may enter the hall.”

“Perfect.” Grey Worm and Daenerys exchanged confused looks at her response, but Missandei did not want to take the time to explain. “Grey Worm, you’ll stay with her?”

He nodded, and she slipped her helmet back into place as she bade them farewell, not allowing herself to linger. If she hesitated at all, she knew that she would not be able to bring herself to leave them again that day.

As soon as she took her place on Rhaegal’s back and he took flight, Missandei immediately felt stronger, as she always did when they flew. A dragon and their rider were one, a single heart and mind dwelling in two bodies, able to exist separately but strongest together. The shadowbinders had been fools to think they could be torn apart.

She urged Rhaegal to fly high, high enough that any sentries guarding the Hall would not see their approach, and they circled above the building for a few minutes. When she was certain that they were positioned just right, she held on tight and whispered a single word.

Drop.

Rhaegal plummeted through the air in something between a dive and a freefall, and the domed roof of the Hall of a Thousand Thrones rose up to meet them, shining so bright that it was almost blinding.

The wind howled in her ears and Missandei braced herself for impact, closing her eyes as she pressed her face against Rhaegal’s back to protect herself as best as she could. But nothing could have prepared her for the moment that they crashed through the roof in a hail of gilded shards, bits of wood and gold falling onto the marble floor that cracked loudly beneath Rhaegal’s weight. Daenerys had been right––there were no people beneath the dome, so this had been the only way to enter the Hall without compromising the hostages.

She drew in a shaking breath before she composed herself to face the Pureborn.

Each of their chairs was unique, she remembered, elaborately carved and inlaid with lapis, jade, and other precious stones, but in some ways, their occupants were identical. All had the pale complexions that made the Dothraki call them Milk Men, and every one of them was plainly terrified. They were shouting and screaming as some tried to flee while others cowered in their seats.

“Pureborn! Twice you have been given a chance to surrender and twice you have refused. Yield now and release your hostages, or I will burn you all where you sit,” Missandei called out in Qartheen, pitching her voice as loudly as she could to make certain they could hear her.

And she meant it. She had not burned all three triarchs in Volantis, but she would have if they had forced her hand, and the Pureborn found themselves dangerously close to that line.

One of them yelled back, “You would not dare! We do not answer to the likes of you.”

She turned her head, searching for the man who had spoken, and when she fixed her eyes on him, Rhaegal growled.

“Wouldn’t I?” Missandei asked with a shrug. “Dracarys.”

Flame erupted from Rhaegal’s mouth, so hot that it consumed the Pureborn, his seat, and the wall behind him in the blink of an eye.

For a moment Missandei sat, contemplating what she would do next. All around her the other Pureborn wailed and begged, and part of her wanted to say the word and let Rhaegal kill them all. These monsters had been given opportunity after opportunity to surrender peacefully and end this conflict without further violence, but they had thrown each one back in her face. And how many chances had they ever given the people they enslaved, the ones whose lives they exploited and brutalized to build their opulent, empty lives? She knew the answer to that: none. They had shown no mercy, no care for the lives of others, so why should she give it to them now?

No, she reminded herself. They do not deserve your mercy, but if you kill them now, you rob those they enslaved of their own chance at justice.

They would live for the time being, but they did not need to know that, not until the hostages were safe.

It took a furious roar from Rhaegal to cut through the clamor long enough for her to inform the surviving Pureborn, “Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do, slaver. For the rest of you, I would advise speaking rudely against women on dragons. Now, surrender and free the hostages or I will burn every last one of you.”

The sun was setting by the time they had determined which masters had given the orders to send assassins against them. Missandei stood beside Grey Worm as the guilty were brought in chains to a large plaza, where most of the khalasar waited. Some of the riders were elsewhere in the city, helping the Unsullied and Qartheen freedmen capture masters and prevent any from escaping, but those who could be there were, for they were all eager to see justice done.

The ringleaders of the plot—a few dozen Qartheen from the various guilds and the Pureborn, who had finally surrendered—were not an impressive group when stripped their finery, as Missandei often found to be the case with slavers and nobles. Their entire existence was predicated on the idea that they were special somehow, set apart from and superior to others, but without the trappings of wealth, the truth that they were no different from anyone else was apparent.

Missandei doubted that the Qartheen understood any of the insults and curses being shouted at them in Dothraki, but it was satisfying nonetheless. The dosh khaleen rode out from the rest of the khalasar to encircle the Qartheen, pressing them closer and closer together. Daenerys was among them, though even at this distance, Missandei could see how pale her face was. She should not have been riding so soon after her injury, but she was insistent that she take part, and no one had been able to convince her otherwise.

When Vorri raised her hand, all the women brought their horses to a stop and the entire khalasar fell silent.

There was a long pause as she stared contemptuously down at the Qartheen, and Missandei felt a shiver of anticipation run up her spine. The dosh khaleen had determined some time ago how these people were to be punished, but Daenerys refused to tell her, saying that it was not her secret to share.

At last Vorri spoke, her voice ringing out loud and strong as she addressed the Qartheen.

“The Great Stallion has spoken. Each of you will be cut into fourteen pieces, one for each of the dosh khaleen whose lives you stole, over fourteen days. Only then will you be permitted to die. No part of you will be buried or burned or given to the sea. You will rot beneath the sun, a feast for carrion crows and worms, because you have lived without honor and will not receive it in death.”

A cheer went up from the khalasar and Missandei smiled. Nothing would bring back Ornela or the other murdered women, but their murders would not go unpunished, and for now, that was enough. She would cherish their memories forever and honor them by protecting those who could not protect themselves, but today, she would enjoy this taste of vengeance.

“Khaleesi,” Okho asked from his place in the front of the khalasar, addressing Vorri with the utmost respect. “May I have the honor of taking the first part from this one? He spoke foully of Missandei Dragonspeaker and Daenerys who is blood of my blood, and I swore that I would make him pay.”

She considered that for a moment, then gave her assent. “It is acceptable.”

As two Unsullied dragged the man forward, Missandei found herself wondering what he had said to offend Okho so grievously, but then decided she was better off not knowing.

“I said I would make a gift of your lips and tongue to the women you insulted, but I have changed my mind. You may keep them for now, as I would not deprive the ghosts of our murdered dosh khaleen the pleasure of hearing you scream,” Okho told the man in Valyrian, his tone almost casual as he unsheathed his arakh.

Faster than Missandei’s eye could follow, his blade flashed and the man’s right hand dropped to the earth. Grey Worm gave a nod of approval.

As the man writhed in agony, Okho waved his bloody arakh towards the others and called, “See what happens to those who dare to raise a hand against dosh khaleen and our Dragonspeaker!”

Once the bloody work of taking the first body part from each conspirator was done, Missandei and Grey Worm walked hand-in-hand back to where Rhaegal and his brothers rested. Missandei knew that her beloved was speaking to her, asking if she wanted to bathe or eat first before they retired to their tent, but when she opened her mouth to answer his question, instead she found herself blurting out, “Will you marry me?”

Whatever he was expecting her to say, clearly it had not been that, and his shocked expression was almost comical.

“Right now?”

Missandei shook her head, and despite the gravity of the situation, she giggled. “No, after Qarth is stable and the war is over. Let’s go to Naath or Dragonstone or some island so small that it doesn’t even have a name and wed each other there.”

He pulled her close and took her face in his hands, holding her like she was more precious than all the riches beneath the sun.

“I would marry you anywhere in this world, Missandei of Naath. In the Lands of Always Winter or Asshai-by-the Shadow, in the wilds of Sothoryos and lands yet undiscovered, I will pledge to love you and cherish you for all the days of my life.”

His tone shifted from reverent to something more bemused. “But I must ask…Why now? You know that the Lady of Spears takes no part in marriage, and you don’t worship any god.”

“I don’t believe in the gods,” she agreed. “But I believe in you. In us.”

Grey Worm’s response to that was a kiss, long and sweet and loving, and they said no more.