Return of The Dragons Chapter 31 (A Dragon is Fire) (Patreon)

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year

Daenerys Targaryen

Daenerys had grown up running from one slave city to the next. She was no stranger to slavery. She'd walked past the pleasure houses in Lys. She'd seen tattoos beneath the dead eyes of Volantene slaves, all spirit beaten out of them long ago. Most of the Free Cities had a thriving economy thanks to slavery.

Slaver's Bay, she was learning, was different. If someone had told Daenerys that when the city was built, the builders had used the blood of slaves instead of water when making the city's bricks, she wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. The energy of Astapor alone was suffocating; she could feel the misery in the air, smell the blood, hear the cries of pain.

However, the Walk of Punishment was the worst thing she'd seen in the city, or perhaps anywhere. It was hot, and the sun blared down on them, but to the slaves on the Walk of Punishment, the heat was probably an afterthought compared to the agony they were in. There were dozens and dozens of men, women, and children lining the city's Wall, chained to posts. Their chests and faces were whipped raw, and their heads hung. Beneath the lashes, each rib was prominent, each bone jutted out.

She couldn't tell which of them were asleep, still clinging on to life, and which were already dead.

"The Walk of Punishment is a warning, Your Grace," Ser Arthur informed her.

A warning? Warnings weren't typically so inhumane, or so she'd like to think.

"To whom?" She asked him.

"To any slave who contemplate doing whatever these slaves did," he followed her gaze towards once such slave, looking fearfully up at one of the so-called warnings before turning his eyes to the ground and hurrying after his master.

Stopping in front of one of them, she held out her hand to Ashara. "Give me your water," she commanded.

She handed her canteen but said, "Princess, this man has been sentenced to death." She merely fixed her with a look before ascending the steps to the man's platform. The closer she got to him, the further the scent of blood mingled with that of the sea behind him.

She held the canteen to the man's lips, and he seemed to wake. "Here, drink," she said in soft, gentle High Valyrian.

"Let me die," he murmured weakly before appearing to go back to sleep. She withdrew the canteen slowly, horrified.

She kept her voice quiet, barely above a whisper. "Hold on. I swear to you, every slave in this city will be free before nightfall tomorrow. Hold on." The man's eyes opened slightly, but there was so little hope in them that she suspected he may not bother trying to survive. She hoped he would.

"Leave this place, Your Grace," Ser Arthur implored of her. "Leave tonight, I beg you."

"And what is she to do for soldiers?" Ashara wondered. They'd been having this debate since the day Ser Arthur was told of their reason for being in Astapor. Ser Arthur disapproved of slave soldiers. Ashara rationalized Daenerys' need for them.

"We can find sellswords in Lentos and Myr," the knight responded swiftly.

Ashara turned towards him. "If you want to sit on the Throne your ancestors built, you must win it. That will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done."

"The blood of my enemies, not the blood of innocents," she insisted, returning her canteen to her and walking onward. Ashara and Ser Arthur followed close behind.

"How many wars have you fought in, Ser Arthur?"

"Three," the knight said.

"Have you ever seen a war where innocents didn't die by the thousands?"

After a moment, Ser Arthur responded with a soft "no."

"Have you heard what happened in the sack of King's Landing " Ashara addressed her directly then. "You know what is said? Butchery. Babies, children, old men. More women raped than you can count. There's a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand," she explained. "But the Unsullied are not men. They do not rape. They do not put cities to the sword unless they're ordered to do so. If you buy them, the only men they'll kill are those you want dead."

Wanting to be fair to her new advisor, she addressed him. "Do you disagree, Ser Arthur?"

He didn't answer the question directly. "When your brother Rhaegar led his army into battle at the Trident, men died for him because they believed in him, because they loved him, not because they'd been bought at a slaver's auction. I wasn't there to protect him, but I protect the one True King of Westeros."

"Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, and Rhaegar died," Ser Ashara reminded them.

Dany smiled a bit at the mention of her nephew; she couldn't wait to meet him at night. She dreamed of him, long dark hair, almost violet eyes, noble and humble, a true king; just the thought of a true dragon by her side made her feel butterflies in her stomach.

She escaped her dreams and asked the knight.

"Did you know him well, Ser Arthur?" Daenerys wondered.

"I did, Your Grace," he said softly. "Finest man I ever met."

"I wish I had known him," Daenerys said honestly. He had died months before she'd even been born. "But he was not the last dragon."

Standing before several slaveowners and their translator on their raised platform, Daenerys felt less like a queen and more like a little girl playing pretend.

The translator seemed genuinely surprised when Daenerys informed her that she wanted every Unsullied in the barracks. "All? Did this one's ears mishear, Your Grace?"

"They did not," Daenerys said simply. "I want to buy them all."

The translator relayed this to her master.

"She can't afford them," Kraznys said in his gruff voice. "The slut thinks she can flash her tits, and make us give her whatever she wants."

If Viserys had not insulted her at every turn when they were children, she likely would not have been able to maintain her facade of ignorance. But she was used to being insulted. It did not phase her. The slavers' many disrespects were far from the worst things that had been said to her.

"There are eight thousand Unsullied in Astapor," the translator reminded Daenerys. "Is this what you mean by all?"

"Yes. Eight thousand," Daenerys confirmed. "And the ones still in training as well."

The slaver next to Kraznys, Greizhen, leaned towards his companion. "If they fail on the battlefield, they will shame Astapor."

"Master Greizhen says they cannot sell half-trained boys. If they fail on the battlefiled, they will bring shame upon all of Astapor," the translator informed her.

"I will have them all or take none. Many will fall in battle. I'll need the boys to pick up the swords they drop." Daenerys neglected to inform them that her goal was to demand something she could not afford.

"The slut cannot pay for all of this," Kraznys said with a roll of eyes.

"Master Kraznys says you cannot afford this," the translator informed her.

"One of her ships will buy her one hundred Unsullied, no more, and this because I like the shape of her ass," Kraznys said to the amusement of his companions, and the girl translated it, albeit far more politely.

"The gold you have left is worth ten," Kraznys went on, "but I will give her twenty if it stops her ignorant whimpering."

While the girl translated her master's words, Daenerys looked up to see slaves looking down on them, and they served to further her resolve.

"So, ask this beggar queen," Kraznys continued, "how will she pay for the remaining 7,877?"

Looking away from a slave girl no older than ten, Daenerys locked her eyes on Kraznys.

"I have dragons. I'll give you one."

While the girl translated Daenerys' words to her master, Ser Arthur stepped forward quickly. "You will win the throne with dragons, not slaves, Your Grace."

"Princess, please," Ashara implored. Daenerys silenced her with a look.

When she stepped closer to the slavers, Kraznys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Three dragon," he said in broken, heavily accented Common Tongue.

"One," she insisted.

"Two."

"One," she repeated.

Kraznys leaned back to confer with his companions for a moment before coming to a decision.

"They want the biggest one," the girl translated.

"Done," Daenerys agreed.

Kraznys repeated the word back to her. She went to leave but had a thought. "I'll take you, as well. Now," she said to the translator. "You'll be Master Kraznys' gift to me. A token of a bargain well struck."

The girl hesitated before relaying the message to her master. "She asks that you give me to her, as a present. She asks that you do this now," her words were slow and quiet, unsure.

The translator likely had been trained to translate her master's words more politely than he himself had spoken them, and therefore when translating Daenerys' words, the girl maintained her cautious nature. They would have to have a discussion about this if the girl chose to remain in Daenerys' service. She needed her words translated verbatim with the confidence Daenerys herself said them, especially when she was speaking to her enemies.

Kraznys stared at Daenerys like she was a different species he couldn't quite wrap his head around; he examined her unmoving stance, her unwavering gaze. She got the impression that he was unused to women presenting themselves in such a fashion. Had he never encountered a female who was sure of herself?

Ashara addressed her decision as soon as they left the room. "Princess, a dragon is worth more than any army."

That was quite enough. She'd been planning on waiting until they returned to the boat but could not wait any longer to reprimand them for their behavior.

"You're both here to advise me. I value your advice, but if you ever question me in front of strangers again, you'll be advising someone else. Is that understood?" She didn't wait for a response before walking away and speaking to the girl. "Do you have a name?"

"This one's name is Missandei, Your Grace," the girl said, falling into step beside her.

"Missandei," Daenerys repeated. "Do you have a family? A mother and father you'd return to if you had the choice?"

"No, Your Grace. No family living," Missandei said. That, Daenerys supposed, was something they had in common.

"You belong to me now. It is your duty to tell me the truth."

"Yes, Your Grace," Missandei agreed. "Lying is a great offense. Many of those on the Walk of Punishment were taken there for less."

"I offered water to one of the slaves dying on the Walk of Punishment. Do you know what he said to me? 'Let me die.'"

"There are no masters in the grave, Your Grace."

Daenerys blinked. "Indeed. You are free now, Missandei. I shall provide you with new clothes without a collar as soon as we return to my ship. If you choose to return to your home, I will assist you in doing so to the best of my ability. If you choose to stay in my service, you will serve as my handmaid."

Missandei looked over at her, shocked. "F-free?" When Daenerys nodded, the girl looked at the ground again. "I have nowhere to go. I will serve as your handmaid."

"Very well," Daenerys said. She empathized with Missandei; neither of them had a home to return to nor had a family. "Is it true what Master Kraznys told me about the Unsullied? About their obedience?"

"All questions have been taken from them," Missandei told her. "They obey. That is all. Once they are yours, they are yours. They will fall on their swords if you command it."

"And what about you?" Daenerys asked her. "You know that I'm taking you to war. You may go hungry. You may fall sick. You may be killed."

"Valar morghulis," Missandei responded.

"Yes, all men must die," Daenerys agreed. "But we are not men."

The sun was high overhead when Daenerys walked through the Plaza of Pride the following day, her entourage following behind her. Missandei was closest to her, wearing a dress she had chosen for herself. Free women chose their own clothes, Daenerys had told her. Her hair was intricately braided; it was nice to have someone to help with it again.

It was hot, and the air was dusty. The deeper in the city they were, the less one could smell the salty sea air. For many, the heat must have been unbearable. For Daenerys, though, it brought comfort. Comfort and confidence.

Kraznys did not greet her properly. Missandei translated for him, mincing his words, keeping them polite. "The master says they are untested. He says you would be wise to blood them early. There are many smalls cities between here and there, cities ripe for sacking." As they neared the awning under which Kraznys stood, Daenerys noticed slaves and nobles alike crowding to see the foreign woman paying for every Unsullied in the barracks with a dragon. "Should you take captives," Missandei continued to translate, "the masters will buy the healthy ones, and for a good price. And who know? In ten years, some of the boys you send them may be Unsullied in their turn. Thus, all shall prosper."

Missandei sounded displeased at the prospect of more slaves. Daenerys had assured her the night before that there would be no slaves serving under her, that anyone who followed her would do so of their own accord. Daenerys knew, though, that life as a slave taught people that hope was futile, and even with Daenerys' promises, that hope was not easily reignited.

Saying nothing to Kraznys, she turned to the cage in which Draeharrys was being kept. It was hastily put together; she hadn't caged her dragons in months, and they had long since outgrown the last set.

The spectators murmured, talking amongst themselves, wondering if the curiosity really existed at all or if it was merely a cat with wings tied to it.

Drogon screeched when he emerged, his wings, growing larger by the day, flapping in the air.

She heard his voice questioning in her mind. Mother?

He was afraid she was truly going to give him away. Don't worry, my love. Be patient.

This seemed to reassure him. She held the chain far above her head, allowing Draeharrys to fly high enough for every spectator to get a good look at him. Kraznys looked on in amazement, clearly thrilled at the prospect of owning a dragon.

Although Draeharrys followed Daenerys willingly, not fighting against her in the slightest, as soon as Kraznys grasped the chain, her child flapped against its pull, the links going taut. He screeched at Kraznys angrily, who seemed unfazed. He shoved the whip in Daenerys' hands.

It had a golden handle that was intricately carved into the harpy of Astapor and many leather throngs. She looked down at it, disgusted.

"Is it done, then?" She asked. "They belong to me?" Missandei translated her question.

"It is done," Kraznys responded, glancing at her briefly before looking back up at Drogon, who was still flapping against the chain and screeching down at the slaver. It was the closest Daenerys had ever been to him. She could smell the heavy oils he anointed himself with.

"You hold the whip," Missandei translated.

"The bitch has her army." Daenerys glared at him for that, knowing full well he wouldn't notice.

She walked towards the Unsullied, emotionless. Worn-looking slavers walked up and down the lines of soldiers, whips slack in their hands.

"Unsullied!" She called out in High Valyrian. As soon as she said the word, there were gasps all around the Plaza. She had made sure no citizen of Astapor had any idea she was anything but ignorant of the language.

In acknowledgment of her, there was the loud collective sound of shields being pulled to chests. Behind her, Draeharrys seemed to be getting more and more agitated. His screeching grew louder, angrier. The vigorous flapping of his wings could be heard even from a distance.

"Forward march!" Daenerys shouted, testing out the army. The momentous stomp of eight thousand feet sounded for a moment before she commanded, "halt!" They obeyed instantaneously. She smiled slightly, pleased with the outcome.

Behind her, Kraznys spoke. "Tell the bitch her beast won't come."

Daenerys turned towards the slaver. "A dragon is not a slave."

He stared at her in astonishment. "You speak Valyrian?" He demanded in outrage.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue," she said fiercely. Judging by the expression on his face, Kraznys was terrified. He knew that he had been deliberately deceived. Turning back to her new army, she addressed them once more.

"Unsullied!" They slammed their spears on the ground in response. "Slay the masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who holds a whip, but harm no child. Strike the chains off every slave you see!"

The nobles were frozen for a moment, not quite believing their ears, but they regained motion when the first Unsullied thrust his spear through a slaver's back.

"I am your master!" Kraznys called out desperately as Ser Arthur drew his swords, preparing for a fight. There was no need for that, though. "Kill her!" Kraznys yelled. "Kill her!"

Turning towards Draeharrys, she spoke directly to him in both speech and mind. "Dracarys."

Without hesitation, Draeharrys breathed a stream of flames upon the slaver. The oils he wore made him burn faster, and he screamed and fell to the ground, thrashing as he died.

Later, when the dust had settled, the Unsullied had returned to their lines. She walked amongst them, Missandei following close behind. The girl hadn't said anything yet. Daenerys wondered what she thought if she still wanted to serve under her. Having ordered a horse be brought for her, Daenerys mounted it.

"Unsullied!" She addressed them once more. This time, they did not respond. "You have been slaves all your life. Today, you are free," she declared. "Any man who wishes to leave may leave, and no one will harm him. I give you my word. Will you fight for me? As free men?"

There was silence for a moment, but then, one man began slamming his spear into the ground again and again. Then another joined him, and then another, and another. After a few seconds, every Unsullied in the Plaza of Pride was slamming their spears into the dirt.

She led them out the Plaza, eight thousand men and two thousand boys marching behind her, her dragons flying overhead.

Eddard Stark

'Home, at last, though not as he'd ever expected. Eddard Stark gazed thoughtfully at the towering grey walls in the distance. He had gone south to the Eyrie so long ago and since then had been all over the Seven Kingdoms -- King's Landing and Storm's End and the Trident and the mountains of Dorne, green Riverlands, and bustling cities and red, red deserts. And now, having seen all seen of the Kingdoms of Westeros, he had no desire to see any of them again. 'My place is here,' he thought, 'and as the Lord of Winterfell... the gods grant I need never ride out to war again.'

Eddard couldn't help but think, not for the first time, that it should have been Brandon returning in this fashion, Brandon returning home as Lord, with his new Lady beside him, Brandon bringing home the knights of the North, bringing up the Tully servants who would stay with Lady Catelyn. Brandon was the one who had been raised to be the Stark of Winterfell, not Eddard. But the gods worked as they would, and if Eddard had to assume the role, then assume it, he would.

At least his new wife had never offered him reproach or even any sign of dismay at the substitution. No doubt she'd nursed grief, but she had done so privately, and certainly, his long absence had given her time to make her peace with her circumstances. 'We have all had to adjust.'

Eddard still wondered if she was too southron, too soft for the harsh realities of the North, but so far, the Lady Catelyn seemed to be bearing up admirably.

She had impressed him when they left Riverrun. Catelyn, ever practical, had opted to ride rather than take a wheelhouse. The cumbersome, rattling device would have slowed progress considerably, and all in the party were anxious to reach Winterfell as soon as could be. 'The sooner we can establish this new reality, the better.' Beside Catelyn rode a strong, solid nursemaid, with the infant Robb bundled tightly to her chest.

'Maybe it will help,' Ned thought, 'bringing Catelyn and all her coterie north. Even if they are southron. Maybe Winterfell will seem less empty, less...'

Eddard did not know, as yet, if the castle would seem haunted. He hoped not. The bodies of his father and brother had been returned north months since and by now were resting beneath their effigies, direwolves at their sides, swords over their tombs. He had done all he could to put their spirits at peace. 'And now...'

Lyanna had lived and died a Stark of Winterfell, and Ned meant to give her all the honors due to a lady of their house. 'No. More. More than any lady before her has had...' Her remains, sent ahead while Ned returned to Riverrun to fetch his wife, would have by now been put in a tomb, but there was, as yet, no effigy above it. Wives and daughters were not, by tradition, given that honor, but Ned could not quite bring himself to consign her to the dark without giving her beauty a way to live on eternally. 'And centuries from now, future Starks will look on her face and hear her story... or at least part of it.'

But putting the bodies to rest might not necessarily quiet the spirits, at least not within Eddard's own head. He wondered if he would, once back in Winterfell, find himself expecting to hear Brandon's exuberant shouts or Lyanna's pealing laughter.

If he would try to put himself to bed in his old chambers, not the Lord's rooms, not that space that would still seem to belong to his father. And some spirits would live on, no matter how well buried the bodies were; there would be daily reminders, whatever else Ned did.

The welcome at Winterfell was subdued. Eddard was privately grateful, though he did feel somewhat guilty for not having some sort of fête to honor his new bride with a sidelong look at Catelyn. Southron ways would require it, would require banners and musicians and feasts and dances. She had been robbed of a proper wedding; part of Ned wished he could offer her some recompense for that. But Winterfell was in no condition to celebrate; the castle remained in mourning. More of its scions had returned dead than alive.

Benjen was there to greet them at the gate, looking so much older than the gangly boy Ned had last left at Harrenhal. He was still skinny, still not-quite-grown, but there was stubble on his chin, and new muscles on his frame, and an aging sadness in his sharp blue eyes.

They embraced and exchanged the customary pleasantries, and Ben spent a few minutes as they paced around the courtyard filling Ned in on recent developments at Winterfell: minutiae of life, which horses had foaled, and which servants' daughters had married and how the accounts stood. Then, after hearing about new acquisitions for the library, Eddard asked, "The boy. Jon. How is he?"

"Well. Very well," Benjen replied. "Talking now. Only a few words, but he's coming along. Healthy, strong, active."

"Good," Eddard said, his throat feeling tight. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Do you want to see him?" Ben quietly offered.

"Not... not just yet," Ned replied, glancing over at where Catelyn had already stepped naturally into her role as Lady, directing her servants with the luggage. "She knows. I warned her, but... still. Let her have some time before she has to be reminded."

Late that night, when everyone was settled, when Catelyn was asleep underneath layers of furs and woolen blankets, Ned slipped out of bed. Unable to rest, he wrapped himself in a warm robe, took a torch from the corridor, and walked the long, lonely path down to the crypt beneath the castle.

The night air whispered to him as he walked. He passed the earliest Kings of the North, their statues as decayed as the hidden corpses, and walked on through history. It was a reminder to him, of the ages and the legends which filtered down to him, of the weight of responsibility now on his shoulders. By nature contemplative, Eddard had never needed the reminding, but he took it in, anyway.

However, when he reached the newest tombs, he did not go to his father's or to Brandon's; he lodged his torch in an iron sconce and sat on the cold floor next to his sister's yet-unadorned sepulcher. He stared for a long while in silence at the flickering light, playing shadows on the stones.

"I tried," he whispered, laying his hand on the smooth grey stone. "I tried, Lyanna, I was trying to make things better. We all were. Me and Robert and Brandon. We thought we were doing right by you." His fingers clenched slightly. "Dammit, Lya, why didn't you tell us? Leave a note, send a raven, anything, so that we would have known..."

He sighed and shook his head. Shaggy brown locks fell around his face, reminding him that his appearance could probably stand some maintenance.

"I don't blame you. I can't blame you. You didn't know what this would..."

And then, for the first time, in the darkness of the crypt, Eddard allowed himself to wonder what it was Lyanna must have been imagining, or at least hoping for. Her ideal, her intentions for how it would all have turned out. A second queen, a Targaryen bride. They had never sneered at bigamy, even if they did tend to keep it within the family. But if the Martells had decided not to cause trouble, it could have worked out. A true unity of the realm, North to south, and a young prince with grey eyes...

"Is that what you wanted, Lya?" But the ambition of it didn't ring true. Lyanna had never cared for the prestige of Storm's End; Ned couldn't imagine it meaning much to her to be a queen or to birth a prince. "So, what did he offer you?"

Only the silence of the stones answered him. Ned sighed again and gazed down the row, at statue after statue.

In the morning, Benjen sought his brother out. He found Eddard pacing in the Lord's chambers, alone; Lady Catelyn had already dressed and gone to see to her morning responsibilities. Eddard stood with his back to the door, looking out the window at the walls of Winterfell and beyond, the pointed tops of thousands of evergreens. Benjen cleared his throat, and Eddard turned around. "Poole said you were looking for me."

"Yes, I've... I've just got something I'd like to speak with you about, if you have a few minutes."

"I do. Come in, close the door."

Benjen did so, unsure if he felt more or less comfortable as he eased the heavy wooden door flush with the Wall. Would Eddard be more himself, separated from everyone else for whom he was now responsible? Or would he be more the Lord, here in these chambers, their father's chambers?

Before Benjen could speak his mind, Eddard offered, "I went to see him this morning. The boy. Jon. He is... as you said."

"It was good of you to bring him here," Benjen said, strolling to join Eddard near the window. "It would have been easier, I suppose... you could have left him in the south, found someone there to look after him."

"He's my responsibility," Ned replied. "I didn't have much choice, really."

"No, you did," Ben insisted. "You could have made... any number of other choices. It would have been easier for you, and for Lady Catelyn, but... you were right to bring him here."

Ned looked at his younger brother, no longer a child, and realized how much he had needed to hear someone say those words. He had to be the Lord of Winterfell now, a task he was not sure he was equal to, but it bolstered him to hear someone approve of a decision he had made. "When did you get so wise, Ben?" he wondered aloud.

Benjen shrugged his slender shoulders. "I had a lot of time to think about things."

Eddard nodded. 'Poor Ben,' he thought. 'I didn't mean to leave you behind, but I can't make myself sorry you weren't there.'

"I wish to go north," Benjen blurted into the suddenly-fallen silence. When Ned made no response, only a blank, though somewhat bewildered, stare, Ben continued, "I want to go to the Wall. To take the Black. To- To join the Night's Watch."

"Ben," Ned said slowly, "you know you have no need-- not that joining the Watch is not a noble and worthy aspiration, but... You are yet so young."

"I'm a man grown now," Benjen contradicted him. "You went south, you were gone so long, you don't know what—"

Ned held his hands up. "No need to grow heated, brother. But the Watch is forever, and that may be – gods willing – a very long time from seventeen, man grown or not."

Ben scuffed his boot against the floor, not wanting to meet Ned's eyes. "I need to go. I do. It's the only way I can make up for—for not helping," Benjen said.

Ned was about to deny him when Benjen turned around and walked towards the door, Ned tried to follow him, but his legs weren't moving.

He tried and tried but couldn't follow him.

Benjen opened the door before turning to look at his brother. "You know what they say, Ned. Cursed is the Kinslayer, and yet you abandoned your own nephew," he said before shutting the door.'

Ned gasped; he stood from his bed, seeing the walls; he knew he was still in King's Landing.

Closing his eyes, he wanted to drink water when someone knocked on the door.

"My lord, the party of Lord Tyrion has been spotted, your son has Returned,"