The great city of Astapor lay in ruin. Dust and ash choked the sands, flames licked at shattered walls, and the bodies of the dead masters, soldiers, alike were scattered across the plaza.
Daenerys stood among the ruin, her half-draconic son at her side, and for a long moment she merely watched the devastation, the smoke curling around her like a living thing.
Across the wide expanse of the plaza, thousands of Unsullied stood in perfect formation, their bronze-shimmering shields raised, their faces impassive beneath the bronze masks. They waited for her command.
The air thrummed with anticipation, and even amidst the ruin, their presence was a thing of order, discipline, and menace.
Ser Jorah moved through the dust, his boots stirring motes of ash, his face streaked with soot. He walked toward her, eyes scanning the bodies, the fallen masters, the wind-whipped debris.
He came to a stop beside her, gaze fixed on his queen, motionless, unsure, yet loyal. In her hands, she held the golden whip, the chains of conquest and in the other, the small hand of her son.
Daenerys stepped forward. Ser Jorah, uncertainty flickering across his face, but he followed, as did Ser Barristan and Missandei.
She moved among the formations of the Unsullied, circling the plaza until she came to a white stallion. With graceful authority, she mounted it, settling her son upon her lap.
The creature snorted, pawing the scorched sand, and together they loomed above the rows of soldiers.
"Unsullied!" she shouted, her voice ringing in the old Valyrian, sharp as steel.
Jorah, Barristan, and Missandei watched as the sound of her voice carried across the plaza, sweeping over the disciplined ranks. Rhaego, perched on her lap, gazed up at her with wide, violet eyes, his scales catching the sun in flickers of iridescent shimmer.
"You have been slaves all your lives," her voice rising above the crackle of fire and the groan of collapsing walls.
"Today, you are free. Any man who wishes to leave may go, and no harm shall come to him!"
The Unsullied said nothing. They did not need to. Each man listened, silent, as the words sank into their disciplined minds.
Daenerys guided the stallion in a slow circle, giving every soldier a clear view of her and her son. Rhaego watched in awe, absorbing her presence, admiring her strength, her command.
Ser Jorah and the others observed from a short distance, pride and loyalty tugging at their hearts in equal measure.
"I give you my word," she said, in Valyrian, voice firm and unwavering. "Will you fight for me… as free men?"
A silence stretched across the plaza, thick and tense. For a heartbeat, nothing stirred. Then, from the front ranks, the tap of a spear striking the sand. A rhythm began, deliberate and steady. One spear, two, three… and then every Unsullied joined in. Spears struck the sand in perfect cadence, a thunderous, unified reply.
Not one soldier left their place.
Daenerys's violet eyes widened, and for a moment, her lips almost curved in a ghost of a smile. Ser Jorah exhaled, and Missandei's expression softened with quiet satisfaction.
She circled once more, letting the reality of the moment wash over her. The Unsullied were no longer slaves. They were hers by choice, not chains, not fear but loyalty. Free men.
Then she guided the stallion out of the plaza. Behind her, the Unsullied fell into step, thousands of them moving in perfect formation. Her advisors followed, Missandei among them, and the remaining Dothraki rode in the ranks, horses pounding the scorched earth.
Daenerys glanced down at the golden whip in her hand. For a long moment, she held it, then let it fall to the sand. She did not need it. She had commanded an army, not bound men. She had freed them.
Through the gates of Astapor, thousands of Unsullied marched, shields glinting in the sun, spears held high, and beyond the sky, her three dragons wheeled and screamed, against the clouds, watching over her.
And beside her, Rhaego leaned against her chest, small hands gripping her arm, violet eyes alight with wonder.
The world had changed today, and she had changed it.
Daenerys looked down at her son. His white hair caught the sunlight, and his small, pointed black horns glimmered faintly.
Rhaego's gaze met hers. His violet eyes held curiosity and innocence… but there was something sharper there too, a spark that mirrored her own fire.
Her voice dropped low, almost a whisper meant only for him.
"Rhaego… remember this day," she said, her tone soft but unwavering.
"The world can be cruel, and some will test you in ways you cannot imagine. But strength… strength tempered with mercy… that is how you survive. Not through fear, not through cruelty but by knowing when to strike, when to protect, and when to wait. You must always remember that."
She ran a gentle hand along the sharp point of his horns, her fingers lingering on the ridges.
"Fire can protect you… but it does not make you better than anyone else. Always keep your heart with you, my little dragon. That… is the true lesson of power."
Rhaego blinked, his small tail twitching behind him, the weight of her words settling in his bright eyes.
Days passed under the unyielding sun, the horizon stretching endless before them, a pale ribbon of sand and sea. Their journey pressed on marching, riding, and trudging along the winding paths that led toward the distant city of Yunkai.
The boots of the Unsullied crunched over gravel and worn dirt, trampling grasses, pressing the scent of vegetation into the air. Their lines rose and fell with the terrain, shadows stretching long in the late afternoon.
Near the tall grasses that whispered in the wind, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan rode side by side, the leather of their saddles creaking, the reins slack between their fingers.
They spoke of kings long gone and battles long fought, laughter spilling over tales of youthful folly and hard-won honor.
Suddenly, a flash of white streaked past them, a cloud of dust kicking up from the dry path, startling their mounts. Both knights gripped the reins tighter as the horses snorted and shied.
"Slow yourself, young prince," Ser Barristan called, his eyes catching the gleam of white hair in the wind.
"You nearly pitched us all into the dust!" His laugh, rich and rolling, carried across the grasses.
Rhaego slowed his pace and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Sorry, sers!" he called, giggling before bounding forward once more, hair and tail flashing in the wind.
Ser Jorah chuckled, his eyes following the small figure bounding forward.
"He grows faster and stronger with each passing day," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Barristan's voice teased, carrying the edge of fond mockery. "At this rate, I swear he'll be chasing our horses by the time we reach Yunkai."
The two knights shook their heads and spurred their mounts onward, the rhythm of hooves merging with the endless march of their soldiers.
Ahead, the young prince, Rhaego, ran with the boundless energy only a child could muster, the stallion of his spirit carrying him swiftly toward Missandei, who waited by the riverbank with few unsullied officers in front of her.
He leapt forward and clutched at her legs, wrapping them as many times as he could manage, giggling.
"Hi, Missandei!" he called, his voice bright with childish delight.
She looked down at him, smiling, heart swelling despite herself. She had lost count of how many times he had done this, and with his growing strength even as a toddler, she feared he might topple her entirely if he continued.
Her fingers threaded through the strands of his white hair, brushing against his horns.
"Arent you energetic today, my young prince?" she said, her voice warm, teasing.
Rhaego puffed out his small chest, proud as a dragonling.
In broken High Valyrian, he said, "I learned new words today!" before switching back into the common tongue.
"But… I'm still learning."
Missandei's smile softened, pride shining through.
For days now, she and Daenerys had been teaching him the languages of his blood the flowing syllables of High Valyrian and the harsh cadence of Dothraki.
And yet, in their lessons, he had proven remarkably quick, the spark of his intelligence hidden beneath that mischievous, ever-moving exterior.
Missandei still could not place her finger on why Rhaego was so fond of her. Even from the first time they had met, his unnatural form, half-dragon child, small horns, the shimmer of scales along his body had been hard to get used to at first.
Yet with every small affection he offered, every laugh and tug at her skirts, she found only beauty in him. Even the way his scaled tail caught the sunlight, flickering and glinting like onyx, made her heart lift.
Then the crunch of hooves over gravel reached their ears. A white horse emerged, carrying Daenerys Stormborn, her dress the color of deep sky, her cloak streaming behind her like water in motion.
She dismounted gracefully, boots hitting the stones, and walked towards the two. Rhaego released Missandei's legs and ran to his mother. She bent, brushing a hand over his hair, fingers grazing the small horns. Her voice was soft, warm, yet carried authority.
"Run along, little flame. Your mother must speak with her officers."
Rhaego nodded, a grin lighting his face, and bounded off once more, running among the grasses with the effortless speed of youth and fire.
Missandei and Daenerys exchanged a small, knowing smile. A moment passed a quiet, but full of unspoken understanding before Daenerys' expression shifted, her gaze sharpening.
"These are the ones?" she asked, eyes sweeping the small group of Unsullied lined before them.
"Yes, Khaleesi," Missandei replied, her tone respectful, certain. "The officers."
In the tall wheats and whispering grasses, Rhaego ran in widening circles, laughter spilling from him like summer rain.
The stalks bent and swayed in his wake, brushing against his bare legs as he cut through them with effortless speed.
"Days and days we have traveled toward Yunkai," he mused within the quiet chamber of his mind. And slowly… I am growing used to this body.
He had tested it relentlessly running at dawn, racing the wind at dusk, weaving between horses and men alike. Not once had breath failed him. Not once had his limbs trembled with fatigue.
I have not known exhaustion since my body has grown a little, he thought, a thrill running through him. Not once.
Abruptly he halted, digging his bare heel into the earth. Dust leapt upward in a swirling gust, caught by the wind and carried past him in a golden veil.
A sharp sensation rippled along his back.
Then, his wings unfurled.
They pushed through the skin as if it were silk parting for a blade, spreading wide and terrible and beautiful. Black as a moonless night, laced with veins of deep crimson, they mirrored the great wings of his brother, Drogon. Sunlight struck the membranes and turned the red veins to molten fire.
Rhaego craned his neck, peering over his shoulder as he flexed them slowly.
Once.
Twice.
The grasses flattened beneath each heavy beat.
"Still too small," he told himself, frustration threading through the wonder. "This body may look eight, but it has lived barely a year and a half. I wonder when I will be able to fly."
Elena, the soul that is inside the boy, she had studied the dragons carefully. She had watched Drogon, Viserion, Rhaegal. Measured their span against their mass. Observed the rhythm of their lift.
If they can do it, then so can I.
More than once she had leapt, wings thrashing, heart pounding only to land in dust and bruised pride. The muscles were strong. The bone was light. But not yet enough.
Not yet.
With a controlled breath, Rhaego folded his wings back into himself. The dark membranes vanished beneath pale skin and small scales, as if they had never been.
"Someday," he thought, gazing toward the horizon where the road wound south.
"Someday I will reach the sky."
His eyes narrowed slightly, the childlike glee fading into something older, calculating.
"Yunkai draws near. And if the story moves as it once did… then across the Narrow Sea, much has already begun."
Kings rising.
Wolves howling.
Lions plotting.
"What is happening in Westeros now?" he wondered. "Has the War of the Five Kings reached its bitter turns? Has the North begun to bleed?" an echo of memories Elena recalls, that no one knows well through another life's knowledge.
The wind swept through the grasses again, carrying the distant sounds of marching Unsullied and the low murmur of dragons in the sky.
Rhaego smiled a small, secret thing.
The game was still unfolding and he intended to change it.