Chapter Text
Slavery is the ultimate stain on the soul of humanity. For as long as it has existed, people have tried to justify its existence, saying that it is the natural state of some to be subjugated, that some masters treat their slaves well. As someone who lived in chains for five and ten years, I can tell you that all of that is a lie. It is always wrong, it is always cruel, and it must be ended by any means necessary. Not because of the gods or money or power, but because it is evil.
-An excerpt from the memoirs of Missandei Dragonspeaker, the Protector of Innocents, the Bringer of Justice, the Lady of Ten Thousand Tongues, and the Dragon of Naath
Missandei was no stranger to troubled dreams. The ship that had stolen her from Naath, the horrors she endured at the hands of the masters, mothers wailing as their babies were slain before their eyes, boys weeping and puppies screaming-those memories had haunted her for years, and though they came more rarely now, Missandei did not think she would ever be entirely rid of them.
But ever since she had learned of her fate in Daenerys’s vision, a new nightmare joined the others, a memory from a life that would never be. Even though she had never lived it, never would live it, she dreamed of standing high on city walls, manacles on her wrists and heavy chains weighing her down, staring at the faces of the people she loved and knowing that they were about to watch her die. She was terrified and hurting and angry, furious that after all she had endured and all the joy she had yet to experience, that her life was being stolen by a woman so similar to the masters who had taken her from her family.
Missandei awoke with a jolt, her heart beating frantically as she sat up in bed, blankets tangled around her legs. Grey Worm was awake too, reaching for her comfortingly, yet even the sight of her beloved, concern evident on his face, was not enough to calm her lingering fears.
Based on the thin light filtering through the window, she thought that it must be early in the morning, perhaps just after dawn, and she heard Rhaegal calling to her anxiously from the large stone balcony outside their room. He must have felt her pain, and was trying to help, in his own way.
Usually after one of these dreams she would talk with Grey Worm and try to go back to sleep, but somehow she knew that would not be sufficient today. She needed to fly, needed that incomparable freedom that she only experienced on Rhaegal’s back. Flying always drove away her fears and her pain; in the sky, she was too light for even the memory of chains.
Representatives from the Iron Bank and the red temple in Volantis had arrived the night before, and she had intended to meet with them alongside Daenerys, but those audiences would have to go along without her.
“I’m going to fly. Tell Daenerys not to follow and to meet the envoys without me, I need to be alone.” Missandei said, slipping out of Grey Worm’s arms. He nodded and let her, watching by the dim light as she hastily dressed. She did not bother with proper clothes, just putting on trousers beneath her sleeping gown and jamming her feet into boots. Without looking back, she stepped outside, where Rhaegal was waiting for her. He nuzzled her in greeting, as though inspecting her to make sure she was alright, and lowered his wing for her. Soon they were leaving Dragonstone behind, and Missandei took a deep, shuddering breath, letting the cool air wash over her.
Grey Worm and Daenerys were nothing but supportive of her, providing her with comfort or solitude, depending on her needs, and today she needed the latter. She loved them both immeasurably, but neither of them could ever truly understand what she had experienced. Although Daenerys had endured much in her life, it was not comparable to Missandei’s past. Grey Worm had suffered horrors beyond words, it was true, but he did not remember anything of his life before becoming Unsullied. He had no memories of his family or of being taken, and Missandei did.
They were only fragments, it was true, but she remembered: her mother’s smile and her father’s laugh, sparkling clear waves crashing over her bare feet and sunlight filtering through the dense canopy of leaves, feeling safe and loved, like nothing could ever touch her. She treasured those memories, as they were all she had left of her childhood and her family. Yet they hurt too, a perpetual reminder of everything she had lost and the years of pain that had come after. The slavers and their ships, the market and the masters, with their brutal hands and cruel minds-
In her years of bondage, Missandei rarely wept, and even after she was freed she cried only on the rarest of occasions. She learned to keep her pain inside herself, to hold it close and use it as a shield against other hurts, and it was difficult to unlearn that. But when she flew, the tears came a little more easily, blown away by the wind or dissipated by Rhaegal’s heat as they dripped onto his scales. She thought that one day she would be able to relive the joys of those days on Naath without the grief.
By the time they returned to Dragonstone, the sun was high in the sky, and the rumbling in her stomach told Missandei she was likely missing the noonday meal. Missandei and Grey Worm had claimed for themselves a small yet comfortable chamber overlooking the peninsula where the dragons rested. In addition to the balcony that allowed her to mount Rhaegal without exiting the keep, it was close to the castle library and caught enough sun that it was less chilly than the rest of the castle. Daenerys had eschewed the ruler’s cavernous and lonely suite, instead sleeping in a much more modest room that, fortuitously, was connected to Missandei’s by a solar.
That was where she found Grey Worm and Daenerys, sitting at the table and sharing a meal. They greeted her warmly, and she assured them that she was feeling much better.
“Before we discuss business, we have two surprises for you,” Daenerys said with a smile, “One is rather finer than the other, but I hope they will both give you joy.”
Missandei took her seat between them and helped herself to bread with honey, cheese, nuts, and a steaming cup of mint tea; she was ravenous. “I usually don’t care for surprises, but I trust you both.”
Daenerys excused herself and went into her own chamber, returning with something strange and wonderful. It was a coat of ringmail, and although Missandei had seen armor from all over the world, she had never seen its like. Dark as smoke, it drank in the light, so that even in stillness, it seemed to move. Something about it reminded her of Rhaegal’s eyes, and the depths contained within.
“Pick it up,” Daenerys urged, and Missandei did. It was shockingly light, slipping through her fingers as though it weighed no more than a silk robe. Yet despite its delicacy, there was a strength to it as well.
“This is exquisite. What is it made of? I have never seen anything like it before.” Even as she asked the question, she had a sneaking suspicion of what it could be. The material reminded her of weapons she had only seen since coming to Westeros-Jon’s sword, and the blade Jorah used to defend Daenerys to his last breath.
Grey Worm’s reply confirmed her hunch. “We were not certain either, but Zirqo examined it and believes it is Valyrian steel.”
She gasped. Ever since the Doom, some four hundred years earlier, the secrets of making Valyrian steel were lost, and precious few still knew how to reshape it. Although she recalled reading about heroes going to battle clad in Valyrian steel armor in ancient poetry from the Freehold, she did not think any still existed in the world. “Wherever did it come from? They say the Qohorik still work Valyrian steel, but surely even they do not use it to make armor?”
The smiths of Qohor were renowned for their metalworking, but Missandei doubted that they possessed enough spare Valyrian steel to craft such an item. Grey Worm was planning to commission armor for herself and Daenerys, but Missandei had never thought he meant to purchase the most expensive armor in the world. And even if he had somehow acquired it, how could it have possibly gotten to Dragonstone so quickly?
Daenerys replied, “It was here on Dragonstone all along. Ornela was exploring this morning and happened upon it in some dusty old storeroom, deep in the castle. She said it was at the bottom of a massive chest, with remnants of other clothes that must have rotted away.”
“Remarkable,” Missandei replied, unable to tear her eyes from the magnificent coat. It did not shock her that there would be forgotten treasures on Dragonstone. The castle was ancient and Daenerys’s ancestors had carved a warren of tunnels and rooms beneath it, which could contain any number of precious things hidden away for safekeeping and then forgotten when the owner died. But who could possibly have misplaced such a valuable piece of armor? Surely not Stannis Baratheon, who had died in battle, or any of Daenerys’s more immediate ancestors. They would have worn it themselves, or even sold it, as her elder brother had sold their mother’s crown.
And it was quite small, as armor went. Grey Worm was not a particularly large man, but she did not think it would fit over his shoulders, much less the broader frame of someone like Daario Naharis. No one would commission such an expensive piece of armor for a child, so perhaps it had been made for a woman?
She voiced those thoughts aloud, and Daenerys nodded in agreement.
“I think it belonged to Visenya, the Conqueror’s elder sister. Other Targaryen women rode into battle, and doubtless wore armor as well, but she dwelled here for many years, and was said to wear ringmail into battle. She died here on Dragonstone, and in the chaos after her death, her longsword Dark Sister was taken by another relative, so it’s possible it was misplaced then and not found until now.”
That made as much sense as any explanation to Missandei, who marveled at the long history of the item she held in her hands. Had it been made in Old Valyria before the Doom? Had Visenya worn it as she embarked upon one of the most ambitious military campaigns in history, the forging of six disparate and warring kingdoms into a single nation? It was only fitting that it would be worn again by her long-distant relative as she set out to achieve an equally lofty set of goals.
“What a treasure, thank you so much for showing me. Have you tried it on yet?”
At that Daenerys giggled, somewhat unexpectedly. “No, because it’s yours.”
Missandei looked at Grey Worm, who was smiling at her. “Daenerys, your kinswoman wore it, by rights it belongs to you!”
Daenerys shook her head. “Visenya was a tall, slender woman, like you, it will not fit me well. Well, in a few months nothing will fit me-,” she touched a hand to her abdomen, which had just begun to swell to accommodate the life within her, “-but regardless it suits you better. Besides, Visenya’s dragon Vhagar was green and bronze, just like Rhaegal, so it only seems fitting.”
“Thank you, Daenerys. I will treasure it.”
Her friend squeezed her hand. “I’m so glad. Grey Worm, would you like to show her the other surprise?”
With an unusually dramatic gesture, he uncovered a bowl on the table, revealing a few dozen figs, plump and ripe and unlike any fruit she had seen since coming to Westeros. She cried out in delight and excitement, and reached for one immediately.
“Did Ornela find these too?” Missandei asked in jest as she bit into a fig, letting out a happy moan as it burst on her tongue.
“No, the Braavosi merchant transporting the Iron Bank representative was so moved at the sight of the dragons he wanted to offer me a gift. Doubtless he thought I would ask for something more valuable, but I thought a jar of fresh figs would give us more joy than silks or jewelry.”
Missandei quite agreed. Although not quite as delicious as the fruit they had eaten straight off the tree in Meereen, it was still better than anything she had tasted in months. “So how were the audiences this morning?”
Daenerys sighed. “It was as you expected with the Iron Bank; they offered a generous loan to help seat me on the Iron Throne. I politely declined and said I wanted to meet with a representative of the Iron Bank and the Sealord, so I will be flying to Braavos in ten days. The red priest was, well…”
She trailed off, so Grey Worm helpfully finished her sentence, “A fanatic.”
Missandei was taken aback at that. After meeting with Kinvara in Meereen and Melisandre here on Dragonstone, she had somewhat taken the support of the red temple for granted. “They will not ally with us?”
“Oh no, they will,” said Grey Worm, with uncharacteristic annoyance in his voice, “The red temple will help us free the slaves in Volantis and elsewhere, but not because slavery is evil. They believe it should be a crusade in the name of their god, with the goal of uniting all the people of the world under the Lord of Light. They want to ban all other faiths in the newly freed cities, and asked that you and Daenerys purify other temples in their lord’s holy fire.”
Comprehension dawned on Missandei, followed by horror. She was so used to the many religions of their people-on Dragonstone R’hllor coexisted peacefully with the Great Stallion, the Lady of Spears, and countless other gods-that sometimes she forgot that others passionately believed that their faith was the only true one.
“What did you tell them?”
“I said no, of course,” Daenerys reassured her. “I told him that we will support the freed peoples of Essos worshipping whoever they choose, but there will be no burning of temples or religious suppression in the name of any god. He was somewhat offended, and informed me that I owed my resurrection and my dragons to the red god and his priests. Apparently they saw my death in their fires and believe that it was their prayers that brought me back, so I should show my gratitude by destroying all false gods.”
Grey Worm scoffed, and Missandei had to chuckle at the audacity of the man. She supposed she preferred that sort of fanatical devotion to a cause to the self-interest of men like Tyrion or Varys, who cared for nothing and no one as long as they held power.
“Oh, of course. I assume you immediately came to his side after that being presented with that flawless argument.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and Daenerys laughed.
“Naturally. No, I told him that my people brought me back, and my belief lies in them, not in his god or anyone else’s, but that we could still work together towards our common goal. He seemed satisfied with that, and agreed to the alliance…though he did say he would pray for his lord to open my heart.”
Helping herself to another fig, Missandei asked, “I cannot say I am sorry to have missed that conversation. Do you think it wise to visit Braavos yourself? Even if the Sealord himself will not come, could he not send an emissary?”
Daenerys shook her head. “He could, but I think it is best that I present our case to the Sealord and representatives of the Iron Bank directly. It will be much easier to convince them to enter into an alliance if they see for themselves what we are offering. And besides, I am done with hiding. It is time to let the world know that the dragons have returned.”
That evening, Daenerys called her council together to discuss what came next for them. As she took her place in the Chamber of the Painted Table, Missandei reflected on how much had changed since the last time she had been there. So many were gone-Jorah and Theon, lost in the Battle of Winterfell; Varys, a victim at last of his own scheming; Tyrion to ambition, Davos to duty, and Jon to…well, whatever motivated Jon these days. Missandei wasn’t certain, and thought likely he did not know either.
But Grey Worm was still there, flanked by Hero and Stalwart Shield. Okho and Temmo were present, as was Vorri, taking seats that should have been theirs all along. People stood along the walls too: a few other dosh khaleen and lower-ranking kos, as well as a representative of the Ironborn that Yara had left behind to captain her ships, a quiet older man with a face grizzled by years at sea.
And of course Daenerys was there, sitting at the head of the table, with Missandei beside her.
Once they were settled in, Daenerys addressed them in the Common Tongue they all shared.
“First I must thank you all for your loyalty and courage. You followed me across the sea to a strange land, where you were treated as inferior by the very people we came to defend. Yet you fought bravely and honorably against the greatest enemy this world has ever seen, and remained true even after my death. It was your belief in me, your love, that brought me back to you, and I will never forget. No queen, no khaleesi, no ruler of any sort, has ever been served better or more faithfully by her people than I have been by you, and for that you have my eternal gratitude. If it is in my power, I will grant anything you ask of me. I have renounced all my titles and claims in Westeros, save that of Lady of Dragonstone, which I intend to rule as independent from the Seven Kingdoms as in the days before the Conquest. You are free people and may go where you wish, but I humbly ask that you join me in liberating those still held in bondage in Essos.”
Grey Worm nodded in assent. The Unsullied were wholly committed to the cause of ending slavery and punishing the masters, and would march to the Shadow in order to achieve that goal. Missandei hoped that someday, when the wars were done, when the masters were gone, the Unsullied would put down their spears and rest, but she knew that day was a long way off.
The Ironborn man affirmed that he would do as Daenerys wished, as his queen ordered.
And then it was Vorri’s turn.
In Dothraki she said, “When we return to Essos, only those who are not fit for battle will return to Vaes Dothrak along with some of the dosh khaleen. There they will continue to heal, and train the next generation of warriors. Boys who have grown up in our absence, of course, but any woman or girl who wishes to be trained with the bow or whip or arakh shall be too, the same as a man. The rest will fight to liberate the slaves of the Free Cities. There will be Dothraki slaves among those that are set free, and they shall be welcomed back into our people and treated as equals once more.”
Only Missandei’s years of experience in carefully schooling her expressions kept shock from registering on her face. This must be what the dosh khaleen had been planning, during those long hours sequestered in deep discussion. These were radical ideas: women could hold an esteemed place in Dothraki society, but they were never warriors, and someone who had been enslaved could never regain the status of a free person.
Missandei watched the faces of the kos closely as Vorri spoke, curious to see how they would react. Most of the riders were open to new ways of thinking, yet she knew that for some of them, change came more slowly. And indeed, one of them, a young man with a braid just past his shoulders, looked angry.
Suddenly the young ko, who Missandei thought was named Lavakho, interjected, “If they were weak enough to be taken as slaves, they are no longer fit to be called Dothraki, and women cannot ride to war. It is known.”
The reaction among the other Dothraki was instantaneous, with sounds of disgust and shock filling the room. Vorri shot the man a look that could have frozen the blood in his veins, and beside Missandei, Daenerys stiffened. For her part, Missandei was shocked at this display of insubordination. The very act of interrupting one of the dosh khaleen, let alone their leader, was unspeakably rude in itself, but his words were just as inflammatory. How dare he presume that he knew what was better for their people than the women who were entrusted with preserving and carrying on its very history, its culture? How dare he say that women were unfit for war, that those who had been enslaved were somehow lesser, in front of herself, Daenerys, and members of the Unsullied? Grey Worm’s face remained neutral but she knew he understood at least some of what was being said.
Okho, who seemed to be thinking much the same thing, snapped, “Remember to whom you speak, boy. It is not your place to question the wisdom of the dosh khaleen.”
But before the young man could reply, Vorri spoke, her voice sharp and cold. “You say those things as if they are immutable truth, when they are not. Your ignorance is excusable-perhaps your parents failed to teach you sense-but your arrogance is not. Hold your tongue and allow me to instruct you in the error of your ways. Since the day the first man and horse emerged from the Womb of the World, it was said that the Stallion Who Mounts the World would unite the Dothraki into a single khalasar, that all the people of the world would be his herd. All the Dothraki, all the people, not just the free or the men. All. The Stallion is riding, and it is time for our people to come together.”
But Lavakho shook his head, committing to his foolhardiness. “It would shame us to ride beside women and slaves!”
“They are our people! Every Dothraki life is more precious, now more than ever.” Vorri exclaimed, slamming her hand on the great carved table to emphasize her point. “Too many of us died in Westeros for us to cling to the old ways. If our way of life is to survive, we must adapt, even if it offends the sensibilities of young fools.”
Despite the murmurs of agreement from other Dothraki, Lavakho opened his mouth to retort, but Daenerys did not give him the chance to further embarrass himself.
“Was I not a woman the day you chose to follow me and you swore yourself as blood of my blood, or the day we rode against the Lannister army? Were Grey Worm and his brother Unsullied not former slaves when they guarded the retreat at Winterfell and saved countless Dothraki lives? Was Missandei not a freedwoman when she protected and led our people after my death, when she took Rhaegal as her mount and burned the Iron Fleet? Yet I see that your braid remains uncut and you have added bells for each of those victories. There was no shame in it, and when freed Dothraki and Dothraki women ride beside us to war, there will be no shame then either.”
Her words, though spoken without malice, seemed to strike him like a physical blow. The young man swallowed heavily, finally He nodded, looking abashed. “Yes, khaleesi. I should not have spoken out of turn.”
“You may always speak freely to me, but you cannot disrespect others so. We are all equals here, one people. You will apologize to Vorri and the rest of the dosh khaleen for insulting their wisdom and authority, as well as Missandei, Grey Worm, Stalwart Shield, and Hero, for demeaning their status as freed people. And I think it would be beneficial for you to join the khas of the dosh khaleen, to observe them more closely and learn about the importance of what they do. If that is alright with you, Vorri.”
Vorri nodded her assent, and Lavakho apologized profusely to each of them in turn.
Missandei accepted, pleased with this peaceful resolution. It seemed that Lavakho had learned the error of his ways without any violence.
She suspected that Khal Drogo, or any other khal, would have killed a man for far less, but that was not Daenerys’s way. Despite what Tyrion or her other enemies might say, she did not enjoy killing or causing harm, and if there was a way to end conflict without violence, that was the path she took. This way, the authority of the dosh khaleen was upheld, their reforms would be implemented, and no blood had been shed.
With that resolved, they discussed their return to Essos, deciding that once their alliances with Braavos and the Summer Isles were established, they would attack Volantis first, as the representatives of the red temple had suggested. Missandei brimmed with excitement: they were finally going to make their first strike against the slave trade, starting with its beating heart.
But the day before the planned meeting in Braavos, Daenerys became violently ill, vomiting up the contents of her stomach and turning green at any food she was offered. At first Missandei feared the worst-that a poisoner, some agent of Tyrion, the Starks or some unknown enemy had somehow infiltrated Dragonstone and succeeded where Varys had failed-but Vorri assured her it was only a tender mother’s stomach, which affected many women with child. Daenerys concurred, insisting that Rhaego had made her ill too. Besides, Grey Worm and Missandei shared all her meals, and neither of them were sick.
But this explanation did not address the more pressing issue. Daenerys was in no condition to fly around Dragonstone, let alone all the way to Braavos and back, and it was too late to send a messenger. There was only one solution: Missandei would go to Braavos in her stead to treat with their potential allies. The Braavosi had been promised a dragonrider, and a dragonrider they would get.
Despite the importance of her task, she was not nervous at all; negotiations and diplomacy were easy for her, as natural as flying was for Rhaegal. They set out very early on the day of the meeting, before the sun even rose, and crossed the Narrow Sea before turning north towards Braavos. The journey was uneventful, and as they neared their destination, she felt her excitement rising.
Missandei had always wanted to see Braavos of the Hundred Isles, that ancient and remarkable city founded by runaway slaves, and her first sight of it did not disappoint. As they descended from the clouds, the great lagoon spread out beneath her was dotted with hundreds, maybe thousands, of ships, more than she had ever seen before. Even from Rhaegal’s back, the legendary Titan of Braavos was impressive, and she could not imagine what it would be like when viewed from the deck of a ship passing between those massive stone legs.
A ship must have entered the harbor, because the Titan roared, a terrible groan like stone grinding against stone. Rhaegal replied with a roar of his own, perhaps to let the Titan know that he was not afraid, and Missandei smiled as they flew closer to the city.
Turning Rhaegal towards the northeast, Missandei spotted the Sealord’s Palace immediately-a vast, sprawling complex of towers and domes on a small peninsula jutting into the sea. She was careful to stay over the water-it would not do to cause panic by flying a dragon over the city proper-and circled the palace, looking for the planned meeting place. Even from above the palace was stunning, with brightly colored pennants snapping in the wind and a great golden thunderbolt turning atop the highest spire.
The largest courtyard, which contained a great stone fountain, many trees, and beds of flowers, could have held hundreds of people, yet Missandei saw only two waiting for her as they made their descent. Missandei took care to land Rhaegal as softly as possible, trying not to damage the elaborate mosaic decorating the courtyard floor. As lovely as it was, she was fairly certain it had not been designed to bear a dragon’s weight. Rhaegal bent his shoulder, allowing her to slide off his back easily. She took a moment to compose herself before turning to face the men she needed to win to their side.
Both the Sealord and the representative of the keyholders hid their surprise at her identity fairly well-or perhaps they were just so awestruck at the sight of Rhaegal that a mere woman could not provoke a reaction. While they stared, slack-jawed, at her dragon, she took the opportunity to study them both. One was in his middling years, relatively young to hold such an exalted position, and though the other’s hair had gone snowy white with age, his eyes were still sharp with intelligence. They were dressed exquisitely, in simple robes of deep blues and purples of the highest quality, understated yet still clear markers of their vast wealth.
But Missandei did not feel shabby standing beside them. She wore deep crimson leggings and matching gloves, a greenish-brown tunic beneath her coat of Valyrian steel mail, and a fine red cape, stitched with gold to resemble flames. Any wealthy man could buy fine robes but her bond with Rhaegal was more precious than all the gold and jewels in the world.
Braavosi was the dialect of Low Valyrian she was perhaps least familiar with, along with Norvothi-as those cities did far less business with Astapor than the other Free Cities-but she still felt reasonably confident when she spoke.
“Greetings, my lords. I am Missandei Dragonspeaker, and I am here on behalf of Daenerys Stormborn. She regrets not being able to meet with you today, but she is feeling unwell and unable to attend. Rest assured that I have her complete trust and speak for her in all things.”
For a moment they continued to gape at Rhaegal until the younger man finally seemed to find his voice, and said smoothly, “Welcome to our city. I am the Sealord, Tormo Fregar, and this is Noho Dimittis of the Iron Bank.”
The other man’s expression shifted from awe to distaste as he looked her over. “How can we be certain you are who you say?”
At that Missandei shot a conspicuous glance at Rhaegal, who was watching the proceedings closely with a critical eye. “I understand that this is all rather unconventional, but I quite think that my dragon serves as better proof of my identity than any diplomatic credentials could.”
That earned a nervous chuckle in response from the Sealord, and a dour look from the keyholder. Missandei wondered if his disdain was because of her sex, the color of her skin, or some combination of both. Either way, it did not bode well for their negotiations, but she would not be deterred by his hostility, which paled in comparison to what she experienced in Westeros and Astapor.
“Shall we retire within?” The Sealord inclined his head towards an entryway leading into the palace itself, and although it was large, Rhaegal would not be able to follow her. Yet Missandei had no intention of being separated from him, though she knew she could not say so openly.
Instead she smiled disarmingly and asked, “It is such a fine day, could we not remain here?”
The Sealord nodded. “As our most honored guest wishes.”
He gestured, and servants poured into the courtyard, bringing chairs and refreshments, though taking care to give Rhaegal a wide berth. Missandei noted immediately that there were only two chairs: they intended to make her ask for a seat. She recognized it as a tactic Kraznys often employed when negotiating with potential customers, meant to put the other person in a position of inferiority and to reinforce his own status. It was an old game, one that had probably existed for millennia, but she had no intention of playing along.
At her signal, Rhaegal settled down onto the floor, curling his tail around his body to rest near his face. Missandei sat on the end of his tail, perched between two sharp bronze spines, and was pleased to see that she was now looking down on both men. Under Rhaegal’s burning gaze, they would not be able to forget for even an instant who it was they were speaking to.
She surveyed the Braavosi, schooling her expression into careful neutrality as she waited for them to speak first. Another negotiating strategy: let them think that they are in control when really you are the one dictating the progression of the conversation.
Missandei let the silence stretch out, untroubled by it. She was perfectly content to sit quietly for hours if need be while they shifted nervously before her dragon, eyes tracking his every move. All was quiet except for their breathing, the calls of animals in the Sealord’s menagerie, and the distant rumble of the sea.
The Sealord was the first to break. “You are a brave woman, Missandei Dragonspeaker. Most ladies do not travel alone, yet you flew to a foreign city, without escort or army, to meet with strange men. The dragon queen must have great faith in you, to send you on a sensitive mission such as this.”
It was a seemingly innocuous question, yet Missandei heard the pointed questions behind his words. Who are you to ride a dragon, to demand an audience with the most powerful men in Braavos? What do you want from us? Are you bold beyond belief or just foolish?
Missandei shrugged. “I am no lady, my lords, only a freedwoman of Naath who has advised Daenerys Stormborn for many years and shares her vision for the world. As for what gave me the courage to come alone, it is difficult to say. Perhaps it is trust in the honor of the Sealord and the Iron Bank, who are known across the world for their integrity. Perhaps it is as you said: bravery. Or I am simply secure in the knowledge that anyone who wishes to do me harm would have Rhaegal to contend with first.”
Upon hearing his name, the dragon huffed, sending plumes of smoke rising from his nostrils, and both men flinched.
“What does the Mother of Dragons want with Braavos? She rejected our offer to seat her on the Iron Throne, yet here you are.” Apparently tired of the verbal sparring, Dimittis spoke bluntly, his irritation apparent.
With practiced calm, Missandei replied, “You are familiar with Daenerys’s actions before she sailed for Westeros, I assume?”
“Yes, I imagine that the whole world knows of what transpired in Slaver’s Bay.”
His use of the old name, the incorrect name, was a deliberate attempt to rankle her, but she refused to give him that satisfaction.
Her voice was cool. “Before the Free Cities were founded, before dragons set forth from Old Valyria, there were slaves in the world. The Bay of Dragons, formerly known as Slaver’s Bay, was a center of that abomination for thousands of years. Bricks and blood built Astapor, and bricks and blood her people, so it was said. No longer. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are free cities now, ruled by free people, and will never know shackles again. But the Breaker of Chains knows her work is not yet complete. Slavery still persists-in the Free Cities and the Basilisk Isles, and even farther east in Qarth and Asshai. We intend to eradicate slavery from every corner of this world, and seek allies to aid us in our great task. Will Braavos stand with us against this evil, this taint upon the world?”
The men exchanged a look, and she saw a hint of amusement on their faces before the Sealord spoke.
“Our great city was founded long ago by slaves who escaped the dragonlords of the Freehold. Why should we now ally with one of their descendants?”
His condescension irritated Missandei. She had flown across the sea to meet with them, yet he felt the need to lecture her on Braavos’s history, as though it were not common knowledge! It did not escape her that, for all the much-vaunted equality of Braavos, no woman had ever been chosen as Sealord, and among the thousands of keyholders in the Iron Bank, only a small number were female. Although Braavos did not allow slavery within its walls, the Iron Bank profited from the flesh markets in every corner of the world and Sealords allied with slaver cities regularly. Kraznys had conducted business with the Iron Bank, as did many of the other prominent slavers in Astapor. The founders of Braavos were runaway slaves, it was true, but their descendants seemed to value profit over liberty.
“Do I look Valyrian to you, my lords? I know what it is like to be bought and sold, better than you ever shall.” Venom crept into her voice, at the audacity of these men to speak to her of allying with slavers.
Not waiting for a response, she continued, “Let me speak plainly. With or without your assistance, we will defeat the masters in every city and end the slave trade forever. That is not in question. However, if we work together, the slaves will be free that much sooner and we can ensure a smooth transition away from a slave economy. By giving you this warning, you, my lord Dimittis, now have the opportunity to pull your investments from the slave trade and can warn your allies to do the same. If you so choose, you may withhold this information from rivals within the Iron Bank, and let them bear the brunt of the financial loss. So many of those great nobles in the slaving cities sit on their wealth, hoarding it in vaults within their manses, where you cannot touch it or profit from it. But when we defeat them, all those riches will be redistributed to their former slaves, who will spend it-to start their own businesses or buy property-and of course they will need a bank to do all of that. If you join us, you would be ideally positioned to fulfill that need. And you, Sealord Fregar-the new governments of these cities will be establishing diplomatic relationships with other cities, and would be inclined to look favorably on Braavos in matters of trade and war if you participated in their liberation. Ally with us, and you will profit greatly.”
Another look passed between the two men, this one thoughtful, and Missandei felt a strange combination of satisfaction and frustration that promises of wealth and influence had been more effective than her moral arguments. It was not surprising yet still she found herself somewhat disappointed.
It does not matter what they believe, she told herself. You need their ships and their gold, not their hearts.
“Have you considered the debts owed by the Iron Throne to our bank? Queen Cersei borrowed extensively from us but left no heir to pay what is due.”
Missandei knew that this was not an unreasonable question for Dimittis to ask, though it was hardly her fault or Daenerys’s, that they had made a poor investment in the Lannister queen.
“What of them? Daenerys has renounced her claims to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, therefore she has no responsibility for their debts. You would not ask a Volantene triarch to make good on a loan taken out by a Tyroshi archon. If you are looking for a Westerosi ruler to back in hopes of recouping your losses, I would suggest Yara Greyjoy. She is queen of the Iron Islands and recently came into possession of the Iron Fleet. Well, most of it. Some burned or went to the bottom of the sea with her uncle Euron, who will no longer be troubling merchants on the Narrow Sea…or anywhere else, for that matter. Another gift from us to your fair city.”
He did not look entirely pleased at that answer, but he could not have really expected Daenerys to take on Cersei’s debt when she did not sit on the throne it paid for. And the Iron Bank would benefit from the boost in trade that would come without Euron terrorizing the merchant fleets of the world.
“We will profit if you are successful. You seem quite confident that you will be victorious in this endeavor. Do you think this confidence is warranted?” the Sealord observed archly.
She smiled. “Indeed I do. The Unsullied are the greatest infantry in the world, the Dothraki the most skilled cavalry, and the dragons…well, they are dragons, what more is there to be said? There is no force beneath the sun that could stand against us.”
They had defeated the allied slavers in Meereen, the Lannister army and the Iron Fleet. Even the army of the dead had not been able to destroy their forces. Missandei was not concerned by anything that the Free Cities could muster against them. When they turned their focus farther east and confronted the powerful magic found in Qarth and Asshai, they would face a greater challenge, but for now she was not concerned.
“I understand that you have known great success in Westeros, but that land has known near a decade of continual war. It was on the verge of collapse long before you arrived. Essos is a different matter entirely, far wealthier and more stable than the Sunset Kingdoms. Any city you turn your gaze to will hire sellsword companies, of course. Now that the Golden Company is seeking employment, it is likely you would face them in battle, along with many others.”
Missandei fought the urge to roll her eyes. They may need to burn a sellsword company or two, but more likely than not, few would be willing to sign a contract pitting them against Unsullied, a khalasar, and three fully grown dragons. Even if some cities did manage to contract sellswords, they would be easy to win away or defeat in battle. The Sealord was trying to sow doubt in her mind, but it would not work.
Tilting her head to one side, she said, her voice deceptively sweet, “I have been away from Essos for some time, so perhaps I am not aware of some recent development. Has the Golden Company trained their elephants to fly or breathe fire? If not, I would offer them some advice before they choose to face us in the field. Never bet against dragons.”
To her surprise, she saw the corner of Dimittis’s mouth turn up in amusement. He gave the Sealord the tiniest of nods, and she knew she had them.
A wave of triumph washed over her, though she took care not to let her satisfaction show. There would be more discussion, of course, as the details of their alliance would need to be hammered out, but the day was hers.
