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Chapter Text

Conquering a city is a simple enough thing, especially if one has dragons. But we did not set out as conquerors, had no desire to place the Free Cities under our control permanently. No, our goal was to cast down the masters into the dust, where they belonged, and give their ill-gotten riches to those whose exploitation had made them possible, without harming innocents. We came to give the people of Essos what they deserved-freedom and equality for the formerly enslaved and downtrodden, fire and blood for the masters, and justice for all. To achieve that, we needed to take a subtler approach.

-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

Objectively Missandei knew that Dragonstone was a foreboding place, a bleak stone edifice on a barren island surrounded by turbulent seas, yet to her, it could not have seemed more welcoming. They were safe, finally in a place they could call their own and away from Westerosi hostility, and for the first time in a great long while, Missandei felt like she could truly breathe.

It did not hurt that the castle had clearly been built by and for dragonriders. If Missandei wished, she could land Rhaegal any number of balconies or walkways and enter the keep without ever setting foot on the ground, and many parts of the island were only accessible on dragonback. The dragons adored the volcanic heat of the island, and Missandei had passed long hours in the castle baths alone or with Grey Worm, letting the hot springs melt away her aches and cares.

Daenerys also seemed to thrive here in the place of her birth, though Missandei was unsure about whether that was due to the island itself or the unconventional healing method her friend had embarked upon. Every morning, Missandei and Daenerys rose early and took a long flight, not to train as they had at White Harbor, but simply for the joy of it. Then Daenerys would strip off her clothes and have her sons breathe fire over her, as she was certain that the dragonflame was speeding up her recovery.

And it was undeniable that her injuries were healing rapidly, faster than would be expected for wounds of that severity, and Daenerys reported less and less pain each day. Missandei was glad, because she needed her friend fully healed to face the many challenges that lay before them.

The rest of Westeros had certainly not sat quietly after their departure from the North. Merchant ships and fishing vessels sailed near the island regularly, and most were more than willing to exchange information for fresh water or to peddle their wares-not to mention the chance to glimpse of the Mother of Dragons and her famous children. Even now, sitting and waiting for Daenerys to dress after what she called a fire-bath, Missandei saw a ship departing from their harbor and wondered what fresh news it had brought.

It was from such passersby they learned that Cersei Lannister was dead, though no one could quite seem to agree on how she had died, or even who killed her. Some rumors spoke of poisoned wine from the Reach or Dorne, sent by relatives of her victims. Others said that she had been betrayed by her own men or that Tyrion had used some foul sorcery to slay her from afar. Still others were convinced that a Faceless Man had slipped into the Red Keep and slit her throat.

They would likely never know for certain, but Missandei would not lose sleep over that particular mystery. She was just glad that Cersei was gone. And on that all the sources agreed: she was undoubtedly dead, and her brother-lover the Kingslayer too, assassinated in the riverlands on his way back to King’s Landing. Missandei was unsurprised by this turn of events; he was one of the most hated men in Westeros, and that golden hand was quite conspicuous. As she had never even spoken to the man, she had no strong feelings on his demise, aside from a general satisfaction at having one less enemy in the world.

Although Tyrion was faring better than his siblings, as all reports indicated that he was still alive, his bid to retake Casterly Rock was not going well. After Grey Worm abandoned the castle to go north, Tyrion’s aunt had claimed it and was now putting up a spirited defense against the nephew she named traitor, kingslayer, and kinslayer twice over. Missandei wished her well in that endeavor.

Meanwhile the Seven Kingdoms were well on their way to becoming seven in truth again, not just in name. Dorne, the Reach, the stormlands, the Vale, and the riverlands had joined with the Iron Islands and the North in declaring that they were independent once more, with only the westerlands remaining nominally loyal to the Iron Throne.

And things were no better in King’s Landing. After Cersei’s death, both warring factions of the Lannister family had called on the troops stationed there to return to the Rock, and the city devolved into chaos. Apparently the Golden Company had not received full payment for their services before arriving in Westeros, only receiving half up front. The rest was to have been paid in booty-including salvage rights to the dragons’ corpses-upon Cersei’s victory. Of course, that had not happened, so the Golden Company collected the remaining balance before departing King’s Landing...a softer way of saying that they had looted the city, which was now little more than a ghost town.

With Lannister strength broken or focused elsewhere and the city undefended, it would have been almost comically easy to take King’s Landing. Daenerys said that its walls had been lined with scorpions in her vision, but Missandei doubted that there was anyone left willing to man them. They could fly to the capital, burn any opposition they faced within the Red Keep, and seat Daenerys on the throne of her ancestors in less than a day, while Yara ferried their remaining forces across Blackwater Bay in her new fleet-if they were even needed. In her vision Daenerys and Drogon had destroyed all of the scorpions, the Iron Fleet, and the Golden Company alone, and Missandei did not doubt that all three dragons could make even shorter work of whatever resistance King’s Landing could put up. With Westeros in chaos, the victory Daenerys had sought for so long was nearly in her grasp.

But she showed not even a hint of interest in returning to the mainland. Daenerys remained firm in her convictions: she was done with Westeros and would be returning to Essos with her people. Yara had even delayed her departure from Dragonstone to try to convince Daenerys to attack the city, but Daenerys told her that while Yara was free to attack wherever she wished, even to claim the Iron Throne if that was her desire, but her own campaigns in Westeros were finished. Ultimately, Yara had given up at her persuasions and sailed for the Iron Islands, though not before affirming their alliance and promising not to raid in the Reach or Dorne-out of respect for their murdered allies-or White Harbor, as it would be a poor way to repay their generosity. She had also left behind a dozen ships, captained and crewed by loyal men, to aid them in whatever came next.

It was that question, of what the future held for them, that had been on Missandei’s mind much of late.

“What are you thinking about?” Daenerys’s voice, though soft, startled Missandei; she had been so deep in thought she had not noticed her friend coming to sit beside her.

“What we’re going to do next. I know we discussed it briefly the night you came back, but then our focus was entirely on Euron and recovering from the battles. Gods know that we needed the time to rest and heal, but I confess that I grow restless, lingering here while millions are held in bondage across Essos.”

Daenerys nodded. “I have been feeling much the same way, Missandei. Much as I am loath to return to war, our place is across the sea. Tell me your ideas, what you believe we must do.”

“May I speak freely?” It was an old habit, asking for permission to speak or act. Even now, after years spent as a free woman, it was difficult to break those patterns of behavior formed by the trauma of slavery.

“Always, and you need never ask. You are blood of my blood, we are equal in every way,” Daenerys replied with a smile.

“In Astapor and Yunkai, even once the slaves were freed and many masters killed, the masters were able to seize power and reinstitute slavery once we left. Unless you wish to permanently occupy every city in Essos, we must ensure that this cannot happen again.”

“I agree, but how? Unless we kill all the masters and their entire families, wipe out that whole class of people, and I do not think either of us are willing to burn children.”

“Of course not. But I believe there is another way,” She took a deep breath, steeling herself to share an idea that had begun to take form in her mind years ago.

“When we take a city, we must do it as quickly and bloodlessly as possible, so the masters don’t know what is happening until too late. Once we have control, every adult who owned slaves or participated in the slave trade will be given a trial. Those that they enslaved or wronged in other ways-a man who raped or beat a slave, for instance, even if he did not own them-can make accusations and detail the crimes perpetrated by that person, and others will be free to speak in support of the accused. We will have to ensure that no one fears reprisals for coming forward, of course. The occupants of the city can choose a small group-a mixture of women and men, freeborn and formerly enslaved, rich and poor-to sit in judgement for each of these trials, and determine that person’s innocence or guilt. If they are found guilty, perhaps the victims can decide what punishment is suitable-or maybe the judges shall, I do not know what would be best-and punished accordingly, including with death, if their crimes merit it."

"And all the wealth of the masters must be taken and divided up amongst the people they enslaved, as well as the poor of the city, so that they might build lives of their own, or return to their homelands, if they wish. Some of it should go to funding things for everyone-schools for all children, like those we founded in Meereen, hospitals, libraries, sources of clean water and food, orphanages and the like. The children of the wealthy will be cared for and given the same education as any other child, and shall not be punished for the sins of their parents. Former masters who are not executed can live and work, as long as they follow whatever laws are put into place. We will keep the peace in the city while the people choose their own leaders, as Daario did in Meereen, and make laws. Perhaps the Unsullied can train those who wish to become soldiers, so that they may defend their city. But all of it-the overthrow of the masters, the trials, the formation of a new government-must be guided by the inhabitants of the city, it must be their own, not something we impose upon them.”

As she spoke, Daenerys listened quietly, not interrupting or asking questions, just watching Missandei with a strange expression on her face.

Feeling uncharacteristically anxious, Missandei did not wait for a response, but continued, “It is not a perfect solution, I know. I wish we could burn all the masters in their manses and palaces, every last one of them, and be done with it, but if we do that then innocents will die too. This way, there will be justice for all, and any surviving masters will lack the resources to bring back slavery-”

This time Daenerys did interrupt her, but not with words. Instead she pulled her into a tight embrace and said softly, “Oh, Missandei, has there ever been another like you in this world? You are brilliant and good, kind and fierce, and I-I love you so.”

“I love you too, blood of my blood,” Missandei leaned into her friend’s warmth, inhaling that unique combination of smells that made up her friend’s scent-the oil in her hair, something like fire and the sky that Missandei had come to associate with the dragons. “Does this mean you wish to proceed with my plan?”

“Yes, of course,” Apparently too excited to sit, Daenerys rose and began to pace back and forth as she spoke. “If we are to do this, we will need the Unsullied and Dothraki there as well, to maintain order and ensure that no masters try to slip away with their gold. You and I, with the dragons, could take any city in the world, but unfortunately I do not think we can expect them to be much help in arranging trials or organizing seized assets, and the two of us cannot do it all alone.”

Her words conjured the mental image of Viserion peering down at an account book, and Missandei giggled. “Undoubtedly. We should reach out to the ted temples in these cities, they would make excellent allies. After all, their priests speak openly of their desire to end slavery, and they would be ideally suited to organize resistance from within and guide the rebirth of the cities. And perhaps it would be worth seeking an alliance with the Summer Isles. They have suffered more than most at the hands of slavers, and banned the practice on their own shores long ago.”

“Yes, I shall send an envoy. I believe that the Isles are currently controlled by several different princes, but a princess rules Jhala, the largest and most populous of the islands. Perhaps some Unsullied from the Summer Isles who still speak their birth tongue could present our case to her? Swan ships and archers with goldenheart bows would be invaluable when we attack Lys and Tyrosh. But in any case, we cannot wait for their ships or those from the Bay of Dragons. It will take weeks, maybe months, for them to assemble a fleet large enough for all of us and for it to reach us here.”

“And while we wait, the slave trade continues. What of Braavos?” Missandei suggested. She had considered that particular problem as well, and thought she had a solution to the issue of transportation as well.

“Should we try to hire ships from them, you mean?”   

“No, not a hired fleet. An alliance. A city ruled by the descendants of runaway slaves should be able to find common cause with the Breaker of Chains, after all.” Missandei said wryly. Even if the principle of liberation alone was not enough to convince the Braavosi, surely they would understand the financial benefit of being on the winning side.

And they would be victorious, Missandei had no doubt of that. The slavers’ days were numbered, and soon they would get what they deserved.

Daenerys looked thoughtful. “With Cersei dead, the Iron Bank no longer has a foothold in Westeros, so they will likely come calling anyway…though we do not have the riches of Highgarden or Casterly Rock to repay Lannister debts. But I suppose we can work out something in our negotiations…”

Shaking her head, as if to cast off thoughts of bankers and coin, and said, “The masters cannot know of our true intentions, or else they will punish the slaves brutally or use them as hostages against us. Let us put the word out that I found the Sunset Kingdoms to be cold and not to my liking, and have decided instead to reclaim the Free Cities that once belonged to the Freehold. With any luck, the rulers of those cities will believe they only have conquest to fear, not revolution. If their focus is on us, they will be less likely to look inwards.”

Missandei thought that was an excellent misdirection, and one that the avaricious masters would swallow readily. “We will keep them ignorant until it is too late, and they are getting what they deserve.”

“Just like Yara’s dear departed uncle Euron.”

Daenerys’s smile was sharp, and Missandei answered it with one of her own. Tyrion would have been appalled, of course, but then he was a master too, in his own way. The highborn of Westeros may not have owned the smallfolk in precisely the same way as the masters of Essos possessed enslaved people, but both systems were cruel and oppressive. He would never be willing to do what needed to be done against masters, would never speak their language of violence to them back to them, because ultimately he was one of them and he knew it.

But Missandei would give them what they deserved. She would give every single slaver, every last master, fire and blood, and she would do it with a smile on her face. Nothing she could do now would restore her murdered family to life, give her back the years of her life that had been stolen by Kraznys and the other masters, or wipe away the trauma she had endured, but she could ensure that no one else ever suffered as she had.

The next day was quiet, the sky clear and the seas around Dragonstone relatively calm. Missandei and Grey Worm were alone in their chambers; the Unsullied had finished with their drills and Daenerys was sequestered with the dosh khaleen, discussing the future of the Dothraki. For all that Missandei spoke their language like it was her mother tongue, she had not been a khaleesi, and so their councils were barred to her. She was reading a dusty old tome written by some long-dead maester about the Free Cities in preparation for their upcoming campaign, but found her attention wandering.

And so she decided it was time for something she had longed for ever since her first flight with Rhaegal.

“Grey Worm?”

“Hmm?” He looked up from the parchment on which he was carefully sketching a design for her armor. Despite a lack of experience, Grey Worm was a talented artist, and would happily spend hours drawing.

“I want to take you flying,” she said, her voice quavering with excitement. Being on Rhaegal’s back was the best thing she had ever felt, something glorious and joyful and transcendent, and she wanted to share it with Grey Worm. Even though she knew it would not be the same for him-he would only be a passenger, not a bonded rider-it was still an experience unlike any other.

“Will he let me?” To her surprise, Grey Worm seemed somewhat skeptical, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Eager to reassure him, she said, “Of course! I love you, and Daenerys loves you, and he’s known you for years. Besides, Drogon carried a bunch of strangers on his back when they went north of the Wall, and Rhaegal let Jon ride him at Winterfell because his mother wished it.”

Grey Worm seemed to consider that for a minute, then nodded his assent.

Taking him by the hand, unable to stop smiling, Missandei led him through the castle out onto the great peninsula where the dragons rested. Despite the numerous caves and high perches on the island, they preferred to stay close to the castle, out in the open. Missandei thought that it reminded them of the vast plains of Essos where they had grown up, or perhaps that they just wanted to be as near to her and their mother as possible.

Viserion and Drogon were out hunting over the water while Rhaegal dozed, but when Missandei drew near, his eyes flicked open and he let out a cheerful call. It only took a moment for him to cover the ground between them, and she stroked his nose in greeting.

Grey Worm held back, watching with a mixture of apprehension and awe in his face. She beckoned him to come closer, and took his hand once more. His fingers were trembling slightly as she raised their joined hands to gently caress Rhaegal’s face, but as the dragon rumbled in quiet contentment she felt him relax.

“I should have said this long ago, but thank you,” Grey Worm said quietly, unexpectedly, and Missandei looked at him out of the corner of her eye. What was he thanking her for?

But then he continued, and she realized he was not speaking to her.

“Thank you for protecting her, at Winterfell and in battle. She means more to me than anything, more than my own life, and I know that she is safe with you. I think perhaps you love her as much as I.”

Grey Worm gazed into Rhaegal’s deep bronze eyes as he spoke and through their bond she knew the dragon understood even before he nuzzled Grey Worm, bumping his shoulder with gentle affection.

To Missandei’s surprise, she felt tears prickle in her eyes-not of grief, but from joy and the overwhelming love she felt for them both in that moment.

Wiping the unbidden tears away, she stepped back towards Rhaegal’s wing.

Rhaegal lowered his shoulder and she climbed onto him easily, as naturally as a khal would mount his horse. But he did not straighten as he usually did; instead, reading her intentions, he remained bent towards the ground, looking expectantly towards Grey Worm.

“Well,” she said, light and teasing, “Are you going to join us? It’s bad manners to keep a dragon waiting.”

Grey Worm chuckled, then hauled himself up onto Rhaegal’s back-not quite as gracefully as he normally moved, but nothing like Jon’s awkward clamber the first time he rode Rhaegal, as described to her by Daenerys. She helped him settle into place behind her, his front pressed against her back, and he looped his arms about her waist to hold her close.

Closing her eyes, she relaxed into their bond, reveling in the melding of their minds. Nothing had ever felt so right, so easy, and she softened against Grey Worm’s chest.

“You’re so warm,” Grey Worm murmured, wonder in his voice, as he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Rhaegal is fire made flesh and his fire is in me. Now, are you ready to fly?”

In response, Grey Worm gripped her tighter and she gave a little laugh.

“Hold on, my love.”

Rhaegal pulled back before leaping up into the air, and Grey Worm sucked in a breath as they left the ground behind. Deciding it would be best for his nerves to avoid the open ocean, Missandei had Rhaegal circle the island, pointing out various interesting things only visible from above. Grey Worm was quiet, and she thought he was simply listening to her. But when she glanced back at him, she saw that he was watching her, an expression of pure adoration on his face. Impulsively she kissed him, and wondered if it was possible to be happier than she was in that instant. 

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.

Chapter Text

A strong easterly wind carried Yara Greyjoy and her fleet across the Narrow Sea and into the largest harbor of Pentos, where Missandei and Daenerys were waiting to greet her. Missandei awaited Yara’s arrival eagerly, not just for the other woman’s company-which she did enjoy-but also because it meant they were that much closer to embarking on their campaign against Volantis. Word had recently arrived from their allies in the Volantene temple of the Lord of Light: Unsullied had successfully infiltrated the city, training enslaved people in secret and preparing them to fight. The triarchs were quite convinced that Daenerys planned to conquer their city, not to provide a distraction for a slave uprising, and were unaware that the threat came from within their own walls. All was in readiness there; now they only waited for Yara, who had sent word that she wished to join them on their campaign.

Grey Worm was among the Unsullied who slipped into Volantis in the guise of a common slave months ago, and his absence left an ache in Missandei’s chest. She knew that no one was better suited, that it was necessary, but she missed him fiercely.

Yet to the eyes of the world, Grey Worm was standing with her, his distinctive three-spiked commander’s helm shining bright in the afternoon light. Indeed Fearless Sun, the man just behind her and Daenerys, was the same height and build as Grey Worm, and in features and voice they were strikingly similar, though certainly not identical. People saw what they expected to see: the world knew that the Unsullied were commanded by a man from the Summer Isles, so when presented with a dark-skinned man wearing that unique helm-which, fortuitously, mostly covered his face-, they did not question it. In public Fearless Sun spoke as little as possible and never showed his face, and so only a handful knew that the leader of the Unsullied was thousands of leagues away in Volantis.

Thankfully Missandei quite liked Fearless Sun, who was eager to excel at such an important duty and never tried to usurp any of Grey Worm’s roles-as advisor, friend, confidante, or lover-, she would never get used to publicly behaving as though he was Grey Worm.

It was all very odd, though the strangeness did help distract her from the pain of their separation.

But then, Pentos was already a curious place, a city of contradictions. Despite its impressive walls and vast wealth, it was extremely vulnerable, without an army or contracted sellsword companies, and less than two dozen warships floating in its harbors. This strange state of affairs was the product of a series of disastrous wars Pentos fought against Braavos, the last of which ended nearly a century earlier. In addition to stripping Pentos of its military strength, the Braavosi forced them to end their involvement in the slave trade and abolished slavery within its walls.

Yet within those towering walls, there dwelt tens of thousands of people with collars around their necks and slave tattoos marking their faces. Free bond servants, that was what these unfortunate souls were called. Though technically free, they were not paid, and were indebted to their ‘employers’ for their food, shelter, and clothing. To Missandei’s eye, they were slaves in all but name.

Despite its lack of defenses and fabulously rich denizens, the city had not faced war in living memory. Braavosi vessels protected them from the sea, and as for threats from the land…Well, the princes and magisters of Pentos had found a solution to that as well. For decades, whenever an enterprising khal led his khalasar to the city’s gates, he would be presented with horses, slaves, gold, and whatever other luxuries it would take to get him to leave in peace.

But the Pentoshi were dealing with a different sort of khal now, one who would not take a bribe and go away; all the riches in the world would not be enough to convince Daenerys to let the city continue to enslave people, even if they did so under a different name. Before they could take Volantis, they needed to end the practice of bond servitude, once and for all.

And so when they departed from Dragonstone, they did not sail directly to Pentos. Instead they put in somewhat up the coastline and made the last leg of the journey overland, to stage a deliberately theatrical arrival at the city itself to remind the Pentoshi elite who they were up against.

First came Fearless Sun and the Unsullied, marching down from the hills in perfect silence, and lining up outside the walls in row after row. There were a handful of Unsullied in the city-Kraznys had done business with the wealthiest Pentoshi, who wanted the most prestigious of guards to protect their manses-but nothing to match the sight of thousands upon thousands of Unsullied standing in formation.

Then the Dothraki, led by Okho and Temno, blowing their horns and shouting as they rode through the Unsullied lines, then back and forth before the city to remind the Pentoshi what a khalasar could do.

And finally, the dragons, with Missandei and Daenerys, descending through the clouds together and taking a lazy circuit around the city, calling to one another all the while. Although they were not roars of aggression-merely sounds the dragons made to communicate with one another-they still sounded quite intimidating. They flew low enough that Missandei could hear the cries of fear and wonder from the people below, and she noticed that in the poorer parts of the city, cheers followed their flight, along with shouts of dracarys and mhysa.

They landed between their assembled people and the walls of the city and sent word to the current prince and magisters that they were ready to negotiate their terms of surrender. Even before representatives came out to treat with them, Missandei knew that they would agree to free their slaves. With Unsullied and Dothraki on land, dragons in the air, and a Braavosi fleet encircling them from the sea, the masters of Pentos would free the bond servants in exchange for their lives and positions, and do it gladly.

And so it was. The debts of every free bond servant were forgiven, and they received fair compensation for their years of labor. If they wished to continue working for their so-called employers, they were paid reasonable wages allowing them to live comfortably, or could seek work elsewhere. They would have all the rights of a freeborn citizen of the city, with rape, murder, or any other crime against them forbidden and punishable by law. There would be no more slave collars in Pentos, and no fresh tattoos either.

Another triumph, unlooked for but no less pleasing, was the news that Magister Illyrio, the man who sold Daenerys to Khal Drogo and gifted her with three petrified dragon eggs all those years ago, had passed away in his sleep during their voyage from Dragonstone. Not only did this spare them from having to deal with a man too treacherous for trust yet too powerful to ignore, he had publicly declared that Daenerys was to inherit his fortune in its entirety upon her departure from Essos, seemingly in the hopes that she would name him her Master of Coin upon taking the Iron Throne.

Though none of that had come to pass, it allowed Daenerys to put all that ill-gotten wealth to good use. His manse was transformed to serve the formerly enslaved and the poor of the city, becoming an orphanage, a hospital, a school, a place where food and shelter was always available to those who needed it. Much of his property was redistributed among his former slaves, and the rest went to fund various public works: aqueducts and fountains to provide clean water to all of the city, housing for those who currently lived on the streets, and much more, all under the governance of a group of people, both formerly enslaved and freeborn, chosen by their peers. Daenerys kept only enough to purchase supplies for their people.

Although it was not enough to satisfy Missandei entirely-the masters had not yet been put on trial and punished for their crimes-for now it was enough to know that no one within Pentos wore chains anymore, and that everyone in the city had enough to eat. The rest would come in time. While the prince and magisters still clung to their positions, their power had diminished along with their wealth, and the newly elected council ruled the city in truth.

Though the revolution had been largely peaceful, they did not stand alone on the Pentoshi waterfront. Before his departure, Grey Worm personally selected two dozen Unsullied to guard Missandei and Daenerys-men whose prowess was matched only by their loyalty. This was in addition to Daenerys’s bloodriders and the khas she assigned to protect Missandei, who swore to defend her as they would their khaleesi. Okho recommended that Daenerys place Fonno in Missandei’s khas, in what she at first suspected was a joke. The young man was so overwhelmed in her presence that he was unable to make eye contact with her and went tongue-tied whenever she tried to engage him in conversation, but she learned that he was an excellent shot and a quiet, effective bodyguard, and so was pleased with the decision. Missandei did not know if she would ever become used to moving about surrounded by guards, but they were all men she liked and trusted, and after all, Rhaegal could not accompany her everywhere.

But perhaps the best protection of all was the fiercely protective love that the common Pentoshi had for them. When an angry merchant tried to accost Missandei in the street, her guards did not even have to strike a blow themselves; instead, several of them had to protect the man from an enraged mob that would have torn him apart for daring to harm the woman who struck them from their chains.

Missandei and Daenerys were wearing exquisitely embroidered brocade gowns, a gift from a freedwoman who was considered the best dressmaker in the city. Aside from their inherent loveliness, Daenerys’s dress obscured the swell of her belly, which was now apparent in any of her normal clothes. They hoped that, if they both began wearing voluminous styles at the same time and relatively early in the pregnancy, people would assume that they were simply starting a new fashion and not notice Daenerys’s ever-expanding waistline.

Unfortunately that plan did not account for the possibility that someone would actually feel the bump.

Yara Greyjoy strode boldly down from her ship, and greeted them heartily with a smile on her face. After passing her dirk and axes to Hero, she stepped towards Daenerys, arms outstretched. Missandei realized, an instant too late, that if the two embraced, there would be no hiding what lay beneath those intentionally stiff skirts. Yet Daenerys pulled the other woman close, and though surprise registered on Yara’s face as she came into contact with Daenerys’s abdomen, thankfully she said nothing.

Next Yara gave Missandei a firm hug, slapping her on the back in a rough yet affectionate gesture. Had it been almost anyone else, she would have recoiled-she was unused to embracing anyone besides Grey Worm and Daenerys-but Yara smelled sharp and clean, like the sea, and Missandei did quite like her. Hesitantly she reciprocated, patting Yara’s back less forcefully but with what she hoped was an appropriate firmness.

Yara’s gaze flicked towards Fearless Sun, and though she addressed him as Grey Worm, Missandei did not think for a moment that her sharp eyes had been fooled by the disguise. But an explanation would have to wait until they were alone.

Their trip back through the city was slow, and by the time they sat down for dinner in Daenerys’s great tent, the sun was beginning to set. Though they could have stayed in Illyrio’s manse, and invitations from the high and mighty of Pentos to host them were plentiful, Missandei and Daenerys chose to camp outside the city with the rest of their people. It was more comfortable, not to mention far safer, and allowed the dragons to stay close.

As soon as their guards slipped out of the largest room of the tent, which was usually used for their councils, Yara jerked her head in the direction of the departing men and asked, “I haven’t lost my wits, have I? That isn’t Grey Worm, is it?”

As they ate, Missandei and Daenerys explained Grey Worm’s absence, then Yara shared with them the latest news of the utter chaos that had overtaken Westeros. In the westerlands, Tyrion had triumphed over his aunt, and was styling himself and Sansa as King and Queen of the Rock. Emboldened by this success, he was even making noises about taking the Iron Throne for himself, but standing in the way of this goal was a former ally of his, a sellsword named Bronn who now ruled in King’s Landing as King of Blackwater Bay.

Based on Tyrion’s many stories about Bronn, Missandei’s only thought on that was hoping that the two men somehow found a way to destroy each other. But for the time being, Tyrion apparently had his hands quite full dealing with constant raids from the Ironborn-the westerlands were largely untouched by the wars and made for rich plunder-as well as attacks from his eastern borders. The North was not the only place that remembered; the riverlands did too and they were intent on avenging years of devastation at Lannister hands.

Edmure Tully and little Robert Arryn joined Daenerys’s former Hand in resurrecting ancient titles: no longer content with being lords, they were now the King of the Rivers and King of Mountain and Vale, respectively, and Edmure had betrothed his infant daughter to her cousin. It seemed that the riverlands and Vale intended to forge their own kingdom, and had turned their backs on the North entirely. Cousins of their fallen Martell and Tyrell allies ruled Dorne and the Reach once more as independent kingdoms, and conveyed their well wishes and support to Daenerys.

Missandei could not find it in her heart to rejoice at news of war and turmoil-she knew that, in such times, the powerless were the worst affected-but she took a certain grim satisfaction at hearing that Tyrion and Sansa were reaping the well-earned rewards of their malice and treachery.

“And what of the King in the North?” Daenerys’s voice was carefully neutral, but Missandei knew how anxious she was for news of her former lover. She spoke of him rarely, but despite all that had passed between them, despite Jon’s betrayals-in this life and that other deferred future-Missandei suspected her friend still cared for him, and he was the father of her child.

Yara drained her cup before answering. “He took Deepwood Motte and put Glover’s head on a pike, but his troubles are far from over. With all those houses wiped out-Umber and Karstark, Bolton and Mormont-there is much land to be claimed, so every man with a drop of noble blood and a sword is calling himself lord of this keep or king of that hall. Ever since you left he’s been busy putting them down, trying to maintain Stark control. But who knows if he’ll succeed. Winterfell was broken by the wars, and maybe the Starks were too.”

 “Have you been raiding there at all?” Missandei asked, curious. She knew that Ironborn had a long history of attacking the North, as recently as the War of the Five Kings but Yara had not mentioned it at all in recounting her recent deeds.

She shook her head. “It’s not worth the journey anymore. Truth be told, there isn’t much left worth taking. Making life difficult for Tyrion and his darling wife in the westerlands has been far more profitable-and pleasurable.”

At that Yara gave them a feral, self-satisfied grin, then continued, “He tried to bribe me, your old Hand. Why would I accept a gift with conditions when I could just take it for myself by paying the iron price? I rejected his offer and instead took Castamere and its mines for my own. Mayhap they’ll write a song about that instead, once there are no more Lannisters to make them sing the Rains of Castamere.”

At that Missandei and Daenerys laughed-because only in Westeros would a noble house be proud to have songs sung about the atrocities they committed.

“When-or if-the North submits to Winterfell, do you believe their king will turn south?” Even as she asked the question, Daenerys touched her belly lightly, as if to shield her child from Yara’s response.

“Every family in the North, highborn or lowborn, has bled for the Starks and their southern wars. Robert’s Rebellion and the Young Wolf’s war…they gave their lives gladly for honorable Eddard and brave Robb-,” Here Yara’s voice turned sarcastic, making clear exactly how she felt about Jon’s predecessors, “-but they are tired of it. They will not march off to death willingly to put a deserter from the Night’s Watch on some southern throne.”

“The rest of Westeros wants him even less. The Dornish were furious at the claims Tyrion and Varys put out about Jon Snow, calling it a grievous insult to their late princess and her murdered children. They declared that they will not trade with the North or any other kingdom that allies with them as long as he rules there. The Vale, the Riverlands…their blood ties to the North do not include Jon, whether he names himself Targaryen or Stark, and only go back a generation besides. Their trading relationships with Dorne are much older, and more valuable. In short, no. The North wars against itself, and even if he brings all those minor houses to heel, I do not think he could take the other six kingdoms, if he wanted them. Unless something drastic comes to pass, the father of that little dragon you’re growing under all those skirts will never sit the Iron Throne.”

She shifted in her seat and shot a pointed look at Daenerys’s abdomen. “Speaking of, does he know?”

Daenerys did not even try to deny it; after all, Yara had felt the evidence for herself. “No. Only four of us know-myself, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Vorri…well, I suppose five now, including you. Can I trust in your discretion?”

“Of course,” Yara replied, looking almost offended that Daenerys even had to ask such a question. “Though you no longer call yourself queen, you have my loyalty until the day I die.”

She rested one callused hand on Missandei’s hand, another on Daenerys’s, and said firmly, “Both of you do. And Grey Worm, and the babe in your belly too. I will never forget what you did for me and my brother. No matter what happens, you will always have a faithful friend in the Iron Islands.”

Even early in the morning, Volantis was hot. It was a wet, heavy heat that lay heavy on the skin, leaving Missandei with perspiration soaking through the light linen garments she wore beneath her armor, and she had no doubt that she smelled awful.

But Rhaegal was her only companion in the marsh, and he was not complaining. At least, not about her odor; the swampy clearing was filled with buzzing, stinging insects that swarmed about him all night, making him lash his tail about irritably. Neither of them had enjoyed their time in the marshes-though it was still preferable to Winterfell, if Missandei had to choose-but it was all part of their larger plan, which seemed to be working splendidly.

When their army arrived in Volantis, Daenerys sent an invitation to the sellsword companies contracted by the triarchs to an audience with her. Whether in hopes for a lucrative bribe or out of simple curiosity, they came-the leaders of the Windblown, Bright Banners, Long Lances, and even the Golden Company. Though the dragons were too large to sit under a tent, as they had in Yunkai all those years ago, they circled overhead as the sellswords met with Daenerys and Missandei.

The men-an unimpressive bunch, with no dashing adventurers like Daario Naharis among them-were not pleased to learn that there was no gold or promises of plunder to induce them to switch sides; all they stood to gain by turning their cloaks was the preservation of their lives.

But in truth, the purpose of the meeting was not to win over any mercenaries. Just as the captains were preparing to leave, a messenger arrived to inform them that there was trouble in Pentos, and a dragonrider was urgently needed there. There was no crisis, but the messenger took care to stage-whisper loudly enough that the sellswords would hear, and Missandei made a great show of mounting Rhaegal and flying towards Pentos. Let the triarchs believe they would only be facing two dragons, not three; they had no way of knowing that, once out of sight, she and Rhaegal had landed in the dense marshes and made their way to the eastern side of Volantis under the cover of darkness. 

They passed an uneventful, if restless, night in the marsh. Missandei curled up on Rhaegal’s back and dozed fitfully for a bit, but a combination of anticipation and nerves kept her alert. If all went well-if their plan succeeded-hundreds of thousands of people who began the day in chains would be free when the sun set, and she would fall asleep in Grey Worm’s arms for the first time in months.

But there was so much that could go wrong. Grey Worm could be harmed or killed in the uprising, the masters could mount some unexpected resistance, something could befall Daenerys or one of the dragons-

Missandei shook her head, forcing herself to halt that line of thinking. Grey Worm was a veteran of countless battles, including the war against the dead; no one was more prepared for this than him. The enslaved people of Volantis were more than ready to throw down their masters, and even if a few held back, the slavers stood no chance. Daenerys was well-armored, and the dragons were more experienced at dodging scorpion bolts than ever. As she said in Braavos, unless the elephants of the Golden Company learned to breathe fire or fly, they were no threats to Rhaegal and his brothers.

Strangely, she was not frightened for herself. After all she had endured, death held no terror for her. There were no masters in the grave, and she would die before she ever wore a slave collar again.

Sensing her disquiet, Rhaegal turned to look at her, and he gave a low, comforting rumble. She leaned forward and scratched his neck, the way he liked.

Shifting her weight, Missandei turned her gaze to the west, back towards the city. Their armies were attacking the far side of the city, where the great Temple of the Lord of Light was located and the poor resided. Although they were too far away to see or hear anything clearly, some time before they had heard the distant calls of Rhaegal’s brothers, and he would have cried out if Missandei had not quieted him. From that she assumed that their strategy was unfolding as planned.

In the early hours just before dawn, Daenerys was to have sent some riders, led by Okho, to hassle the sellsword camps, which lay just outside the city’s westernmost walls. It amused Missandei that the triarchs were willing to fork over countless riches to sellswords to guard them, yet thought them too low to come within the city itself.

After causing trouble in the camps-not any real damage, but enough to anger them-the riders would retreat back toward their own lines, and when the sellswords followed, they would be met by the rest of the khalasar, the Unsullied-and two dragons.

But Daenerys’s forces would not try to destroy the sellswords or press through them to the city itself. Their objective was to cause chaos and distract from what was about to happen inside those walls.

Once the sellsword companies were fully engaged, the Fiery Hand and other slave soldiers of the city would rise up to capture the masters and strike the collars off their fellow slaves. Yara and the Braavosi fleet would attack the ships in the massive harbor. Though Volantis was not a naval power by any means, they would cut the masters off from any potential escape by sea. As soon as it became clear that the city was under attack, both from within and without, the triarchs would retreat to the securest location possible: the great palace of the triarchy. Deep in the heart of the old city, surrounded by the Black Walls and protected by guards, they would think themselves untouchable.

Unless, of course, the men who guarded them were not enslaved soldiers at all, but Unsullied in disguise.

After all, the Black Walls, even if they were two hundred feet tall and impenetrable, had not been built to keep dragons out.

And then she saw it. There, on the horizon, a great pillar of green smoke rising from within the city, just as the priests of R’hllor promised it would. It was the signal she was waiting for-her time had come.

Missandei slipped her helmet on and leaned forward, gripping Rhaegal’s spines, and he launched himself off the soft ground. Flying hard and fast towards the city, cutting through the fetid air, Rhaegal roared as if announcing their presence to all. From far away, she heard Viserion and Drogon answer his call, and smiled.

As they rapidly approached the outer walls, shouts came from the guards atop them, raising the alarm. She could not imagine what a sight this must make: a dragon, rising from the mists of the Rhoyne like some avenging creature from an old story and flying straight for them.

She saw them line up and draw their bows, aiming at her and Rhaegal, and it would have been easy to burn them where they stood. But her business was not with these men, and so she urged Rhaegal to fly upwards, the arrows bouncing harmlessly off his heavily armored belly as they passed over the men. The great Black Walls towered over the city and were unlike anything Missandei had ever seen, but for a moment she tore her gaze from them to try to catch sight of her allies.

At this distance, it was impossible for her to distinguish Yara’s fleet and that of the Braavosi from the Volantene ships, but it did not seem as though anyone was fleeing the harbor, which was a good sign. Across the vast city, Drogon and Viserion were in the air, bathing the battlefield in flame, so presumably at least some of the sellswords were still fighting. Below her, the streets were in chaos as enslaved soldiers battled the masters, with elephant-drawn hathays and palanquins overturned to spill their highborn passengers onto the ground. Part of her wished she could stop and assist those still locked in combat, but in such close quarters she and Rhaegal would be more of a hindrance than a help. Besides, she knew that once she got to the triarchs, she could put an end to all of this.

Guards atop the Black Walls had spotted them, and were arming catapults and scorpions to fire down at Rhaegal, so Missandei urged him on and pressed herself close against his back. With a great burst of speed, he twisted and wove through the air, dodging projectiles as they flew straight up the great wall, so close that she could see their reflection in the fused black dragonstone.

Rhaegal let out a bellow as they crested the wall, and its defenders scattered beneath the shadow of his wings.

Missandei’s heart raced, not with fear but anticipation as she guided Rhaegal towards a palace of gleaming white marble, where the triarchs would be. Though there was still fighting in the streets below her, this less populated area of the city was quieter, quiet enough that she could hear people cheering as they passed overhead. Their support filled her with resolve, determination running hot through her veins as Rhaegal circled over the palace. The red priests had assured them that the triarchs would be sheltering in the largest courtyard, which was easily defensible and would allow them to watch the battle, but she wanted to be certain.

She saw a large platform in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by men aiming spears towards the three figures seated atop it, and guided Rhaegal down. He landed with a great crash, and Missandei took in the scene.

What had looked like a single platform from above was actually three pyramids, with steps cut out of the shining stone sides. At the foot of each pyramid was a discarded palanquin, allowing the triarchs to ascend to the elaborate throne carved into the top without ever touching the ground. The triarchs cried out at her arrival, yelling for their guards, but for the moment she ignored them, looking around at the men surrounding them.

They had all dropped to one knee at her arrival, and even their heavy ornate armor could not disguise that liquid grace of movement unique to the Unsullied. Feeling a little sheepish to be surrounded by kneeling men, she gestured at them to get up. They did, removing their helmets as they did so, and Missandei could not help but give a little gasp when she saw Grey Worm. His hair was longer than ever before, and he looked weary, but he was alive and whole and smiling at her. Even though she knew their reunion would be delayed a little longer, that was all that mattered.

Taking off her own helmet, she surveyed the triarchs, all three of whom were still shouting. Missandei had no desire to try to make herself heard over their commotion.

Instead Rhaegal roared with all his might, beating the air with his wings as he vented his fury. From his back Missandei stared the three men down, letting them know that they could not cower behind their high walls or enslaved armies any longer.

Once they fell silent, Missandei addressed them in Volantene Valyrian, “Greetings, lord triarchs. I am Missandei Dragonspeaker, and I come with an offer of peace. Order the immediate surrender of the sellsword companies and your own military, announce that you are freeing your slaves and command all other slaveowners within the city to do the same, and I will not burn you where you sit. You, along with the other masters, will stand trial for the crime of slavery and any other wrongs you have committed, and your punishment will be decided by the people you enslaved. If you have not been cruel, perhaps they will choose to let you live. Your wealth will be distributed among those you subjugated, and you may never hold power within the city again, but your life will still be yours. Refuse, and you will die this day.”

She spoke with cool detachment, even though she would have gladly killed them all. They were of the Old Blood, the epitome of this evil system that was built on thousands of years of exploitations. Countless people had suffered and died so these three men and their families could have wealth and power beyond imagining; whole generations crushed into the dirt so people like them never had to touch the ground. But she knew that justice was coming for them, one way or another, and unless they forced her hand now, she intended to let that justice come at the hands of those they had wronged.

One triarch-the only tiger of the three, she believed-snarled, “Volantis is ancient and proud, we will never surrender. Kill us if you must, I would rather die than shame my ancestors by stooping to negotiate with slaves.”

Her grip on Rhaegal’s spines tightened as a fresh wave of anger and disgust swept over her, and he growled menacingly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grey Worm tense, and she knew that he could put his spear through the man’s neck in an instant. As satisfying as that would be, she decided to give him one more chance to face the judgement of his former slaves.

So Missandei only raised an eyebrow at the triarch, asking, “Is that so? You would choose death over submitting to a freedwoman?”

He spat in her direction. “I see no freedwoman, only a Naathi bitch who does not know her place. Someone will kill those monsters you and the horselord’s whore ride, and-”

Grey Worm flinched at his foul words, yet strangely she felt her anger solidify into acceptance. If this was how he was speaking to a woman mounted on a dragon, she did not even want to contemplate the horrors he inflicted on people he owned. He had chosen his own fate.

Missandei cut him off, uninterested in wasting time by listening to more of his crude threats. “Very well. Dracarys.”

In the moments between the word leaving her mouth and flames engulfing the triarch, an expression of utter shock and disbelief crossed his face, and it made Missandei smile.

The triarchs, like all masters, thought themselves untouchable. But the dragons had come for them, and dragons fed on elephants and tigers alike.

As Rhaegal devoured the charred remains of the slaver, she turned her attention to the other two triarchs, who, despite their evident terror, had not even attempted to flee from their seats. Even with death staring them down, they still believed they were too elevated to allow their feet to touch the ground. Instead they cowered on their thrones, horrified at the revelation that their lineages and fortunes and prestige, everything that had given them authority, were meaningless now.

When she spoke again, she let a sharp edge creep into her voice. “My dragon has a taste for slaver blood, and I fear he may not be satisfied with a single triarch. Will you surrender the city, or does one of you wish to provide him with another course?”

The two surviving triarchs exchanged frightened looks, and slowly, they rose from their thrones and went to their knees in surrender.

With a nod, she accepted their concession. Newly freed slaves, their faces marked with tattooed coins that denoted their status as working within the Volantene bureaucracy, flooded the courtyard, sending word to hang banners of submission from the palace walls to signal surrender and dispatching criers into the city to announce that all enslaved people were now free.

Missandei slid from Rhaegal’s back and stepped into Grey Worm’s arms. He held her close, smiling down at her as she gently wiped the painted-on tiger stripes from his cheek. His eyes were filled with love and happiness and a fierce pride, and she longed to hear about his months in Volantis, to tell him all that had passed since they last parted, to devote herself to relearning all the little things she had forgotten about him during their long separation, but instead, she kissed him, long and sweet.

They only had a moment together-he was needed to put down any remaining resistance from the masters, she would join Daenerys to ensure that the surviving sellswords understood that the battle was over-but for now, simply feeling the steady beating of his heart against her was enough.

Chapter Text

For centuries, the great and powerful of Volantis traversed their city in litters or elephant-drawn carts, never deigning to set foot on the street itself. To those born of the Old Blood, it was something so far beneath them to be inconceivable; they only travelled on the backs of others.

But now those same masters walked to their trials, no longer carried above those they considered inferior.

Though they were not harmed in any way-all of them received food and a safe place to sleep as well as no whippings or beatings, far better than they treated the people they enslaved-this loss of status seemed to devastate them. Missandei wondered what it would be like, to live a life so privileged that walking on your own two feet seemed like a punishment.

She planned to walk to the trials, as she thought it would send the wrong message if she alone arrived mounted. Already she occupied a strange role in these unprecedented proceedings by presiding over them, not as a member of the Volantene jury chosen to judge the former masters, but to provide guidance and order, and translate when necessary. She wanted the newly freed people to understand that she was their equal and there to advocate on their behalf, not flaunt her position and power.

But her khas argued against it, saying that she would be far too vulnerable on foot. The former slaves of Volantis had thrown off their chains and seized control in less than a day, it was true, yet Missandei knew that there were many who would see her dead. Soon after the battle, a few surviving members of the Golden Company had disguised themselves and slipped into the city, where they attempted to murder Daenerys in the street. Apparently they thought she would be an easy target away from her dragons…but they had not considered her bloodriders. 

Though the would-be assassins were easily apprehended and Daenerys was not harmed, Grey Worm, Okho, and Temno were worried that the women could be targets for further attacks, from the former masters of Volantis or enemies from outside the city. After all, the masters in Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr had to suspect that their days were numbered, and would do anything to avoid revolution in their streets-not to mention the specter of dragons above their cities. For their safety, Grey Worm and the other men wanted Missandei and Daenerys to stay out of Volantis as much as possible, and only travel on horseback or in litters, which would be easier to guard.

But neither woman intended to sit idly when there was so much to be done. Missandei was needed at the trials of the former masters, while Daenerys assisted with the collection and redistribution of their fortunes.  

Ultimately they compromised: Missandei and Daenerys walked about the city as they pleased, but they were accompanied by Unsullied and mounted Dothraki, with the understanding that if they were attacked, they would mount a horse and flee at once.

As a result, Missandei’s khas was even more vigilant than they had been in Pentos, riding around her in tight formation with their bows and arakhs at the ready, intent on their task to the point of eagerness. She rather thought they were hoping some fool would make an attempt on her life, giving them an opportunity to prove their valor and prowess. Unfortunately for them, so far no convenient attacker had obliged them yet, and she hoped it stayed that way.

Early one morning, Missandei made her way with her escort to a plaza in western Volantis, near enough to the sea to catch a breeze off the harbor, where the trials had been conducted for the past few weeks. In any other city, this courtyard would likely be its largest, yet in Volantis, it was merely of average size, with room for several hundred people to congregate. Its bricks were many colors, but red was by far the most common-a sign of the vast influence of the worshippers of the Lord of Light.

The red priests wanted to try the former masters within the walls of their temple, under the auspice of their god, but Missandei insisted that justice belonged to all people, not any particular deity. They conceded-she thought they still wished to convince her and Daenerys to bathe the unbelievers in dragonfire, and so did not want to displease them-, but representatives of their religion were present at each trial.

She didn’t mind that; Missandei had no quarrel with R’hllor or any other god, but she did not believe that his servants should rule a city of countless faiths.

When they arrived, she was pleased to see Ornela already there, accompanied by a few guards, seated among the small number of observers were permitted to attend each day’s trial. Vorri and other members of the dosh khaleen were often in attendance, and Grey Worm and Daenerys had come on two separate occasions. Everyone-be they juror or witness, slaver or spectator-were seated in identical chairs beneath a massive blue canopy intended to shield them from the worst of the sun. Missandei’s seat was set a little apart from the rest, to allow her a better view of the proceedings, but it was no finer than the others. She was determined to continually reinforce the message that they were all equals.

After she greeted Ornela, she took her place and prepared herself for what would undoubtedly be a painful day. Making the decision to oversee the trials was difficult for Missandei, as it meant willingly subjecting herself to days filled with accounts of atrocities committed by the masters. She could have traded places with Daenerys or assisted with any number of tasks around the city. Indeed, Grey Worm had begged her to do just that after the first day of trials, when she returned to the camp and wept in his arms, overwhelmed by the horrors of the day.

But Missandei spoke more languages than anyone else in the city, and she knew she was best suited for the task, unappealing as it was. The newly freed people felt more comfortable with her because they could communicate directly with her in their mother tongues, and a freedwoman passing down judgement against former masters was a powerful statement. Besides, while Daenerys had a good head for figures and enjoyed them, Missandei found going through account books and ledgers crushingly dull. It would not be easy but it was the right choice, the only choice she could make with pride, and with the support of her loved ones, she would get through.

Today’s trial was an especially difficult one. The master was not a particularly wealthy or powerful man, but even among slavers he was infamous for his brutality. He enslaved only women, girls, and eunuchs, none of whom were spared his cruelty. Vicious beatings and rapes were ubiquitous, and some bore permanent scars from his horrific abuse. And of the half-a-hundred who testified against him, none of them had a baby on their hip or children clinging to their legs, like so many other newly freed people, because any infant born to those he enslaved was cast out into the street to die-even though they were his own children, his flesh and blood.

Monster, Missandei heard whispered among the spectators, Kinslayer. Abomination.

Though she completely agreed, she could not express her own opinion directly, even as the recounting of his crimes made her stomach churn and her blood boil. She kept her face neutral as she questioned the witnesses and translated their words when needed, determined to give them the justice they deserved.

Finally, his victims had all spoken. Not surprisingly, no one came forward to speak in the master’s defense, so now the jury would determine his guilt or innocence-and decide his fate.

Missandei did not think it would take them long to deliberate, so she remained near her seat as Ornela made her way over, Lavakho trailing behind her.

The master leered at Missandei and Ornela and muttered something undoubtedly foul under his breath. She could not make out exactly what he said, but unfortunately for him, Lavakho heard and understood him perfectly. The young man had taken enthusiastically to his role as khas of the dosh khaleen, and was now Ornela’s devoted shadow.

Gripping the hilt of his arakh, he snarled, “Khaleesi, he insults you and the Dragonspeaker with his words. Would you see the color of his blood?”

Ornela laughed softly and raised her hand. “Peace, Lavakho. Words are wind, and he cannot harm us. Now, I must speak with Missandei, privately.”

With that, she turned back to Missandei, her expression serious. Recognizing that he had been dismissed, Lavakho bowed his head respectfully and stepped away. Signaling to a few of the other warriors, they positioned themselves between the two women and the master, blocking them from his view.

For a long moment Ornela was silent, something deep and painful shifting behind her large dark eyes. Although her voice was calm and carefully controlled, Missandei heard the edge of sorrow beneath her words. She spoke in Lhazareen, her mother tongue; a deliberate choice to ensure that her words were for Missandei’s ears alone and not that of her khas.

“I was twelve when Khal Zhicho burned my village and took me to wife, though his khalakka Addrivo was already a man grown and he had no need for more children. When my daughter was born a year later, he ordered her torn from my arms and left behind the khalasar for the dogs. I fought his wretched son when he came for her, and although I was still weak from the birth, I wounded him. Not seriously, unfortunately, but I shamed him in front of his men."

"Zhicho broke my ribs as punishment, and after that, he shared me with his bloodriders and beat me often until the day he died. Then I was sent to the dosh khaleen by Addrivo, the man who murdered his own sister. Once we ruled the Dothraki, but under men such as Moro and Zhicho, we were nothing more than prisoners, our counsel ignored, left to rot while they raped and killed as they pleased. Vorri and some of the others were angry at that, the disruption of the rightful way of things, but I didn’t care about power. All I wanted was my baby…I only held her once and never had the chance to name her, but I still dream of her face.”

Missandei gasped, utterly horrified. Having spent over a decade of her life enslaved in Astapor, it took something truly dreadful to shock her, but Ornela’s recounting of her life made a wave of queasiness wash over her. From conversations with Vorri and Daenerys, she suspected that Ornela’s life had not been easy. But she never knew any of the details, and her heart broke for the other woman’s suffering.

Instinctively she reached out, taking Ornela’s hand in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.

“I had no idea, I am so sorry-”

But Ornela cut her off, not harshly but with an urgency to her words, “That is why I stay with you and Daenerys. She killed Addrivo with the other khals and restored the dosh khaleen to our proper place. Now no Dothraki woman is beaten by her husband, and no baby girls are left out to die. You cast down the masters and punish them for what they’ve done. You make men like my husband and his son, men like him-” She jerked her head towards the master, “-pay. No one else does, no one cares about women or girls, especially not slaves, but you do. Nothing can bring my daughter back, but you give others like her justice when you can…and vengeance, when you cannot. And I believe that you will make a world where no one ever suffers as you or I or those freedwomen have.”

A wave of emotion rose in Missandei’s throat-gratitude, grief for all that Ornela had suffered, an overwhelming sense of humility that her actions could mean so much to so many people, a fierce sense of determination to right the wrongs of the world-and impulsively she embraced the other woman, hoping that the gesture would convey all that she was feeling.

They only pulled apart when the jury announced that their deliberation was complete. Ornela held Missandei’s hand as they declared they found the master guilty of enslavement, torture, rape, and murder, many times over. The only fit punishment for such horrific crimes was death, the manner of which would be decided by his victims. Though this was the outcome she expected, Missandei still felt warm satisfaction bloom in her chest. A cry of delight went up from those he had formerly enslaved, and Ornela squeezed her hand before rejoining the spectators.

After a surprisingly brief discussion amongst themselves, one of the freedwomen, a young woman of the Basilisk Isles who still bore fading bruises from the slaver’s cruelty, stepped forward. She addressed Missandei in heavily accented Volantene Valyrian, “Did you truly burn Triarch Maegyr with your dragon?”

Missandei was a little surprised at her question. Wondering what that had to do with the decision at hand, she nodded and replied in the woman’s mother tongue. “I did. He was given the chance to surrender the city and face a fair trial, like the other two triarchs, and he refused, knowing full well what the alternative was.”

The young woman grinned, but it was an expression of determination rather than joy. “We want your dragon to burn him too. Let there be nothing left of him for burial, let all trace of him disappear, in this life and whatever comes after. We want him destroyed as he sought to destroy us.”

“As long as it is acceptable to the jury, of course.” Missandei said after pausing for a moment. She was surprised, not because the request was unreasonable, but that it had taken so long for someone to ask. If it were entirely her choice, she would burn all the masters, every last one of them, but that justice was not hers to give. Some-not many, but a handful-had been spared through the testimony of those they formerly enslaved, and much as it rankled her she abided by their wishes and the decisions of the jury.

Happily, in this case the jury granted her permission to burn this master. She closed her eyes and reached out to Rhaegal through their bond, calling to him. The dragons spent their days outside the city, hunting and resting, but even though she could not see him, Missandei could always sense him. He was a part of her, no different from another limb, and she felt his heart beat in her chest, a twin to her own. A dragonrider was never truly alone in the world.

As they waited for his arrival, she ordered the chairs and canopy removed from the courtyard, and dismissed the spectators and jury. Although Rhaegal would not harm anyone unless she told him to, she did not want a crowd of people pressing about him. Ornela came to stand with her once more, and she called the slaver’s victims to join them while two freed soldiers bound the slaver to a stake, then drove it into the ground. All the while he was shouting, directing insults, curses, and threats at her, the guards, his victims-everyone within earshot. Yet no one reacted; his power to inspire terror or inflict pain was broken, even if he did not want to admit it.

Cheers and shouts followed Rhaegal as he flew over the city, as they always did whenever a dragon was sighted. Feared and reviled as they had been in Westeros, in Essos the dragons were seen as liberators whose fire burned the masters and melted away chains.

When the shadow of his wings fell over the courtyard, the slaver at last fell silent, perhaps finally understanding his fate.

Rhaegal landed beside her, chirping and nuzzling her as though he had not seen her just that morning, as the crowd backed away. Even her khas and Ornela, who spent more time around the dragons than most, did not dare come too close. But Missandei felt no fear in his presence, only comfort and a sense of wholeness, some deep and instinctual understanding that this was how it was meant to be. She stroked his nose the way he liked before turning her attention back to the slaver.

Rhaegal’s focus shifted alongside her own, and she allowed her utter loathing for the man to spill through their bond. He growled in response, a low rumble that reverberated through the stones beneath her feet, and the slaver shrank back under the weight of his burning gaze. All his arrogance and contempt had vanished, and in their place was a sniveling coward who was begging for his life.

Though Missandei was unmoved by his pleas, that did not mean she felt no pity. But the compassion swelling in her heart was for the people he had raped and tortured, the babies abandoned and left to die. His death would be cleaner and less painful than what they had suffered.

“He smells your fear.” Missandei remarked conversationally, addressing the slaver directly for the first time, her voice carrying in the silence of the plaza. “You must reek of it, because that’s all you’ve ever had…the ability to make others afraid, to cause them pain. No more. Your power is gone, and you will never harm anyone again. Dracarys.”

Flame burst from Rhaegal’s mouth, consuming the slaver in an instant and reducing him to nothing more than a pile of ash. With a contemptuous huff, Rhaegal sent the ashen heap blowing, and soon they were carried away on the breeze. From his victims came cheers and exclamations of joy, and Missandei smiled to see their elation. She could not erase their suffering or restore their murdered children to them, but she could give them this.

With the day’s work done, she spoke to the victims, asking if there was anything else they needed or wished to discuss, and they assured her that all was well. But before she could send Rhaegal away or do anything else, a chorus of unfamiliar voices began to call her name. Turning towards the source of the sound, she saw a group of some twenty-odd people enter the plaza. They were of varying ages and sexes, but she saw her own face reflected back in each of theirs. They were of Naath, and seemed desperate to speak to her.

She gestured to her guards to let them approach, and one of them, a woman about Vorri’s age, told her a tale that made her heart ache with sorrow and fury.

When she was done, it took Missandei a moment to collect herself enough to respond.

“I will make this right, I swear to you. But I must ask…do you not despise me? I have taken many lives, and I do not regret my actions. Surely this is displeasing to the Lord of Harmony.”

Although Missandei did not worship the god of her ancestors, or any other god, she found herself wondering what her long-dead family and the people of her homeland would think of her deeds. Would they be frightened or ashamed? By killing, had she ceased to be Naathi?

The older woman shook her head. “Of course we do not despise you. Everywhere people know of the Breaker of Chains, they also speak of the Bringer of Justice, the second dragonrider in living memory, even though she has not a drop of Valyrian blood! You are of Naath, and we are fiercely proud of you and all that you have done. After all, our lord does not fault his butterflies for bringing disease and death to enemies of Naath, who murder and enslave his beloved children. You are his child too, and through you he protects our people.”

There was a familiar burning sensation in her eyes as she blinked back tears and smiled, too moved to articulate a response. Forcing her voice to remain level, she asked, “Are all your other needs being met? You have a safe place to stay, enough food and clean water until you are able to return to Naath?”

“Oh yes,” responded the woman, nodding vigorously, “We are very comfortable.”

“Good. If you have need of anything at all, send word to our camp and we will take care of it for you.”

Missandei turned to her guards. “Go to Grey Worm, Daenerys, and Vorri, and tell them they must return to the camp with the utmost haste so that we may speak on an urgent matter. Inform Princess Xanda and Queen Yara as well. Travel in groups of six, I would not have you caught alone and unawares. The rest of you, ensure that these people return safely to their dwelling.”

The city was largely peaceful, but one could never be too careful. She had not forgotten the Sons of the Harpy in Meereen, whose actions had murdered noble Ser Barristan and nearly stolen Grey Worm’s life as well.

Only Fonno lingered. He had overcome much of his shyness and was able to speak to her, though his voice was hesitant. “Dragonspeaker, Daenerys who is blood of my blood ordered us to remain at your side, to obey and guard you as we would her. I do not wish to disobey you, but you should not walk alone through the city. The streets are not safe for you, and I cannot break my oath.”

Despite the pain in her heart, Missandei smiled at his earnestness, and he blushed. “Thank you, Fonno, for your concern, but I promise I will not set foot in the streets alone.”

With that, she mounted Rhaegal, and with a single powerful sweep of his wings they took flight. As the courtyard shrank beneath them, she finally allowed the tears spill down her face. Hundreds of thousands of people, perhaps millions, depended on her. She stood between them and those who would harm them, who sought to rape them, murder them, and put them back in chains. And so she knew she could not show weakness before them, could not let them see her weep, because they had to believe she could protect them. But here, alone in the sky but for her dragon, she did not need to hold back.

She let herself sob until she could cry no more, circling above the sea, and by the time they landed in the camp, she knew what she must do.

Missandei knew it would take a few hours for the others to return, so she busied herself with preparations. First she asked for all maps of the Summer Sea that could be found, particularly those showing the area between Volantis and Naath, to be brought to her in the commander’s tent. Next, she packed a satchel with fruit and nuts, a loaf of bread and some cheese, as well as a large flagon filled with water, and a little pot of the ointment Dothraki women used to protect their skin from long hours in the sun.

She quickly changed from the more formal gown she wore to the trial into another, better suited for flying. It reminded her of the dress Daenerys had worn the first time they met, with a simple sheath over trousers. But where that had had a sturdiness to it, a sense that the wearer was not to be touched, this was softer, the fabric more delicate. She looked almost fragile in it, which was exactly what she had intended. In order for her plan to work, Missandei knew that she needed to seem harmless, and for in a dragonrider, that was no easy task.

Her hair was still in the braids she wore into battle, and she twisted them into a bun at the nape of her neck, with a goldenheart hairpin to hold it in place. The pin was a gift from Princess Xanda, who had been wearing it when they first met. When Missandei complimented it, their newest ally smiled and insisted it was hers, plucking it from her locs arranged in a crown about her head. Surprisingly light despite its length-perhaps a handspan and half again-it was exquisitely carved to resemble a goldenheart tree, with one tip shaped into a wickedly sharp bird head, like the figureheads that adorned the famous swan ships of the Summer Isles.

She wondered aloud that it almost could function as a weapon, to which the princess gave her another smile, sharper this time, and responded, “In this world of men, we women must band together, and protect ourselves by whatever means necessary.”

By the time the others arrived, she was pouring over the maps, trying to commit as much to memory as possible. Navigating from the deck of a ship was something entirely different from navigating on dragonback, but even less precise maps were certainly better than nothing.

That was something she and Daenerys could work on, once the wars were done-creating maps meant for those who travelled by sky and not on land. Perhaps such things had existed in the world, before the Doom, but if so they had long since vanished.

They took their places around the table: Grey Worm to her right and Daenerys to her left, Vorri on Daenerys’s other side. Xanda arrived last with Yara, which did not surprise Missandei, as the two had been largely inseparable since they met. Several days after Volantis was liberated, Princess Xanda arrived with a vast fleet of swan ships bearing archers armed with goldenheart longbows, which would be essential when they attacked Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. Like her famous namesake, she was skilled with a longbow and captained her own ship, but where her ancestress had only eradicated slavery on the Summer Isles themselves, this Xanda intended to fight alongside them until it was ended everywhere.

Once they were all seated, Missandei wasted no more time. She rose and addressed them in the Common Tongue they all shared.

“Today, a group of Naathi came to me with disturbing tidings. It seems that some Lysene pirate has set himself up as a corsair-king in the waters of Naath. To avoid the butterfly fever, he has created an enormous ship-island in the great southern bay, allowing his crews to raid the island by night for captives over and over again. They keep hundreds, perhaps even a thousand, people imprisoned on the false island at a time, to sell other slavers at a great profit. Those I spoke to were only captured a short time before a Tyroshi slaver bought them and brought them to Volantis. Fortunately the city fell before they were separated, but we must destroy this threat before anyone else is taken or harmed.”

Amidst the outcry of rage, both Grey Worm and Daenerys looked to her, the empathy evident in their faces. They knew how much this was hurting her, how deeply personal this was.

Yara was the first to speak. “Apologies, Missandei, I do not mean to imply that you are naïve-but is there any proof of their claims? This could be a trap, some plot to lure us away from the city so it can be retaken by slavers.”

And although her tone was gentle, Missandei rankled at her words, at the implication that she could not be objective or rational about such a topic.

But before she could respond, Xanda said, “It is no lie. The wretch of whom she speaks is well-known in the Summer Isles, for he has raided our shores too. Sorion Saan is his name, and he is all too real.”

Saan…the name sounded vaguely familiar, and as Missandei tried to place it, Vorri spoke up.

“They are an old family of pirates, some of whom fought against the Targaryens of generations past.”

She remembered now-she must have read the name when reading Westerosi histories. Though it didn’t really matter; Missandei did not care what their leader’s name was, she just wanted him dead.

“How is it that this is the first we are hearing of this Sorion Saan?” Daenerys asked, plainly frustrated. “Surely these people cannot be his only victims in the city.”

That was the second part of the tale that Missandei had been told. “These Naathi have been trying to give us this information for weeks, ever since the masters were overthrown. But the red temple would not let them come to speak with you or myself, and told them that we did not concern ourselves with the troubles of unbelievers. They had to approach me directly at today’s trial.”

To a stranger, Daenerys’s expression would seem unchanged, but Missandei knew her friend well enough to see the quiet rage suffusing her features, the way her eyes hardened and her posture stiffened.

But her voice was cool and calm. “I see. That is unacceptable, and once we have dealt with Saan, I will speak with the high priest Benerro. The temple offered to help the freedmen bring their concerns to us, and they do not have the authority to deny anyone the chance to be heard.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Our combined fleets likely outnumber his, and with the dragons…” Yara trailed off at the look on Xanda’s face.

“If we attack directly, by sea or air, they will use their captives as shields against us,” Xanda said, something haunted in her voice. “Once I pursued Saan after he destroyed a fishing village and abducted its people. Our ships are faster, so we were able to catch him, but when we came near, he began slitting the throats of prisoners and throwing them overboard, to deter us. We had to let him go, else they would all have perished.”

Bile rose in Missandei’s throat at her words, which reinforced the monstrous picture of the man that she already had forming in her mind.

Grey Worm looked thoughtful. “Then we cannot besiege them. They would starve the captives, or kill them outright. Whatever we do, it must be swift.”

Silence fell over them once again as the others contemplated this seemingly impossible situation: a speedy attack would prevent the slavers from retaliating against their hostages, but would cause collateral damage. Conversely, any kind of slower tactic would allow the slavers to harm their prisoners.

So when she began to speak of her plan that had come to her as she wept on Rhaegal’s back, which would prevent both of these outcomes, they were suitably impressed, then apprehensive. It was too dangerous, they said, far too risky for her to do by herself. But she insisted that she was the only one who could do it, and she had to do it alone.

They argued for some time-all of them but Vorri, who watched silently with a knowing smile playing on her lips. As always, the woman seemed to know the outcome of events before they happened, and her quiet assurance gave Missandei confidence that she would prevail.

Ultimately, she did. Once all was decided, Grey Worm and Daenerys walked with her to the open space beyond the camp where the dragons nested, who greeted them with chirps and trills.

While Daenerys fussed over Rhaegal and Grey Worm checked her bag of supplies once more, Missandei whispered to Viserion and Drogon, “Stay with your mother and Grey Worm, and protect them while we’re gone.”

And although she did not share a bond with them as she did with Rhaegal, she thought they understood her.

Finally, they could delay no longer, and it was time for her to depart. Daenerys pulled her into a long embrace, and whispered in her ear, “Give them what they deserve, and return to us safely.”

Missandei squeezed her as tightly as she dared, mindful of the swell of her friend’s belly. The babe had quickened just before they departed Pentos, and although no one else had felt its movements, Vorri promised that they would be able to soon.

“Fire and blood,” she promised, “And then peace for us.”

Daenerys smiled bravely, though Missandei could see that she was holding back tears. Not wanting to see her cry, Missandei looked at Grey Worm.

He cupped her face in his callused hands and looked at her, his eyes filled with love and pride and fear, yet when he spoke, his voice was steady. “Remember what I taught you. Men will always underestimate a woman, so catch him off guard, and strike fast.”

She nodded, but before she could reply, he kissed her, as fiercely as he had before the Battle of Winterfell, desperately and frantically, pouring all those feelings that could not be expressed through words into their embrace.

Part of her wished she could just cling to him, to hold him close and never be parted again, but she knew it could not be.

This time she was the one to pull away, and without looking back, she mounted Rhaegal and took to the skies.

Drogon and Viserion called after them, but did not follow, obeying her directive to remain with their mother. The dragons flew over the ocean often enough that Missandei hoped that anyone who noticed their departure would think Rhaegal was just out hunting. With any luck she would not be gone long enough for word to reach the slave cities that only two dragons remained in Volantis, with just a single rider. Even though she knew that Grey Worm and Daenerys were hardly vulnerable in her absence, she hated to be separated from them. It felt strange, almost wrong.

They left Volantis behind, flying to the southeast. Missandei did not want to push Rhaegal to the point of exhaustion, yet he must have sensed her urgency, that desperate need driving them across the sea, because he flew hard and fast. At first they stayed high above the clouds to avoid the many ships crossing their path-Missandei had no way of knowing whether they were friend or foe, and no desire to find out-but by the time the sun sank beneath the horizon, they were utterly alone on the vast open sea.

Rhaegal flew closer to the water, periodically swooping down to snatch fish, and Missandei nibbled at her provisions and washed them down with lukewarm water. The emotions swirling through her-fear and rage, anticipation and uncertainty-meant that she had little appetite, but she knew that she would need her strength.

With the coming of night, the air grew chill, and Missandei pressed herself closer to Rhaegal’s back, grateful for the warmth radiating from him. Despite the cold and her many worries, she could not deny the almost otherworldly beauty of the moon and stars reflected on the dark expanse of the ocean, interrupted only by the rippling waves and Rhaegal’s silhouette.

Soon she would see Naath again-not as the verdant paradise of her earliest memories or the chaotic final moments as her village burned and she was clapped in chains, but as a real, living place, that had gone on after she was taken. She had changed so much since then-would the land of her birth still welcome her?

Just as dawn broke, they reached the northernmost point of Naath. Her eyes eagerly drank in the sight, the swaying green trees and white beaches looking just as she remembered, the waters a deep shimmering aquamarine she had never seen elsewhere in all her travels. They continued along the eastern coast, and by the time the sun was high in the sky, she spotted the slavers’ base.

It truly was an artificial island made of ships-she could think of no other way to describe it. Dozens of ships were lashed together, bobbing in the calm waters of the bay. Some on the perimeter seemed to be anchored in place but not bound to the main structure; those must have been the ships the slavers used to travel around Naath for their raids. At the center of the false island were massive wooden…Missandei hated to use the word, even in her own mind, but pens, like those used to contain livestock, filled with hundreds of people. Her people.

Forcing herself to remain calm, they flew down and circled the island, and over the cries of shock from the slavers Missandei called in the Common Tongue, “I bring an offer for your king from the dragon queen!”

Again and again she repeated herself, in the Valyrian dialects of Lys and Tyrosh, in the language of the Basilisk Isles and Ghiscari, until she was certain that they had heard and understood.

They landed on a sandy islet not too near the ship-island but still within its sight. She slid off his back, her limbs stiff from a full day on dragonback, and stretched. By rights she should have been exhausted, but all she felt was the flutter of anticipation and nerves. Though, strangely, not fear. Perhaps there was no more fear left in her, after Astapor and Winterfell and everything in between.

Rhaegal sensed the nervous jumble of her emotions, making an inquisitive sound and nosing at her.

“I know,” she told him softly. “I don’t like this either, but I must.”

With that, she commanded him to take off and fly high above the clouds, out of sight. She could still feel him, which was reassuring, but otherwise, she was alone as she waited for the arrival of a slaver-king.

Soon a large rowboat approached, carrying around a dozen men, one of whom was dressed in finery utterly unsuitable for such a situation, who could only be Sorion Saan. It looked as though he intended to bring his guards to the island with him as well, which would not do.

“Tell your men to stay on their ship, my lord. My words are for you and you only.” Missandei called once they were close enough to hear. Her plan would only work if she was alone with him.

He shouted back, “Do you think me a fool?”

“I am unarmed and have sent my dragon away.” She spread her arms wide, letting them see that she wore no scabbard. Her garments were too light and simple to conceal any weapon, and even at that distance she could feel the weight of the men’s eyes on her body as they greedily took in her form.

But she could see that Sorion Saan was still hesitant, so she continued, “But if you are too frightened to meet with a woman alone, then perhaps you are not worthy of the gift I intend to offer you. I shall depart and seek another man, bolder and more fitting for the great role I have in mind.”

At that some of the men burst into derisive laughter, and Saan angrily ordered them to bring him closer to her. Once in the shallows, he leapt out of the boat and sent them away before swaggering towards her.

Many Lyseni claimed Valyrian descent, but Saan did not share the ethereal beauty of his purported ancestors. He was a tall, broad man, with close-cropped hair of an indeterminate pale color and a face that was remarkable only for the avariciousness of his gaze.

He stopped some twenty feet from her, close enough that they could speak without raising their voices, but far enough to show that he was still suspicious of this whole endeavor.

“What is it you want with me, woman?”

When she spoke, she deliberately pitched her voice to be as light and soft as possible, in a way that she knew men liked. It made them feel superior, reinforced that inherent belief so many of them held that women could never be as clever or learned as men.

“The dragon queen and I have taken Pentos, Braavos, and Volantis. Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys will soon follow, and together we will rule Essos in its entirety, as the Freehold did in the days before the Doom. But we lack a husband, a strong man to guide us and warm our beds. Finding none who were worthy, we began to despair…until we heard of you, a pirate-king like none the world has seen in an age. We wish you to take us both as wives, and give us strong children. Your sons will be princes and dragonriders, and the world will kneel at your feet.”

It was a wild lie, bold and baldfaced, but Missandei had carefully crafted it to flatter his ego. Though they had never met before, she had known countless men like him, and hoped that he was no wiser than the rest.

Please let him be vain and foolish enough to believe this, she thought.

Thankfully, his next words proved that she had not misjudged his nature.

“They say that the dragon queen is the most beautiful woman in the world,” he remarked casually, though he could not entirely disguise the lasciviousness behind his words, and Missandei wondered why men were so utterly vapid, about women generally and her friend specifically.

When it came to Daenerys, they cared only for her beauty and her power-both of which they sought to claim for themselves. They were entirely uninterested in the sharp mind beneath that famous silver-gold hair or the loving and fiercely loyal heart under her much-admired breasts.

But in a way she was grateful for their predictability. It made them that much easier to manipulate.

She smiled disarmingly. “Yes, she is renowned for her beauty.”

 And currently carrying another man’s child, she thought wryly. She suspected this man would not be pleased to know that, but it didn’t matter; he would not live long enough to find out.

“I say they are liars, for surely no woman is more beautiful than you.” He looked her up and down deliberately, and Missandei’s skin crawled.

She dropped her gaze in a gesture she hoped came off as modesty, though it was really to hide her disgust.

“Thank you, noble lord, for your kind words. But I did not fly across the Summer Sea for compliments-what say you? Will you come to Essos to claim us as your brides?”

This was when his rational side, his sense of preservation, should have given him pause. But men like him truly thought that they were owed everything, and that no one was capable of fooling them, particularly not a woman.

“I accept,” he said, managing to infuse those two words with lecherousness.

She smiled in what she hoped was an alluring manner, extending her left hand. “Come. Let us seal our agreement.”

Missandei did not want him to come any closer, but in order for her plan to work, he needed to be within arm’s reach. Clearly he interpreted her proffered hand as an offer of more than just a simple handshake, and he came to her eagerly.

As he took hold of her left hand, she reached towards her head with the right, as if to touch her hair. Instead her fingers curled around the base of her hairpin as he stepped close enough that she could smell the sour wine on his breath, and she called to Rhaegal through their bond.

Rhaegal’s shadow fell upon them as he descended through the clouds, and Sorion Saan looked up, distracted and startled. Her heart raced as Missandei thought, Now.

In a single fluid movement, Missandei tugged the pin from her hair and plunged the sharpened tip into the side of his neck.

For an instant she did not see Sorion’s face-it was Kraznys, gurgling and choking on his own blood, Grazdan’s yielding flesh being rent by her fury. The blood that splattered her face and hands belonged to those unknown slavers who murdered her family and ripped her from her home. The loathing in his eyes was Tyrion, trying to justify slavery to her of all people, smiling at slavers and offering to pay them even while they still owned people, giving them girls ‘for their pleasure’ as if they had no more value than a jug of wine.

With all her strength she yanked it through the column of his throat, disgusted by the sound of tearing muscle and skin, but she did not stop until his throat was open from ear to ear.

The men who had accompanied their king shouted furiously, rowing towards her with great speed, but they soon morphed into cries of fear as Rhaegal fell upon them. He needed no command or signal from her to bathe them in flame.

In her heart, every master, every abuser, every last one of those who had harmed her, fell to her hand in that moment, those long-dead enemies vanquished at last. They were gone, and she would cleanse the world of the rest of their ilk.

By the time Rhaegal landed at her side, the corsair-king who abducted and murdered so many of her people was dead at her feet. Breathing hard from exertion, hands sticky with blood, she stood beside her dragon and smiled.

Rhaegal stood guard over her as she stooped down at the water’s edge to rinse her hands and face. For a moment, she studied her reflection in the gently lapping waves, the seawater washing away every trace of Saan, leaving her clean and new. As the waters of Naath cleansed her of slaver blood, she would burn away the slavers who had polluted her homeland for so long. She dunked the beautiful pin in the water too, not wanting it to become stained.

As she mounted Rhaegal, she wondered at the strange calm she felt. This was this first time she had ever killed a man with her own hands; why was she not more affected?

It was not a man I killed, but a slaver.

They left the little island and Sorion Saan’s corpse behind. The slavers were fleeing, their ships cutting through the waves as they scattered in every direction, presumably thinking that she would not be able to catch them all. If so, it was a misplaced hope, and Rhaegal soon overtook the nearest group of ships.

In her two prior battles, Missandei had not intended to destroy all of her enemies with dragonfire. In fact, she and Daenerys had gone out of their way to minimize the loss of life, something she was quite proud of. They were powerful beyond reckoning, but did not engage in violence recklessly or without purpose.

Yet now, facing the slavers who menaced her homeland, she felt no such restraint, not even the slightest inkling of mercy.

Missandei would never know the name of the ship whose crew murdered her family, tore her from her home and sold her into a life of unspeakable suffering, but in her mind’s eye, it was one of these ships, or another much like it, spread out beneath her now like toys. It seemed strange that something so seemingly insignificant could inflict so much harm. Then again, on dragonback everything else seemed small.

She urged Rhaegal down, a wordless cry of grief and rage tearing from her throat as they fell on the slavers from above. Yet when she heard their cries of terror, she smiled.

Good. Let them know what it is to be afraid.

She would send all of them, every last one, to the bottom of the sea. These men thought they could escape the wrath of the Lord of Harmony and harm his children without consequences. But Naath was no longer protected by only butterflies. Now dragons defended the land of the Peaceful People, and would meet its enemies with fire and blood.

Rhaegal circled above the ships in lazy arcs, snarling at the shouting men. She knew she should be more cautious, but he twisted effortlessly as arrows were loosed at them, bouncing harmlessly off him and into the sea.

She knew it was reckless, but could not help herself, urging Rhaegal so close to the water that the tips of his wings dipped in the ocean. Missandei wanted to be sure that they saw her face. She wanted them to know who killed them, wanted them to know that it was a woman of Naath, no different from the countless children they had stolen, who brought utter ruination upon them.

When she sang out dracarys, no fruit had ever tasted sweeter on her tongue, and she did not think that Rhaegal’s flames had ever before burned as hot as they did that day, fueled by a lifetime of pain and her righteous fury. It seemed to pour out of her with his fire, and a wild laugh burst from her mouth as the slavers begged and burned and died.

In the space of an hour, Missandei killed the pirate-king with her own hand, burned the entirety of his men, and reduced his fleet to nothing more than a collection of smoldering hulls. Slavers would never again sully Naath with their violence.

Once it was done, they flew back towards the ship-island, where she saw that people had already cast off their chains and were separating the ships so they could return to shore. Missandei would have to speak with them soon, to let them know that Xanda and her fleet would be coming to help transport them back to their homes around Naath, but she knew it would take some time for them to reach land.

The beach they landed on was so narrow that waves splashed over Rhaegal’s tail and legs, but they were too exhausted to fly any further that day. Though this fleet was smaller than the Iron Fleet or those of the masters in Meereen, Rhaegal had destroyed them alone, without the aid of his brothers, after flying a full day and night. No rider had ever asked so much of their dragon, and he had answered her every need.

She slid off Rhaegal’s back on trembling legs and fell to her knees, scooping up a handful of sun-warmed white sand and letting it slip through her fingers, reveling that something so simple could feel so profound. Missandei sagged against Rhaegal’s head, murmuring her thanks, telling him how much she loved him, and he purred with contentment.

As the adrenaline drained from her body, with fatigue rising up to take its place, Missandei found herself longing for sleep. The heat from Rhaegal and the bright sun made her eyelids suddenly heavy, and they drooped shut, until she felt a tickling sensation on her wrist. Opening her eyes, she saw that a large butterfly landed on her, its wings-bright green slashed with bronze-fluttering as it basked in Rhaegal’s warmth. It felt like a sign, a benediction, a homecoming.

Hot tears trickled down her face as emotion overcame her, but they were tears of joy. Naath and its people were safe, and she had done something beyond her wildest imaginings, the dream of every enslaved person.

Naath, I have journeyed far from your shores, but at last your daughter has returned home.