Astapor
Rhaenys and Aemon landed their dragons just outside the city walls, their wings stirring clouds of red dust as they settled. Without a word, the two dismounted and made their way toward the gates of Astapor, the reek of salt and smoke growing stronger with each step.
A guard stepped forward, unease plain in his posture, constantly flickering his eyes at their dragons. He spoke in Valyrian, his voice cautious.
"Lord and Lady Targaryen?"
Aemon met his gaze. "Yes. I am Lord Aemon Targaryen. This is my sister-wife, Lady Rhaenys Targaryen. We are here to conduct trade with your masters."
The guard hesitated. "I thought the blood of Old Valyria had turned away from the slave trade."
Aemon's expression remained unreadable. "Circumstances changes. So do the priorities."
The man nodded. "You'll find the Good Masters at the Plaza of Pride."
"Our journey has been long," Aemon said. "Is there an inn nearby where we can rest?"
The guard pointed to a low, weather-worn pyramid perched on a hill to the east. "There. The one with the bronze stars on the pole. It's an inn, though I warn you—it's not a cheap one."
"That won't be a concern." Aemon said.
Aemon turned and led Rhaenys toward the pyramid.
As they walked, Rhaenys cast a glance at the crumbling buildings, many of them abandoned or scorched. "This city is rotting."
"I've noticed," Aemon replied. "Astapor is the poorest of the three cities in the Slaver's Bay."
Rhaenys frowned, her voice lowering. "There's something worse than poverty here. Something foul. You can feel it in the air. It's not just the slave trade."
"We won't stay for long, my love," Aemon said softly.
As they stepped through the entrance of the pyramid, the stench of sweat and dried blood met them. A richly dressed Ghiscari man stood in the foyer, striking a slave girl across the face so hard she crumpled to the floor.
"I told you I wanted my food ready by dawn, you worthless animal!" the man shouted, lifting his hand again.
"I am sorry, master! This one is sorry! This one will do better next time." the girl sobbed, blood mixing with dust on her cheek.
The man turned, noticing the newcomers. "And you are?"
"I am Lord Aemon Targaryen. We've come to take lodging while our ships arrive here and we complete our business in your city," Aemon said calmly.
The man's expression shifted to wary calculation. "This is the finest inn in Astapor. I charge accordingly."
"That will not be an issue."
The man gave a nod and turned. "Come. I'll show you what's available."
As Aemon followed him deeper into the pyramid, Rhaenys lingered for a moment, eyes on the battered slave girl who was slowly rising, clutching her face. Rhaenys had snapped on servants on Dragonstone few times, even shouted a couple of times... but this? This was evil, pure and deliberate.
Aemon returned few moments later.
"It's settled. We'll have the top floor."
"Draw warm baths according to our guests," the innkeeper barked at the girl. "Surely even you can manage that."
"Yes, master," she murmured, and scurried away up the stairs.
Later that night, Aemon and Rhaenys reclined in a large marble tub, the water was boiling hot, but to them it felt warm, it was scented faintly with myrrh. The flicker of lamplight danced across the walls.
Rhaenys leaned back against his chest while Aemon was hugging her from behind. "You're quiet."
"I'm thinking," Aemon murmured. "I've been to all the nine Free Cities, but none of them feel like this. Even the ruins of Valyria were less... sick and that's saying something."
"I've only visited Braavos, Volantis and now here," Rhaenys said. "But I understand now why they call it the Slaver's Bay."
"There's no joy here. No dignity, no color. Just slavery, violence and silence. Even the other Free cities except Braavos, for all their slave trade, still lives." Aemon said.
"Maybe owning people slowly kills something inside you," Rhaenys whispered.
Aemon said. "I had spent weeks in Volantis. There is slavery there too—but this feels... different. I had seen slaves smiling in Volantis."
"Let's buy the Unsullied," Rhaenys said. "Free them. And leave with whoever wants to come with us. That's enough."
Aemon let the silence hang for a moment, then kissed her damp hair. "Agreed."
(Next day)
"By the Fourteen, that man has bigger tits than I do," Rhaenys whispered under her breath as they approached the slave master waiting near the fountain.
Aemon smirked. "I somehow doubt they're as nice to look at as yours."
The Plaza of Pride sprawled before them—a vast market of red brick and choking heat, packed with stalls and slavers. At its heart stood a fountain of the same ruddy stone, reeking faintly of brimstone. From the mouth of a great bronze harpy, water gushed in sickly yellow streams from her overlarge breasts into the basin below. Her wings were outspread in dominion, her claws gripping a heavy chain with an open manacle at each end.
"As magnificent as the Harpy is," said the fat man in front of them in clumsy, nasal Valyrian, "we have more pressing matters. I am Grazdan zo Pahl."
"Aemon Targaryen," Aemon replied with cool formality. "And my sister-wife Rhaenys Targaryen"
Due to the fear of Aemon, Grazdan gave a resepectful nod to both of them.
"I was surprised to hear that you wished to buy Unsullied," Grazdan said. "I thought your House had abandoned such… delights."
"That is true, your worship," said the girl beside him before Aemon could answer. She was young, perhaps no older than sixteen, or eighteen, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a soft rhoynish accented voice. "To better integrate with the Sunset Kingdoms, House Targaryen ceased all ownership of slaves."
"Right, right," Grazdan said, brushing her words away like insects. "So tell me, are you here to buy Unsullied or waste my time?"
"It's true Westerosi call slavery a sin," Aemon replied, "but then, they say the same about adultery, but it never stopped them."
Grazdan laughed, loud and wheezing, and motioned to the formation ahead of them.
There were hundreds of them—perhaps a thousand—standing in perfect ranks, utterly motionless under the harsh Astapori sun. Not one shifted his stance or blinked or wiped sweat from his brow. Aemon was impressed despite himself.
They weren't what he expected from eunuchs—lean but hardened, drawn from every corner of Essos. Summer Islanders stood beside pale men of the far north, even few olive-skinned Dothraki looking beside men with the fine features of Lys. But what struck Aemon most wasn't their strength. It was the eyes—each pair were blank and dead, like dolls with their strings cut, but somehow still alert. Still present.
"Magnificent, are they not?" Grazdan asked, puffing up with pride.
"They look capable," Aemon allowed. "I've read of their reputation—'Three Thousand of Qohor' and such—but not the specifics of their training. Tell me of it."
Perhaps I can apply some of the humane ones to our Army Aemon thought.
Grazdan scoffed. "Then your records are woefully incomplete. All of Essos knows about the rigorous training of the Unsullied."
He paused to cough violently, the girl stepping forward at once with a wineskin. Grazdan drank deeply, wiping his mouth, and shoving the skin back into her hands.
"Tell him, girl," he barked.
"The Unsullied are trained in the shortsword, shield, and the three spears," she began, her voice steady despite the tension. "Their training begins at the the age of five. They drill from dawn to dusk until they master all weapons. And only one in three survives."
Aemon nodded slowly. "How does the castration doesn't affect them? I had thought it would weaken a man."
"They are chosen for size and strength before the cutting, something which this girl didn't mention," Grazdan said, then snapped and striked the girl sharply with a stick. She flinched but didn't make any sound. "Brute strength isn't everything. If it were, beasts would rule the fighting pits. What sets the Unsullied apart is their discipline."
He handed over the wineskin back to the girl with a grunt and turned toward the soldiers.
"They do not feel anything. They do not question the orders given to them. They do not hesitate. These ones have stood here in the sun for hours. If I commanded them to stand until only one remained alive, and that last one to remain until death, he would."
Aemon asked skeptically. "Surely you don't mean they feel no fear at all?"
Grazdan said flatly. "They have no fear because they have no joy. No feelings of any kind. All of that is removed in their training. Death means nothing to them. Pain even less."
He turned to a pale Unsullied with dark hair and barked, "Your sword."
The eunuch knelt and wordlessly presented his blade—a narrow shortsword, plainly made but sharp.
"Stand," Grazdan ordered.
"Yes, your worship," the soldier replied, rising in perfect silence.
Aemon frowned. "Surely you don't mean to kill him just for a demonstration."
"I won't waste a good product," Grazdan grinned. "Just watch."
Without ceremony, he drove the blade just beneath the man's left nipple. The saw of metal on flesh was hideous, slow and deliberate, until the flesh tore free and dropped wetly to the red bricks. Blood poured down the soldier's chest. He didn't even flinch.
"Back to your post," Grazdan said without a flicker of concern.
"Yes, your worship," the Unsullied replied, unshaken, and returned to formation.
Rhaenys had gone a little bit pale, but kept silent. Aemon's grip on her hand tightened.
"They feel no pain," Grazdan said proudly. "They drink the wine of courage with every meal. It is not wine at all, but a mixture of deadly nightshade and other things. Each dose deadens them further. Torture does nothing to them. Fear is foreign to them."
Grazdan beamed at the ranks before him as if he had painted them himself.
"And the removal of the cock," Grazdan added cheerfully, "is vital. In Yunkai and Meereen, they only take the balls. Fools all of them. Erections still come. Pleasure still tempts them. But our Unsullied? They have nothing. No lust, no love. Only duty. They are pure. That's why they are called 'Unsullied'"
"That's one word for it," Aemon muttered, eyes fixed on the eunuch still bleeding at attention.
Grazdan turned and barked, "You! What is your name?"
"Black Fly, your worship."
"What was it yesterday?"
"Blue Worm, your worship."
"Before that?"
"This one is unsure, your worship."
"They pick name disks each morning," Grazdan explained. "Return them at night. No attachment. They are vermins and they must be reminded that daily."
"How do they even remember their names, changing them so often?" Aemon asked.
"Those who cannot are culled."
The girl winced at the word, but Grazdan didn't notice.
"Any boy who fails to meet the demands of training is removed. Some tests are physical—like running on burning coals, climbing peaks in full gear. Others… are harder. Each must kill an infant before its mother after giving her a silver coin, to earn his spiked cap."
Aemon's eyes turned cold at that. "You pay the mother for killing her child?"
"The child's owner," Grazdan corrected, confused and unnerved by the question. "They are slaves, too. We don't permit theft. The dog test is even harder. Each boy receives a pup on his first day. One year later, he must strangle it. Those who hesitate are fed to the dogs."
Rhaenys' nails dug into Aemon's hand. He welcomed the pain—it anchored him.
He hadn't felt this way since he watched Voldemort strike down Lily, or Bellatrix laughing as Sirius fell into the Veil. That rage had been personal. The mention of killing the child in front of the mother, he was feeling like that again.
He would have liked nothing more than to draw his sword and carve the fat fuck open, or better yet torture him for days like Visenya taught him to interrogate.
He would talk to Rhaenys later. She had always helped him when the storms inside him grew too loud to bear alone. She had always been better than everyone when it comes to feelings.
"So, you've seen the Unsullied and learned of their training," Grazdan said, puffing up like a merchant about to seal a grand deal. "Tell me, how many are you looking to buy? They're sold in groups—centuries or full thousands."
"How many do you have?" Aemon asked as calmly as possible.
"There are five thousand in Astapor at present," Grazdan replied with no small amount of pride. "We sold two thousand to the alliance of Qohor and Norvos three months ago."
Shit. I missed, Aemon thought, jaw tightening.
"What's your price?" Aemon asked aloud. "I want all five thousand of them. Give me the rate in Braavosi gold star."
"All of them?" Grazdan blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"Yes, all of them," Rhaenys said smoothly, stepping forward. "Our ships from Dragonstone will arrive soon carrying the gold. Along with them, enough ships from Volantis will come to transport all the five thousand Unsullied back to Dragonstone."
Grazdan' expression shifted quickly from surprise to delight. "Well then, if you're buying the entire force, we're willing to lower the price. Normally the rate is five hundred Braavosi gold each Unsullied—but for you both, it will be three hundred. A courtesy to the Dragonlords, of course. And this girl as a token of good trade."
Rhaenys bristled, she didn't like the intention behind the last part at all.
Aemon nodded, calculating. "That brings the total to one and a half million."
Shit... I should have brought more gold. We'll manage Volantis with what's left, but perhaps not all the Three Daughters. I might need to make another trip, he thought grimly.
"I'm also interested in the untrained Unsullied," Aemon added.
Grazdan recoiled as if slapped. "No, no. Impossible. We do not, and will not sell the untrained ones. If they fail, our reputation will die with them. Even if you offered double, triple—no."
Well, Aegon, I tried, Aemon mused.
"Very well," he said aloud. "But see to it that none of them are sold to others. As I said—our fleets will arrive shortly, and I'm purchasing all of them."
_______________________________________________________________________
Aemon and Rhaenys were at the Plaza of Pride. All the Unsullied were gathered there. Standing in perfect formation, still as statues. His talk with Rhaenys had helped him a lot. He was level-headed now.
All the chests full of gold were put there. It was such a large amount that it was being weighed.
"Here," Grazdan said, handing Aemon the whip he was holding.
"That's it, then?" Aemon asked, "they're mine?"
"Yes," Grazdan said. Turning to the girl, he added, "you are too."
Rhaenys asked the slave girl, "What is your name?"
"This one is called Saelira, my Lady," she replied.
"Come, Saelira," Rhaenys said, as they started walking away, "we've a long journey ahead of us."
"Unsullied!" Aemon called out, "march towards the port. We set sail at once."
In lockstep, they turned and marched as ordered. Aemon would instruct the ship captains to make a stop a little farther away from Astapor, where he could inform the Unsullied that they were free. He wasn't about to do that in Astapor, though. These Good Masters could get some funny ideas.
"Saelira," Rhaenys said as soon as they were out of the Plaza of Pride, "how long did you serve Grazdan?"
"This one has served his worship for many years, my Lady," Saelira replied.
"I see," Rhaenys said. "what languages do you speak?"
She said, "This one speaks the common language of Westeros, High Valyrian, as well as many different Valyrian dialects, the Summer Tongue, the language of the Dothraki, the language of the Rhoynar, Lhazareen, and Old Ghiscari."
"Would it be possible for you to refer to yourself as 'I' rather than 'this one'?" Rhaenys asked.
"Slaves here are not allowed to do so, generally," Saelira replied.
"And if you weren't a slave?" Rhaenys asked.
Saelira's eyes widened, and she gasped.
"You mean to free us?" Saelira whispered.
"Once we're away from this place," Aemon replied. "I wouldn't want those filths to get any funny ideas."
"That is likely wise, my Lord," Saelira said. "What will become of us?"
"We will offer you all employment as free men and women, and you will be paid for the work you would do," Rhaenys replied. "In your case, most probably it would be as a handmaid for my sister."
"If I could ask, why do this?" Saelira asked. "Why trade so much gold just to free slaves?"
"In coming years we will need lots of skilled workers and soldiers," Aemon replied, "but we will not use slaves. It is up to you all, whether to work for us or follow your own path. We will not hold it against any of you if you choose to go your own way."
"What would the duties of a handmaid entail?" Saelira asked.
Rhaenys replied softly, "Don't worry you will not be touched by anyone unless you wish it—not in our service, not in our home. If someone does, then it is a crime and they will be punished for that. You'll have your own chamber, your own clothes, and your own new name, if you want it. My sister will need a friend she can trust, god knows she can do with a friend if we are not with her. We're going to build something and you'll have a place in it—if you choose to."
Missandei looked at her for a long moment, blinking fast. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Then, finally, in a voice no louder than a breath, she said, "Thank you... I would like that, my Lady."
________________________________________________________________________
Off the coast of Astapor
The ships creaked as they rode the slow current, sails furled, anchored far off the coast of Astapor.
On the shore, the sand trembled as Caraxes and Meraxes descended. Winds whipped the dunes into brief storms. The dragons landed with roars, their wings folding in as their riders dismounted.
A small boat waited at the shoreline. Aemon and Rhaenys climbed in it wordlessly. The oarsmen pulled them toward the fleet.
By the time they reached the lead ship, the Unsullied stood waiting on its deck, along with thousands more on other ships—quiet, motionless ranks, their spears held upright, armor unblemished, eyes blank.
Aemon and Rhaenys stepped to the prow. Above them, Caraxes and Meraxes circled, blood-red and silver-gold flying in the sky. Their roars echoed over the bay, fire made flesh.
The Unsullied didn't even flinch.
Aemon studied them. Their faces were all the same. No hate. No hope. Just the quiet stillness of men long taught not to feel anything.
They look at me the way a blade looks at its owner, he thought. Like something forged for use, not purpose. Even dragons failed to stir them. Not one head turned. Not one pair of eyes flicked upward. They've been even taught not to care if the sky is on fire.
"Unsullied," Aemon said, his voice steady. "You were bought in the Plaza of Pride, but you do not belong to us any longer."
"From this moment forward," he continued, "you all are free."
No movement. No sound.
"You will not be owned by anyone," Aemon continued. "Not by me, not by my sister, not my other siblings, not by any other man or woman."
Still, the rows held firm. Spears upright. Eyes blank.
"You may leave now," Rhaenys said, stepping forward beside her brother-husband. "You may take a boat now and return to the shore. Walk away, and none will stop you. You will not be punished. You will not be hunted down. No harm will come to you."
"There would be no shame in it," Aemon added. "If you leave now, we will understand that."
"And if you stay," he went on, "you would stay as free men. You will be paid for the work you do. You will be respected for that. You will fight not because of a command, but because you choose to work for us."
Silence.
Then one man stepped forward.
Dark-skinned, older than most, a faint scar curled along his cheek—the sigil of an Astapori master, burned into him long ago. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
"We are free?" he asked. As if the words themselves hurt to say.
Aemon nodded. "Yes, you are. As my sister said, you can take the boats and go to the coast. No one will stop you."
The man stared for a long moment at nothing. Then slowly, he fell to one knee.
Another followed. Then another. And another. Just in quiet submission to freedom.
The youngest one of them dropped his shield. It struck the deck with a dull clunk. He said nothing, only stared at his hands like he had never seen them before.
No one stopped him.
Rhaenys stepped forward.
"What is your name?" she asked softly.
"I... do not know," he said after a long pause. "I never had one."
"Then you can choose one now," she said. "Choose what you want. That is your right now."
Aemon pulled the whip from his belt. He looked at it, then whistled sharply. Then Caraxes arrived.
Aemon threw the whip toward the dragon and spoke one word:"Dracarys."
Flame burst from Caraxes's maw. The whip vanished in fire.
Aemon turned without a word. He and Rhaenys took the boat again, moving to the next ship, then the next. Each time, they gave the same speech. Each time, they waited. Not one Unsullied left. Though a few collapsed. Some stood in silence, uncertain of what to feel.
Above them, Caraxes and Meraxes roared and circled.
When Aemon and Rhaenys left each ship, they left behind silence.
There were faint whispers between men who had not spoken freely in years. Some reached out to them—not to strike, but to touch. To feel. Some closed their eyes and simply stood. And a few—only a few—smiled. Not wide. Not giddy. But the kind of smile that had once been forgotten.
And in that quiet, broken peace, House Targaryen had earned the undying loyalty of all the Unsullied they purchased and freed. And these freed Unsullied will also be the ones to instill loyalty to House Targaryen in other soldiers. This moment would start a chain reaction in the future.
________________________________________________________________________
Volantis
The dragons landed at dawn.
Caraxes came first, blood-red wings blotting out the rising sun as he circled once over the courtyard before landing with bone-rattling grace. Meraxes followed moments later, her silver-gold wings folding neatly as she settled beside Caraxes.
Trianna waited beneath the terrace arch, flanked by two slaves and a stone-faced man holding a ledger, who is probably also a slave. She wore a long black red coat embroidered with gold thread, and no ornament save a thin chain of rubies wound around her wrist.
She smiled as Aemon and Rhaenys dismounted.
"You're early," she said, stepping forward. "The bells haven't even rung yet."
"We didn't want eyes on us, more than necessary," Aemon replied, tugging off his gloves. "Besides, nowadays you don't care for fanfare."
Trianna snorted. "Volantis has enough of that already. Come with me. Breakfast is being prepared."
They followed her through the arched halls of her estate, past pillars carved with long-dead Valyrian ancestors. Their steps echoed faintly in the quiet.
The terrace overlooked the Black Walls. It was cooler here, and quieter—removed from the noise of the docks and markets.
"Any trouble in Astapor?" Trianna asked as she poured sweet red wine into three cups.
"None," Rhaenys replied, settling into a cushioned seat. "The Unsullied are already on the ships bound for Dragonstone."
Trianna gave a small nod. "So now you're here again—for what?"
Aemon answered plainly. "We need more than just soldiers. We need builders, masons, healers, scribes. And others who can learn from them. Smart ones and young enough to be shaped in our image."
"I thought as much." Trianna handed the ledger to him. "I had the names drawn up since you left for Astapor. All within the parameters I thought you would need. All were privately owned, and quiet transfers had been arranged. I've purchased five hundred trained ones in advance. Other trained ones have been marked and will be purchased by me soon."
Rhaenys took the ledger from Aemon, and flipped through the pages. Names, trades, ages, languages spoken, notes on temperament were all mentioned "This was... quick. I thought we would have to stay here for at least two months. And how do you know what we needed?"
Trianna said with a shrug. "I think I know what you are trying to build."
Then Trianna smiled faintly. "If it were anyone else, I would have laughed in their faces. Also the gold I will earn was quiet a motivation."
She took a sip of wine, then leaned back. "Untrained ones with the talent to learn will be arranged in perhaps a month. Some are children of slaves. Others were taken when they were young during the Century of Blood. Now whether they'll trust you is another matter."
"They will," Rhaenys said.
"And if they don't?" Trianna raised an eyebrow.
"I highly doubt that, but if they don't then they can walk away," Aemon replied.
Trianna studied them both for a long moment. Then she stood. "I'll bring those I had purchased quietly at dusk. They won't be told anything until they arrive."
She paused at the edge of the terrace. "And when the old blood will ask where their previous property has gone?"
Rhaenys said. "I'm sure you'll think of something convincing."
Trianna laughed under her breath. "That I usually do."
_______________________________________________________________________
The streets inside the Black Walls stank of sweat and incense. Beneath the shadow of the Black Walls, red-robed acolytes shouted praise to R'hllor, waving burning censers as they walked barefoot through the dust.
Their destination was 'Dome of the Fiery Sky'.
Where the Gods of Valyria were still worshipped.
The Temple of the Fourteen Flames did not open its doors to just anyone.
Aemon and Rhaenys stood before them nonetheless.
The black marble steps were wide, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrims and supplicants, cracked in places but still lined with fire bowls. Orange flames licked at the mist that clung to the upper tiers. The air was heavy with heat of the fire within the temple. The dome above was smooth and vast, a millennium older than the Doom, or so the Volantenes claimed. The outer walls were carved with gods and godesses. The High Valyrian etched below each one had almost faded.
They waited in silence as the great double doors opened slowly inward.
A tall man emerged, dark-robed and lean, with pale blue eyes. His High Valyrian was clean and precise.
"You are not worshippers of the true gods," he said, voice soft but steady.
"We still carry their blood," Aemon replied calmly. "We are their legacy."
The priest's expression did not shift. "Many have said the same since the Doom."
"And how many of them were Dragonlords?" Rhaenys asked, her tone light, her smile faint but pointed.
That made the man pause. Only a moment—but it was enough. He inclined his head and stepped aside. "Come inside."
Inside the air was thick with the scent of ash, burning oil, myrrh, and old stone. The light came from the flames themselves—low braziers, guttering sconces, and the open bowls of fire before each shrine. Fourteen gods and godesses. Fourteen altars.
Some shrines were grand—statues of black iron and veined marble with gemstone eyes that glimmered. Others were simple, no more than bowls of burning coals or slabs of obsidian etched with glyphs. Syrax was carved in marble and grapevine. Vhagar stood in black stone veined with red, her altar wreathed in flickering rubies. Shrykos, goddess of transitions, had no statue. Only a door. A real one, set in a wall of grey stone. It had no handle and was sealed tight with black iron nails.
"You are not the first Targaryens to come here," the priest said as they walked the outer ring of the temple. The flames cast strange shadows across his face. "But perhaps you will be the last ones to come."
"Then hear us," said Aemon. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "We want to build a New Valyria. In the west. Which is our new homeland."
The priest looked over his shoulder. "The west is full of weak men and women. What does that have to do with us?"
"The Faith of the Seven has taken roots in majority of Westeros," Aemon said. "Even in Dragonstone, the Gods of Valyria have no shrines. And we want to change all of that."
A priestess stepped out from the shadows of the Tessarion shrine. The same priestess who had healed him. She wore white and gold, her wrists were heavy with dragonbone bangles.
"And where would this New Valyria rise?" she asked.
"It will start from Dragonstone," Rhaenys said simply. "And from there it will spread to all of Westeros. Just like once Old Valyria started from Valyrian peninsula and spread to much of Essos."
A silence stretched, filled only by the low hiss of coals.
There were others listening now—figures at the edges of the chamber. Some stood beside the altars. Some sat cross-legged.
"We aren't asking for servants," Aemon replied. "We are just asking for your presence there. Come with us to Dragonstone. Establish the shrines. Help us remind the world why once Valyrians ruled supreme."
"And why should we?" the priestess asked. "Why should we listen to the descendants of people whose greed was the cause of the doom. What promise can you make that the Doom did not break?"
Rhaenys walked a few steps toward the altar of Tessarion. The statue had two wings, and a dragon egg made of obsidian resting in the crook of the goddess's arm.
"We can offer a future," she said. "That's all we can offer. We can offer the revival of Valyrian culture and heritage."
She looked back at them. "With you, we can rebuild it all. Without your presence there, the Gods of Valyria will fade to myth and smoke."
They gathered later in the Hall of Syrax, where the walls were covered in the murals of dragons flying over a burning sea.
The questions came one after another. Some were harsh. Some were quiet. But none were empty. They listened. They argued. They drank.
And slowly, the mood shifted.
They spoke of Aenar, the dragonlord who fleed before the Doom. Of the volcano on Dragonstone. Of the dreams that burned in their blood. Of the dragons—living dragons—fire made flesh, not some statues.
Rhaenys joked. Aemon quoted old texts. The priestess from before asked for the name of Aemon's dragon, and nodded when he said it: Caraxes.
"God of the Sea," she murmured.
Then she turned to Rhaenys "What is your dragon's name?"
"Meraxes" Rhaenys said.
"Goddess of the Sky. Both of them are twins, and you both are also twins." she murmured.
By nightfall, one priest and one priestess of each one of the Fourteen agreed to go to Dragonstone.
They would travel to Dragonstone as keepers of the Fourteen flames. And one mute acolyte would also go with them—a boy no older than ten. He served Vermax. It was said his words burned if read by liars.
As they left the temple under torchlight, Rhaenys exhaled slowly.
"The task given by Visenya is completed," she said quietly.
_______________________________________________________________________
Dragonstone
The sea breeze hadn't dulled the heat when Aemon and Rhaenys arrived. Dragonstone loomed behind them, black and jagged against the bruised sky, but it was the sight of his siblings waiting ahead that drew their eyes.
"You both arrived earlier than I thought," Aegon said.
"It took one and a half million Braavosi gold stars to purchase five thousand Unsullied," Aemon said without preamble, his boots crunching on gravel as they made their way toward the keep. "The rest went into acquiring slaves from Volantis, Lys, and Tyrosh—those already trained, and those young enough and the with the talent to be trained. I arranged for their transport also. We'll have to leave for Braavos soon to release more funds. Then to Myr. And before you ask, Aegon—they refused to sell the untrained Unsullied, not at any price."
No one spoke until they reached Aegon's solar.
Rhaenys was the first to break the silence. She glanced at Visenya. "The task you gave us—to bring the priests and priestesses of the Fourteen. It's done. One priest and one priestess for each god and goddess will arrive. Even a mute scribe of Vermax is coming with them. They'll need space for their Temple. So arrange that."
Visenya smiled in satisfaction, but then her violet eyes became cold. "Good. We need at least one religion in favor of us. Of course, we'll need to... shape public sentiment. Let them preach loyalty to House Targaryen. That will come in time."
She turned to Aemon. "And buy more young slaves. Those with the potential to become soldiers. They will be trained by the Unsullied and our own men here."
"We'll look into it," Rhaenys replied, her tone level as she met her sister's eyes. "We can't go back to Volantis—too many eyes are on us right now. Trianna can't create more excuses. But we still have reliable contacts in Lys and Tyrosh. And we still have to visit Myr."
Aemon nodded once. "And the army? Have you finalized the structure?"
"We have," Aegon said, gesturing them toward the large table strewn with parchment maps and inked diagrams. "The model is based on the old Valyrian legions mostly, but we have made our own adjustments. A true standing army. Not some free for all to join, like it happens on Westeros mainland."
"Each legion consists of five hundred soldiers," Visenya said crisply. "Divided into five centuries of one hundred men. Each century is split into ten decads—ten men squads—led by a decarch. Ten decarchs report to a centenar, who commands the century. Five centenars report to the strategon of the legion."
"And each legion reports to a marshal-commander," Aegon continued. "Right now, we have three: one for infantry, one for archers and ranged units, and one for engineering and siege. When the army's fully formed, we'll appoint a Grand Strategos—a supreme military overseer. Training of archers has already started."
"We'll add cavalry once we take the Riverlands," Aegon went on. "There is no point in stablishing cavalry right now. Especially when you burned the best in Essos. Cavalry will be trained under lancer-kyn, but we'll integrate Dothraki techniques too."
"And siege engines?" Aemon asked.
"While both of you were away, we visited Qohor, and they agreed to send us blacksmiths," Visenya said. "They will build fire-throwers, stone-casters, scorpions, and repeating ballistae. They'll be organized under the Sappers' Guild. We'll assigned them quarters behind the forge. Their real use will come after the conquest of the Riverlands, when we will not be there with our Army."
Aegon added, "One scribe-exactar will be assigned to every ten squads. They'll record drills, discipline, supplies, and combat performance."
Aemon smiled. "It's beginning to look like a real army."
"As it should be," Aegon said. "We're not training knights. We're building the backbone of an empire."
Visenya gave a short nod. "By the way, Aemon—ten war galleys from Braavos have arrived. Ten more will reach within next four months. Be ready to give orders for thirty more after that. Aegon and I are overseeing the design of our own shipyard. Once that's done, we won't have to rely on others for fleet."
"By the time you and Rhaenys would return," Aegon said, "we'll have prepared the structure for a professional navy also. After you will come back, we will discuss about the wages and pensions."
Rhaenys nodded. "Good. We'll rest for a few days, then we will leave for Braavos again."
Aemon's eyes narrowed and said "Also, ask for Syranna's help in creation of infiltration units, whose existence will only be known to us. To others, they will be just regular member of our Army."