An Unsullied crossbowman spotted a cloaked, masked man in black trying to board the fast boat meant to protect the Queen. Catching sight of the man's pale blue eyes, he shouted urgently:
"Hey! You, the Tyroshi—come back! Only those dispatched by the deputy commander are allowed on that boat!"
The masked man was none other than Jon Clinton. He had intended to slip away in the chaos toward the ship where Daenerys was imprisoned, hide himself aboard, and wait for the right moment to act.
Hearing the shout, he looked up and saw more than a dozen Unsullied aiming their crossbows at him. If he persisted, he risked being riddled with bolts. Helpless, he obeyed the call, begrudgingly stepping onto the boarding ladder.
As soon as he set foot on deck, a shield-bearing Unsullied—protecting his face from enemy arrows—grabbed his arm and warmly said,
"Brother, freedman who was once a slave—arrows know no eyes. Hurry into the cabin and take shelter!"
The Unsullied assumed the exiled Hand was a slave the Khal had brought from New Ghis, and thus showed him concern—after all, he himself had once been a plaything tormented by slavers.
This kindness only repulsed Jon Clinton; there was no gratitude in him. He cursed the overzealous eunuch's ancestors in his heart, feigning obedience as he made his way toward the stairs leading down to the cabin.
The warship's anchor was raised, and it began to sail. Daenerys felt the movement. In darkness, she could make no sense of what was happening. She hadn't heard the cries of her children for hours, and with that earlier great explosion still ringing in her mind, she was gripped by worry and unease.
Her dragons were clearly no longer nearby—summoned away by Drogo once more to fight.
Since the Naga uprising, Daenerys had slowly come to a bitter realization: her three children were not invincible. Even dragons could fall, just like meteors that roamed the skies.
Fury surged again. She clenched her teeth and shouted,
"Drogo! They are my children—my strength! They are not your slaves! I hope you value their lives!"
In the hearts of the Unsullied, Daenerys was the breaker of their chains—second only to Drogo himself—so the Mother of Dragons' anguished cry still moved them.
"My children… are you well?"
The Unsullied's deputy commander boarded this warship—once belonging to the Golden Company—for the first time. Hearing the Queen's hoarse voice calling for her children, he couldn't help but respond:
"Your Grace, do not worry. I can see your three children circling in the skies over Volantis."
Relieved, Daenerys quickly pressed him for more:
"We've come to Volantis? Has there been battle? Why else would we be turning back?"
The man they called "Hero" thought for a moment, dismissed the nearby sentries, and stepped onto the ladder used to deliver the Queen's meals. Resting his head at the ventilation slit, he peered down.
Seeing her nearly swallowed by darkness, he felt a pang of guilt—though the blame lay with His Majesty, not him.
To him, Daenerys was not a goddess, but a great liberator—his Mhysa, his mother.
"Mhysa… are you well?"
It had been a long time since she'd heard a freedman call her "mother." Her eyes misted instantly. With a bitter smile, she said,
"Heh… I'm fine. Here I cultivate patience, reflect on the past… I've seen through many things. Tell me—what has happened out there?"
Limited as his care was, it could not help her. All Hero could do was obey. He recounted, in full, everything he had seen and heard since arriving.
When she learned the green flames had swept across half of Volantis—and linked it with the great explosion she had heard—she believed him, and began to laugh aloud.
"Hahahaha! …Uuuhhh!"
The laughter was laced with sobs, the sound of a Queen touched by madness.
Curious though he was, Hero dared not ask what she found so funny—or tragic. Without even bidding farewell, he withdrew from the stifling stench.
Hearing his footsteps fade, Daenerys stilled her laughter and murmured to herself, so quietly it could barely be heard:
"Can the Unburnt survive in the jaws of a demon conjured by fire-mages? …I think not."
At Volantis' docks, the battle had grown bloodier, now at its fiercest.
The mercenaries had scattered, fleeing along both sides of the city wall. Marajo's voice was hoarse from shouting; even the promise of more gold could not restore their will to fight.
The tiger soldiers were regular troops, and the Archon would not surrender easily.
Yet before the Unsullied—fiercer, better disciplined, and masters of many formations—Marajo's orders were useless. All he could do was watch his tiger soldiers fall in grotesque ways.
Grey Worm was covered in blood, tireless, his spear weaving left and right, every thrust spilling tiger blood.
When the press of enemies grew too tight for the spear, he drew his short sword, cutting silver arcs through the air that sprayed crimson.
Grey Worm was the strongest of them all, yet every Unsullied fought with nearly the same skill—if not quite as fast a killer as their commander, still deadly enough.
They fought until the tiger soldiers' hearts failed them, showing the true meaning of an infantry corps that could stand against ten times its number.
Marajo was a ruler, not a front-line general. But seeing Grey Worm on the verge of cutting down the last Iron Tiger Guard, fear took him. Turning toward the wall-top sentries, he bellowed:
"Open the city gates! Stop those accursed eunuchs!"
Above, dragons circled; outside, blood ran like rivers. The tiger soldiers on the wall trembled, but an Archon's command could not be defied. They were about to pass the order to the gate guards—when a single word floated toward them from afar:
"Dracarys!"
Boom!
A surge of searing heat slammed into them. Instinctively, they looked up—and saw only black-and-red flames cascading down.
The dragon's wrath cut off Marajo's last escape.
He cursed himself for his arrogance—closing the city gates and leaving no path for retreat.
Drogo's voice reached his ears, along with the ever-louder thunder of hooves.
Volantis had always used elephants in place of horses for transport and war. Such a roar of hooves could only mean one thing—tens of thousands of steeds.
The city had fewer than a thousand horses, and few knew how to ride. It could not be Volantene riders. No—these were Dothraki horsemen, come to take the heads of every last tiger man.
"Impossible! Drogo isn't dead! His khalasar isn't dead! Lord of Light—can you bear to see so many of your devout trampled under Dothraki hooves?!"
Despair took him. The Unsullied alone were too much to withstand—add the unbeaten king of the saddle, his khalasar, giants, the Golden Company, and his dragon children, and not even his corpse would remain intact.
As for the Golden Company's fate—if he knew, perhaps fear of the merciless, cold Father of Dragons would drive him to suicide on the spot.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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