The sky was blood-washed.
A deep crimson haze hung low over the River Skahadhazan, as if the land itself could feel the war coming. The ground trembled under the march of thousands. Iron scraped against leather. The rhythmic thump of Unsullied boots kept a perfect, terrifying cadence, steady as death. Behind them, freedmen marched under banners bearing the three-headed dragon—proud and unyielding.
Kael stood just behind Daenerys, atop the hill overlooking the fields where the Volantene army had formed in a long, iron-gray line. Their banners snapped like whips in the wind: black sails, golden tigers, and the coiled whip of the Triarchs.
"They came prepared," Missandei whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "More than five thousand men."
"They expected us to stay in Meereen," Kael replied. "But we came to them."
Daenerys didn't speak. Her eyes were locked on the enemy formation, jaw set like stone. She wore armor now—a deep crimson coat over blackened scales, dragonbone pauldrons etched with Valyrian runes. Her silver hair was braided in the old Valyrian style, laced with steel.
"They hold slaves in their ranks," she said at last. "I can feel them. Shackled minds."
Kael nodded grimly. "The Volantene armies always have. The Highborn lead. The lowborn bleed."
Daenerys turned to Grey Worm, who waited silently at her flank.
"When we breach their lines, free the slaves first. Cut the masters down. Let the others choose."
"Yes, Khaleesi."
A horn sounded from the Volantene side. The sound was long and deep—war's announcement.
Drogon screeched above, the massive shadow of his wings darkening the field.
Daenerys raised her hand.
"Dracarys."
The dragon obeyed without hesitation.
Drogon came like thunder wrapped in fire.
He dove from the sky and let loose a jet of flame that tore across the enemy's left flank. Men screamed and scattered. Shields melted. Horses bucked and ran blind. A full hundred died before they even raised a spear.
But Volantis did not break. They were trained. Hardened. The Triarchs had drilled into their soldiers a deep hatred for foreign queens and deeper fear of failure.
Trumpets blared again. A tide of spearmen surged forward to close the gap Drogon had made.
And then the battle truly began.
Kael moved like a shadow through chaos.
He never fought at the front lines—Daenerys had asked him to stay behind, to command the left flank and protect their cavalry's retreat if needed. But Kael had never been meant for command. He was too sharp, too quiet. He preferred motion over orders, precision over spectacle.
So he slipped into the thick of the fray, masked in ash and cloak, sword whispering death with every stroke.
He didn't use magic—not directly. But the way he moved was inhumanly fluid. Blades missed him by inches. Arrows curved away, as if afraid. His presence alone unsettled the enemy; some mistook him for a wight or a cursed knight.
Still, Kael fought with restraint. Every life he took was deliberate, every movement calculated to protect Daenerys's vision—not his own vengeance.
Daenerys rode into the heart of the battle like a flame given form.
Her horse—a black mare with red eyes—charged through the mud-slick field, cutting through Volantene lines like a hot knife. Her sword, gifted by Kael and named Ashbreaker, gleamed with Valyrian steel and ancient magic.
At her back rode Daario and a hundred mounted spearmen. The shrieking of her dragons kept the skies clear; the ground trembled beneath every wingbeat.
She saw the slaves first—thin men in poor armor, chained at the ankles, forced to fight with dull blades. They barely resisted.
She stopped her horse before them and raised her sword high.
"You are no longer slaves," she cried. "Throw down your chains! Fight for your freedom—or walk away!"
Some fell to their knees.
Others turned on their masters.
One, a boy no older than sixteen, looked at her with hollow eyes and raised his sword to the Volantene captain beside him—and stabbed him through the back.
That was all it took.
The line shattered.
Grey Worm and the Unsullied advanced with surgical precision. Shields locked. Spears lowered. They moved like a single organism, cutting through mercenaries and Triarch loyalists alike. Blood soaked the grass. The screams became music.
Kael appeared at Daenerys's side just as two cavalrymen charged her from the flank.
With a flick of his wrist, their horses stumbled—Kael having subtly shifted the ground with a minor burst of will. Enough to unseat, not enough to alert.
She turned, saw what he'd done, and didn't speak of it. They had long since stopped naming his miracles.
By nightfall, the Volantene army had broken.
Only the mercenary company, The Silver Blades, held the rear line. They'd been paid in gold and women to fight to the last.
And they did.
Kael led the final charge against them, not as a general but as death incarnate. By now his restraint was cracking—watching Daenerys bleed, even slightly, triggered a rage older than time.
He moved faster.
Struck harder.
One of the Silver Blades managed to drive a spear through his side—and then watched in horror as Kael pulled it out, unbleeding.
That man ran. He did not make it far.
Later, under the moonlight, Daenerys walked among the wounded.
She knelt beside a freed slave whose arm had been severed by a halberd. She stayed with him until he died. Then another. Then another.
Kael found her near the river, washing blood from her hands in silence.
"You spared thousands," he said gently.
She didn't look at him. "I killed hundreds more."
"You liberated them. It had to begin this way."
She looked up, eyes wet with frustration. "Will it always be this way, Kael? War before peace? Fire before hope?"
He stepped closer, kneeling beside her. "Not forever. But this world resists change. You don't just offer them a new queen. You offer a new truth."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, exhaustion in every breath. "Then I'll need more than fire."
Kael kissed her temple. "You have me."
She was silent for a long moment. Then:
"Stay with me tonight."
He hesitated, but nodded.
"Always."
That night, in the quiet of her tent, she kissed him with salt on her lips and blood on her skin. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was desperate—a release after battle, a reclaiming of life.
He let her take from him what she needed.
And as they moved together beneath the canvas and stars, Daenerys felt a flicker—just a flicker—of something divine stir in her veins.
It wasn't magic. Not yet.
But it would be.
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