Ignia

Wake up, clothe yourself, and brace for the call to the pits. This was the rhythm of Quba's existence—a monotonous dirge that gnawed at his soul. Every day, the same silent prayer, a flicker of hope that maybe today wouldn't be the day he was summoned, wouldn't be the day he had to stain his hands with another's blood while the crowd roared with sadistic glee. But hope was a cruel jest, an illusion that withered in the pitiless light of reality.The air in the slave barracks was heavy with the scent of fear, a miasma that clung to the skin like a second layer of filth. The other slaves around him huddled in silence, their eyes hollow, their bodies trembling beneath the weight of their own terror. They were all the same—broken, dehumanized, stripped of any identity beyond their role as playthings for their masters.Quba tried to harden himself against the fear, to hide his hatred and anger behind a mask of indifference. He had become adept at this—his face a blank canvas, his eyes empty, a void that betrayed nothing of the storm raging within. But the anger was there, festering, a raw wound that refused to heal. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, to make them understand the depth of his suffering. But he knew it would change nothing. Nothing ever changed in Yunkai especially for a slave.For the slavers, the free people of Yunkai, Quba and his kind were less than human, mere tools to be used and discarded at whim. Their wickedness was a legacy passed down through generations, a twisted inheritance of cruelty and corruption. They had been born into a world where they were taught to see others as nothing more than objects, their pain inconsequential, their lives meaningless. This was the reality Quba had come to accept, the bitter truth that gnawed at his soul day after day.He had seen children—innocent, fragile, terrified—forced into the pits to butcher one another, their screams echoing through the blood-soaked sand as they fought for survival. And yet, the children of Yunkai, those born free, either watched with cold, detached eyes or laughed, pointing with those fingers in their too-expensive clothes as if the suffering of others was nothing more than a form of entertainment. They were taught from birth to be unfeeling, to revel in the agony of those who were deemed lesser. It was a cycle of brutality, a chain of cruelty that Quba despised with every fiber of his being. But he was powerless to break it.He was a slave, nothing more. The name they had given him, Quba, was a Valyrian name—a name that, in the tongues of the free, spelled cruelty and evil. It was a name that branded him as an instrument of death, a tool to be wielded by those with the power to command him. He had done unspeakable things to survive, and each act of violence had etched a new scar upon his soul. He hated himself for it, hated them for making him into this. But more than anything, he feared death.Quba didn't want to die. Despite everything, despite the horror of his existence, the thought of death filled him with a cold dread. Life, no matter how cruel, was still life. He clung to it with desperate hands, even as he cursed the world that had made survival so costly. He wanted more than this half-life, this existence defined by suffering and fear. But what did "more" even mean in a world where freedom was a dream, a cruel joke played on those too weak to claim it?The door to the barracks creaked open, and the sound of boots echoed through the stone chamber. The overseer's voice, harsh and grating, shattered the oppressive silence. "Quba! To the pits, now!"His heart sank, but he kept his face blank, his body moving mechanically as he rose from the cold, hard floor. The other slaves didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes. They were all too familiar with the routine, too accustomed to the cruelty of the pits to offer anything more than a silent prayer that they wouldn't be next.Quba followed the overseer down the dark, narrow corridors, his footsteps echoing in the gloom. The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of the stone pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Every step brought him closer to the arena, to the place where he would be forced to kill or be killed. It was a fate he had faced before, but it never got easier. Each time, the fear was the same—cold, paralyzing, suffocating.The arena was a brutal place, a ring of sand stained red with the blood of countless souls. The crowd was already there, their voices a cacophony of excitement and anticipation. To them, this was sport, a distraction from their own meaningless lives. But for Quba, it was another step closer to the abyss.As he was pushed into the center of the arena, Quba's eyes found his opponent. The boy was young, younger than Quba, barely into his teens. His face was streaked with tears, his body trembling with fear. Quba recognized him—Tyvek, a boy supposedly of Westerosi descent who had once shared his rations with him, who had laughed at his jokes, who had become a younger brother in this hellish existence, Tyvek who didn't have more than ten name days.The sight of Tyvek's tear-streaked face, the terror in his wide, innocent eyes, struck Quba like a physical blow. The overseer's voice rang out, commanding them to fight. But how could he? How could he lift his hand against this boy, this child who had done nothing to deserve this fate?Tyvek's voice was barely a whisper, choked with sobs. "Please, Quba… I don't want to die…"Quba's heart twisted in his chest, a knot of pain and anguish that threatened to consume him. He wanted to scream, to throw down his weapon and defy the slavers, to let them kill him instead. But he knew that if he did, they would kill Tyvek anyway, and his death would be slow, agonizing, a lesson to the other slaves. The cruelty of the slavers knew no bounds.In that moment, Quba felt the crushing weight of the world's indifference. It seemed to whisper in his ear, telling him that life was meaningless, that nothing he did mattered. The world was a void, empty and uncaring, and in its vastness, Quba's life was insignificant. But even in this void, there was something that clawed at his soul—a desperate need to protect, to save Tyvek from a fate worse than death.He raised his weapon, the blade heavy in his hand. Tyvek's eyes widened in terror, and Quba felt his own tears welling up, blurring his vision. He wanted to tell Tyvek that it would be quick, that he would make it painless, but the words stuck in his throat. There was no comfort he could offer that would ease the boy's fear.With a cry of anguish, Quba struck. The blade sliced through the air, swift and merciful, cutting through Kato's chest. The boy gasped, a sharp, pained sound, and then crumpled to the ground, his life draining away in the blood-soaked sand. Quba fell to his knees beside him, his hands trembling, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces.At least, the boy was now free he lied to himself. At least, Tyvek wouldn't have to live longer such an accursed existence he tried to reassure himself. As the crowd erupted into cheers, Quba felt nothing but emptiness and horror. He could see in the corner of his eyes, his shaking hands. And yet, despite the horror of it all, the part of him that feared death, that clung to life, was relieved. He had survived another day.But at what cost?Quba looked up at the sky, the sun blazing down on the arena, indifferent to the suffering below. In that moment, he felt the full weight of his existence—the hopelessness, the futility, the crushing realization that nothing would ever change. He was trapped in a cycle of violence, a cycle that would only end when he finally succumbed to the darkness that lurked at the edges of his soul.The world was alive, oppressive, a living nightmare that Quba could never escape. But even in this darkness, there was a spark—a flicker of defiance, a desperate, burning desire for something more.Quba wanted more than a life of suffering. He wanted freedom, a chance to live, to choose his own path, to find meaning in a world that seemed devoid of it. But until that day came, if it ever did, he would continue to fight, to survive, no matter the cost.For in this world, survival was the only freedom he could grasp. He prayed that one day, this would change, that the whispers and tales said by the other slaves were true, that one day, they'll be freed, their chains broken, their masters killed. He hoped that one day, he would be able to forever lay down his blade, experience fully the world and simply be able to be.*scene* Ashryn's boots crunched through the gritty dust of the Essosi plains as he walked toward the campfire, the flames flickering against the night sky like a feeble ward against the darkness that stretched endlessly across the land. He'd been a member of the Brave Companions for almost three years now, and yet, every step he took felt heavier than the last. The sell sword company was infamous, a band of marauders and killers who would slit the throat of a child if the price was right. He'd seen things that would haunt him for the rest of his days, but nothing—not even the madness of their leader Vargo Hoat—could have prepared him for this alliance.The Dothraki.They were monsters, savages with dead eyes and bloodied hands, whose idea of conquest wasn't merely to defeat an enemy but to defile, to humiliate, to strip every ounce of humanity from their prey. Ashryn shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, though the night was warm. The sound of distant laughter, rough and crude, carried through the air. He didn't need to look to know what it was—the sound of a woman's scream muffled beneath the brutal laughter of the horsemen.He was no hero, he knew that much. He was the fifth son of a peasant, a nobody from the backwaters of Westeros, of Dorne who had come to Essos seeking his fortune. His family had barely been able to afford the steel he carried now, let alone a chance for him to make something of himself. The Brave Companions had been his answer, his escape. They offered coin, shelter, and a purpose—a dark, twisted purpose, but a purpose nonetheless.But this… this was hell.Ashryn could hardly stand the sight of them. The Dothraki moved like a storm, wild and unstoppable, but where the storm passed, only ruin remained. They'd allied themselves with the Brave Companions for one reason and one reason only: Aegor, the boy who was said to have the power to level cities and slaughter thousands, who had a price on his head so large it was almost beyond comprehension. Five hundred thousand gold dragons.The amount had been whispered like a prayer among the sellswords. Five hundred thousand dragons. It was an amount so vast that even kings might dream of possessing it. It was the kind of fortune that could buy you a kingdom, could make you a god. To a man like Ashryn, who had seen no more than fifteen dragons in his entire life, it was like imagining the weight of the world in your hand. To have that much gold was to have the power to reshape the world, to have a hold on everything that had ever eluded him—power, respect, a life of ease not only for himself but for his family too."Five hundred thousand," he muttered to himself, as though saying the number aloud could make it more real.To receive such a bounty would change everything. For the Brave Companions, it would mean no more scrounging for scraps, no more taking the dirty jobs that even other mercenaries would balk at. With that much gold, they could buy the finest armor, the sharpest swords. They could train, truly train, not just hack and slash like madmen. They could ensure that every man ate well, slept well, and was fit for battle. No longer would they be a ragtag group held together by fear and greed. They would become an army, an unstoppable force capable of toppling cities, of making kings tremble.With five hundred thousand dragons, they could build fortresses, arm themselves with Valyrian steel, perhaps even raise their own fleet. Ashryn allowed himself to imagine it—a company of warriors so well-fed, well-trained, and well-equipped that none could stand against them. Their name would be spoken with reverence, not fear. They would no longer be the Bloody Mummers, the merciless cutthroats. They would be the rulers of Essos, masters of their own fate.But the Dothraki… they had other desires. He turned his gaze away from the campfire, away from the shadows where screams still echoed faintly. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, mingling with the sweat and smoke. The horsemen reveled in it, their eyes alight with a madness that sickened him to his core. They took what they wanted, leaving nothing but death and despair in their wake. And the Brave Companions had thrown their lot in with them.Ashryn could feel the bile rising in his throat. There was a time when he might have intervened, might have tried to stop what was happening, but he was no fool. To go against the Dothraki was to sign your own death warrant, and he was not ready to die. He was not a good man. He knew that now, had accepted it. The world was cruel, and he had done cruel things to survive in it.He told himself that it was necessary, that the Dothraki were a means to an end. Together, they would take down Aegor, and then the gold would be theirs. But every moment spent among them made him question whether it was worth it, whether any amount of gold was worth selling his soul for.Aegor. The name sent a shiver down his spine. He had heard the stories, the whispers that floated on the wind. Aegor was no ordinary boy. He was a slave who had risen from the ashes, a boy it was said had been killed, only to return with the power fit only in the hands of the gods themselves. Some said he was a savior, a force of justice sent to liberate the oppressed. Others claimed he was a demon, an abomination whose very existence threatened the world.The Dothraki believed the latter. They feared him, and that fear was what had driven them to this unlikely alliance. The horsemen who bowed to no man had joined forces with the brave companions and other sellsword companies because they knew, deep down, that even all of them together might not be enough to bring him down. The thought was terrifying. If the Dothraki were afraid, then what hope did the rest of them have?Ashryn shook his head, trying to dispel the unease that gnawed at him. The stories were just that—stories. Aegor was just a boy, a powerful one, yes, but still just flesh and blood. He could be killed like anyone else. And when he was, the gold would be theirs.Yet, even as he told himself this, a part of him wondered if there was more to it. The tales of Aegor's power, of his resurrection, of the way he had broken the chains of the other slaves and slaughtered the Good Masters, they clung to him like a shadow, refusing to be cast aside. Could it be true? Could there really be a boy who was more than human, a being of divine wrath sent to punish the wicked?The thought was absurd. He had seen too much of the world to believe in gods and demons. The only truth he knew was the one he could see and touch—the cold steel of his sword, the weight of a coin in his hand. Anything else was just fantasy, a way for people to explain the things they could not understand.But as he looked around at the Dothraki, at their blood-stained hands and hollow eyes, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was as if the very air had turned against them, heavy with an unseen presence, a malevolence that seeped into his bones. The night was too still, too quiet, as though the world itself was holding its breath.He thought of his family, of the life he had left behind in Westeros. They were simple folk, hardworking, honest. They had never understood his desire to leave, to seek his fortune in a land so far from home. They had warned him that the world was a dangerous place, full of dark things that preyed on men's souls. He had dismissed their fears, believing himself stronger, smarter, able to conquer whatever lay ahead.Now, he wasn't so sure."Everything will be fine," he whispered, though the words felt hollow, empty. "Soon, I'll be rich. I'll never have to see the Dothraki again. I'll be free."But the night was dark, and the whispers of the wind carried the echoes of something ancient, something waiting. He could almost hear it, a low rumble like the distant roar of a beast, a sound that resonated deep within his chest. It was as if the very earth beneath his feet was alive, pulsing with a dark energy that threatened to consume them all.Ashryn clenched his fists, trying to steady his breath. He was no coward, but the fear gnawed at him, a relentless tide that threatened to pull him under. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—just beyond the edge of the firelight, a figure, pale and flickering, like a wraith haunting the night.He blinked, and it was gone. Just his imagination, he told himself. The night was playing tricks on him, feeding on his doubts, his fears. But the feeling remained, a cold dread that settled in his stomach like a stone.Was it truly worth it? The question lingered in his mind, heavy and unanswerable. Five hundred thousand dragons. It was more gold than he had ever dreamed of, more gold than he could even comprehend. It was enough to buy him a new life, a life free of bloodshed, free of the horrors that plagued his every step. But at what cost?The Dothraki laughed again, a harsh, grating sound that cut through the silence like a blade. Ashryn turned away from the fire, unable to watch any longer. He needed air, needed to escape the suffocating heat, the madness that clung to them all like a second skin.He walked toward the edge of the camp, where the light faded into darkness. The night was cool, a gentle breeze brushing against his face, carrying with it the scent of the plains—earthy, rich, alive. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to clear his mind.Five hundred thousand dragons.He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, searching for something, anything that could give him an answer. But the night was silent, empty. The stars above were distant and cold, indifferent to the struggles of men.Ashryn sighed, turning back toward the camp. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it. He had no choice. The Brave Companions had made their decision, and he was bound to them, for better or for worse. But as he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him, waiting, a shadow in the darkness that would not let him go.And in the distance, the flames of the campfire flickered, like the last embers of a dying world, lost to the night.*scene*The desert stretched out like an endless sea of sand, a barren wasteland where the sun hung like a merciless tyrant in the sky. Xagar's feet ached with every step, the sand slipping beneath his boots, threatening to drag him down. His muscles screamed with every movement, the heat baking his skin, the sun's unforgiving rays turning the air around him into a shimmering haze. It felt as though the world itself was conspiring against them, testing their resolve with each grueling hour.They had been marching for days, an unending trek from Astapor toward Vaes Dothrak, under the unforgiving sun by day and the biting cold by night. Aegor led them, his stride never faltering, never slowing. Even as Xagar's legs felt like lead, his lungs burned with every breath, and his vision blurred from exhaustion, he could not stop. None of them could. They followed Aegor, the child who had freed them, who had given them hope. His silver hair shone like a beacon in the desert, guiding them forward, his presence alone pushing them to continue, to endure.Every once and then after what seemed to be a march that lasted an eternity, Aegor would stop, his voice calm, soft and unwavering, signaling a brief respite. They would gather around, collapsing onto the sand, their bodies trembling with fatigue. Aegor would bring with his magic the panaceas, the fruits he had created that could cure all ailment, fruits that glowed with an inner light, their fragrance sweet and invigorating.The fruits were a miracle in this hellish landscape, a gift that kept them moving. With each bite, Xagar felt his strength returning, the aches and pains fading away, his muscles healing, stronger than before. It was as if his body was being broken down, only to be remade, forged anew in the fires of their journey.Xagar glanced around at his companions, the men and women who marched beside him, who shared in this suffering. He saw the exhaustion etched on their faces, the sunburned skin, the cracked lips, the hollow eyes. Yet, beneath it all, there was something else—determination, a fierce resolve that mirrored his own. They had all been slaves, once. They had all known the cruel bite of a master's whip, the sting of humiliation, the despair of a life without freedom. And now, they were something more. Aegor had given them that. He had given them a chance to fight, to prove themselves, to show the world that they were more than the chains that had once bound them, to show to the world that even slaves could spin it on its axis.As they rested, Xagar watched a soldier stumble, his legs giving out beneath him. Before he could hit the ground, a female soldier was at his side, catching him, her arm wrapping around his waist, lifting him back to his feet. She didn't say a word, didn't even look at him, just held him up, supporting his weight as they continued on. Xagar felt a swell of pride in his chest, a warmth that spread through him despite the chill that had begun to creep into the air as the sun dipped below the horizon. This was what Aegor had given them—a bond stronger than any chain, a brotherhood born of shared suffering and the will to survive.The desert was vast and unyielding, stretching on for miles in every direction. They had left the green lands of Astapor far behind, crossing the Skahazadhan River before plunging into the Red Waste. It was said that no one could survive here, that the land itself was cursed, but Aegor had led them on, his eyes never wavering from their goal. Xagar had never seen anything like it, the way Aegor seemed to glide across the sand, his movements graceful and fluid, as if the desert bowed to his will.There were times when Xagar felt as though he were dying, as though every step was his last, his body screaming for rest, for relief. His mind would wander back to Astapor, to the new life of endless peace, warmth and pleasure he had newly gained and that he had left behind. He remembered the slave markets, the stench of fear and sweat, the cries of the suffering. He remembered his master, a cruel man with a whip that bit deep, who had told him he would never amount to anything, that he was nothing more than a piece of flesh to be bought and sold. He remembered the death of the good masters, how they bled just like the slaves they made suffer, how he gained everything after that, how he felt for the first time under the gaze of Aegor, the one who freed him that he had intrinsic value, as much as the son of the wealthiest king or noble or slaver. This is what looking and listening to Aegor made him feel like.Even though his slave master was dead, Xagar had wanted to prove him wrong, to prove him that everything he thought of him were wrong, like a last fuck you. He had joined Aegor's army, not just out of gratitude, but out of a burning desire to prove himself, to show that he was more than the life he had been forced into.Aegor had destroyed the Good Masters, killed them with the divine powers he woke up from the dead with. Aegor gave them the strength, the opportunity to the slaves to make the screams of those who had enslaved them echo through the streets of Astapor. Aegor had freed them all, healed the sick, created food from nothing, built homes with a flick of his wrist. He had asked for nothing in return. Even when he had asked, it had been for them, for their sake. He had asked that they follow him, that they fight for their freedom, for a better world and how couldn't they?And they had followed. They had marched out into the desert, leaving behind the new life, the new paradise they had gained, leaving behind the place that most of them had ever known, trusting in this child with the power of a god. Xagar had seen Aegor up close, had looked into his eyes and seen something there, something that he could not explain. Aegor was beautiful, more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen, his face flawless, his silver hair shining in the sun. He was not human, Xagar knew that much. He was something more, something divine, a being that should not exist in this world. And yet, here he was, leading them through the desert, giving them hope, giving them strength.The nights were cold, the temperature dropping rapidly once the sun had set. The sand beneath their feet, which had been scorching during the day, became icy and unforgiving. They marched on, their breath visible in the frigid air, their bodies trembling from the cold. Xagar could feel his muscles tightening, his skin prickling with goosebumps, but he did not stop. None of them did. They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of sand beneath their boots, the howling of the wind as it whipped through the dunes.Xagar's thoughts drifted to the Dothraki, the horse lords who roamed the plains beyond the desert, a people feared by all. They were known for their brutality, their love of war and conquest, their disregard for the lives of others. They were slavers, too, taking captives in their raids, selling them to the highest bidder. Xagar had heard the stories, had seen the scars on the backs of those who had escaped their clutches and fled to Astapor after the good masters were killed or who had been sold to the good masters themselves before being freed with the rest of them. He knew that Aegor planned to confront them, to put an end to their reign of terror, and he was ready. He would fight, not just for himself, but for all those who had suffered at their hands, for all those who had been taken from their homes and forced into chains.They walked through the night, the stars above them like cold, distant eyes, watching, waiting. Xagar could feel the fatigue setting in, his legs heavy, his steps faltering. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, the pain keeping him awake, keeping him moving. He could not stop. Aegor did not stop. The child marched ahead of them, his back straight, his gaze fixed on the horizon, never looking back, never showing any sign of weakness. He was their leader, their beacon in the darkness, and they would follow him to the ends of the earth.As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Aegor raised his hand, signaling another halt. Xagar dropped to his knees, his body trembling, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his muscles screaming in protest, his skin slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. He wanted nothing more than to lie down, to close his eyes and never wake up, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not while Aegor was still standing.The panaceas appeared once more, their golden light casting long shadows across the sand. Xagar reached out, his hands shaking as he took one, the fruit cool and smooth against his skin. He bit into it, the sweet juice filling his mouth, washing away the taste of dust and blood. He could feel the warmth spreading through him, the pain fading, his muscles relaxing, his mind clearing. It was like a miracle, a gift from the gods, and he knew that without it, they would never have made it this far.Xagar looked up at Aegor, standing at the front of the group, his face calm, his eyes bright. He watched as Aegor took a bite of the fruit, his lips curving into a small smile, his gaze sweeping over them, as if he could see each and every one of them, as if he knew them all, understood their pain, their struggles. Xagar felt a surge of emotion, a mix of awe and gratitude, a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. Aegor had saved him, had saved all of them, and he would follow him anywhere.They resumed their march as the sun rose, the heat once again beating down on them, the sand burning beneath their feet. But Xagar felt different now, stronger, more alive. He could feel his muscles working, each step pushing him further, his body adapting, growing, changing. It was hard, yes, harder than anything he had ever done, but he knew that it was making him better, making them all better. They were being forged in this desert, tempered by the sun and the sand, by the cold and the wind, by the endless march that seemed to stretch on forever.And he knew that even though it was hard, everything will be alright. Aegor hadn't failed them and he believed with all his heart that the child with the power of a god, that only showed kindness, that was his saviour wouldn't lead him astray.*scene*The moon hung low in the sky, a silver crescent barely visible through the thick canopy of stars. I could see it clearly, though; I could see everything clearly. My vision, enhanced by the magic coursing through me, pierced the darkness with ease. The air was cool, crisp, and tinged with the scent of wet earth and distant fires. Just ahead, beyond the horizon, I could make out the faint glimmer of Vaes Dothrak, its silhouette a dark stain against the night. We were close now, closer than any of my men could see. A kilometer, maybe less.I raised my hand, and like a ripple in a pond, the signal spread. The army halted, a thousand voices quieting in unison. The night was alive with their presence. I could hear the hushed whispers of the soldiers, feel their anticipation as they settled down for the evening. This was it—the last night before we faced the Dothraki and their allies.As the moon rose higher, I knew it was time to do something I hadn't allowed since the beginning of the march .To let my soldiers Celebrate. Not me, but themselves . For the men and women who had followed me from the ends of the world, who had left behind lives of servitude and suffering to fight for a cause they believed in. A cause that resonated in them as much if not more than me. A world without slavery, without masters or chains. A world where everyone was free.I walked through the camp, my feet moving over the uneven ground with a disgusting ease, with a grace that felt unnatural, that I shouldn't have. I ignored the whispers, the prayers in the back of mind as I passed near my soldiers. The soldiers, my soldiers, were laughing, sharing stories by the firelight, their faces illuminated by the warm glow. Some sang songs from their homelands, in lhazareen I recognised some, songs of love and loss, of hope and freedom. It was as if they were trying to forget, if only for a moment, that tomorrow they might die.I found Grey Worm near one of the larger fires, his face solemn but relaxed, his eyes like burning embers fixed on the ones he was speaking with. He was speaking to a group of soldiers, his voice low and commanding. When he saw me approach, he dismissed them with a nod, and they left, their eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary."Aegor," he said, his voice steady as always."Are we ready?" I askedHe nodded. "We are," he confirmed."I wanted to thank you, Grey Worm, I told him. "All of you. For following me this far, for believing in what we're doing. It's… more than I could have ever hoped for."Maybe I was repeating myself but it didn't change that my words were truthful. I was thankful for their trust. I was thankful for their belief.He looked at me, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "We are here because of you, Aegor. You freed us, gave us a purpose. We will fight for you, die for you if need be."A strange warmth spread through my chest, a feeling almost foreign to me. Pride. It felt as if I were a father looking upon his children, each of them having made the world change, spin from head to toe, leaving a lasting impact. "I'm proud of you, Grey Worm. Of all of you."Grey Worm bowed his head slightly, a rare show of humility. "We will not fail you."I turned my gaze to the distant horizon where Vaes Dothrak lay hidden in the darkness. "The Dothraki… they probably have gathered a vast force. If they've formed a coalition as I suspect, they'll have at least ten times our numbers. Perhaps more."I didn't remember it well but I think that in canon, Khal Drogo Khalaasar numbered in the dozens of thousands.Grey Worm nodded. "I have learned, through some scouts and informants that our people at Astapor know that there's a chance their numbers are even higher. There's a bounty on your head, Aegor. Half a million golden dragons."The amount made my mind reel. "Half a million? That's enough to buy two armies of Unsullied. Enough to purchase a small kingdom, even."In other terms… it'd be like someone offering hundreds of millions of dollars back in my world."More money than some kings have ever seen."Grey Worm's face was grim. "It is said that it was issued by the King of Westeros, Robert Baratheon. With such a bounty, the Dothraki will likely have mercenary allies eager to claim your head. A dozen times ten thousand is probably an understatement of how many adversaries we will face."I clenched my fists, a slow burn of anger rising in my chest. "It's a good thing I'll be fighting with the army then. With my magic, I can turn the tide in our favor."Grey Worm shook his head. "No, Aegor. It would be best if you didn't fight."Before I could protest, he continued, his voice firm. "The people who chose to follow you, to fight for you, they need to bloody themselves, to die for you if it comes to that. They need to know they can fight alone, that they can fight for a great human cause without being helped, without divine intervention. To truly become an army, to truly solidify their hearts, they need to win on their own. Humans must be the ones to crush cruelty, to end slavery, to defeat evil. They must learn that they can achieve incredible things by themselves. Winning in such a way will show not only your army but every slave in the world, everyone we will try to help, that change is possible. That good men, people who still hope for a better future, are all that's needed."He looked at me, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. "You inspired us, Aegor. All of us. Now let us show the world that your vision is the right one in every way."I sighed, feeling the weight of his words. He was right. "I understand, Grey Worm. I won't interfere directly unless it's to heal or if things become truly dire. But make no mistake, I won't let anyone who follows me die. We will be triumphant and return to Astapor." The words came out like a decree, as if spoken by a deity to the world—unyielding, unbreakable. What might have sounded childish from anyone else felt like an absolute truth coming from me.A small, proud smile spread across Grey Worm's face. "I expected nothing less from you, Aegor. The one I chose to follow. More than that, hundreds of thousands aren't enough to quench our determination."I looked at him, feeling a surge of affection for this man who had become more than just a follower. He was a friend, a protector. I would even say a comfident."Before the battle tomorrow, I think I'll repay the ones who put a bounty on my head," I said, a smile tugging at my lips.Grey Worm raised an eyebrow. "And how will you do that?"I kept the details to myself, but my mind was already working. Tomorrow, I would use my magic to send thousands of crows or ravens to every lord in Westeros, to the Citadel of Oldtown, to the Great Sept of Baelor, and to the High Septon. I would let them know that Robert Baratheon had been tricked, that his wife was the bastard half-sister of Rhaegar Targaryen, that Jaime and Cersei Lannister were not the children of Tywin Lannister but of Aerys. It didn't matter if it was true. It only needed to be believable enough to sow doubt, to create fractures, tension, and instability for the Baratheon dynasty.What was the quote again? There are many truths. The truth that is and the truth people believe is. The most important and dangerous is the second one.Robert Baratheon for whichever reason chose to go against me. One thing I had learned in my past life was that I could be insanely petty if I could. He struck first? I'm going to struck harder and lower."It'll be enough," I said with a grin, looking at the horizon once more. The night was calm, but tomorrow, all hell would break loose. And we would be ready.*scene*To the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, High and Low, to the Citadel of Oldtown, and to the Great Sept of Baelor and His Holiness the High Septon,I write to you, noble lords and learned men, with grave tidings that demand your immediate attention. Our realm has been shrouded in falsehood and deception, its foundations corrupted by the cunning of those who would see Westeros divided and torn asunder. I implore you to consider the gravity of the revelations herein, for they pertain not only to the personal affronts suffered by our late king, Robert Baratheon, but to the very legitimacy of the throne itself.It is known to all that Robert, the first of his name, bore a hatred most profound for the Targaryen line, a hatred born from the tragedies of war and the foul deeds of Aerys, the Mad King. Yet, it is with bitter irony that I must unveil the truth: Robert Baratheon, though ever an enemy to House Targaryen, was wed to one of its own blood. The woman he called queen, the Lady Cersei, is not the trueborn daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister, but rather the bastard offspring of King Aerys II Targaryen and Joanna Lannister.The tale of this deception is woven deep into the fabric of our history, obscured by whispers and half-truths. It was widely known that Aerys coveted Joanna Lannister, his lechery unchecked by any semblance of decency or restraint. Indeed, the rumors of their dalliance were dismissed as scandalous fabrications—yet the evidence now suggests otherwise. During the reign of Aerys, Lady Joanna, the esteemed wife of Tywin Lannister, was dismissed from court under mysterious circumstances following a bedding ceremony in which the king took unwarranted liberties with her person.But the truth is this: the twins, Jaime and Cersei, were conceived not from the seed of Tywin Lannister, but from that of Aerys, making them the illegitimate progeny of the last Targaryen king. Thus, in marrying Cersei, Robert Baratheon was unwittingly wed to the very bloodline he sought to exterminate—a cruel jest by the fates, and one that has only now come to light. I lay this truth bare before you, not to incite fear or unrest but to urge vigilance. The Baratheon dynasty, founded on a lie, stands on the precipice of ruin. We must be united in the face of this revelation, for the future of Westeros hangs in the balance. The time has come to dispel the shadows of deceit and to stand firm in the light of truth. Only then can we hope to forge a path forward, one that will see our land restored to peace and prosperity.May the seven watch over us all in these troubled times.