Chapter 46

Just one thing before we start, Valyrian will be written in Italics 

Like this for example

Steffon breathed heavily as he felt his heart beat against his chest. His face was filthy, covered in sweat, grime and specks of blood staining his forehead. He felt his eyes glaze across the battlefield, decorated with the dead bodies of Baratheon troops. Banners waved in the wind, torn to shreds during the recent battles. It tore him apart. They were all Stormlanders, countrymen. They should've stood under one banner, united against a common foe. Instead, they wasted their time fighting each other. As Steffon continued to make his way across the bloodied fields, he saw a small pile of bodies that seemed to be encircling something. As he approached them, he saw a familiar head.

It was his uncle Renly's. Cut clean at the neck, his expression was oddly calm for a cadaver. His eyes were closed, almost as if he was asleep. And his features were still as handsome as they were described in life. As Steffon took a closer look, his uncle's eyes snapped open, revealing them to be blue and cold. They pierced into the depths of his soul, making him step back in horror, only to break into a sprint as he heard an unholy wail split the air. It almost sounded like… Arya.

Steffon awoke from his dream with a startle, lifting his body from his bed as the blankets hung loosely over his waist. His tunic was sticky with perspiration, and his heart continued to beat against his ribs. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself before finally lying back in bed. Careful as to not wake up Arya.

"Steffon…?" He heard her ask.

Too late… he thought to himself.

"What happened?" Arya asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Just night terrors." He replied, reluctantly.

"Again?" She asked. Her tone wasn't exasperated, but concerned. "What were they about?"

"I was back at Tarth. The aftermath, I think. There were dead Stormlanders everywhere. Not just my men, but Renly's too. It made me realize just how torn we all are. We should all have stood united, under a single banner. But instead we stood against each other. This damn war is destroying everything, Arya. All for a fucking throne."

It all seemed so pointless. Thousands were dead already, and the death toll was only going to get higher with every passing day. More people would lose their homes. More farms would be burned and leave people to starve. How many lives do we pay for every mile we advance?

Not a question he was raring to answer.

Arya placed a hand on his in what he could tell was an attempt to calm him down. "Steffon… love, there's no use torturing yourself-"

"Over what's happened." He finished. "I know, I know. That doesn't make it any better."

"Everyone who picks up a sword knows there's a chance they'll die with it in their hands, love." Arya replied, cuddling up to Steffon and resting her head on his chest, feeling his pulse slow down to a quiet thump with the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Steffon just sighed. He knew Arya was right, but he didn't want to admit it. He should've been doing more to prevent those men dying, to keep them alive, to keep his own family together, but it had all fallen apart. My own fucking obstinacy, he thought. If he'd stayed at the meeting with Renly that day, then the two of them might have been able to hash out a compromise or something in exchange for his and the Tyrells' support. Instead, he'd let the negotiations collapse. Steffon didn't know why he'd let the negotiations collapse; perhaps there was some part of his father's battle-lust that existed within him. He shuddered at the thought; he'd spent his entire life specifically carving himself out differently from his father.

"I know what you're thinking, and you're not like your father." She said, squeezing him tightly, as she began to drift back to sleep. "You're nothing like him."

Much as Edric hated to admit it, he had missed Storm's End when they left it that evening. Sure, he'd spent most of his life in that place and it did feel like a prison at times, but it was his home. More than that, it was his family's home, and it had been their home since the Conquest. He'd grown attached to the old castle, much as he'd deny it.

He was shaken from his reverie by the sight of a little girl bolting down the hallway, holding up her skirts as she went. It was Shireen, he could see that much. THe greyscale unfortunately had made her very distinctive. "Lady Shireen!" He called out.

"Yes, Edric?" She replied, stopping and turning to face him.

"What would your mother say if she saw you running in the halls?" He asked. For a second, Shireen looked genuinely afraid, then Edric burst into laughter.

"Ha, ha, very funny, Edric." She grumbled, rolling her eyes. "How come no one told me Steffon was here?"

"We thought it best to keep it as secret as possible. The less people know, the better."

"Fewer." She corrected.

"I'm sorry?"

"The fewer people know, the better." She shrugged. "Father's very particular about grammar."

Edric rolled his eyes. "That's Stannis all over. At least you'll be more well read than the rest of us."

"Has Steffon recovered yet, by the way?" Shireen asked. "I want to see him."

"He's doing alright. He's still a bit sore, but he's still kicking. You'll likely be seeing him later today."

Shireen let out a squeal of delight before hugging Edric and rushing off. Bright and astute one minute, giddy as a child the next. Edric thought. Shaking his head, he continued to stroll through the halls of Storm's End. It was rarely ever truly quiet within the castle. Aside from the thumping of his boots, he could clearly hear the waves crashing up against the shore, and the distant cry of the gulls. As he continued his way down the halls, he heard a familiar voice call to him.

"Edric." He turned to see Mira hastily approaching him, holding her skirt in her hands so as to not trip.

"Lady Mira." Edric nodded.

Once she approached, the two of them hastily scanned their surroundings, making sure there were no nearby spectators before Mira threw her arms around Edric's neck as he wrapped his around her waist. The two then separated, both staring adoringly at one another. "I had hoped you'd be willing to walk the castle walls with me." Mira asked, a faint blush on her cheeks.

"Of course, my lady." Edric replied, "Follow me."

Mira nodded, as Edric led her through the halls of Storm's End. He suddenly felt something brush against. He glanced over to see that Mira had taken his arm in hers, holding it tightly against herself. Edric would have pulled his arm, but considered it a rude gesture. Especially since he had essentially promised himself to her. So what harm would it be to offer his arm? He then led her up a long flight of stairs before showing her the ramparts of Storm's End. The wind mixed with the salty fragrance of the ocean signalled a change from the lashing rain and thunderstorms of just a few days ago.

"Are you getting used to this weather, Mira?" he asked as they walked.

"I still prefer the North." She admitted. There was something about the cold that made her feel more secure.

"That much is understandable." He said. The two of them walked along in silence as Edric's mind wandered to the sheer oddness of his current world. Before the war he had been a bastard boy with nothing to inherit, attempting to fill the hole in his life by charming women and getting into fist fights. Now, he was the confidante of a king, a queen-in-waiting, and hopefully one day to marry a noble girl.

Deep down, he knew there would always be whispers. That marrying a bastard, even a legitimised one if he could convince Steffon, would inevitably raise questions about Mira's virtue. Why turn down the numberless noblemen who would doubtless be attempting to court her in favour of some bastard boy who had some minor talent with a warhammer?

The feeling of Mira resting her head on his shoulder put an end to his thoughts however as the two stared out to the Narrow Sea that lay beyond Storm's End. As did the kiss the two briefly shared after a short wait.

At least the skins he'd been given were effective against the cold. Gendry had been hesitant, but was pleased to have been proven wrong. Even more so that they hadn't tried to nick his sword yet. Nor his dagger. Last he'd seen his cloak though, it was being thrown on a campfire. He'd have to get a new one when he got back to Castle Black. If he got back to Castle Black.

Most of the Wildlings had been courteous in their own way. He still copped ribbing from Tormund and Ygritte, but it was mostly good natured. Gendry was aware however, that the only thing that had bought him the goodwill was his killing of Qhorin Halfhand. Even if it was necessary, he still regretted it heavily. Even putting aside the kindness the Halfhand had shown him, such a Ranger was not easily replaced. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. He had to focus.

Mance said that he was beginning to assemble groups to climb the Wall and attack Castle Black from the south. Evidently, he remembered that it had no fortifications facing away from the Wall. The Night's Watch had no enemies south of the Wall, so why would it need defences there? Sure could use them now, he thought. The raiding parties would likely hit Mole's Town first, then onto Castle Black from there. Speaking of the raiding parties, they were due to head out soon. He'd been assigned to Tormund's group along with Ygritte. The redhead had been a fairly constant companion for Gendry since he'd arrived at the camp, even if he'd firmly rebuffed her advances on him. He had however become closer to Val, the sister of Mance's wife Dalla. She was a strikingly beautiful young woman, with her honey-coloured hair almost reaching her waist. Tormund had revealed to Gendry that she was previously married to another Wildling called Jarl, before the man had gotten himself killed trying to climb the Wall months ago. Ygritte had said Jarl was brave but stupid, and Gendry wasn't certain that those two things were mutual.

Nonetheless, there was little denial that he and Val had become somewhat closer since he arrived. She'd seemingly decided to help him negotiate the perilous world of the Wildlings, for all the good that it did her. There were whispers around the camp that Val was planning on taking him as a lover, though Gendry remained steadfast in his vows. He was a man of the Night's Watch, not a turncloak.

"You alright there, Gendry?" Tormund asked. The man had seemingly taken a shine to Gendry, even with his Andal heritage. Maybe it had something to do with the fact he'd grown up a commoner and had trained as a blacksmith. It was useful training to have among Wildlings; he'd figured that out early. The dearth of trained smiths was beginning to show as their weaponry degraded.

"Yeah, 'course I am, Tormund." He replied, the two of them trudging through the camp, though Gendry was noticeably distracted.

"Got your eye on Val then, do ya?" Tormund asked, chuckling. "You and every other young buck in the camp wants to get inside her." He added, causing the blacksmith to blush heavily. Tormund slapped him on the shoulder as they entered Mance's tent. "Gendry's makin' himself useful. Makin's sure our spears are in good order."

"Good!" Mance said. For a second, Gendry thought the man might actually have cracked a smile. "Once you've got the climbing tools, get started. Make sure you have your warg ready. When it's time for you to attack, I'm going to light the biggest fire the North has ever seen."

It had taken some cajoling, but Kraznys had agreed to the deal. One dragon would be handed over for the 8,000 Unsullied, not that Dany had any intention of giving away Drogon, but she didn't need to tell him that. Slavery was reprehensible, it was evil, and stamping it out had become her new priority for now. Worse than the Masters were those who went along with it because it benefited them; the bystanders. They should've spoken up, but stayed quiet because it was more beneficial for them to. She could not tolerate that. As far as she was concerned, they were as guilty as the Masters.

This . . . Steffon Baratheon would likely disagree from what Barristan had told her. She'd been talking with the former Kingsguard more about the Usurper's second son and found herself almost wishing that he hadn't been born to that cursed family. He cared about the less fortunate, the underprivileged. He might still be a potential ally, especially if he had no desire for the Iron Throne. Despite her attempts to shake that idea, it had hung around her like a bad smell. A gifted strategist would be very useful to have, she thought as she, Jorah, Barristan and Missandei entered the courtyard.

Everyone had turned out, no doubt to see Drogon. In the middle of it all, the 8,000 Unsullied were arrayed in perfect formations, not even moving their eyes to get a better look at the best that flew above. Her attentions were broken as Kraznys began speaking in Valyrian; Missandei kindly translated.

"The Master says that they are untested, and that you would be wise to blood them early. There are many small cities between here and Astapor, cities ripe for sacking. Should you take captives, the Masters will buy the healthy ones for a good price." She said, Daenerys suppressed her feelings of anger. They would not buy any more slaves when she was finished with them.

Missandei continued her translation "And who knows? In ten year's time, some of the boys you sell them may become Unsullied in turn."

They eventually arrived at the front of the courtyard, and Daenerys handed the chain connected to Drogon's foot to Kraznys. The man smiled greedily as he took the chain, though she noted to some amusement that he was struggling against Drogon's strength as he handed her the whip. "Is it done?" She asked. "They are mine?"

Missandei again translated for both her and Kraznys. "It is done. You hold the whip."

Daenerys turned to the Unsullied, shouting the command to march and then halt in Valyrian. Jorah was right, she thought, they follow their commands without hesitation.

"Tell the bitch her beast won't come!" Kraznys said. Now, Dany sprung her trap.

"A dragon is not a slave." She said in perfect Valyrian. The look of shock on the Master's face was amusing to say the least, though whether he hadn;t been listening to her commanding the Unsullied or had misjudged her fluency in Valyrian, she couldn;t tell. Not that it mattered.

"You speak Valyrian?!"

"I Am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue." She spat before turning to the Unsullied. "Unsullied, slay the Masters, slay the soldiers, slay anyone who holds a whip and any who protect them but harm no child! Strike the chains off every slave you see!"

Instantly, they obeyed. One Unsullied shoved his spear through a slaver's back. Barristan and Jorah drew their swords, the two knights preparing to defend Daenerys. She wouldn't need them however. She had suffered through Kraznys' insults and crude language, and he would burn for it. She turned to Drogon. "Dracarys."

The dragon spat fire at Kraznys, who died screaming. The courtyard went up with smoke, fire and blood as the Unsullied proceeded to slaughter the masters and the soldiers who backed them. Many tried to run. Some soldiers threw down their weapons and desperately pledged their allegiance to her, but that would not save them. They had protected slavers, and they would die for that. Slavery was an irredeemable sin, and all of its enablers would feel her wrath before she was finished.

Later, with the courtyard destroyed and the city in ruins, the Unsullied reassembled outside the city. Daenerys declared them all free, and asked for their allegiance as free men. The Unsullied replied by tapping their spears in the sand as a sign of their support. They rode away from the city afterwards, triumphant and powerful.

A handful of children, left alive after the sacking, were crying and wailing as she left.