Smoldering

The subterranean forge roared with life, a symphony of fire and metal echoing through the cavernous halls.

I stood in the middle of it with Greyworm, some of his Unsullied, and a smith called Bhakaz. The air was thick with the scent of molten steel and magical auras, intertwining in a dance of creation.

Honestly, this place was one where it would be impossible for any normal person to survive for long.

I had created it that way on purpose. If someone wanted to steal the weapons I created, they would first have to find a way to dig at least ten kilometers deep into the earth without being caught by me or anyone else noticing something strange was happening.

If they succeeded in doing so, they would then have to survive the heat in my forge, which I knew could melt skin, flesh, and bones. If that didn't work, the magic would act as a second deterrent by attacking them at the molecular level.

Was this overkill? Maybe, but better a dead thief than someone succeeding in stealing something I created to use in a way I hadn't intended. Plus, the warlocks made me understand that I could never take too many precautions.

It was only the modified, reduced versions of infinity I had given the people surrounding me that kept them alive.

Bhakaz was the smith I had received after requesting one from the representative they had chosen.

In his words, Bhakaz was clever, loyal, and hard-working. The man himself looked like a mountain cursed to be human, with a height that would make the average NBA star look like a child, arms and legs that seemed like tree trunks, a bushy beard that weirdly made him look cooler instead of weird, bad, scary, or creepy, a face stuck in a frown, and pale blue eyes.

"Do you think it would be enough?" I asked the man as we looked at the compound I had made with my magic to create a magic blade for Greyworm.

I had watched enough YouTube videos in my youth to know that using materials other than high-carbon or Damascus steel wasn't the best idea when you wanted to make a sword as sharp and durable as possible, but I had magic. It had to count for something.

For that, I had modified a piece of steel available from my smiths with my magic, pumping in enough power to rival what I had used against the Undying Ones, with three commands: strong, flexible, and easy to manipulate. The result was a blue stone-like material.

I knew that the Unsullied favored the spear, but Greyworm had also told me he was as good with a sword as with a spear, and let's be honest, swords were the coolest. They were classics for a reason. What kind of badass general didn't have a sword? A lame one!

I could take an example existing in the universe I was reincarnated in. Let's take Robert Baratheon with his hammer. Sure, he was cool with it, was called the Demon of the Trident, and won against Rhaegar because of it, but in the end, he was also the guy who didn't marry the girl he loved, who was cuckolded by his wife, and who had most of his bastards killed by said wife, the guy whose best friend/brother and adoptive father were killed in ignominious ways because they only wanted to help him.

He was the guy who died because of a boar. Sure, he was drunk, but that wasn't an excuse. How can you be called the Demon of the Trident and be killed by a pig? It was a clear sign that hammers sucked because a sword wouldn't have missed the boar.

Was I fair? No, I wasn't. Did I care about that right now? Hell no. All of that to say that swords are cool and magical swords even more.

As our first experiment, our first sword, we sought to craft a weapon unlike any other: an enchanted sword that would…cut more things than normal swords.

It sounded underwhelming, but we had to begin somewhere, and I'm sure it would be more impressive when in battle, with one slash, Greyworm would cut a dude in two from afar due to how sharp the blade is. First, that, and then we'll think about improving it to go to the second phase, the Excalibur-like sword beams.

"We will see," he gruffed before grabbing the blue-looking stone.

If it was a normal sword he was making, I guess that he would have begun with the core of the weapon, maybe a billet of Damascus steel. If I remember correctly, the technique originated at least in my ancient world from Asia and involved the repeated folding and hammering of layers of steel to create a blade that was not only incredibly strong but also beautiful, with a distinctive wavy pattern. The process, however, was arduous, but I guess you could expect nothing less when you wanted the best.

I watched as he placed the billet into the forge, the flames licking hungrily at the metal I had changed.

I focused, pouring more magic into the fire. The flames shifted from their usual orange to a brilliant blue, the heat intensifying beyond mortal means. The guy didn't look fazed at all.

Normally, doing this would have been a really bad idea that would have resulted in him being hurt and the sword-making process disturbed if not ruined, but the infinity I placed on his skin ensured he could feel no discomfort or pain. The guy probably felt cold instead.

After a while, Bhakaz retrieved the metal with tongs, laying it on the anvil even though he could have done so with his hands, but I guess habits truly held. Each strike of his hammer was precise, creating a sound akin to the notes of a piano being pressed. Each strike created and added to a melody I felt I could lose myself in. Blue sparks flew with every impact, and the metal began to take on an ethereal glow.

"Yes," the smith spoke. "It will do. Time to create the blade shape."

Bhakaz heated the metal once more, then began to hammer it out, stretching and thinning it into the form of a sword. The process was slow and laborious. I could see that not only strength was required but also precision. He used a variety of tools – hammers, tongs, and chisels – each one playing a vital role in shaping the metal, each one I had enchanted like the metal to do more than they originally could.

"Water," he spoke.

"You got it," I told him. At his size, a giant bucket, also of enchanted water, appeared. He just nodded to me before focusing back on the sword.

To ensure the blade's perfect balance, Bhakaz periodically quenched it in the bucket of enchanted water, checking its alignment and straightness. He would then ask me to reheat and continue hammering, each step bringing the sword closer to its final form. This cycle of heating, hammering, and quenching was repeated numerous times, the blade gradually taking shape under the smith's expert hands.

"You told me before you wanted to put drawings onto it. Now is the time," the smith told me.

Technically, they weren't drawings. They were runes, Norse runes. They probably meant nothing in themselves in this world, but the fact that I would inscribe them with my magic and intention should be all that was needed to give them meaning.

It would be as if I were casting a spell with a wand, but the runes were the movements of said wand.

I didn't remember much about Norse runes, to be frank. I just remembered three bind runes, probably because of the interest I had in the Fate franchise more than anything else.

I traced the first rune with the tip of my finger. First, a rhombus if I wasn't wrong, except that the ends continued, and then a line that passed perfectly through the middle of it. It was courage, I think.

The second rune was much simpler. Three lines. Two crossing from each side into the middle of a vertical one. The bind rune of strength.

I began to trace the last rune, the health one. A slightly turned parallelogram, a line passing through two points in it before coming down a little on the side.

I poured magic into them to make sure they would stay and that they would work in the sword that was to be created.

"I have finished," I told the blacksmith after retreating.

"Good. Can you heat up the flames as hot as you can without destroying the blade?"

As hot as I could without destroying the blade? I knew there was nothing to fear. The sword wouldn't melt or break.

It meant that I could go wild.

I grabbed my magic, pumping it into my veins, between my palms with wild abandon. Orange flames bloomed between my palms, looking like a mundane fire, yet I knew it was an abomination that was probably as hot as the sun.

"Fuga," I whispered before the divine flames leapt almost alive, like a pack of angry wolves, toward the blade, covering it.

Now, it was time to quench it one last time, but this time, it wouldn't be through the bucket of magical water.

Bhakaz had been chosen for a reason. Yes, he was clever, hard-working, and loyal like thousands of other blacksmiths in Astapor.

I was the one they saw as a god. I could ask one of them to jump, and they wouldn't ask me why but how high.

The true reason why Bhakaz had been chosen was that he had been a personal investment of one of the Good Masters.

The smith had been paid tutors in the past for two lessons, magical ones, to make him learn how to reforge Valyrian steel and make blades even if nowhere close to them but only second to them.

When I had spoken of creating a magical blade for the general of my army, he had asked some of the Unsullied to take a bucket containing some foul dark liquid with them.

Instead of using water, he used that liquid, and the blade hissed and spat as it was plunged into it.

I wondered what that dark liquid truly was. I would have to ask the guy later.

Normally, I would have guessed blood, the blood of some creature native to this world but I knew that quenching a sword in blood wasn't a good idea. Blood has a very slow cooling curve, which made it incapable of hardening even the simplest steels. Blood was also acidic, salty, and contained iron, which made it prone to rusting a sword.

Maybe I was wrong, though. I was relying on memories of things I had watched a long time ago, while the guy before me had literally dedicated his life to smithing. More than that, this was Planetos. Dragons shouldn't exist or be able to fly due to gravity, but they did. The dead shouldn't be able to be resurrected, but they were here. I was a literal reincarnator capable of burning pyramids with my thoughts. Maybe I shouldn't focus too much on what was realistic or not.

Bhakaz lifted the sword from the quenching trough, inspecting his work. The blue pattern was now intertwined with what seemed to be veins, and the runes I had carved glowed faintly. Honestly, the blade screamed magic.

The final touch was a scabbard. I let the smith craft it the way he saw fit. It didn't take long before he slid the sword into its sheath. The little smile on his face was all I needed to know that he was satisfied with the experience.

The smith nodded at me before giving me the sword. He did so almost as if he was cradling a newborn.

"This blade, your grace, won't fail against Valyrian ones. No, it will surpass them," he spoke, his pale eyes bright as if there were a fire in them.

"Yes, she won't fail," I told him. I was sure that Valyrian weapons were probably made with more steps, more ingredients, and probably with sorcery fueled by enough blood and sacrifice to depopulate a city, but this weapon was made by me, for my general.

I didn't care that it shouldn't be stronger because it will be stronger. There was no chance I was going to fail against inbred sister-and-brother fuckers.

"Stand tall and be proud. You helped in making something the world will sing legends about."

After all, the weapon was more than a mere tool; it was a masterpiece of magical and smithing prowess, a testament to the possible synergy of smithing and magic, and no one could tell me otherwise. I removed the sword from its sheath to hold it aloft, the forge's light reflecting off its gleaming surface.

The blade was beautiful. Up close, I had to admit that it reminded me of the Master Sword from Zelda, at least if it had been forged in Raya Lucaria. Yet a little voice in the back of my mind whispered that the sword wasn't complete, that I could add a little bit more of something.

This was to be the sword of the general of my army; the sword of the person who would be on the front lines to propagate and defend the ideas I believed in. Even if the weapon could be improved later, not adding something more right now felt wrong.

The question was what to add? What spell or enchantment could I try to weave directly into the weapon?

I looked into the eyes of Grey Worm. I could read his mind, and in it, I only saw devotion and loyalty, a loyalty that could only be deemed inhuman. This man would choose to die for me without hesitation. This man had faith in me.

Wasn't it only right for me to reward him for it? I began to weave my magic, my essence, into the blade.

Pyat Pree had taught me, knowingly or not, some of the intricacies behind soul manipulation.

I used his teachings and connected the blade to myself the same way I was connected with the barrier over Astapor.

Wherever this blade would go, I would know where it was. Whatever this blade experienced, I would know it.

More than that, the same way I could use my magic through the invisible barrier around Astapor, it was possible for me to channel magic into it.

As long as Grey Worm needed it, as long as Grey Worm believed in me, the blade would hold true for him.

Finally, I turned toward the Unsullied and presented him with the blade with both hands.

"She is yours," I told him. "She won't fail you."

The man's gaze locked with mine for a few seconds as if searching for something before he nodded with a smile. He turned his attention toward the sword.

The moment he took the blade, he went stiff before relaxing. At the same time, the runes I had inscribed began to shine a soft blue, a blue shimmer escaping softly from it.

I watched him lightly swing the sword, slashing at the air as if testing its weight. I turned to the sound of tortured steel, to the sight of the anvil cut in two.

I guess it was a sign that it was a success. The guy had just been playing and had cut a heavy and dense object made of magically reinforced steel.

'Welcome back, Dark Slayer,' I thought to myself while smiling. This was just the beginning. I couldn't wait to see what it would do when the Unsullied really tried.

So, a magical badass sword was a check.

Strengthening potions and spells to make them bigger and stronger were in the works.

The armors were yet to be begun, but looking at how shiny the eyes of the blacksmith were, something told me he would be more than enthusiastic to help me. Soon, I'll have my space marines, people who could stand at my side against the entire world.

There was only one remaining thing.

"How are you going to name the sword?" I asked Grey Worm. After all, what kind of legendary sword didn't have a name?

"Irudy hen Kaerīnio," the Unsullied whispered with a smile as he met my gaze once more. He was smiling completely, not in a half or polite way. It was a true smile.

I didn't know at that moment if I wanted to laugh or cry more. The Gift of the Savior, I mentally translated.

This was but another proof that I couldn't fail, that I needed to continue moving forward until every slave in this godforsaken world could smile as brightly as him now.

scene*

I was finally alone, for once without the presence of Nileyah, Greyworm and his Unsullied, and all the other members of my household.

I had asked them for this, and while it had been difficult to make them understand, they finally caved after I told them it was just for experimenting with my magic. To do so, I needed to be alone, which technically wasn't a lie.

The Undying Ones may have attacked me, my people, my city. They may have tried to weaken me, but in truth, the only thing they succeeded in doing was making me stronger.

I had looked at their sorcery and had instinctively learned it, my brain and soul breaking down to understand it, maybe even more than its wielders, without me commanding them to do so.

The soul-crafted abominations they had made, the way they had tied suffering, sacrifice, and blood to a thing, had helped me with Greyworm's sword.

The way Pyat Pree had been moving, fighting, swapping through bodies and minds to bring me low, the way he tried to resist my magic—I had seen it.

I had learned it, and it made me realize something. This was something I already knew, in the sense that what he did was a derivative of magic, though not mundane, but not that impressive when you watched the show or read the books unless you were a three-eyed crow.

Pyat Pree had been skinchanging through multiple bodies since the beginning of his attack, just like a warg.

Even then, something told me that while they were similar, that maybe warging and whatever the warlock had done had a possible common origin, they were still different.

A little bit like how blackberries and blueberries may look similar, may share some benefits, but are still different. The analogy wasn't perfect, but I liked to think the idea stood.

More than that, another reason I was sure they were similar, that they were magics derived from each other or came from a common origin, was the realm I had found myself in when I invaded Pyat Pree's mind.

The giant heart with blue veins, the tree-like tendrils feeding on what was clearly magic, the color of the shade of the evening when I made it bleed.

The followers of the Old Gods had the weirwoods in Westeros, mostly in the northern regions.

The weirwoods with their five-pointed leaves, their blood-red sap reminiscent of blood, their bone-white wood. The weirwoods with faces carved into their trunks.

Didn't the trees in that strange realm have sap of the same consistency as blood? Weren't souls trapped in those trees the same way faces were carved in weirwoods?

If I remembered well, wasn't it said in the books that in the past, in the north, the entrails of the condemned were sometimes placed in the branches of weirwoods?

Wasn't it through them that greenseers like Bloodraven, like Bran, could see through space and time?

Wasn't it the same thing that Pyat and his masters did? Wasn't it through the help of that realm filled with trees so reminiscent of weirwoods that he had tried to flee, that they had looked at me and that I looked back?

Sure, there were differences. I'm sure there was some shade of the evening trickery I hadn't figured out yet.

The warlocks had been able to escape me. It was something I was sure of, even if I had no proof. Cockroaches like them don't live long without being cautious and sneaky.

In canon, they would have succeeded in tricking Daenerys if it hadn't been for Drogon.

Unfortunately for them, I was the kind of person to hold a grudge, and I wasn't stupid enough to think that sooner or later, they wouldn't crawl out from the hole they had hidden in to try something.

They had been able to attack. It meant that it was only right that I found a way to do the same, that it was only right for me to make my silver bullet.

This was one of the reasons why I was alone, outside of Astapor, at the spot where I had fought against Pyat, hidden through a minor charm that bent light to make it impossible for normal eyes to see.

I didn't think my household would be happy if they knew what I was preparing to do.

Okay, it was time to do it. I pushed some of my magic toward one of my fingers, specifically one of my nails.

The nail looked as if it didn't change, but I knew that even steel could be cut if it touched it.

This is why slashing it through my wrist made me bleed, the nerves not even aware yet because of how fast it was before the pain made itself known, and I wasn't able to keep a hiss of pain from escaping my lips.

I seriously thought it would hurt less. I guess new body, new pain tolerance and everything. I took hold of my body, stopping its instinctual response of healing me.

Blood and fire, blood and sacrifice. Canon spoke of the value of blood. There was value in the blood of kings. There was value in the blood of the divine.

I wasn't megalomaniacal enough to see myself as a god. I barely saw myself as a king, but my people did.

At least a hundred thousand people believed so, and there was power in belief. The blood began to slowly fall, dripping on the ground.

This was really uncomfortable. All of those people thinking self-mutilation was easy. Flash news: it wasn't because it still hurt.

The only reason I hadn't used my magic to dull my sense of pain was because the kind of magic I was using needed sacrifice. What kind of sacrifice would it be if it were easy?

I was already cheating, skipping many steps through my magic. This step was one I couldn't skip, at least for now.

Already, my eyes were analyzing the ritual, the weave of magic, breaking it down even more to make it less costly and more efficient.

I just needed to activate the spell. I could do it silently, but why, when I could do it with style?

"Arise," I whispered, and the magic went mad.

This place held a form of symbolism. It could be said to be the place where a child, where light battled against darkness, where evil was defeated by good.

Of course, it wasn't that simple, that black and white, but it was enough.

My barrier was faulty, imperfect. It was something I had to recognize. The warlocks showed me this.

It was only fair that I used them to improve it, to make sure what happened would never happen again. More than that, what they did with those souls, the souls of the enslaved people they had butchered, there needed to be retribution.

"Nemesis," I continued.

It began to grow from where my blood had touched the ground, golden in color, first nothing but a sapling, but slowly and surely, absorbing, feeding on my blood, on my magic, on the suffering that took place here, on my need and desire to protect the people of Astapor and make the Good Masters pay, until it grew past me, past the pyramids of Astapor, past the giant trees I had created, deep into the clouds.

I knew that even without seeing it, the same thing was happening below me, the roots digging deep, growing and taking root all around Astapor.

I felt a smile split my face as the ritual continued. Nemesis was the name of the Greek Daemon of retribution.

I had chosen this name because the spell, the ritual I was creating, was both a curse and a blessing.

The land held the trace of the foul sorcery of the Undying Ones. It also held the trace of the suffering of the souls they used for their monsters, which made it easy to curse them in return.

"Oh vengeful Nemesis, protector of my domain, oh vengeful Nemesis, giver of sight, oh vengeful Nemesis, curse my enemies forevermore."

I could feel the magic expanding, traveling. It wouldn't matter how far the Undying Ones were. They wouldn't escape me.

The curse side of the ritual was multifaceted. Firstly, it targeted everything with the same sorcery Pyat had used with the simple concept of agony, the same agony the souls in the abomination had felt.

Each time an Undying One, a warlock of Qarth, would use their sorcery, the experience would be an agonizing one, mortal if it was too much for their body to bear. After all, there was a limit to what the body could endure until it fell into shock.

Secondly, each time the mind of a warlock left their body, it would be forcefully attracted by Nemesis to be used as fuel.

The moment a warlock of the House of the Undying touched by my magic tried the same trick that Pyat did, it would be over for them.

Let's see if the Undying Ones were truly undying. Let's see how long they will struggle against me.

When it came to the blessed side of things, Nemesis did two simple things.

The first was to empower the people of Astapor. The dream that I had, I knew it was one that could only result in me fighting against the world.

I could take care of myself thanks to my magic, through my spells, but could the same be said for the people of Astapor themselves, except the Unsullied?

Most of the Unsullied would be, for example, following me against the Dothraki. What if, while I wasn't there, Astapor was attacked? What if some kind of magic I didn't yet know about stopped me long enough for my people to be slaughtered?

The question wasn't that I possibly couldn't be everywhere but what if I should be everywhere.

The question wasn't whether I could possibly be everywhere, but rather, should I be everywhere?

Of course, these were hypotheticals, but better prepared than sorry. After all, I hadn't expected the House of the Undying to attack me.

Logistics and preparations were underway so that, in a week's time, my army and I would be ready to depart.

The idea that something could go wrong in my absence frightened me.

Would I return to find dead children? Would I return to butchered freed slaves, or worse?

Nemesis was to ensure that such horrors would never occur. I knew that morally, changing others without their consent was wrong, but surely it could be excused when it was for their own good—not in a Dumbledore way. Moreover, I was confident that if I had asked them, they would have readily accepted.

The second blessing that Nemesis bestowed was upon myself. Wargs could control the creatures they were bonded to and see through their eyes. Greenseers could do the same, but in a way that average wargs could never replicate. After all, wasn't it said that just as one warg was born among a thousand humans, one greenseer was born among a thousand wargs?

In any case, what Nemesis did was heighten my awareness. The fight against Pyat showed me that there were already gaps in it.

Nemesis made those gaps non-existent. After all, how could they persist when I became Astapor? How could they persist when I was the wind that flowed, the water that streamed, the clouds floating, the earth upon which all living things stood?

How could they persist when, connected to Nemesis, I became omniscient?

I turned to look at you, you who thought I couldn't see all of you, who thought I would never see you.

"Tell me, little bloodmage, were you never taught not to look without permission? Were you never taught that pride comes before a fall?" I spoke before grabbing their magic and pulling.

scene*

A rare and terrible thing was happening. All the Khals of the Dothraki were gathered in Vaes Dothrak, and for the first time, they were not antagonizing one another.

No, they, along with the Dosh Khaleen, were listening to a tale of destruction, a tale of slaughter, the tale of a demon in a child's skin, a demon that killed thousands with bare hands, a demon who vowed to come after them all.

Perhaps they would have been skeptical, dismissed it as lies or the ravings of a deluded mind, if the one speaking with a voice filled with horror wasn't Xharo, one of Khal Dharo's bloodriders, one of the commanders of the second greatest and largest Khalasar among their people.

Xharo was no coward. Xharo was no liar. More than that, Xharo was loyal. How could they not believe him? How could they not feel fear?

"The demon child," a younger Khal spoke. "It is said that all the Unsullied of the Good Masters became his, that they followed him in the uprising of Astapor."

All good Dothraki knew of the Unsullied. They may not ride horses as was proper, but they were incredible soldiers, worthy of respect.

They all knew the story of the three thousand of Qohor, how three thousand Unsullied held back a Dothraki Khalasar over fifty thousand strong. Only six hundred Unsullied survived, but in return, they killed twelve thousand Dothraki.

What would happen now if an army of Unsullied came to attack them, backed by a demon?

They all knew what could happen: the end of their culture, the end of their way of life, the end of their people.

They needed to act, they needed to fight if they didn't want their culture to die. Either they would triumph, or they would end, and even with all of them united, they didn't feel as if the odds were in their favor.

Had it been a simple army or even just an army of Unsullied, they would have welcomed the challenge because they were Dothraki.

They were the greatest warriors, but what could the blade of a warrior do against a demon?

"I could never back down from a battle against another man, but what's coming is no man. I won't fight with you!"

They turned toward the Khal who had spoken. Khal Motho was an old Khal, the oldest among them here, which made him respected.

Only strength allowed you to live long among the Dothraki, especially when you were a Khal.

"I won't sacrifice my Khalasar, my Khalakka, for what is surely damnation!"

"I never took you for a coward, Motho," a younger Khal's voice rumbled.

"Were we not in Vaes Dothrak, I would have challenged you and painted the ground with your blood and entrails, Zekko."

"Then, what do you wish us to do, Motho?" Khal Ogo asked the oldest Khal.

Khal Ogo and Khal Motho had been bitter foes and greatest allies. They had been Khals even before some of the other Khals in the room, like Khal Drogo, were in their mothers' wombs.

"The logical thing to do, Ogo. I would ask you, if you still had some of your wits, to leave. The demon may be powerful, may have an army, but that doesn't mean we have to make it easy for him to butcher us."

"There is no escaping him," Xharo spoke softly. "I have seen him move impossible distances in the blink of an eye. The only thing leaving would do is turn it into a hunt for him, one where we are the prey."

The vigor in the old Khal seemed to drain at the words of the other Dothraki. He sat back, looking as if his old age had finally caught up with him.

"There must be something to do," the Khal whispered.

The answer came from an unexpected source. "There is something that can be done, something so that we could win against the demon."

All the Khals turned toward where the voice had come from, from one of the Dosh Khaleen, from the eldest among them.

"What would a crone know that could he—"

The gaze of Khal Drogo was all that was needed to shut Khal Zekko up.

"Let her speak."

It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order, and none of them went against it. How could they when Khal Drogo was the greatest among all of them?

The great stallion hidden under the skin of the crone smiled. He ignored the despair of the mortal he was inhabiting.

The Dothraki were his. He was their master, their god. He was the reason they existed. He was free to use them in any way necessary to accomplish his bidding.

The divine child may come, but he won't be the one to prevail. It would be him, and after he finished devouring him, he would crush his old enemy who should have ended him when he could.

Stuck in her own body, unable to stop the end her people were walking toward, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen stopped believing. Stuck in her own body, unable to stop the end her people were walking toward, the eldest of the Dosh Khaleen, the woman ice known as Nayah felt for the first time something other than love and devotion for her god, for her master, and it was hatred.

scene*

My spear, a weapon I had forged with magic and the modified steel I had created, glinted an ominous blue in the fading light like frost given form. Across from me, Grey Worm stood tall and proud, in armor, his sword that I had crafted resting casually on his shoulder.

Pyat Pree had made me understand something. I was technically a glass cannon. Sure, I was able to blow to smithereen most of my opponent and I could use my magic to defend myself on most things if I had time to do so, if I wasn't taken by surprise.

I had set up my bootleg version of infinity before my fight with the warlock because I had sensed him before.

Had it not been the case. Had my guard been down without infinity thinking that I had won, the warlock would have made me bleed at least.

I would not allow myself to be tojied. No chance in hell. If I died in such way, with all the power at my fingertips, I will literally try to see if it is possible for the dead to die again. The shame, the ignominy of it.

This is why I was facing GreyWorm in one of the outskirts of Astapor where I know we wouldn't be bothered.

Maybe I was seeing thing that didn't need to be, maybe I was worried for nothing but one thing I had learnt was to always prepare for the worst so that if the worst came, you would be ready and if didn't come, then it was all good.

More than that, I wanted to familiarize myself with this body's natural capacity without using my magic in an overt way.

I couldn't say completely without magic when I could feel it travelling in, sparking through my veins.

I would, could never be without magic because it was, has become as much an essential part of myself as my blood, than my heart, than my brain.

More than that, the last weeks living in this body showed me that magic had changed it at every level.

Aegor hadn't been able to move with as much as ease as I did, to move as quick as I did. I knew that the strength I could feel in my bones had been something he was devoid of.

My magic passively strengthened me but to which degree, I didn't exactly know. I guess I'll know soon.

I took a deep breath, steadying my heartbeat. The first move would set the tone, and I couldn't afford to be reckless. With a nod of acknowledgment from my opponent, the duel began.

I sprang forward, my spear thrusting towards his midsection with lightning speed. The unsullied responded instantly, his azure sword sweeping down to parry the blow. The clash of metal reverberated through the clearing, almost like a symphony, almost like music notes being pressed. I twisted my body, using the momentum to swing the spear around in a wide arc aimed at his head. He ducked, almost effortlessly, the blade whistling past his ear, and countered with a powerful horizontal slash.

I leaped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, my feet barely touching the ground as I repositioned myself. I felt my hair move in the wind. It was as if the force of the strike of Greyworm had displaced it.

I knew without a doubt that each blow of Greyworm, that each one of them would powerful enough to cleave through stone. But I had agility on my side.

The constant healing after training, the way he was taller and bigger, the way he was wielding a magic sword capable of cutting through normal steel or even reinforced steel. Was it truly a surprise that it felt as if the world was moved when Greyworm chose to do so?

The only reason I had been able to react, had been able to not be immediately disarmed was because of how slow things were for my eyes.

I wouldn't say that without magic, I could see at a microscopic level but the high definition given by my eyes, given to this body passively by magic made me able to see the unsullied body tense even before he would act, to see him move and in that time check and double-check what needed to be done and even with all that, I still felt as if I was on the backfoot.

My opponent charged again, his sword shining with was clearly magic, a blur of motion. I chose to meet him head-on, our weapons colliding with a force that sent shockwaves through the air. The ground beneath us trembled, and I could feel the sheer power behind their strikes. But I held firm, my spear acting like a steadfast barrier against his weapon.

With a swift maneuver, I slipped past his guard and aimed a quick thrust at his shoulder. The blade of my spear glanced off his armor, leaving nothing but a minor dent.

He retaliated with a backhand slash, forcing me to retreat once more. He didn't allow me to gain back my balance. He followed, the tip of his sword falling on me like silver raindrops aimed at me, at my eyes, at my face, at my chest, at my limbs.

It felt as if I was stuck in a whirlwind of flashing steel and shimmering armor, little cuts appearing on my flesh as even though I pushed this body to its limits without actively using magic, it didn't feel enough.

I pivoted on my heel, feinting left before spinning to the right. My spear arced towards a side I thought exposed, but his twisted impossibly, his sword coming up to deflect the blow.

At least, it stopped his onslaught, the force of the clash sent us both skidding backward, the ground beneath us buckling under the strain. For a moment, we stood facing each other, both breathing heavily even if it was clear I was the most exhausted of us.

My body felt as if it was weighing a hundred tons, as if I had just finished a workout so demanding that my body only wanted to shut down.

Even then, our eyes locked in a silent challenge. His seemed to ask me if we were done, if I could continue. I could see that there were no mockery in his eyes yet it only spurned me to stand taller and tighten my grip on my spear even with my body protesting.

The next exchange was even more intense, as if all this time, the unsullied had been going easy on me. The worst was that he probably did.

My opponent's strikes grew faster, each one a blur of steel aimed with deadly precision. I could see now that before he had been restraining himself.

I relied on my agility, on my eyes, on my hear, on nose, to guide myself. My eyes weren't enough. It simply meant that I had to use everything else.

My movements were almost animalistic. I guess it was appropriate to deem them as such. After all, guided by my basest instincts. It didn't feel like a fight anymore. It felt like survival. At the same time, I couldn't deny their fluidity, their effectiveness in how they made me evade and counter.

The unsullied and I seemed to blur together, his sword and my spear dancing and singing as we tried to do the closest thing to killing each other.

I took to the air, my spear glowing like a blue star under the sun as I descended like a meteor, aiming for his heart. He braced himself, the sole of his feet digging In the ground, his sword shining with magic, the same way it did when we first tested, coming up to meet my attack. The clash made me feel every single one of my bones, made me feel as if I had stepped on a mine, a burst of energy erupting where our weapons touched, the symphony of our weapons becoming discordant, a clash that sent shockwaves rippling through the clearing. The ground shattered beneath us, creating a crater full of spreading spider webs. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as we were locked against each other, as my purple eyes met his brown ones.

With a surge of strength, he pushed back, forcing my spear upwards. I twisted in mid-air, like a gymnast, in a way I would have never been able to do so in my past life except maybe in video games landing gracefully a few paces away. Both of us were breathing even harder than before, sweat clang to our form, our bodies clearly pushed to the brink of exhaustion Yet we both knew that this wasn't the end, that until the other gave up, we wouldn't stop. That is what I had asked after all.

I launched myself at him again, my spear moving in a blue flash to one of the crannies on his armor. Instead of taking the risk of making him bleed, he met my attack head-on, his sword intercepting my spear, pushing down on the side and at the same time continuing toward me. I used the body of my spear to defend myself.

The inconvenient with Spears was the fact that they were perfect weapons at mid long range, not at a really short one. It mean that if you attacked and your opponent was able to block or dodge and come closer, you were most likely screwed at least if you weren't able to create some distance, something the other wouldn't rightfully let you do so.

Even then, I tried, tried to parry and counter the blue death, the flurry of motion his sword became.

Some I succeeded, others, I failed. I felt the blade leave a burning cut on my left arm, another on a thigh, another on my chest that would have been worse had I not instinctevely jumped backwards. Before my feet touched the ground, Greyworm was already following with his sword. I ducked a slash, parried another one that felt more like a bludgeon than anything else.

Trying to stop one of his strikes left me open. We both knew that I wouldn't have enough time to bring my spear for the next clash, so instead I headbutted him, I headbutted the unsullied wearing a near indestructible helmet.

I felt Pain explode at my forehead as if my head had been cracked open In two. It probably has been a part of me mused. I could blood slowing running down my face. I could feel Greyworm shock in realizing that indeed, I did such stupidity. It was his bafflement that gave me enough time to and the opportunity to bring and rake the tip of my spear just under his eyes, in the opening of his helmet.

This time, when I moved back away from him, he didn't follow. He touched the blood now sipping from his wound like it was marvel. When he looked back at me, I saw something in his eyes that made me smile even with the throbbing pain and agony I was feeling. I saw pride.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the clearing in the soft glow of twilight. Golden hour a part of me at the back of my mind. mused.

"Let's stop for today," the unsullied said and at his words, I allowed my body to do what it was begging me to do since the beginning and it is laying down in the grass and closed my eyes, finally using and allowing my magic to heal me.

I could hear the armour of Greyworm moving, coming closer. I felt him sit on my side.

"Did I do good?" I asked him.

"Good? You did more than good," I heard him say. I could almost hear him smile as he said this. "Be proud. You were exceptional."

scene*

The sun casting long shadows over my city with its golden rays had been replaced by silver moonlight. It bathed the giant trees I had created with its light making them shine like cold stars. I was sure that it would be more than beautiful to see inside Astapor. I hope my people liked it.

"Greyworm," I began, almost hesitating to say the following words. One look at the face of the unsulied made my doubts and hesitation crumble. "I know that you're more than loyal, that you would choose death if it meant helping me. What I want to know is why? Why do you believe in me? Why do you believe in that dream of mine? Why do you choose to fight when you can finally stop?"

Greyworm turned to face me, half a smile drawn on his face, his expression a thoughtful one. "I have thought about it many times, your grace. My loyalty to you is not a simple matter of duty. It is a choice born from belief in your dream."

I tilted my head, curious. "Tell me more."

Greyworm took a deep breath. I saw a blur enter in his eyes as if he was reminiscing about something "I was born into slavery, just like you. But while you were blessed—or cursed, depending on how one sees it—with divine powers, I wasn't. I was only trained to be one thing, to be a weapon. An unsullied, stripped of identity and emotion, made to obey without question. For years, I knew nothing but the harsh commands of my masters. Freedom was a concept beyond my comprehension. Freedom was something I would, I could never think about."

I nodded at his words. One the only universal thing, experience in this world seemed to be that it could always be worse. Aegor, I, have been a pleasure slave but even with all the monstrosities I went through, I still had been a favoured slave of a good master. I was sure that it hadn't even been Kraznys' intention to kill me just because of how many times I could remember him expressing his delight about me, how I was a rare gem. It was more that I had been a toy, a beloved toy he had broken because he was enjoying it too much. That thought made me want to puke.

"To be frank, when you woke up from the dead and began to tear down the good masters, I hesitated. I am an unsullied. My duty is, was to protect, obey my masters, obey the ones who broke me, obey the ones who reforged me into a weapon. I was the commander. The others were taught to listen to me as much if not more than they did with the good masters. If I had obey, they would have. I can remember it almost in perfect detail. looked at the blood, at the dying form of a good master, at the form of a man who taught me that my place was to never choose but obey, that the way of the world was such and nothing could change it. I looked at his corpse and chose by butchering his kin your grace."

Our gazes crossed. I could see the way Greyworm's eyes had softened. I didn't see an unsullied before me. I didn't see a soldier. No, instead, I saw someone who had been too young when he went through the worse, someone who went through hell and was only beginning to live unburderned after having discarded it. He looked like someone who barely entered into college. He should have been worrying about grades, parties, girls or boys maybe, not literally went through what could be considered hell.

"More than that I saw your fire, I saw your ambitions Aegor. Your unyielding desire to see an end to all forms of slavery. You reminded me that men are not born to obey; they are born to choose. Slaves obey, but men—true men—choose. You made me understand that the bitter truth I was forced to swallow by my masters was a lie. You made me believe that suffering didn't need to be accepted, that the right thing no matter how hard it was to grasp, to accomplish was worth to be pursued."

The phrase struck a chord deep within me. "Slaves obey, men choose." It echoed the mantra I had come to live by, the driving force behind every action I took. "What do you see in this dream of mine, Greyworm? What makes you believe it is possible?"

Greyworm's gaze turned toward the city, his eyes scanning the horizon as if seeing beyond the present into a hopeful future. "I see a world where no child will ever wake up with the chains of servitude weighing them down. A world where every man, woman, and child can choose their path, their destiny. You have the power to make that world a reality, Aegor. Your power is not just in your divine powers but in your vision and your heart."

A dark chuckle escaped unwittingly from my lips "I'm not sure divine would be the appropriate word. If I was truly divine, if I was truly a god, all of this would have been so easy. Just a snap of my fingers and everything wrong in this world would be reduced to ashes."

"Do you know that the Unsullied worshipped, have a patron goddess?" Greyworm asked me sending the conversation in another direction.

My eyebrows rose at his words "With the way you and the others look at and treat me, it is surprising," I told him.

I had been a fan of the works of G.R.R Martin but it didn't mean that I knew everything about them. More than that, the way the show had forgotten, confused or remove some parts of the original books made it easy to forget what originally was.

If I had the internet, one click would have been enough to know more but I didn't. This was the inconvenient rarely mentioned in those self insert stories.

Sure, you had outside knowledge but this outside knowledge was limited, incomplete. Worse, you could have known before and forgotten. You didn't know you would be reincarnated in another world. After, all, realistically, how does knowing for example the entire Targaryen family tree be helpful for the average Joe or Jane?

"Things changed. You came. You are there. Why would we need to worship her anymore even more when the lady of spear, the mother of hosts ask for the manhood of children to be burnt at her altar?"

Well, when he put it like that, I understood why my unsullied had so easily abandoned her. At least, my healing fruits, my panacea had ensured that every past ill they may have suffered was healed, in that case, castration.

"The mother of hosts is a goddess, a near-invincible being they taught us, capable of always leading her faithful to victory as long as they honoured her yet she asks for our suffering, yet she asks for our sacrifice. She is a goddess and no matter how much we prayed her, she never saved any of us. You on the other hand healed us without any of us asking something. You on the other walk amongst us, laugh, worry, cry, care for us. It makes you more divine than she could ever be. It makes you more worthy of worship so if you can't be called divine, then, nothing can," the unsullied told me.

His words were ones of pure faith. There would be no point in trying to dissuade him. You didn't, couldn't argue with that kind of faith, that kind of faith that made empires crumble and turn mountains into rubbles and a part of me didn't want to.

I felt a surge of emotion, a mixture of pride and a deep, gnawing fear of the responsibility that lay on my shoulders. "This world, it is one so full of horror and darkness, Greyworm. I truly hope we change it."

Greyworm turned to look at the glowing form of Nemesis above, his expression unwavering. "We will change it one step at a time, one city at a time. Your power is a beacon, Aegor. It inspires others to rise, to fight, to believe that they too can be free like it did with me, like it did with it brothers, like it did with the people of Astapor. As long as we have breath in our bodies, we will fight for that dream. As long as we continue to believe in you, I know we won't be led astray."

I looked out over the city, feeling the weight of my own words. "One step at a time," I echoed. "One city at a time."

There were still some doubts in my heart, about what I was doing. It was and felt easy to do what was wrong, to do the contrary of what was easy even more with that new might of mine.

Additionally, I felt deep and terrible purpose. This world, I will change it, dismantle its twisted principles beick by brick. Fuck the idea of hard decisions, of cruelty for the sake of a supposed greater good. I wasn't like others no matter what I told myself. I wasn't like any of them. I wasn't a god but still have enough power that it truly didn't mean much.

Also, something had changed since I created Nemesis, since my senses over Astapor evolved to near omniscience.

I could feel Greyworm's faith in me. I could taste it like the sweetest thing melting on my tongue, his belief and not only his. I could hear their voices praying, calling me, asking me for salvation, asking me to deliver them for this nightmare-likw world.

I could feel them dying, butchered as they tried to escape, as they fought against those who dared chain them. I could hear them die with my name on their lips, with my dream in their hearts.

"Hey, Greyworm," I called the unsullied with my eyes gazing at the stars, a hand raised as if to remove them from the night sky. I could feel the attention of the Unsullied on me.

"I will burn this world to create a better one. Just watch," I promised again, not only to him, not only to myself but to the world itself.

"I believe you. I believe your words Aegor."

Night could be long, night could be treacherous. Night could be full of miseries, horrors and cruetlties. It didn't change that sooner or later, day would come. The unfuijg ones, all the little mages scurring around like rats waiting to strike, mortal men full of delusions thinking their blood made them better than others. They could try their best and I hope they would because if they dare to put themselves on my path, I won't hesitate to crush them.

Gods, Kings, nobles, slavers, what were they before me? Nothing the breeze whispered in my ear.

scene*

Be careful when looking into the abyss because when looking into it, it was possible for the abyss to look back and this was the last thing a magic practitioner wished.

That is what happened under the eyes of Mokoro. The sight of a man's skin crumbling into ashes, screams of despair and fear uttered before painful silence replaced them was a reminder.

Mokoro and some of his allies or at least what could be considered allies when you dabbled into sorcery had intended to spy on the origin of magic coming back, on the presence he was sure every practitioner in the entire world could feel, spy on the one, on the ex-slave, on the child, on the chain breaker, of the liberator the world known as Aegor.

A child it was said who died because of the bad treatments of one of the good masters and came back to life changed, powerful in a god-like way.

They had wanted to know more about the child, more about how it all had possibly happened.

How could the child if what has truly came was indeed the boy and not some other entity gain so much power?

Dozens, thousands of young slaves died eah day in harsh and brutal ways. None of them came back. None of them were saved. None of them came back to upheaval the world itself.

The goal had been for one of them to try to peer at the city of the boy, not directly at him, they weren't that dumb but at Astapor, at the city and people he had changed through his magic.

Even then, it was something Mokoro had seen as risky at best, foolish at worst and he had been proven right.

Albaz had been a talented practitioner of blood and fire sorceries. He had studied in Asshaï and it had showed with how the world seemed corrupted, distorted in a way he could deemed fool. He had been someone Mokoro had always been wary of, even more with magic coming back.

What before had been nigh impossible without a disgusting and he considered a wasting amount of blood was now almost as easy to do than breathing.

Mokoro didn't need anymore to sacrifice a human live or catlles in the dozens to create a spark on the tip of his fingers.

He just needed to wish the flame to be for the sorcery to activate. Oh, he was sure there were drawbacks. It was after all synonymous with magic.

It's just that those drawbacks were miniscules compared to before the ressurection of the child at least when it came back to basic sorceries.

The idea of spying on the child had been proposed by Albaz. The man had wanted to create a new order, what he called a coven and Mokoro had been one of the unlucky the other sorcerers had found worthy.

He would have outrightly refused if he didn't know that his refusal would have come with consequences.

Even though he hated to admit it, it was simply a fact that Albaz was simply more learned and experienced when it came to magic. More than that, it was in some of the most foolest things that most mages with a shrewd of sanity would have hesitated in practising.

He didn't fancy himself used as an ingredient in a dark ritual or as a blood sacrifice or worse. Refusing would have been an option if he had been stronger.

This is why he had accepted with a false smile, with false eagerness. More than that, accepting now didn't mean that this collaboration had to be forever.

His goal had been to learn as much from Albaz and the other sorcerers he had deemed worthy and when the right moment came to betray them.

He guessed looking at the ashes, only remnants of a proud sorcerer that he wouldn't have to do this.

Hubris, pure foolishness. It seemed Albaz had forgotten something essential, drunk with the might and the power the resurgence of magic had allowed him to gain.

The world was full of horrors and terrors and Albaz had poked at one of them, at what was probably the greatest of them.

At least, the godling hadn't chosen to punish them too. He could have. He had seen, sensed them but didn't.

This was enough of a sign to show him what he had to do.

The other sorcerers turned toward him as they felt the beginning of his spell activate. Had they not been shocked, still ratlled by the presence of the godling, they would have probably reacted faster, probably would have stopped him.

A dark words left his lips more of a phenomenon than anything else. His throat felt raw, as if scrapped with nails. He could taste blood in his mouth and he knew that speaking would be something he would find difficult in the next hours but as he watched the world shift before his eyes, frost and cold creeping slowly but surely embracing everything before him in a kiss of death, he didn't find himself caring.

Most sorcerers specialized themselves in shadow, blood or even fire magic. It wasn't that they were easier. No, asserting that would be an error but it was the case that amongst all sorceries that were by nature corruptive and dangerous, ice magic was special in itself.

Fire magic was life, a blazing inferno. Fire magic was capable of great and cruel things because life could be great and cruel.

Ice magic on the other side was Death. It was the primordial darkness predating life and only wanting to extinguish it.

Being a sorcerer was learning to wield a sword without a hilt. Being an ice sorcerer was plunging yourself the tip of the blade in your flesh to draw blood.

The costs were harder, harsher but in return, it made countering an experience ice mage more than a chore for anyone without a lot of knowledge about the arcane, without someone like Albaz who just died.

Shadows rose to protect, to struck at him, to make him pay his betrayal. Shadows froze, dark constructs blooming as the cold submised them and the one who summoned them.

Another tried to use fire. It was a logical thing to do. It was an unfortunate thing that logic didn't have its place in a world full of magic and horror.

The flames flickered out, snuffed out more quickly than dying embers in the wind, flesh bitten by frost, cracling, darkening, becoming brittle until life was choked by cold.

The last one of them proved themselves as the smartest amongst them. The moment they realized something was going awry, they tried to flee instead of stay fighting.

Mokoro respected that. This was the most sand thing to try to do. There were no shame in fleeing especially when you were sorcerer.

In their line of work, the courageous, the brave wasn't the one who survived. The one who survived was the one cowardly enough, uncaring and wise enough to survive.

A barrier, a wall made of arcane energy sprung up between the other sorcerer and Mokoro. It wouldn't really matter, they both knew it at least in a tangential way.

Maybe if magic hadn't resurged, maybe if Mokoro' magic wasn't stronger, it could have worked.

Now, the only thing it could do they both knew was trying to slow down the cold, slow it down enough that the other would be able to escape.

Death slowed, taking time to devour the barrier. One moment, this is what the barrier face the other sorcerer. One moment but sometimes, one moment was enough.

Fire had bloomed around the other sorcerer licking at their skin with softness a primordial force as such couldn't have been able to do so.

Fire, Mokoro knew would allow the other sorcerer to escape. Fire that just needed a moment to make the other escape. He could see even under the hood of the other sorcerer what seemed to be the beginning of a smile full of relief.

An arc of silver danced in the air, spinning like a disk to end in the chest of the other sorcerer.

He could see surprise, the same surprise that always bloomed in the eye of a man when unescapable death came before white Death finally reached the last sorcerer.

The hood had fallen allowing him to see the face of the other sorcerer, the one he was murdering.

Mokoro looked and only saw a boy who probably hadn't even seen more than 16 name days.

Mokoro exhaled and white cold mist came out. The dead eyes of the boy seemed to ask why. He wouldn't have an answer.

'What a pain,' the sorcerer thought.

At least, this was done. It was a good thing that sorcerers were mostly solitary by nature. It meant that it was most likely that what he did wouldn't matter too much in the eyes of another sorcerer.

Some would say that what he did had been unnecessary, cruel. They would be right at the cruel but not at the unnecessary.

The others, they were almost exactly like Albaz. Only difference was how much weaker they were.

What happened today with the godling was most likely to happen again and Mokoro knew the same way Albaz wouldn't have let him go, the same way they wouldn't have too.

He felt too old. He would take as much magic scrolls as he could from the things of the other and leave this acursed place, this accursed continent.

Something told him than sooner or later, things would become worse, that everything that already happened was just a prelude.

He once heard the summer islands were some of the best places to visit and live in with beautiful women, more easy going nobles and royals and more important than anything else, calm.

A slave with the power of a god in a slavery-filled world. He always had known the gods were cruel.

scene*

"Have you heard old friend? It is said that the gods themselves struck Quarth, that a divine bolt of retribution struck against the house of the undying."

The other shadow scoffed "Don't act as if you truly believed that. Even though it paints a nice tale, the world isn't that kind."

The shadow knew more than most the cruelty that inherently came with magic, how it was fed and powered by the despicable.

If the world was just, what happened to him shouldn't have happened. If the gods themselves existed and weren't cruel, if they existed and hadn't chosen to save him then, save all those who perished, suffered and still were suffering because of it, why would they now?

"Yes," the first shadow conceded. "It seems truly unimaginable, childish, a children tale but the fact is that the world is changing old friend but you already know that don't you?"

The boy called Aegor hadn't been the only one in Essos and beyond to display sorcery. There had always been magic users in Essos. Hidden they may have been but it was a unsaid fact, truth most knew.

Them staying recluse, hidden? It was changing. Tales of horrors, of wonders were exploding everywhere.

People who could have never been thought before as mages displaying, being caught using magic.

If it was only sorcerers coming out of the woodwork, the second shadow would be able to deal with it.

People who never used magics before waking up with it? It meant one thing and the shadow truly hope they were wrong.

Magic that has dried up, that was on the verge of disappearing, weakening since the fall of Valyria was coming back.

It was a fact none of them could escape no matter how they felt about it. It was something they would have to adapt to to or let it be they both knew the cause of their end.

"The world may be changing but our goals didn't old friend. We have to act to ensure we won't fail. A blackfyre, must, will sit on the throne but for that, we have to get rid of the boy sorcerer."

"I am curious," the first shadow said. "I understand doing what is necessary to ensure Aegon's rise but I still can't understand how the boy is a threat? The boys said high and loud how he wanted to eradicate slavery from Essos and beyond. The boy angered half the world with his words. He may be powerful but even dragons, embodiments of power fell due to human means."

Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys in Dorne. The storming of the dragon pits in kingslanding by the smallfolk. Dragons who were thought gods died like any man in the end.

Some using sorcery is like wielding a sword without a hilt," the second shadow began softly. "It is an understatement. The sorcerer who maimed me wasn't the only one I met, who tried to hurt me or worse," he revealed.

"They said, their reason was that king's blood, pure valyrian blood was the key to some of the greatest magic. They taught me that using magic is bleeding others and yourself. They taught me that only cruelty could lead to power. I hope you are right, that the boy will die in his foolish endeavour but what if he doesn't? What if he doesn't? What if he only grow stronger bloodshed after bloodshed? Do you think that after bleeding Essos dry, he will stop? Do you know any man who would truly refuse more power?"

"Liars and fools," the first shadow answered.

"Indeed, liars and fools and unfortunately, I don't think the boy is one of those."

The first shadow sighed "What's your plan old friend?

"I was able to convince the king that the boy was the surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen. The others are more sceptical or don't believe me but it doesn't matter as long as their king believes so."

"Even then, I would be surprised if his lords accepted to march for a threat that may not be real and in Essos."

If it had been an invading force seen as foreign, it would have been different but for most Westerosi, what happened in Essos even if it was because of one of them didn't concern them as long as it didn't put foot in their kingdom. It wouldn't mean that they wouldn't try to learn more or act indirectly though.

"You're right on that but I still was able to influence the stag king. A bounty of 100000 gold dragons had been placed on the head of the boy."

100000 gold ragons the first shadow thought almost licking its lips with greed. There were kings without this amount in their coffers. Three hundred dragons by themselves represented a formidable ransom for a knight, even if he belonged to a large noble house. There were people, smallffolk who would never be able to hold in their entire life ten golden dragons.

"It's not all," the second shadow continued. "We can't count on mercenaries. This is why I had used some of my own wealth to commission a sorrowful man."

The sorrowful men could be said to be the poor version of the faceless men but with them having disappeared, needs trumped want.

"The boy will die old friend, I assure you. It is said that he will clashes soon with the Dothraki, that they chose to unite to battle against him. Many things can happen in battle. Man dies in less than a blink in battle. Nothing else is acceptable."

scene*

Varys had been the closest thing to a friend, to a brother Illyrio ever had. He knew of course that the moment the Eunuch would find it benefiting, he would betray him. Such was the way of the world and he wouldn't begrudge him for it.

His rise from a sellsword to a magister ensured he knew this. Friends and enemies were but the different side of the same coin.

Varys had allowed him to become richer than he ever thought possible, his spy network had given him many opportunities of success and ensuring the downfall of his enemies.

If everything went well, the help of the man would ensure that his son, Aegon would sit at his rightful place, that he would sit on the iron throne.

Varys supported Aegon's rise. Varys cared about the boy, about his blood, about the one who could take rightfully what he had been denied by the sorcerer who maimed him.

Varys didn't care about Illyrio more than what he could do for Aegon, the son of Saera, the son of his blood. This is why he had intentionally not mentioned a new development to the spider.

Illyrio was born of nothing, of no great hero, of no great family, of nothing. He wasn't born with a caring father or a doting mother.

Everything he ever had, he fought for it. He bled, killed and struggled for everything. Nothing was given to him.

The world had never been kind to him And that thought was proved when Saera died of the grey death leaving behind their child without a mother.

He had wanted for his child to have one unlike him. It seemed that his desires were for naught before the world and this was a truth he had accepted.

One week ago, his perspective changed. The world for the first time gave him a gift. Alone in his chambers, Illyrio Mopatis watched spectral fingers entertwine with his.

Maybe things would have to change regarding the boy, Aegor. After all, how could he seek his fall he thought as he gazed into the shining amethyst-like eyes of the woman he loved.

Varys saw magic as necessarily evil, something that should be eradicated. Illyrio only saw solace in it and the chance of rising even more.

"Tell me, beloved," he spoke softly to the spectre of his wife. "How does our son fare?"

He watched a smile bloom on her mesmerizing face before she began to speak.

scene*

The temple, one that was more makeshift than anything else, that looked unfinished because it was was for once silent with an almost sacred hush that draped over the marble floors and stone pillars like a veil. The torches on the walls flickered gently, casting long shadows that danced in rhythm with the soft whispers of the night breeze. The air was thick with the scent of incense, a heady blend of myrrh and frankincense that seemed to breathe life into the very walls of the place most if not all of Astapor deemed holy.

The space, with its short vaulted ceilings and intricate drawings, paintings depicting the tales of a god and mortals, of a god in the shape of a silver-haired purple-eyed child breaking chains, protecting, healing, embracing them in a way that could only be called comforting, protecting.

This was an image made by an ancient slave who had been freed and it showed. The image could be called nothing but exceptional. This was after all the offering of a devout to their gods.

In the heart of the temple, before a grand altar adorned with red crumbling towers and prayers in high valyrian etched in stone, knelt a man.

The name he had been gifted at birth by his mother before being removed from her arms had been Calor or at least this had been what he had been told, and he was once a slave, not a rare thing in Astapor.

The chains that had bound him were now but a distant memory, thanks to the divine intervention of the god he now prayed to, of the god he now believed in.

He had been the farthest thing from a believer. How could he have been when life had only been agony, when none of the injustice, none of the cruelty of The good masters seemed to matter?

Pain, exhaustion and agony were his old friends and he had truly thought that in the end, they would have been the one to have reason of him, just another slave in Astapor.

He had been the kind of man who would have cursed at the gods instead of praying to them. He had already been forced to kneeled he had thought. Why would he choose to kneel again, add on the yoke on his neck?

Why would he kneel to R'hllor, to the gods of Valyria, to the harpy, to the lion of the night, to the confusing and dreadful deity of the starry sept?

He had been right to do so. There were only two reasons why those gods who had slaves wordshipping them didn't do anything. They either couldn't which meant that they were useless or didn't want/care to do so which would mean that they weren't that different from the good masters.

A true god, one worthy to be prayed, followed, worshipped would be doing something instead of nothing and Calor was proven right when the first thing Aegor, his god did when he came back, ascended, more than mortal was to slaughter all of the good masters like pigs the way they deserved to.

Those good masters who were supposed to be so much better than them, in the end, they died with less dignity than most slaves.

With their death, Calor gained something he had always longed for but never had been able to gain, freedom.

Calor was free!

For the first time, the agony in his bones, in his flesh disappeared when he bit into one of the divine fruit of his god, a communion some liked to call it.

For the first time, he slept in something softer than the rugged ground, something pleasant, clean that didn't smell and that was only his, that he didn't have to share if he wished to.

For the first time, he could wake up when he wanted to and not when he needed to. For the first time, he didn't have to wake up fearing a future pain.

For the first time, he could eat as much as he wished to, the expression of being full, being satiated finally making sense to him.

For The first time, Calor could choose. His God wasn't like other gods. He didn't asked you, forced you to do things. He didn't take and take endlessly. No, instead Aegor gave. He would even go as far than instead of serving him, they were the ones he was serving with how much he took care of them, with how much shit he gave.

This was another proof of the boy's divinity. He had the power to set ablaze a pyramid, to control the sky, to heal every ailment short of death.

The boy they all knew could have become another slaver, another good master and nothing they would have tried to do would have changed anything.

The boy could have crowned himself but he didn't. The boy had to be forcefully crowned because they had literally begged him to do so.

Calor knew without a doubt that if it had been him or another slave than Aegor, it was most likely that he or they wouldn't have been kind, that they would have been monsters, worse monsters than the good masters.

It had ignited something in Calor's heart. He would never be like Aegor. He could never be as kind as his god but it didn't mean he couldn't try.

He had heard of an attack of Dothraki made to fail by Aegor, savages on horse who weren't better than the good masters, who killed and raped everywhere they went, who brought misery and bloodshed everywhere they stepped.

He had heard how they had wished to come to Astapor, how they wished to come strip him of the freedom he gained.

He had heard from refugees, from people his God had saved of their cruelty, of how they raped innocent women and killed good men and children.

Calor wanted to join To do something good at his level instead of living as if everything was perfect everywhere, as if there weren't people suffering somewhere in the world like he had or worse.

This is why Calor had pledged his life to his god's army, sworn to protect those who could not protect themselves, to liberate those still in chains.

The training was hard. It was harsh, merciless and he was sure that without the miracles of his god, he wouldn't have been able to bear it yet the results spoke to themselves.

It had only been weeks, not even a month and already he was changed, looking so differently from the man he was at the beginning.

Taller, stronger, more powerful and skilled in every sense in a way that could only be attributed to more than his hard work, probably to Aegor.

He should be satisfied. He should be proud. He would protect Astapor. He would save others the way he had been saved yet two days before their departure, fear gripped at his heart.

This was why His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer in the temple of his god serahing for comfort, for reassurance.

"My lord," he whispered, his voice quivering. "I am afraid. I am not worthy. I fear that when the time comes, I will falter. I will fail you. I will disappoint you."

The truth that even with all of that, even with a god on his side, even knowing he was doing the right thing, he couldn't help but be scared.

He was scared of falling. He was scared of killing, in bathing his hands in blood even if it was for a just cause. He was scared of perishing, especially now that he had gained everything.

Calor continued to gaze at the paintings, at the image of his god almost hoping for an answer when he knew deep down it was useless to do so.

Aegor was busy, doing important things, noble things for Astapor, for all of them while he was here begging, showing cowardice. Even if Aegor could hear him, it would be normal for him to deign to not answer.

The sound of steps brought Calor's attention back to his surroundings. It was someone under a hood, cloaked in simple, unassuming robes. The figure made him think of a mix of a shepherd and a priest.

The hooded person sat on the steps leading to the altar, their gazes wandering on the paintings of his god, Aegor.

After what seemed to be an eternity, The figure turned to look at Calor. He saw for a brief instant purples eyes under the hood, eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages, eyes that sparkled with a kindness and understanding that felt overwhelming. It was like looking in the eyes of a proud parent, eyes filled with unconditional love and understanding and that gaze was directed at Calor.

"Why do you fear, young warrior?" the figure asked, their voice soft yet resonant, like the gentle murmur of a brook. Calor couldn't guess if it was a woman with a deep voice or a man with a really high one.

"What makes you think I am a warrior?" he asked back.

"Your eyes. You have the eyes of someone brave, of someone enduring and ready to endure more to protect, defend something. What else than a warrior could you be? Also, your musculature, the way your body tense, as if waiting for an attack. Am I wrong?"

"You're not," Calor admitted. "Are you a warrior too or something like that?"

Calor could hear a smile in the voice of the hooded figure "Something like that. Sorry imfdor my rudeness but I was able to head your prayer. Do you want to speak about it?"

"In the temple of God?" Calor questioned.

"Is there a better place?" spoke the hooded figure.

"I'm sure that it is not right. It wouldn't be accepted, seen as the right place in the temple of another god."

Temples were to worship, to pray and give make money so that the priest of a deity could become fatter.

"Then, it is a good thing that the one you're worship is not like those other gods, don't you think? More than that, do you truly think we would still be talking if he was displeased?"

It was said that Aegor could hear and see everything happening in Astapor. Calor would have been skeptical if he hadn't seen first hand the miracles brought by his god.

"If you also don't want to so, speak to a stranger, it is all fine," the hooded figure spoke softly. The figure's presence was calming, almost ethereal. Later, he would moan at how stupid he was to not have realized.

"I fear many things," Calor admitted. "I fear the battle, the pain, the possibility of death. But most of all, I fear that I will let my god down."

The figure smiled, a gesture that seemed to light up the entire temple. "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. You, who have known the weight of chains and the darkness of despair, possess a strength that many cannot fathom."

Calor brow furrowed. "But how can I be courageous when my heart is so full of fear? Aren't fear and courage opposite?"

"Consider the lotus flower," the figure said, their tone contemplative. "It grows in the murkiest of waters, yet emerges pure and beautiful. It is not untouched by the mud, but it rises above it. Your fears are the waters in which you grow, and your courage is the blossom that emerges."

The figure's words were like balm to Caleb's troubled soul. He took a deep breath, feeling a small spark of hope ignite within him. "But what if I still fail?"

"Let me tell you one of the story of my homeland, the story of David and Goliath," the figure continued.

"There was once a giant called Goliath, a man who seemed less like one and more like a creature from myths and stories. Goliath was a general, Goliath was a warrior. Goliath was a champion and with him, his country was unstoppable. Many fell. Many suffered because of him. One of the nation losing because of the giant had a king named Saul, one it was said chosen by their god."

"Goliath taunted Saul. He challenged for 40 days the god-chosen king who refused because he was scared even though he was literally choosed by the god of his people, even though it was his responsibility to protect them."

"You said the king refused. Then, what happened?" Calor asked.

"Simple. The god chose another and do you know who he chose? He chose a shepherd not even into adulthood. He chose the lowest of the low, a child and the child, he accepted."

"Imagine it. A child who had only known how to take care of sheep against a figure straight out of legend, against a general, against a warrior who slayed hundreds if not thousands."

"I can only imagine that deep down, even if he didn't show it, the child was scared," the hooded figure continued.

Calor could picture it. It was as if the words of the hooded figure had brought him to another world.

He could see a child with copper skin and dark raven curls. A face painfully young, devoid of any sign of pilosity. The child made him think of the people of a Lhazareen.

He could also see the giants. He was everything Calor had ever heard about the Dothrtaki but worse and in flesh.

They were surrounded by what seemed to be other Dothraki. They were mocking the boy, laughing at him, at his god, at his resolve, at his people.

Calor watched the man remove his sword from his scabbard, one he could still see dried stains on blood on it before walking toward the child.

The ending should be obvious. It was an universal tale. The weak crushed by the strong. Innocence slaughtered by cruelty. A soldier against a child who never wished to be in front of a sword yet this wasn't what happened.

He watched the child remove from his red belt a sling and stones. Pebbles against armor and it was the pebbles that won.

"The child, David hit the giant in the forehead with a stone making him fall and while he was down, he took the sword of the giant." Calor watched as the boy rose the sword over his head before bringing him down with all his might separating the head of the giant from his body "and killed him."

"It is not just about a boy defeating a giant. It is about faith, about stepping into the fray despite the odds. David did not know if he would succeed, but he faced his fear with faith in his god, with faith that he was doing the right thing."

Calor watched as the Dothraki around the boy ran and what was surely his people followed armed, invigorated, given hope by the actions of the boy.

Calor blinked and they were back to the temple. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Calor nodded slowly, story resonating deeply with him. "I want to have that faith. I want to be strong."

"You are stronger than you realize," the figure said gently. "Strength is not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall. Your god does not seek perfection from you, but your willingness to rise, to try, to fight for what is right. In your fear, there is a profound courage. In your uncertainty, there is faith."

Calor didn't know why but he felt Tears welled up in his eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of release, of understanding, of hope. "Thank you," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "Your words have given me the strength I needed."

The figure stood, placing a hand on Calor's shoulder. He saw a flash of platinum silver under the hood.

"Remember this: your god sees your heart, knows your struggles, and cherishes your efforts. You are never alone, and you are never without worth. Go forth with the knowledge that you are loved and valued, not for your perfection, but for your perseverance. Just try to do the right thing. That's all he asks. Count on him for the rest."

Calor rose to his feet, feeling a renewed sense of purpose and determination. He bowed deeply to the figure, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you," he repeated. "I will not forget your words."

"I am glad to hear this Calor."

As he turned to leave the temple, a gentle breeze stirred the air. Calor glanced back, and in the place where the figure had stood, there was only a single white feather, floating softly to the ground. His breath caught in his throat as realization dawned upon him.

He had been speaking to his god. The purples eyes. The silver that must have been his hair. The fact that he had known his name when he hadn't told him. The fact that he had been praying to him.

The weight of the revelation settled upon him like a warm embrace, filling him with an unshakable resolve. His god cared, cared about him, truly believed in him. How could he still feel doubt?

Calor left the temple with his spirit lifted, his heart unwavering. He knew that no matter what lay ahead, he was not alone, and that his god would never be disappointed in him.

As he stepped out into the night, the stars above seemed to shine a little brighter, their light guiding him forward. And in his heart, the words of his god echoed, "Just try to do the right thing."

That is a commandment he couldn't not agree with. It was fine to feel fear as long as he still tried his best, as long as he didn't forget that his God believed in him.

scene*

The sky churned with dark, roiling clouds, as if the heavens themselves were bracing for the storm to come. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl of discontent, that could be taken as anger reverberated through the earth beneath our feet. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, and the very atmosphere seemed charged, thick in a way that was hard to describe.

I stepped forward, marching through my men, through my men, a path opening as if I was Moses and they were the sea. I walked the head high, under all their gazes, under the gazes of my soldiers, under the gazes of my people, under the gaze of my people and I didn't falter. I stopped to look at them all at the gate of Astapor and I raised my voice—not to shout, but to speak with the quiet intensity of a promise made in the depths of one's soul. "You already know why you are all here," I began, my words cutting through the tension like a blade. Though I spoke softly, I knew all of them, that all the people of Astapor would hear me as if I was at their side because nothing else would be acceptable.

"You already know why you are fighting. You already know what you are risking." My gaze swept over the assembled faces. I looked into their eyes, the eyes of soldiers, the eyes of fanatics, the eyes of believers, the eyes of those who would kill and accept to be killed without hesitation just for me, in my name with a smile. I look in each one of them, hardened by the resolve that they stood on the precipice of something far greater than themselves. "This is the beginning. The world itself will rise to crush us—men and gods, slavers and monsters alike. They will throw everything they have to stop us. But we… we will not be stopped."

A gust of wind whipped through the ranks, as if nature itself was listening, as if nature itself was taking notes of my, of our oath. "We will not rest until every chain is broken, until every shackle is shattered beneath our feet. Our brothers, our sisters, our mothers and fathers—our families—will forever know the taste of freedom, and it will be the only truth that remains in this world."

I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in, the silence pregnant with the storm that was both within us and looming above. "I give you one command," I said, my voice so cold, so sharp that it made me wonder if those words truly came from me. "Scorch the earth of all its horrors. Burn away the darkness until there is nothing left but the light of freedom in this world."

And then it came—the roar. A chorus of voices, raw and powerful, shook the very ground beneath us, as weapons were raised high, their blades glinting in the ominous light of the storm. It was a promise, a declaration that echoed into the heavens, a challenge to the very gods themselves. We would burn this world if we had to, and from the ashes, we would forge a kinder one.

In that moment, as the sky crackled with anticipation and the ground trembled under the weight of the resolve of hurt people finally choose to strike back, there was no doubt left in my mind, this world will change. Its symphony wasn't one of ice and fire anymore. It will be one of freedom and joy. I will ensure it.