Allen1996
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Chapter 13: Nebulae
🕑 Added 2024-09-05 03:19:49 +0000 UTCThe vastness of the world spread beneath it, a panorama of shifting sands and scorched earth, dotted with the debris of mortal lives. It could sense the pulse of existence here, the thrum of hearts that beat in fear, the whisper of breaths that shivered in anticipation of its wrath. Yet, things had not gone as it wished. Not yet. The abomination’s gaze, if one could call those fathomless voids eyes, swept across the blood-soaked lands below, where the Dothraki had spilled more life than ever before.
They had slaughtered the Lhazareen, slaves, anyone they could have in its name, taken boys and girls, men and women, ripped through the flesh of farm animals as if their very lives were mere kindling to fuel its resurgence. Blood flowed like rivers across the parched earth, painting it crimson, a gruesome offering that should have filled it with the vigor it craved. At least a Hundreds of thousands had died, their souls wrenched free, meant to be devoured by it, to restore it to a semblance of its original strength, perhaps even more. And yet… it was not enough. The souls did not satisfy; they were fleeting, weak. They brought strength, but not the kind it needed.
The rage of centuries churned within its core, a furnace of dark desire and frustration. It was as though Ithaqua’s mocking laughter still echoed in its essence, each jeer a brand upon its pride. Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker, the servant of the Yellow Emperor. Ithaqua had made its essence bleed, had toyed with it like a predator with a wounded prey, only to let it run each time. The wind-whip of Ithaqua’s cold fury had nearly torn its being apart, reducing it to a mere shadow of what it once was. It had been humiliating. Insulting. That it was still alive now only because of Ithaqua’s arrogance, because of the Wind-Walker’s pride, stung deeper than any wound.
It stung. It infuriated. The thought of its existence being a mere plaything, a remnant allowed to survive out of some twisted sense of superiority—this, more than any physical pain, drove its rage. Even now, even with the souls of the Dothraki and the ones they had sacrificed coursing through it, it was still not enough. Not enough to challenge Ithaqua, not enough to become the hunter instead of the hunted, not enough to kill the Wind-Walker and end this millennia-long humiliation.
But soon, that would change.
Its attention shifted, focusing on the source of its burgeoning hope. The godling. The divine child. Aegor. The boy who had unforsightingly reignited the embers of magic in this world, who had drawn the arcane back from the brink of obscurity with his rebirth. Aegor, the spark of a new dawn, or perhaps the harbinger of an eternal night. It watched him now, the child who was more than a child, a being whose essence seemed to embody and flow with the beat of the universe itself. His presence resonated with infinity. The holding was an anomaly, something both old and new, both familiar and unfamiliar in the fabric of reality, a soul that shone brighter and stronger than some of the oldest gods. The paradox of that shine, that it was growing, did not escape it.
If the child were older, if he were to mature into his strength, he would undoubtedly surpass all. He would become the mightiest existence beyond celestial beings, beyond the foolish terrors of the hellish realms, beyond even the brightest gods with their overblown authorities that defined this fragile existence.
But the divine child was still a child. Still inexperienced, still so close to the cradle of creation. In terms of the greater cosmos, Aegor was not so different from a newborn, ignorant and unrefined. Full of potential, yes, but weak. So far from what he could be. The abomination knew this, and it relished the knowledge. For it was old, so much older than the child could comprehend. Aegor bathed himself in light, but it was of darkness, of the primordial void, the darkness that existed before the first flicker of light.
It would kill the godling. It would consume him, body and soul. The divine essence, the boundless potential of Aegor, would fuel it, would make it whole again, would grant it power unimaginable. With that strength, it would finally challenge the Wind-Walker, would shatter Ithaqua’s icy hold over it, and continue its original conquest it bad been unable to finish. It will take its place as the strongest, the king of all things.
It looked upon Aegor now, its gaze heavy with malevolent anticipation. The divine child stood, floating, wings as bright as the stars lazily keeping him in the heavens, his perfect skin shining from the inside as if moonlight was trapped into it, his amethyst eyes burning with a purple flame that seemed to sear the very air around him. His silver hair, flowing past his shoulders, danced in the breeze like liquid starlight. On his brow rested a crown of fire-shaped thorns, a crown, a burden, a trapping. His armor and spear, that the dragon could see were clearly forged from mortal faith and innate magic, glowed with a faint ethereal light. His wings of flames were unfurled and casting long, flickering shadows across the bloodied ground under them.
Beautiful. So beautiful, it thought with a cruel delight. A beauty that brought a perverse lust to the surface, a yearning to defile and destroy. It could not wait to break this perfect being, to tear him apart and devour every piece of him, to savor the taste of his divine essence, to extinguish the light that shone so brightly.
It imagined the child's screams, the look of horror and betrayal that would mar that flawless face as it crushed his hope, as it consumed his flesh and soul in every way possible. It would delight in the destruction, in the perversion of something so pure, so innocent. It would take everything from him, leave nothing but ash and despair.
The dragon’s maw parted, revealing rows of jagged, blackened teeth, each one dripping with corrosive saliva that sizzled as it touched reality itself. Its breath, a vile, fetid miasma, spread across the air, twisting and coiling around Aegor like invisible tendrils, probing for weakness, for any crack in the divine armor that protected the child. It reveled in the thought of what was to come, in the dark promise of pain and death.
This world, these mortals, they were nothing. Less than nothing. Their lives, their hopes and dreams, were fleeting, meaningless. But to think that something like the divine child before him, that was different could come from them. It was absurd in truth. How could the feebles, the weaks, ants birth something celestial? Maybe it didn't have to kill the boy. After all, it was just after his power. Making the boy powerless, destroying those who believed in him. Defiling his perfect flesh over the ashes of the thing is held dear. It thought about it and found pleasure and delight in the thought.
It flexed its claws, each one longer than a man, each one capable of rending steel and stone like paper. It felt the dark power within it, the ancient, primordial strength that had once been its birthright, before the Wind-Walker had stripped it away. Now, with the godling’s essence, it would surpass that power, would become even more. It would become everything.
The divine child stood there, seemingly unaware, uncaring of the dark thoughts directed at him him, his gaze devoid of any emotion, blank as if he was both was and wasn’t there.
The boy appeared calm, serene, a figure of radiant light amidst the gathering shadows. And for a moment, it almost hesitated. Almost.
But hesitation was not in its nature. It was a creature of darkness, of malice and hatred, of unending hunger and cruelty. And it would have what it wanted, no matter the cost.
It would have the divine child. It would have Aegor.
And it would feast.
And it would win.
Because it was the darkness.
And darkness always prevails.
*scene*
Grey Worm stood among the ranks of Aegor’s army, his heart beating steadily in his chest. The air was thick with something fool and the ground beneath them trembled as the earth itself seemed to recoil in fear. Before them loomed a wall of darkness, an abyss so black it swallowed the very light around it, an entity that seemed alive in its malevolence. This was not the familiar shadow of night, but something far more sinister—something ancient, something that Grey Worm knew should not be.
Yet, as Grey Worm looked out over the army assembled beside him, he felt no fear. His gaze drifted toward Aegor, the boy who had died a slave and came back as something akin to a god, who had freed them from chains and who was leading them toward a brighter future.
When the malignancy that had risen before them first appeared, when it unfurled from the city of Vaes Dothrak like a living shadow, suffocating all in its path, Grey Worm had not wavered. He had seen the Dothraki, ferocious and wild, crushed under the weight of that darkness, their allies drown and lost in it. He had witnessed men, once fierce and proud, reduced to twisted, horrified parodies of the fearless men they originally were.
And yet, in the face of such horrors, Grey Worm had stood firm, his faith unshakable. He had known—beyond any doubt—that Aegor would not abandon them. The magic that fueled the darkness, no matter how potent, was no match for the light of Aegor. And he had been right.
In that moment, as the darkness surged forward, threatening to consume them all, Aegor had acted. With a wave of his hand, he had drawn his soldiers close, and from his back, great golden wings had unfurled. They were wings of someone that could never again be chained, wings that bore the strength of a savour who had defied the world’s cruelty, who had continued to do so, who will change the world. Those wings closed around them, a barrier of light against the encroaching darkness. The malignancy recoiled, unable to penetrate the divine radiance that Aegor emitted. Again and again, Aegor had proven to Grey Worm that his faith was not misplaced.
Now, as the darkness retreated momentarily, leaving behind the disfigured blackened husks, remnants of the Dothraki and their allies, Grey Worm’s heart remained steady. He watched as the sky above them seemed to tear open, as if the world itself were being ripped apart. From the depths of that black void emerged a monstrous dragon, an abomination unlike anything Grey Worm had ever seen. It was a creature of nightmares, a beast with too many eyes that shone with malevolent intent, its scales as dark as the space between the stars. This was not a dragon born of fire and blood; this was a wound on the world itself, a festering sore that sought to devour all life.
The dragon opened its maw, and from within came flames that could have swallowed he was sure Astapor in an instant. But still, Grey Worm did not flinch. His eyes were fixed on Aegor, who stood tall and unafraid. The boy’s clothes had changed, the simple garments he once wore now replaced by armor that mirrored their own. But this armor was different—it was as if a god had tried to remake their armors to fit Aegor and in return came with something similar but clearly superior.
As the flames surged toward them, Aegor raised his arm and, with a simple, almost lazy gesture, extinguished them. The fire vanished as if it had never existed, leaving only the cold, lifeless remnants of those who had once been their enemies and the darkness of the world that seemed to have deepened.
Grey Worm watched on the corner of one eye as the blackened figures of the Dothraki and their allies began to rise, their bodies now seemingly twisted and corrupted by the darkness that clung to them like a shroud. It was clear to him. They were no longer men—they were something else, something far more dangerous, far more sinister.
Aegor’s voice cut through the silence, soft and gentle. “Grey Worm,” he said, a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips, “do you think you would all be able to deal with these creatures while I deal with the dragon above?”
Grey Worm looked into Aegor’s eyes, seeing the confidence that radiated from the boy. His saviour had no doubt of winning against the monster above so Grey Worm took it as the only truth.
“These are not the same men you faced before,” Aegor continued, his voice calm. “The darkness has strengthened them, changed them. My eyes can see the spell that animates their corpses. They are now stronger, more resilient. They will not feel pain or exhaustion, and they will be harder to kill. It will be a difficult fight, perhaps the hardest you will ever face and had ever faced. We are outnumbered by hundreds of thousands, and our men have been fighting nonstop. I could try to teleport us away, but it would be costly—both in energy and time. The dragon above, its presence, would make it harder than it needs to be.”
Grey Worm listened intently, his mind processing Aegor’s words. But even in the face of such overwhelming odds, he felt no fear. ‘Why should I be scared?’ he thought to himself. ‘How could I be scared when I can feel Aegor’s light, when in Aegor’s eyes, he only saw victory?’
He looked into the eyes of the soldiers around him, his brothers and sister-in-arms who had fought alongside him, who had been with him, who had trained with him, who believed the same as him, who hadn’t stepped back choosing death over doing so to ensure no blade could come close to the flesh of their saviour. He could see that they had heard Aegor’s words as well. In their eyes, he saw no fear, only resolve. He knew, without a doubt, that they were all thinking the same thing: How could they let Aegor, their savior, fight alone? How could they flee when Aegor wouldn’t? How could they be scared when the boy with godly powers had placed his faith in them the same way they had with him?
Grey Worm turned back to Aegor, his voice firm. “We all chose to be here,” he said. “We all chose to follow you. Why would that change now?”
Aegor’s gaze locked onto Grey Worm’s, and for a moment, it seemed as though the divine child could see into his very soul. Then, Aegor’s gaze swept across the ranks of his army, taking in the determined, unafraid gazes of those who stood ready to fight. A chuckle escaped Aegor’s lips, and a tender, beautiful smile spread across his face.
“Why should I expect anything else?” Aegor said softly, his voice filled with warmth. In that moment, Grey Worm didn’t see a divine being, a king, or a savior. He saw a child who seemed to have finally allowed himself even if for an instant to truly be happy, a child who had smiled a true, joyful smile after so long.
“I’ll try to deal with the dragon as quickly as possible,” Aegor said, his tone reassuring. “But even then, I’m still with you. Just call, just pray, and I’ll help, no matter what circumstances I find myself in. Thank you, all of you, for following me, for still following me.”
Grey Worm didn't see the need in telling him that none of them would when they all knew he would be fighting a greater threat above in the heavens.
With those words, Aegor launched himself upward, his golden wings carrying him toward the dragon above. Grey Worm watched as Aegor ascended, his form glowing like a star in the sky. The darkness that had deepened since the manifestation of the dragon seemed less oppressive, less absolute. Aegor’s form was like a beacon, a light that defied the shadows that sought to consume the world. As long as they could feel it, nothing even death would be able to stop them.
Grey Worm turned his attention back to the battlefield. The blackened corpses of the Dothraki and their allies had fully risen now, and as he looked at them, he felt a sense of unease creep into the back of his mind. It was as if he were looking at something sacred that had been twisted, something that should never have existed. There was something profoundly unholy about the creatures before him, their very presence a blasphemy against life itself.
Most of the risen had picked up their weapons, but the steel of their blades had changed, turned into obsidian that glistened with a deadly sheen, with the unnatural feeling Khal Drogo’s great sword had. Those who had not found weapons crouched low, their nails elongated and black, as if coated in poison. They moved and growled like wild animals, their empty eyes filled with a malevolent hunger.
Grey Worm turned to face the members of Aegor’s army once more. He was their general, their leader in this fight, and it was his duty to guide them, to inspire them. “Aegor is above us,” he began, his voice strong and clear. “He is fighting against darkness itself, for us, because of us. I will not let him fight alone, and I know you won’t either.”
He saw the resolve in their eyes, the same determination that burned within him. “We all followed Aegor because of his dream—his dream of freeing all slaves, of creating a world without chains! No matter what tries to stop that dream, we will not back down. No matter what happens, we will continue to fight, because we have faith in Aegor, in his dream, and in each other! Darkness and death may try to stop us, but they will fail!”
Grey Worm felt the energy of the army surge as his words took hold. “All this time, we were on the defensive!” he continued. “We held the line because we wanted to keep our enemies away from Aegor. But now, it’s time to strike back! It’s time to charge forward and end this, no matter what our enemies have become!For Aegor”
“For Aegor!”
“For Aegor!”
“For Aegor!”
“For Aegor!”
He heard them begin to scream his name too, to deafen the sounds of the world itself, to make the ground under shake with their resolves and their wills.
With that, Grey Worm turned back to the horde of undead before them, the hundreds of thousands of enemies that stood between them and victory. He raised his sword, dozen of thousands at his back, dozen of thousands of men, dozen of thousands of believers and with a fierce shout, he led the charge, the army following close behind. They charged each of their forms akin to lanterns, to little stars in the darkness the world had fallen under. Dozens of thousands of men charged against hundreds of thousands of monsters, dozens of thousands of the living charged against darkness, against death itself and The one to break wasn’t the living.
*scene*
All this time, I wondered how it was possible—how men could be so cruel, so barbaric. How could a culture, a society, find solace in such brutality? How could it be the foundation of their existence? For centuries, perhaps even longer, the Dothraki remained unchanged, unchallenged in their ways. How had they not been eradicated? Why had they not evolved?"
I couldn’t deny that cruelty was an intrinsic part of human nature. Perhaps, in some dark corner of our being, we found comfort in the destruction of both ourselves and others.
Still, more than cruelty, more than peculiar customs or strange traditions, what defined humanity—what should define us—was our ability to adapt, to change.
All conquerors eventually cease to conquer. They become kings, tyrants, or die. Time reshapes beliefs, turning what was once revered into something despised.
Through all those centuries of slaughter, rape, looting, and enslavement, through the unending suffering they caused, why did none of the Dothraki stand up and say, 'Enough'? Why had none of them broken away, driven by a different belief? Why had nothing changed, even if it wasn’t for the better?
This world was different from the one I came from. The people here—they couldn’t be called the same kind of humans as those on Earth. They didn’t change. Or if they did, it was never enough to matter.
I had a hypothesis, a fragile one, but still, a hypothesis. Here, in this world of ice and fire, one thing was clear: mankind was not the apex predator. In truth, they were far lower on the food chain than they realized.
The darkness I had seen in the Dothraki, as they hurled themselves to their deaths on the weapons of my followers, was the same darkness I now saw before me—fully realized, fully corporeal.
The drake-like creature standing before me made the Undying Ones and their toys seem laughable. In a universe where monsters like this existed, where men could be bent to the will of such monstrosities, was it really surprising that change came so slowly? The presence of active gods—or god-like entities—was not necessarily a blessing.
In the end, it was just a hypothesis. I could be entirely wrong, full of shit even. But one thing I was sure of: even without that monstrosity, the Dothraki would have continued their barbaric ways.
That thing may have worsened it, multiplied it a thousandfold, but to claim the Dothraki were innocent would be a lie.
“I don’t know how much of this is your doing or how long you’ve been involved,” I said, staring up at the beast. "But I know one thing for certain: the souls within you—begging, crying, screaming—the children, the innocent men and women who died because of you… they let me know one thing. Your existence is something I cannot allow to continue.”
A sound like thunder rumbled through the air, jagged and violent like rocks crashing together. No, it wasn’t a natural sound. It came from the creature. A chuckle.
“You truly are a child,” it whispered, its voice unexpectedly soft. It was the kind of voice you’d expect from a kind hero, a holy figure—an angel, not a monster.
“Why should it matter that they suffer? Suffering is the rightful curse, the fate of the weak. Do you pity a worm as it crawls through the dirt, through filth? Its nature is to be weak, to writhe in the refuse. That weakness, that smallness, is proof that they exist only to be toyed with, to serve beings like us.”
Philosophy from a monster. Perhaps there was nothing more fitting. Yet there was something fundamentally wrong in what it said.
“Those people, fighting your puppets, who followed me through the desert, who faced steel, death, and cruelty without faltering—they chose to follow me,” I said, a smile creeping onto my face.
“You’re right. Humans are weak. But we’re stronger. For you, that means they should be nothing but toys. For me, it means something entirely different. It means we can nurture them, turn their weakness into strength. Why can’t we? Why can’t I? Why couldn’t I raise them up, help them build their own futures, rather than letting them fall prey to monsters like you?”
I was just like those people. I wasn’t inherently better because I had been reincarnated or because of my archmage essence. Everything I had done could have been done by so many others if they had been given the same chance, the same opportunity I had been given.
I wasn’t a saint, no matter how many believed me to be one. I was human—selfish, uncertain, imperfect. But the way they looked at me, as if I were the sun itself, simply because I gave them the basics of what they should have always had—it felt more fulfilling, more liberating than any drug, any fleeting thrill.
What could the Dothraki have been if the creature before me had guided them differently?
Wickedness, pride, anger—these vices came easily. They appeared fulfilling, but in truth, they weren’t. Humans were wired to remember the bad, to cling to wrongs. Wrongs might elevate you, force others to listen, to obey—but their power never lasted. Not in the way it should.
Take this world as an example. Eddard Stark had been honorable, and he died for it. His ancestral home was stolen, his family torn apart, his children and wife killed.
Tywin Lannister had commanded respect through fear, through cruelty. He died too.
The difference between them lay in their legacies. People died in Ned Stark’s name because they respected him, because they saw him as honorable. Allies conspired to place a Stark in Winterfell again, to avenge the wrongs done to his family.
And Tywin Lannister? His legacy was one of destruction, with people tearing apart everything he had built—one of them being his own son.
You can beat a dog with a stick, force it to do your bidding. But sooner or later, that dog will turn on you.
“Even bugs, the lowest of the low, can become butterflies if given time. We have nothing more to say to each other. This has become tedious.”
I wasn’t physically exhausted, nor was I drained of magic. But watching so many die before my eyes—eyes that saw more clearly than most—had worn me down. I had witnessed thousands of men die, their blood soaking the sand, their innards spilling into the mud. I just wanted this to be over.
That creature was nothing but a stain on my path to building a better world. And like any stain, I would remove it.
*scene*
With a roar that split the heavens, the Great Stallion exhaled, its maw opening wide to unleash a torrent of dark flames. These were not ordinary flames; they moved like poison through the veins of the world, a darkness so pure that it devoured light and matter, consuming everything in its path. The fire surged forward, faster than thought, faster than the world itself could comprehend. In the eyes of the universe, time and space were disregarded, for the flames reached Aegor the very instant they were breathed into existence.
But Aegor did not flinch. The boy’s eyes, those impossibly calm purple eyes, remained unblinking, uncaring. His spear moved in less than an instant, a blur of motion that was faster than the speed of thought, faster than the flames that sought to consume him. The ocean of dark fire was cleaved in two, the world itself echoing with the earth-shattering sound of the wake left by Aegor’s strike. But the sound came too late—by the time the world reacted, Aegor and the flames were already elsewhere, far beyond the reach of time's sluggish hand.
Yet the dragon was not idle. It had never intended to maim or injure the boy with its fire; that would have been a futile gesture. The flames were merely a distraction, a prelude to the true strike. Even as Aegor’s spear divided the darkness, the Great Stallion had already reappeared at the child’s left, its massive wings beating with a force that propelled it faster than lightning itself. The sky above them erupted in black lightning, the clouds darkening as if they too were under the abomination's control. The lightning surged toward the dragon’s open claw, a crackling storm of energy that grew and twisted until it took the shape of an Arrak, a blade of pure darkness and lightning.
The dragon’s swing had begun even before the lightning had fully taken shape, and as the blade reached Aegor’s face, the creature felt something—a barrier, invisible yet tangible, slowing its strike. For a fleeting moment, the dragon wondered if this barrier could stop its attack. But it was lightning, infused with primordial darkness, and darkness existed to consume, to erase all that stood before it until nothing but void remained. Its blade would not be stopped.
Yet in that microsecond, that infinitesimal fragment of time, Aegor moved. The boy’s fire-shaped wings flicked upward, bringing one of them to shield his body. The world broke at that moment, the laws of nature screaming in protest as something far larger than anything that should exist moved with impossible speed. It was as if a mountain had shifted in the blink of an eye, the air tearing apart with the force of the motion. The dragon’s blade struck the wing, and the world trembled.
It had been a good thing that Aegor had chosen to lead his enemy in another part of the desert, far away because if he hadn’t, the clash between the dragon and him would have impacted the ones fighting below for him. The impact was like a calamity. The desert below was scoured clean, sand melted into glass that shattered almost instantly under the pressure. The very earth groaned as it buckled, cracks spreading out in a web of destruction that extended for miles. And yet, before the world could truly comprehend the devastation, Aegor had already moved again. The dragon's fury ignited at the sight—the divine child was unharmed, his form a blur as he chased after the dragon's retreating shadow.
They crossed leagues in an instant, the sky itself tearing apart under the force of their passage. The dragon reappeared above Aegor, its Arrak raised high in a descending arc. The blade of magic, of lightning and darkness, fell with the weight of a dying star, but Aegor pirouetted through the air, spinning with a grace that was almost serene. It was not merely a dodge; it was a dance, each movement perfect, fluid, as though the world itself had slowed to admire the divine elegance.
With a single beat of his wings, Aegor rose above the dragon. He spun lazily, silver curls floating around his head like a halo, a moment of stillness in the heart of the storm. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pointed his spear downward. The weapon shone crimson, and a beam of red light surged from its tip, a pillar of destruction that bathed the world in imperious hues and cruel light, a force that descended like the fist of an angry god.
The dragon felt a pang of panic, a sensation it had long forgotten. It summoned its black lightning, hurling it toward the oncoming red light in a desperate attempt to halt its advance. The world screamed in agony as the two forces collided, the sky itself splitting open as if the heavens were bleeding. The dragon poured its magic into its flesh, strengthening its body in a bid to withstand the onslaught. But it was too late.
The earth shattered beneath the dragon as it was thrown back, through the sand, through the glass, through the bedrock itself. It burrowed deeper and deeper until it was buried beneath the desert, hundreds of meters below the surface. For a moment, the abomination lay there, stunned by the force of the attack. Then, with a roar of rage, it surged upward, exploding from the ground in a cataclysm of sand and glass, the earth quaking as it emerged.
It replayed the events in its mind, fury and confusion battling for dominance. How had the boy done it? How had he forced the dragon into a position of such weakness? The abomination's thoughts seethed with anger as it realized the truth—the boy had tricked it. Aegor had misdirected the dragon, made it believe that the red beam was the true attack. But hidden within that crimson light had been another force, a strike meant to take advantage of the dragon's stationary position. The boy had outwitted it, used the dragon's own instincts against it.
The dragon's gaze snapped upward, locking onto the calm form of Aegor hovering above. The child was watching it with those amethyst eyes, his expression one of mild interest, as if he were observing a particularly dull insect. The abomination’s hatred flared—this boy, this godling, dared to look down on it as if it were nothing more than a nuisance? The dragon would not be pitied by an infant deity.
It summoned its power from deep within, drawing on the ancient magic that had once made it a god-king, before Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker, had defeated it. It had been holding back, conserving its strength, but no more. The time for restraint had passed.
The air around the dragon grew dark as shadows poured from its body, an ocean of black tendrils that swallowed the earth. Thousands of stars ignited within the darkness, black suns that burned with the heat of their curses. The dragon’s power, once dormant, now surged forth in all its terrible glory. The shadows coiled and twisted, forming armor around the dragon's body, a shell of darkness and lightning that clung to it like a second skin.
With a guttural snarl, the dragon hurled the black stars at Aegor, each one carrying a curse etched into the fabric of reality itself. They were curses of sickness, of weakness, of agony and despair. Ghostly shades, the remnants of souls long devoured, rushed forward with the stars, their faces twisted in eternal torment as they screamed toward the boy. The shadows beneath the dragon writhed, lashing out like serpents, trying to ensnare Aegor and tear him apart.
But the divine child was a force unto himself. Aegor moved with impossible speed, his spear dancing through the air as he cut down the shades, deflected the stars, and burned the shadows with a fire that was not his own, that he should never been able to wield. It was the dragon’s fire, the same dark flames it had unleashed at the beginning of their battle, but now twisted, remade in the hands of the divine. Aegor’s flames surged forth, a beam of darkness and fire that met the dragon’s own in a clash that made the world shudder.
For the first time in countless eons, the dragon knew fear. Nothing it did, no curse, no star, no shadow, could touch the boy. Aegor was untouchable, like a spectre phasing through the world. Aegor acted like a being of pure power and divine grace. The dragon knew it had more magic than the boy, that it was more powerful yet it didn’t change that it felt as if the boy a monster beyond even the abomination’s comprehension. It had thought itself the superior, the child ignorant thus weak but even in his youthfulness, even in his naivety, the child was keeping with him. Worse, it realized the terrible truth. The child was learning from him and if it didn't win soon, the one who would be brought low would be it.
The dragon’s thoughts twisted in horror at the possibility of losing, of losing now to a child, for its song to end here pathetically In a feeble note instead of a glorious one. No, it tried to reassure itself. This wouldn’t happen. It was the more powerful and tricks weren’t enough to erase that fact. It would win because this was the only result it would allow to be.
*scene*
Grey Worm moved through the battlefield with a precision and efficiency honed by years of training, but there was a calm to his actions that hadn't been there before. His blade, the gift of Aegor, shimmered with an otherworldly light, casting hues of gold and azure as it pierced through the blackened flesh of his foes. The reanimated corpses, once Dothraki warriors, were now twisted abominations, their skin darkened and cracked like charred wood. Their eyes, once full of life and fire, now stared vacantly, driven by some malevolent force that sought only to destroy.
His sword found the skull of one such creature, and for an instant, the corpse was illuminated from within, a grotesque lantern glowing with an unnatural light. The creature collapsed as Grey Worm wrenched his blade free, already moving toward his next target. An obsidian blade slashed at his face, but he dodged with a slight lean of his head, the movement so fluid it seemed more a breeze passing through than a man in motion. His sword, still glowing from within, arced through the air, cleaving through flesh with a sharpness that made a knife through butter seem cumbersome.
He moved like a dancer, his sword forming an arc of light around him as it sliced through the reanimated foes. Azure and gold mingled in a dazzling crescent, and in that brief moment, the battlefield was alive with color and death. The corpses fell in droves, but Grey Worm’s heart beat slow and steady, each thud of it a reminder that he was still very much alive, even as he moved through the dead.
The wind and rain kissed his skin, mingling with the blood that stained the ground beneath his feet. The desert, once a dry and unforgiving place, had become a muddy mire, a consequence of the storm raging above and the rivers of blood that consecrated it. The darkness was thick, more like night than dusk, but it didn’t obscure his sight. The world was clear, each detail sharp in his eyes despite the gloom.
He dodged another strike, his movements precise and effortless. A step to the left, a spin on his heel, his blade sliding through the blackened flesh of another reanimated Dothraki. The creature’s sword clattered to the ground as its head was severed from its body, rolling to rest near Grey Worm’s feet. He noticed in the periphery of his vision how the enemy’s numbers were legion, at least in the hundreds of thousands, while Aegor’s army was barely in the tens of thousands. They would have to kill at least ten of these resurrected abominations for each of their own.
It would have been a daunting task before, but now, it was simply another challenge to overcome. Grey Worm deflected a strike with the tip of his blade, the reanimated creature’s sword sinking into the sand as he guided it away. His sword traced the length of the deflected blade, cutting through it as easily as it would through flesh, before reaching the creature’s neck. The head fell, severed in a single, fluid motion.
The odds were against them on paper, but Grey Worm had fought against worse odds before as a slave. These undead were stronger than humans, unfeeling of pain or exhaustion, and they outnumbered Aegor’s army tenfold. But they didn’t have Aegor, nor did they have his magic. The fruits Aegor called panaceas had healed their ailments, strengthened their bodies, made them exceptional. Broken bones healed stronger, torn muscles became more resilient, more powerful. Exhaustion, the need to sleep, even pain, all were forgotten under the influence of Aegor’s magic.
Grey Worm had trained soldiers before, but Aegor didn’t need soldiers; he needed legends, heroes. He had trained them harder than he had trained the Unsullied when he had been chosen as their leader and it had worked. He watched a female soldier cleave one of the reanimated creatures in two with a single strike, the body parts flying in opposite directions. Another soldier, who had likely never lifted a spear before joining Aegor’s army, defended himself against four of the reanimated Dothraki. His movements were quick and agile, like a snake, his spear spinning with his body as he jumped over a low strike. The head of one of the reanimated corpses exploded as the spear’s shaft struck it, and the soldier landed, already moving to deal with the remaining three.
Aegor’s panaceas were more than just healing fruits; they were godsent. They hadn’t just made them stronger; they had made them better. Grey Worm noticed how the panaceas had given them a healthy glow, a beauty, a countenance that hadn’t been there before. They looked less like the slaves they once were and more like knights and ladies from the songs, strong and beautiful. The training had made them more muscular, taller. Some of the older soldiers who had lost their hair had grown it back, thicker and shining. Some of the female soldiers had become curvier, more womanly in a way that contrasted with the harshness of their training. It was as if the training and the panaceas had erased their pasts as slaves, remade them into something greater.
This was why Grey Worm had asked Aegor not to fight unless it was against a greater supernatural threat. He had made for Aegor an army that would not fail him, an army that could not be equaled, no matter the foe. The dragon-shaped darkness Aegor was fighting above in the sky was a great threat, but so too were these reanimated corpses. Yet, there was no fear in Grey Worm’s heart. These were not soldiers they fought; they were animals, wild and uncaring, driven by a single-minded desire to kill.
It could have worked against a non-trained army, against an army that was scared or weak, but it would not work against them. To Grey Worm, this didn’t feel like a battle; it felt like a chore. He blocked a strike with the back of his blade, using one leg to kick out at the undead that had attacked him. The creature stumbled, and Grey Worm’s sword found its head, the blade sinking into its skull with a reversed grip.
But then, a great blade moved toward him, faster than any of the other weapons that had been used against him. He blocked at the last second, the enemy’s sword centimeters from his face. The air exploded with the force of the strike, and for the first time, Grey Worm felt the impact in his entire body. His eyes flicked to his opponent, and he recognized the great sword of Khal Drogo, held by one of the largest blackened husks he had encountered so far.
Their blades sang discordant notes as they met, each finding offense in the existence of the other. Grey Worm realized with a smile that this reanimated Khal Drogo was stronger than him, at least physically. It was only the angle of his blade and body that had prevented Drogo from overpowering him in an instant.
This would not be a chore it seemed.
He disengaged, moving to the left and swinging his sword at Drogo’s hip. The great sword of Drogo moved at the same moment, trying to block the strike. The force of Grey Worm’s attack pushed Drogo back, his feet tearing through the sand as he was driven meters away.
“We were interrupted before,” Grey Worm said, his voice steady, eyes fixed on the blackened husk that had once been the mighty Khal Drogo. “I hope you show a better fight this time.”
The storm above raged on, and the battlefield was a sea of chaos, but in that moment, Grey Worm felt only the calm beats of his heart, the thrill of the challenge ahead.
*scene*
The rain fell like an endless curtain of silver, drenching the battlefield in a cold, unforgiving deluge. He stood his muscles coiled with tension, his breath steady despite the chaos around him. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the blade Aegor had forged for him gleaming with an inner light that defied the darkness.
Before him, the reanimated corpse of Khal Drogo loomed like a nightmare brought to life. The once-mighty Dothraki warlord who had been twisted by death, his flesh blackened and corrupted, his eyes voids of obsidian without pupils or irises. In his hands, he held a great sword of obsidian, the dark blade radiating a malice that seemed to drink in the light around it.
For a moment, the world stood still. Then, with a roar that tore through the storm, the two warriors surged toward each other, their bodies propelled by inhuman strength. The distance between them vanished in an instant, dozens of meters crossed as if they were mere paces. The ground trembled beneath their feet as the obsidian great sword of the undead Khal Drogo met the enchanted blade of Grey Worm.
When their swords clashed, it was as though the very fabric of reality shuddered. Sparks of black and azure erupted from the point of impact, dancing wildly in the air as if alive. The muddy ground beneath them lifted, defying gravity as it rose in a spiral around the combatants. The air itself screamed, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the battlefield, the shock of their blades striking against each other reverberating through the heavens.
They disengaged as swiftly as they had collided, only to crash together again with the same ferocity. The magical sword Aegor had crafted for Grey Worm clashed against the obsidian blade of the undead Dothraki once more, creating a maelstrom of black and azure. Rain droplets hung suspended around them, caught in the wake of their ferocious battle, cut to pieces by the force of their strikes. A space devoid of rain formed around them, the world shrinking down to the two warriors locked in combat.
Grey Worm feinted, a deliberate misdirection, his blade cutting through the air in a seemingly predictable arc. The reanimated corpse of Khal Drogo moved to block, lifting his great sword to meet the strike, but Grey Worm was faster. At the last moment, he redirected his blade, aiming instead for the Dothraki’s face. The undead warlord’s body twisted in a way no living man could have managed, the blade of Grey Worm missing his nose by mere centimeters. The corpse was already in motion, its leg lashing out in a kick aimed at Grey Worm’s midsection.
Reacting swiftly, Grey Worm brought his right arm down, his wristband absorbing the force of the blow. The strike landed with the power of a warhammer, the impact jarring his entire frame. The sheer force of it was akin to a rock launched from a trebuchet at point-blank range, and Grey Worm’s body lost contact with the ground, sent flying backward through the air.
Despite the violence of his flight, Grey Worm maintained his balance, his feet finding purchase on the earth as he landed, sliding back but not falling. His legs dug into the ground, carving small trenches in the mud as he tried to halt his momentum. But the blackened corpse of Khal Drogo was relentless, already closing the distance between them, the tip of his great sword aimed unerringly at Grey Worm’s neck.
Grey Worm pushed off with his heel, his sword raised. He ducked beneath the Dothraki’s blade, his own weapon glowing golden with Aegor’s light as it cut through the air. His blade bit into the undead flesh of the Dothraki, but Grey Worm realized too late that he had been tricked. The strike had found purchase, yes, but not where it would deal a fatal blow.
Even in death, Khal Drogo’s body retained its reflexes. The corpse had known it could not evade the attack entirely, so it had minimized the damage, shifting just enough so that the blow that should have split his midsection instead sliced into his side. Grey Worm’s blade cut deep, opening the flesh of the undead warlord, but it was not enough. The wound would have been grievous if Khal Drogo were still alive, but now, it was little more than an inconvenience.
In that instant, Grey Worm felt death approaching. His instincts screamed at him to move, and he rolled to the left just as the great sword of the blackened Dothraki sank into the ground where he had been a heartbeat before. There was no time to think—Khal Drogo’s blade was already in motion again, the sharp edge rushing toward Grey Worm’s face. He had no choice but to bring his sword up with both hands to block the blow, the force of it challenging even his strengthened body.
It was a compromising position. After the roll, he hadn’t been able to rise fully, to stand straight and regain his balance. The undead warlord loomed over him, his great sword bearing down with unrelenting force. Grey Worm’s arms shook under the strain, his body sore from the intensity of the battle. Yet, despite the odds, there was no fear in his heart. Aegor had faith in him, and so did the rest of the army. There were no worlds where he would allow himself to disappoint them, to disappoint his savior.
He raised his gaze, his brown eyes meeting the obsidian voids of the undead Dothraki. A smile tugged at the corners of Grey Worm’s lips—the smile of a man who already knew he had won. He wanted to see the world Aegor would create, a world where everyone would be free, where kindness would prevail. It was this dream that fueled him, that kept him standing even now, as the weight of the undead’s sword bore down on him.
The thoughts spurred him on, and as they did, his sword began to shine even more brightly. The blade in his hands became a beacon, so bright and warm that it felt like a star had been born anew on Earth. The darkness that had turned day into night began to recede, dispelled by the light of Grey Worm’s weapon. All eyes on the battlefield—hundreds of thousands of reanimated blackened corpses and the ten thousand soldiers of Aegor’s army—turned toward the two warriors.
While Grey Worm’s blade had become a star, the great sword of Khal Drogo was enveloped in even deeper darkness, as if the night itself had come to consume the light. The dark blade seemed to know that Grey Worm needed to be eliminated at all costs.
With a powerful swing, Grey Worm batted the great sword of Khal Drogo aside, his body turning with the momentum of the strike. His sword became a pillar of light, extending far into the horizon. The undead warlord was not idle, his corpse moving faster than it should have been able to, matching Grey Worm’s strike with its own. The darkness surrounding the battlefield collapsed into his sword, turning it the color of the void between stars—a black hole that sought to devour all.
For an instant, the battlefield was divided—light and dark, day and night, clashing in the center as if they were physical, tangible things. Reality itself seemed to pause as the blades of a once-enslaved man and a Dothraki warlord who had been more than free collided. Time stopped, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
Then, with a final, shattering crash, the darkness broke. The night was sundered, the light of Grey Worm’s sword overwhelming it. When the world regained its sanity, only one remained standing—life, freedom, the one who had been liberated.
The corpses of the Dothraki and their allies began to crumble, their bodies collapsing into ash as the magic animating them was broken. Grey Worm stood tall, his sword raised high above his head in victory. The battlefield was silent for a heartbeat, and then the world was deafened by the cheers of Aegor’s army. The sound rose like a tide, washing over the battlefield, a triumphant roar that echoed through the heavens.
Grey Worm lowered his sword, his breath steady despite the intensity of the battle. The light of his blade dimmed, but the warmth remained, a comforting presence in his hands. He looked out over the battlefield, over the soldiers who fought beside him, and allowed himself a small smile. They had won like he knew they would. The only thing left was to wait for a greater victory, for Aegor’s victory.
*scene*
The darkness swallowed the sky above, vast and unyielding, a void pulsing with malevolent power. I barely had time to process the obsidian tendrils of lightning that slashed through the fabric of reality, each one more relentless than the last. With a surge of strength, I pushed myself away from the onslaught, the force of my wings carving through the air like a blade. My spear spun in my hands, a blur of silver that cleaved through the darkness, reducing one of the bolts to harmless embers. The thunder that followed was a living thing, roaring through the heavens as if to challenge me. But I paid it no heed; my focus was on the swarm of weapons that surrounded me, constructs of dark lightning blooming from the cracks in reality, moving faster than the eye could follow.
They struck at me from every angle, a storm of power and death that sought to tear me apart. But they were too slow, too predictable. I let my magic bend space around me, pulling at the world like a rubber band until it snapped, and I was elsewhere. The sky trembled as what was probably city-destroying projectiles clashed against each other in my absence, their collision tearing through the atmosphere like a thousand dying stars. Above the battlefield, the sky was ripped asunder, revealing the abomination in the shape of a dragon. Its shape was monstrous, clad in an armor of darkness, with thousands of eyes that gleamed with malice and hatred. From the center of its being, a blade as tall as the statue of liberty itself swung down toward me, a weapon that was probably of unimaginable power.
I didn’t even look up.
My spear rose without me even looking to meet the blow, and when the two forces collided, the world itself trembled. The desert quaked beneath us, the winds howled with a fury I had never felt before, and the clouds were erased from the sky, torn apart by the shockwave that followed. But I didn’t move, didn’t waver. The power in that strike was immense, enough to shatter mountains and reduce cities to dust. But it wasn’t enough to move me.
The problem wasn’t that this thing wasn’t strong. Even now, with my archmage essence bridging the gap between our powers at an exceptional pace, it was still stronger. But power was meaningless without skill, without strategy. And this abomination, this dragon, lacked both. It was not weak—it was boring.
I raised my gaze to meet the dragon’s, and through the darkness, I could see the cruelty that had given birth to so much suffering. It was there in its eyes, the hatred that seemed to fuel It and every one of his actions. But beneath that, there was something else I could see and that thing was Fear. It was subtle, buried deep within its soul, but it was there. And that was when I knew—this creature wasn’t just a cruel monster. It was one also capable of being afraid just like any man.
With a thought, I disappeared from where I stood, my form slipping through space and time as if I were nothing more than a ghost. I reappeared before the dragon’s muzzle, and before it could react, I drove an armored fist into its flesh. The force of the blow sent it flying, the monster’s massive form rocketing upward at impossible speeds.
I should have been disappointed, but instead, I felt anger rising within me. This thing had power—enough to turn entire deserts into seas of glass with a single breath, to crush cities with a casual swing of its arm. But what it lacked was efficiency. Its strategy was nothing more than brute force, than trying to overpower, a futile attempt to overwhelm its opponents with sheer strength. Against weaker foes, perhaps it would have succeeded. But against those more powerful or more cunning, it was bound to fail.
It had tried to curse me with a thousand different hexes, all of which failed. It had unleashed its reality-devouring black fire upon me, and that too had failed, my archmage essence allowing me to not only withstand it but to learn from it, to mimic it. It had tried to overpower me physically, to outpace me, to blitz me with speed and ferocity, but it had failed in that as well. And instead of adapting, instead of trying something new, it continued with the same tactics, the same futile attempts to crush me. What was the point of having so much power if you didn’t know how to use it? What was the point of power that could shake the earth if it was wielded so poorly? I truly hope I never became such.
The dragon reappeared above me, its form blazing with dark flames as it fell like a comet from the heavens. I sighed, fading out of existence only to reappear standing on its back, my spear moving so quickly it left a tear in reality itself. For an instant, nothing happened. Then, black ichor erupted from the dragon’s wing, the appendage severed by my strike. Its scream of pain tore through the world, but my eyes, I was sure were probably cold and detached, displaying only disgust.
Black lightning erupted from the dragon’s form, a desperate attempt to lash out at me in its agony. But I was already gone, blinking out of the world to reappear meters away. The truth was, this creature, despite its fearsome appearance, wasn’t a true threat. Its magic could negate, could devour other spells, but only those that were direct. If I had tried to hit it with a fireball conjured from magic, it would have snuffed it out instantly. But indirect magic—like exciting atoms to create fire—that was beyond its power to negate.
I watched as the dragon plummeted to the earth, writhing in agony, and felt nothing but contempt. I could still hear its words, echoing in my mind, about how it was natural for humans to suffer because they were weak. But unlike this thing, humans were capable of change, of adaptation. It was an injustice that such a pathetic creature could cause so much pain, could claim so many lives, just because it was born with power.
I could still hear the souls of its victims, hundreds of thousands, maybe more, crying out in agony from within its flesh. Men, women, children—all suffering, driven mad by the pain. My anger flared, white-hot and pure, and I let it fuel my resolve.
“You spoke of how the weak must follow the strong,” I said quietly, knowing that the winds would carry my words to the dragon’s ears. “Then it shouldn’t matter what I do to you, should it? After all, you’re the weaker one.”
In the dragon’s thousand eyes, I saw something that pleased me: pure, unadulterated dread. The kind a man feels before the headsman’s axe, the kind a slave feels under the cruel hand of a master.
“I can hear them, you know,” I continued, my voice calm despite the storm of emotions raging within me. “The souls of the innocents you consumed. I can see them, feel their suffering.”
The dragon’s form flickered, its attempt to escape into the shadows thwarted by the golden chains that appeared out of nowhere, wrapping around its limbs, its neck, tightening until it was completely restrained. It was the size of a city, yet in that moment, it was completely at my mercy.
“Innocents lost their lives, their souls are in torment because of you,” I said, my voice cold as the winds whipped around us. “Wouldn’t it be fair if your soul, and the souls of those who followed you, were used to undo the damage you’ve done?”
The dragon thrashed in its chains, its fear palpable to a point where it even tried to bargain with me.
“I will offer you riches, knowledge, anything,” it spoke to me so that I could spare its life. But I was beyond that now. I was done with this creature, with its pathetic attempts to save itself. There was only one thing left to do.
I raised my spear, and the world was bathed in gold.
The last thing I saw before the light consumed everything was the dragon’s eyes, filled with despair, as it realized that it had met its end. And then there was nothing but blessed twilight.
Comments
Arte
Gooo Aegor and Grey Worm and the people of Astapor! Hell yeah to taking out the trash!
allen 1996
Thank you for reading and thinking so highly of my fic. Thank you so much
Elddir Mot
Before this I’d never read a fic that made me invested in Grey Worm, and I’m realizing that’s because he’s almost always just a stoic representation of the Unsullied plot device instead of someone with aspirations and preferences. Seeing the way he’s depicted here, his reflections on what freedom means, makes me realize how limited he is *even in canon* by replacing one master with another— Daenerys might have broken the physical chains but she’s mostly oblivious to the mental conditioning that affects the former enslaved. I can’t think of a higher compliment for a fan work than inspiring a reader to re-examine canon!! This story is such a breath of fresh air, thank you for creating it!
allen 1996
I'm glad you liked the chapter
Rachel N
'Worse, it realized the terrible truth. The child was learning from him' lol Thats how I feel whenever the monster aliens start evolving and adapting in movies! Heh Go Aegor!! THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR THE AMAZING UPDATE!!! Aegor has a legion of heroes!!
Rachel N
#*×>£&^×*#[<£& HOLY MOTHER F#CKING BLOODY SH!T BALLS!!!! THIS CHAPTER OMFG!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
Rachel N
No worries, look after yourself! ♥️
allen 1996
Sorry for not having posted since the weekend. Was in the hospital due to health issues. It's only earlier today I was allowed to come home and was able to write the chapter. Hope y’all like it
