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Chapter 12: Activation
🕑 Added 2024-09-01 04:21:41 +0000 UTCGrey worm tightened his grip on his spear. He gave a last look on the corner of one eye at his destroyed shield before focusing on the one who had destroyed it, who would have probably killed him if it hadn’t been for his armor, if he wasn’t so much stronger than before due to the panaceas and the magic of Aegor yet he still had felt the strike, how it had felt like a punch directly in the guts.
The Dothraki leader sat on his horse, his unnatural sword hanging almost lazily on one side, his dark gaze focused on Grey Worm.
“What's your name unsullied?” the Dothrak asked, his voice resembling a growl more than anything else as if he was a dangerous animal masquerading as a man and barely succeeding.
“I am no unsullied,” Grey worm answered him. He had been one. An unsullied was a slave, someone forever marked at the hands of slavers, doomed to forever obey.
He had stopped thinking of his comrades and himself as such because he was no slave anymore. He was here, they were all here fighting not because they were forced, not because of nebulous reasons that would never favour them, that would never make things better for them but because they had chosen.
“And what's the point of giving a name to a man already dead?” Grey Worm finished.
The ex-slave watched a frown draw itself on the face of the dothrak. Good. Anger had been since the beginning of everything the downfall of many. Anger can motivate but anger also narrows your focus, makes you prone to make errors.
Grey worm took a deep breath, plans and strategies forming in the back of his mind as around them the battle continued, as dark and light clashed against each other, as light stood unwavering against dark figures seemingly as numerous as the stars above.
They would not back down, they would not fall back. They would choose death over doing it because in the middle of them, behind their back was their saviour, the one they saw as their god, as their king, his light acting like a beacon, his light reminding them that he was there with them.
Gods never helped their believers preferring to only ask and take, to make their faithful suffer because they simply couodn’t stop evil, suffering unless it benefited them in one way I another. Gods knew nothing of humanity. Gods didn't stay at your side. Gods didn't push you forward, helping you to stand back up, to come back from death. Aegor did and this was why they would be the ones winning.
He saw the muscles of the Dothraki man flex, how he tightened his grip over his blade. There were nothing more to be said with words.
The only thing left he thought as the horse of the Dothraki began to gallop toward him, almost like a blur, the rain falling not hindering the war beast at all was killing each other. It seemed at least to Grey Worm that the rain made the horse faster.
When fighting against horsemen, the strategy that would be logical to take would be to try to kill the beast, to dodge any offensive of the rider and kill the horse to equal the odds.
It was of course easier said than done. Horses on average weighed so much more than humans, were capable of easily crushing skulls with their hoofs, to kill humans. Additionally The horse the Dothraki leader was riding was a monstrosity, clearly a beast bred and made for war.
Its eyes were as dark as the ones of his rider and the sword he wielded. The horse was tall, at least two times Grey Worm’s height, almost gigantic, probably more fit for a giant than a man. Its form was muscular, tightly packed with muscles that seemed to only be waiting to be used.
Even then, even in the case where Grey Worm would be able to dodge the charge of the horse, to not be crushed, he knew what would then be waiting for him would be the sword of the rider.
More than that, even if he was fast enough, even he was able to miraculously dodge the second strike, Grey Worm would by doing that leaving an opening, a direct path toward his saviour, toward Aegor.
Grey Worm would choose a painful end, the worst torments before letting himself be the reason why a blade came close to the divine child.
The horse was still rushing toward him. A thousand thoughts graced his mind, his brain trying to find a solution to stop the charge of the leader of the Dothraki.
The gazes of the Dothrak and the ancient slave crossed again. The ex-unsullied could see in the face of the one known as Khal Drogo, how already a smile had bloomed on his face as if he had already won.
Grey worm would not back down. He would not dodge. He couldn’t allow himself to do so. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, so fast and so hard it seemed as if it would forcefully come out.
He could feel the rain on his skin, falling and trailing from his head to his face, blurring his vision.
Grey Worm couldn’t dodge so he wouldn’t. Grey Worm looked at the charge of the war beast and instead of cowering, instead of hesitating any more, instead of dodging, he charged back.
He ignored the way his body, the way his mind screamed at him how what he was doing was but pure foolishness.
He ignored his brain and his instincts screaming at him how this was suicidal, that the only logical end would be his death.
Maybe that would have stopped him if he didn't believe. Maybe that would have stopped him if his faith wasn’t stronger than any logic his body was capable of producing.
Grey Worm had faith and faith was sometimes the only thing needed. Faith in yourself no matter how dark, how hopeless things seem to be, faith in the ones you know will always push you forward, faith in something greater than yourself.
Faith was enough to make the impossible possible and Grey Worm was nothing but faithful. This is why the ex-slave jumped, a leap of faith.
He could feel the light of Aegor. He could feel it, warmth, comfort, assurance that everything will be alright.
Grey worm was in armor. Jumping should have resulted in a fool’s death, in being crushed but He felt like a hand intertwining with his, a hand helping, Aegor pulling him up.
He saw the flash of a smile in the rain, his vision sharpening, strength filling his veins. It felt like victory.
His spear moved in his hands more an extension of himself than a weapon, the tip of the spear falling down, thick flesh being parted, a brain pierced, the spear emerging from the other side, from the other side of the head of the Dothraki lord’s horse.
He didn't look under him. He had already known even before he had brought down his spear what would be the result.
No, his gaze was only focused on the horse lord meters away from him. He watched as shock and incomprehension morphed into anger and hatred In the eyes of Khal Drogo.
In less than a blink, the great sword of the Dothraki lord was already moving, past Grey Worm shoulders moving to bite into the flesh of his neck.
The spear of the ex-unsullied was anchored in the flesh of the dead horse under him. He knew he wouldn’t have enough time to move it, to try to use it to stop or deflect the strike. Additionally, what happened with his shield was enough of a reason to make him know that the spear would be useless, wouldn’t stop the strike.
So, Grey Worm didn't try to stop the strike. Still in the air, he bent, falling forward, toward the horse lord. His head moved, bobbing down. Grey worm felt the passing strike, some strands of his growing hair cut, his helmet destroyed and removed by the sword, the spear behind him cut In half.
Grey Worm pulled his left arm back, closing his hand in a tight fist. He was courting death. It could take him at any moment yet he didn't feel scared. No, he had to admit instead that he felt at peace.
He could feel a smile bloom on his face and Grey worm allowed it to grow until he was sure that it was probably splitting his face in two.
Unsullied don’t smile! Unsullied only obey! Do you understand! You are a slave and slaves shouldn’t smile unless he ordered! Do you understand boy?!
Slaves obeyed he thought as his fist flew back in the direction of the face of the horse lord. Armored knuckles burrowed themselves into flesh. Grey worm felt something breaking before the two fell to the ground.
There were two differences though between the two of them. Grey Worm was the only one still standing and he wasn’t the one bleeding. First blood was his.
One of the hand of the general closed around the hilt of his sword, the one Aegor had made for him.
“I had told you, didn't I?” the general spoke. “What's the point to give a name to a dead man.”
Unsullied couldn’t smile. Slaves shouldn’t smile unless ordered. Didn't that mean that the smile on his face proved that he was free?
“Stand up,” he said to the horse lord before drawing his blade, before drawing Irudy hen Kaerīnio, out of her scabbard. The blade shone, lit up from the inside with the light of his lord. The oppressive darkness around felt less oppressive almost as scared of Grey Worm’s sword “and fall under my blade like all those who will try to deny the dream, the world my lord will create.”
*scene*
Harlos sat atop his steed, eyes scanning the battlefield with a growing sense of dread that clawed at his gut. The sun hung low in the sky, a swollen orange disc that cast long shadows over the plain. He could feel its oppressive heat beating down on his back, mingling with the sweat that trickled down his neck. Around him, the mercenary company he had thrown his lot in with adjusted their armor and weapons, readying themselves for the oncoming clash. They were seasoned men, killers by trade, accustomed to facing down death in a thousand forms. But today, something felt different.
The boy called Aegor stood with his army, a ragged collection of soldiers and freed slaves who numbered no more than ten thousand. They were arrayed in a tight formation, shields locked together, spears jutting out like the spines of a monstrous beast. Harlos could see them standing there, unmoving, the golden light of the setting sun glinting off their armor. They looked more like statues than men, more like legends than soldiers of flesh and blood.
Before them stretched the vast horde of the Dothraki and their allies. They were a hundred thousand strong, maybe more—a sea of horses and warriors that seemed to stretch on forever, like a black tide ready to crash down and drown the outnumbered force before them. They were wild and savage, the very embodiment of death on horseback, with their long braids and curved blades glinting like hungry teeth in the fading light. Harlos had ridden with them for months, following the promise of gold and glory, believing himself untouchable as one among their number. Now, as he stared across the field, his instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.
It should have been a slaughter.
With their numbers and the power of their cavalry, the Dothraki should have shattered Aegor’s lines like glass. Horses, after all, were a massive advantage in warfare. A mounted warrior could strike with the speed and force of a storm, crashing into infantry like a hammer against an anvil. The weight and momentum of a charging horse could break bones, could trample men into the dust before they even realized they were dead. But that was not what was happening.
The Dothraki and their allies were charging from all directions, a whirlwind of chaos and death. The earth trembled beneath the thundering hooves of a hundred thousand horses, the air filled with the roar of men and beasts. It was a sight to freeze the blood of any man, a nightmare made flesh. But the army of Aegor stood firm, their shields and spears forming a bristling hedge that defied the oncoming tide.
Harlos watched, disbelief twisting in his gut, as the first wave of Dothraki slammed into the line of Aegor’s soldiers. It should have been like smashing an egg with a rock, but instead, the rock broke. Horses reared and screamed, impaled on the unwavering spears, their riders thrown and trampled beneath the hooves of their own comrades. The men of Aegor did not flinch, did not waver. They held their ground, their formation impenetrable, their faces set with a grim determination that chilled Harlos to his core.
The Dothraki kept coming, more and more of them, a flood of steel and fury. Yet still, Aegor’s army held. Harlos could see them clearly now, could see their eyes burning with a fire that was almost inhuman. They moved with a cold, calculated precision, every thrust of a spear, every shift of a shield, perfectly timed and executed. It was as if they were one creature, one mind, moving and thinking as a single entity.
Harlos had heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the dark, rumors in the taverns of Braavos and beyond. Tales of a boy who had risen from nothing, who had gathered an army of the lost and the damned and turned them into something else, something more than human. A god or a demon, they said, a creature of myth walking among mortals. Harlos had dismissed it as nonsense, the sort of tales men tell to make themselves feel small and insignificant. But now, as he watched the impossible unfold before his eyes, he wasn’t so sure.
He saw a Dothraki blade slip through the joint of a soldier’s armor, watched as it sank deep into the man’s side. The soldier did not fall. Instead, he headbutted his attacker, the force of the blow caving in the man’s skull. With a grunt, the soldier pulled the blade from his own flesh, his wound sealing itself before Harlos’s eyes, a golden light stitching him back together as if he were made of nothing but smoke and shadows.
Nearby, a woman took a Dothraki arakh to the face, the blade carving through her eye and out the other side. She didn’t scream, didn’t fall. She merely grunted, thrusting her spear through the neck of her attacker before continuing to fight, her ruined face a mask of blood and bone. Harlos felt his stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. He had seen men die a thousand ways, had killed more than he could remember, but this… this was something else.
The soldiers of Aegor were more beasts than men, creatures of myth and nightmare that fought with a savagery that was almost obscene. They did not fight like men; they fought like animals, like bears protecting their cubs, their greatest treasure. There was no fear in them, no hesitation. They fought with a grim, unyielding determination, as if they knew that failure was not an option, as if they believed that they were the last line of defense between the world and some unspeakable horror.
Harlos watched, horror creeping up his spine, as an arrow pierced the throat of a soldier who had lost his helmet. The man did not fall. Instead, he fought harder, his movements becoming even more frenzied, even more determined, as if the wound had only made him stronger. Harlos could see the golden light working its magic, could see the flesh knitting back together, the blood ceasing to flow. It was unnatural, unholy, and Harlos felt a cold sweat break out across his skin.
He had come here for glory, for gold and the promise of a better life. But now, as he watched the men of Aegor stand against the impossible, he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. These were not men he was fighting; they were something else entirely, something beyond his understanding. They were fanatics, believers, fighting not for gold or glory, but for something greater, something he could not comprehend.
Harlos glanced around, saw the faces of the men around him, saw the same fear and uncertainty reflected in their eyes. They were mercenaries, killers for hire, men who fought for coin and nothing else. They were not prepared for this, for a battle against the impossible. They had been ready to face men, to fight and kill as they always had. But this… this was something else. This was a nightmare given flesh, a horror that defied reason and logic.
The logical thing to do would be to run, to turn and flee before it was too late. But where could he go? On one side, the Dothraki and their allies, men who would not take kindly to a deserter in their midst. On the other, Aegor’s army, an immortal, unyielding force that seemed to welcome death as an old friend. There was no escape, no way out. Harlos was trapped, caught between two forces that cared nothing for his life, that saw him as nothing more than another piece on the board.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his hands trembling on the reins of his horse. He wished he had never joined his godforsaken company, wished he had stayed in Braavos with his family, with their simple, unremarkable lives. He had wanted more, had wanted to make a name for himself, to earn wealth and glory beyond his wildest dreams. But now, as he stared into the eyes of the men who stood against the impossible, he realized that he had been a fool. The stories about the boy were not just stories. They were the truth, a truth that he had been too blind to see.
“Harlos!” a voice barked, snapping him from his thoughts. He turned, saw his captain pointing towards the fray, his face twisted in a snarl. “Get moving, you worthless bastard! We’ve got a battle to win!”
Harlos nodded numbly, his body moving on autopilot. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging the beast forward, towards the line of Aegor’s soldiers. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the fear clawing at his mind, could feel the terror gnawing at his insides. But there was nothing he could do. He was a mercenary, a killer for hire, and this was his lot in life.
He galloped forward, the world a blur around him, his mind screaming at him to stop, to turn back, to flee while he still could. But it was too late. There was nowhere to go, no way out. He was trapped, caught in the jaws of a beast that would not let him go.
And then, he saw it. A flash of movement, a glint of steel, and then pain. Searing, blinding pain as a spear slammed into his face, driving through his skull, shattering bone and brain alike. He felt himself falling, felt the world spinning around him, felt the darkness closing in. There was no afterlife, no paradise waiting for him. There was darkness, cruel and all-consuming darkness closing. The darkness swallowed him and Harlos became nothing.
*scene*
Phirelah’s life had been shaped by silence—an existence defined by quiet corners and shadowed alcoves where she could hide from the ever-watchful eyes of the Good Masters. As a slave, particularly a female slave in Astapor, to be noticed was to be condemned. Every girl knew this, learned it as surely as she learned to bow her head and keep her voice low. The whip cracked for those who drew attention to themselves; worse still was the gaze that lingered too long, the one that meant you’d been chosen.
Phirelah had once been a child of laughter and innocence, but that had been stripped from her along with her name, her heritage, and her dignity. She had been sold to the Good Masters at the age of six, a chattel to be worked and worn down. The early years blurred together—a haze of hunger, pain, and fear. It was a world where you learned to keep your eyes on the ground, your hopes locked in a heart too beaten to dream.
When she reached the age where her body began to change, fear took on a new dimension. The old terror of the whip, the lash, and the never-ending toil was joined by a more intimate dread. She had seen the fate of others who had blossomed under the cruel sun of Astapor. Girls who had become women, who had been plucked from the ranks of the unnoticed, dragged into the daylight where their shame was made a spectacle. Some of them bore the attention of the Good Masters with a grim resignation; others fought, only to be broken. But it was always the same in the end—humiliation after humiliation, shame after shame, until the life was leached out of their eyes, and they became as hollow as the stone streets they were forced to tread.
Phirelah had prayed—prayed in the quiet of her cell at night, to gods she scarcely believed in anymore—that she might remain unnoticed, that she might become one with the walls, a ghost in the background, forgettable and forgotten. She had seen the way the wives of the Good Masters directed their ire, not at their unfaithful husbands, but at the slaves who bore the brunt of their unwanted attentions. More often than not, it ended in blood—an unfortunate accident, a convenient disappearance. A dead slave was no more significant in Astapor than a stray dog felled by disease. This was a reality she knew too well, and she had no desire to share their fate.
But for a time, Phirelah was lucky. As she grew taller, curvier, more beautiful, her heart trembled with each passing day, yet she remained unnoticed. The eyes of her master and his sons were drawn to others—girls whose beauty was so striking that it outshone her own. She knew it was wrong, this twisted relief she felt at their misfortune. They didn’t deserve the attention any more than she did, but she couldn’t help but be glad that it wasn’t her. The life of a slave was hard, but as long as she remained in the shadows, it was bearable.
It was bearable, at least, until she met Aeren.
Aeren was a lowly scribe, a slave like herself, though his tasks were more refined. He dealt in ink and parchment, in words and numbers, while she labored with her hands and her back. The first time she saw him, she had been fetching water from the well. He was sitting on a bench, a scroll in hand, the light of the sun casting his face in a golden hue. He was handsome—so handsome that it took her breath away. It wasn’t just his looks that caught her attention, but the way he carried himself, the quiet dignity that radiated from him even in chains.
For the first time in her life, Phirelah felt something stir within her—a desire, a yearning she had never allowed herself to feel. She wanted to be near him, to speak to him, to hear the sound of his voice. It was foolish, she knew, dangerous even, but she couldn’t help herself. She began to linger in the places where she knew he worked, finding excuses to be close, to catch a glimpse of him, to exchange a few words.
To her surprise, it worked. Slowly, they became friends. She would sit near him while he worked, listening to him prattle about things she didn’t always understand—about the histories he transcribed, the stories of faraway lands and long-dead kings. But it didn’t matter. As long as they were together, everything seemed perfect. In his presence, she found a peace she had never known, a glimpse of a life that might have been, had they been born free.
The day she confessed her love to him was the day she learned what true joy felt like. He had looked at her with those deep, kind eyes, and for a moment, she feared she had overstepped, that she had ruined everything. But then he smiled, and her world shifted. He loved her too. His presence became her sanctuary, his love a balm for the wounds of her existence. Together, they dreamed of a future—a simple life, a family, a home where they could be free.
Aeren spoke of buying their freedom. He had saved enough coin, he said, to buy his own, and soon, he would have enough for hers as well. They would leave Astapor behind, live somewhere far away, where no one knew their pasts, where they could start anew. They would be free. They would be happy.
But dreams have a way of turning to dust in the face of reality.
They might have succeeded, might have escaped the chains that bound them, if not for the daughter of their master. She was beautiful, wealthy, and accustomed to getting whatever she wanted. And she wanted Aeren. Phirelah had seen the way she looked at him, the way she lingered when she spoke to him, her eyes dark with desire. Aeren, of course, refused her advances. He was polite, but firm. He loved Phirelah, and nothing could change that. But the daughter of the Good Master was not one to be denied. What began as infatuation soon turned to spite, and from spite to hatred. She would have him, or no one would.
The lie she told was a simple one—a whisper to her father and brothers that Aeren had tried to force himself on her. It was a lie so vile, so monstrous, that Phirelah could scarcely comprehend it. Aeren was no rapist. He was a good man, a kind man. But it didn’t matter. The word of a slave was nothing against the word of a daughter of the Good Masters.
Phirelah had to watch as they dragged him before the gathered slaves, his body beaten and bloodied. She had to watch as they tortured him, as they broke him in ways that left him screaming in agony, while she was forced to stand still, powerless, unable to do anything but weep silently. And then he was gone. The light in his eyes faded, and with it, so did the last of her hope. He died for nothing—because he was a slave, because the world they lived in cared nothing for the lives of those in chains.
When Aegor came, a god reborn with divine power, when he slaughtered the Good Masters and their families, Phirelah felt no pity, no regret. The girl who had caused Aeren’s death was among those she found. Her hands, which had known only the toil of a slave, became instruments of vengeance as she strangled the life out of the woman who had stolen everything from her. It was a moment of cold satisfaction, but it did little to fill the void Aeren had left behind.
With the Good Masters dead, they were free. Aegor, with his godlike powers, had turned Astapor into a paradise for those who had suffered. Phirelah gained everything she had ever dreamed of—freedom, comfort, a life without fear. But it changed nothing. Aeren was gone, and no amount of luxury could bring him back. The world was brighter, the chains were gone, but her heart remained heavy, burdened with the grief of what might have been.
She could still see his face, still hear his voice as he spoke of the future they would never have. A family, a simple life, a home where they could have been happy. It was all dust now, scattered to the winds of a past that could never be reclaimed. Phirelah knew she would never have a family, never marry, never hold children of her own. Freedom felt bittersweet, almost pointless, without him by her side.
And so, she joined Aegor’s army. She needed something to fight for, something to focus on, to dream about. If she didn’t, she knew she would have followed Aeren into the darkness by her own hand. She fought because she wanted to make him proud, to fight for a world where others could have the happy ending that had been denied to them. It was this resolve that steeled her heart when they were charged by the Dothraki and their allies.
The sky had opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour that turned the battlefield into a quagmire of mud and blood. The clouds hung low and dark, blotting out the sun, turning day into night. But Phirelah didn’t care. She didn’t flinch as the Dothraki screamed their war cries, as their horses thundered across the field. Instead, she shouted back, her voice rising above the din, a cry of defiance, of rage, of grief.
She fought with everything she had, every swing of her sword, every thrust of her spear a tribute to the man she had loved. She didn’t care about the pain, didn’t care about the blood that soaked her clothes, the mud that clung to her skin. All that mattered was the fight. She fought for Aeren, for the future they had been denied, for the hope that had been torn from them.
She fought for Aegor the divine child who had allowed her to take revenge on those who had taken Aeren. She fought for Aegor, her helmet broken, fallen and Lost somewhere, a bloody gash on her face, an eye that lost its light because of a blade, for Aegor the only god who had listened, for Aegor a god who had been a slave just like her, who had died due to his slave status just like Aeren. She fought for Aegor because he was in a way the only thing left of the dream she shared with Aeren.
As the blade arced toward her face, the sharp steel slicing through the air, she did not flinch. She did not waver. No, Phirelah stepped forward, unyielding, her spear thrusting through flesh, piercing the heart of a Dothraki warrior even as a sword found its cruel home in her skull. Death came swiftly, its icy fingers closing around her, yet she faced it as she had faced every other challenge in life — with courage, with faith, with the fierce conviction of a believer standing before the altar of her god.
She felt it then, in that split-second of agony, a pain so pure and so profound that it seemed to stretch beyond the confines of her body, beyond the realm of the physical. It was as if every nerve, every fiber of her being was set ablaze. And yet, in that moment, she knew that no earthly torment could ever compare to the hell she had endured when Aeren had fallen — her love, her heart, her everything. What was the sting of a sword to the soul-crushing despair of watching the one you love be torn from you, powerless to save him?
But the afterlife was not the reunion she had hoped for. There was no comforting embrace, no serene paradise. Instead, she was swallowed by darkness — a void so vast and all-consuming that it threatened to devour her whole. It was a cruel, malevolent force, dragging her down into its depths, its icy tendrils wrapping around her soul like chains.
Terror seized her. Fear gripped her heart, and for a moment, she was lost. But then, above her, a light began to shine — a beacon in the blackness. It was a sun, blazing with a warmth that seemed to melt away her fear, its rays piercing the darkness, driving it back. The darkness screamed, a thousand voices crying out in rage and hatred, but they were powerless before the light.
And as the light grew stronger, as it drew closer, she realized that it was not a sun at all, but a boy — a boy whose skin glowed with a golden light, whose wings spread wide behind him, flaming and fierce. Aegor. His presence was like a balm to her soul, his light like the smile of Aeren — a promise of hope, of love, of a peace that she had thought lost forever.
"Begone," he commanded, his voice echoing through the void, and the darkness fled, vanquished, its malevolent whispers silenced forever.
"Do not be afraid," Aegor said softly, his voice a gentle caress, and all at once, the fear that had gripped her melted away like ice in the sun. She felt safe, protected, as if nothing in the world could harm her so long as he was near.
"Are you here to take me to my love?" she asked, her voice trembling with hope, with longing.
"If that is what you wish," he replied, his words as soft as a prayer. "Aeren will be proud of you. I know that I am proud of you. One word, and I will reunite you both."
Just one word, she thought. One word, and she could be with Aeren again. But then Aegor spoke, and his words filled her with a new sense of purpose.
"You said if that is what I wish," she said slowly, her heart heavy with the weight of her decision. "Does that mean there are other options?"
"I could bring you back," he said, his gaze steady, his eyes like twin amethysts burning with an inner fire. "It is the least I can do for you. You gave your life for me, after all. You could finish what we began. But the choice is yours. You are no longer a slave. Slaves obey, but men choose, Phirelah. So choose."
In his eyes, she saw no judgment, only acceptance, only love. Her heart ached with the desire to be with Aeren again, to feel his arms around her, to see his smile. But could she turn her back on the world, on the people who needed her? Could she choose the path of comfort when there was still so much work to be done, so many lives to save?
She could not. She knew that now. It had been years since Aeren's death, years since she had last seen his face, but she could wait a little longer. She could fight a little harder. She could give a little more, so that when she finally did see him again, she could make him proud.
"My lord," she said, her voice filled with a newfound strength, her gaze locked on his. "I will follow you until the world you dream of is made real."
And Aegor smiled, a smile that was as bright and as warm as Aeren's had ever been. Her eyes closed, and when she opened them again, she was back on the battlefield, her flesh whole, her body unmarked. The dead Dothraki lay at her feet, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, and she knew that she had been brought back from the dead by the light of Aegor. Another enemy fell as her spear pierced through his brain. This was a second life given to her, a proof that he god cared. She would not waste it she thought as she pulled her spear coated in flesh, blood and brain matter back.
*scene*
I felt it before I saw it—a creeping unease that had begun as a seed of doubt now blossomed into certainty. Something was wrong. This wasn't the paranoia of a battlefield or the dread that gnaws at the soul when you have to watch men die painfully. No, this was different, more insidious, as if the very air carried a taint of malice.
The Dothraki continued to hurl themselves against the circular wall of shields my army had formed, dying in droves with each charge. The logical course of action would have been for them to retreat, to regroup, to attempt some new strategy. But there was no change, no hint of self-preservation. They flung themselves forward, wave after wave, as if the madness of battle had consumed their reason entirely.
Thousands, at the very least, had already fallen among the Dothraki and their allies. Yet not a single man from my army lay permanently dead. Each time one of mine fell, I drew upon the essence of the Archmage within me, drawing power from what seemed to be this endless pool of energy to enact a spell. I had designed this spell myself, a creation born from the knowledge I had wrested, technically stolen from Pyat Pree and the Undying Ones when they had dared to attack, put in danger my Astapor. They had sought to make me bleed, to kill me or at least the citizens I had sworn to protect. But they had failed. At least, in their failure, they had allowed me to learn, to understand their darkest arts.
The spell was based on a wicked art, one originally intended to trap souls, to prevent them from passing into whatever lay beyond the mortal coil. It was the same dark magic that Pyat Pree's master had used to create the abominations released during our confrontation. But where they had sought only to imprison and torment, to use souls as fuel, I had repurposed the spell with the aid of my Archmage essence, the essence that made me superior to all if not most other mages or magical creatures inherently, allowing me to comprehend in seconds what had probably taken centuries for the undying ones to understand, to master. I guided the souls of my fallen soldiers, not to imprison them, but to return them to their bodies, restoring them to life as if death were but a fleeting inconvenience.
And with each use, the spell grew more efficient, less taxing, more attuned to my will. The magic flowed through me like a river carving its path through a valley, deepening and widening as it went. But the Dothraki and their allies should have realized what they were up against. They should have seen that they were fighting an immortal army and adapted their tactics accordingly. Perhaps some might have attempted to flee, or to fight more cautiously, but they did not. They charged with reckless abandon, something like madness flickering in their eyes, and in return, they died.
It was only when I pushed my magic into my eyes, forcing myself to see beyond the material world, that I understood the full scope of what was happening. There, in the metaphysical realm hidden behind the physical, I saw it—patterns, geometrical shapes, and words that should have been meaningless to me, but which I began to comprehend with alarming clarity. They formed a web, a ritual, one that spanned the entire battlefield and perhaps beyond. The darkness that shrouded the sun, the shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly across the desert, they were not natural. They were the outer boundary of the ritual.
And every soul that died beneath that darkness was being sucked into Vaes Dothrak, drawn like iron to a lodestone. The city was enveloped in shadows, dark and vile, that sought to obscure my vision. I could feel the pull, a force that tugged at my very being, as if trying to drag my soul from my body. If I had been an ordinary mage, if I had not possessed the essence of the Archmage, I might have found myself consumed by the growing darkness around Vaes Dothrak. My soul would have been devoured, adding to the mass of suffering that festered there.
This could only mean one thing: the Dothraki were dying on purpose, or at least they were being controlled, influenced by some power to take as many lives as possible including theirs out of the mortal coil. They were being used as pawns in a ritual of unspeakable malice, a sacrificial offering that would undoubtedly I knew unleash something terrible upon the world. I knew without a doubt that even the evilness and foolness of the undying ones couldn’t be compared to what I was witnessing.
In the distance, Grey Worm and Khal Drogo clashed, their battle a storm of light and shadow. The magic sword I had forged for Grey Worm met Drogo's ebony greatsword, each strike sending out bursts of power that lit up the battlefield like lightning. There was space around them as if it had been divided by all that no one should come close to them until a victor was found. The sound was deafening, louder than the screams of the dying, louder even than thunder. It was a scene that would be fit to come straight out of legend, of a myth. It was a battle worthy of the epics of old. I didn't worry. I had faith that Grey Worm would win, without even my help. Khal Drogo was a dead man walking.
Dozens of thousands lay dead on the ground, their blood and guts mixing with the sand, the rain, and the excretions of dying men. The battlefield had become a cesspit of carnage, a hellish landscape that would have probably made most uncomfortable or driven lesser men mad. Maybe it would have happened to me if it had been the old me, the one before I woke up in this world, the one who didn't have the memory of his slave who only had known horror, the one who didn’t the archmage essence.
I stood, at the center of it all, feeling as though I held most of the pieces of the puzzle, but unable to see the full picture. Whoever was behind this ritual was clearly a force of pure and evil, something without a doubt malevolent. They had to be stopped, even if I did not fully understand their purpose.
I began to gather my magic, intending to smite Vaes Dothrak from the face of the earth, to wipe it out as if it were the Sodom or Gomorrah of the Old Testament. But before I could unleash my power, reality itself seemed to break.
The shadows that had surrounded Vaes Dothrak became visible to the naked eye, rising from the city in a pillar of darkness and malignancy that stretched toward the heavens almost as if the wave wanted to swallow them. They expanded outward, rushing toward the battlefield like a tsunami of sin and despair.
I reacted instinctively, pulling all the members of my army closer to me with a surge of magic, gravity bending to my will. From my back, golden wings of pure magic erupted, vast and radiant, extending hundreds of meters to encircle my forces in a protective cocoon. The darkness crashed against us like a tidal wave, and I felt it—an oppressive force that sought to crush me from all sides, to smother me under its weight. It was more than just pressure; it was filth, a corruption that tried to seep into my very essence, to twist and change me into something repulsive, something evil, something I couldn’t but not hate and be disgusted by.
Outside the barrier of light, I could hear the screams of thousands of men, of the Dothraki and their allies, of their voices rising in agony, terror, and despair. It felt as though I had been plunged into the depths of hell, surrounded by the damned. The only light left in the world was mine, my magic, shining brightly against the encroaching darkness. The world felt wrong, twisted, as if reality itself had been violated. And the only thing standing between my army and that wrongness was me.
I could see the faces of my soldiers, fear evident in their eyes as they watched the darkness swirl and press against my golden wings. But there was something else in their gazes, something greater than fear—hope. Faith. They were afraid, but they knew I was with them, and that knowledge gave them courage. Courage was not the absence of fear but the ability to act in spite of it.
The wave of darkness recoiled from my light, retreating with something that felt like anger, as if it were alive and furious at having been thwarted. The darkness converged upon itself, leaving behind blackened carcasses that had once been human, their forms twisted and charred beyond recognition. Then, as if gathering its strength, the darkness rose again, this time surging toward the sky. When it touched the heavens, the world halted and the very firmament seemed to shatter, and from that rupture emerged a monstrosity.
It was a creature of nightmares, a dragon-like entity, probably larger than any city in Slaver's Bay, with a wingspan that blotted out the sky. Its scales were black and oily, glistening with an unnatural sheen, and its claws were sharp and twisted, as if forged from the darkest abyss. Thousands of eyes, each glowing with a malevolent light, dotted its body, watching, seeking, hungering. It was a beast that seemed to have been birthed from the deepest pits of hell, a creature of pure evil.
On the ground, the blackened husks of the Dothraki and their allies began to stir, shadows animating their lifeless bodies. They moved as if puppets on strings, driven by the same darkness that had replaced their souls. Above, the dragon roared, a sound that shook the earth and filled the sky with dark, roiling clouds. The world itself seemed to recoil from the sound, as if the very fabric of reality were being torn apart.
There was no doubt in my mind—this creature was evil, more evil than anything I had ever encountered. It was a blasphemy, an abomination, and within its monstrous form, I could see the suffering souls of those it had consumed, trapped within its being, crying out for release. The dragon opened its maw, and I could see dark flames, blacker than obsidian, pooling within. They burned with an intensity that made the world itself scream in agony, as if the very essence of creation was being violated.
The flames surged forth, a torrent of darkness and destruction aimed directly at me and my army. The world seemed to hold its breath as the flames hurtled toward us, and I could feel the weight of the coming devastation. This was no ordinary fire; it was a conflagration born of the void, capable of unmaking existence itself.
It was something my sight, my essence told me would burn magic itself yet when my hand rose toward the deluge of black flames, they were stopped. It wasn’t magic. I knew that with my essence, I could have maybe found a way to deal with those magic-consuming flames but there was no need to. Already, ideas about how to replicate them, how to modify them were blooming in my brain yet it wasn’t magic or that kind of magic.
No, it was instead something else. It was faith the faith of those in Astapor. The faith of the slaves who believed I will come for them, to free them. The faith of the members of my army who death itself hadn’t been able to make them falter in their convictions, in their beliefs in me.
I could feel my essence analyzing this faith, strengthening, becoming more potent. Wasn’t faith magic in a sense? Wasn’t magic the impossible manifest? Wasn’t faith capable of the impossible? I didn't try to restrict it. I instead let it run wild.
I felt it envelop itself around me like the most comfortable blanket ever. I could feel it twist, morph, clad me. I didn't need to look into a mirror to know I was wearing an armour. I could also feel something like a circlet, a crown resting on my brown.
With one negligent move of the spear that had appeared in my right hand, the flames dispersed, turning into dying embers.
I was seen by so many people as a saviour, as a hero when in my opinion, they were the true heroes but still, I didn't wish to disappoint them.
‘It is said that heroes kill dragons’ I thought. Why should it be different now?
Comments
Rachel N
.... hollllyyyy shhhiiiiiit... THIS WAS BLOODY EPIC!!!!!!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Edwin Dsanie
Dammmm. I got chills
