Chapter Text
The sense of relief Daenerys felt over having left behind the blood, dust, and misery of Astapor lasted a mere two weeks, for upon arriving at Yunkai, she found that the city was Astapor all over again … save that the ancient bricks, crumbling walls, and towering ziggurats were yellow instead of red. The bright green of the city’s verdant, hillside gardens, the splendor of its setting along a sparkling blue coast, and the raw grandeur of its size made it temptingly easy to ignore the grim reality that Yunkai, like Astapor to the south and Meereen to the north, had been built upon centuries of human misery.
Slaver’s Bay could be a paradise. It is a pity that the men who rule here have turned it into such a foul, ugly place. Perhaps a woman can do better.
She gathered the reins of her mount, glanced upwards, and smiled at the sight of her children wheeling through the sky. They grew larger, ranged farther afield, and ate more every day. She stared at the dragons for a long while before she lowered her gaze and examined Yunkai’s defenses with a critical eye. Astapor might have been hers after only a single day of bloodshed, but Yunkai had closed its gates and manned its walls. They would not fall so easily. A lengthy siege would thin the ranks of her Unsullied and quickly exhaust the food and water they had brought north. She would have to find another way.
What would my sun-and-stars have done? No enemy could have stood against him in an open field, but I doubt he would have had the patience for siegecraft. Waging war with mounted men, leather armor, and flashing arakhs may suit the horselords of the Dothraki Sea, but I will need to use other methods to win battles if I am ever to take Yunkai. Or the castles of Westeros, for that matter.
The ocean spread across the entirety of the western horizon, and it was difficult for her not to give in to the temptation to look away from the city, stare across the azure waters, and imagine herself seated upon a throne that she had never so much as seen. Much had changed in the years since Ser Willem Darry had fled with her and Viserys across the Narrow Sea. The Usurper was dead, she need no longer fear that assassins lurked in every shadow, and though she had left Westeros as a swaddled babe mewling for milk from a mother that had died birthing her, she would return as a queen.
A queen with an army and three dragons.
But would that army be enough? Her Unsullied, the freed slaves that trailed in her army’s wake, and the few Dothraki who had followed her through the Red Waste, to Qarth, and then to Slaver’s Bay, might form a column nearly a league long, but not all of them were warriors.
“I do not know why I expected anything different than Astapor,” Daenerys mused aloud to Ser Jorah as she surveyed the high walls, flat-roofed buildings, and towering pyramids of Yunkai. “We have exchanged red bricks for yellow, but otherwise it looks much the same.”
Ser Jorah raised his gloved hand to his brow, wiped sweat from his leathery skin, and chuckled. He tugged on the reins of his ugly roan gelding, moved his horse closer to hers, and replied, “Slaver’s Bay is old, far older than the Seven Kingdoms. If you’re looking for new buildings or different ideas, you’d best look elsewhere, Khaleesi.”
Daenerys noticed again that the Khaleesi honorific, which Ser Jorah still used long after everyone else had switched to her Westerosi titles, rolled off his tongue in a soft, familiar fashion. He would be familiar with her in far more intimate ways, she knew, if she allowed it. She had recognized from the first that he desired her but took great pains to avoid so much as acknowledging her awareness of his infatuation. Such a desire, properly maintained, could be useful so long as she was careful not to be overly encouraging.
A casual word or a gentle touch at the right time can accomplish more than a thousand swords. I am no innocent flower, and I would be a fool not to use every tool at my disposal.
Harpy heraldry was visible everywhere along the walls that Daenerys looked, most prominently in the form of an enormous bronze statue mounted above Yunkai’s main gate. The city’s gates were closed, of course. Even arrogant slave masters would have heard of the liberation of Astapor, stirred themselves from their perfumed pleasure compounds, and seen to the city’s defenses.
They can close their gates, if they wish, but it will not matter. This city will be mine.
The crossbowmen, archers, and bronze-armored spearmen ringing the upper walls were all staring down at her Unsullied and taking their measure. Daenerys, in turn, stared up and did likewise. The walls were manned, but not as extensively as she would have expected, and the enormous wooden piers that abutted the rear of the city were lined with ships. To her surprise, the field of yellow dirt in front of the city walls were dotted with tent encampments ringed by picketed horses and swarming with armed men.
“Sellswords,” Ser Barristan explained as he maneuvered his chestnut mare next to hers. “Mercenaries from a single company, judging by their numbers and their pennants.”
“The Second Sons is my guess,” Ser Jorah added. “Though my eyes are not what they once were.” The creases on Ser Jorah’s face deepened as he squinted at the city, his light brown hair seemed grayer than Daenerys remembered, and she noticed that he had lost weight during their travels. While he still moved with the purposeful and precise motions of a warrior, the reality was that she needed his counsel far more than his sword arm.
“Men who fight for coin are men without honor,” Grey Worm announced with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth as he joined them along the ridge and stared at the mercenary tents. Grey Worm’s accent when he spoke Common was abominable, but Daenerys did manage to understand what the Unsullied commander had said. She suspected he only wanted to learn a second language because accepting Missandei’s offer of instruction would allow him to spend time with her. Daenerys glanced over at Missandei. Her handmaiden, who was riding an enormously fat, enormously gentle old mare yet nevertheless looked petrified to be in the saddle, was staring sidelong at Grey Worm while simultaneously trying her best to appear as if she were looking elsewhere.
Daenerys hid a smile and turned back towards Yunkai. “We will make camp here,” she announced. “I do not doubt the endurance of the Unsullied, but a day or two of rest after so many fortnights of marching cannot help but do them good.” She glanced over at Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah. “We shall stay in these hills, palisade the high ground, and find out if the city’s rulers can be persuaded to see reason.”
Ser Jorah and Barristan both nodded in approval. It would not do to appear visibly relieved at their agreeing with her plan, but she did allow herself a quiet sigh of relief.
“Well reasoned, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said as he leaned forward in his saddle.
Ser Barristan added, “I am glad that you remembered the importance of fortifications, your grace, even ones as rudimentary as the wooden stakes of a palisade. I had feared, given what you learned of conquest from your husband, that you would lack the patience for dealing with an enemy hiding behind walls.”
“You misjudge me,” Daenerys coolly replied. “I pay attention to what you say, and I am fully aware that there is more to learn about war than what the Dothraki have to teach.”
As if he was voicing agreement with his mother, Viserion issued a loud, piercing shriek right above their heads.
“As you say, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah replied.
. . . . . . . . .
Her army’s construction of defenses could not wait for evening, but brisk ocean winds thankfully cooled the men as they dug a deep ditch beneath a blazing sun and clear sky. As each section of the long trough was hollowed out of the earth, stakes made from birch trees hacked from a nearby ridgeline were sunk deep to form a row of bristling spikes. Once the work on the palisade had been completed, the Unsullied unbundled their tents, hobbled and watered the horses, and set about the hundreds of other needed tasks.
Further back along the road, beyond the perimeter of the palisade, was a larger, second camp consisting of men, women, and children who had once been slaves … along with their mules, goats, mangy dogs, and all of their worldly possessions. Daenerys would have sooner cut off her own hand than turn away those who wished to follow her, but she was not fool enough to be ignorant of the reality that her army could not provide food and water to so many for very long. She had to take this city quickly or her people would die of starvation and thirst within sight of Yunkai’s wealth.
Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, and Grey Worm saw to the deployment of her Unsullied while Daenerys dismounted and made her way into a large golden pavilion the opening of which afforded an excellent view of Yunkai. Daenerys entered the pavilion, lowered herself upon a large cushioned seat that had been set out for her near the entrance, and considered the situation. Behind her, servants scurried to unroll rugs, light candles, and assemble furniture the frames of which were designed to be slid apart, transported, and then slotted back together.
Whatever happens, it will be on the heads of the masters of Yunkai, not on mine. I ride on the winds of destiny and their city stands in my way.
Daenerys stared towards Yunkai and the mercenary camp, considered what possible avenues were most likely to bear fruit, and had decided upon a likely course of action long before Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, and Grey Worm arrived. After the three men had neared, she asked, “Do you think the mercenary captains would accept an invitation to parlay?”
“They would be foolish not to take this opportunity to gauge the strength of their enemy up close,” Ser Barristan replied. “They’ll come.”
The other two men nodded.
“Send a messenger to them,” Daenerys ordered. “Let us see if they are interested in talking.”
Ser Jorah nodded, barked a few commands to nearby Unsullied, and then turned back to her with an expectant expression on his face.
He expects me to explain myself further. I will, but only when I am ready.
Instead of further discussion, Daenerys gazed at the ugly sight of the massive harpy statute perched above the gates of Yunkai. In one hand the harpy grasped a whip, and in the other, it held a slave collar. Her teeth ground together, her back stiffened, and she clenched her hands into fists while she thought of all the tens of thousands of men, women, and children toiling beneath the lash of their owners.
I came to love my sun-and-stars, but while my khal never fitted me with a collar, I understand now that my brother sold me in the manner of livestock. I would crucify every last slave owner on this continent if it meant no one else would have to endure such a fate.
“The captains will accept your invitation,” Ser Jorah finally said after the silence had lingered for several long minutes. “But if they do not, you will have to …”
Daenerys cut him off with the raise of a hand. “They will wish to speak with me, if for no other reason than to see my dragons and mock me for daring to raise my voice in a land ruled by men.”
Ser Jorah’s only response was a nod of the head.
Feeling somewhat abashed at having spoken in such a terse manner, Daenerys hid her eyes from Ser Jorah and turned her gaze again towards the sellsword camp. Her eyes roved over the tents and the men that milled between them while she tried to remember Ser Barristan’s lesson on how to quickly estimate the number of men in a group of soldiers. “Two thousand?” she finally asked after she had finished her calculations.
“Thereabouts,” Ser Barristan confirmed with a nod of approval. “Well done, your grace.”
A thought occurred to her. “Why are they camped outside the city? I would think the masters of Yunkai might want their hired killers upon the wall.”
Ser Jorah replied, “Two reasons. First, most of these sellswords are cavalry, which means they’d be wasted on the battlements.” He gestured at the dry, yellow grass, scorched dirt, and rolling hills spread before them. “If it comes to a fight, we’ll find ourselves outflanked … we have few riders with which to meet them on the open field.”
The unpleasant prospect of her Unsullied being outmaneuvered by a far more mobile enemy was one that had occurred to Daenerys, and avoiding that development was the primary reason she had wanted to meet with the mercenary captains. “And the second reason?”
“The Yunkai keep their hired killers, as you described them, outside the walls because they do not trust them,” Ser Barristan informed her in a cold, flat tone. “Neither should you.”
Grey Worm nodded in agreement. “The promises of men who fight for gold are worthless.”
Grey Worm’s accent when he spoke Common was abominable, but Daenerys did manage to understand what the Unsullied commander had said. She suspected he only wanted to learn a second language because accepting Missandei’s offer of instruction would allow him to spend time with her.
Ser Jorah scratched at the gray and brown stubble on his chin. “Sellswords can be trusted to kill you if they are well paid.”
“And I’m sure the Yunkai'i are paying them well,” Ser Barristan added.
When a dust cloud appeared along the edge of the line of mercenary tents, she leaned forward to try to make out the details. “The day I trust a sellsword you have my leave to seek a wiser monarch to advise,” Daenerys said in a low, soft voice as she pointed at the approaching riders. “It looks as though we may be able to inquire of them directly as to the circumstances of their contract with the masters of this city.”
When the riders were near enough that she could make out the broken swords stitched upon the fabric of their banners, Ser Jorah announced, “I was right, it’s the Second Sons. Bastards from Westeros, forgotten younger children of lesser lords, and common folk looking for something more from life than tilling fields or mucking stalls.”
“Men from Westeros?” Daenerys asked. The thought that she might soon be fighting men of the Seven Kingdoms troubled her.
“They may have haled from our homeland,” Ser Barristan answered. “But remember that we are in a very different place.”
Sage advice.
“We shall send out riders to meet these men,” she ordered.
“I recommend not using the Dothraki,” Ser Barristan suggested. “They struggle with the language and are quick to anger … an envoy murdering the other envoy, even in a savage land such as this, will earn you a foul reputation that cannot be easily shed.”
As if I do not already have a foul reputation merely for wishing to rule despite being born without dangling parts between my legs.
She turned to Ser Jorah. “You shall speak with them, my friend.” When he nodded, she leaned forward in her seat and laid a hand on his forearm. Just a light touch, but she made sure her fingers rested on the bare skin between the fabric of his sleeve and the leather of his glove. “Take no chances, no matter what insults towards me they might voice,” she said in a soft voice. “Do you understand me? I need a living confidante, not a dead martyr to my cause.”
“I understand, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah replied before he walked away on long, sweeping strides.
Daenerys settled back into the chair and watched as Ser Jorah mounted his roan, gathered a few Unsullied, and kicked at his horse’s sides.
The half-dozen approaching sellswords cut across the sparse, dry grass of the fields outside Yunkai, Ser Jorah and the men he had gathered proceeded down the hill towards them, and the two groups met maybe sixty or seventy yards from the base of the hill upon which her pavilion stood. As Daenerys watched Ser Jorah speak with the mercenaries, she held her breath and prayed that she would not see the silvery glint of drawn blades. After a brief conversation that was thankfully bloodshed free, Ser Jorah wheeled his roan about and trotted back. Upon reaching the pavilion, he dismounted, handed the reins to a waiting attendant, and hurried over.
“Well?” Daenerys asked, and she was proud that only the barest hint of impatience crept into her tone. She had never found it easy to wait while others did the speaking for her.
“The captains of the Second Sons will meet with you,” Ser Jorah announced.
Ser Barristan’s leather armor creaked as he shifted on his feet.
It is as if Ser Barristan is already preparing for battle.
“Who are these captains?” she asked.
Ser Jorah again scratched at his chin, and Daenerys found herself wishing he would shave. Not because she cared about his appearance, but because she found his constant pawing at his face to be irritating.
“The first is a man named Murnak zo Groznar,” Ser Jorah replied. “I know little of him other than that he supposedly wields a spear better than any Unsullied.”
“You should not have let Grey Worm hear that,” Daenerys said with a laugh while Grey Worm scowled at Ser Jorah.
“No offense,” Ser Jorah said to Grey Worm. When Grey Worm neither acknowledged the apology or replied, Ser Jorah turned back to her. “The other captain is a man they call the Storm Lord … I inquired as to his true name, but they seemed to find the question hysterical. I have no idea why. In the end, they just laughed and didn’t tell me.”
“That is rather rude,” Daenerys said with a disdainful sniff and a roll of her eyes. “I offer a peaceful meeting and they hide behind silly nicknames? I hope this childishness extends to their ability to wage war.”
Ser Jorah’s face grew still. “Their names may be silly, but these captains, they are dangerous men, Khaleesi. All of the Second Sons are.”
“A man from Westeros calling himself Storm Lord likely is from the Stormlands,” Ser Barristan pointed out.
“Possibly,” she admitted with a shrug. “But maybe he is here because he does not care for Baratheon rule?”
Before Ser Barristan could reply, Missandei approached with a worried expression on her face and asked, “Will there be a battle? In Astapor, the slave masters died easily because we were already within the walls, but here,” she gestured at Yunkai, “we would have to fight our way in.”
“We stand ready to fight for you your grace,” Grey Worm announced.
Missandei frowned, wrung her hands, and stared at Daenerys with pleading eyes.
Missandei is worried about Grey Worm. Or maybe she is worried about all of us.
“If the masters of this city wish to live, they will recognize that their cause is doomed and yield,” Daenerys reassured Missandei despite not being at all sure that the sentiment was true.
I doubt Yunkai will surrender.
Missandei looked entirely unconvinced as Daenerys turned to Ser Jorah and asked, “When will these sellsword captains arrive?”
“Two hours from now,” Ser Jorah replied.
Daenerys grimaced and fixed Missandei with an apologetic look. “I suppose wine of some sort and food should be offered. Is two hours enough time to prepare?”
Missandei bowed her head. “We will be ready for guests well before then, your grace.”
“Good.” Daenerys glanced down at her dusty leather riding pants and cream-colored gown. “I shall have to change. The white dress with the black neckpiece and the thick brown leather belt, I think.”
“Perfect,” Missandei replied with a shy smile. The former slave vanished behind a curtain to search for the garments.
“Any advice?” Daenerys asked her advisors.
“If this Storm Lord is from Westeros, he’ll have a soft spot for women, I wager,” Ser Barristan replied. “That might be of use.”
“Really?” Daenerys asked in a voice that dripped with skepticism. “What might pass as a soft spot for women in Slaver’s Bay?”
Ser Jorah grunted, rubbed at his chin again, and said, “A mercenary captain who does not tolerate his men raping as they please would be considered an example of pious virtue throughout Slaver’s Bay, your grace.”
Ser Barristan shot Ser Jorah a frown and Daenerys forced a laugh to demonstrate that she was not an innocent maiden when it came to frank talk of the evils of the world. “Such a high bar of civilized conduct to aspire to. This truly is an enlightened place.”
“He’s a sellsword, not a septon,” Ser Jorah replied, “and you are a queen in a godless land.”
“True,” she admitted, “but right now my concern is not winning religious converts, but rather winning these two thousand armored and mounted Second Sons to my side.”
Ser Jorah rubbed at the hair upon his chin yet again and Daenerys correspondingly fought against the inclination to swat his hand downwards. “They are fighting for the losing side,” he said, “and after they count how many Unsullied you’ve brought, they’ll know it.”
“I imagine you are right. Also, when they arrive, I will remind them that not just their lives, but their reputations are at stake.”
Ser Jorah cocked his head and stared at her with a curious expression. “How so, Khaleesi?”
“Men who fight for gold cannot afford to lose to a girl,” Daenerys replied with a smile.
. . . . . . . . .
Within two hours’ time, the immense pavilion had been furnished with wicker furniture, divided into section by red curtains embroidered with gold thread that matched the golden roof overhead, and a circular dais erected in the center had been covered with a red and gold rug. A couch dyed a burnt orange … rather than the red or black Daenerys would have preferred … had been set upon the dais, and it was on that couch’s cushions that she positioned herself to await the mercenary captains. Meanwhile, Rhaegal and Viserion clawed and flapped on a perch crafted of bronze and wood set to the right of the couch while Drogon curled his body and tail along the couch’s left arm.
Missandei had not initially thought to change her own clothes, and Daenerys with gentle words reminded her that she was now a lady-in-waiting of a queen and would need to dress for her station. A white gown similar to the one Daenerys had changed into was found for Missandei, and though Daenerys was the queen and Missandei the handmaiden, it was difficult for Daenerys not to feel self-conscious in the presence of the other woman’s beauty.
Missandei will probably distract the sellsword captains moreso than the dragons.
“They are prompt, at least,” she announced from atop the dais when she spotted a dust cloud rising from the plain beneath her. She sat up taller on the cushions and narrowed her eyes to get a better view. Only two horses could be seen approaching, which surprised her. “The captains come alone to barter for their lives and the lives of their men?”
Ser Barristan nodded. “Brave or foolish of them, depending on one’s perspective, I suppose.”
Likely they are fools, which is all for the better.
The two captains approached, stopped at the edge of the palisade, and dismounted. Once afoot, they handed their reins over to her Unsullied and approached with confident, almost arrogant, strides. The tall captain on the left had the olive skin tone typical of Slaver’s Bay and his dark, curled hair had been cut to shoulder length and tied back with a strip of red fabric. A long, curved sword dangled from one side of his hip, a slender dagger hung from the other, and a bright red cloak draped down the back of his thick leather armor. He was a rangy man who stood at least three or four inches over six feet, and she might have found him attractive … in a dangerous and exotic fashion … if not for the purplish scar slashing from his left cheek across his chin.
That must be Murnak zo … something or other. He certainly looks the part of a mercenary.
Initially, Daenerys thought the second captain … she refused to think of him as the Storm Lord … was walking well in front of his comrade in arms, but then she realized that the man’s size was deceiving her. He was at least an inch closer to seven feet than to six and possessed shoulders as wide as an axe handle, a bull neck, a thick, protruding jaw, and tree-trunk legs. The hem of a black and yellow surcoat worn over his chain and leather armor reached to his thighs, and the only weapon he wore was a dirk tucked into the wide belt wrapped around his waist. He had the unlined skin and youthful appearance of a man only halfway through his second decade, but his coal black hair and the stubble of his beard were shot through with gray. When she noticed that he was tall enough that his bright blue eyes were level with hers, Daenerys immediately regretted not having had a higher dais built.
He is young to be a leader of men, and I can only imagine that he made a name for himself in one violently brutish manner or another. Given that he must weigh more than twenty stone … likely much of it fat … I am surprised that he has not dropped dead from the heat of his armor.
The two mercenary captains paused next to the Unsullied guarding the entrance, waited, and in short order her herald began the introductions. Daenerys suspected that someday the recitation of her titles, heritage, and accomplishments would grow tiresome, but that day did not seem likely to arrive anytime soon.
After the herald had finished his proclamations, Daenerys beckoned the two sellswords closer to her dais. Once they had neared, the herald in a too-loud voice announced, “Your grace, allow me to present the captains of the Second Sons, the Storm Lord and Murnak zo Groznar of Astapor.”
Daenerys swiveled her gaze towards Captain Murnak and found the man glowering at her with narrowed eyes and an expression of pure hatred.
I can already tell that Captain Murnak will not be easy to deal with.
She turned her head towards the second captain. “You,” she called out to the enormous sellsword with the piercing blue eyes and the black and gray hair. “You were invited to a meeting with a queen, yet you do not give me your true name. If you think I am going to refer to you as Storm Lord, you are mistaken.”
“Rhaemund Storm,” the man replied without even an attempt to grant her the courtesy of her titles
Ser Jorah stiffened in surprise. “I thought you were dead.”
Ser Barristan glanced over at Ser Jorah. “So did King Robert. His grace believed that his youngest brother had perished in a storm while crossing the Narrow Sea.”
“Not dead,” Rhaemund replied in a rumbling, deep voice. He chuckled and added, “Just far from home.”
Daenerys fought back a prickle of irritation that the men in the room were chatting as if she were not there. “Assuming this man is who he says he is, should I recognize the name?” she asked.
“There are a lot of Baratheon bastards,” Ser Jorah informed her. “But not many noble-born on both sides.”
“A Baratheon?” she asked with distaste thick in her voice.
“A Storm,” Rhaemund corrected her.
She ignored Rhaemund’s comment and asked Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, “How can we be sure he is who he says he is?”
Rhaemund frowned at that, his eyes narrowed, and he folded massive arms across his wide chest.
This one does a very poor job of hiding his emotions. Such is to be expected of a bastard, I suppose.
“He has the Baratheon look,” Ser Jorah replied. “And I suspect he is who he claims to be: Rhaemund Storm, a by-blow of Steffon Baratheon that fled across the Narrow Sea about a decade ago.”
“Wise of him to stay away from the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Barristan added. “The king was very wroth.”
A brother of the Usurper is standing within a dozen feet of me. Bad enough that I must bat my eyes at an ugly sellsword and pretend that the sight of such men does not repulse me, but now I must stomach having a Baratheon bastard in my presence? If I am lucky, he will draw steel and I can have him executed with no stain upon my honor.
Then again, if she intended to ask men not to blame her for the misdeeds of her father, she should not consider a man guilty of the crimes committed by his brother. Daenerys stared at Rhaemund with as calm an expression as she could manage and asked, “And who was your mother? Some lady-in-waiting your father saw fit to take advantage of?”
“Cassana Estermont,” Ser Barristan replied before Rhaemund could.
Steffon Baratheon lay with his wife’s cousin?
Something in her expression must have given away her distaste because Ser Barristan added, “Too much wine was Lord Steffon’s excuse.”
“My mother supposedly looked like my father’s wife in her youth,” Rhaemund added with a shrug. “Maybe my father actually did mistake one for the other.”
How sordid
“We are not here to discuss your family’s shameful history,” she interrupted with cold, firm words.
Rhaemund’s lips curled upwards in an aggravating, brash grin. “As you say.”
Daenerys switched to High Valyrian and said to Missandei, “This one is entirely lacking in courtesy … bastard-born for sure.” For a moment, just a moment, Daenerys thought she saw a flicker of recognition in the eyes of the giant sellsword, but then it was gone. She concluded that she must have imagined it. Switching back to the Common Tongue, she asked, “Why not just tell me your real name from the beginning? Storm Lord is suitable only for a theatrical, childish man.”
“I would point out,” Rhaemund replied in his deep, rumbling voice, “that my men chose the name, not me. Also, I am surprised you find it too theatrical for your tastes, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt … I’m sorry, I forget the rest of the long collection of self-important titles brayed a few minutes ago.”
As Rhaemund spoke, Daenerys tightened her jaw, clutched at her dress, and tried to ignore the insolence of his words.
Enough.
Her patience snapped, she raised her hand, and both Rhaegal and Drogon lifted their heads in response to her change in mood. “Since you apparently did hear my titles, it must be intentional that you fail to use them.”
“As you say,” Rhaemund said with a mocking grin and a nod of his head.
He is impossible.
Sensing the tension, Ser Jorah interrupted and asked Rhaemund, “News of you trickled into the Seven Kingdoms for a time, and then stopped. What became of you?”
“Once I’d gone far enough east, I’d be surprised if any news reached Westeros,” Rhaemund replied. “I spent nearly a decade fighting out of Qarkash and Port Yhos against Dothraki khalasars, Leng reivers, and slavers from the Basilisk Isles. When I did leave Qartheen lands, more often than not it was to pass through the Jade Gates.”
This Rhaemund Storm traveled nearly as far from Westeros as one can go without vanishing from the known world. What was he running from?
“Considering the brutish way you have spent your youth,” Daenerys informed Rhaemund as she leaned back against the cushions of the couch, “I am surprised that you have lived so long. I am sure you learned to become quite good at killing, and likely learned nothing else.”
“Maybe,” Rhaemund conceded. The man’s smirking grin broadened, and he stared at her with an unafraid, challenging gaze. “You should try joining your men in fighting the wars you’ve started … I suspect that if you’d had a learning experience of that sort, you’d never have come to this city.”
Daenerys’s back stiffened and Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah glowered angrily at Rhaemund.
I most definitely hate him.
“Astapor is mine, and Yunkai soon will be as well,” she said with cool, precise words. “And you would do well to remember that you stand amidst an army of over ten thousand Unsullied.”
“Ten thousand?” Rhaemund mockingly asked as he made a show of glancing about. “I counted no more than eight thousand, with only a hundred horse … maybe two hundred if I include the goats and cows your followers march beside.” He continued in a gentler manner, “A conqueror you may be, but there are two thousand mounted warriors of the Second Sons camped outside the walls of Yunkai. This city will not fall as easily as did Astapor.”
“I am a liberator, not a conqueror,” Daenerys corrected him.
“You are a murderer,” Murnak snarled, and the first words he had spoken snapped through the air of the pavilion like the crack of a whip. “A murderer, a liar, and a cheat. I will deliver you in chains to the masters of Astapor so that they might find a use for such a treacherous bitch as yourself.” He leaned forward, spat on the rug covering the golden canvas of the pavilion’s floor, and Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, and her Unsullied reached for their weapons.
Daenerys raised a hand, her men froze in place, and she waited until tempers had calmed before she slowly leaned forward and said, “I sense that this is personal for you.”
Murnak’s face contorted into a grimace of pain. “You agreed to trade a dragon for Unsullied, and once the deal was done, you reneged on the bargain and butchered the city. My father, my brothers, every man of my family, were then slaughtered by the army you stole.” Murnak’s fists were knotted as his side, and the muscles of his body coiled and tensed beneath the leather of his armor.
Daenerys forced her voice to remain unruffled and affected a placid demeanor. “Did your father and brothers own slaves?”
Murnak's eyes narrowed as though he was trying to puzzle out the relevancy of the question. “Yes,” he finally replied.
“Then they received justice,” Daenerys informed him as she sat back against the cushions and dismissively waved her hand.
“Justice?” Murnak howled. “My father fed his slaves at his own table and my uncle taught them letters, history, and geography. Neither ever raised a hand in anger to the men that they owned, yet I was told that one could not even recognize their bodies by the time your Unsullied were finished with them.”
It was a mistake allowing this one near me.
Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan shifted, and though their movements were subtle, she could tell that they had positioned themselves within ready reach of Captain Murnak should he attempt to lunge forward.
“Your family were kind slaveowners, is that what you are saying?” she asked.
Murnak nodded. “Yes.”
Daenerys settled even further back on her couch. “Much like a chaste whore, a generous banker, or a charitable priest, I doubt that kind slaveowners exist.”
Murnak ignored her words and continued, “My youngest brother, Mazzak, he built instruments for children to learn music upon, yet your Unsullied pulled him out of my family’s home and killed him with a dozen spear thrusts. After you have been fitted with a collar and pilloried for all to enjoy, I will make sure that I am the first in line to use you.”
Ser Jorah’s sword had slid at least half a foot from its scabbard and Murnak was reaching for his own blades when Rhaemund Storm reached out, grabbed his fellow captain’s upper arm, and yanked him close. He muttered something in a low, ominous growl, Murnak’s face darkened for a few seconds, and then Murnak nodded and held out his hands in a placating gesture.
Daenerys raised a palm towards Ser Jorah and the knight reluctantly slid his sword back into its sheath. When the tension had eased, she stroked at Drogon’s tail and said, “I invited you here to see if bloodshed could be avoided, not so that you could threaten me.”
Rhaemund started to reply, “My lady …”
Daenerys cut him off with a cutting gesture of her hand. “You finally grant me the respect of a title, but you use the wrong one.”
“Your grace,” Rhaemund, and his voice had an odd note of … concern … to it that she found patronizing. “You are in a dangerous place. If you are defeated here, it is not death that the masters of Slaver’s Bay intend for you. You believe yourself a liberator, but who shall liberate you if you find yourself in chains?”
Daenerys’s instinct was to respond with a jibe to indicate how little she cared about his veiled threats, but something in Rhaemund’s voice stopped her.
It almost sounds like he is worried about me … or, judging from the hungry way he stares at my body, he might simply like the way I look in this dress.
“I am only a young girl, still shy of two decades in age, and new to the ways of war,” she replied in a breathy, vapid manner, “but …”
Rhaemund stepped forward, a move that was matched by Ser Barristan stepping nearer to her side, and interrupted her, “You can probably fool Eastern men into thinking you’re an innocent child with that mummer’s performance, but not me.” He glanced her up and down, and she was fairly certain that his eyes lingered on the exposed skin of her neck and upper chest. “You’re strong, growing stronger by the day, but even so, your eight thousand Unsullied won’t force those gates while armored men on horses carve your rearguard to pieces. You and your two gray-beard Westerosi knights were only able to liberate Astapor because you were already inside the walls. That isn’t true here. Here, the Second Sons guard the gates.”
He is well-spoken for a bastard sellsword.
She noticed that both Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan frowned at the gray-beard comment, but thankfully they held both their tongues. They had failed to follow her lead in Astapor, and she had reminded them that she would find new advisors if they ever did it again. So far, they had heeded her warning.
“I will take this city,” Daenerys informed Rhaemund. “The only question is whether you and your men need to die.”
Rhaemund chuckled, and it was like the sound of two rocks being ground against each other. “As you say, your grace.”
Daenerys decided that she would no longer tolerate the man’s mocking tone and was about to tell him so when Murnak interrupted.
“Would you like me to tell you of pleasures I will rip from your body?” Murnak asked, his scar curling in an evil fashion as he leered up at her. “You do not deserve to be fucked like a husband might use his wife, so I shall …”
Rhaemund grabbed Murnak’s upper arm again, yanked him about, and the two captains spoke angrily in hushed, growling whispers. Rhaemund Storm was intimidating enough when calm, but enraged he appeared truly frightening.
I should have had more Unsullied guarding me at this meeting.
Daenerys let the two captains bicker for a time and then announced, “If Captain Murnak cannot speak in a civilized fashion, he can either lose his tongue or leave. Honestly, I am tempted to feed you both to my dragons and end this charade.”
Drogon and Rhaegal raised their heads, blinked, and smoke billowed from their mouths. Viserion, on the other hand, used his foreclaws to climb down from the perch and settle upon the canvas-covered ground. He sat back on his haunches, sniffed at the air, and stared at Rhaemund. Daenerys blinked in surprise at the dragon’s unexpected curiosity.
What has gotten into Viserion?
Murnak folded his arms across his chest, settled back onto his heels, and scowled at her with a sullen expression.
“There is another way,” Daenerys said in a quiet, determined voice.
Rhaemund smiled at that. “Somehow, I don’t suspect you’re going to ask us to simply pack up and leave.”
Time to roll the dice.
“You could fight for me,” Daenerys suggested as she stared into the man’s bright blue eyes. “The life of a sellsword is brutish, nasty, and short. Why not let the men of the Second Sons earn the titles and land usually reserved for the firstborn? Join my cause and such rewards will be yours.”
Murnak shook his head and growled, “We’ve taken the slaver’s gold, we fight for the Yunkai.”
“It is not a contract I offer, it is legitimacy in the world,” she explained. “Though if it is coin you seek, you would find me far more generous than the masters of Yunkai.”
Eventually.
“If we break our contracts, men would decide that we are dishonorable,” Rhaemund pointed out in an irritatingly pedantic manner. “The Second Sons would never be hired again.”
Daenerys leaned over and murmured to Missandei, again in High Valyrian, “This mercenary speaks of honor as though he had any.” She watched for a flicker of understanding in Rhaemund’s eyes when she switched languages, but this time she did not detect it. “Honor?” she asked Rhaemund in Common. “You murder for coin. If I had you detail for me the breadth of your villainy when you fought for the Qartheen, a people who I do not remember with fondness, I suspect we would be here for several days.”
Rhaemund’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows bunched in a sudden flash of anger. “I’ve fought for coin, that’s true. Mostly against the Dothraki … your adopted people. Each and every man of a khalasar that I have ever met has been a killer, a raper, and a slaver, yet you name me murderer? You talk of honor while ignoring what your barbarian followers do to their captives.”
“And I suppose you saw yourself as some noble hero all while being conveniently paid to kill?” Daenerys scoffed. “How much innocent blood is on your hands?”
A second spark of anger flared for a few seconds in Rhaemund’s eyes. “And what about the blood of Astapor and Qarth that stains your delicate fingers, Mother of Dragons?”
Daenerys raised her voice and made her words as cold and hard as ice. “I grow tired of warning you about keeping a civil tongue in your head. Should I have Ser Barristan or Ser Jorah chastise you?”
When Rhaemund laughed, Daenerys found herself again clutching at the fabric of her dress as she wrestled with her temper. When he had finished laughing, he asked, “Do you think either of the old men you saddle yourself with could stop me if I wished to reach you?”
Why must men always reduce everything to arrogant posturing?
“Shall I gut this one for you, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked as he tightened his grip on his sword hilt.
Drogon and Rhaegal snapped and growled while Viserion resumed sniffing at the air.
Daenerys shook her head and gestured at the dragons. That will not be necessary, Ser Barristan. My children guard me, and they do not like it when their mother is threatened.”
Murnak eyed the dragons with open disgust while Rhaemund said, “Two years from now, assuming your dragons live and are not taken from you, they'll win you battles. In five years, they’ll win you kingdoms. Now? Now, they will win you nothing except curious stares.”
Viserion crawled closer to the mercenary captains, close enough that the two men could have knelt and patted his head, and sniffed at the air around Rhaemund. The cream and gold colored dragon made a soft, clucking noise from deep within his chest, ruffled his bronze and gold-tinged wings, and swayed his head back and forth on a long, slender neck.
Something is wrong with Viserion.
“This pale one seems to like me,” Rhaemund said as he grinned at the dragon.
“Maybe to eat,” Daenerys said. “Then again, the flesh of an arrogant sellsword is probably not to his taste.”
Rhaemund laughed again, and the deep, gravelly sound was resounded within the canvas walls of the pavilion. “Not being to his taste suits me just fine.”
I have had enough of this conversation.
“Go back and tell the Second Sons that their options are to leave my city, swear to my cause, or die,” she announced.
“Your city?” Murnak snapped.
Rhaemund gestured towards Daenerys. “Those braids in your hair, one for every victory, yes? Where are you planning on putting the one for Yunkai, I wonder. Your handmaidens must grow weary from managing such a complex weave.”
“You have no braids,” Daenerys pointed out. “Amongst the Dothraki, you would be seen as a man who has never won a battle.”
“If you survive the first time an enemy uses your braids as a handhold,” Rhaemund replied, “you’ll call for shears and cut your hair off yourself.”
He has a point.
Nevertheless, she continued as if she had not heard, “My husband, Khal Drogo, never found a victor’s braid to represent a handicap in battle.”
Rhaemund’s expression turned hard. “And where is he now?”
The tent went very still. Even the dragons seemed to hold their breath.
Daenerys would have thought that such a remark would engender rage, but instead, sorrow washed over her. She glanced away, searched for a cutting and pithy rebuttal, and found that the unexpected wave of sadness had left her at a loss for words.
“I shouldn’t mock a widow’s grief,” Rhaemund admitted. “My apologies."
I would have never thought to hear this one voice regret.
Daenerys took a few seconds to gather herself before she turned back to the captains of the Second Sons. “Swear to me and you will never need another contract. Despite the wrongs you believe I have committed against your family, Captain Murnak, you have a responsibility to the men who fight for you. I will give you gold, castles, and lordships of your choosing when I take back the Seven Kingdoms. If your conscience bothers you about breaking your word to the Yunkai, tell the slave masters that they lied to you about the enemy you were hired to fight and that your contract is therefore nullified.”
Murnak’s eyes narrowed again. “How did they lie?”
“What did they tell you about me?” Daenerys asked.
Rhaemund replied, “They said that you were a bloodthirsty butcher who made the streets of Astapor run with blood, that you had your Unsullied kill men, women, and children indiscriminately, and that you intend to see all of Slaver’s Bay in flames.”
“Lies,” she informed them. She muttered a command to Ser Jorah, he appeared reluctant at first to obey, and when her eyes bulged in irritation that he might shame her by refusing her order, he nodded and exited the tent. A few moments later, he returned with a rather flustered Unsullied. “You,” she said to the eunuch soldier. “In Astapor, what commands did I give when the city was taken?”
“Khaleesi,” the Unsullied replied, “you ordered this one and his brothers to kill all the Good Masters of Astapor, to kill their soldiers and any man who holds a whip, to spare the children, and to liberate all the slaves.”
“Thank you,” Daenerys said. She dismissed the man with a wave of her hand. After he departed, she turned back to the sellsword captains. “If I must, I will bring in as many Unsullied as you would like, but they will all say the same thing.” She leaned forward just enough so that the two men could enjoy a glimpse down the front of her dress, suppressed a smile when she saw Rhaemund’s eyes, predictably, shift towards her chest, and said, “The masters of Yunkai have lied to the Second Sons. I am not a bloodthirsty conqueror, and I do not kill without cause.” She leaned back and again stroked Drogon’s tail. “Keep their gold, accuse them of hiring you under false pretenses, and fight beneath my banners.”
Murnak gave a shake of his head while Rhaemund replied, “You have no ships, no siege weapons, and no support from Westeros save for these two … seasoned … knights. Why don’t you extract your toll from Yunkai and then ride, sail, or march far from here? In the Jade Sea are islands for the taking, there are abandoned cities along the coast of the Red Waste that you could claim as your own, and there are valleys deep within the Bone Mountains that would bloom under your rule.” A sly smile crept over his face. “I am sure many men would be inspired at the sight of you leading your troops up the Steel Road like one of the warrior-maids of Hyrkoon.”
I imagine so … the warrior-maids of Hyrkoon go about bare-chested.
Rhaemund finished offering his unasked-for advice with a final observation, “Slaver’s Bay is an ugly place, and you don’t belong here.”
He advises me to sail east and make of myself a Golden Empress such as you might find in Yi Ti or Leng, but my destiny is to the west.
“You have heard my offer,” she announced as she rose to her feet. “I will give you until tomorrow morning. After that, I will assume the answer is no.” The captains were ushered away, she ignored their backwards glances in her direction, and once they were out of earshot, she beckoned Grey Worm closer. “Get my army ready,” she instructed. “I suspect I will have need of it come sunrise.”
“We will be ready to fight and die at your command,” Grey Worm intoned as he stood straighter and placed a clenched fist over his heart.
“Your grace,” Ser Jorah said, “during the march north, I had a chance to speak with men familiar with Yunkai … men whose trade requires them to know ways in and out of the city that avoid passing through the main gates.”
Daenerys fixed Ser Jorah with a suspicious, skeptical look. “And what sort of trade requires that particular type of knowledge?”
“Smugglers,” Ser Jorah replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“Smugglers,” she repeated in a flat, unconvinced tone. “We need to get an army into Yunkai, not a barrel of poppy milk or a crate of Marahai’an numb-tongue powder. Besides, can we trust smugglers?”
“We can trust them to know their trade,” Ser Jorah continued. “And their trade involves knowing which of the back gates of the city has an unguarded culvert leading beneath the walls.”
“That does sound like it might be useful,” Daenerys admitted. Intrigued, she leaned in closer and told Ser Jorah to continue.