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Chapter Text

"Yes, without the dragon queen, there would be no problem at all. We’d all be dead already."

Missandei cherished the precision and beauty of language, and she always prided herself on being measured and thoughtful in her speech, never profaning the gift of her words by lowering herself to the pettiness or vulgarity of others. It was something she could control, even when she was enslaved-she could always choose her own words. It was rare for her to speak in haste or in anger; that was not her way.

But now, huddled in the crypts beneath Winterfell, waiting for the dead to come for them and listening to Jon Snow’s sister complain about Daenerys while Tyrion Lannister said not a word to defend the queen he supposedly served, frustration overrode her long-cultivated self-control. Snapping out the utterly undiplomatic words, she walked away from the duo and found an isolated corner to sequester herself in. She had no desire to spend what could be the last minutes of her life with people she disliked. Although she would have been welcome among the Dothraki women, she craved solitude.

Ever since Missandei came north, all she had known was cold. The driving snow and ever-present winds, the way she had been treated by the Northerners, the hard looks from the Stark women, the unrelenting fear in her heart-all of it put so deep a chill in her that she feared she would never feel warm again. Ever since Daenerys and her people arrived at Winterfell, they were treated like an inconvenience, as though they were not risking their lives to defend this castle and its people. It was just one part of the open disdain that the northerners showed towards the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and Daenerys herself that was entirely incomprehensible to Missandei.

Missandei had not expected an exuberant welcome, but she never imagined that they would be treated like unwanted burdens. After all, they were invited here by their king, who had seemed all too eager for their aid on Dragonstone, but was now unwilling or unable to stand up for them. Jon Snow knew full well that they brought their own provisions, for man, horse, and dragon alike, yet he allowed his sister to publicly snipe at Daenerys over an utter falsehood. The Westerosi responses to the Dothraki and Unsullied ranged from acting as though they were invisible to outright hostility. In Essos, such behavior towards an ally would be unthinkable, but it seemed that the rules were very different here.

After the battle was won-because they would win, Missandei refused to think otherwise. They would be victorious, Grey Worm and Daenerys would be unharmed, she could not give in to doubt now-she planned to speak with the queen about the conduct of the King in the North. If he and Daenerys did not wish to make their liaison known publicly, that was their choice, but he could not allow his subjects to behave so disrespectfully.

Then the dead rose, and Missandei thought no more of politics.

As they emerged from the crypts, the devastation of the battle was evident even in the dim light, with corpses everywhere and the agonizing cries of the wounded filling the air. Yet for Missandei, her eyes were filled with only one man. She flew into Grey Worm’s arms and reveled in the feel of him-safe and warm and alive. He held her tight, crushing her against his filthy breastplate, but she did not mind. For an instant they could have been atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen, alone in his chambers on Dragonstone, or even on the beaches of Naath. He was her home, in a way that no place could ever be.

Unconcerned by the people around them, he kissed her frantically, almost desperately, on her lips and face, as if assuring himself that she was real. He tasted like blood and mud and death, but nothing could have been sweeter. Yet despite his palpable relief, she still sensed some tension in him, something holding him back.

When his grip loosened and Missandei was able to get a clearer look at his face, she saw something she could never have imagined-tears, sparkling in Grey Worm’s eyes and cutting tracks down his dirty, bloody face.

“Don’t cry, my love,” she said gently, cupping his face and wiping the tears away with her thumbs. She started to say that all was well, that the battle was won, but something stopped her. Because there were only two things she could think of that would make Grey Worm weep. Her own pain or death-yet she stood, alive and well, in his arms-and still his eyes shone with raw emotion…

“Where is Daenerys? Have you seen her?” Usually she did not refer to the queen by her first name in public, although she had not used her title privately in years, but she was too relieved to worry about appearances now.

Grey Worm did not respond, his lips pressed tight as if he did not trust himself to speak, and he shook his head.

Cold dread bubbled up within her, and again she asked, “Where is she?”

A terrible roar split the air, so loud that it seemed to shake the foundations of Winterfell itself, and was joined an instant later by a second call. Missandei had never heard anything like it before, but she knew in her bones that it could only be the grief of dragons.

The relief that she felt upon seeing Grey Worm fell away, and not thinking, scarcely able to breathe, she ran through the yard and out the castle gate, stepping over the dead and dying.

Even when the dragons’ cries abruptly cut off, Missandei’s ears still rang, and she wondered why they had fallen silent. Were they gone too? Had the magic that resurrected them from stone died with their mother?

As she rounded the castle, she saw a scene of chaos. Drogon and Rhaegal, alive but battered, were surrounded by a ring of shouting Westerosi survivors-none of her people would do something so foolish. The dragons were pacing in a tight circle, growling at the spears being pointed at them, venting flame at anyone who came too close, yet refusing to take off.

They were guarding something-someone-on the ground, and Missandei felt her heart break as she knew beyond a certainty who it must be.

Before she could shout to the men, some fool loosed an arrow at Drogon. It glanced harmlessly off his scales, but both dragons shot torrents of fire at him, bellowing with rage. If the man had not dropped to the ground, he would have been consumed instantly.

They’ll all get themselves killed, Missandei realized. These men fancied themselves dragonslayers, and would perish for their troubles. Some small part of her, the part still capable of rational political thought, wondered why they were willing to risk certain death for the promise of-what? Gold? Land? Who at Winterfell would want the dragons gone?

But she could not contemplate that now. She needed to calm the dragons down before they killed anyone or were harmed themselves.

Pitching her voice as loudly as she could, she called out, “Drogon! Rhaegal!”

By the grace of the Lord of Harmony, of R’hllor or the Great Stallion or some other god, the dragons heard her over the din, both swiveling their massive heads towards her. They recognized her instantly, and their calls changed. There was still fury and sorrow, but also trills and chirps, the sounds they made when reunited with one of their brothers or Daenerys herself. It was a sound of welcome and familiarity, one that they saved for family.

As Missandei came close, she expected the Westerosi around the dragons to part, but all they did was glare at her, the hatred apparent in their eyes. Several of them even trained their weapons towards her, and a wild part of her wanted to laugh at their stupidity. They hated her so much that they were willing to turn their backs on two fully grown and furious dragons to point spears at her, a woman alone armed only with a small dragonglass blade. She wasn’t even wearing armor.

In the Common Tongue, she said, “Let me through. I can calm them.”

But they did not move, and the dragons began to snarl again. How long would it be until they attacked in earnest? Missandei did not know what would have happened, had she not heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats and Unsullied boots on the frozen earth.

Not wanting to turn her back to the men, she looked over her shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Grey Worm, leading a small contingent of Unsullied, and a few Dothraki, somehow still mounted, coming towards them. A fraction of their original forces, to be sure, but more than the men currently keeping her from the dragons.

At the sight of the approaching reinforcements, the Northerners reluctantly stepped aside, allowing her through. She felt a prickle of fear at walking past hostile armed men, but with Grey Worm approaching and the dragons so close, Missandei felt reasonably certain that they would not harm her.

Ignoring them, she looked up at Rhaegal and Drogon, and the grief in their eyes seemed almost human as their snarls ceased and they stretched their long necks towards her.

In Valyrian, she said, “I am so sorry that she is gone. She loved you more than anything, and you loved her so much.”

The queen’s sons began to cry, letting out soft calls and what could only be described as whimpers of pain. The sound was heartbreaking, and Missandei felt an answering sob well up in her chest. But she pushed it down; she could not weep now.

Missandei reached out her trembling hands, stroking both of their massive noses. Even through her heavy gloves, they were almost uncomfortably warm to the touch, a constant reminder that they were fire made flesh. She was not afraid of the dragons, having known them and fed them from her own hands since they were small. But she dreaded seeing what they concealed, because seeing would mean that she would have to accept Daenerys was dead.

“But she’s gone to be with your brother,” she continued, her voice cracking slightly at the thought. Daenerys mourned Viserion, the smallest and gentlest of her children, so deeply, yet their so-called Westerosi ‘allies’ spoke of his death as though he had been a mere beast. At least he was no longer alone. “They’re together now, and not in pain anymore.”

Rhaegal’s whole body shuddered, and he let out a deep sigh. If he had been human, she would have thought he was fighting back tears. Staring into his bronze eyes, Missandei thought too of the queen’s first son, Rhaego. Daenerys spoke of him rarely, yet more than once Missandei had heard her whisper his name in her sleep. The idea that her friend would be reunited with her lost children, and others like kind Ser Barristan and perhaps even the mother she had never known, gave her an inkling of comfort.

“I loved her too. Not as much as you, but I did. She was your mother, and she became my sister. That makes us family. We have to take care of each other, now that she’s gone.”

Tears burned in her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away. In that moment, the hostile Westerosi around them might as well have been in faraway Asshai; she was alone with the dragons, sharing in their sorrow.

Missandei continued, “I know you want to protect her, but you have to let me take her body. No one else will harm her, but she can’t stay out here.”

They must have understood, because both dragons stepped away from each other, revealing what they had been so determined to protect. Lying there, surrounded by blood and snow and corpses, so terribly still, was Daenerys. Missandei was not surprised to see Jorah Mormont there too, because she could not imagine a world where he drew breath and his queen did not.

Moving between the two dragons, she knelt on the ground beside them and gently stroked her friend’s cheek. This irrevocable proof that Daenerys was really dead, that her fire was gone from the world, finally broke her composure. Missandei began to weep in earnest as Rhaegal and Drogon curled around her protectively, and together they mourned.

Chapter Text

In the end, Missandei was not able to mourn for long. Weak rays of sunlight had just begun to illuminate the wreckage around her when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. She started, and looked up at a stern yet compassionate face.

Most of the dosh khaleen had remained in Vaes Dothrak, to govern the non-combatants of the Dothraki, but some, including Vorri, chose to accompany the bulk of the khalasar across the Great Salt Sea. They came for a variety of reasons-for security, to provide counsel to their khaleesi-but Missandei knew that at least one had come for adventure, to see the world beyond the poison water. Vorri’s hair was white as snow, her face heavily lined, but she stood tall and proud, and rode with a skill that put many of the younger riders to shame. In addition to possessing a keen political mind, she had forgotten more about healing and herb lore than many healers would ever know, and she was a welcome addition to Daenerys’s inner circle.

“Missandei, there is much to be done.” The older woman’s tone was gentle and without reproach, but the meaning of her words was clear. The battle was over but the messy business of ruling still required attention, and Missandei knew that she was the best person for the task. No one else could communicate with the Dothraki, Unsullied, and Westerosi as well as her, and she was most familiar with the intricacies of Daenerys’s governance. Tyrion and Varys knew little about the Unsullied or Dothraki, and besides, Missandei did not trust that they would make the best decisions for their people. Yet she could not leave Daenerys out here, exposed to the elements and hostile eyes.

Apparently sensing her reluctance, Vorri continued, “I will tend to her myself. She was khaleesi, she must be prepared for the Night Lands by the dosh khaleen. 

Her firm tone brooked no disagreement, and Missandei relinquished her dead friend to Vorri’s care.

The sun was already beginning to set by the time Missandei had a moment to sit down and catch her breath. Her head was pounding, likely the result of a lack of sleep and grief, and she had spent the day juggling a myriad of tasks. She set some of the survivors to locating the injured and transporting them to Daenerys’s hastily erected tent, where they were tended to by Dothraki healers. Others, she directed to begin the lengthy and grim process of locating their dead, who would be burned on a massive pyre at some future date. The rest of the encampment was rising around her, a mixture of Dothraki horsehide tents and the plain canvas tents of the Unsullied, as it had been made clear that they were no longer welcome in the castle itself.

Throughout this process, there was no sign of Tyrion or Varys, and messages she sent to Jon went unanswered. From what she could glean from reports by people who collected their injured and dying from the castle itself-because the northerners seemed uninterested in helping their fallen allies from Essos or of the Free Folk-Jon was rumored to be catatonic with grief over Daenerys's death and had not been seen since the battle. His sister Sansa had apparently taken charge, yet she was no more responsive to Missandei’s missives than the indisposed king.

As frustrated as Missandei was by this lack of cooperation, she did not let it hinder her actions. Her people had functioned for a long time without Westerosi, and they did not need them now.

Fortunately, the infighting that usually followed the death of a khal had not occurred, because this was an entirely new situation in Dothraki history. Never had their losses been so grievous, nor had an entire khalasar been sworn as bloodriders to a single khal. Traditionally, they were now all obligated to avenge Daenerys’s death and then commit suicide, but the dosh khaleen had forbidden it. The remaining kos would command the Dothraki for now, under the guidance of the dosh khaleen. Missandei was grateful that Okho and Temmo, two of Daenerys’s most able and loyal kos, had survived the battle, and would hopefully be able to keep the rest of the khalasar from seeking vengeance for the death of their khaleesi.

A brief conference with the surviving Unsullied officers and kos came to the unanimous decision to leave Westeros. There was nothing for them here now, and their presence was barely tolerated when their queen lived. With her gone, there was no telling what forms Westerosi hostility might take.

Not knowing whether Cersei was still a threat to them now that Daenerys was dead, Missandei proposed that they not return to Dragonstone, as it was dangerously close to King’s Landing. Instead, they would make for the Iron Islands, which were now held by their ally Yara Greyjoy. From there, they could send word to Meereen asking for ships to transport them back to Essos. It was not ideal but their options were limited, and this seemed to be the safest choice.

This was ruling-constantly making difficult decisions, often without sufficient time to seriously consider them, with no good choices and the knowledge that your failure could result in countless deaths. It was exhausting but Missandei threw herself into the task wholeheartedly. As long as she was busy, she could keep her sorrow at bay.

Just in case the raven bearing her message was intercepted-Missandei watched the maester release the bird, just to ensure he sent it, but one could never be too careful-she dispatched the strongest surviving riders who also spoke the Common Tongue to the Stoney Shore with instructions to get word to Yara, no matter what.

After that, Missandei ordered the weakest of the animals, those injured in the battle or otherwise unlikely to survive the journey to the Iron Islands, to be slaughtered. Most would be butchered and serve as provisions on the road, but first she instructed that the dragons be allowed to eat their fill. They needed to regain their strength and heal, and she did not know what kind of prey they would be able to find in the desolate north.

Grey Worm found her sitting outside the healing tent, and although his face was grave, his eyes softened as they fell upon her. He pulled her to her feet and pressed some dried fruit in her hand. “Vorri has something to show us, but I knew you hadn’t eaten all day.”

It was true-her stomach had been growling for hours and she’d begun to feel lightheaded, but had not stopped for food. Gratefully she ate, walking with him hand-in-hand.

Dried fruit was better than nothing, but gods, Missandei missed fresh fruit: juicy peaches and sweet melons, blood oranges bursting on her tongue. She wasn’t even entirely sure what fruit she was eating now. Perhaps the northerners were so cold and stiff from a lifetime of eating only boiled meats and bland pottages, without spices or fresh fruit to stimulate the palate.

They entered a sandsilk tent that Missandei recognized as belonging to the dosh khaleen, but Vorri was the only member present. Okho and Temmo were already waiting there, looking as exhausted as she felt, standing guard over a blanket-covered form that must have been Daenerys.

Vorri greeted them and said in Dothraki, “Missandei, I thought it best if we converse in Dothraki. None of these foreigners speak it and what I must say must not leave this tent. I do not believe that the Spider has ears in our camp but we cannot be too careful.”

She nodded and explained to Grey Worm in Naathi, which she had been teaching him alongside the Common Tongue. It was something of a private language for them, saved for their most intimate moments, and Grey Worm was a quick learner. Although he spoke some Dothraki, his Naathi was better, and Missandei doubted that anyone else in the whole of Westeros spoke her mother tongue.

After checking that the tent flaps were closed tight and commanding the Unsullied standing guard to not let anyone approach, Vorri bent down and pulled back the blanket.

Daenerys lay on the floor of the tent, very pale and still. Vorri had washed her clean, yet Missandei found herself avoiding looking at her friend’s face. She could see the fine silver lines on the dead queen’s belly, a reminder that the dragons were not her only children. Aside from her unnatural stiffness, Daenerys could have been sleeping; aside from a few cuts and bruises, she appeared entirely unharmed.

Yet as one, all three men sucked in a breath, and Missandei looked to Grey Worm, confused. What had they expected to see, that this shocked them so greatly?

With surprising strength, Vorri gently rolled Daenerys onto her belly, revealing a single grievous wound between her shoulder blades. Even though the blood had been washed away, she felt dizzy at the sight.

“How can this be?” Okho asked, incredulous, and she translated for Grey Worm. There was cold fury on her lover’s face as he explained, something that Missandei had never seen before.

“When the risen dead kill, it is not clean or precise like this. Jorah Mormont was stabbed at least a dozen times, all over his body, and many were mangled beyond recognition. Faces smashed, limbs hacked off. No dead man could have done this.”

Horror crept into Missandei’s heart as she translated his words into Dothraki, comprehension dawning.

“This,” Vorri said, her voice dripping with disgust, “is the work of the living.”

Temmo uttered a string of curses, and although Missandei could swear in nineteen languages, at that moment she was speechless.

Together they began to puzzle through the events of that night, trying to determine what precisely led to their queen’s murder. Daenerys was mounted on Drogon for most of the battle, of course, and a few riders saw her attempting to kill the Night King with dragonfire. At some point after that, she either intentionally dismounted Drogon or fell from his back. Missandei found the latter to be more likely; Daenerys knew she would be incredibly vulnerable on the ground, without even a weapon to defend herself, and would not have left her dragon willingly.

Grey Worm said he fought alongside Ser Jorah in the courtyard for some time, but was uncertain when he last saw him. The knight somehow realized that Daenerys was no longer with Drogon-perhaps he had seen the riderless dragon?-and come to her aid. He must have protected her for a time, long enough at least for her to take up her own sword, and he fell first. They had found Jorah laying face up across Daenerys’s legs, with the queen on her back. The greatsword Heartsbane and another blade were on the ground near them, as though they were discarded at the same time.

Daenerys would only have dropped her sword and pulled Jorah into her lap if she believed that she was safe, if she knew that the battle was won. After the dead fell.

And the dragons…they known she was dead when they returned to the castle. Grey Worm said that the only reason they were able to find Daenerys so quickly amongst the mounds of corpses was that the dragons flew directly to her and began their desperate vigil. They were singularly focused on her, even in death, and apparently ignored the other survivors until they tried to get to Daenerys, setting off their fury.

Missandei was no expert in dragon lore, but she thought she understood how that was possible.

After Viserion’s death, Missandei and Daenerys wept together, and Daenerys told her that she felt him die. Missandei thought she was talking about the physical manifestation of grief, the ache of loss, but Daenerys insisted that it was something different.

“Ever since my children were born, I’ve always known if they were happy or afraid or angry. I feel them the same way I felt Rhaego move beneath my heart. They are a part of me, and I them. I felt the spear piece Viserion’s breast, as though I myself had been struck. Before I saw him fall, before I heard his scream, something snapped inside of me. Like the tether between us had been cut loose, like part of me died with him.”

That connection went both ways, Missandei suspected. The dragons’ moods often reflected those of their mother, and Drogon returned to Meereen to save Daenerys in Daznak’s Pit. If Daenerys felt Viserion’s death, surely Drogon and Rhaegal felt hers too.

Temmo said that the dragons fled during the battle, both without their riders, and flew hard and fast away from Winterfell. Even injured, Missandei knew that they could cover ground more quickly than any man or horse, and undoubtedly flew far from the castle. Yet they only returned some time after the battle, not immediately after the dead were defeated.

If she had been killed during the battle, they would have come back far sooner. But they were farther away when they felt her die, so she must have died later, much later. 

As shocked as she was, in a strange way it all made sense. The original killer must not have been thinking clearly, to only stab her once in such a precise way. That was why the Westerosi attacked the dragons; they wanted to get to Daenerys's body to give her more wounds to conceal their crime. They were trying to kill the dragons at all, the queen's sons had just gotten in the way of their plan.  

It would have been easy to do, in the chaos of the aftermath. Daenerys was alone and unguarded, her armies shattered and her dragons gone. In her grief, she made an easy target for any assassin. After all, the Westerosi were her allies, the people she sacrificed so much for. She would never have expected to be in danger from the living.

They needed Daenerys’s armies and her dragons, and once they got those, they had taken her life too.

A wave of nausea swept over her and Vorri thrust a pail into her hands in the nick of time. Missandei was violently ill, retching up the fruit Grey Worm had given her and everything else in her stomach.

Temmo and Okho were swearing bloody vengeance against the killer of the blood of their blood, promising that they would ride them down and drag them behind their horses until there was nothing left, and Missandei understood the feeling. Part of her wanted to run out of the tent and climb atop one of the dragons, then burn Winterfell and its wretched inhabitants to the ground. Their people had fought and bled and died for the North, yet what had they gotten in return? Treachery and death.

I wish we had never come north. Why should we protect people who despise us?  

Grey Worm carefully raised a cup of cool water to her lips, helping her rinse her mouth, and then he held her. She began to weep again, softly this time, and he let her. Missandei knew that he must be feeling as heartbroken and furious as her, yet he was setting his own feelings aside to care for her.

In that moment, she did not think it was possible to love anyone more than she loved him.

Someone called Grey Worm’s name from outside the tent, and he let go of her, telling them to enter.

Loyal Spear, an Unsullied officer, slipped inside and whispered something in Grey Worm’s ear, whose expression hardened.

“Tyrion and Varys want to see us at the castle immediately.”

That was how Missandei found herself standing in Tyrion’s room in Winterfell-apparently the eviction had not extended to him or Varys-waiting to hear whatever was so urgent that it required an immediate summons. Before leaving the tent of the dosh khaleen, she had splashed her face with cold water to wash away the evidence of her tears, and if her eyes were still red and puffy, Daenerys’s other advisors made no mention of it. Varys and Tyrion seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, considering that their queen had died less than a day earlier. Both were wearing fresh clothes and showed none of the haggardness that Missandei felt, and she wondered if they slept well while Vorri washed the blood from Daenerys's murdered body.

Puzzlingly, after making some rather unconvincing expressions of grief, Tyrion began to speak on an entirely unexpected topic: Jon and his true identity. Perhaps Tyrion’s explanation would have made more sense if Missandei was not utterly exhausted and grief-stricken, with a crushing headache, but as it was she found it incomprehensible.

Apparently Jon Snow’s strange half-brother Bran Stark and his friend Samwell Tarly informed everyone after the battle that Jon Snow was not actually Jon Snow. He was, in fact, Daenerys’s long-lost nephew, older than Daenerys and the son of her eldest brother (it took Missandei a moment to recall that Daenerys had two brothers, one who was a man grown before her birth) and the dead sister of his foster father and uncle Lord Stark. By virtue of a hitherto unknown annulment and remarriage, not only was he now the last Targaryen, Tyrion informed them that Jon Snow-whose real name was Aegon Targaryen-had actually been the rightful heir to the Iron Throne all along, so they would be serving him from now on.

It was at this point Grey Worm interrupted him. “Who will serve him?”

“Myself and Lord Varys will be advising King Aegon, of course, and once you swear fealty I imagine he will appoint you as one of his military commanders.”

And even though this situation was anything but funny, the absurdity was too much for Missandei to bear. An involuntary, almost hysterical giggle burst from her, and Tyrion stared at her.

Finally she was able to stop laughing, and she asked, “Have you any proof of these claims?”

“Bran has had several visions confirming it, and I saw the High Septon’s diary regarding the annulment and subsequent remarriage myself.”

Tyrion’s voice was level, as though that somehow conferred legitimacy to his ridiculous statement. Missandei and Tyrion had certainly not always seen eye-to-eye, but she generally considered him a rational person. Now she found herself wondering if his wits had died with Daenerys. An alleged diary and so-called visions were not sufficient evidence to back up such a tale, yet they were all the evidence Tyrion could offer.

“Documents can be fabricated, particularly if there is no way of authenticating them or establishing their provenance. I am no expert on Westerosi law, it is true, but my understanding is that the legality of a secret annulment and subsequent remarriage, with no living witnesses, would be questionable at best. And I do not doubt that Bran Stark has had…visions, but there is no way of knowing what he really saw."

Somehow it made her feel better, the verbal sparring over mundane things like claims and titles. It allowed her to put up the armor she had built up during her years of enslavement, an impenetrable mask of a cool voice and hollow words, making her own feelings and pain unknowable to anyone but herself.

She wanted to say more, such as that she hardly considered Jon Snow’s brother and best friend to be reliable sources of information, but all she wanted was to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

Missandei continued, “We wish you and your king good fortunes in the wars to come, but we will not be staying. Our oath was to Daenerys Targaryen, the queen we chose, not to anyone else.”

All in all, she thought it was a fairly diplomatic and reasonable statement, but both Tyrion and Varys seemed shocked. Had they really thought that they could make decisions for the Dothraki and Unsullied without even consulting them?

“We could hire the Unsullied,” Varys said, almost desperately, and it was all Missandei could do not to roll her eyes. The Unsullied had no interest in coin or plunder, and besides, she doubted that there was enough gold in this war-torn land to pay for even half of the forces that remained.

Grey Worm shook his head, and said in the Common Tongue, “We are free men. We came to Westeros for our queen, and she is gone. We are returning to Essos.”

Varys and Tyrion exchanged a troubled look, and Tyrion asked, “What of the Dothraki?”

“What of them? They have chosen to return to Essos as well.”

Missandei was uncertain of why Tyrion and Varys seemed intent on making her repeat herself. Had she not just told them that the queen’s people were leaving? The survivors of Daenerys’s khalasar had made their wishes very clear; all they wanted was return to Vaes Dothrak, to pray and heal and mourn for their lost riders under the governance of the dosh khaleen. There would be religious rites too, to honor their fallen khaleesi, the Stallion Who Mounts the World, but Missandei doubted that Tyrion had suddenly developed an interest in Dothraki culture. He had never bothered to learn any of their language.

Usually Missandei would not have been so curt, but her head throbbed and she was utterly exhausted, and just wanted this seemingly pointless conversation to end. Yet Tyrion pressed on.

“Would they be open to negotiations?” Despite the fact that Temmo and Okho stood beside her, both fluent in the Common Tongue, Tyrion addressed the question to her. That didn’t surprise her, because she had long suspected neither of the queen’s advisors knew any names of her kos or could even tell them apart.

Again she had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. The Dothraki did not buy or sell, they received gifts and returned them in their own time. They were not, and never would be, available for hire, as if they were some sellsword company. Missandei thought that if Tyrion knew half as much as he claimed to, surely he would be aware of something known to any child in Essos.

But she was spared having to attempt another diplomatic answer when Temmo stepped forward and said, in accented but clear Westerosi, “We stay only to burn our dead and our khaleesi. Then, we will leave and never return to this cursed place.”

Okho’s voice was lower and more difficult to understand-he had taken an injury to the throat during the battle-, but he made himself clear as he fixed his gaze on Tyrion.

“Be glad that we are leaving. You say the risen dead killed the blood of my blood. This may be true, I do not know. I did not see. But not two moons ago, with my own eyes, I watched your brother ride towards my khaleesi with a spear. He wanted to kill her then, why not now? Where was he when she fell?”

Tyrion spluttered, but Okho was not finished.

“If a living man killed her, when we find him we will tie him to every horse left and tear him apart. If the Dothraki ride again in this land, it will not be to put your Snow king on some chair. We will crush you beneath our hooves and take your broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak.”

Shock and horror flared up in Tyrion’s eyes, and Missandei wondered what he expected. That they would eagerly swear their allegiance and lives to a man who did not know them or their languages and cultures, to put him on a throne that they did not care about? It was shockingly callous, almost cruel, and a profound offense.

One glance at Grey Worm told her that he was thinking much the same thing, and she knew that he could have them dead on the floor in the blink of an eye. Both kos had hands on their arakhs, and Missandei realized that she needed to end this audience before either party came to blows. Killing the new advisors of Jon Snow-or Aegon Targaryen, whatever he was calling himself now-would only make their situation worse.

She caught Grey Worm’s hand and addressed the kos in rapid Dothraki. “Not now! This is not the time.”

Both men still looked murderous but relaxed their grips on their blades, and Grey Worm squeezed her hand, not comprehending her words but grasping her intention.

Addressing Varys and Tyrion, she forced herself to smile and speak sweetly. “I apologize, we are all very tired from the battle. We will retire to our camp now, and will send word if anything changes.”

It unsettled her, how naturally the false smile and pretty lies had come back to her, as though she was still translating for Kraznys and forced to satisfy his perverse whims.

Never again, she promised herself. I will say and do what I must to get our people to safety but from that day on I will never make myself seem less than I am. 

Without waiting a response, she turned to leave, and was relieved that the kos and Grey Worm were coming too.

Just as they reached the door, Tyrion called to her, “And the dragons? What will they do?”

In that same cloying tone, she replied, “Dragons go where they please, my lord. If you wish to keep them here, you had best make your case to them yourself.”

Chapter Text

As soon as they stepped into the courtyard, Missandei took several deep breaths, sucking in the cool air and hoping it would calm her. Her hands trembled from adrenaline, fear, and anger.

She would need to discuss it later with the others, but she suspected that, even if Tyrion and Varys had not directly ordered Daenerys’s death, they were at least aware of whatever plot lay behind it. It was unlikely that Varys, with his much-vaunted little birds, could be kept entirely in the dark about such an event, and they seemed far too comfortable with the news of Jon Snow’s true parentage for people who had supposedly just learned of it.

But why? Why would they want their queen dead?

One of Missandei’s main points of contention with Tyrion was his willingness to allow slavery to continue, even paying slave owners for their lost ‘property.’ He was more discomfited by the death or disenfranchisement of slavers than the suffering of enslaved people, and Missandei found that despicable. She had long suspected that his primary goal was to maintain the social order, with himself on top, at whatever cost to those on the bottom. Be it in Essos or Westeros, he would not have truly wanted a ruler who would break the old ways and build something new. She wondered if he had only ever followed Daenerys to get revenge on his family-and maybe not even that. Ever since they arrived in Westeros his strategies against them were singularly unsuccessful.

Varys’s motivations were more obvious. All his talk of serving the people just covered up his true desire: to be the power behind the throne, regardless of who occupied it. Daenerys would not bend to his will and let him rule through her, and perhaps he thought that Jon would be more malleable. Even as someone who had experienced her fair share of treachery, Missandei was appalled that Varys had repaid Daenerys’s forgiveness with more betrayal. After all, he had tried to poison her before, and in Missandei’s mind Daenerys would have been well within her rights to execute him.

If only she had. If only she had punished them for their failures, or at least heeded Olenna Tyrell or Yara Greyjoy or Ellaria Sand instead. If they had taken King’s Landing immediately, as Missandei thought they should have, how different would things be now?

Olenna, Ellaria, and her daughters would still live, as would so many of their fallen people. The Wall would yet stand, with the Night King trapped on the other side, and Viserion would be frolicking in the sky with his brothers, where he belonged.

And Daenerys would be ruling, helping the common people and changing things for the better, instead of lying cold and stiff, murdered by the people she had come to save.

All those deaths, all that blood-to Missandei, it was on Tyrion and Varys’s hands as surely as it was the Night King’s or Cersei Lannister’s. Through malice or incompetence, they had killed Daenerys and Viserion and so many others, and so the wheel spun on, with the two of them perched at the top.

Even with her empty stomach, another wave of nausea swept over her. It was too much, she had just lost her dearest friend to the treachery of so-called allies, and she couldn’t let herself grieve, because she was still trapped in a hostile land and needed to find a way to get her people to safety-

Then she saw something that stood out, even in this day of horrors. Some half-dozen men, all Northerners as far as she could tell, were sitting on and around Viserion’s battered body, slicing into him as though they were butchering a beast.

“What are you doing?” She cried out, unable to keep the revulsion from her voice.

The men atop Viserion froze, exchanging looks with one another. None of them seemed interested in acknowledging her, yet with Grey Worm and the kos at her side, they could not simply ignore her.

Finally one responded, “Seeing if we can salvage the skeleton for dragonbone to make weapons. It’s almost as rare as Valyrian steel, and near as valuable.”

He was insouciant to the point of disrespect, speaking as though they were fools who did not know what dragonbone was, and several of his companions openly leered at her. Missandei felt Grey Worm tense beside her, and Okho and Temmo were gripping the hilts of their arakhs once more.

Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “I am quite aware of the properties of dragonbone, thank you. Who gave you permission to desecrate him? He was our late queen’s son, and not yours to dispose of.”

She was trying to sound as rational as possible, but the truth was that every cut of a Westerosi knife into the dead dragon was a reminder of the blades that had cut down her people, a traitorous stab in Daenerys’s back, and she would not allow it to happen.

“I gave the order.” Annoyance curled in Missandei’s gut at the sound of Sansa Stark’s cold, imperious voice, and she turned to look at the other woman, standing on the walkway above the courtyard. The smug satisfaction on her face was not surprising but no less infuriating. “The dragon is part of the spoils of war, and we can recoup some of our losses from hosting your queen’s armies by selling the dragonbone.”

Missandei wondered what this petulant child, who expected others to fight and die for her as though it was her right, knew of war. Yet some part of her was eager to trade words with someone she so thoroughly disliked; it was a welcome distraction from her earlier musings.

Keeping her voice deliberately neutral, she asked, “What losses would those be? We brought our own food and supplies, and the dragonglass that armed your forces came from our island. As our people made up the majority of this castle’s defense, we made up the greater part of the casualties. If anyone should be demanding recompense, it is us.”

It was an old trick, saying something you knew would upset your opponent in a calm voice to goad them into an emotional reaction. Missandei had been forced to translate so many abhorrent things by terrible people that she could skillfully control her own reactions to the words of others, but many did not have that skill.

Including, apparently, Sansa, who snapped back, “What else could you possibly do with a dead dragon? Eat it?”

She avoided responding to Missandei’s point, because of course she knew that she had no real counterargument to make, yet now Missandei was in the position of needing to formulate an answer to that particular question. In truth, she wasn’t sure what they would do with Viserion. It was not as though they could transport him back to Essos.

Fortunately, Okho had an immediate response.

“He must burn with the khaleesi on her pyre, so that she may go mounted into the Night Lands. The Great Stallion demands it.”

“This is Westeros, we do not worship horses here.” Sansa’s thin lips curled into a familiar smirk that Missandei longed to slap off her face.

You worship statues and trees, how is that any different? Missandei thought, but she bit back those words.

Plastering on that empty smile again, she said, “This is not a matter of theology, but of decency. Viserion will burn with the rest of our dead before we depart.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Depart? Where are you going?”

“Back to Essos, where we belong,” Missandei said wryly. She’d heard the Westerosi whisper about her people and where they though they should be.

Shock played over the Stark woman’s face, and Missandei wondered why the Westerosi were all so surprised that they wanted to leave. Nothing about her time in Westeros made it seem like a desirable place to live, but perhaps they were so self-centered that they could not fathom that someone would want to live anywhere else.

“You can’t go anywhere, not until we defeat Cersei.” Her self-assurance and utter conviction that she had the authority to issue commands to the Unsullied or Dothraki only worsened Missandei’s headache, and she could not be bothered to hide her weariness with this conversation.

“Cersei Lannister is no longer our concern. Our war with her died with our queen, though we wish you good fortunes in the wars to come.”

Done with the other woman, Missandei addressed the men atop Viserion. “Stop this at once.”

From the walkway Sansa snarled, “You don’t give orders here!”

The courtyard had fallen entirely silent, everyone watching and waiting to see how this struggle would play out. Her people had the advantage of numbers and skill, if it came to violence, but Missandei wanted to prevent that at all costs. She did not want any more Essosi blood spilled on the greedy northern soil that had already swallowed so much. No, she needed to defuse this situation as peacefully as possible, by making it clear that this was not a battle worth fighting to the northerners.

“Neither do you, Lady Stark. As far as I am aware, your brother-pardon me, your cousin-is king of Westeros now, and it is his commands that your people obey. Since Ser Jorah fell in the battle and Lords Tyrion and Varys now serve your king, I am Queen Daenerys’s highest-ranking advisor and the only person the dragons will now obey. So I do in fact give orders, and I order that will Viserion burn with his mother before our people depart from Westeros.”

“We’ll see about that.” Something ugly crossed the other woman’s face, disgust and contempt and…fear, perhaps?

The tension in the air was palpable, the northerners no longer cutting into Viserion but not climbing off him either, and everywhere men were reaching for their weapons. Missandei was not sure what would have happened if Ser Davos Seaworth’s voice had not broken the silence.

Hastily entering the courtyard, he said loudly, “I have a message from the king, he says that prior to the battle he promised Queen Daenerys that she could dispose of her dragon’s remains however she wished, and that in her absence, her most trusted advisor Lady Missandei should decide what is to be done with him.”

For a moment all Missandei could do was stare in shock-because she had heard nothing about such an agreement and had no doubt that Daenerys would have informed her if it had ever taken place-but she quickly wiped the confusion from her face. Even if Davos was lying through his teeth, it served her purposes, and she was not about to reject any form of aid.

“Thank you, Ser Davos. We will move Viserion out of the castle and build the pyre for our dead around him. He is not to be touched.”

Apparently Sansa did not yet have the authority to overrule her brother-cousin, even if he was not actually present, because the men butchering Viserion climbed off him and stepped away. When Missandei glanced back up at the walkway, Sansa was gone, undoubtedly off to plot or sulk. Missandei doubted that this would be the only trouble she would cause for her, but at least she had been stymied for now.

The kos and Grey Worm began to direct their people in moving Viserion, but Missandei waited as Davos approached her.

“I’m very sorry for your loss. She was a good queen, a good woman.” His blue eyes were kind, and when he patted her shoulder awkwardly, she did not flinch away from his touch.

He spoke with true sincerity, certainly more than she had heard from Varys or Tyrion, and emotion surged up in her once more. But now was not the time for public grief.

Trying to remain neutral, she replied, “Thank you. Her loyal subjects all grieve for Queen Daenerys.”

Davos shook his head. “I know she meant more than that to you, lass. Is there anything I can do?”

His unexpected warmth almost made her want to weep again, and this time her smile was a true one. Aside from Yara Greyjoy, he was the only living Westerosi Missandei felt any fondness for, and his words seemed genuine.

“No, ser, but thank you for your kind words. How are you faring? I have heard that your king is…indisposed.”

For the first time since they’d met, Missandei could see how heavily grief wore on Davos.

He sighed deeply. “Aye. He did not take the news of your queen’s death well, he blames himself. He never wanted to be king anyway, not of the North and certainly not of Westeros, and that shock combined with the pain of her loss…well, lesser things have driven men to drink.”

Part of Missandei wondered if Jon could be to blame for Daenerys’s death, but she did not think so. He was too recognizable to have snuck out of the courtyard, murdered Daenerys, then returned without anyone noticing, and Grey Worm was certain that he had been in the courtyard when the Night King fell.

For the same reason, despite Okho’s accusation to Tyrion earlier, she did not think Jaime Lannister had been the killer either. She suspected that it must have been someone unknown, some catspaw being manipulated by another who wanted Daenerys gone.

And Missandei was beginning to have an idea who that might be.

By the time they returned to camp and settled more issues that had arisen in their absence, the sun was already beginning to set again. Missandei found these strangely short days unsettling, but she could no longer deny her exhaustion-neither she or Grey Worm had slept since before the battle. However, she insisted that she would not rest unless he did, so, after determining a patrol schedule and extracting promises that they would be awoken at the first sign of any trouble, they retired to Grey Worm’s tent.

On the journey north, Tyrion made a fuss about Grey Worm sharing Missandei’s cabin aboard the ship, then her chamber at Winterfell, saying that such things were not done in Westeros. Unmarried women who served a queen could not flaunt their lovers openly, according to him.

Missandei had found his complaint perplexing for many reasons. First of all, there was no risk of her falling pregnant, and in Westeros Grey Worm was not considered a man anyway. She was not a maidservant or lady-in-waiting, a mere ornament of the court whose only purpose was to be beautiful and chaste, but the queen’s advisor and a member of her council. And Missandei knew that it was common for men of the court, married or unmarried, to keep their paramours about them, and that Tyrion himself was notorious in Westeros for his whoring. Even during his brief stint in Meereen, he was a frequent visitor at the pleasure houses. It was not as though she and Grey Worm made love in full view of the army or their allies, either; their behavior in public was entirely circumspect.

But in the interest of preserving the peace, she had refrained from saying any of that and had instead pointed out that, with an army of the dead descending upon them, surely no one would care about her sleeping arrangements.

Yet Tyrion insisted that it would be scandalous and reflect poorly on Daenerys, and suggest that her morals were loose or foreign. If they were married, perhaps it would be different, but for an unwed woman it was simply not acceptable behavior in Westeros.

At that point Missandei began to wonder whether this was really about her and Grey Worm, or Tyrion’s thinly veiled unhappiness over Daenerys taking Jon as a lover.

What hypocrites men were! Jon and Tyrion could lay with whoever they pleased openly and no one would bat an eye, but if a woman took her pleasure outside of the marriage bed, even discreetly, it was unacceptable and shocking.

Daenerys seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because she had told Tyrion sharply, “You think to dictate their behavior just because they did not stand in a particular building and say some words? If they wish to be married, then they are. If they do not, they are still free people and can do as they wish. My lord Hand, perhaps you should concern yourself less with the private lives of your fellow advisors and more with the plans of our enemies.”

That ended the conversation, and Tyrion had not seemed interested in pressing the issue further now that Daenerys was gone. Even if he wanted to complain, he would have to march past the dragons, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied and tell Missandei to her face that she could not sleep beside the love of her life.

So it was with great relief that Missandei curled up beside Grey Worm on his narrow camp bed. It was not designed for two, and left much to be desired in terms of comfort, but Missandei would rather sleep on the ground with Grey Worm than on a featherbed alone.

Grey Worm fell into slumber almost instantly, and although Missandei was bone-weary, for a time sleep eluded her. She should have felt at peace, lying in the arms of the man she loved, yet she could not stop thinking about the future-both in the immediate sense and what they would do when they returned to Essos.

Missandei had no love for violence. War did not make her heart sing, and conquest was not written in her bones. She was of the Peaceful People, and above all she craved peace. Yet she knew that as long as any slaver still lived, a true peace was impossible. A world without justice, where people still lived in chains, could never be considered peaceful, and slavery would only be scourged away through violence.

And so Missandei knew that she was willing to do anything to prevent another child from being forced into a brothel or cut to become Unsullied, or any person ever being flayed or maimed or nailed to a cross again. To ensure that no slave ships ever touched the beaches of Naath again, she would rain fire and blood down on the slavers, and she would do it gladly.

Volantis first, she thought. There were five slaves for every free person in the city; once their chains had been struck it would be simple enough to smash the Black Walls and cast down the masters of that city. Tiger or elephant, it mattered not-all would taste dragonflame. After breaking the chains of those in Volantis, Qarth, and every other city where slavery still held sway, they would help establish new governments, run by and for the freed people of those cities.

It was easy to let her mind run away with battle plans and strategies for building up the free cities, but for now, she knew she needed rest. To soothe herself, she imagined the life they would have, when all the wars were won.

They would visit Naath, so that she could show Grey Worm the place of her birth. They could not stay there, of course-Grey Worm would not be immune to the diseases carried by the butterflies-so they would make their permanent home in one of the newly freed cities. It didn’t need to be large, Missandei thought-she just wanted a library, so she could read and translate and write, perhaps set down the story of her life for future generations to read. And the home would have a garden, she decided, where they could plant lemon trees. Her friend may have never gotten the home she dreamed of, but they could give her a place in theirs.

She drifted off to sleep, her mind filled with dreams of peace.

The next day was also extraordinarily busy as they began to assemble the massive pyre of their dead on the plain outside of Winterfell as well as preparing for their imminent departure. With any luck, they would burn the dead on the following day and could leave immediately after. Missandei was tempted to leave without waiting from word for Yara and hope to intercept the riders she had sent on their return journey, but she knew that would be foolhardy.

So while Grey Worm and the other commanders discussed the logistics of their departure from the north, she poured over their account books, trying to determine how to ration their supplies for the remainder of their time at Winterfell.

“My-milady?” Missandei looked towards the unfamiliar voice, and saw a young Westerosi boy poke his head into the tent, looking very nervous. She noticed that the hand holding the tent flap was trembling, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

She knew that smallfolk in Westeros were taught to fear and obey the highborn, but this seemed excessive. Perhaps it was because he had been frightened with tales of Essosi savages. Trying to put him at ease, she smiled. “What is it? You may come inside, if you wish.”

He shook his head. “No, just have a message for you. You’re needed up at the castle.”

Missandei turned back towards her papers, puzzled. Who could need her, especially at this hour? Perhaps a raven from Yara had arrived…but if so, it must have outflown the returning riders.

Well, she would just have to go and find out. She pulled a few coins out of the small leather purse on her belt, intending to pay the boy for his service, but when she looked up, he had vanished.

She glanced back towards the partition in the tent, watching the silhouettes of Grey Worm and the others as they planned how to make their way safely to the Iron Islands. Missandei knew that Grey Worm would, at the least, insist on sending her with a contingent of guards, if not accompany her himself, but she craved solitude, needing a few moments to be alone with her thoughts. Wrapping her warm fur cloak about her shoulders, she exited the tent.

Outside the wind was sharp and cold, and she pulled her hood up to shield her face from the blowing snow. At first she had been enchanted at the sight of snow, something entirely novel to her, but the appeal wore off quickly as she learned how wet and miserable it made her.

She moved through the camp quickly, acknowledging the various guards and sentries that she passed. Some gave her puzzled looks, clearly surprised to see her leaving their encampment alone, but none of them questioned her.

Soon she had left the camp behind, and had entered the low hills that divided their camp from Winterfell.

The noises of the army had faded away, and all she could hear was her own breathing and the whistle of the wind. A sharp crack rang out, and she glanced back, wondering if someone had followed her. Just as she realized that the lights from the camp were no longer visible, men began to emerge from the darkness, surrounding her.

By the light of the moon, she could see them clearly, and thought there were about twenty of them, all Westerosi, staring at her with hard, greedy eyes. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Instinctively, she turned and tried to bolt back to the camp, but she ran right into one, who shoved her back. For a moment she was frozen with panic, not sure what to do, but then one of them stepped towards her, the gleam of naked steel in his hand, and her limbs unfroze. This time she charged towards the man blocking her path, and when he caught her in unyielding arms, she pulled her own knife from her belt and plunged it into his side. It was dragonglass, the same blade she had used to defend herself during the battle, yet it was as effective against the living as it was the dead.

She felt it sink deep into his flesh, and when she pulled it out, hot blood sprayed her hand. He went down with a bellow of pain, and she ran. Fear pumping through her veins, she screamed for Grey Worm with all her might, but the howl of the wind carried away her words. She needed to get away, now.

Missandei had only run a short way when one of the men threw himself on her, tackling her to the ground. Feeling his bulk atop her brought on a fresh wave of panic, memories of the violation she had experienced as a slave in Astapor washing over her. Never again, never ever again, would a man hurt her like that. Twisting beneath him, she stabbed at him blindly, striking his torso several times, then shoved him off her and clambered to her feet. She took off running once more and tried to call for help, but her breath was coming fast and hard, and she could not seem to form the words.

She heard the other men behind her, still in pursuit, but wasn’t sure how close they were or how long she could outrun them. Then her foot caught on a stone, her ankle twisting with a bright flash of pain, and she was falling, tumbling down an incline, knocking the wind from her once more. Before she could get up again, the men were upon her.

One grabbed her by her hair and hauled her up to her feet. Missandei slashed wildly with her knife, but another caught her wrist in a grip of iron and wrenched it away from her before striking her across her face.

She yelped at the pain, and they laughed derisively. Now that they had her trapped, they did not seem overly eager to complete their task, shouting foul insults at her and reveling in taunting her. Her attackers moved in a loose circle around her, tossing stones at her and groping at her, yet every time she dodged one, another grabbed her instead. She went down on her knees and shut her eyes, trying to block them out.

They were playing games with her, Missandei realized, just like Kraznys had back in Astapor. She endured years of torment at his hands, and yet, in the end he had gotten what he deserved.

The memory of Kraznys burning, of dragonflame melting the flesh from his bones and his agonized screams as he died in the dust, fortified her. Her story would not end here.

I have not survived slavery and war on two continents to die at the hands of men like these.

Over their crude words and the wind, Missandei heard something-a growl, low and rumbling. It almost sounded like wind whistling through rocks, but she knew better.

She opened her eyes and looked up over the heads of the would-be assassins, and saw a pair of glowing bronze eyes, burning bright in the darkness above them.

With what little breath she had left, she gasped out a single word.

“Dracarys.”

And then, there was only flame.

For an instant, it was as bright as midday in summer, and Missandei saw the terror and confusion on the faces of her attackers in the instant before they burned. She had always hated the smell of cooking flesh, as she did not consume meat herself, but in that moment she could not have imagined anything sweeter.

About half of the men, the ones behind her, were ablaze, and the others tried to scatter as Rhaegal scrambled down the hill. He started to pick them off almost lazily, a snap of his tail here, a burst of flame there. Even on the ground, a dragon was more than a match for any man.

For a moment she felt relief course through her, but rough hands grabbed at her from behind. Before she could cry out or try to break away, a cold blade was pressed to her throat, and she froze.

“I’ll kill her! Give her a red fucking smile!” The man shouted at Rhaegal, who stilled, watching them intently. Missandei wanted to call to him, instruct him to fly to the camp and raise the alarm, but she did not dare speak. The man’s hand holding the knife was shaking so intensely that she feared he would cut her throat unintentionally. She forced herself to breathe steadily, keeping her eyes fixed on Rhaegal. The fire and screams of the dying men must have attracted attention; help would be coming soon.

Seemingly emboldened, her assailant continued, “Let us go and she lives!” The surviving men were running towards them, seeking to use her as a human shield against Rhaegal. Once they were all clustered behind the man holding her, he repeated himself and shoved her towards the dragon.

This time Missandei managed to catch herself with her hands before she crashed to the ground, and for a moment she stayed there, kneeling in the snow, watching the men who nearly killed her flee back towards Winterfell. Rhaegal moved forward, positioning himself above her like some massive dog guarding its pup. Heat radiated from him, and she welcomed it as much as his protection in case there were more threats lurking in the dark.

But in the end, she did not need to worry. The men may have escaped Rhaegal, but there was another dragon waiting for them in the darkness.

Drogon descended on them silently, a great shadow against the starry sky, and Missandei watched them perish in a torrent of flame. The adrenaline began to fade away, leaving her utterly drained. Her scalp ached, her wrist and ankle throbbed with pain, and the realization of what had just happened was overwhelming. Even with Rhaegal’s warmth, her whole body began to tremble, and she pulled her cloak tighter around herself. As she did, she realized that everything-her face, her body, her clothes-were splattered with blood. Was the coppery taste lingering in her mouth from her own blood, or that of her enemies?

Missandei found herself thinking idly, This cloak is ruined now. What a shame, it was quite lovely. Perhaps Vorri or one of the others will know how to get blood out of fur.

She became aware of a crunching sound, and realized that Rhaegal must be eating the dead men. Part of her knew that she should be horrified, but she could not bring herself to care about people who sought her death.

And this way their deaths would serve a purpose. At least the dragons would have more to eat before their long journey home.

Wings rustled overhead, and Rhaegal paused in his meal to chirp at Drogon as he landed near them. He stepped forward to greet his brother, and the sudden absence of his warmth made Missandei shiver anew.

Both dragons pressed their heads close to her, taking deep huffing breaths, and Missandei realized they were sniffing her, trying to ascertain if she had been harmed.

“I’m alright,” she told them in Valyrian, “Thanks to you. You saved me.”

Drogon chuffed with satisfaction, and Rhaegal bumped her gently with his head in what she thought was meant to be a comforting gesture. The irony struck her, that the dragons had annihilated her attackers so easily but were capable of such tenderness, perhaps even love, towards other humans. That they had been so attached to Daenerys made sense, but Missandei shared no magical bond with them. She had not birthed them with her own blood and tears or fed them from her breasts. As far as she knew, she did not have any Valyrian ancestry; no ancient spells bound them to her. Yet they had chosen to defend her, of their own free will, when they had no obligation to her.

Perhaps that was what mattered, having the choice.

Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.

She tried to rise, but her legs wobbled and her head spun. Missandei did not think she could walk back to the camp under her own power, so she sat in the snow once more, trying to breathe steadily. She knew that she was safe-or at least as safe as anyone who just survived an assassination attempt could be-, and would just have to wait for Grey Worm to come for her. The dragons settled down around her, shielding her from the worst of the wind and alert to more threats as they continued to dine on the smoldering carcasses of her attackers.

That was how Grey Worm found her, nestled between the two dragons and surrounded by the dead.

Chapter Text

Rhaegal and Drogon noticed the approaching men before she did, raising their heads and letting out low, inquisitive chirps. Missandei tensed; though she thought they were coming from the camp, the attack had utterly disoriented her, and she could not be certain. However, she did not think the dragons would be so calm if strangers were coming.

When Grey Worm crested the hill and saw her there, so many emotions flooded his face-love and fear, relief and a ferocious protectiveness. He ran to her, kneeling in the snow and wrapping her in a desperate embrace. For her part, she clung to him, thinking of how close she had been to never seeing him again, and had to choke back a sob. Feeling his entire body shudder as he held back his own tears, she suspected he was thinking much the same thing.

He murmured, “Are you hurt? Can you walk?”

Too overcome with emotion to speak, she shook her head, and he scooped her up effortlessly.

As he began the return to the camp, Missandei remembered something and touched his chest. Grey Worm set her down, and on shaky legs she walked back towards the dragons, who were still lying on the ground, apparently satiated from their meal. They trilled contentedly at her approach, and she stroked both of their noses, saying in soft Valyrian, “Thank you again. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

With that, she let Grey Worm pick her up again and they left the dragons behind.

From the safety of his arms, Missandei noticed the others with him-Hero, Stalwart Shield, and Okho, along with Unsullied and Dothraki whose names she did not know-all watching her with strange looks. She wondered if it was because she had very nearly been assassinated or because the dragons had saved her.

She gave a brief account of what had befallen her, first in Valyrian and then Dothraki, and felt Grey Worm go tense with anger. The other men responded with fury, which Missandei found equal parts gratifying and concerning. On the one hand, she appreciated their concern for her safety, but on the other, she would not let this become an inciting incident for a war between them and the Westerosi. All she wanted was to get them out of this land safely.

Thankfully, Grey Worm and Okho firmly forbade any attempts at revenge, and their men begrudgingly agreed.

Vorri was waiting for them in their tent, and she clucked her tongue in concern at Missandei’s bedraggled appearance. Dismissing all the men except for Grey Worm, she circled Missandei, trying to take stock of her injuries.

“It would be best if I could examine you fully,” Vorri said in Dothraki, and Missandei nodded, understanding what she meant and appreciating that she had asked permission.

Missandei began to disrobe, standing as close to the brazier as possible, but found that her fingers were still trembling too much to unlace her dress. Seeing her struggle, Vorri stepped in and made quick work of the ties holding the stiff, blood-splattered garment against her body. She stepped out of it, the fabric pooling around her feet, and Grey Worm flushed, turning away at the sight of her bare skin.

His incongruous shyness made her chuckle, just a little. Even now, after all they had been through and her near brush with death, he was still concerned about preserving her modesty.

Vorri snorted with amusement. “No need for that, young man, we all heard the two of you aboard the ship! Come here and make yourself useful.”

If anything his blush only deepened, but he obeyed, accepting the bowl of water and rags that Vorri thrust into his hands.

Muttering about how a full bath would be preferable but they would have to make do, the older woman instructed Grey Worm to clean Missandei as best he could. With exquisite care, he dabbed at her with the soaked cloths, and she sighed softly at his tender ministrations and the comfort of the warm water on her cold skin.

Meanwhile Vorri was examining her quite thoroughly, her hands gentle yet firm as they skimmed over Missandei’s body. She moved Missandei’s wrists and ankles in every direction and asked which ones hurt-somewhat unnecessarily, in Missandei’s opinion, as the ankle she had twisted was already swelling, and she hissed with pain when Vorri took the wrist that the man had squeezed. Next she probed at her torso, clearly checking to see if any ribs were broken, but thankfully, Missandei was able to report no pain there.

Apparently satisfied with that, she asked, “May I touch your head?”

Missandei nodded her assent, and Vorri ran her strong fingers over her scalp, causing Missandei to wince as she grazed a tender spot. Then she leaned close, peering into her eyes, as if searching for something there, and said, “Count backwards from fifty in Dothraki and follow my finger.”

Puzzled, Missandei did, watching as the other woman moved one finger up and down and side to side. It was all very strange, but she trusted Vorri and Grey Worm seemed unconcerned, so she knew it must have a purpose.

By the time the examination was finished, the bowl of water was tinged red with blood, and Missandei was clean.

Speaking in the Common Tongue for Grey Worm’s benefit, Vorri told them, “You were very fortunate, Missandei. A sprained ankle and wrist, nothing that won’t heal with time and rest, and a slight bump on your head. I will send salve for the bruises and cuts, and a tea to help with the pain. Grey Worm, I know that you have much experience with injuries, but if anything changes, send for me at once.”

He murmured that he would, and with an affectionate squeeze of Missandei’s uninjured hand, Vorri left, vanishing into the frigid night.

Even once they were alone, Grey Worm did not say anything, helping her tug a thick woolen shift over her head, wrapping her hair for sleep, and sliding fur-lined slippers onto her feet before tucking her in beneath the blankets on his camp bed. Then he sat on the floor beside her, positioning himself so he was between her and the entrance to the tent.

She let the silence hang over them, feeling too weary to push Grey Worm to express his thoughts. He would speak when he was ready.

Missandei watched the dance of embers in the brazier, feeling a sense of gratitude to the flames that she had never experienced before. The fire was in her now, warming her from within and without, and she felt some strange kinship to it. To truly know a dragon was to know fire at its purest and most powerful form, and something about that night had granted her that understanding.

Grey Worm’s low voice pulled her from her musings.

“In Meereen, when the Harpies nearly killed me, I was afraid that I would never see you again. But I knew that you were safe, that you would live. In all my battles, whenever I feared being taken away from you, I reminded myself that you were safe from war, guarded by my men and the queen and the dragons, and that gave me the strength to fight. Even if I fell, you would go on without me, and others would protect you in my stead. But now-”

His words cut off as a sob escaped him, but he choked it back, continuing, “I do not remember my family or my home in the Summer Isles. Likely they died when I was taken, and there is nothing left. I could not protect them, I was just a boy. And then I became Unsullied, always Unsullied, only Unsullied. I was strong, but I had no family to protect, no one to love. Only war. One day I stood in the Plaza of Punishment, and we killed the masters and freed the slaves. I became commander of the Unsullied, and I met Daenerys Stormborn. I met you. I was still Unsullied, but not just Unsullied. I had a family, you and Daenerys, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, the queen’s sons and my men, and this time, I thought I could protect my family.”

Tears were running down his face, and without thinking Missandei pulled her hands from the warm cocoon of blankets and reached for him. He took them, squeezing them tight.

“But I failed. Barristan first, Viserion and Jorah and hundreds of my brothers, all gone. Death stole my family again and I could not stop it. They murdered Daenerys, and I could not save her. I told myself, as long as you lived, as long as Missandei of Naath was safe, I still had my family. I had not failed. Tonight, I saw that you were gone, and thought you were with Vorri or somewhere else in the camp. Then the sentries heard a woman screaming, and I felt that fear again, worse than ever before. Because I knew that I was safe and you were not. I thought…I thought my family was lost again.”

He pressed his face to her hands, weeping openly now, and she let him. Missandei understood. She knew how it felt, to go from having nothing and no one to having so much, yet knowing that it could all be so easily taken away…

Slowly Missandei began to kiss him gently, on his cheeks and nose and eyelids, and when his tears began to slow, she pressed her forehead to his.

In soft Naathi, she said, “You will never lose me. Nothing could keep us apart, not the Harpies or the masters or death itself. Nothing will part us. On the Lord of Harmony and the Lady of Spears, I swear this.”

He said nothing, gazing into her eyes, and in his Missandei saw love without end, and knew that her vow would hold them beyond death.

There were footsteps outside the entrance to the tent, and Grey Worm jerked back from her, on his feet with his sword drawn in an instant. Rationally Missandei did not think that an attacker would sneak into the heart of the camp to finish the job, but she still felt herself tense with fear.

Then she heard a cheerful Dothraki greeting, and knew that all was well.

Ornela, the youngest of the dosh khaleen, stepped through the tent flap with a satchel slung over her shoulder, and Grey Worm relaxed, nodding politely in greeting and stepping forward to accept her delivery.

As he busied himself with unpacking the satchel’s contents and preparing hot water for the pain-numbing tea, Missandei sensed that he did not want anyone else to see that he had been weeping, so she thanked Ornela and engaged the other woman in polite conversation. She did not know her as well as Vorri, but she still enjoyed her company.

Grey Worm announced her tea ready, and the Lhazareen woman took that as her cue to leave.

Smiling warmly, Ornela said, “I am glad to see you are well, Missandei chiori fin ase zhavorsa.”

With a little bow, she left, and Grey Worm brought her a steaming mug. She sipped at the tea, wincing at the bitter taste but enjoying its bracing warmth as he dabbed at her wounds with a sharp-smelling ointment. It stung a little, but Missandei was content to let the hot tea and Grey Worm’s presence wash over her, drawing the tension from her body.

When her tea and his ministrations were finished, he pulled back the blankets, clearly intending on sliding into bed with her while wearing his armor.

Missandei shook her head at that, and he acquiesced, stripping down to his undergarments and joining her in bed. She noticed that his sword was still within arm’s reach, but she could not fault him for that.

His warm arms around her were enough to tip her drowsiness into sleep, but just as she was drifting off, he murmured, “What did she call you?”

It took her a moment to remember that she and Ornela had been speaking a mixture of Lhazareen and Dothraki, neither of which Grey Worm spoke fluently.

She smiled a little. Hearing the other woman’s words had given her pride, and she knew that Grey Worm would be pleased too.

“Literally, ‘woman who commands dragons’, but in the Common Tongue…Missandei Dragonspeaker.”

Prior to the battle, Daenerys and Grey Worm argued about the necessity of armor for her. He had commissioned the Unsullied armorers to forge a special breastplate made for her, relatively small and lightweight, but Daenerys said that she did not need it, as it would only hinder her movement, and that she would be safe atop Drogon. And so the armor had gone unworn, sitting in Grey Worm’s chamber while Daenerys died on a Westerosi blade. Objectively Missandei knew that, even if her friend had been armored, the assassin would have found another way to strike her down-a breastplate did not make one invincible-but nevertheless she wished Daenerys had worn it anyway.

So as the sun rose and Grey Worm wordlessly retrieved the armor from the corner of the tent, Missandei let him slip it onto her over her mourning attire of voluminous skirts and layers of black and grey without protest. 

Life was so terribly fragile, and nothing was more frightening than the knowledge that death could touch the ones you loved. If the armor gave Grey Worm some measure of peace, then it would be worth her discomfort.

The burnings would not take place until later in the day, but Missandei still wanted to inspect the pyre for their dead herself. Yet everyone was on edge after her attack, wanting her to stay in the camp, from the kos to the dosh khaleen and the Unsullied commanders. Only the dragons had not voiced an opinion. Grey Worm was the worst, and she suspected that if he had his way, she would not leave his tent until the last possible moment before their departure. Even there, he did not seem to want to let her out of arm’s reach.

But in the end, no one could command her to remain in the camp, and Missandei knew she could not show any sign of fear or weakness. She would not let her enemies win by thinking they had frightened her into cowering while others took risks for her. After all, she was not Sansa Stark.

Ultimately, they had compromised, and so by the time Missandei finally departed the camp, she was escorted by no less than two dozen Unsullied-including Grey Worm, of course-,Temmo and twenty of the best surviving riders, and half of the dosh khaleen. When Drogon and Rhaegal joined their little procession, swooping low over the cordon around her, Missandei laughed, feeling like nothing so much as some kind of jeweled idol paraded out for religious festivals.

Grey Worm had carefully wrapped her ankle, and she found that as long as she did not put too much weight on it the pain was bearable.

They passed by the site of her attack. The snow and wind had covered up much of the evidence-the footprints were all but gone, as was the blood-but the scorch marks from Rhaegal’s flame still marked the stones, and the bits of her attackers not eaten by the dragons still littered the ground. Missandei did not avert her gaze, ignoring the way the scent of charred flesh made her stomach turn.

Outside Winterfell, Missandei watched as the last few bundles of brush were added to the pyre. All was in readiness; the thousands of fallen Unsullied and Dothraki, along with countless horses and Viserion, were in place. All that was missing was Daenerys herself.

Feeling that she had made a token appearance to prove that she was alive and well to the Westerosi, Missandei was ready to return to their camp when Sansa exited the castle and approached her, saying, “I thought we should speak alone.”

Apparently her vast escort standing within earshot did not count as people to the Lady of Winterfell. That did not surprise Missandei in the slightest. She knew her ilk, had seen many just like her in Astapor. To them, a slave was invisible, no different than a piece of furniture, and utterly beneath notice. The high lords of Westeros viewed the so-called smallfolk much as masters did their slaves, and Missandei did not doubt that to Sansa, the Dothraki and Unsullied were even lower than a peasant. A master was a master, no matter what side of the world they lived on, and Missandei was done with masters. 

But there was something she wanted to know, some information that could yet be gleaned from a conversation with Sansa, so she signaled to Grey Worm and the others to step back.

Whoever had tried to kill her last night was also the person behind Daenerys’s murder, she was quite certain. Both attacks served the same purpose, to take away the leadership of the Essosi forces and eliminate a powerful claimant to the Iron Throne. Missandei had no interest in the throne herself, but as it stood she commanded a force larger than Aegon the Conqueror…though she only had two dragons, not three. There were only a few people at Winterfell who would benefit from both her death and Daenerys’s.

She was quite certain that Jon and Jaime Lannister had not killed Daenerys, and her own attack had only solidified that certainty. Neither were the type of man who would send another to do his dirty work.

Tyrion, despite his much-cherished self-image of a ruthless and conniving man, was ultimately too squeamish to directly order the deaths of two women. He would have been willing to let Daenerys die through his own incompetence, but he would not give the order himself. Cersei was simply too far away to have sent the order for the attack on her the night before. As for Varys, the attempt on her life was much too sloppy to be his work. If he wanted her dead, she would have been the victim of an 'accident' or perhaps had poison slipped in her cup, not be set upon by unmasked men.

The same went for Arya Stark. No one who trained at the House of Black and White would rely on hired sellswords to end a target’s life.

Which left her sister, who had been so openly hostile to Daenerys and their people. Who had given Missandei that strange, hard look in the courtyard after their confrontation, and who had already acted as kingmaker to Jon once before.

It all made sense, but Missandei wanted to know for certain. So she looked at the other woman expectantly, waiting for her to speak first.

“We received word of your attack last night, how fortunate you were to survive. Do you have any idea who attacked you?” Sansa asked, smooth and seemingly unconcerned.

But as a translator, Missandei had spent years learning to read the words behind the words, that which people voiced unintentionally, and she sensed an undercurrent of worry in the other woman’s voice. Not worry for a guest who had nearly been slaughtered on her doorstep, but concern over what she knew, what she had seen. To Missandei, it was almost as plain as if the words had been spoken aloud.

Do you know that I had your best friend murdered and tried to kill you?

Missandei felt a strange, sick thrill at the confirmation of her suspicion. A known enemy was the best kind to have, after all.

She spoke with just the right amount of fear and concern, appropriate for a woman rattled by a brush with death. “No, it all happened so quickly, I was not able to get a clear look at any of them, and their weapons and garb were thoroughly destroyed by the dragons.”

Satisfaction crossed Sansa’s face for an instant, and then she made an unconvincing sympathetic noise.

“Perhaps it was brigands or some deserters from the castle. Truly terrible. Do you still plan to depart after the burnings?”

Missandei nodded. “Yes, we received word from Yara Greyjoy this morning. She has asked that we bring her brother’s body with us when we leave for Pyke.”

Sansa looked at her askance. “Why would you do that?”

“My knowledge of Westerosi customs is limited, but my understanding is that the Ironborn give their dead to the sea. It is only right that he be returned to his sister for a proper burial.” Missandei was genuinely puzzled by Sansa’s response. From what she had heard from Theon, he and Sansa had survived much together, and she would have expected that Sansa would want him to rest with his people.

Sansa shook her head, as if to shake off Missandei’s words.

“No. Theon is a Stark, he will rest here. His sister has not even sworn fealty to the king, we will not do her bidding.”

Missandei wondered if she had misread Sansa, and the hostility she had shown towards them was not because they were foreign. Perhaps she was just a fool. Why would she expect Yara Greyjoy to swear fealty to a man she had never met, who was essentially holding her brother’s body hostage? Especially a man with depleted armies and no ships, who would hardly be useful in eliminating her uncle.

Before she could formulate an appropriate response, Sansa continued.

“The dragons should stay here with Jon. He’s the last Targaryen, they belong to him now.”

Now it was Missandei’s turn to give a look of disbelief. “Dragons don’t belong to anyone, and Drogon and Rhaegal are no ordinary Targaryen dragons. They are Queen Daenerys’s sons, as surely as if they had been born of her body, and they remain loyal to her even after her death. As you and your siblings did, when you avenged the murders of your parents.”

She was tired of this conversation, tired of having to interact with the Stark woman. This interaction had confirmed her suspicions that Sansa had sent the catspaw who murdered Daenerys after the battle, and tried to have Missandei killed as well, in an attempt to seize control of their forces. To Missandei it seemed foolish-why not wait until Daenerys defeated Cersei before attempting a coup?-but she did not think that Sansa was burdened with an abundance of patience or forethought. She had the overwhelming impression that Sansa was deeply, profoundly afraid, and that made her behave impulsively, in a strange attempt to protect herself. It was ironic, because if she had supported Daenerys or at least not murdered her, she would have been safe.

So Missandei decided she would give Sansa a final warning before they parted ways, to let her know that she and her people were not to be touched.  

In a voice dripping with false sweetness, she said, “I have met so many fascinating people here at Winterfell. Samwell Tarly was trained as a maester at the Citadel, a position I am told requires celibacy and years of training, yet here he is, with a wife and child, seemingly of his own volition and not under the direction of his superiors, after only a few months of study. And your own sister trained with the Faceless Men, who expect an acolyte to relinquish all family ties and to only use their skills when commanded by their order. But here she is, defending her ancestral home with talents meant only for the service of the Many-Faced God. Truly remarkable.”

“Are you threatening us?”

Missandei shook her head and smiled blandly. “Of course not, Lady…Bolton? Lannister? I confess I do not know much of Westerosi marriage customs. Would you be considered Lord Ramsay’s widow or Lord Tyrion’s wife? Or still Lady Stark? I suppose it does not matter much. Everywhere outside the north, you are either widow to a kinslaying bastard, wife to a kingslayer and kinslayer to boot, or the sister and daughter of failed rebels and traitors. All I mean to say is that it seems to me that you have a great many powerful enemies throughout Westeros and even in Essos, so it would be in your best interests to let us part ways as friends and allies. Did your maester ever teach you about the isle of Naath?”

Sansa gave her a blank look, so Missandei continued, “No? I thought not, doubtless he would not consider some small island on the far side of the world relevant to your education, such as it was.”

From what she had read herself and heard from various Westerosi, education for highborn girls was largely ornamental. They were taught to dance and sing prettily, to dress well and behave properly, and perhaps some basic figures to aid their husbands, whereas their brothers learned languages and geography and history. Missandei was unimpressed by this discrepancy; in the schools she and Daenerys established in Meereen, all children were taught the same curriculum of reading and writing, regardless of their sex.

“I was born on Naath, and I have traveled long to reach your shores. My journey began when I was five years old, when I was taken from my home and enslaved. The Naathi do not believe in violence of any sort, you see, do not engage in warfare or even kill animals for food. Slavers consider Naathi to make the best slaves, and call us the Peaceful People.”

She fixed Sansa with a hard stare. “I am of Naath but I am not peaceful. If any of my people come to harm, I will give you the dragon’s mercy. And if some strange accident befalls me, your castle shall go the way of Sathar and Astapor.”

Sansa just stared at her, clearly confused, and Missandei sighed.

“Perhaps you have not heard of those battles either. Let me use an example you’re more familiar with. If I die, Winterfell will become the Harrenhal of the North. Aegon melted its five great towers with a single dragon, and we have two.”

Without waiting for a response, Missandei rejoined her escort and returned to the camp. She had nothing else to say to anyone with the last name Stark.

As she made her way back to the tent of the dosh khaleen, Missandei thought of the conversation she had had with Daenerys, long ago, about the night her dragons were born. She had only heard details of the night Daenerys burned her first husband once. Years ago, as a rare storm raged in Meereen, they sat beside a brazier and talked through the night, sharing the stories of their lives over a flagon of warm spiced wine. Daenerys told her that she had bathed and dressed Drogo herself, in preparation for his burning.

Missandei had wondered if Jon would ask to attend to the queen’s body, or at least see her before she was placed on her pyre. After all, he was her lover, and she died in defense of his people. Certainly if the situation was reversed, Daenerys would have insisted on preparing him for whatever afterlife the Northerners believed in and standing vigil over his body.

But for whatever reason-perhaps the perceived impropriety, as they had not been married, or because he was a man and Westerosi men thought themselves above such things-he had not come or even asked to see her before she burned. It made Missandei furious, that this man her friend had lost so much for could behave so callously. Daenerys had treated the husband who bought and raped her-for that was what it was, even if she said she had come to love him after a fashion-with more dignity in death than Jon was treating the woman who had died for him. She knew that he was grieving, but so was she, and she hadn’t had the luxury of retreating to her private quarters and drowning her sorrows in drink. Missandei was trying to keep her people safe and united, manage hostile ‘allies’, and control the last two dragons in the world, yet she made giving her friend a proper farewell a priority. 

Perhaps he thought that his sorrow was more grievous than hers, because he had been the queen’s lover and she had only been her friend and advisor.

Only her friend. Jon had known Daenerys for less than a year; Missandei had crossed the known world with her, laughed and cried and governed with her, yet because they did not sleep together, their bond was seen as less strong. She wished that men placed as much value on the lives of others as they did their own members.

Vorri and the other dosh khaleen had dressed Daenerys in preparation for her final ride, but Missandei wanted to braid her hair one last time. It had been one of their rituals, sipping mint tea and discussing the day’s business while styling each other’s hair, and already Missandei missed it dearly.

Thankfully the dosh khaleen decided that it was acceptable for one not of their number to assist in preparing a khaleesi for her pyre, and granted their permission.

No elaborate crowns of braids this time, Missandei decided, just a long, simple plait. It had always been Daenerys’s preferred style, and she died with her hair uncut, something that would give her khalasar great pride. After adding the customary number of bells, she hesitated for a moment, and then added another. Although it had cost her life, ultimately Daenerys had triumphed over the forces of death, and that was a victory.

But clothing had proven to be more difficult. Before they left for Westeros, Tyrion had instructed her and Daenerys that they could not dress in Meereenese styles, which would not be acceptable in his homeland-too revealing, he said. Missandei could not believe that anyone would be so prudish as to be bothered at the sight of a woman’s abdomen, but now that she had met Westerosi, it made sense. Tyrion had also insisted that Daenerys leave all her Dothraki clothing behind, lest she appear ‘savage.’

And that’s all we really are to them, aren’t we? Savages. Westerosi thought themselves to be superior to anyone from Essos, and did not seem to understand the distinctions between the many peoples of that vast continent. Deep down even the ones like Tyrion who pretended to be more enlightened considered them to be lesser.

Despite her dismay, Daenerys had approached this as she always did when introduced to a new culture: open to change and eager to embrace new ways of life. So Daenerys and Missandei had to wear heavy, bulky dresses that covered them from chin to ankle, which served the dual purposes of obfuscating their bodies and restricting movement. She knew that Daenerys had missed her comfortable, light garb as much as she did, and she did not intend to send her friend to the Night Lands in a drab, ugly gown.

Thankfully, Hanni of the dosh khaleen had found some of Daenerys’s old Dothraki garments from her time as Drogo’s khaleesi, tucked away in one of her chests, where they had apparently escaped Tyrion’s purge. Missandei wasn’t sure if Daenerys had saved them with the intent of wearing them again or just for sentimental purposes, but she was glad they had survived either way. Out of all the many styles of clothing Daenerys had acquired throughout her life-plain tunics from the Free Cities, sheer, breast-bearing Qartheen gowns and Ghiscari tokars-Dothraki garb had always been her favorite, and it was only fitting that she would enter the Night Lands dressed as a khaleesi.

The other women dressed Daenerys in traditional Dothraki attire-horsehair leggings, a painted vest, and plain leather boots. Missandei wondered if the northerners would be offended at the sight of so much bare skin, even on a dead woman, and found that she did not care. Let them choke on their own absurd customs and sense of propriety. If it weren’t so damnably cold, Missandei would wear one of her favorite gowns, light blue and airy, just to make Grey Worm smile again.

But that would have to wait for later, when they were away from this treacherous place. Dreading what was to come, she looked down at her friend one last time.

All was in readiness, but Missandei found she could not bring herself to call for Grey Worm and the others to bear Daenerys to her pyre just yet. Tears burned in her eyes, but she brushed them away. She did not want to come before her people and their enemies showing any sign of weakness.

I must be their strength. I will shed no tears this day, she told herself firmly. After pressing a final soft kiss to Daenerys’s cool forehead, she left the tent, not letting herself look back.

The living assembled on the flat plain in front of Winterfell. The Unsullied stood in formation, and the Dothraki milled about on horseback. Drogon and Rhaegal sat on the ground, near Missandei, who stood between the two factions of her people. Their camp was completely torn down, and all was in readiness for their departure. The Westerosi came forth from the castle to cluster around the three pyres of their fallen soldiers, which were much smaller than that of Missandei’s people.

With great effort from the Unsullied, Viserion’s body had been arranged beside the pyre, encircling it with his long neck and tail. The pyre itself was layered with wood and the dead, horses as well as men, to provide the fallen Dothraki with mounts in the Night Lands. All the Dothraki were resting with their heads facing towards the Mother of Mountains, as was proper. Daenerys was carried to the pyre on a simple bier, borne by Grey Worm, Hero, Ohko, and Temmo. Unlike the fallen highborn Westerosi, who were placed atop their respective pyres, they tucked Daenerys in beside Viserion, head towards the southeast like the rest of her riders. Missandei commanded it, knowing that Daenerys would not want to be set above her soldiers. They were one khalasar, a single people, even in death.

Despite her heated conversation with Sansa, Theon Greyjoy would burn, and she felt a pang of grief for Yara. Not only had she lost her only remaining family member, she would not even be able to grieve him properly or send him to join their ancestors.

But there was ultimately-and frustratingly-nothing she could do about it. Perhaps they could collect some small quantity of ashes from his pyre to bring back to his sister; it would be better than nothing.

Tyrion and Varys studiously avoided looking at Missandei or any of her people, but from their king’s side Davos gave her a reassuring smile. Jon looked terrible, his eyes swollen and his face red and puffy, giving credit to Davos’s statement that he had spent the past few days weeping and in his cups. He did not appear to have shaved or slept since the battle, but someone, perhaps one of his sisters-cousins or Davos, had at least gotten him into clean clothes.

Despite his obvious grief, Jon began to speak, and Missandei bowed her head respectfully but let her mind wander. She did not care overmuch for what he would have to say, and thought instead about that other pyre, somewhere on the edge of the Great Grass Sea, where Daenerys had walked into the flames and changed the world forever. This one was much larger, certainly; that one had only been made to burn a single man, whereas the one before her was heaped high with the bodies of man and horse and dragon.

There was a terrible symmetry to it: Viserion had been born in a funeral pyre, his mother’s love and desperation creating magic which had shielded her from harm and given him life, and now they would burn together.

Jon must have finished speaking, because he and several other Westerosi stepped forward to light their respective pyres.

Now it was their turn. One final act, and they could depart from Winterfell and never return.

Good riddance. The castle could sink into the snow for all Missandei cared.

They watched the sky, waiting for the first star to appear on the horizon, in accordance with Dothraki custom. They did not have to wait long; Missandei supposed that was one good thing about the North’s short days and seemingly interminable nights.

As soon as she saw it, Missandei stepped forward. She had spent so much of her life speaking for others, but now it was time for the world to hear her words.

First she spoke in Dothraki, pitching her voice as loudly as possible and turning towards the assembled khalasar.

“Every rider knows the prophecy of the Stallion Who Mounts the World, the khal of khals, who would unite the Dothraki into a single khalasar and lead them to the ends of the earth. Fierce as a storm, the Stallion would be, and his enemies would cower before him. This is known.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd, and the passion built in her voice.

“No one ever thought that the Stallion would be a foreigner, married to the greatest khal in generations. Yet when she came forth and called to her people, you, her loyal khalasar, the blood of her blood, followed her! She asked more of you than any other khal, and you kept your promises, riding across the poison sea to defeat death itself. The ghost grass that threatened to cover the world and crush all life was defeated by you, by your hooves and arakhs!”

Some of the dosh khaleen began to ululate, high and thin, and the riders roared, calling out in agreement. Missandei realized her heart was racing, but not from fear.

By now she was shouting, “You are farther from the Mother of Mountains than any khalasar has ever been, yet the vow she swore to you still holds. The same stars look down in witness, and Daenerys rides with you, now and always! Together you have conquered death!”

Missandei was panting as she surveyed the khalasar, looking for someone. When she found Vorri amidst the dosh khaleen, the older woman smiled at her and nodded approvingly.

Once she had recovered her breath, she turned towards the Unsullied, addressing them in Valyrian.

“We gave the title Breaker of Chains to Daenerys Targaryen, and it is true that she cast the masters down into the dust, where they belonged. Yet each of you, stolen from your families and cut as children, slayed the masters and the soldiers, slayed every man who held a whip, and struck the chains from every slave you saw. You broke your own chains, and you will never wear them again.”

Cheers went up among them, and Missandei smiled.

“When the slavers hear that the Breaker of Chains is dead, they will rejoice and believe they can return our brothers and sisters to bondage. But we will not let them. We will not rest until the shackles of every slave are broken!”

Shouts of acclamation rang out, and Grey Worm watched her with a proud smile on his face.

Missandei paused until they had settled down again, then cried, “The masters will try to stop us. What shall we tell them?”

To a man, the Unsullied called out, “DRACARYS!”

The dragons stirred at the word, but looked to her, waiting for her command. Missandei turned towards the Westerosi, who were watching them with a combination of fear, horror, and disgust. She was certain that most of them had not understood anything that she had just said, but she did not care. Her words had not been for them. They did not matter, to her or her people or the nations of Essos, and the reminder that they were not the center of the world was clearly unsettling for them.

“Drogon, Rhaegal,” she sang out, “Dracarys!”

Her voice was lost in the chorus of Unsullied, shouting the word that had shattered the suffocating grasp of the harpy’s fingers, but the dragons heard her all the same.

Fire poured from their mouths onto the vast pyre, engulfing it in flames, and Missandei kept her eyes fixed on the spot where Daenerys lay. She would never forget the first time she had heard her speak that word, the joy that leapt in her heart as she watched Kraznys, her abuser and tormentor, die the painful death that he had so richly deserved. But it had not ended there; every slaver and master and soldier in Astapor, every last person complicit in the abomination that was slavery, perished that day at the hands of the people they had exploited and murdered.

A new world had been born that day, and it had been a good start, but their work was not yet complete. Missandei felt a familiar flicker of warmth inside her, a certainty that they would give the masters what they deserved: fire and blood. That would be her friend’s legacy; no matter what these cold people at the end of the world thought of her, the freed people of Essos would never forget dracarys or the Breaker of Chains.

From somewhere amongst the ranks of the Unsullied, a lone voice began to chant in Valyrian, “We beg our lord to share his fire, and light the flame that has gone out. From darkness, light, from ashes, fire. From death, life! Lord of Light, return her to us! R’hllor, raise your champion from her pyre!”

Missandei scanned the crowd, but could not locate the speaker, and as he repeated himself, other Unsullied began to join in, adding their voices to his call. Some called out their own invocations, in countless languages to familiar gods as well as those unknown to her.

Beside her, Grey Worm was silent as he lifted his spear and slammed the butt into the icy ground, over and over again, offering up his own wordless plea. As they prayed, the Unsullied near him did the same, and soon they all were, as they had on the day they chose to follow Daenerys as free men.

The Dothraki were not silent either; Vorri had ridden in front of the khalasar to address them, her high, clear voice ringing out, “Like the shierak qiya that heralded her coming, the stallion who mounts the world was fire made flesh, and now she rides amongst the stars on her fiery mount. Swifter than the wind she rode, and men trembled before her. Great Stallion, let her ride again! Fill the earth with the thunder of her hooves once more!”

The Dothraki roared their approval and shouted their own prayers, mingling with those of the Unsullied and the clattering of their spears. Above it all, Rhaegal and Drogon filled the air with the music of dragons, beating their wings to fan the pyre and bathing their mother in flame.

And so the dead queen’s people prayed-to the Lord of Light, to the Great Shepherd and the Great Stallion, to the Lady of Spears and the gods of Old Ghis. The words they spoke were different, but all asked for the same thing: give her back to us.

Missandei closed her eyes and let the chorus of languages wash over her. Though she herself worshipped no gods-her belief in them died when she was five years old, the day she stood on the beaches of her home and seen slave ships on the horizon-she felt herself hope for a miracle.

When she opened them again, the fire had changed into something different than anything she had ever seen. Missandei thought she saw shapes of men and horses within the blaze, twisting and dancing as though they were alive, before vanishing in plumes of smoke. Before her eyes the colors themselves changed: white and gold, green and bronze, black and red. Even above the great roar of the flames, there were other sounds coming from the pyre, hoofbeats and the ringing of bells, the banging of spears and great wings on the wind, and the fire itself seemed to whisper mhysa, mhysa. Despite the waves of scorching heat rolling off the pyre-which burned hotter and brighter than any natural fire-she felt goosebumps, and knew instinctively that this was magic.

The pyre began to buckle and collapse, spilling shattered bits of wood to the ground, yet the massive form of Viserion was still clearly visible, seemingly untouched by the conflagration. Could dragons burn?

This was something new under the sun, something strange and terrible and wonderful, and Missandei stood, feet planted firmly and Grey Worm’s hand in hers, bearing witness as the fire raged on.

Around her, people were crying out in fear and awe, and some of the Westerosi were retreating back to the castle. But most stayed, transfixed at the sight before them.

The fire, the magic, the power, it called to her, and something within her thrummed in answer.

All the pain and grief she had suffered in her life was burning away, and she let it roll over her, feeling strong and whole.

Whatever this was, she was not afraid. Missandei wondered if she would ever feel fear again.

A great gust of wind swept across the plain, stronger than any Missandei had ever experienced before, pushing her forward a few steps, and it seemed to coalesce around the pyre.

As suddenly as it had come, the fire-and its magic-was gone. Viserion, now covered in soot, lay on the still-smoking earth, surrounded by fragments of charred bone and small fires burning themselves out. 

And then, something beneath that mound of ash moved.

Another cry of shock, and Missandei grabbed at Grey Worm with both hands, not believing what she was seeing.

Viserion raised his head and looked towards his brothers with great golden eyes. Her knees went weak, and if not for Grey Worm’s strong arms around her, she might have collapsed to the ground. The dragon let out a chirp, looking as though he had never been pierced by the Night King’s spear and was only resting on the cliffs at Dragonstone.

Viserion sat up and shook himself like a dog roused from sleep. For a moment, Missandei thought her heart would stop. As he stirred the air with his wings, there was a flicker of movement beside him.

Bare but for a coating of ash, a woman sat curled next to the dragon, unhurt. And alive.

Unburnt.

Across the embers, Missandei met her friend's eyes, and for once, she had no words. All she could do was smile.

Daenerys Targaryen rose to her feet, and as one all three dragons threw back their heads and roared in triumph.