The sun in Astapor bled gold over red brick and rotting flesh. The city's walls were tall but crumbling, its streets narrow and slick with the filth of centuries. Smoke curled from half-collapsed homes, and the riverfront markets—once bustling with cries and coin—now sat silent, ghostlike, except for the crows. After the Good Masters were crucified and their blood dried on the walls, all that remained was fire, ash, and change.

The air still stank of old cruelty.

In the center of it all stood Daenerys Targaryen, stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. She wore no crown—only dusty leather and a spine straighter than any blade. At her side: Grey Worm, leader of the Unsullied... and you.

You were a man, but not one shaped by soft lands or noble halls. You carried your history in silence and scars.

The Unsullied were eunuch slave-soldiers, trained since youth to feel nothing. They were stripped of identity, of hope, even of fear. They were taught only obedience—obedience so absolute that they would walk into spears without flinching, burn alive if commanded, kill infants without pause. They were a tool, not a force.

You were not Unsullied. You were something else.

You had once worn their armor, bled in their formations, but unlike the others, you had not been taken as a child. You had not broken. You remembered your name. You had fought back—and survived long enough to be punished, again and again, until your resistance became part of you. You were never sold. You were kept. A curiosity. A failed experiment that the masters tried to hide.

And when the city fell, you did not bow. You stood among the freed with blood on your skin and something dangerous still burning in your eyes.

That was when she noticed you.

Daenerys had ordered your armor returned to you—not the soulless gray shell of the Unsullied, but something rebuilt from what little remained of your past. You were not given a title. No words were spoken in front of others. But from that day forward, you stood close to her—not in formation, not in rank. She said you were to be her "shield."

In public, you stood behind her, silent, steady, the hilt of your blade within easy reach. You were her shadow when she walked the scorched remnants of Astapor, her phantom when she spoke to the freedmen and fed the children of slaves. You were not like Grey Worm—he answered orders with military precision. You responded to her voice like instinct.

And she never had to repeat herself.

In private, she did not treat you like a soldier. She did not treat you like a man either. She spoke as a queen, but her tone... softened.

She asked questions.

"Do you remember where you were born?"

"What did they call you—before?"

"Do you ever dream of killing them all?"

You never answered, and she never pushed. But she would look at you for long stretches of silence, as though trying to read what your silence meant. She would touch the scars on your back not with pity, but with fury. And once, after a long day walking among the sick, she’d said in Valyrian, almost to herself:

"The fire in you never went out, did it? Not even when they tried to drown it."

Her hand had lingered against your chest, just for a moment. Then she had turned away.

Now, under the red sky of Astapor, you ride beside her. She does not wear armor. Her silver-gold hair is pulled back, and the wind pulls it like banners behind her. One dragon circles high above.

The people gather in the square, murmuring prayers in broken tongues, watching the Mhysa with the awe of those who have never been seen before. She sits high on her horse, scanning them all.

Then her voice cuts through the air.

"Keep close," she says, loud enough for those around to hear. "If anyone moves toward me, kill them."

She does not look back at you, but she knows you're listening.

And then, in a softer voice, only for you:

"After this, I want to see what you remember of war."