The yellow banners came down at dawn.
We left Yunkai slowly, in waves. The Unsullied marched first, spear tips catching the light of the rising sun. Behind them, the freedmen — hundreds more than before, some young, some scarred, all carrying what little they could. A few new faces joined our camp from the city's slums, their eyes sharp and quiet, watching everything like animals who'd lived too long in cages.
Daenerys didn't look back as we passed through the gates. She walked with her shoulders straight, her dragons flying wide arcs overhead. She wasn't leaving a city behind — she was carrying its future forward.
The desert opened before us again.
I preferred it to the walls.
Vaedron didn't return until the second day.
He landed with a great sweep of sand near the edge of camp, startling several horses and scattering a few guards. No one dared draw a blade — his sheer size and weight made the message clear: leave me alone.
He slumped down beside a dune and promptly fell asleep.
Lazy, silent, distant.
But I felt something different in him now. Not tension. Not hunger. Just pressure. Like a storm building beneath the stillness. He didn't grow in visible bursts like the others — he grew in silence, and every time I saw him, I had to recalibrate what I remembered.
He didn't need to prove himself.
Back at the base, Tiraxes, Nyxarys, and Sorynth were reported to be healthy and restless. The caretakers said they had begun flapping, climbing the cliff faces, and exploring the edge of the canyon. They weren't large enough to fly far yet — but the first signs of change had begun.
That was enough.
Yunkai faded behind us like a forgotten bruise. We turned east, toward the coast. Daenerys had begun speaking openly of Meereen now — the last of the great slaver cities, and the hardest. The one with a fleet.
The one we needed to conquer the sea.
One evening, as we made camp near an oasis, Missandei approached me.
She rarely initiated conversations unless something was truly important. I looked up from my scrolls when she entered the tent.
"She's been having dreams again," she said, folding her hands neatly.
"Of what?"
"Fire. Wings. The throne."
That wasn't unusual. Daenerys dreamed in symbols often. Sometimes they were warnings. Other times... echoes.
Missandei paused. "And she speaks Valyrian in them."
I blinked. "In her dreams?"
She nodded. "Yes. In her sleep. But clearly."
That surprised me. Daenerys always had a natural instinct for the language, but if even her subconscious was reaching for it now… the blood of Old Valyria burned deeper than even I knew.
I found Daenerys near a pool of shallow water, washing her hands after feeding Drakaina. The dragon had begun demanding fresh meat again, and Daenerys rarely refused her now. A queen feeding her dragon with her own hands — a symbol, even if she didn't mean it to be.
"You've been dreaming," I said as I approached.
She didn't turn. "So she told you."
"She's worried."
"Should I be?"
I knelt beside her, watching the water ripple outward in soft circles.
"Not yet."
We camped for four more days, resting the freedmen, allowing the dragons time to hunt and scout. The desert began to thin, replaced by rocky foothills. Our scouts reported signs of slaver patrols again — not soldiers, but riders marking paths.
Meereen knew we were coming.
And they were not afraid yet.
Good.
That made it easier to surprise them.
That night, alone with Daenerys in her tent, I brought up a quiet subject.
"The Unsullied still carry numbers. Not names."
She was pouring wine. She paused.
"I didn't want to force it."
"They'd follow you into fire. They should know who they are when they do."
Daenerys stared into her cup for a long moment.
"I'll speak to them tomorrow."
I nodded.
"You'll choose one?" she asked.
"I already have."
She looked at me then, and I saw something in her eyes — not surprise, not pride, but… trust.
She said nothing more that night, and neither did I.
The next morning, Daenerys stood before the Unsullied again.
She didn't shout. She didn't posture.
"You may keep your numbers," she said, "or choose your own names. Names of meaning. Names of freedom. No one will name you but yourselves."
A few men looked around. Most stayed still.
Then one stepped forward.
He was the first I noticed back in Astapor — tall, lean, calm. A quiet fury in his posture.
"What is your name?" Daenerys asked.
He looked up.
"Grey Worm."
A ripple went through the line. She stepped closer.
"Why that one?"
"It is the name I had the day you set me free."
Daenerys didn't smile.
But I did.
We marched east.
I rode ahead some days, scouting the lands. Rhazal loved these stretches — uneven, wild, filled with sudden updrafts and sharp ridges. He looped through the sky like a serpent set loose.
Drakaina soared higher than before, wings growing stronger by the day.
Viserion preferred the silence of twilight — flying low and close, brushing sand with his wings like he was painting.
Vaedron flew only when he had to.
But when he did — shadows moved.
We reached the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Dragons by the ninth day. Below us, the great city of Meereen stretched like a wound carved into the land. Tall pyramids. Wide plazas. Ships in the harbor.
It looked proud.
Too proud.
We made no move yet.
Just watched.
That night, alone in my tent, I held a small shard of Tiraxes's egg in my hand. I had carried it with me as a reminder. Smooth. Still faintly warm.
They were growing fast now.
Daenerys still didn't know.
Soon, she would.
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