Chapter 8: The Stolen Remains – The Desperate Flight to Yunkai
The fall of Astapor came faster than any of the Good Masters had believed possible. When the postern gate opened in the dead of night and the crusaders poured through like a red tide, panic seized the inner circles of power. Kraznys mo Nakloz was already dead—speared through the throat by Grey Worm—but not every master had stayed to fight or flee on foot. Some had prepared escape routes long before the first pilgrim banners appeared on the horizon.
Among them was Grazdan zo Galare's distant cousin, a lesser Good Master named Mhysa zo Galare. Mhysa was no warrior; he was a merchant of flesh and fear, wealthy enough to own three pleasure barges and a private stable of swift horses. When the pyramid alarms rang and the chanting of "God wills it" echoed up from the lower city, Mhysa made his choice. He would not die on a cross like that silver-haired fool. He would not kneel to a dragon-worshipping whore.
Instead, he gave a single order to his most trusted eunuch guards.
"Take the body. Bring it to Yunkai. The Wise Masters will pay a fortune for proof that the Messiah is truly dead—and stays dead."
Under cover of the chaos—while zealots stormed the Plaza of Punishment and Daenerys's forces fought street by street—Mhysa's men moved. Four eunuchs, silent and efficient, cut down the single disciple left to guard the cross (a young convert who died with a hymn on his lips). They lowered Viserys's body with practiced care—not out of reverence, but to keep it intact. They wrapped it in oilcloth to mask the smell of decay, bound it to a litter, and covered the whole with a plain merchant's tarp. Two swift horses pulled the litter; two more carried Mhysa and his personal chest of gold and ledgers.
They slipped out through a forgotten drainage tunnel beneath the eastern wall, emerging into the moonless dunes just as the first fires lit the pyramids behind them. The sounds of battle—screams, steel, triumphant chants—faded as they rode hard north along back trails known only to slavers who smuggled living cargo.
Mhysa rode in front, glancing back every few minutes. "Faster," he hissed. "If they find us with this corpse, we'll be nailed beside him."
The eunuchs said nothing. Their faces were blank masks, but their hands tightened on reins and spears.
The journey to Yunkai took four grueling days. They avoided the main roads where pilgrims now walked in open daylight, red strips tied on their arms. They rode at night, slept in shallow wadis during the heat, rationed water from skins Mhysa had filled before the siege. The body began to stiffen, then soften in the heat despite the oilcloth. Flies gathered; the smell grew sweet and sick. Mhysa ordered spices crushed and scattered over the tarp—cinnamon, myrrh, anything to mask it.
On the second night, one of the eunuchs spoke for the first time.
"Master… the body moves."
Mhysa whipped around. "What nonsense is this?"
The eunuch pointed. Under the tarp, the wrapped form seemed to twitch—once, twice—like a sleeper shifting in dreams. Mhysa's heart hammered. He tore back a corner of the cloth. Viserys's face was pale, eyes closed, lips parted in the faint rictus of death. No breath. No pulse. Yet as Mhysa stared, the silver hair stirred as though touched by an unseen wind.
He slammed the tarp back down. "Heat mirage," he snarled. "Or rats. Keep moving."
But the eunuchs exchanged glances. One of them began murmuring under his breath—words that sounded suspiciously like the opening lines of the bible.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Yunkai on the fourth dawn, Mhysa was half-mad with exhaustion and dread. The Wise Masters met them in secret, in the shadowed garden of the largest pleasure pyramid. Grazdan zo Galare himself was there, flanked by guards and scribes. The air smelled of rosewater and incense, but it could not cover the stench that clung to the litter.
"Show us," Grazdan commanded.
Mhysa's men unwrapped the body. Viserys lay there—gaunt, blood-crusted, nails still in wrists and feet like dark iron thorns. The Wise Masters crowded closer. One poked the chest with a jeweled dagger. No reaction.
"Dead," Grazdan declared. "Thoroughly dead."
Mhysa exhaled in relief. "Then you will pay the price we agreed. Gold, ships, safe passage to Volantis—"
Grazdan raised a hand. "We will pay. But first… display it."
They carried the body to the highest balcony of the pyramid, where the morning sun struck full force. Below, in the central plaza, hundreds of slaves and servants had been gathered under threat of whip. The Wise Masters wanted them to see. To know. To despair.
They propped Viserys upright against a pillar, ropes hidden beneath the cloak to hold the limbs in place. His head lolled forward, silver hair falling like a shroud. A herald cried out:
"Behold the so-called Messiah! The dragon pretender! He died like any man—weak, broken, silent. There is no resurrection. There is no god but gold and power!"
The slaves stared upward. Some wept. Others looked numb. A few—very few—smiled thin, secret smiles.
Mhysa stood beside Grazdan, counting the gold being weighed out behind them. He felt a surge of triumph. "The bitch in Meereen will hear of this. Her miracle is dust."
Grazdan nodded slowly. "Let ravens fly. Let merchants carry the tale. The Dragon God bleeds and rots like any other."
But as the sun climbed higher, something changed.
A low wind stirred across the plaza. Viserys's hair lifted, floating as though underwater. The ropes creaked. One hand—nailed, lifeless—twitched. Then the other. The head slowly rose. Violet eyes—long closed in death—opened.
They were not empty.
They burned.
A collective gasp rose from the plaza. Slaves fell to their knees. Servants dropped trays. Even the Wise Masters recoiled. Mhysa felt ice flood his veins.
Viserys's lips parted. No sound came at first. Then a whisper—soft, terrible, carrying on the wind to every ear in the plaza:
"Vengeance… comes… on wings of fire."
The body slumped again, head dropping forward as though the moment had never happened. But the slaves had seen. They had heard.
In the space of a heartbeat, the plaza transformed. Whispers became murmurs, murmurs became chants. "God wills it," someone breathed. Then another. Then dozens.
Grazdan snarled orders. "Take it down! Burn it! Now!"
Guards rushed forward, but it was too late. The slaves surged—unarmed, furious, unstoppable. Chains rattled as men tore free. Women snatched whips from stunned overseers. Children threw stones. The chant grew:
"GOD WILLS IT!"
Mhysa backed away, gold spilling from his hands. "No—no—this cannot—"
Grazdan grabbed his arm. "We ride. Now."
They fled down hidden stairs, Mhysa's eunuchs dragging him toward the stables. Behind them, the pyramid shook with the sound of breaking chains and rising voices.
In the Spiritual Space, Alex watched the scene unfold—Viserys's brief, impossible awakening, the spark that turned despair into defiance. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the game's code.
The body had been taken to Yunkai to prove the Messiah was dead.
Instead, it proved he was not.
And the cry of thousands—once born in Meereen—now echoed in Yunkai's streets, louder, angrier, closer.
The First Crusade had not lost its heart.
It had only loaned it to the enemy for a moment.
(Word count: 1498)