Chapter 20: One Word in Valyrian

The city was already restless by dawn.

Whispers moved faster than the wind — a silver-haired queen offering a dragon for an army. A madwoman. A foreigner. A conqueror. The slavers couldn't decide which, so they called her all three.

Daenerys didn't care. She was already dressed in white.

The dragon she brought was Drakaina — black and red, the largest of her siblings already. Wings heavy, steps slow and commanding. We'd rehearsed it carefully: the chains, the posture, the tilt of her head as the whip changed hands. Appear harmless until the moment it mattered.

It would only take one word.

Astapor's plaza was a blistered bowl of stone and heat.

The Unsullied stood in rows — eight thousand strong — unmoving, disciplined, emotionless. Civilians gathered around the square, whispering behind veils and shaded cloth. At the far end stood Kraznys mo Nakloz, dressed in blue silk, fanning himself with smug flair. Missandei was at his side, silent.

Daenerys rode in quietly, dismounted, and approached with Drakaina behind her. Melyria and I followed, staying close.

The crowd quieted as Daenerys stepped toward the slaver.

Kraznys smirked. "Tell the silver bitch to hand over the beast." Missandei translated, "He says you are welcome, and the transaction may begin."

Daenerys nodded. "I am here for the Unsullied."

Kraznys made a show of handing her the golden whip. Daenerys accepted it with steady grace. The plaza held its breath as the moment settled between them.

Kraznys sneered at Drakaina. "Tell the beast to come to me. It is mine now." Missandei hesitated. Daenerys turned to her and said calmly, "You do not need to translate for me."

Then she stepped forward and gave the Unsullied their first command — spoken fluently in Valyrian.

"Unsullied, forward. March."

The soldiers stepped in perfect formation.

Kraznys blinked. "What did she say?" he asked, puzzled. Then, seeing Daenerys's calm expression, his voice sharpened. "You speak Valyrian?"

Daenerys looked him dead in the eyes and answered evenly, "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue."

The smirk slid off Kraznys's face.

She turned to the Unsullied once more and gave her second command — again in Valyrian.

"Unsullied, slay the masters. Kill every one of them."

The Unsullied charged forward, not with fury, but precision. The plaza erupted into panic. The masters barely had time to scream before spears cut through silk and bone alike. Blood soaked the sandstone.

Kraznys stuttered backward, pointing at Daenerys. "You cannot—"

Daenerys cut him off coldly. "A dragon is not a slave."

Then she turned to Drakaina and gave a single command in Valyrian.

"Dracarys."

Flame burst from Drakaina's jaws. The golden chain snapped as she surged forward, bathing Kraznys and the wooden platform in fire. Screams became ash. Smoke curled into the sky as panic took over the square.

By the time the fire faded, only silence remained.

Daenerys stood amid the ash, the golden whip still in her hand.

The Unsullied turned back to her, covered in blood but awaiting orders.

She walked forward and said clearly — again in Valyrian, for every man among them to hear — "You are free. It is your choice now. Will you fight for me, not as slaves, but as free men?"

They dropped their spears one by one — not as surrender, but as solemn promise.

The Unsullied were hers now. Not through chains.

But choice.

That night, Astapor was silent.

The blue banners were ash. The slaver ledgers were gone, fed to the flames. The slave pens were broken open. The collars thrown in piles. The Unsullied stood just beyond the walls, rows upon rows, spears polished, armor unblemished despite the war they had just begun.

Drakaina curled in the plaza. Rhazal perched atop a shattered tower. Viserion moved quietly, low to the rooftops, ever watchful.

Inside the tent, Daenerys lit a candle with a slow hand and sat cross-legged in thought.

Missandei entered quietly.

"I wish to serve you," she said. "Not as a translator. As myself."

Daenerys looked to me briefly. I nodded once.

"She's sharp," I said.

"And free," Daenerys replied. "Then she walks with us."

We left Astapor before sunrise.

No banners. No farewell.

Just eight thousand soldiers and three young dragons cutting shadows over the land. Drakaina flew highest. Rhazal twisted and circled through the morning clouds. Viserion flew in low arcs, golden and focused.

The Unsullied never spoke, never slowed.

They didn't need to.

Astapor was behind us.

And the world was waiting.

ADVANCED CHAPTERS:

patreon.com/CozyKy