In light of recent events, I would like to proclaim my support of the black lives matter movement. To every person who has ever experienced injustice, prejudice, or pain because of their race or a loved one's race: I see you. I hear you. I stand with you.

Regarding the fic itself, we're getting relatively back on track with canon now. As always, there will be major differences, but I do so love the plot of season three. I am now part of a Daenerys discord. If you're interested in joining, contact me on tumblr. Name's imnotoverlyobsessive.

Chapter Twenty: The Red City

Do you think I have forgotten how it feels to be afraid?- Daenerys to Barriston Selmy, A Storm of Swords, George R.R. Martin

Daenys was gone when Daenerys stepped back into the house, carrying a tower of crates. She'd refused to allow any of her people to assist her. She suspected it was probably safe for them to be inside the house itself, but didn't want to risk it. Instead, they handed her the crates at the door so that she could bring them down and carefully pack the books in.

She selected a few to read on the way to Astapor, packing them into one crate and instructing it be brought to her cabin and loaded it onto the bookshelf there. She ended up taking the entire library with her. How could she not? Who knew when she'd return to Valyria? If there were any other books in the world that contained what they did, she certainly didn't know of them. She was by no means going to take the chance. Yes, Daenys had said she'd only need a select few, but she could surely learn a great deal from the others, as well.

The books were much easier to bring up than the dragon eggs. One dragon egg was worth perhaps three books in weight, and so she could only bring up a crate of a few at once. With how many there were, this took a great deal of time. It was worth it, though; in the end, she had crates and crates of books from Old Valyria and a hundred and three dragon eggs (she had counted).

She wondered if Daenys would've laughed to see her straining her way up the stairs for the sake of a small library. Almost certainly, Daenerys decided.

Several hours later, she found herself back on the ship. After leaving the room below her ancestral home, her hunger and thirst had returned full force. She had a large pitcher of water brought into her cabin, and the cook had made a stew that was very filling. She ate two and a half servings, and had to call for a second pitcher of water.

After eating, she had asked for a tub filled with water be brought into her cabin. She refused their offer of boiling the water first. Standing outside her cabin door, she watched the cabin boy leave after pouring the water, Ser Jorah by her side.

The moon was high above them now, and the night was cold. She wanted to get inside and warm her bath up quickly, but she knew that telling her advisor and friend about her newly discovered abilities was essential.

"Ser Jorah, come. I have something you must see." She turned and walked away from him, moving to stand by the tub, floorboards creaking beneath her sandals. She heard Ser Jorah make something of a choking sound behind her, and turned to see him looking as if he were going to faint. He very clearly thought she was going to get in the bath in front of him. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Come in and close the door," she commanded. Seeming to get ahold of himself, his limbs snapped into movement, and he strode over to her, his steps awkward and halted. "You are not to scream or make too much noise. You will not be harmed, and neither will I, but I do not wish to alert the others just yet, and so you must keep quiet. Is that clear?"

At his mute nod, she held out her hand over the tub, palm up for him to see. She closed her hand into a fist, and then exhaled. When she opened her hand, a small flame rose up from the center, and Ser Jorah jumped back reflexively.

"F-f-" He sputtered.

"Yes," she agreed before he could finish. "I am a fire mage. It's a Targaryen trait, it would seem."

He was silent for a moment, staring at the little flame with wide eyes. "Fire mage?"

She nodded. "I can control fire, and I can create it." She turned her gaze to the brazier near her bed, and the coals in it ignited briefly before turning to a dull glow. He looked at her in wonderment, clearly bewildered at her abilities.

"Does it hurt you?" He wondered.

"No," she shook her head. "Fire does not hurt me, and neither does heat. She thrust her hand into the tub then, allowing the flame in her palm to extend beyond her fingertips. Even underwater, she was able to keep it burning. It looked strange; the flames flickered and the water rippled, the light playing on both.

Perhaps a minute later, the water began to boil lightly. With a satisfied nod, she removed her hand and straightened herself up. Shaking droplets of water off her arm, she turned to Ser Jorah.

"I felt you should know as soon as possible. I will be studying to fight using fire magic, and tomorrow, we can discuss how to inform the others. For now, though, I need rest."

"Khaleesi, I…" He trailed off.

"I realize you must have a great many questions, Ser Jorah. If you like, you may write them down and I will answer them for you later. But not now. Goodnight," smiling at him kindly, she led him to the door. He walked out, turning to stare at her. He was still staring at her when she closed it, and it was several minutes before she heard his retreating footsteps.

The bath was so hot she wondered if she could get clean from heat alone. Still, she scrubbed her scalp and beneath her fingernails. Her skin, too, was scrubbed raw. Before emerging from the bath, she raked a wide-tooth comb through her tangled hair. Her bathwater had cooled and she'd had to reheat it a couple of times.

She called the water to be taken away, the dirt and scented oils swishing as the cabin boys carried it out. It wasn't until Daenerys lay down and rested her head on the pillow that she realized how exhausted she was. She knew that she'd slept in the boat, but it hadn't really felt like sleep. Her back had ached terribly from the splintered wood, and her neck was sore, too. The warm blankets and soft sheets felt like they had been crafted by the gods themselves. When she slept, she slept far longer than normal, and far deeper.

Daenerys had considered telling her people about her abilities before it became necessary. She decided against it, though. Words and a brief demonstration didn't inspire devotion. Not in the same way seeing it in battle would, and she needed to inspire a great deal of devotion in her people. They loved her already, and they loved her dragons, but she needed loyalty. She needed people to be in awe of her, or they wouldn't follow her. Not for long, anyhow.

It felt strange, to plan to make others revere her. It was necessary, though. She knew that. She was the Mother of Dragons, and she showed her people compassion, but compassionate rulers came and went. She needed to be more than that, and so she would become more than that.

The sun was rising behind Astapor when Daenerys' ships neared port, and its towers seemed to glow from the light. The buildings looked as if the sun had set them ablaze. She wondered if she would set the city ablaze, too. She hoped not. She didn't want to. There were slaves, there, she knew. She'd burn Astapor to ashes in order to set them free. But she didn't want to.

Kraznys mo Nakloz was far from the only slave owner in the city, but he was the owner of the Unsullied, and therefore, he was the only one she was interested in speaking to. She would do what she could for the other slaves, of course, but the Unsullied were an absolute necessity for the war she would wage one day.

Her children had grown more than she'd expected in the fortnight it had taken them to sail from Valyria to Astapor, and with each passing day, she was reminded that they would be adults in a few short years, and then she could ride them, just as Daenys had said she would. She decided she would need to hatch the eggs as soon as possible, as well. She only a safe place for it, for them. Once she had the Unsullied, perhaps she could.

Nonetheless, she found herself walking next to the slaver. He was a thin man; thinner than she would expect of someone who lived a life of excess and luxury while doing little to no physical labor. She herself had spent so much of her life running that her legs were muscled and her arms were stronger than those of most women of high birth. She'd been born a princess, but she hadn't lived like one.

The day was hot, and Kraznys was sweating freely. He only spoke a bastardized version of High Valyrian, and so a slave girl, perhaps Daenerys' age, who had introduced herself as his translator, trailed behind them. Behind her walked Ser Jorah in full plate.

Daenerys feigned ignorance of High Valyrian, despite it having been the only language Viserys spoke to her for many years. Kraznys spoke freely, as she had known he would, since he thought she could not understand him. He didn't seem to care that she was the Mother of Dragons, or the heir to the Iron Throne. His words were not only disrespectful, but perhaps the crudest she had ever heard in reference to her. His translator, however, worded things far politer than he.

"The Unsullied have stood here for a day and a night with no food or water," the girl told Daenerys as the four neared the Unsullied barracks. They stood guard, unmoving. They were like statues, almost as if they themselves were made of the very same brick their feet were planted on. "They will stand until they drop," the girl continued. "Such is their obedience."

The Unsullied parted to form a path for their master and Daenerys, their movements abrupt and unified. "They may suit my needs. Tell me of their training."

"The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise to keep the price down. She wishes to know how they are trained," the girl told her master. Daenerys noted that not only was her Common Tongue unaccented and perfect, but her High Valyrian was, too. Whoever had taught her both must have been a been a native speaker themselves.

"Tell her what she would know and be quick about it. The day is hot," Kraznys complained. It was hot, that was true. Daenerys was probably the only person present who wasn't sweating profusely.

The slaver led them up onto a platform so that they could better see the Unsullied as a group. They were a group, she observed. Whatever it was that made people individuals, it had been taken from them long ago.

"They begin their training at five," the translator began. "Every day, they drill from dawn to dusk until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. Only one boy in four survives this rigorous training."

Kraznys looked at Daenerys when he spoke. She pretended not to understand him, and waited patiently for the translation. "Their discipline and loyalty are absolute. They fear nothing."

It was then that Ser Jorah chose to speak for the first time since they had been introduced to Kraznys. "Even the bravest men fear death."

"The knight says even brave men fear death," the slave girl translated for her master.

"Tell the old man he smells of piss," were Kraznys' brash words.

His translator hesitated. "Truly, master?"

She had barely finished speaking before he snapped back at her. "No, not truly. Are you a girl or a goat to ask such a thing? The Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them."

The girl did not translate his insults, only informing Daenerys of the last two sentences Kraznys spoke.

Daenerys could see that he was watching her out of the corner of her eye. "Tell this ignorant whore of a Westerner to open her eyes and watch."

He descended the steps of the platform, his elegant robes flapping in the sea breeze. "He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace," the slave girl told Daenerys, stepping closer to her.

"Come forward, soldier," Kraznys ordered one of the Unsullied, who stepped forward with his stiff, rigid movements. When his master moved his shield and spear to the side, the soldier did not react. When Kraznys took a knife that was strapped to the man's side and unsheathed it, he still did not react. Kraznys removed a flap of leather off the soldier's chest, and still, he did not react.

Worried for the man's safety, Daenerys spoke to the translator, her words rushed. "Tell the good master there is no need."

Kraznys must have recognized her tone for what it was, for as he grasped the man's nipple, he said, "she's worried about their nipples?" He dug the knife underneath the nipple. The soldier didn't so much as flinch. "Does the dumb bitch know we've cut off their balls?"

There was a sound that made Daenerys' stomach feel sick as the nipple was ripped off, blood dripping steadily from the wound.

"My master points out that men don't need nipples," the slave girl informed Daenerys, who turned to look at her. She was a lovely girl; brown skin, similar to that of the Unsullied, with wide brown eyes and a great mane of black hair that spread out around her head even more so than Daenerys' did. She wore the collar that all slaves did, and Daenerys wondered if the girl had been made to wear the dress that showed so much of her breasts and thighs, or if she'd chosen it herself. She suspected she knew the answer.

Kraznys refastened the leather flap over the man's bleeding nipple. "Here, I'm done with you."

"This one is pleased to have served you," the soldier responded in a voice as rigid as his movements he made when he stepped back into line.

Kraznys turned back to platform on which Daenerys stood, and the slave girl translated as he spoke. "To win his shield, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find a newborn and kill it before its mother's eyes." Daenerys felt a rush of pain from her heart that dropped down to her stomach, and images of blood on her hands, of the delirious state in which she'd delivered her dead child, flashed behind her eyelids as she blinked.

She knew the pain the mothers had been put through, by each and every one of these men, at the order of their master. She knew it on a deep, personal level, and she found herself trapped somewhere between heartbroken and furious.

"This way, my master says," the translator continued, "we make certain there is no weakness left in them."

Finally, Daenerys spoke. She was careful not to let her anger shine through in her tone more than necessary. "You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?"

"She is offended," the girl informed her master. "She asks if you pay a silver coin to the mother, for her dead baby."

Kraznys looked from the girl to Daenerys, amusement crossing his features. "What a soft, mewling fool this one is. Tell her the silver is for the baby's owner, not the mother."

Furious as she was at his response, she was fairly certain that she had managed well enough in her efforts not to give away her understanding of his words, patiently waiting for the girl to complete her translation.

When Daenerys turned to look down at Kraznys again, he had a small, smug smile on his face. A bird shrieked nearby. After a moment, she asked, "how many do you have to sell?"

The slave girl repeated Daenerys' question. Kraznys held up eight of his fingers. "Eight thousand," the girl confirmed.

"Tell the Westerosi whore she has until tomorrow."

"Master Kraznys asks that you please hurry. Many other buyers are interested."

Kraznys walked away from the platform then, the Unsullied parting to form a path for him once more. Daenerys turned her gaze on Ser Jorah, letting her emotions show through in her eyes.

Approaching the docks several minutes later, she allowed herself to speak of her feelings. "Eight thousand dead babies."

"The Unsullied are a means to an end," Ser Jorah reminded her.

"Once I own them, these men-"

"They're not men," he cut her off. "Not anymore."

"One I own an army of slaves," she continued, "what will I be?"

They reached the docks, coming to a stop at a set of stairs. There were slaves and masters alike walking past. "Do you think these slaves will have better lives serving Kraznys and men like him or serving you?" Daenerys noticed a small girl, no older than eight, playing with a ball, gazing at her. They walked down the stairs, and Daenerys smiled at the girl, who was weaving around cages. "You'll be fair to them. You won't mutilate them to make a point."

Smiling at the girl again, Daenerys followed her with Ser Jorah at her side. "You won't order them to murder babies. You'll see they're properly fed and sheltered. A great injustice has been done to them. Closing your eyes will not undo it."

The girl had stopped, and she rolled the ball to Daenerys across the floorboards. Bending down to pick it up, she grasped the wooden ball in her hand. She stood and looked at the girl again, a small smile playing on her lips. The girl motioned for her to open it, and foolishly, Daenerys moved to do so with a chuckle. Before she could twist her wrist to open it, there was a scuffle behind her, something that knocked her away and she lost her balance, the ball falling from her hand. She heard a grunt that she recognized as Ser Jorah's, and the world seemed to slow down as she hurtled towards the ground. She caught herself on her hands, and they burned from the impact.

The ball opened slowly, a creature she recognized as a manticore slowly chittering and crawling out. It was an eerily beautiful jade green that it seemed almost to glow, and its spindly legs reminded her of a spider. It had a great stinger that it raised when it caught sight of her, poised to attack. She pushed herself back on her hands as it rushed at her, knowing there was almost certainly nothing she could do to prevent her death.

Suddenly, a dagger was thrust into the creature's body, and Daenerys took great effort to keep herself from shaking, standing slowly and taking deep breaths. A man in a cloak lifted the manticore up as it squirmed, trying to escape the dagger, and the little girl hissed through her teeth, jumping into the water. There was no splash.

Behind her, Ser Jorah panted, worn out from what Daenerys assumed had been a fight with the hooded figure. Slowly, Ser Jorah came and allowed her to lean on his arm. Having a very deadly creature attempt to kill you left one quite shaken, as it turned out.

Daenerys turned to Ser Jorah. "What was she?"

"I… I think she was a Faceless Man, Khaleesi." Daenerys had heard of the Faceless Men; assassins with strange, magical abilities.

"Joffrey?" She wondered. Ser Jorah nodded with a sigh.

Daenerys walked towards the hooded figure. He was an older man, with a short, white beard. "I owe you my life, ser."

"The honor is mine, my queen," he told her, lowering his hood. Daenerys didn't recognize the man, but Ser Jorah very clearly did, for he moved to stand beside her with slow, careful steps.

"You know this man?" She asked him, her voice soft.

"I know him," Ser Jorah confirmed, "as one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and as the Lord Commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard."

He had served the Usurper? How could she trust him? But then, he'd saved her life. If he had wanted her dead, it would have been as simple as watching the manticore kill her.

"King Robert is dead," the man said, stepping towards her. "I've been searching for you, Daenerys Stormborn, to ask your forgiveness." When she looked at him questioningly, he went on. "I was sworn to protect your family. I failed them." At that, he bent one knee, the other resting on the docks. "I am Barristan Selmy, Kingsguard to your father. Allow me to join your Queensguard, and I will not fail you again," he promised, bowing his head.

Daenerys felt tears sting her eyes. He had known her family, he had protected them. Had the betrayal not been so great, from so many, perhaps he would have succeeded. Even the greatest of fighters cannot protect a person from enemies beyond counting. She hadn't formed a Queensguard. Not yet. But she needed one, did she not? And who better to serve in it than the man who had protected her family to the best of his abilities?

Yes, she decided. She would take Barriston Selmy as part of her Queensguard. She would need him, just as she needed Ser Jorah.

Aaaand here we are in season three! I did change the warlock assassin to a Faceless Man assassin. Why? 'Cause the warlocks are dead, that's why. Makes no sense to have them try and kill her if they're dead, now does it? So instead, we've got Joffrey sending assassins to try and kill her. Which makes much more sense, thank you. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Lemme know what you think.

Also: NO, Daenerys is NOT the burner of cities in this fic. She is merely saying that she would burn buildings in order to free slaves if she had to. She would NOT kill innocents. Not in my fic, thank you very fucking much.