In the centre of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the centre of the fountain, a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall, she reared. She had a woman's face with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms, she had the wings of a bat or a dragon; her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind, she wore a scorpion's curled and venomous tail.

The harpy of Ghis, Daenerys thought. Old Ghis had fallen five thousand years ago if she remembered true; its legions shattered by the might of young Valyria, its brick walls pulled down, its streets and buildings turned to ash and cinder by dragonflame, its very fields sown with salt, sulfur, and skulls. The gods of Ghis were dead, and so too were its people; these Astapori were mongrels, Ser Barristan said. Even the Ghiscari tongue was primarily forgotten; the slave cities spoke the High Valyrian of their conquerors or what they had made of it.

Yet the symbol of the Old Empire still endured here, though this bronze monster had a heavy chain dangling from her talons, an open manacle at either end. The harpy of Ghis had a thunderbolt in her claws. This is the harpy of Astapor.

"Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes," the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the translator who spoke for him. "I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can surely see how magnificent my creatures are."

Kraznys's High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis and flavoured here and there with words of slaver argot. Daenerys understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the translator, wondering what he might have said.

"The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?" The translator spoke the Common Tongue well for one who had never been to Westeros. She had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

"They may suit my needs," Daenerys answered. The Professor had suggested that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. "Tell me of their training."

"The Westerosi woman is pleased with them but speaks no praise to keep the price down," the translator told her master. "She wishes to know how they were trained."

Kraznys mo Nakloz bobbed his head. He smelled as if he'd bathed in raspberries, this slaver, and his jutting red-black beard glistened with oil. He has larger breasts than I do, Daenerys reflected. She could see them through the thin sea-green silk of the gold-fringed tokar he wound about his body and over one shoulder. His left hand held the tokar in place as he walked while his right clasped a short leather whip. "Are all Westerosi pigs so ignorant?" he complained. "All the world knows that the Unsullied are masters of spear, shield, and shortsword." He gave Daenerys a broad smile. "Tell her what she would know, slave, and be quick about it. The day is hot."

That much, at least, is no lie. A matched pair of slaves stood behind them, holding a striped silk awning over their heads, but even in the shade, Daenerys felt light-headed, and Kraznys was perspiring freely. The Plaza of Pride had been baking in the sun since dawn. Even through the thickness of her shoes, she could feel the warmth of the red bricks underfoot. Waves of heat rose off them shimmering to make the stepped pyramids of Astapor around the plaza seem half a dream.

However, if the Unsullied felt the heat, they gave no hint of it. They could be made of brick themselves, the way they stand there. A thousand had been marched out of their barracks for her inspection; drawn up in ten ranks of one hundred before the fountain and its great bronze harpy, they stood stiffly at attention, their stony eyes fixed straight ahead. They wore nought but white linen clouts knotted about their loins and conical bronze helms topped with a foot-long sharpened spike. Kraznys had commanded them to lay down their spears and shields and doff their swordbelts and quilted tunics, so the Queen of Westeros might better inspect the lean hardness of their bodies.

"They are chosen young for size, speed and strength," the translator told her. "They begin their training at five. Every day they drill from dawn to dusk until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in four survives it."

Kraznys mo Nakloz supposedly spoke no word of the Common Tongue, but he bobbed his head as he listened and, from time to time, gave the translator a poke with the end of his lash. "Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night without food or water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still and never move until his death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that."

"I call that madness, not courage," said Barristan when the translator was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks (tap tap) as if to tell his displeasure.

"What did the smelly old man say?" the slaver demanded of his translator. He smiled when she told him, saying, "Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker, or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient."

"Sheep are obedient," said Barristan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Daenerys, but like her and the Professor, he too was feigning ignorance.

Kraznys mo Nakloz showed his big white teeth when that was rendered back to him. "A word from me and these sheep would spill his stinking old bowels on the bricks," he said, "but do not say that. Instead, tell them that these creatures are more dogs than sheep. Do they eat dogs or horses in these Seven Kingdoms?"

"They prefer pigs and cows, your worship."

"Beef. Pfag. Food for unwashed savages."

Ignoring them all, Daenerys strolled down the line of the Unsullied. The slaves followed close behind with the silk awning to keep her in the shade, but a thousand men before her enjoyed no such protection. More than half had the copper skins and almond eyes of Dothraki and Lhazerene, but she also saw men of the Free Cities in the ranks, along with pale Qartheen, ebon-faced Summer Islanders, and others whose origins she could not guess. And some had skins of the same amber hue as Kraznys mo Nakloz and the bristly red-black hair that marked the ancient folk of Ghis, who named themselves the harpy's sons. They sell even their kind. It should not have surprised her. The Dothraki did the same when khalasar met khalasar in the sea of grass.

Some of the soldiers were tall, and some were short. Their cheeks were smooth, and their eyes were all the same, be they black or brown, blue or grey or amber. They are like one man, Daenerys thought, until she remembered that they were no men at all. The Unsullied were eunuchs, every one of them. "Why do you cut them?" she asked Kraznys through the translator. "Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard."

"A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights. This is true," said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was asked. "A bull is strong, but bulls die daily in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel's Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis who come again, obedient, loyal, and without fear. They fear nothing."

The Professor frowned at the translator's comment. "If they are truly fearless, then that may prove to be their greatest weakness," he said, his voice tinged with concern. "A warrior who fears nothing may not understand the consequences of their actions."

Kraznys smiled again when he heard that. "Fear is not the only motivator for a warrior. Our Unsullied have been trained to follow orders without question and to prioritize the mission above all else. This discipline allows them to make calculated decisions in battle to stay focused on the task at hand. They may not fear death, but they understand its weight and the importance of achieving victory. And with our methods of training, they have been proven time and again to be the most effective soldiers in all of the known world. So tell this ignorant whore of a westerner to open her eyes and watch."

"He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace," the translator said.

Kraznys moved to the next eunuch in line. "Your sword," he said. The eunuch unsheathed the blade and offered it up hilt first. It was a shortsword, made more for stabbing than slashing, but the edge looked razor-sharp.

"Tell the good master there is no need," Daenerys said.

"She's worried about their nipples?" Kraznys jabbed the swordpoint beneath a wide pink nipple and began to work it back and forth. "Men do not need nipples, eunuchs even less so." The nipple hung by a thread of skin. He slashed and sent it to the bricks, leaving behind a round red eye copiously weeping blood. The eunuch did not move until Kraznys offered him back his sword, hilt first. "Here, I'm done with you."

"This one is pleased to have served you."

Kraznys turned back to Daenerys. "They feel no pain, you see," he said.

"To win his shield, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother's eyes. In this way, we ensure that there is no weakness left in them."

She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. "You take a babe from its mother's arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?"

When the translation was done for him, Kraznys mo Nakloz laughed aloud. "What a soft-mewling fool this one is. Tell the whore of Westeros that the mark is for the child's owner, not the mother. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal."

Barrisatan tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Daenerys saw him turn his eyes away as if he could no longer bear to look at Kraznys.

"How many Unsullied do you have to sell?" Daenerys asked.

"Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit, she should know. By the thousand or the century. Once, we sold by the ten as household guards, but that proved unsound. Ten is too few. They mingle with other slaves, even freemen, and forget who and what they are." Kraznys waited for that to be rendered in the Common Tongue and then continued. "This beggar queen must understand such wonders do not come cheaply. In Yunkai and Meereen, slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords, but Unsullied are the finest foot in all the world, and each represents many years of training. Tell her they are like Valyrian steel, folded over and over and hammered for years until they are stronger and more resilient than any metal on earth."

"I know of Valyrian steel," said Daenerys. "Ask the Good Master if the Unsullied have their officers."

"You must set your officers over them. We train them to obey, not to think. Then, if she wants wits, let her buy scribes."

"And their gear?"

"Sword, shield, spear, sandals, and quilted tunic are included," said Kraznys. "And the spiked caps, to be sure. They will wear such armour as you wish, but you must provide it."

Daenerys could think of no other questions. She looked at Barristan. "You have lived long in the world. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?"

"I say no, Your Grace," the old man answered.

"Why?" she asked. "Speak freely." Daenerys thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the translator to hear so Kraznys mo Nakloz might listen later.

"My queen," said Barristan, "there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason. You will greatly harm your cause and your House's honour."

"Yet I must have some army," Daenerys said. "The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely."

"When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you," Barristan promised. "Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered with great love."

"And my father?" Daenerys said.

The old man hesitated before saying, "King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. But, your Grace, you do not need slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf to sound out the high lords for your cause."

"Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?"

"Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons."

"May," said Daenerys. That was such a slippery word, may in any language. She turned back to Kraznys mo Nakloz and his translator. "I must consider carefully."

The slaver shrugged. "Tell the Westerosi whore she only has a couple of days," he said, before he and his translator left Daenerys, the Professor and Barristan alone, looking at the Unsullied that stood before them.


Astapor was a queer city, even to the eyes of one who had walked within the House of Dust and bathed in the Womb of the World beneath the Mother of Mountains. All the streets were made of the same red brick that had paved the plaza. So too were the stepped pyramids, the deep-dug fighting pits with their rings of descending seats, the sulfurous fountains and gloomy wine caves, and the ancient walls that encircled them. So many bricks, she thought, and so old and crumbling. Their fine red dust was everywhere, dancing down the gutters at each gust of wind. Small wonder so many Astapori women veiled their faces; the brick dust stung the eyes worse than sand.

"Make way!" Jhogo shouted as he rode before her litter. "Make way for the Mother of Dragons!" But when he uncoiled the great silver-handled whip that Daenerys had given him and made to crack it in the air, she leaned out and told him nay. "Not in this place, blood of my blood," she said in Dothraki. "These bricks have heard too much of the sound of whips."

The streets had been primarily deserted when they had set out from the port that morning and scarcely seemed more crowded now. An elephant lumbered past with a latticework litter on its back. A naked boy with peeling skin sat in a dry brick gutter, picking his nose and staring sullenly at some ants in the street. He lifted his head at the sound of hooves and gaped as a column of mounted guards trotted by in a cloud of red dust and brittle laughter. The copper disks sewn to their cloaks of yellow silk glittered like so many suns, but their tunics were embroidered linen, and below the waist, they wore sandals and pleated linen skirts. Bareheaded, each man had teased and oiled and twisted his stiff red-black hair into some fantastic shape, horns, wings, blades, and even grasping hands, so they looked like some troupe of demons escaped from the seventh hell. The naked boy watched them for a bit, along with Daenerys, but soon enough, they were gone, and he went back to his ants and a knuckle up his nose.

An old city, this, she reflected, but not so crowded as it was in its glory, nor near so crowded as Qarth or Pentos or Lys.

Her litter suddenly stopped at the cross street to allow a coffle of slaves to shuffle across her path, urged along by the crack of an overseer's lash. These were no Unsullied, Daenerys noted, but a more common sort of men with pale brown skins and black hair. There were women among them but no children. All were naked. Two Astapori rode behind them on white asses, a man in a red silk tokar and a veiled woman in sheer blue linen decorated with flakes of lapis lazuli. In her red-black hair, she wore an ivory comb. The man laughed as he whispered to her, paying no more mind to Dany than to his slaves, nor the overseer with his twisted five-thonged lash, a squat broad Dothraki who had the harpy and chains tattooed proudly across his muscular chest.

"Bricks and blood built Astapor," Barristan Selmy murmured at her side, "and bricks and blood her people."

"What is that?" the Professor asked.

"An old rhyme a maester taught me when I was a boy. I never knew how true it was. The bricks of Astapor are red with the blood of the slaves who make them."

"I can well believe that," said Daenerys.

"Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide."

Would that I could, thought Daenerys. "When I leave Astapor, it must be with an army."

"But a slave army?" Barristan asked her. "There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honour, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you."

The Professor was silent for a moment. "Aren't all armies slaves, though? They all follow the command of one leader. Besides, sellswords aren't cheap. They'll serve the person with the most money. What if someone comes along with a greater amount of money?"

"My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities," Daenerys said. "The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar's bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth; that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand."

"Better to come a beggar than a slaver," Barristan said.

"There speaks one who has been neither." Daenerys' nostrils flared. "Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and

I . . . my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?"

Barristan bowed his head. "Your Grace, I did not mean to offend."

"Only lies offend me, never honest counsel." Daenerys patted Barristan's hand to reassure him. "I have a dragon's temper, that's all. You must not let it frighten you."

"I shall try and remember." Barristan smiled.

He has a good face, and great strength to him, Daenerys thought as they arrived back on the ship Balerion. They unpacked everything and settled down for the night.

Everyone was at their quarters while the Professor was sleeping in his room aboard his TARDIS, which was parked below the decks of the Balerion. Daenerys had joined him, though she couldn't sleep. She lay awake as she let her thoughts wrestle deep within her. She needed an army, but did she want a slave army? She stared at the ceiling above the bed before looking beside her at where the Professor slept. She reached out and grabbed his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. She did know one thing that she wanted.

Ever since the two had kissed on the Balerion, and with them admitting their feelings to each other, something had awoken inside her. Something that she thought she would never feel again. She rolled over and straddled the Professor's lap, grinding against him. She looked down at his sleeping form, biting on her bottom lip, watching as he began to stir.

"Dany …" the Professor said sleepily as he opened his eyes, looking at the blonde above him, with her long hair falling around her shoulders.

"Shhh …" Daenerys interrupted, placing a finger over his lips before grabbing both his hands. She let their fingers interlace together as she picked up speed. She gasped slightly, feeling how wet she was becoming. Then, scarce and daring to breathe, the Professor leaned and flipped them over so he was on top of her. She looked up at him, her violet eyes meeting his kind blue ones, and she nodded.

They helped each other to strip from their confining clothes. Daenerys gasped when she felt the Professor enter himself into her, and they smiled at each other. "We have all the time tonight…" he whispered, leaning in to kiss her firmly.


The following day, it all seemed like a dream. Daenerys awakened and found herself wrapped up in the Professor's arms, their bodies tangled in the mess of sheets. She looked down at the Time Lord's arms wrapped around her body. This was the first time she had been with another since Khal Drogo. She thought these feelings had died in the Red Waste with him. But being with the Professor had brought them back to life. He was different from Khal Drogo, too. Drogo was rough, but the Professor was kind and gentle. And she loved that. It was different, but a good different.

After being dressed and fed, the group left the Balerion and looked around Astapor again. The grand brick pyramids lined the shore; the largest was four hundred feet high. All manner of trees and vines and flowers grew on their broad terraces, and the winds that swirled around them smelled green and fragrant. Another gigantic harpy stood atop the gate, made of baked red clay and crumbling visibly, with no more than a stub of her scorpion's tail remaining. The chain she grasped in her clay claws was old iron, rotten with rust. It was cooler down by the water, though. The lapping of the waves against the rotting pilings made a curiously soothing sound.

The Professor climbed out of the litter before helping Daenerys. Barristan Selmy was waiting for them. "Your Grace," he said, bowing his head. "The slavers have come and gone. Three of them, with a dozen scribes and as many slaves to lift and fetch. They crawled over every foot of our holds and noted all we had. Forgive me, but many men do they have for sale?"

"None. They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a pointy hat and strangle their dogs? They don't even have names. So don't call them men, ser."

"The Unsullied are chosen as boys," the Professor said, remembering what he had heard from Kraznys. "They're trained …."

"I know of their training." And she was horrified to hear about it. She wanted to sail now and be away from this city. But she couldn't. Not when there were eight thousand eunuchs for sale. She had to find a way to buy them. She had to. "I need them," she said in a whisper only the Professor could hear. "I need to buy them."

"Then that's what we will do," the Professor said before hearing the screeching of the three dragons behind them.

The dragons were restless. Drogon raised his head and screamed, pale smoke venting from his nostrils, and Viserion flapped at her and tried to perch on her shoulder as he had when he was smaller. "No," Daenerys said, trying to shrug him off gently. "You're too big for that now, sweetling." But the dragon coiled his white and gold tail around one arm and dug black claws into the fabric of her sleeve, clinging tightly. Helpless, she sank into Groleo's excellent leather chair, giggling.

"They have been wild while you were gone, Khaleesi," Irri told her. "Viserion clawed splinters from the door, do you see? And Drogon made to escape when the slaver men came to see them. He turned and bit me when I grabbed his tail to hold him back." She showed Daenerys the marks of his teeth on her hand.

"Did any of them try to burn their way free?" That was the thing that frightened Daenerys the most.

"No, Khaleesi. Drogon breathed his fire, but in the empty air. The slaver men feared to come near him."

The Professor looked over at Irri's hand where Drogon had bitten it, and he placed his hand over it, healing the mark with his magic. Irri smiled at him. "Dragons are not meant to be locked up in a small cabin," he said.

"Dragons are like horses in this," Irri said. "And riders, too. The horses scream below, Khaleesi, and kick at the wooden walls. I hear them. And Jhiqui says the old women and the little ones scream too when you are not here. They do not like this water cart. They do not like the black salt sea."

"I know," Daenerys said. "I do, know."

Dusk had begun to settle over the waters of Slaver's Bay before Daenerys returned to the deck. She stood by the rail and looked out over Astapor. From here, it seems almost beautiful, she thought. The stars were coming out above and the silk lanterns below, just as Kraznys's translator had promised. The brick pyramids were all glimmery with light. But it is dark below, in the streets, plazas, and fighting pits. And it is darkest in the barracks, where some little boy feeds scraps to the puppy they gave him when they took away his manhood.

There was a soft step behind her. "My Queen."

Daenerys turned around and saw Barristan Selmy behind her. "Ser Barristan?"

"When Aegon the Conqueror stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit on the Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done."

Blood and fire thought Daenerys. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs."

"Your Grace, I have witnessed the aftermath of the Sack of King's Landing. Innocent babes, old men, and children at play were all mercilessly slaughtered. Women were raped in such numbers that one cannot even count. There is a wild and brutal creature in every man, and when that man is given a sword or spear and sent to war, that beast is awakened by the mere scent of blood. However, I have never heard of the Unsullied committing such atrocities. They do not pillage nor rape or leave a city in ruins except under the explicit orders of their commanders. Although you may view them as mere bricks, Your Grace, if you were to purchase them, they would become soldiers that hunt only your enemies. And I believe there are some dogs you wish to see dead, as I recall."

The Usurper's dogs. "Yes." Daenerys gazed off at the soft-coloured lights and let the cool salt breeze caress her. He seemed to have changed his mind about the matter. He must have been speaking to the Professor. She softly smiled at that. "You speak of sacking cities," she continued. "Answer me this, ser—why have the Dothraki never sacked this city?" She pointed. "Look at the walls. You can see where they've begun to crumble. There and there. Do you see any guards on those towers? I don't. Are they hiding, ser? I saw these sons of the harpy today, all their proud highborn warriors. They dressed in linen skirts, and their hair was the fiercest thing about them. Even a modest khalasar could crack this Astapor like a nut and spill out the rotted meat inside. So tell me, why is that ugly harpy not sitting beside the godsway in Vaes Dothrak among the other stolen gods?"

"There be two reasons," Ser Barristan Selmy spoke. "Firstly, the defenders of Astapor, while appearing to be Ghiscari scourges with their old names and fat purses, are but chaff. They are high officers who fight mock wars to flaunt their command on feast-days while the eunuchs are left to die. However, any enemy wishing to sack Astapor would have to face the Unsullied, for the slavers would mobilize the entire garrison to defend the city. The Dothraki haven't dared to ride against the Unsullied since they left their braids at the gates of Qohor."

"And the second reason?" Daenerys asked.

"Who in their right mind would dare to assault Astapor? Meereen and Yunkai may be at odds, but they are hardly foes, the Doom has laid waste to Valyria, and the inhabitants of the eastern hinterlands are all Ghiscari. Beyond those hills lies Lhazar, home to the so-called Lamb Men, a notably unwarlike people, as the Dothraki are fond of saying."

"Yes," she agreed, "but north of the slave cities is the Dothraki sea and two dozen mighty khals who like nothing more than sacking cities and carrying off their people into slavery."

"Carrying them off where? What good are slaves once you've killed the slavers? Valyria is a memory, and Qarth lies beyond the treacherous Red Waste. The Nine Free Cities are distant, thousands of leagues to the west. Moreover, be assured that the Sons of the Harpy are quite generous to every passing Khal, just as the magisters of Pentos, Norvos, and Myr are. They understand that they will soon be on their way if they treat these horselords to sumptuous feasts and lavish gifts. It is far cheaper than engaging in war and a deal more certain."

Cheaper than fighting, Daenerys thought. Yes, it might be. If only it could be that easy for her. How pleasant it would be to sail to King's Landing with her dragons and pay the boy Joffrey a chest of gold to make him go away.

"My Queen?" Barristan prompted when she had been silent for a long time. He touched her elbow lightly.

Daenerys shrugged him off. "Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin. But you once said I was like Rhaegar . . ."

"I remember, My Queen."

"Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. You told me he dubbed his squires and made many other knights too."

"There was no higher honour than to receive your knighthood from the Prince of Dragonstone."

"Tell me, when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? 'Go forth and kill the weak'? Or 'Go forth and defend them'? So again, at the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar's cause or because they had been bought and paid for?"

"Your Grace, your words ring true. However, we must remember that Prince Rhaegar met his end at the Trident. He was defeated in battle. His defeat marked the end of the war, the end of his reign, and the end of his life. His blood mingled with the rubies of his breastplate and flowed downriver, while Robert Baratheon claimed the Iron Throne by riding over his corpse. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honourably. And Rhaegar died."