Chapter 12: Fuel

Tyrion Lannister sat in the dimly lit chamber of his chamber, the flickering candle casting a soft, wavering glow across the page of the letter in his hands. The wax seal, still unbroken, bore the sigil of House Lannister, a roaring lion embossed in crimson. The contents of the letter had already been read aloud by a breathless page who had delivered it to him not an hour past. Now, as his eyes scanned the words etched onto the parchment, he felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a clawing sense of dread that had been his companion since he had first learned to understand his family's intricacies and navigate the different approaches to take with each of them.

The letter claimed a damning truth that, if believed, would shake the very foundations of Westeros, of the new Baratheon dynasty. It stated, with malicious clarity, that Jaime and Cersei Lannister were not the trueborn children of Tywin Lannister, but rather bastards sired by Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King. The author of the letter he had quickly learned from the page who brought the letter to him had sent copies apparently to every noble house in Westeros. Tyrion had asked him how he could be sure of this and the boy had answered that he had seen thousands of ravens with letters attached flying in every direction. Everyone would know from the great lords of the North to the smallest landed knights in the Reach, from the austere halls of the Citadel in Oldtown to the sacred Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing. All would now hear the same whispered scandal: the golden twins of Casterly Rock were not lions, but dragons. Tywin Lannister was a cuck and Robert Baratheon was married to a bastard.

Tyrion found himself smiling bitterly at the irony of it all. His father’s pride and joy, the golden children who had always outshone him, were alleged to be born of another’s seed. And he, the despised son, the twisted little monkey as his sister so often called him, might be the only true son of Tywin Lannister. Yet, as the notion wormed its way into his mind, he quickly dismissed it. The words on the page were no more than a tool, a weapon forged by some cunning enemy to sow discord and weaken the Baratheon-Lannister alliance. He told himself this again and again, but a small voice in the back of his mind whispered in doubt. What if it were true? What if he was the only true Lannister heir?

A pang of something strange and unexpected twisted in his chest—a cruel, perverse hope. Tyrion quickly extinguished it, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. It was too absurd, too fanciful even for the songs of bards. And yet… The thought of his father, Tywin Lannister, being forced to acknowledge him as the only trueborn son… The one his father saw as his greatest shame, the one whose birth had brought death to the woman Tywin had loved, being the last remnant of his precious Lannister blood. It would be justice of a sort, the kind that only the gods themselves could devise.

He rose from his chair, the letter still clutched tightly in his hand. He needed to speak to his father, to see the truth—or falsehood—of this claim in the cold, unflinching gaze of Tywin Lannister. The man would probably know. He made his way through the shadowed halls of Casterly rock, passing guards and servants who averted their eyes as he passed. He knew what they thought of him—imp, dwarf, monster. He was the unwanted Lannister, the one who should never have been born.

As he approached his father's solar, he noted the two guards posted at the door, their expressions taut and uneasy. They stood as if their feet were in quicksand, as if they might sink into the floor at any moment. One of them, a tall, thin man with a long scar down his cheek, looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. The other, a young lad with a pale face, clutched his spear tightly, his knuckles white. Tyrion paused before the door, the weight of what lay beyond it settling heavily on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The solar, once the epitome of Tywin’s meticulous order, was in complete disarray. Books lay strewn across the floor, scrolls and maps scattered in every direction. The once-pristine desk was overturned, and shattered glass crunched under Tyrion's boots as he stepped into the room. His gaze traveled across the chaos, finally coming to rest on his father, who sat slumped in a high-backed chair in the center of the room, surrounded by a sea of empty wine bottles. Tywin Lannister, the stern, unyielding lion of Casterly Rock, looked more like a broken old man than the powerful lord Tyrion had known all his life.

Tywin’s usually immaculate appearance was in ruins. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt, and his eyes… his eyes were red and clouded, as if he had been crying. Tyrion’s breath caught in his throat. He had never seen his father in such a state, had never even imagined it. For a moment, he was a child again, longing for his father's approval, for the love he knew he would never receive. But as he looked upon the wreckage of the man before him, he felt something else—pity.

Tywin’s head lifted slowly, his gaze finding Tyrion’s. There was a wildness in his eyes, a raw, desperate anger that made Tyrion’s heart clench. "You," Tywin rasped, his voice thick with wine, rage and something Tyrion could almost recognize as sorrow. "I have always wished you had never been born. That it had been you who died instead of Joanna."

The words struck Tyrion like a physical blow, a sword thrust through the heart. He had always known his father despised him, had always known that he was the unwanted child, the twisted creature that had killed his mother in the act of being born. But hearing the words spoken aloud, the naked hatred in his father’s voice… it was almost too much to bear, it hurts even though he had thought himself to have grown incapable of being affected by his father’s words, barbs and insults. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to make his father feel the same pain that he felt. But he did not. Instead, he forced himself to smile, a small, bitter twist of his lips.

"I have often wished the same," Tyrion said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him. "But wishing changes nothing. We are who we are."

Tywin’s gaze bore into him, and for a moment, Tyrion thought his father might strike him. But then Tywin slumped back into his chair, his eyes drifting away to stare vacantly at the chaos around him. "That letter," Tywin muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It is not just an insult to me. It is an insult to her memory, to Joanna. My wife, the woman I loved more than anything… They tarnish her name with these lies,” he hissed before his voice wavered, a sliver of doubt creeping in. "They cannot be true. It is impossible."

Tyrion studied his father, noting the crack in his once-impenetrable facade. There was a desperation in Tywin's voice that Tyrion had never heard before, a fear that went beyond mere anger or pride. This letter, this claim, threatened everything Tywin had built, everything he had fought to protect. It was not just his reputation at stake, but his entire legacy. "If it is true," Tywin continued, his voice rising, "if it is believed… Robert will never tolerate a Targaryen in his bed. He will do something foolish, something reckless, before he accepts that. This… this could destroy everything."

Tyrion felt a chill run down his spine as he watched his father speak. The thought of Tywin Lannister, the unyielding lion of the West, brought low by a mere letter was almost too much to fathom. And yet, as he listened to his father rant about his legacy, about preserving his bloodline and his dreams of power, Tyrion saw something else—a madness, a desperation that reminded him of the tales of the Mad King. Tywin looked almost possessed, his eyes wild and feverish, his hands trembling as he spoke.

"Father," Tyrion said softly, trying to break through the haze of his father’s despair. "If you are to protect your legacy, you need to regain your composure. You must act like the lion you are, not a child throwing a tantrum."

Tywin’s gaze snapped to Tyrion, and for a moment, the old fire returned to his eyes. But it was fleeting, and soon the despair returned, his shoulders slumping once more. Tyrion turned to leave, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had seen. As he reached the door, he heard his father’s voice, a whisper that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.

"Why were you born so wrong?" Tywin murmured, his voice thick with grief and pain. "If you had not killed Joanna… if you were not so… shameful… I could have been proud of you."

Tyrion paused, the words cutting deeper than any blade. He felt a single tear slip from his green eye, rolling down his cheek before he wiped it away with a finger, almost absently. Without another word, he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. As he walked away, the sound of his father’s broken voice echoing in his mind, he felt a strange emptiness settle in his chest.

In that moment, Tyrion Lannister knew that no matter what he did, no matter what he achieved, he would never be enough for his father. He would always be the unwanted child, the twisted dwarf who had brought only pain and shame to the great House Lannister. And yet, as he made his way back to his chambers, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps, just perhaps, he had been given a strange, perverse gift—a glimpse into the soul of Tywin Lannister, the man behind the lion.

And he had found it wanting because it had shown to Tyrion something, that deep down behind his facade of the great and feared Tywin Lannister was a pathetic man, a pathetic and cruel one exactly like the one Tyrion saw each time he looked into a mirror.

*scene*

The tent was filled with the scent of blood and sweat, the air thick with the smoke of burning herbs and the murmurs of men who had known too much death and too little peace. The Khals sat in a circle around the fire, their faces illuminated by its flickering glow. Outside, the rustle of the wind against the flaps was like the whispers of ghosts, the dead that had perished under the blades of their arakhs. In the center of the gathering, amidst the light and the smoke, sat Khal Drogo, his presence a void that seemed to consume all around him, a presence that seemed to order the world to pay attention.

Khal Ogo shifted uncomfortably on his haunches, his gaze moving from the dancing flames to Drogo. His thoughts churned like a storm over the Dothraki Sea. He was a man of scars and fury, a Khal of no small repute, and yet, he had not been chosen. Bitterness gnawed at him like a starving dog at a bone, the taste of it sharp and acrid in his mouth. ‘If I were still in my prime,’ he thought, his fingers tracing the hilt of his arakh, ‘I would challenge him. And I would win.’

But the years had taken their toll. His back ached with every movement, his eyes did not see as they once did, and his strength had waned, replaced by a cold wisdom that told him survival meant more than pride. It was this wisdom that kept his mouth shut, that forced him to swallow the bile that rose in his throat every time he looked upon Drogo, the ‘chosen’ one. Khal Drogo, the first of their kind to be called upon to lead all the khalasars, a king in all but name, though the Dothraki had never bowed to any king.

It was the Vosh khaleen who had decreed it so, the ancient crones of Vaes Dothrak, their words laced with the venom of prophecy and the weight of something simply more that couldn’t, wouldn't be denied. They had spoken in their cracked voices, declaring that Drogo was to lead the united khalasars against the demon in the shape of a boy, Aegor, who sought to end them all, to erase their culture, their way of life, because he hated their freedom, their strength, the way they took what they wanted from the weak. ‘As if this wasn’t the nature of the world,’ Ogo mused, his mind drifting like a lone rider under the night sky.

The crones had spoken, and the Khals had listened. Some with anger, some with fear, but all with a grudging respect that bordered on awe. Drogo had been chosen, and when one among them, Khal Zekko, had dared to defy him, Drogo had slaughtered him outside the very gates of Vaes Dothrak, his arakh moving like a serpent, striking with swiftness and strength that could only be deemed monstrous. Drogo had split him in two with a single swing of his arakh, just outside the gates of Vaes Dothrak. . Ogo had watched, his eyes narrowing as Drogo stood over Zeko’s corpse, his chest heaving, his eyes dark as the abyss, the other Dothraki chanting and shooting his name.

Drogo had become a legend, and Ogo was nothing more than a memory, a shadow of a once-great man. ‘A king,’ Ogo thought, his heart heavy. ‘He has become a king among us.’

A king of a doomed people, perhaps. The demon boy had already shown his strength, slaying Khal Dharo’s khalasar , leaving their corpses to rot under the sun, leaving only one man alive and it had been to warn them that he was coming for them. ‘What chance did they have against such a monster?’ Even with all the khalasars united, they numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and still, Ogo felt the icy fingers of doubt creep into his mind. Khal Dharo’s khalasar had been the second greatest amongst them after the one of Khal Drogo.

‘Demons should remain in stories,’ he thought, his lips twisting into a grimace. ‘Not walk among men.’

The tent flaps rustled as a figure stepped through, the leader of the Vosh khaleen, an old woman whose face was a web of wrinkles and shadows, her eyes glinting like coals in the firelight. She moved with a grace that belied her age, her movements fluid and deliberate, like a snake weaving through tall grass. The murmurs ceased as she raised her hand, the Khals becoming silent, their eyes drawn to her like moths to a flame. Ogo felt a chill crawl up his spine. There was something unnatural about the old woman, something that made his skin crawl. She seemed to draw the light out of the tent, casting everything in shades of gray..

“The Great Stallion speaks,” she rasped, her voice low and resonant, filling the space like the tolling of a great bell. “The demon child, Aegor, is close.”

Ogo felt a shiver run down his spine, the words striking him like a blow. ‘Before the demon child,’ he would have dismissed such a claim as nonsense, the ravings of an old woman touched by madness. But he had seen too much, felt the weight of the darkness pressing in on all sides. ‘There is power here,’ he realized, his hands trembling. ‘A power I cannot deny no matter how much I wish to.’

He remembered the first time someone had doubted her claim, a young Khal, the youngest of them full of bravado and arrogance. He had laughed in her face, called her a liar and a witch. He had died on the spot, his heart bursting in his chest, as if struck by an invisible hand. The second time it happened, to a bloodrider this time there was no laughter, only silence and fear. By the third, all believed.

‘We fight demons now,’ Ogo thought, his heart heavy with dread. ‘And the Vosh khaleen hold the keys to a power as dark to slay them.’

They had commanded sacrifices, slaves killed in the name of the Great Stallion, their blood spilled on the earth as offerings to the god they served. Ogo had watched, his face a mask of stone, as the slaves had been dragged screaming to their deaths. ‘It was not new, this bloodletting, but it felt different, darker.’ Ogo had watched, his face impassive, though inside he felt a growing sense of unease.

This was not the way of the Dothraki. They killed, yes, but for glory, for honor, for the thrill of the hunt. This…this was something else, something dark and twisted, a perversion of their ways. The very air had grown thick with the stench of death, fear and something else he couldn’t recognize. And when the sacrifices were done, they had ordered the Khals to conquer, to raid and kill and take, to bring glory to the Great Stallion before the demon child came. Many had reveled in this command, eager to do what they had always done, but now with the blessing of their god, all together, united under one banner.

‘Witchcraft,’ Ogo thought, a dark suspicion gnawing at the edges of his mind. ‘But I will not say it. Not here, not now, maybe never.’ The Vosh khaleen had grown in power, their words carrying the weight of command, their prophecies driving the Khals to action.

Where once they had been merely listened to, now they were obeyed, and Ogo knew that to cross them would be to invite disaster. They were no longer just seers and wise women. They were something more, something powerful and terrifying. ‘They have chosen well,’ he thought, his eyes moving to Drogo, who sat still as a statue, his face unreadable. Drogo, their champion has proven worthy in the eyes of the Dothraki.

The old woman’s voice broke through his thoughts, a sharp, commanding tone that drew all eyes to her. “I have called you here, Khals of the Dothraki, not only to warn you, but to give you a blessing, a gift from the Stallion who Rides.” She gestured, and another Vosh khaleen stepped forward, her hands cradling something wrapped in dark cloth.

Ogo leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as the cloth was pulled away, revealing a greatsword, its blade as black as night, as if forged from the darkness between the stars. It seemed to suck in the light around it, casting a shadow that felt alive, a writhing, hungry thing that sent a chill through Ogo’s bones. ‘A Dothraki does not wield such a weapon,’ he thought, his mind reeling. ‘This is not our way.’

The old woman held the sword up, her eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “This is the gift of the great stallion,” she proclaimed, her voice ringing through the tent. “A weapon to honor his greatest champion, Khal Drogo, and to strengthen him and those who follow him.”

Drogo rose, his movements slow and deliberate, as if weighed down by the very air around him. He took the sword in his hands, his fingers curling around the hilt, and Ogo saw him shudder, his eyes rolling back in his head, his body trembling. For an instant, Ogo thought he might drop the blade, but then Drogo’s eyes snapped open, and Ogo felt his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, the fire seemed to dim, the shadows lengthening, growing darker, deeper. Ogo felt his heart skip a beat, his breath catching in his throat as Drogo’s eyes were black, as black as the blade he held, as black as the night sky. There was no white, no color, only darkness, an endless void that seemed to stretch on forever. Ogo stared, unable to look away, his heart pounding in his chest, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a great abyss, staring down into the depths, into a darkness so profound that it defied comprehension. There was something in Drogo’s gaze, something ancient and terrible, something that did not belong in this world.

Ogo realized then that he was no longer looking at a man, but at a monster, a being of darkness and power, a force that should, could not be understood. ‘We fight demons now,’ he thought, his mind spinning. ‘When did we begin to fight demons with demons?’

The tent seemed to close in around him, the shadows pressing in, the air growing thick and heavy. The fire flickered, casting long, twisted shapes on the walls, shapes that seemed to move and writhe like living things. Ogo felt a scream rise in his throat, a cry of terror and despair, but he swallowed it down, his hands clenching into fists.

‘The Great Stallion has spoken,’ he thought, his mind a whirl of fear and confusion. ‘We ride to war, led by a king of shadows, a demon born of darkness. And if we die, we die fighting for the only king we have ever known.’

And if they won, if by some miracle they slew the demon child and emerged victorious, then Khal Drogo would be more than a king. He would be a living legend, a god among men, and all the Dothraki would bow before him, their fear turning to awe, their anger to reverence. ‘A king,’ Ogo thought, his mind numb. ‘A king in truth, and a legend in the making.’ There would be no other Khalaasar but the one of Drogo if they won.

The Vosh khaleen began to chant, their voices rising and falling like the wind over the plains, a song of blood and darkness, of death and victory.

Drogo turned to the other Khals, his voice a deep, guttural growl. "We ride to war," he said. "We ride to victory. The Great Stallion has spoken, and we will obey. I will lead us to victory," he spoke the voices of the Vosh Kaleen making his words feel as if they had weight, as if they were more.

The Khals joined in, their voices a low, rumbling growl, like the sound of thunder rolling over the Dothraki Sea singing, shouting the names of the great stallioma and Khal Drogo. It made a part of Khal Ogo in the back of his mind wonder if Death wasn’t better than seeing how far his people were falling.

*scene*

The night had passed, though it remained dark. Angry clouds covered the sky, twisting and writhing as if bracing for a storm. A storm not of wind and rain, but of something far more destructive. I could feel it in the air, in the heavy silence that hung over the plains. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable clash. It was a prelude to something that would make the world brace or at least it was what it felt like.

I stood among my soldiers. The air was thick with their anticipation, charged with an energy that set my skin tingling, my senses alight. Around me, my soldiers stood tall, their backs straight and their heads high, their eyes fixed on the horizon with a calm resolve. There was no fear in their gazes, no hint of doubt or hesitation. They were not slaves, people who could be cowed by the world. No, not anymore. They were men, heroes in their own right even if they didn't see themselves as such, even if I was maybe one of the rare think who thought of them as such. They look like men ready to face any coming storm. And I, I was strangely at ease. In my heart, I believed—no, I knew—that we would triumph. The end of this day would see our victory.

There was no other outcome possible. good will triumph over evil, humanity over cruelty, hope over despair.

Grey Worm stood at my side, the armor I had crafted for him shining deep azure, like the waters of a storm-tossed sea. The breastplate was sculpted, almost like a second skin, with intricate designs etched into the metal. His helmet, crested and plumed, framed his eyes, giving him the look of an ancient hero. He looked as if he came from a Greek epic. I could see the sword I had helped create behind him, sheathed at his hip. He held a spear in one hand.

I turned my gaze toward Vaes Dothrak, my eyes piercing the distance, seeing through the shadows that clung to the land. There were no warriors there, only women and girls. "Grey Worm," I said, my voice low but clear. "I see no warriors in Vaes Dothrak.”

"those who were left behind are only girls, babes and women in the city,” I said softly to Grey Worm.

His brow furrowed, and I saw the same thought cross his mind as it did mine. "Then where are they?"

"Here," I replied, the word falling from my lips like a stone into a still pond.

And then they appeared. Out of the shadows, out of the night that still clung even though it was day, they came. The Dothraki and their allies, moving like shadows, forming a circle around us. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their weight, the sound of hooves and feet like the distant rumble of thunder. They had surrounded us, formed a ring of steel and flesh, a living wall that stretched as far as the eye could see.

They had known we were coming. Somehow, they had known. If they had moved in the night, I would have seen them. My sight would have pierced the dark. If not me, then someone else would have noticed. Grey Worm, my Unsullied. But they had moved unseen, unnoticed. It was as if they had emerged from the very earth itself.

There were so many of them. A sea of bodies, stretching out into the distance, as vast and endless as the ocean. Hundreds of thousands, maybe more. It was a number that boggled the mind, that defied comprehension. It was as if the stars themselves had fallen from the sky, a countless multitude, each one a dark flame ready to consume us.

They were a sea of darkness, a tide that threatened to swallow us whole. And yet, even in the midst of that darkness, there was light. The light of my soldiers' armor, their weapons. My soldiers stood like beacons of light, their armour and weapons catching the faintest glimmers of dawn. Around me, it was as if the darkness itself was held at bay, the air brighter, the shadows less oppressive as if it feared me.

An army surrounding ours would mean defeat for most. A dozen thousand against hundreds of thousands should be a death sentence, a final act of defiance before the inevitable. But I knew better. Even without me, I had faith in my men, in Grey Worm and his leadership. I had promised him I wouldn’t fight unless there was an active supernatural threat. He wanted to prove that we could win without me, that we didn’t need magic to be victorious. And I respected that. Each of my man I was sure was worth a hundred of the Dothraki.

A rider broke from the ranks of the Dothraki, his horse galloping forward until he was but ten paces away from our line. He sat tall in the saddle, his eyes meeting mine across the distance. His gaze was strange, unnatural. They were eyes unlike any I had seen before, void of iris or pupil, swallowed by a darkness so deep it seemed to pull at my soul. His long hair was adorned with silver bells and gold, each a testament to a victory, a mark of honor among the Dothraki. He held a greatsword in one hand, a blade that screamed against nature, its mere presence an affront to the world. I could feel it even from here—the sword was tainted, infused with sorcery, its essence twisted and foul, that seemed to drink in the light around it.

I knew then, with a certainty that could not be shaken, that this man had dabbled in sorcery. My archmage essence stirred within me, analyzing the phenomenon before me. It was different from the magic Pyat Pree and the Undying Ones had used against me in Astapor. Darker, more insidious. It reminded me of poison, of something that consumed you bit by bit. A power bought at a price far too high, sometimes even without the person knowing that they had paid for it.

"I am Khal Drogo," he called out, his voice accented carrying over the plain, strong and proud. Khal Drogo looked very different from Jason Momoa. After all, no matter how they tried to manipulate his appearance, the directors of Game of Thrones hadn’t been able to replicate how barbaric he looked. This was the kind of person I could see happily participating in slaughter and rape. Khal Drogo’s Khalaasar was in canon the biggest. People a lot of time seem to forget what it means. The Dothraki before Daenerys had been demons in human flesh.

"The new leader of all Dothraki. And you," he pointed his sword at me, "are you Aegor? The one the sheep people and slaves call liberator, who they pray to even as you slaughter them? The demon who destroyed Khal Xharo's Khalasar, who promised to destroy all Dothraki?"

I met his gaze, my voice cold and hard, each word a weight, an iron shackle falling upon the earth. "I am," I said. "And I do not regret it. Your words only make me regret that I stopped after Khal Xharo's Khalasar. That I didn't hunt the rest of you down. I was foolish to think there was any chance, however small, that you could become better. Even under the threat of violence."

Khal Drogo's lips curled into a sneer. "I came only to see the face of the one I will personally behead. Your army will be destroyed, your soldiers killed or returned to slavery. And after, I will take Astapor, your city, and raze it to the ground."

He turned his horse, riding back to his army.

Grey Worm stepped closer, his voice low. "Shall we put an arrow in his back?"

"No," I said. "Let him die after he has given his all. Let him die knowing it was slaves who brought about his downfall, not trickery." I glanced at Grey Worm. "There is magic in him," I said quietly.

Grey Worm nodded. "I felt it too. Something wrong, something…dark."

I looked back at the Dothraki, at the vast sea of darkness that surrounded us. "It feels like a trap," I said. "Like something is happening in the background. This feels too much like when Pyat Pree attacked Astapor."

Grey Worm nodded again. "You said you wouldn’t fight unless there was an active supernatural threat. Does this qualify?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. I will not fight. But that does not mean I will not help."

My gaze swept over the Dothraki, over their dark eyes and grim faces. I could see it in them, the same darkness I had seen in Khal Drogo's eyes, in his sword. A darkness that threatened to consume everything it touched.

‘None of my people will die today,’ I thought, and I felt the magic stir within me, a great, roaring beast, a torrent of power that pulsed out from me like an invisible wave. It flowed through my army, through every soldier, every man, and woman who stood with me.

Their armor seemed to shine even brighter. They looked like stars, each one a point of light in the vast, endless dark.

The Dothraki and their allies began to ready themselves, to move forward, their war cries rising into the night, a sound like thunder, like the earth itself splitting apart. The ground shook beneath the weight of their charge, the sound of hooves like a thousand drums.

But even through the noise, my voice rang clear and loud, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "I am proud to stand here with you!" I shouted, my voice carrying over the plains. "I doubt not for a moment that we will be the ones to win today. Because we fight for something greater than ourselves, for a dream that is bigger than any one man, any one army! We fight for freedom, for a world where no one is a slave, where all men and women are free! We cannot be crushed, we cannot be killed, because we are dreamers! And dreams cannot be cut by steel, cannot be broken by force. Dreams are eternal, immortal!"

I saw my soldiers straighten, saw their eyes light up with a fire that burned brighter than any star.

"We will win today," I continued, "because of the hope others have in us, because of the dreams they share with us. Those in Astapor we freed, every slave in Essos and the rest of the world, they look to us. They believe in us. And this," I raised my hand, gesturing to the Dothraki, "This is only the beginning. No matter how deep the darkness may be, no matter how hopeless things may seem, good will prevail. As long as men believe in it, as long as men choose to rebel against the shackles of the world, as long as men remember that they can choose, and that choice is all it takes to make things better!"

A cheer rose up from my army, a sound that drowned out the roar of the Dothraki. It was a sound of defiance, of strength, of resolve. A sound that carried over the plains, that echoed across the vast expanse of the world.

“What do you see?!” I asked them.

And they answered as one, their voices louder than thunder, louder than the sound of the charging Dothraki. "VICTORY!"

“What do you see?" I asked them again.

Their answer was even louder this time, overpowering, drowning every other sound

“VICTORY!”