Chapter 172: Chapter 172: The Tomb of the Unsullied
"Unsullied! I am one of you! We are all slaves—you are slaves, and these people were slaves not long ago. Lay down your weapons and let us pass. You will be free men!" Conwyra shouted, stepping into the torchlight so the Unsullied could clearly see him.
But as Conwyra had anticipated, his plea fell on deaf ears. The Unsullied were unmoved, their discipline unwavering.
Viserys had expected this outcome and wasn't relying solely on persuasion. Instead, he waited for the signal—the flaming arrows that would ignite the next phase of the attack. Behind him, the miners held their breath, hoping for a miracle. None of them wanted to face the Unsullied in battle.
But at the command of the Unsullied commander, a thousand spears flew through the air toward the rebel miners. Most of the malnourished slaves didn't even see the projectiles coming, but it didn't matter—the deadly rain of spears found its mark, splattering blood across the ranks of the uprising.
Though the night obscured much of the carnage, the thick, iron-rich smell of blood filled the air, unmistakable and nauseating. Milen felt a warm, sticky sensation on his cheek. He touched it and realized it was blood. Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he was thrown to the ground. When he looked up, he saw Old York had fallen on top of him, a spear jutting from his chest.
"Old York! Old York!" Milen cried out, shaking him. Despite the fatal wound, Old York's eyes were shining with a strange light.
"Follow the master... live on!" Old York managed to say before the light in his eyes dimmed and he fell silent.
"Old York! Old York!" Milen continued to shake him, refusing to accept the reality of his death. But before he could even process what had happened, another volley of spears rained down.
The rebel army—slaves just an hour ago—had never experienced a battle like this. Panic quickly spread through their ranks. Some cried out for their parents, others turned to flee. The enormous palace gate behind them became a bottleneck, causing a stampede as more than 10,000 people pressed together like a pot of boiling black porridge.
The smell of blood grew stronger, and it was clear this was turning into a slaughter.
"Run!"
"Get out of the way!"
"Don't push me!"
Before Viserys could regain control, the Unsullied pressed forward like a sharp blade ready to slice through his forces.
Caggo, seeing the mine slaves trying to flee, was enraged. In his fury, he lashed out with his curved blade, striking down some of his own people in an attempt to restore order. But instead of rallying the troops, his actions had the opposite effect. The slaves, seeing his armor, mistook him for one of Kambron's men, causing them to flee even faster.
The chaotic scene was punctuated by the sudden sound of gongs—familiar to the miners from Viserys's mine. It was the signal for mealtime, a routine so ingrained in them that even amidst the chaos, the sound triggered a reflex. Some of the miners, even in their panic, began to salivate at the sound.
The gongs cut through the panic, momentarily bringing some of the fleeing miners back to their senses. But the situation remained dire, with the Unsullied closing in and the rebel army on the brink of collapse.
"Even if you run now, you'll be killed! Charge! The only way to survive is to fight!" Regis shouted from a high vantage point, his powerful voice cutting through the chaos and calming some of the panicked crowd.
"We have 30,000 men—they have only 1,000! Overpower them! Overpower them all!" His voice cracked at the end, but the message had sunk in. The slaves didn't know the exact numbers, but they understood that 30,000 was far more than 1,000.
At that moment, a flaming torch flew into the ranks of the Unsullied. But this wasn't just a torch—it was a bottle of wildfire, an incendiary weapon that Viserys had concocted. The bottles exploded upon impact, creating a yellow-green wall of fire that significantly slowed the Unsullied's advance.
Yet, what happened next surprised even Viserys. Some of the Unsullied caught fire, and though they briefly fell out of formation, they didn't break. Despite the intense heat and flames, they managed to extinguish the fire within minutes and rejoined the fight, their bodies singed but their resolve unbroken.
The sight of these warriors continuing to fight, despite the pain and the burns, earned a new level of respect from Viserys. The wildfire, while hotter and more difficult to extinguish than normal flames, caused only minimal disruption among these fearsome soldiers. It was clear that the Unsullied's training had prepared them for nearly anything, even fire.
Viserys had heard of their brutal training methods: confronting their worst fears head-on until they were no longer fears. It seemed they had even trained to withstand fire. But Viserys had more tricks up his sleeve—he still had fire magic.
Protected by Conwyra and the others, Viserys cast aside his halberd and summoned several fiery serpents, which slithered forward to sow chaos among the enemy ranks. The Unsullied, unfamiliar with magic, were visibly shaken. When one of them saw a yellow-green fire serpent lunging at him, he froze in terror. Though he eventually turned to flee, his own comrade's spear found him before he could retreat, a grim reminder of the discipline the Unsullied maintained.
However, the fire serpents began to awaken a primal fear within the Unsullied, something even their training couldn't suppress. One by one, more Unsullied soldiers began to falter, their fear spreading like wildfire through their ranks. Those who had already been burned by the wildfire found the sight of the serpents particularly terrifying.
The disruption in the Unsullied's front line forced them to retreat. Though Viserys wished he could sustain the attack, his magic had its limits—summoning seven or eight fire serpents at a time was already pushing him to the brink. Still, the chaos he had caused was enough to give his forces an advantage.
The miners, unable to see as clearly as Viserys, believed the firebombs had driven the Unsullied back. Those in the front who witnessed the fiery serpents began to whisper among themselves.
"This must be the will of the gods—they are helping us!"
Once such fanaticism took hold, it became a powerful force. The sight before them was no longer just a battle—it was divine intervention.
"Charge!" Regis bellowed, his voice raspy and bloodied from exertion. The sight of the retreating Unsullied and the fiery serpents had invigorated the rebels. They surged forward with renewed vigor, believing the gods themselves were on their side.
Viserys, leading a small group of rebels and a few defected Unsullied, engaged the palace guards with precision. Their skill allowed them to tear a small opening in the Unsullied formation, but the elite soldiers quickly regrouped, encircling Viserys and his men.
"The master is just ahead! Save him!" a miner shouted, reminding the others of the oaths they had sworn. One by one, they grabbed their pickaxes and joined the fray. First one, then two, then three—soon, more and more miners surged forward, spurred on by their newfound resolve.
With the help of his dual perspectives and the remaining 20 Unsullied along with Caggo, Viserys finally managed to break through the Unsullied's defensive line. The Unsullied behind them attempted to give chase, but they were quickly bogged down by the miners who swarmed them, desperate to protect their leader.
Meanwhile, Kambron stood in the bell tower, his view of the battlefield unobstructed. He peered through a single-lens telescope, observing the chaotic scene below. The fires ignited by the wildfire lit up the night, allowing him to see the battle with startling clarity. He watched as Viserys and his small group broke through the line, only to disappear into the darkness shortly after.
In a battle involving tens of thousands, a few dozen fighters were barely noticeable, and Kambron dismissed their significance. He remained confident, knowing that he still had nearly 50 armed guards protecting him. He believed his Unsullied had effectively repelled the rebel attack.
Turning his gaze northward, Kambron spotted the flags of the reinforcements retreating from the northern line of defense. The sight filled him with excitement. "They're here! Finally, they're here!" he exclaimed, slapping the rough stone wall in delight, his palms reddening from the force.
Though the reinforcements numbered only around 3,000, Kambron was certain they would be more than enough to crush the slave uprising. He had already decided that all the rebels would be executed to serve as a brutal deterrent to the other slaves in the city.
But suddenly, his triumphant thoughts were interrupted by a frantic voice. "Archon, there's a slave uprising to the west of the palace!"
"What?!" Kambron's telescope slipped from his hand, clattering against the guardrail before tumbling into the dark grass below. He instinctively reached for it, but his fingers barely brushed the edge.
"The slaves are attacking our forces with ferocity," the guard continued, his voice trembling. "They're killing our men and then retreating."
Kambron, baffled and growing increasingly desperate, demanded, "Who is leading them?!"
The scout, clearly shaken, stammered, "Archon, I heard them shouting something about a 'Young Mother.' Yes, it's 'Young Mother.'"
"Young Mother?" Kambron repeated, disbelieving. The phrase seemed an impossible contradiction—how could "Mother" be associated with "young"?
Just then, another voice spoke up beside him. "Archon, I remember now—'Young Mother' is Viserys's sister, Dany!"
"Daenerys?" Kambron's mind raced, as if he were grasping at the loose end of a tangled skein of yarn, trying to unravel the mystery but finding it just out of reach.
Before he could process the implications, another scout rushed up with grim news. "Archon! More than 20 rebels have already breached the tower!"
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