GOT: Khal — Chapter 109 - Dragonstone Has No Innocents?

The battle for Dragonstone was brutal.

Under the moonlight, Barristan Selmy tilted his gaze toward the highest point of the island. The main tower loomed there, dark and heavy, three sides sheer cliff, stone cut clean as a blade. A single narrow stairway wound up to it, barely wide enough for two men abreast.

He knew Dragonstone well. He had served Prince Rhaegar Targaryen here once. Old memories surfaced without warning. He sighed despite himself. Fate was cruel.

He pulled his gaze back down to the beachhead. Ships were packed together in the shallows. The first wave of soldiers had barely found their footing when stones came raining from the walls and arrows fell in dark sheets.

Nimitz had the heavy crossbows mounted on the prows and opened fire on the parapets. Stone cracked and splintered. The defenders' arrows thinned.

Scaling ladders went up against the walls. The Unsullied climbed one after another, spears in hand.

The defenders poured boiling oil.

The Unsullied felt no pain, but their eyes were the one thing that could stop them. The hot oil found every gap, seeped through the seams in their armor, and scalded them until their vision went black.

Barristan watched the front row falter. Their movements slowed for just an instant. But they didn't fall. They groped their way up the battlements, pushed through the spears being thrust from the crenels, and rolled over the top and inside.

He had seen dozens of siege assaults. He had never seen soldiers like these. They didn't shout. Didn't scream. Didn't retreat.

The men behind surged after them, fighting the defenders face-to-face in the narrow alleys. No room to step back. Every blade bit flesh.

For days it went on. Walls to towers. Towers to the main keep.

The defenders numbered 1,300. Using every wall and tower they had, they fought without yielding, turning a 10,000-man assault into a grinding war of attrition.

Barristan walked the alleyways strewn with corpses. Blood still unclotted ran through the gaps between flagstones beneath his feet. Every step was wet and sticky.

On the fourth day, the banner atop the main tower was finally torn down and replaced with the black flag bearing the three-headed red dragon.

Over 1,000 defenders were dead. The rest scattered into hiding and kept fighting.

The Unsullied had lost more than 400. The freedmen had died in even greater numbers, those newly liberated from slavery, not yet fully trained for this kind of war.

But elsewhere on the island, the fighting was far from over.

The Westerosi shared a common hatred for these brown-skinned invaders. They retreated into towers, into cellars, into every stone building that could hide a man, shooting arrows and hurling rocks from windows, from door cracks, from rooftops.

Every house, every staircase, every corner had to be fought over again and again.

Even children barely in their teens crouched in corners with fishing spears, stabbing at anyone who came close.

Barristan saw one of them lying on the ground, belly run through. A rust-spotted fishing spear lay beside his hand. His ribs jutted one by one through the skin of his gaunt chest.

Barristan crouched down and closed the child's eyes. He stayed there a long time. An Unsullied finally stepped forward to tell him it was time to move.

Nimitz was forced to split his forces for clearing operations. Progress was slow.

On the evening of the second day after the main tower fell, Barristan took men across the island to search for evidence of Nimitz killing innocents.

He found several burned fishing hamlets. In the ashes, bones that hadn't fully burned.

In a sea cave, he found fishermen in hiding, more than 20 of them, old and young, huddled in the dark with the eyes of frightened animals.

An old woman held an infant. The infant was crying. She had her hand pressed hard over its mouth.

Barristan crouched until his gaze was level with hers. "We are not here to kill you," he said quietly, in the Common Tongue.

The old woman trembled all over. Her hand loosened. The infant wailed. Barristan's eyes went red.

He didn't allow himself to lose it. He just had the fishermen put under protection.

That night, he sat at the table in the temporary command post for a long time. The candle before him had burned halfway down. Wax had spilled across the table and hardened into white lumps.

When Nimitz and Jorah Mormont pushed through the door, Barristan was staring at the map of Dragonstone pinned to the wall. Several iron nails marked the positions of remaining enemy pockets. The candlelight cast his shadow against the wall, swelling and shrinking as the flame moved.

Nimitz walked to the table. He didn't sit.

"Two pockets of resistance still south of the island. One hiding in a cave beneath the watchtower — about 40 men. The other in the warehouse district, about 80."

Barristan didn't look at him. His gaze stayed on the iron nails. "When you killed those fishermen," he said, "did you stop to think they had parents on shore? Wives? Children?"

"Ser Selmy, I killed enemy scouts. Can you prove those fishermen were innocent?"

"They had nets in their hands. Fish in their boats. No weapons on their bodies. That is proof."

As he finished speaking, Strong Belwas, Beast Batista, and Boulder Johnson walked in. A dozen Unsullied followed at their backs.

The room went tight. The candle flame lurched in the draft.

Nimitz's gaze swept the new arrivals, then settled back on Barristan's face. "What are you doing?"

"Arresting you." Barristan drew his sword.

"That proves nothing. What scout goes fully armed?"

"Even granting they were civilians," Nimitz said, stepping forward until his chest nearly touched the tip of Barristan's sword, "blockading sea lanes in wartime, eliminating nearby threats — every army does it. Selmy, glorious war only exists in a singer's ballads."

"That is sophistry." Barristan ground his teeth. "You slaughtered civilians on this island. That is fact."

"Civilians? There are no civilians here. Every person on this island wants us dead." Nimitz edged his neck toward the blade. "Kill me, then. Lead these ten thousand men yourself. Do you know naval warfare? Do you know amphibious landings? Do you know how to hold a supply line on an isolated island?"

The standoff stretched over a dozen breaths. Barristan sheathed his sword hard. "Lock him up. Food and water. No mistreatment."

"You have no authority to arrest me. Khal Drogo appointed me commander. Write your report and wait for the Khal's reply. The fighting isn't finished. You need me."

"The Queen needs a commander," Barristan said. "Not a butcher."

Jorah Mormont had stood in the shadows the entire time without a word. When Barristan's gaze turned to him, he spoke.

"The people of Dragonstone don't welcome us. Even the children are fighting us to the death. If we don't kill them, it's our men who die."

Barristan studied the Northman. "When those fishermen were being killed, did it ever cross your mind — what is the difference between us and the Lannister army?"

Jorah was quiet for a long time. The candle flame moved across his face.

"No difference," he said. "War is war. The Lannisters kill infants. We kill fishermen. Who has cleaner hands? If you want clean hands, don't go to war."

Barristan closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were dry and steady.

"Take Ser Jorah as well." His voice rang off the stone walls.

Jorah Mormont slowly unbuckled his sword and set it on the table. It landed with a dull thud on the wood.

Two Unsullied stepped forward and took him by the arms, one on each side.

As he was led out of the command post, he looked back at Barristan. The corner of his mouth moved, like he was about to say something. In the end, he said nothing.

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