Chapter VIII: Grey Worm – The Island of Butterflies
Their ships arrived around noon, with the sun high in the sky. Grey Worm watched the island through the spyglass. When they were close enough to see the trees and the beaches, he turned around and opened his mouth to speak, but there was nobody there to talk to. It frustrated him that he still did this without a thought, when her ashes were resting in his cabin, to be scattered on the island that she came from.
Once they’d made anchor, Grey Worm organized his men. A quarter would start work on their camp. Another group would scout the island. Another would stand guard, and the last would rest.
Grey Worm himself remained on the beach, coordinating their efforts and wallowing in his grief when he had the time. Naath was a queer island. There were no people and few birds that he could see. But there were butterflies. Thousands and thousands of butterflies. A beautiful place for a child to grow up in, he thought. No wonder she had been so kind.
*
The first slavers arrived two weeks after their arrival. They were beaten back quickly and had little chance. The Unsullied had fortified their camps, had established a guard in all the likely landing spots. On Grey Worm’s table at their main camp, a map took shape. The far coast wasn’t surveyed completely yet, and they had avoided the interior so far, but their plans were taking shape. Grey Worm felt satisfied with his work for the first time in years.
That evening, he took her ashes to a little clearing and emptied the urn onto a field of flowers.
*
It took another month until Grey Worm got his first glance at one of the Naathi. He and his men were on a trip further inland, looking fruit to supplement their diet of fish and provisions brought from Westeros. Two of the men he had with him had been born on the island knew their way around the trees better than the rest of them. They were arguing about whether the round, yellow fruit they held was ripe enough to eat yet, when Grey Worm cast his eyes about and spotted the little face hiding behind some huge, green leaves.
“Hello,” he said in Naatheen, one of the few words his men had taught him. “What is your name?”
The child didn’t answer. Its eyes were wide and focused on the spear in his hands. Of course they had brought their weapons; they were Unsullied. Even if the Naathi were no threat to anyone, their spears were like parts of their bodies. Carefully, Grey Worm laid it on the ground. Seeing him, his men had stopped arguing, and did the same.
“My name is Torgo Nudho,” he said, using the Bastard Valyrian version of his name, since he didn’t know the words in Naathi. “We do not wish to harm you.”
But that was the extent of the phrases he had memorized, and his men had to take over. Finally, they coaxed the child out of the bushes. She was about nine years of age and skinny, but beautiful in the way of her people, with large golden eyes and dusky skin.
“What is your name?” Grey Worm asked again.
“Missandei.”
Fin