Victory did not make the fields of Narra quiet.
The wounded cried through the night while healers moved between rows of bloodied men.
Unsullied officers carried reports from one formation to another, counting those who remained capable of standing and identifying the units that had suffered most heavily.
Beyond the ruined walls, horses wandered without riders, overturned wagons smouldered, and the earth continued to burn where Anaxion’s fire had struck.
The dead remained where they had fallen until morning.
Mortarion stood upon the western rise as the first light revealed the true cost of the battle.
Tyroshi bodies covered the road and abandoned fields in broken lines.
Some remained locked together where the formations had collided, while others lay scattered along the routes used by fleeing cavalry and archers.
Blackened circles marked the places where Anaxion had destroyed scorpions, supply wagons and groups of men too slow to escape his fire.
The Unsullied dead were easier to recognise.
Their dark armour and round shields remained arranged around the positions they had defended.
Many had fallen without being carried far from their assigned place.
Even in death, the shape of their formations could be seen across the battlefield.
The first report given to Mortarion had counted fewer than three hundred dead.
It had been incomplete.
Men believed to be wounded had died during the night.
Bodies were recovered from beneath collapsed shields, horses and piles of enemy soldiers.
Several units had lost contact with their officers during the fighting, causing names to be recorded twice or omitted entirely.
By the next day, the final number reached seven hundred.
Seven hundred Unsullied had died at Narra.
More than a thousand carried wounds of varying severity.
Some would recover within days, while others faced months of healing before they could hold a shield again.
Several had lost hands, feet or eyes and would never return to the spear line.
The victory remained overwhelming.
The Tyroshi host had been destroyed, Serro Hestar had died beneath Anaxion’s fire, and nearly five thousand enemy soldiers lay dead.
House Baraeris had survived its first test and inflicted losses that would be repeated in every market and council chamber across the Disputed Lands.
None of that returned the seven hundred.
Mortarion walked through the battlefield without his helmet.
Aurion’s armour had been cleaned of most blood and ash, though black stains remained across one pauldron where burning debris had struck him during Anaxion’s attack.
Dreaded Deliverance rested against his back.
Blue Bat accompanied him.
They spoke in High Valyrian, as they always did when no translator was required.
“The final count has been confirmed by every unit officer,” Blue Bat said.
“Seven hundred soldiers are dead.
Twenty-one more may not survive the day.”
Mortarion looked towards a group of Unsullied carrying bodies from the first defensive line.
“Have those twenty-one been identified?”
“The healers have recorded their names and units.
Every effort is being made to preserve their lives.”
“Ensure they receive whatever medicine remains.
Enemy wounded may wait until our soldiers have been treated.”
“That order has already been given.”
Blue Bat’s voice remained controlled, but Mortarion had learned to recognise the changes beneath it.
The commander’s face showed almost nothing, yet his attention lingered upon each body carried past them.
These soldiers possessed no parents who would receive letters.
They had no wives waiting in distant homes and no children who would inherit their wages.
They remembered training, discipline and duty, but no childhood before any of it.
They had been brought into existence as an army and summoned into this world with knowledge of service but little sense of what could follow it.
The dead left no blood relatives behind.
That did not mean they left nothing.
Mortarion stopped beside three bodies laid upon dark cloaks.
The first had been pierced through the throat.
The second bore the marks of an axe across his shield and chest.
The third appeared almost unharmed until Mortarion noticed the dried blood beneath his helmet.
“Who were they?” he asked.
Blue Bat looked down at them.
“Grey Flea served in the third hundred of the first thousand.
Red Mouse served beneath the southern formation.
Black Cricket belonged to the reserve unit that struck the Scarlet Wolves.”
Mortarion remembered the enemy company collapsing between the two Unsullied blocks.
“Did any of them hold rank?”
“Black Cricket commanded a file of ten soldiers.”
“What happens to the wages they earned?”
“Their officers return the coin to the unit treasury.
They have no families to receive it.”
“Their wages will not simply disappear into the army’s accounts.
A separate fund will be created for the fallen and permanently injured.
It will support soldiers who can no longer fight and pay for the burial or burning of every man who dies in service.”
Blue Bat considered the order.
“What purpose does the remaining wage serve the dead?”
“It proves their service possessed value until its final moment.
A man does not become worthless because he is no longer alive to spend what he earned.”
The commander lowered his head slightly.
“The officers will create the account.”
Mortarion continued through the field.
Enemy prisoners gathered bodies beneath Unsullied guard.
The Tyroshi dead would be stripped of useful weapons and armour before being burned or buried beyond the western road.
Mortarion had forbidden mutilation and unnecessary cruelty, though he had no intention of wasting equipment that could be repaired.
The dead Unsullied would be treated differently.
Their weapons and shields would return to their units, but no soldier would be stripped beside the field like defeated prey.
Their bodies would be cleaned, wrapped and carried into Narra beneath their own banners.
Mortarion had not issued that order for appearance alone.
House Baraeris had no established military traditions.
No ancient ceremony governed how its soldiers were remembered, and no temple stood within Narra to receive them.
Whatever rites were observed now would become the beginning of something larger.
He looked towards Blue Bat.
“How were fallen Unsullied honoured in the memories you possess?”
“They were not honoured.”
Mortarion turned towards him.
Blue Bat continued without hesitation.
“Bodies were removed from training grounds and battlefields.
Equipment was recovered.
Names were sometimes marked in company records so replacements could be assigned.”
“No rites were performed?”
“None that the soldiers remember.”
“Were the dead burned or buried?”
“Whatever method required the least labour.”
The answer angered Mortarion more than he expected.
The Unsullied had been trained to treat death as merely another loss of property.
Their masters valued the spear, shield and discipline produced by years of suffering, but not the man carrying them.
Mortarion had already declared them soldiers rather than merchandise.
The manner in which he treated their dead would prove whether the distinction meant anything.
“We will burn them,” he decided.
“The battlefield remains too close to Daetosh for seven hundred graves, and I will not leave their bodies beneath shallow earth where scavengers or enemies may disturb them.”
Blue Bat looked towards Anaxion.
“The dragon could light the pyres.”
“He will.”
Mortarion glanced across the ruined town.
“Separate the fallen according to their thousand-man formations.
Those whose units cannot be identified will rest beside the men with whom they were found.
Build seven pyres in the western field, beyond the walls but within sight of Narra.”
“Seven pyres for seven hundred soldiers.”
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Their names will be recorded before sunset tomorrow, and each name will be spoken before the flames are lit.”
Narra changed again during the next two days.
The ruined town had first become a military camp, then a battlefield.
Now it became a place of mourning.
Unsullied labour units cleared a broad section of the western field where the enemy centre had broken.
Blood-darkened soil was covered with fresh earth, and the shattered weapons of the Tyroshi were removed.
Timber came from abandoned homes, broken wagons and dead orchards surrounding the ruins.
Seven long pyres rose side by side.
Each was built wide enough to hold one hundred bodies in ordered rows.
Layers of dry timber were separated by oil-soaked cloth, straw and bundles of brush.
Stone paths divided the pyres so soldiers could move between them safely before the fire spread.
The Unsullied dead were carried from the field and healers’ tents.
Their armour was removed and cleaned before being returned to their units.
Each body was washed with water drawn from Narra’s wells, then wrapped in a dark cloth.
A small wooden tablet bearing the soldier’s name and unit was placed upon his chest.
The tablets had been carved by local craftsmen and Unsullied soldiers working together.
Communication between them required translators from Daetosh.
The Unsullied spoke only High Valyrian, while most of Narra’s surviving inhabitants understood local dialects.
Orders passed through Qavo’s assistants, and several scribes were brought with the supply wagons.
The work progressed slowly at first.
Local carpenters struggled to understand the Unsullied officers, and several names had to be repeated before they could be carved correctly.
Mortarion ordered the translators to remain at the field until every tablet was complete.
No name would be altered merely because it sounded strange to a local ear.
Blue Bat provided the official rolls: Grey Flea, Red Mouse, Black Cricket, White Rat, Green Beetle, Brown Spider.
The names had been assigned rather than chosen, often combining colours with animals considered acceptable by whichever system had created them.
Some sounded undignified to the people of Daetosh, who were accustomed to family names and inherited titles.
Mortarion permitted no laughter.
One local labourer mocked the name Pink Worm after hearing it translated.
An Unsullied guard struck him hard enough to knock him down but stopped before inflicting further harm.
The man was brought before Mortarion.
“You believe the name is amusing?” Mortarion asked.
The labourer remained on his knees.
“I spoke foolishly, Master Mortarion.
I meant no insult to House Baraeris.”
“You insulted a dead soldier who cannot answer you.”
The man lowered his head.
Mortarion did not order his hand removed or his back whipped.
Such punishment would be excessive and turn a thoughtless act into resentment.
“You will spend the rest of the day carrying timber for Pink Worm’s pyre.
When the names are spoken, you will stand close enough to hear his.”
The labourer accepted the sentence quickly.
Mortarion watched him return to the work.
Respect had to be enforced before it became habit.
Messages announcing the funeral travelled to Daetosh, Freerider Gate and Corsair’s Bay.
Mortarion did not summon the entire realm, though he invited magistrates, local guards and representatives from each settlement to attend.
Belarro arrived with a small party from Daetosh on the second afternoon.
Green Slug remained at Freerider Gate, but he sent two officers and a banner escort.
The fleet could not abandon Corsair’s Bay, so its commanders sent a written account promising that the names of the dead would be entered into harbour records.
Belarro stood beside Mortarion upon the ruined wall and looked towards the seven pyres.
“I have seen rulers celebrate victories with fewer preparations.”
“A victory feast can wait.”
“The people of Daetosh are speaking about what you have done.
Many expected the Unsullied dead to be abandoned or buried together without names.”
“They expected that because those men were once called slaves.”
Belarro hesitated before answering.
“Most people still call them that when your officers are not listening.”
“Then most people will learn.”
The magistrate looked towards the dark-armoured soldiers moving between the pyres.
“You intend this funeral to be remembered.”
“I intend the soldiers to be remembered.
The effect upon everyone watching is secondary, though useful.”
Belarro had become familiar enough with Mortarion to understand the distinction.
“It will make the Unsullied more loyal to you.”
“Perhaps.
I would do it even if none survived to witness it.”
That answer left the magistrate silent.
Mortarion spent the evening examining the casualty rolls.
Seven hundred names filled the parchments.
Each unit officer had added whatever information could be recalled.
Some records contained only a name and formation.
Others described an act performed during the battle.
Grey Flea had remained in the first rank after an arrow entered his shoulder.
Red Mouse had dragged two wounded soldiers behind the line before returning to his place.
Black Cricket had led his file against the Scarlet Wolves and died after their formation collapsed.
Pink Worm had held the northern path against Tyroshi cavalry until a mounted archer struck him through the eye.
Blue Lizard had used his shield to protect an injured officer from three axe blows.
None of the acts would have been noticed by singers searching for noble heroes.
Mortarion noticed them.
He had once commanded armies so large that individual deaths became marks upon a report.
Thousands could disappear during a single assault, their names known only to the officers replacing them.
He had accepted that distance as necessary.
Now he wondered how often necessity had become convenience.
Seven hundred dead were easier to understand than seventy thousand.
That did not make them easier to face.
The funeral began at sunset on the third day.
The five thousand Unsullied formed around the western field.
Gaps remained where the dead should have stood, though units had not yet been reorganised to hide their losses.
Blue Bat believed the empty places mattered.
Mortarion agreed.
The wounded who could walk attended with bandages around heads, arms and torsos.
Those unable to stand were carried on litters and placed along the edge of the field.
Several men remained unconscious, but their healers brought them regardless.
The people of Narra stood farther back, joined by the representatives from Daetosh and Freerider Gate.
Seven banners of House Baraeris rose behind the pyres.
The setting sun turned the silver sphinxes red, while their green accents darkened against the black fields.
Anaxion waited upon the northern ridge.
The dragon disliked the smell of oil and corpses.
Unease moved through the bond, mixed with hunger and irritation at being surrounded by thousands of silent men.
Mortarion had spent much of the afternoon communicating what he expected: fire, only the pyres, no soldiers, animals or surrounding grass.
Anaxion understood part of it.
Mortarion would guide the dragon personally when the moment came.
He stood before the central pyre wearing Aurion’s armour and carrying his helmet beneath one arm.
Dreaded Deliverance remained sheathed across his back.
Blue Bat took his place beside him.
The senior officers formed behind them.
The names began.
Each unit officer stepped forward and read the names of his formation in High Valyrian.
Translators repeated them in the local dialect for the civilians, though the names themselves remained unchanged.
No soldier moved unnecessarily.
No one spoke over the names.
When Pink Worm was called, Mortarion noticed the labourer who had mocked him lower his head.
The sun disappeared during the final hundred.
Torches were lit around the field, their flames moving in the evening wind.
Darkness settled across Narra while the last officer completed his list.
Blue Bat stepped forward.
“The names of seven hundred soldiers have been spoken and recorded.
Their equipment has returned to their units, and their wages have been transferred to the fund of the fallen.
They await the final honour.”
Mortarion placed his helmet upon the ground.
He addressed the Unsullied in High Valyrian.
A translator stood among the civilians, but Mortarion did not pause after each sentence.
The speech belonged first to the soldiers.
The translation could follow in a quieter voice.
“You were created to believe that obedience was the only measure of your worth.
Your former masters would have counted the dead, recovered their weapons and replaced them as though men were no different from broken spear shafts.”
The Unsullied remained silent.
“I will not dishonour you with the claim that you are free from duty.
You are soldiers of House Baraeris.
You obey orders, hold formation and accept the laws of war.
Duty binds every army that deserves to survive.”
Mortarion looked across the pyres.
“But duty is not ownership.
A soldier gives service.
A slave is denied the right to possess even his own sacrifice.”
Several officers watched him more intently.
“The seven hundred men before us gave their lives at Narra.
They did not die because a merchant purchased them or because a master decided they were expendable.
They died holding the first ground claimed by a house that has promised them wages, rank and recognition.”
His voice strengthened.
“They stood while Tyroshi veterans pressed against their shields.
They held beneath arrows, axes and cavalry.
They created the wall that allowed Anaxion and me to strike the enemy’s rear.
The victory belongs to them as surely as it belongs to any man still breathing.”
Mortarion allowed the words to settle.
“Some of you may believe the dead have no need for honour because they cannot hear it.
That is not why honour exists.
We honour the dead so the living understand what must never be forgotten.”
He turned towards the first pyre.
“Grey Flea will not be forgotten.”
The nearest formation struck fists against shields.
“Red Mouse will not be forgotten.”
Another formation answered.
“Black Cricket will not be forgotten.”
The sound continued across the field.
Mortarion named soldiers from each pyre, choosing those whose acts had been recorded.
After every name, the Unsullied answered by striking their shields once.
The seven hundred could not all be repeated again before the flames, but their earlier recitation remained within the silence.
Mortarion faced the full army.
“From this night onward, every soldier who falls beneath the banner of House Baraeris will be named.
His wages will be recorded, his service remembered, and his body given honour whenever war permits it.”
He placed one hand upon the hilt of Dreaded Deliverance.
“You are not merchandise.
You are not nameless weapons.
You are the first army of House Baraeris, and those who died at Narra are the first honoured dead of our line.”
Blue Bat lowered his head.
The gesture spread through the officers, then through the ranks.
Five thousand Unsullied bowed before the seven pyres.
Mortarion turned towards Anaxion.
He climbed the northern ridge while the army remained in silence.
The dragon lowered his head, sensing the solemn weight within Mortarion even if he could not understand its source.
Mortarion pressed one hand against the dark green scales beside Anaxion’s jaw.
He sent the image of the first pyre, fire contained within timber, then the second, the third, all seven one after another.
“No men,” Mortarion said.
“Only the dead.”
Anaxion released a low rumble.
Mortarion climbed onto the dragon’s neck and fastened the riding strap.
He repeated the sequence through their bond until Anaxion’s impatience gave way to recognition.
The dragon rose above the ridge.
Wind moved across the pyres and pulled at the seven banners.
Civilians stepped backwards, while the Unsullied remained in place.
Anaxion circled once.
Mortarion guided him towards the western edge of the field, keeping enough height to prevent the dragon’s wings from scattering the timber.
They descended along the line.
“Dracarys.”
Green flame struck the first pyre.
Oil and dry timber ignited immediately.
The wrapped bodies disappeared beneath rising fire as Anaxion crossed above them.
Mortarion directed him towards the second pyre.
Another stream of green
Another stream of green flame consumed the second pyre.
Anaxion understood the pattern and passed above the remaining five, releasing controlled bursts rather than the sweeping inferno he had used against Hestar’s army.
The final pyre ignited as the dragon climbed into the dark sky.
Seven walls of fire burned across the field.
The Unsullied remained in formation while the flames devoured timber and cloth.
Smoke rose above Narra in towering columns, carrying the ashes of the fallen towards the stars.
No songs accompanied them.
No priests offered blessings.
Only the crackling pyres and the occasional strike of a fist against a shield disturbed the silence.
Mortarion guided Anaxion back towards the northern ridge.
The dragon landed heavily and folded his wings, watching the flames with ancient fascination.
Blue Bat approached after Mortarion descended.
“The soldiers understood your words,” he said in High Valyrian.
“They understood the language.”
“They understood more than that.
Those men possessed no families, but tonight the army mourned them as brothers.”
Mortarion looked towards the seven pyres.
“Then they did not die without one.”
He returned to the ruined magistrate’s residence after midnight.
Smoke clung to his hair and clothing as he removed Aurion’s armour piece by piece.
Dreaded Deliverance remained within reach beside the narrow bed.
The room was still when Mortarion extinguished the nearest lamp.
Only one remained, casting weak light across maps and casualty reports.
A movement passed through the far corner.
Mortarion’s hand closed around his sword.
The darkness separated from the wall.
A tall figure stepped silently into the lamplight, its face concealed beneath a hood darker than the surrounding shadows.
Mortarion drew Dreaded Deliverance halfway from its sheath.
The figure raised one pale skeleton hand.
“Be still, disciple,” a man’s voice whispered.
“Death has not forgotten you.”