Release pace will be adjusted to five chapters per week going forward. I didn't mind doing daily releases with bonuses when we were making solid progress, but things have slowed down recently, so we'll switch to a more manageable schedule for now.
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Finally at long last the ridge fell away beneath the hooves of the Faith's horses, and the world opened before them. Jon Snow took in the great city of Meereen.
For days they had glimpsed the city only as distant shapes upon the horizon—great pyramids rising like mountains above the plains of Slaver's Bay. But now they stood close enough for its true scale to reveal itself.
Meereen was immense. It sprawled across a wide coastal plain beside the warm waters of the bay, its outer districts stretching for miles beyond the ancient defensive walls. The city had been built upon older foundations, layers of empire stacked atop one another across hundreds of years.
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At its heart rose the pyramids. Nearly a dozen of them. Some were small, little more than stepped towers belonging to merchant families or bureaucratic guilds. Others rose hundreds of feet high, massive stone mountains carved with terraces and balconies. But the greatest pyramid of all dominated the skyline. The Great Pyramid of Meereen.
Its vast sides climbed skyward in enormous steps of yellow and red brick, each tier lined with gardens, balconies, and monumental statues of harpies that once proclaimed the dominion of the Ghiscari masters.
Golden caps crowned its upper levels where the sun struck them like blazing fire. Even from this distance it dwarfed everything around it. Jon understood immediately why it had become the seat of Daenerys Targaryen's court. It was not merely a palace. It was a throne built into the landscape.
"Meereen," Moqorro said quietly beside him. The Black Flame studied the city with dark eyes as the column of the Red Faith descended the final slope toward its gates.
The closer they came, the more signs of upheaval appeared. Smoke drifted above the outer districts. Crowds filled the roads leading toward the city walls.
And the banners flying above the gates were no longer the golden harpies of the old masters. They were red. Three-headed dragons, snapping in the wind.
The gates themselves were monumental. Two massive towers flanked the entrance, their surfaces carved with ancient reliefs depicting the conquests of Old Ghis. Harpies crushed kneeling enemies beneath their talons. Ghiscari emperors stood atop pyramids of skulls while slave caravans marched beneath their banners.
Those carvings had once been symbols of terror. Now many had been defaced. Faces smashed. Harpies vandalized. Freedom had not come gently to this city. Besides the gates, there stood two massive Harpy statues each dozens of feet tall. Their wings stretched outward to form the upper arch of the gate itself. Their claws gripped massive iron chains. None were foolish enough to deface them for fear they might come alive.
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The Red Faith's procession slowed as they approached the gates. Soldiers stood watch along the walls. But they were not the golden-masked masters of old Meereen. They were freedmen. Many wore mismatched armor from pieces of slave soldier equipment mixed with newly forged gear. Spears and shields bore the three-headed dragon sigil painted hastily across their surfaces.
Some carried the bronze harpy helms of their former masters, turned upside down and nailed to poles as trophies. When the guards saw the crimson banners of the Red Faith approaching, the gate captain raised a hand.
The column halted. For a long moment the captain studied the procession. Thousands of red-clad figures. Priests. Acolytes. Guards. Braziers burning with flames. Then he nodded slowly. Knowing better to waylay holy men.
The gates opened. Meereen had once been one of the richest slave cities in the world. Every street had been built to support its vast economy of forced labor and brutal aristocracy. Now that system had shattered.
The streets teemed with people. Freed slaves crowded every avenue. Some still wore the rough clothing of plantation workers. Others had taken the garments of their former masters, walking uncertainly through the city that had once belonged to others.
Markets had sprung up everywhere. Stalls selling food. Blacksmiths hammering new weapons for the city's growing armies. Merchants from distant lands attempting to establish trade under the new regime.
But there was tension everywhere. Arguments broke out in crowded plazas. Groups of freedmen shouted at captured masters dragged through the streets in chains. Elsewhere former slaves embraced one another in celebration, singing songs in languages from half a dozen lands.
The old order had collapsed. But the new one had not yet settled into place. Jon could feel it in the air. This city stood on the edge of something enormous.
As the procession advanced deeper into Meereen, the architecture grew grander. The outer districts gave way to older sections of the city built during the height of the Ghiscari Empire. Massive brick avenues stretched between towering pyramids. Bronze statues lined the streets of harpies, sphinxes, and winged bulls that once symbolized the dominion of the masters.
And above all of it rose the Great Pyramid. Looming above the crowds like relics from a darker age. Jon had seen great castles in Westeros. He had marched past the towering walls of Mantarys. Seen plenty of Free Cities in his travels. But nothing compared to this.
The pyramid was a city unto itself. Its lowest levels were enormous terraces wide enough to hold entire marketplaces. Above them rose hundreds of chambers, halls, and balconies carved into the stone structure. At its summit stood the statue. The Great Harpy of Meereen.
The colossal figure crouched atop the pyramid's peak, its wings spread across the skyline like a dark crown. But what Jon saw perched upon those wings made him slow his horse. Dragons. Three of them.
They rested along the statue like living shadows against the sun. Their scales glimmered faintly in the light; black, green, and pale cream.
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Even from this distance their size was unmistakable. They were not yet the titanic beasts dragons had once been ridden during Valyria's height or House Targaryen. But they were growing. And their presence changed everything. The dragons watched the city below them. Watched the crowds. Watched the arriving delegations. Watched the world like they ruled it all.
The Red Faith procession halted near the inner districts. A small temple dedicated to R'hllor stood among the older structures, its walls newly painted with crimson banners. It was humble compared to the great pyramids around it, but the priests stationed there greeted Moqorro with deep bows as the procession arrived.
The majority of the Faith would remain there. But Moqorro had come to Meereen for a different purpose. The Black Flame turned his gaze toward the Great Pyramid. "We go to the Dragon Queen."
Only a small delegation would accompany him. Jon. Azula. Several senior priests. A handful of Red Guards carrying chests filled with gifts meant for Daenerys's court. The rest of the Faith remained behind at the temple.
The path to the pyramid wound through the city's richest districts. Here the chaos of the outer streets gave way to heavy security. Unsullied soldiers guarded every intersection. They were unmistakable.
Tall, disciplined men clad in bronze-scaled armor that gleamed beneath the Meereenese sun. Each carried a round shield and a long spear tipped with dark steel. Their faces were hidden behind simple bronze helms, expressionless and identical, giving them the appearance of statues brought to life.
Jon had heard of the Unsullied before, but seeing them in person was something else entirely. They were not ordinary soldiers. They were the deadliest infantry ever created.
From childhood they had been subjected to brutal training designed to erase fear, hesitation, and pain. Discipline was beaten into them until obedience became instinct. They marched without complaint, fought without mercy, and held their lines even when entire armies broke around them.
Their reputation had been forged across centuries. The Ghiscari Empire had once fielded the most formidable legions in the known world. Those legions had marched beneath the golden banners of the Harpy, conquering vast lands through sheer discipline and relentless formation warfare.
The Unsullied were the final evolution of that tradition. They fought as the old Ghiscari legions once had with tight shield walls, unbreakable formations, spears striking with machine-like precision. When they advanced, they did so as a single body. When they defended a position, they held it until death.
Mercenaries might fight for gold. Knights might fight for honor. But the Unsullied fought because they had been forged into living weapons. And that made them terrifying.
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But as they passed deeper into the wealthy districts, he noticed something else. The streets themselves bore the scars of a fallen order. The great mansions lining the avenues had once belonged to the Masters of Meereen, the ruling class that had governed the city for generations. Their pyramids and estates still loomed above the streets, though many now stood abandoned or seized by the new regime.
The Masters had been servants of the old Dragonlords. When the dragonlords of Valyria shattered the Ghiscari Empire, they had not ruled the conquered lands directly. Instead, they appointed administrators to manage the defeated territories and make sure the tributes and slaves flowed.
Those administrators became the first Great Masters. They were not warriors. They were bureaucrats. Record keepers. Tax collectors. Many had even been eunuchs altered specifically to serve as loyal officials who would govern without ambitions of founding rival dynasties.
The Freehold demanded a constant supply of slaves for mines, plantations, and construction across its vast empire. So the Masters had overseen the system. They managed quotas. Organized markets. Maintained the massive bureaucratic structure that fed human lives into the machinery of the Valyrian economy.
For centuries they had served faithfully. And when the Doom of Valyria came and the dragonlords vanished, those administrators simply remained. Over generations they transformed themselves. Bureaucrats became aristocrats. Officials became merchant lords.
Now those same masters that had served the dragonlord were overthrown by the heir of them. Jon could see that only a few still lived within the city under careful watch, their fortunes shattered but their knowledge of governance still useful to the new regime.
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Ahead of them the Great Pyramid rose higher and higher as the road climbed toward its gates.
The palace gates stood at the base of the pyramid. Barricades controlled the flow of travelers approaching the palace. And everywhere Jon looked he saw foreigners. Ambassadors. Merchants. Envoys from cities across Essos. Delegations had come from Qarth, Volantis, Pentos, Lys, and even distant Yi Ti. All had gathered here. All waiting for audience with the woman who now held the only dragons in the world.
Massive bronze doors carved with scenes of Ghiscari conquest towered above the assembled crowd. Lines of petitioners stretched across the plaza outside. Dozens of delegations waited beneath silk banners bearing the sigils of their homelands. When Moqorro and the Red Faith approached, the guards stepped forward immediately.
"The Red Priests of R'hllor," Moqorro simply said.
The guards spoke quietly among themselves before gesturing toward the entrance. "You may join the diplomatic queue."
…
The Red Faith's delegation took its place among the waiting diplomats. The Great Pyramid of Meereen was less a palace and more a mountain shaped by the will of kings.
Its lowest terraces alone could have housed entire city blocks. Massive stairways climbed upward between colossal statues of harpies and sphinxes, their bronze wings spread wide across the yellow brick walls. Water flowed through carved channels along the terraces, feeding gardens of palms and flowering trees that clung to the stepped levels of the pyramid like hanging oases. Palm trees grew in shaded courtyards.
Even after centuries of rule by the Masters, the structure still carried the unmistakable stamp of the ancient Ghiscari Empire. Colorful mosaics covered the walls, depicting scenes from the long history of the Ghiscari Empire. Harpy-headed warriors marched across the stone. Chariots crushed kneeling enemies. Slaves dragged chains of tribute behind triumphant emperors.
But new symbols had been added. Where the harpy banners had once flown, the three-headed dragon now hung. Great red banners rippled from the upper terraces, their cloth snapping loudly in the warm winds that rolled in from Slaver's Bay. Guards stood along the massive staircases leading up toward the central palace levels, their bronze armor glinting beneath the sun.
And everywhere, people waited. The diplomatic queue stretched across an entire courtyard at the pyramid's base. Delegations had come from across the world.
Merchant princes from Qarth in flowing silks waited beneath shaded canopies. Envoys from Volantis stood proudly beside chests filled with gifts. A delegation from Pentos argued quietly with representatives of Lys about their place in the line. Even hardened mercenary captains had arrived to pledge their swords to the rising power of the Dragon Queen.
Jon recognized banners from cities he had only read about in old maps or briefly stepped foot in. Tyrosh. Myr. Norvos. Qohor. Priests from distant religions stood beside scholars, ambassadors, and nobles seeking favor in the new order forming around Daenerys Targaryen.
Eventually a palace officer approached their group. "The Red Faith of Volantis," he said with clear respect. "Her Grace will receive you."
The diplomatic line parted slightly as Moqorro led the delegation forward. Jon felt dozens of eyes watching them as they approached the great bronze doors. The doors opened slowly and the Red Faith entered the throne hall of the Dragon Queen.
The throne chamber stretched across an enormous vaulted hall supported by rows of towering columns carved from polished green stone. Sunlight poured into the chamber through high windows carved into the upper tiers of the pyramid, casting warm golden light across the hall.
At the far end stood the throne. A massive seat carved directly into the upper steps of the pyramid's interior, formed from polished black stone and surrounded by towering statues of harpies that had once symbolized the power of the old masters. And above the throne hung a banner of red silk marked with the sigil of House Targaryen.
A woman of Naath looks stepped forward gracefully as the Red Faith approached. Her voice carried clearly across the chamber. "His Eminence Moqorro, called the Black Flame of Volantis. Envoys of the Red Faith."
She turned slightly. "Presented before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."
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The hall fell silent. Daenerys Targaryen sat upon the throne like a figure carved from legend. Her hair was pale silver-gold, falling in intricate braids across her shoulders. Her skin seemed almost luminous beneath the sunlight pouring through the high windows.
But it was her eyes that struck Jon the most. Violet. Bright and unyielding. The eyes of Old Valyria. She was young, near to his age but the authority she carried filled the entire hall.
Power surrounded her and not just political power. Something deeper. The kind that came from dragons. She wore a gown of dark crimson trimmed in black, its design echoing the colors of the Targaryen banners that hung behind her. A slender crown of Valyrian steel rested upon her brow.
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Several figures stood near the throne. Jon recognized Ser Barristan Selmy immediately. Even after six years the old knight was unmistakable. His white cloak hung across his armor as he stood beside the throne like a silent guardian.
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But another figure caught Jon's attention.
A strange man stood slightly behind the throne, leaning upon a long staff. He wore the robes of a maester, though far less tidy than those Jon remembered from Winterfell. His chain hung around his neck, but his eyes held a sharp, almost wild intelligence. There was something about him that felt… dangerous.
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Jon studied him briefly before his attention shifted again. Because someone else stood beside Ser Barristan. Someone Jon never expected to see. He froze. "Bran?"
The young man turned. And for a moment the entire throne room disappeared from Jon's awareness. Bran was taller now. Broader in the shoulders. His face had matured into something closer to the Stark men Jon remembered from Winterfell.
Six years had passed since Jon last saw him. Six long years of war. But the boy he remembered was gone. In his place stood a young man dressed in the armor of a knight. He must be what now, nearly nineteen years old. And Bran was staring at him in disbelief. "Jon?"
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Neither of them cared about the throne room anymore. They crossed the floor quickly and embraced like brothers who had believed the other lost forever. The moment lasted only a few seconds before Jon remembered where they were.
Behind him Moqorro cleared his throat loudly. Jon pulled back awkwardly. Right. The Queen. They were standing in the throne room of the Dragon Queen. Jon straightened quickly. Bran looked equally embarrassed.
"You know each other?" Moqorro asked with mild curiosity.
Jon nodded. "This is my younger brother."
The throne hall fell silent again. Daenerys leaned forward slightly on her throne. Her violet eyes moved between the two of them. Then she spoke calmly. "So." Her voice carried a cool edge. "I have another Stark in my court."
Jon froze. And suddenly remembered exactly why the last Targaryen was ruling a city thousands of miles from Westeros. His family did after all help in overthrowing her dynasty. The awkward silence in the throne room became very real very quickly.