Vlad listened, pleased with the outcome. The spoils of a single city had yielded immense wealth. His targets had been carefully chosen: only the great slavers who ruled from the pyramids had been looted.
Truthfully, sacking Meereen alone would have provided him with enough gold to attack the Seven Kingdoms effectively, but he had vowed to break every slave chain in Essos. That was his promise.
—The Conclave will take control of the city, Jace —Vlad declared in a grave tone—. I don't expect the economy to flourish, but it must remain stable. Trade from Astapor is enough to sustain its people… as long as the slavers don't monopolize it. Keep forty percent of the riches and invest it in trade. Train soldiers and guarantee security.
He turned on his heels, hands behind his back, not looking at him.
—The Conclave must not fail me. I granted them eternity. I can take it away just as easily.
Jace's eyes widened when he felt blisters forming on his skin, exposed to the sun's rays. As his sire, Vlad could bestow his progeny with his powers, but also burden them with the classic weaknesses of vampires, such as aversion to sunlight and silver—something he could alter with a mere thought.
Jace dropped to his knees, enduring the pain.
—I swear we will not fail you, my lord. The Conclave exists to serve.
The Conclave was composed of five of the most powerful, though less cruel, masters Jace had found while infiltrating Astapor. He had convinced them to unite, shown them his power, and offered eternal life in exchange for loyalty. As expected, those greedy men and women accepted without hesitation. Now they would rule the city in his name, enforcing his rules, his laws. Everything would be under Vlad's control.
Vlad knew they were unpredictable, but after meeting them, he had branded a single principle into their minds: Noblesse oblige. Vampires would be superior to humans, yes—but that did not mean treating them like cattle. He would not tolerate blood-drunken fools or butchers among his kind. The rules were clear: feed discreetly, never kill, and never touch a child. Disobedience would make death a mercy.
[Meereen, a few months later]
Daenerys Drakul Targaryen was not a weak woman. She had spent most of her childhood in poverty, knowing hunger, stealing to survive, and eating from trash when there was no other choice. But she had survived. She always did. Not because she was exceptionally strong or intelligent, but because she knew her life was not her own. She could not die—not yet.
She had a blood debt to settle.
She lived for vengeance.
When she first met Vlad, she was afraid of him. What girl wouldn't be? A tall man with broad shoulders and powerful arms, reputed to be a monster on the battlefield—a savage who bathed in the blood of his enemies and impaled those who dared defy him. She feared him… until she got to know him.
Vlad, as he had once joked with a laugh, was "a man of layers, like an onion." With her, he was tender, kind, and caring. Intelligent, handsome, and above all, someone who knew how to listen. But with his enemies, he was ruthless and cruel. His name was whispered with fear in every corner of Essos.
Once, Daenerys had asked him why he did it. Why did he impale his enemies?
—Out of mercy —he answered without hesitation—. For every man I impale, I spare a hundred. Not because they are innocent, but because the fear I inspire keeps their leaders from sending them to die against me.
Daenerys had been moved. Even in his cruelty, Vlad was compassionate.
But even he knew that sometimes, one had to get their hands dirty. That was why she was in Meereen—alone—laying siege to it. Daenerys didn't consider herself weak, but when she was with him, with her husband, she felt invincible. And to be honest, she probably was. Vlad was, after all, the strongest man in the world. Still, this was something she had to do on her own. She needed to learn, to prove herself worthy.
That was why she now sat in her tent, stroking Vladion to calm herself, while a Meereenese slaver spoke to her with arrogance, devouring her with his eyes… just like he did her dragons.
Her tent was spacious, but the atmosphere inside felt heavy and stifling.
One of Meereen's masters, Lorto Mageryio, as he had pompously introduced himself, stood before her with a stiff back and raised chin, doing his best to appear composed. Behind him, two young slaves stood silently, eyes cast down.
Four of her bloodriders watched him with cold eyes, their hands always near their weapons. Beside her, standing like a statue, Ser Barristan Selmy remained silent, but his very presence radiated authority. The old knight had been cast out of the Kingsguard by the foolish Joffrey Baratheon, and in search of a worthy king to serve in his final days, had sailed to Essos to offer his sword to the last Targaryen.
Around Daenerys's makeshift throne, two of her dragons—now the size of horses—slept with the lazy confidence of predators who feared nothing.
Lorto spoke with the irritating confidence of men who had never known real fear.
—You cannot take Meereen —he said with a condescending smile—. Our walls are strong. Our warriors ready. The people will fight. Even here we've heard of what your husband did in Astapor. We know how he keeps one master tortured with vile sorcery.
He paused, expecting a reaction from her, but Daenerys simply stared at him, expressionless.
—And? —she said calmly.
The nobleman frowned.
—We will not surrender to the wife of a savage monster.
Daenerys tilted her head slightly, as if pondering his words. Then she let out a soft, humorless laugh.
—Does that scandalize you? —she asked with feigned disbelief—. Curious, coming from a man of Meereen. On my way here I found… How many were they, Ser Barristan?
—One hundred and sixty-nine boys and girls, Your Grace —replied the old knight.
—Yes, that's right. One hundred and sixty-nine children. Crucified. Nailed to wood alive. Screaming until their final breath.
The noble blinked, visibly uneasy.
—It was a warning to people like you and your husband…
—There are no people like my husband and me, Master Lorto —she interrupted him with sarcasm—Tell me, do you expect horrible things to happen only to others, but never to you?