Meereen did not react like Yunkai or Astapor. It watched. From the tall pyramids to the harbor towers, eyes lined every ledge, hidden in stone and shadow. Its gates remained shut, and no riders came to parley. No slaves threw chains from balconies. No slavers sent envoys.
Just silence. A city that waited.
We camped in a crescent ridge above the coast, overlooking the city at a distance. The Bay of Dragons curved out before us, dotted with galleys and merchant vessels. The sea breeze mixed with dry heat, making everything feel oddly suspended—as if the world held its breath.
I stood with Missandei on the edge of a bluff, scanning the defenses. "Tight walls. High. They'll see a charge coming from a mile off."
"They want us to try something obvious," she replied. "And fail."
I smirked. "Then we won't."
Behind us, the Unsullied set up tents with silent precision. Daenerys stood among them, her dragons circling high above, casting fleeting shadows that stirred the camp into whispers. Each time Rhazal passed over, the soldiers flinched, but when Drakaina followed, they stilled with awe. Viserion, distant as always, glided alone at the edge of the sky.
Vaedron had not appeared since the day before. I wasn't worried.
That night, Daenerys and I sat near a campfire, planning.
"Meereen won't open its gates," she said. "Not unless we give them reason to."
"Or take theirs away," I murmured. "They're proud. That's a weakness."
She leaned forward. "You want to bait them."
"Something they can't ignore. A message."
Her gaze flicked to the fire. "Crucified children lined the road to this city."
"Then we line theirs with hope. Set the slaves free in broad daylight. Let them carry our banners. Let them show the walls what waits beyond."
Her lips curled. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval. But something close.
"We need to speak to the people," she said. "But their voices are behind stone."
"We don't need to speak. We show."
The next day, we launched barrels over the walls.
Not filled with fire. Not with weapons. With scrolls.
Messages. In Valyrian, Ghiscari, even the broken tongues spoken in the pits. Promises. Freedom. Safety. Bread.
By nightfall, we heard no horns, no alarms.
But in the morning, smoke curled from within the city—not war, but unrest.
Three days into our siege that was not a siege, a rider came to our lines. Alone, unarmed, cloaked in salt-stained leathers. I noticed him from afar, the way the guards tensed at his approach. A man who didn't carry himself like a sellsword, but not quite a noble either.
He was brought to Daenerys just after midday.
And when I saw his face, my brows drew in. That beard. That stare.
Ser Jorah Mormont.
He bowed. "Your Grace."
Daenerys blinked. "You... came from the sea?"
"From Lys," he answered. "Then Slaver's Bay. I heard rumors. And I followed the smoke."
Smoke. The aftermath of Astapor. Of Yunkai. Word traveled fast.
I narrowed my eyes. "You heard of us from Lys?"
He nodded. "I was living there. I—I had dealings. Then I heard of dragon queens burning slavers alive."
She tilted her head. "And you decided to serve her."
"To redeem myself."
There it was. The faint tremble of guilt.
Daenerys said nothing.
I stepped forward. "And why now? Why not before?"
He met my gaze. "I never expected to find you. Not truly."
That was not an answer. But Daenerys accepted it for now. She turned away, saying only, "We will speak later."
Jorah stepped back, his expression unreadable.
I watched him long after he left the tent. I knew who he was. I knew what he had done.
But more importantly, I knew what he would do.
And I would be watching.
That night, Vaedron returned. He landed on the highest ridge and lay down without a sound, tail curling around him like a lazy cat. The others greeted him distantly from the skies but didn't approach.
I walked up the path to him alone, placing a hand on the side of his neck. He didn't open his eyes.
"Soon," I whispered.
He made no noise, but his chest rose beneath my palm like a breath through stone.
Meereen waited.
But not for long.
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