The morning after Jorah arrived, Meereen remained silent. No drums, no threats. Not even an insult hurled from the walls. Just the faint creak of banners flapping in the wind and the ever-present hum of the sea.
Daenerys stood at the edge of camp with her arms crossed, watching the city as if waiting for it to blink. I joined her, silent. The dragons soared above, distant specks against the sky. Vaedron still rested near the cliffs, tail curled around his body, as if the war below had nothing to do with him.
"He hasn't spoken much," Daenerys said softly.
I followed her gaze to where Jorah stood near the Unsullied tents, speaking quietly with Missandei.
"He will," I replied. "Men like him always do."
She frowned. "He seems... ashamed."
"He is."
She glanced at me. "You know something."
I smiled. "I always do."
We spent the next few days watching, listening, planning. Slaves began slipping from the gates at night. A child first, then a group of women, then dozens more. Some wounded, some starving. All terrified.
We fed them. We clothed them. And word spread faster than fire.
Meereen's walls grew quieter. Their patrols thinner. Their guard, uncertain.
And still, we waited.
On the fifth day, Grey Worm brought news of underground tunnels below the city—sewage paths, servant routes, secret passages from the time of the old Ghiscari kings.
Daenerys looked to me. "You think they still exist?"
"Old cities rot from the inside," I said. "Let's see where they're soft."
Grey Worm nodded. "We can send in scouts."
"No," Daenerys said. "Only volunteers. No orders."
That night, fifty Unsullied stepped forward.
The following morning, I sat in the shade of a broken obelisk with my journal. Dragons circled above. Vaedron remained asleep, his chest rising slowly.
I looked up from the page and stared at the lines I had drawn. The maps. The crossings. The old plans I remembered from another lifetime. Some things stayed the same. Others drifted further by the day.
Would Barristan still come?
He should have. He had by now, in the old timeline.
I tapped the page with the end of my stylus.
Maybe my presence confused him. A second dragon. A second queen. Was he waiting to see which of us would rise?
Or had I thrown off everything?
That night, the scouts returned.
They'd found a passage—narrow, decayed, but intact. It led beneath the southern tower.
Daenerys called a war council. The tent buzzed with maps, markers, whispers. Jorah offered suggestions cautiously. Grey Worm with calm, cold clarity.
We would strike within the week.
ADVANCED CHAPTERS:
patreon.com/CozyKy