The sun rose pale behind Meereen's towering pyramids, casting long shadows across the barren field between our camp and the city. Dust coiled in the breeze. Not a bird sang.
They were ready.
We had waited long enough.
The first sign of their desperation came with the golden cloaks. Not the city guards, but the hired ones—men with no sigils, only coin. The Second Sons. Their camp lay to the east, behind a fortified rise, banners stripped, their true allegiance hidden.
But I knew.
I'd seen the move in the books. When the masters feel fear, they reach for sellswords.
Our own forces assembled in silence. The Unsullied formed the front ranks, shields locked, spears glinting. Freedmen carried torches and blades, some barely more than sharpened sticks. The Dothraki flanked the rear on horseback, hooves restless, eyes bright with anticipation.
Daenerys stood before them in silver and white, a quiet storm in a sea of dust. Her hair braided, her expression carved from stone.
I stood beside her, cloak pulled tight against the wind. Vaedron lay lazily on the ridge, wings half-folded, one eye shut. He hadn't moved all morning.
Drakaina, Rhazal, and Viserion circled behind the clouds.
"Today we don't march," I told her quietly. "We end."
She nodded once.
The horns blew.
The Second Sons charged first.
They came fast, trying to break the Unsullied line before dragons could descend. Spears met shields with a crunch of bone and steel. The front ranks held, but the pressure built like a tide.
From their center, a figure rode forward—not with the charge, but through it. Daario Naharis. Long hair tied back, curved blades in hand, his smile sharp and careless.
He didn't shout. He didn't taunt.
He moved.
Jorah met him first. Steel rang against steel. The knight's form was heavier, his shield high, but Daario was quicker. He ducked low, slashing upward, forcing Jorah back on his heels.
Grey Worm flanked him, spear thrusting toward Daario's ribs. The mercenary spun, blocked with a short blade, and used the momentum to kick Jorah square in the chest.
Two against one, and he still pressed forward.
He fought with elegance, every step precise, every swing purposeful.
For a moment, he had the advantage.
Until the third sword came.
A flash of white hair.
Barristan Selmy.
He arrived without fanfare, no herald, no horns. Just steel. And purpose.
His blade came down like a judge's sentence.
Daario parried, barely, staggering as the old knight drove him back with practiced fury.
Now the balance shifted.
Three against one. The tide turned.
I raised my arm.
Vaedron didn't move.
He yawned.
Stretched.
Then blinked at me like a cat disturbed from a nap.
"Vaedron," I said flatly. "Now."
His eyes narrowed, then rolled. But he got up.
He launched from the ridge with a thunderous crack of wings. The earth seemed to tilt as his shadow passed over the battlefield.
Meereen's archers screamed and scattered.
Flames followed.
Not a straight line of fire, but arcs—sweeping bursts that cut paths through shield walls, igniting carts, burning horses, melting steel.
Then came Drakaina.
Her roar split the sky. She dove, spinning through the air, fire trailing like a comet. Rhazal and Viserion followed, carving burning circles around the enemy's rear ranks.
Screams rose.
The Second Sons broke.
Daario fell to one knee, blood running down his arm. He dropped one blade, clutching his side.
Barristan stood over him, blade poised.
"Yield," the old knight said. "Or die."
Daario grinned, teeth red. "I was promised gold."
"You chose the wrong side."
He dropped the second blade.
Meereen's gates shuddered.
From within, chaos bloomed. Slaves rebelled. Chains rattled. Firelight danced behind the stone slats.
We didn't need to breach the gates.
They opened themselves.
When the last flame died, only silence remained.
Bodies littered the field. Smoke drifted lazily into the sky.
The Dothraki rode the perimeter, searching for stragglers, but there were none left to fight.
And Vaedron?
He landed beside me without a sound.
Massive. Regal. Unbothered.
He nudged my shoulder gently with his snout, then folded down into the sand with a lazy grunt. One long yawn, then he tucked his head beneath a wing and promptly fell asleep.
I rested a hand on his side.
The battle was over.
But this war was only beginning.
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