The fires had burned low by morning, leaving Meereen swathed in smoke and silence. The great gates remained open, yawning like the mouth of a defeated giant. Broken spears and discarded shields lay scattered across the bloodstained sand.
The city had fallen. Not to a siege. Not to diplomacy. But to fire and fear.
And dragons.
We entered Meereen slowly.
The Unsullied moved in disciplined columns, checking alleyways, clearing paths. Freedmen followed behind, many of them whispering prayers in their native tongues. Some wept. Others knelt as we passed.
The Dothraki, though less structured, stayed on alert. They rode ahead in loose formation, weapons drawn, eyes sharp. For all their chaos, they understood this part well. Conquest.
I walked beside Daenerys, both of us silent.
Our dragons flew overhead, casting long shadows across the burned rooftops. Ash clung to my boots, soft as snow.
Barristan rode nearby, fresh from the victory, his armor dented but polished. Jorah walked stiffly, his wound bandaged beneath his sleeve. Grey Worm stayed ahead of us all, his spear never lowered.
I kept glancing at Vaedron above us, though he barely moved. After the carnage, he'd flown to the tallest pyramid and draped himself over it like a sleepy god. A few guards still stared at him in awe, afraid to even breathe too loudly.
"He sleeps like he burned nothing," Daenerys murmured.
I smiled faintly. "That's his way. He only acts when he must."
She tilted her head toward me, brushing her braid over her shoulder. "You trust him?"
"More than most people."
A pause.
Then, softly, "Even me?"
I stopped walking.
The wind blew lightly through the burned gate.
"He doesn't need my trust," I said. "Neither do you. I already chose."
Daenerys said nothing, but she looked at me like I had handed her something rare.
We reached the great plaza by midday. The remains of the masters who had tried to flee were still being collected. Some had been trampled in the rush. Others incinerated. A few tried to surrender too late.
Daenerys stood atop the wide stairs of the Great Pyramid, looking out at the gathered masses. Some knelt. Some watched with tight-lipped hope. All waited.
Missandei stepped beside her, ready to translate. I watched quietly from the edge, my hands folded.
She didn't need a speech today. Just her presence. The people already whispered her names—Mhysa, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons.
She raised one hand, and silence spread.
Then she spoke, in Valyrian. Her voice was calm, firm. Not boastful. Not soft. She told them the city was free. That the time of chains was over. That the masters had ruled long enough.
Missandei translated for those who needed it, her voice clear as a bell.
No one cheered. Not yet.
But they listened.
And in Meereen, that was enough.
That night, the city held its breath.
Fires were lit to clear the last of the fallen. Unsullied patrolled in tight rotations. The Dothraki celebrated more than they should have, but Daenerys allowed it for now. The people stayed indoors, unsure whether their new freedom was real.
I sat on a balcony near the top of the pyramid, feet propped on the ledge. Vaedron curled around the base below, tail swinging slowly like a contented cat. Drakaina had taken a perch nearby, half-asleep. Viserion and Rhazal had gone flying together—playful, unpredictable.
Daenerys joined me, two cups of wine in hand.
We sat in silence for a time.
"Do you think they'll hate us?" she asked finally. "The ones who lost family in the fire?"
"Some might," I said honestly. "But most won't. Not when they remember why we came."
She looked down at the sleeping Vaedron.
"He listens only to you."
I nodded. "When I speak with reason."
She laughed lightly. "He didn't seem very reasonable."
"He's not," I admitted. "He just knew this was worth moving for."
Another pause.
Then she asked, more carefully, "Would he move again? If I asked?"
I turned to look at her.
"If I asked him to move for you," I said slowly, "he would."
Her eyes flicked down. "That's not what I asked."
I said nothing.
She sipped her wine and stared into the night.
A soft knock echoed from behind.
Missandei appeared, followed by a tall, weathered man in armor.
Barristan.
Daenerys blinked in surprise. "You're still here?"
"It seemed… best," he said, tone humble. "Your Grace, I followed whispers of your journey from Pentos to Astapor. I arrived just in time for the battle. Forgive me for not announcing myself sooner."
I raised a brow. "Just in time? You nearly cleaved Daario in two."
"Wasn't that the point?" he said, almost smiling.
Daenerys offered him a seat, still visibly caught off guard. I watched her closely, wondering what part of this had shifted.
Was this delay in his arrival because of me? Because there were now two Targaryens, not one?
Had news of a twin queen made the old knight hesitate?
I didn't know.
But I intended to find out.
Later, when the moon had risen high and the streets quieted, I remained outside while Daenerys went to rest. My mind wandered—not just to what we had done, but to what came next.
We could not afford to keep shifting camps. Too many people. Too much risk.
So we made a decision.
Meereen would be our base.
We would send riders and trusted soldiers back to the old fortress. Gather every valuable—supplies, equipment, weapons. Even those we had left behind for safekeeping. The people would be moved here. And the three hatchlings—Tiraxes, Nyxarys, and Sorynth—would be brought to Meereen too. Their presence here would mean strength, continuity, and preparation.
Vaedron snorted below me, adjusting his wings. I glanced down. He blinked once, then went back to sleep.
I smiled.
"Lazy brute."
But I had a feeling, deep in my bones, that next time I called him, he would burn ten cities without blinking.
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