The morning light in the Great Pyramid was filtered through narrow, high-placed windows, casting long, dusty shadows across the ornate carvings of the third floor.
Knock, knock, knock.
The rapid, aggressive rapping broke the morning quiet. Karas Snow opened the heavy cedar door to find a squad of Brazen Beasts standing in the corridor. Their leader, a short, stout man with the thick, bow-legs of a common laborer, wore a bronze Lion mask and muscle-armor that looked several sizes too small.
"Is the Lord Karstark within?" the Lion asked, his voice muffled by the bronze. There was no respect in his tone, only an ill-concealed disgust. "The Gracious Master, King Hizdahr, requests his presence in the Audience Chamber. Immediately."
Karas Snow took a slow, deliberate step forward. Standing a full head taller than the Meereenese officer, the Northman's sheer physical mass created a wall of looming shadow. "You say go, and we go? Tell your 'Gracious Master' that if he wishes to speak with a King of the West, he can walk the stairs himself."
The Lion mask recoiled instinctively, his hand dropping to the hilt of his short sword. He tried to reclaim his bravado, his voice cracking. "Audacious! This is Meereen, not your backward mud-piles in Westeros. You are a guest in the King's house!"
Karas didn't blink. The black blade of Lady Forlorn slid an inch from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel catching the dim light with a hungry, rippling sheen. "What? You want to see if your bronze can hold an edge against real steel?"
"Karas, enough. Shedding blood before breakfast ruins the digestion."
Eddard Karstark walked out of the inner chamber. He had traded his heavy plate for a loose, gold-embroidered silk robe. On his back, a massive golden sunburst had been stitched in thread that seemed to catch every wandering ray of light.
"Let us go," Eddard said, his voice a calm contrast to the tension in the hall. "As guests, it would be unrefined to ignore the host's first invitation."
As they ascended toward the second level, Eddard noticed the shift in atmosphere. The Brazen Beasts were no longer under the command of the "Shavepue." Hizdahr had moved quickly to replace Skahaz's loyalists with his own kinsmen. It was an impatient power grab, the act of a man who knew his legitimacy had flown away on the back of a black dragon.
The Audience Chamber was a cavernous space of purple marble and towering stone pillars. At the far end, upon a raised dais, sat two magnificent thrones carved into the shape of dragons. Hizdahr zo Loraq XIV sat on the right, his pale hands clutching a jeweled scepter. The throne on his left, the Queen's throne - was glaringly empty.
A brutal-looking pit fighter stood to the King's right, and a man draped in leopard skin stood to the left.
"The Unsullied are free men," Grey Worm's voice echoed through the hall as Eddard entered. "They are the children of Mhysa. They will follow the Queen's commanders, not a Harpy's cousin."
The refusal hit the hall like a slap. Hizdahr's face, visible behind his ornate crown, turned a mottled shade of red. The Unsullied tightened their grip on their spears, and for a moment, the room felt as if it might erupt into a massacre.
Eddard ignored the political stalemate. He marched toward the high platform with a warm, predatory smile. He ignored the lower steps where petitioners were meant to kneel, walking straight up to the King's level.
"Stay back!" the herald shrieked, his voice reaching a fever pitch. "You must stand on the second level and bow to pay respects to the Gracious Master!"
Hizdahr's personal bodyguard, a scarred brute nicknamed "Gruhl the Giant", stepped into Eddard's path. He was a mountain of meat, his eyes full of the mindless violence of the pits.
Eddard didn't stop. He didn't draw a sword. He simply extended his right hand with the speed of a striking snake. Using his magically-enhanced physical strength, he shoved the pit fighter. Gruhl didn't just stumble; he flew. The brute sailed through the air, somersaulted once, and crashed into a purple marble pillar. He hit the stone with a sickening thud and slid to the floor, unconscious before he even realized he'd been touched.
The other bodyguards froze. Their feet seemed to have taken root in the marble.
Eddard turned his gaze back to Hizdahr, who was now trembling so violently the jewels on his scepter clattered against the throne's arm.
"I am the Lord of the West," Eddard said, his voice resonating through the chamber, drowning out the murmurs of the crowd. "I rule territories that would make Meereen look like a garden plot. With one command, my fleet in your harbor can put twenty thousand men on your docks. Do you truly wish for me to stand on the floor and pay you respects, King Hizdahr?"
Eddard leaned down, his face inches from the King's. He reached out and gently patted Hizdahr's pale, sweating cheek—the ultimate gesture of patronizing disrespect.
The hall was silent enough to hear the King's labored breathing.
"No... no need," Hizdahr stammered, a thin, oily smile appearing on his face. "Lord Eddard... you are a distinguished guest. You may sit... you may stand where you wish."
"I have no interest in sitting with you," Eddard said, straightening his robe. "Tell me why you summoned me."
Hizdahr shifted in his throne, trying to escape the pressure of Eddard's cold grey eyes. "Affairs are... numerous. The city is chaotic since the Queen's... departure. I have prepared a generous gift for you, Lord Eddard. I hope you will use it to facilitate your return to Westeros a day earlier."
"A bribe?" Eddard laughed. "I came here for an alliance with Daenerys, not a purse of gold from a consort. You cannot represent her wishes, Hizdahr. You don't even have the courage to walk into the pit where Viserion and Rhaegal are chained. Until you can command her children, you are nothing but a man warming a seat."
Eddard turned and walked away, his cape swirling behind him. He offered a respectful nod to Barristan Selmy as he passed. The old knight looked as if he had aged ten years in a single morning.
Hidden in the shadows behind a row of pillars, Quentyn Martell watched the exchange, his face pale.
"He's here for the dragons, Quentyn," Gerris Drinkwater whispered. "He's stronger than a giant and he doesn't fear the King. We have to give up this plan. We can't compete with a man like that."
"No," Quentyn said, his jaw set with a stubborn, desperate resolve. "The contract says a Martell must marry a Targaryen. If the Queen is gone, I must bring her a gift she cannot refuse. I have to tame them tonight, before Karstark gets his chance."
Archibald Yronwood looked at the Prince, his broad shoulders tensing. "Then we'd better be quick, Prince. Because the 'Winter Wizard' doesn't look like a man who waits for anyone."
[System Notification: Political Confrontation: Hizdahr zo Loraq humiliated.]
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