Chapter 46: Queen of Meereen

[Meereen, four months later]

Daenerys Drakul Targaryen gazed down at the city of Meereen from the hill where her army was camped, her dragons circling ominously above, terrifying the Great Masters and shattering their morale. The Great Pyramid rose defiantly on the horizon, crowned by the golden Harpy, a solid gold statue that surely had cost more than one life to erect.

She had sent emissaries, spoken with slaves and spies within the city. Vlad's spawn had also brought her information, but she refused to use them.

This conquest had to be hers. If she could not take a city with a superior army and dragons, without relying on the supernatural gifts of her husband, how could she ever call herself a conqueror?

She knew Meereen would not fall as easily as Yunkai or Astapor. Here, the slaver elite was prouder, crueler, and they would not make the mistake of facing her army directly. They would shut themselves behind their walls, hoping hunger and time would do the work. But Daenerys had no intention of beginning a long siege. She had to present a free city when her husband arrived.

Her army of freedmen, composed entirely of former slaves, had discovered the sewers through which many had once escaped in search of freedom. They infiltrated the city and spoke with the other slaves.

In Meereen, for every master, there were three slaves. Every man yearned for freedom; Daenerys had only to place weapons in their hands. They would do the rest. She didn't need to conquer Meereen with armies—she could take it with her people.

That night, a great black banner bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flew from one of the highest towers, placed there by slave hands. In response, in every district of the city, the slaves rose. From the workshops, the palace kitchens, the gladiator training yards—each with a sword in hand, a gift from the Mother of Dragons.

The Great Masters awoke with blades buried in their chests.

As the fire of revolt consumed the city, Daenerys gave the order for her soldiers to advance. Her armies marched with lethal precision through the streets. Ser Barristan and Jorah Mormont led the charge at the front, cutting off defenders attempting to regroup.

Daenerys still harbored mixed feelings toward Jorah. Ever since Vlad had forced him to confess his betrayal, she had felt resentful, used.

But she had to be wise. A queen could not allow herself to be ruled by emotions so easily. Though she had not forgiven him, she kept him close. He no longer advised her personally, but she would be a fool to reject the counsel of seasoned men. She was not like Vlad; she could not destroy an army on her own.

Not yet.

The dragons—Balerion and Vladion—now the size of oxen, descended upon the plazas, unleashing torrents of flame that reduced the masters' banners to ash. The free citizens watched in awe and terror at the woman who commanded winged monsters.

Within hours, Meereen's resistance collapsed. The masters who were not slain by their own slaves were dragged to the Great Pyramid, where Daenerys had already taken her seat on the city's throne. One by one, they were brought before her. Some begged, others cursed her, but none escaped punishment.

When the sun rose over Meereen, the corpses of the Great Masters hung from crosses along the Great River Road, just as they had once done to the slave children to warn her not to come. Now, it was their turn to serve as a warning.

Meereen was no longer a city of masters. Meereen was free. Meereen was hers.

Sixty days passed.

Anyone would expect ruling Meereen to be a challenge, but for her, it wasn't. Largely, that was thanks to Vlad's spawn. As soon as the Great Masters fell, the council he had arranged took over, managing the city's affairs with remarkable efficiency.

Daenerys felt pleased that everything was going so smoothly, but at the same time, a pang of uncertainty crossed her mind when she wondered what might have happened had Vlad not infiltrated his agents into the cities. Would it have been a disaster? She nearly sighed at the thought. The love of her life was a man who planned ahead.

There was nothing to do but feel grateful, for even from afar, she could feel his presence in every gesture.

Meereen was a vast city, and nearly the entire Unsullied host patrolled its streets to maintain order. There had been disturbances and murders, but everything remained manageable.

Now, seated on the throne of Meereen—an uncomfortable and cold seat—she understood why Vlad complained so often about the "repugnant iron monstrosity" that was the Iron Throne in King's Landing and why he insisted on melting it down to forge two proper thrones.

A smile curved her lips. Two. Two thrones—for him and for her.

Ser Barristan stood beside her, straight as an arrow, as the twentieth man of the day stepped into the hall to request an audience.

He stepped forward, posture firm and imposing, and raised his voice with solemnity.

—Before you stands Daenerys Drakul Targaryen, first of her name, rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Stormborn, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and Queen of Meereen.

Her titles echoed through the vast throne room, and all present bowed their heads in respect—or fear. Before her, a distinguished-looking man advanced with calculated steps.

His silk robe shimmered with Meereen's golds and ochres, his beard perfecly trimmed, and his face bore the calm of a man who measured every word. But it was not he who spoke, but his companion, a former slave who had chosen to remain in his service.

—Before Her Majesty stands Hizdahr zo Loraq. —The man bowed solemnly.

Daenerys nearly rolled her eyes. The Great Masters and, indeed, all of Meereen's nobility clung to the mannerisms of kings. Naturally, it was the arrogance of those who had lived like royalty for centuries.

—I'm certain Hizdahr zo Loraq can speak to me himself. —She replied with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

The man looked momentarily surprised, but quickly composed himself and stepped aside for his master.

—Your Majesty, I am Hizdahr zo Loraq, son of Reznak zo Loraq, and I come to make a plea on behalf of my family.

Daenerys regarded his face with indifference. She had heard that name before, among the list of Great Masters who had been executed.