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Essos, Meereen
1st Moon Of 58 AC
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The morning air in Meereen smelled of dust, burnt lime, and the salty sea breeze rising from the docks. Atop the Great Pyramid, the light of the rising sun painted the terraces in a violent orange.
Aerea Targaryen adjusted the sleeves of her dark silk dress, buttoned with silver dragon-shaped brooches. She could have remained resting in her chambers after the previous night's tension, but her mind knew no rest. She had been raised in the Red Keep of King's Landing, watching the Small Council from the shadows of the throne room; she had walked the corridors of the court when King Jaehaerys considered her his rightful heir. She knew the weight of crowns, the stench of noble ambition, and the falsehood hidden behind every bow. Caspian was the indomitable force, the steel, and the resolution in everything; but hallway diplomacy and aristocratic intrigues required the kind of poison that only a woman knew how to spot. As Khaleesi, she had no intention of standing on the sidelines while her husband bore the burden of the khalasar and the newly conquered city.
She approached the large window of the great hall. Down below, in the distance, the eastern walls of Meereen rose amid a maze of wooden scaffolding. The breaches made during the taking of the city were being repaired at a staggering pace. She could see the unmistakable figure of the Khal atop his horse, standing out among the ranks of Dothraki warriors and local craftsmen. Caspian could have rebuilt the wall in a matter of minutes, but in his own words, he said it was good to leave the work to those who needed to bring gold to their homes and bread to their tables.
Aerea turned toward the center of the hall. Upon a large marble table rested the patrol map. Beside it stood Essino and Qrano, the two Bloodriders Caspian had left behind to protect her. They wore steel armor, long braids laden with bronze bells, and serious expressions—something that occasionally left her contemplative, as she had never seen them smile.
"Let us speak of last night," Aerea said. Her voice was calm, but silence fell over the hall as the Khaleesi stepped forward. "I want the details, unadorned."
Essino, the most experienced Bloodrider of them all, stepped forward.
"Your warriors were attacked as they walked the streets of Meereen to keep the Khal's peace," Essino began in a dry, raspy tone. "All were well-armed. Two of ours fell to crossbow bolts from the rooftops in Mazdhan's Maze. Two others were crushed by stone blocks thrown from the river wall during their morning patrol. And five more were poisoned in a tavern where they went to drink after their rounds."
Aerea remained composed, though her violet eyes narrowed.
"Did you capture any of those responsible?" she asked Essino directly.
"We have the tavern owner and his two daughters," Qrano chimed in, stepping forward with his arms crossed over his armored chest. "They scream and plead innocence, claiming they knew nothing of the casks. Essino and I can deal with them and wring the truth out before noon."
"No," Aerea ordered firmly. "I want them kept in custody, but I will have no blind executions or torture inflicted on the girls if they have no connection to the poison. I want no fabricated confessions meant only to protect others. I want the real names of those who pull the strings of the Sons of the Harpy."
"Who else was killed tonight?" Aerea asked, turning back to Essino.
"Three freedmen," Essino replied. "A money lender who helped redistribute coin, a shoemaker who made footwear, and a harper named Rylona Rhee. The harper had her fingers cut off one by one before they slit her throat."
Aerea clenched her fists. She remembered Rylona Rhee. Sometimes in the evenings, the sound of her harp would echo through the city's grand courtyards, bringing an air of calm amid the military tension. She was a beloved voice among the common people of the city, and one of the first freedwomen to defend the new crown.
The Sons of the Harpy were not just attacking their soldiers; they were attempting to butcher the soul of the city, terrifying anyone who dared to build a life under the rule of the Khal and the Khaleesi.
"Any prisoners for the harper's death?" she asked.
"None, Khaleesi," Qrano admitted with palpable frustration.
Aerea took a deep breath, feeling the heat of the House of the Dragon coursing through her veins. She knew that had Caspian been in the room, he would have ordered half the noble quarter put to the sword before noon. But blind terror did not sustain kingdoms; firm, calculated authority did.
"Listen to me carefully," Aerea declared, raising her voice. "The Dothraki will continue patrolling; the Khal has already ordered more men onto the patrols as well. We will form a local city watch composed of freedmen who know every corner, every passage, and every alley of Meereen."
Aerea smiled, a cold smile that made even the hardened Bloodriders look at her with renewed respect. "The Sons of the Harpy believe I am a girl raised in distant palaces, fragile and easily broken. They believe the presence of a khalasar is merely temporary. They are mistaken. The wages for the city's new watch will come directly from the pyramids of Meereen's noble families. A mandatory blood tribute. And from now on, I will take one hundred gold coins from each great house for every soldier or freedman who turns up dead in the streets."
Qrano let out a short, harsh laugh. "That will hurt them more than a whip."
"Essino," Aerea continued, "two noble families, the Zhaks and the Merreqs, have requested permission to leave Meereen this morning. They claim they fear for their lives. Tell them they may leave, but they will walk out the gates with only the clothes on their backs and nothing more. Not a single gold coin, nor a jewel, nor a single servant. If they abandon the city, their properties forfeit to the Khal's crown."
"It shall be done as you command, Khaleesi," Essino agreed with a nod.
"Now, clear the hall and send in the petitioners. I have audiences to attend to."
The morning heat was already growing intense when the herald announced the next man on the list. Aerea took the throne where Caspian had sat the previous day. She missed Caspian's physical presence beside her, the impenetrable calm her husband radiated just by sitting there. But Aerea was no decorative figure; she was the Khaleesi, and the people of Meereen had to learn that her word carried absolute weight.
To her displeasure, the man who stepped down the marble hallway was Hazzak Mo Pahl.
The noble wore a tunic of blue and gray silk, fine yet without overbearing ostentation. After the previous day's hearing, where Caspian had permitted him to retrieve his father's body from the stakes outside, Aerea had expected not to see Hazzak for several days. Yet the man seemed relentless in his political ambitions. He had presented himself multiple times requesting the reopening of Ghiscar's fighting pits, and each time he had been given the same answer: no.
"Hazzak Mo Pahl," Aerea spoke from the throne, cutting him off before he could complete his bow. "We have turned you away repeatedly. Have you come today to intercede for another cause, or do you simply enjoy wasting the Khaleesi's time?"
"I have not come alone this morning, Your Grace," Hazzak said in a soft, subservient voice, keeping his hands hidden within the folds of his tunic.
He signaled toward the great bronze portal. Seven men entered the audience hall.
Aerea observed them carefully. They were not soft-handed nobles or broad-bellied merchants. They were massive men with shoulders as wide as doors, torsos covered in old scars, and hard glares that had seen blood spilled a thousand times. They wore simple garments and worn leather. Aerea recognized them immediately: they were the former pit fighters, the combat slaves who had spent their lives killing each other in the pit.
"You have the floor," Aerea said, adjusting her posture. "Speak."
The first to step forward was a gigantic man, nearly eight feet tall, with dark skin and arms as thick as tree trunks. His name was Goghor the Giant.
"Khaleesi," the giant said in a rough, direct voice, devoid of the local nobility's mannered bows. "I have trained since I was three. I have killed since I was six. You told us we were free to choose our path when our chains were broken. I choose to fight."
Aerea met his eyes with serenity.
"If you wish to fight, Goghor, join the city watch we are forming or enter my husband's retinue," the queen responded. "Teach the freedmen to defend themselves. There is glory and fair pay in serving the crown."
Goghor shook his head slowly.
"You say I can choose, Khaleesi. Before, I fought because the masters forced me with the whip. Now you would have me fight for your throne. But I want to fight for myself. For gold and for glory. Gold and glory for me alone."
The giant struck his bare chest, the sound echoing off the stone.
Another warrior, a nimble man wearing the hide of a mountain leopard over his left shoulder, known as the Spotted Cat, stepped forward.
"Goghor speaks the truth, Khaleesi," the man said. "When I was a slave in the fighting pits, I slept on bear skins and ate fresh meat every day. Now that I am free, I sleep on dry straw in the slums and have nothing but rancid fish to eat, and that only when I manage to get a few coins. Freedom does not fill the belly if you have no trade."
"Hazzak claims the winners will take half of all ticket sales," added Khrazz, a fighter whose face was slashed by an old sword wound. "That is more gold than we ever saw when the Great Masters owned us."
Aerea felt a wave of frustration rush through her chest. She opened her mouth to reply, to tell them that violence as entertainment was a cruelty belonging to Meereen's slave-owning past, but the words caught in her throat.
She remembered conversations she had shared with Caspian days prior. Her husband had told her something similar: "There are men who only know how to kill, Aerea. They do not want to sow wheat or weave wool. Steel is their art. If you take that away from them, they will turn into bandits."
Aerea looked at the only woman in the group, Barsena Black-Hair, a fierce-eyed warrior who had survived eight years in the pits, slaying every rival put before her.
"And what of those who lose in the arena, Barsena?" Aerea asked firmly. "What do those who are torn apart for the crowd's entertainment receive?"
"Their names are carved into the stones of the Temple of the Graces," Barsena declared without blinking. "Valar Morghulis, Khaleesi. Women as well. Death catches us all in bed, in the street, or in battle. Let us die on our own terms, fighting for our own coin and not at the whim of a master. Open the fighting pits so we may fight as free men and women."
A murmur of assent rippled through the other fighters.
Aerea remained silent for a long moment. Her time at Jaehaerys's court had taught her to analyze laws not merely by their morality, but by their practical consequences. Forbidding the arenas was not preventing violence; it was merely leaving hundreds of seasoned fighters hungry, angry, and without a place in this new society. If they chose to return to the pits of their own free will, earning their own coin without chains, did she have the right to forbid it in the name of a freedom they understood differently?
"I have heard your words," Aerea said finally, keeping her voice calm and unreadable. "I will not give you a definitive answer this morning. I will consult on this matter with the Khal. You may withdraw."
Hazzak Mo Pahl gave a slight inclination of his head. He knew this was not a outright refusal like the previous ones. The fighters saluted with their hands over their chests and left the hall with firm steps.
When the hall emptied, Aerea rose from the throne. Mental exhaustion was beginning to weigh heavy on her shoulders.
She walked out onto the upper terrace of the pyramid to catch the fresh air. On the balcony, she spotted the silhouettes of Balerion and Endaxia flying together. "It is easier to deal with dragons than with men," Aerea murmured quietly, watching the beasts fly free. "You only kill when you are hungry or defending what is yours. Men kill for sport, for pride, or for gold coins."
The sound of heavy footsteps on stone made her turn her head.
Caspian had just stepped onto the balcony. He was sweaty, with patches of dust clinging to his clothes. He pulled off his gauntlets and tossed them onto the balustrade before approaching his wife. The harshness in his face melted away the moment his eyes met Aerea's.
"The eastern walls will be sealed before nightfall," Caspian said, his deep voice echoing across the balcony. He closed the distance to Aerea, gently taking her face in his large, rough hands, and kissed her forehead with tenderness.
"How were the audiences, my Khaleesi?" he asked.
Aerea leaned against Caspian's chest, feeling the warmth of his body and the smell of iron that always accompanied him.
"Essino and Qrano already have their orders to squeeze the nobles for the hundred gold coins for every death," Aerea answered. "And Hazzak brought the pit fighters to ask that we reopen the fighting arenas."
Caspian raised an eyebrow, listening intently as he stroked his wife's back.
"And what did you tell them?"
"I told them I would speak with you," Aerea admitted, looking up to meet Caspian's ember-like eyes. "At first it seemed barbaric to me... but listening to them speak, I realized they are not slaves begging for mercy. They are warriors who only know steel and want to earn a living on their own terms. If we deny them that, they will end up joining the Sons of the Harpy out of pure desperation."
Caspian nodded slowly, grasping the logic of the situation at once.
"If a man wants to enter a pit to kill another for a handful of gold and the crowd wants to pay to see it, let them," Caspian said with dry pragmatism. "Let them spend their energy and their coin in the arena. That way they will have less time to think about plots and daggers in the night."
Aerea sighed, a faint, tired smile playing on her lips as she wrapped her arms around Caspian's waist.
"You are right, my Khal. Sometimes I forget that Essos is not ruled through leniency."
"Essos is ruled through strength and power," Caspian replied, wrapping his protective arms around her as he looked out over the city below. "And as long as we stand together, no noble, no Harpy, and no fighting arena can ever be stronger than we are."
Above them, the dragons released a short roar that echoed over the rooftops of the city, as the midday sun illuminated the rebuilt walls of Meereen.