Days had passed since Jorah's exile, and the rhythm of rule had settled over Meereen like dust after a storm, steady, relentless, exhausting.
Daenerys sat once more on the simple stone seat in the throne room, no throne of conquest, only the weight of one. Ser Barristan stood to her left, silent and watchful. Grey Worm waited at the foot of the stairs. Missandei stood at her right, translating the steady stream of voices that came one after another, farmers, merchants, former slaves, all with problems that had no easy answers.
Most were small. A stolen goat. A broken well. A dispute over land.
Then came the man.
He was thin, sun-baked, eyes hollow. In his arms he carried the charred bones of a child it was small, fragile, blackened almost beyond recognition. He knelt slowly, as though the weight might break him.
"The black one took her," he said, voice cracking.
"My daughter. Three years old. She was playing near the olive grove. The black beast came down… and she was gone."
The room went still.
Dany's breath caught, sharp, audible. Her hands tightened on the arms of the seat.
Dany stared at the bones. Her voice, when it came, was very quiet.
"I am sorry," she said. "I will see that your family is cared for. Grain. Coin. Whatever you need."
The man bowed his head, tears falling onto the blackened remains.
"Thank you, Mhysa." He left.
Dany remained seated for a long moment after he was gone. Then she rose slowly, as though every movement cost her.
"Enough for today," she said.
The room emptied.
Later, in her private chambers.
The doors closed behind them. Missandei and Grey Worm stood near the wall, silent witnesses. Rhaego paced near the balcony, tail lashing, wings half-unfurled in agitation.
He stopped when Dany entered.
"So you plan to lock them up forever?" he asked, voice low, but edged with frustration.
"Isn't that the very thing you stand against? Putting them in chains?"
Dany paused in the center of the room. She looked tired, not the exhaustion of battle, but something deeper.
"Drogon burned a child," she said quietly. "While he flies free out there somewhere. I worry the others will do the same."
Rhaego's tail snapped once, sharp. "So you chain Rhaegal and Viserion because one of them made a mistake?"
"They are not mistakes," Dany said. "They are dragons. They do not think like we do. They do not understand mercy or consequence. If they kill again—"
"They are your children," Rhaego cut in.
"Just like me... Would you chain me if I burned someone?"
Dany's eyes flashed, pain and anger mixed.
"You are different."
"How?" Rhaego stepped closer.
"Because I speak? Because I look more like a person? Mother please.. They are still yours. They hatched from the same fire as I did. You cannot lock them away because you are afraid."
"I am not afraid," Dany said, but her voice trembled.
"I am responsible. For them. For the people. For you."
Rhaego's wings shifted, restless. "Then let me be responsible too," he said. "Let me do something about it. If you let me… I will."
Dany looked at him, really looked.
He stood taller than her now. Leaner. The boy she had carried through fire was almost gone, replaced by something fierce and beautiful and terrifying.
She reached up, slowly and brushed a strand of silver hair from his face.
"You have already taken too much upon yourself," she said softly. "I would not see you burdened further… not for my sake." she said.
Rhaego caught her hand gently, holding it against his cheek.
"I'm old enough to help you," he said. "Let me try. Let me go to them. I'll find Drogon. I'll bring him home. I'll make sure he understands, before anyone else gets hurt."
Dany's breath hitched. She looked at him, really looked, seeing the boy who once fit in her arms, now almost a man, horns gleaming, wings half-unfurled behind him like a cloak.
Oberyn, who had been silent until now, stepped forward from the pillar, slow, deliberate.
"If I may, Your Grace," he said quietly.
Dany glanced at him.
Oberyn inclined his head slightly. "The boy is right. Dragons are not meant to be caged. But they can be guided. And fed."
He gestured toward the balcony, toward the city beyond.
"Raise goats and cattle beyond the walls, feed them regularly. A place where sheep and goats are raised specifically for them. Tax the people but not heavily, but yearly and with livestock when needed. Keep the dragons sated. Keep them close. They will not hunt children if their bellies are full."
Dany looked at him, surprised, but listening.
"A tax," she repeated.
He continued. "Not a burden on the poor. The crown keeps its own herds. Let the dragons feed on what belongs to the queen."
Oberyn's smile was small, knowing.
"In the old days of Valyria, and even in my own family's histories they fed dragons the same way. Not out of cruelty, but necessity. A full dragon is a calm dragon."
Rhaego straightened, tail flicking once, hopeful.
"I can make sure they stay near the farm," he said. "I can call them. They listen to me."
Dany looked between them, son and prince then back at Rhaego. "You really think you can do this?" she asked softly.
Rhaego nodded, certain. "I know I can. Let me try."
Dany's hand tightened on his once more, then slowly released.
She turned to Oberyn. "Why are you helping?" she asked.
"You owe me nothing. Not yet."
Oberyn met her gaze, a smile softening into something genuine.
"I've grown to like the dragon prince," he said simply.
"He has fire. He has a heart. And he reminds me of someone I once knew, someone who also refused to be chained."
He glanced at Rhaego, eyes warm for once. "If he wants to keep his siblings from becoming hungry beasts… I will help him do it."
Dany looked at her son again, long, searching.
Then she nodded, once.
"Very well," she said quietly.
"You may go to them. But not alone. And not without a plan."
Rhaego's wings shifted, excitement flickering in his eyes.
"Thank you, Mother."
Dany reached up, brushing her fingers along one of his horns.
"Be careful," she whispered. "Come back to me."
Rhaego leaned into the touch. "I will."
Oberyn stepped forward, resting the butt of his spear on the floor. "Then we start tomorrow," he said. "A farm. A tax. A dragon prince with a spear. And perhaps… a viper to watch his back."
Dany's lips curved, just a little. "Perhaps."
The chamber fell quiet.
Outside, the city of Meereen slept under the dragon banner.
And inside, a mother let her son take his first real step toward rule, terrified, proud, and hoping the fire would not burn everything they loved.
A few days later a few miles outside Meereen's walls, close enough to see the pyramid's silhouette against the sky, far enough that the smell of livestock wouldn't drift into the city, the plain had been marked out with stakes and string.
Workers hammered posts, laid low stone walls, dug shallow channels for water, and fenced off grazing paddocks.
A small cluster of herder huts was already taking shape near the center. The livestock farm was modest but deliberate: pens for goats and sheep, troughs, a few shade trees transplanted from the city orchards, and open ground where carcasses could be laid out for the dragons.
Rhaego stood on a gentle rise overlooking the site, a rolled parchment in one hand the plan he'd copied from an old, crumbling book in the pyramid library.
The sketches were simple but clear: fenced enclosures, feeding zones, watering basins, and a low watchtower for the herders. He chewed the inside of his cheek, tail swaying slowly as he watched the builders.
Oberyn stood beside him, arms crossed, spear planted in the dirt like a flag. His crimson tunic was open to the heat, but he looked unbothered.
Oberyn tilted his head toward the half-finished pens, voice dry.
"A prince building a sheep pen, very impressive… your father would be proud."
Rhaego snorted without looking up from the parchment.
"Haha. Very funny."
Oberyn smirked.
"I'm serious. I've seen fortresses less ambitious. You've even drawn little arrows for the sheep. Very thoughtful."
Rhaego rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"It's not just a pen. It's a feeding station. If they're full, they're less likely to go hunting people or burning herds."
Oberyn nodded, still teasing, but with a hint of genuine approval.
"Tax the people on livestock and herbs, keep the beasts fed, keep the city calm. You're learning fast, little dragon."
Rhaego shrugged one shoulder, trying to look nonchalant, but his tail gave a quick, proud flick.
"Had to. Mother won't let them fly free if they keep… eating people."
Oberyn watched the workers for a moment, then turned to Rhaego, tone shifting to something more serious.
"Once the pens are finished… How do you plan to convince your siblings to stay put? To stop burning and stealing livestock? Can you really talk to them?"
Rhaego sighed long, almost tired. He rolled the parchment closed and tucked it under his arm.
"I don't talk to them," he said quietly.
"Not like how people talk. There's no magic words or mind-reading. I just… understand them. Up to a point."
He looked out over the plain, violet-slitted eyes narrowing against the sun.
"It's like how cats communicate with each other. Body language. Tones. The way they move their tails or ears. A low growl means one thing, a slow blink means another. I feel it, their hunger, their anger, their contentment. I can calm them sometimes. Call them. But I can't order them. They're not dogs."
Oberyn studied him, no teasing now, just quiet interest.
"So you'll appeal to their instincts. Full bellies. Familiar scents. Safety."
Rhaego nodded.
"Hopefully. If they're fed and they know the pens mean food… maybe they'll stay close. Maybe they'll stop hunting."
Oberyn rested the butt of his spear on the ground.
"And if they don't?"
Rhaego's tail curled once tight, uncertain.
"Then I'll have to figure something else out."
Oberyn gave a small, approving nod. "You're honest about your limits. That's more than most men twice your age can say."
Rhaego glanced at him, surprised, then faintly pleased.
"Thanks."
Oberyn smiled slowly then sly again.
"Don't thank me yet. If this farm works and the dragons behave, you might actually become useful. And then I'll have to start taking you seriously."
Rhaego laughed short, bright. "Too late. I'm already serious."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Prove it."
He jerked his chin toward the half-built pens.
"Come on. Let's see if the dragon prince can swing a hammer as well as he swings a spear."
Rhaego grinned, sharp and eager, and jogged down the slope toward the workers.
Oberyn followed at a leisurely pace, spear over his shoulder.
Behind them, the city of Meereen shimmered in the heat.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, three dragons flew wild, hungry, waiting for someone to call them home.