[88] Meereen’s Truth

Chapter 88: Meereen's Truth

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Daenerys rushed to the high windows of the Great Pyramid, her heart pounding against her ribs. The deafening roar that had shaken the very stones beneath her feet was followed by an unnatural brightness that transformed night into day.

"Oh, gods above..." she whispered, gripping the windowsill as her eyes scanned the sky.  The brightness made it difficult to discern details at first. A massive winged shape cut through the clouds, its body radiating golden light that outshone the moon and stars.

For a fleeting moment, hope surged through her veins—perhaps Drogon had returned after his weeks-long absence, or Rhaegal had somehow broken free of his chains. And whatever this display of light was, it was a new magic of theirs. But something felt wrong.

The silhouette moved differently.

The wingspan appeared greater, the body more streamlined.

Behind her, she heard Ser Barristan Selmy curse and draw his sword. The soft scrape of steel against leather was barely audible over the commotion rising from the streets below. Ser Jorah moved closer to her side, his hand instinctively reaching for his own weapon.

"That's..."

To her surprise, it was Tyrion Lannister who spoke up, his voice cutting through the tension. She'd expected fear from the dwarf, seeing a dragon for the first time—many grown men had fallen to their knees weeping at the sight of her children. But there was no fear in his voice, only recognition that made her blood run cold.

"That's Viserion... your brother's dragon. What's it doing in Meereen?"

Daenerys felt the tiny hairs on her arms and neck rise. Her head snapped back toward the creature, studying it with new understanding.

Now that she knew it wasn't one of her babies, she could see it clearly despite the weird brightness—the differences in shape and movement. This beast appeared more refined and terrifying. Its muscles were better defined beneath those gleaming scales, and its movements spoke of greater precision and purpose.

"How is that possible?" she breathed, more to herself than anyone else. "How could it be so..."

Perfect.

The word stuck in her throat. She'd raised her dragons from birth, nursed them on roasted meat, and watched them grow from the size of cats to fearsome predators. But this creature—this Viserion, who her brother had arrogantly named after himself—moved with a deadly grace that made her own children seem almost clumsy by comparison.

She squinted against the unnatural brightness, searching for a rider. The dragon's back appeared empty, but at this distance, in this light, she couldn't be certain.

"I don't see him," she said, her voice hardening. "I don't see my brother."

"Perhaps he isn't riding," Varys suggested, his soft voice carrying across the chamber. "Or perhaps he's somewhere else in the city. It could be either case."

The thought sent a chill through her. If Viserys was in Meereen, walking her streets while his dragon created a distraction...

"Your Grace," Ser Jorah interrupted her thoughts, "we should move you to a more secure location. If your brother has come for you—"

"I am not hiding," she cut him off, lifting her chin. "I am the blood of the dragon. I do not cower from my own kin. Plus, what’s more secure than this stone pyramid? If he can cut through eight thousand Unsullied, then there’s nothing else we can do to stop him."

Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan exchanged a look and sighed. She was right.

"Aunt, I am here," a voice called from behind as fast footsteps entered.

Daenerys turned to find Young Griff—no, Aegon, her nephew—standing at the entrance to the chamber. He was breathing a bit faster, clearly startled by the noise too, so he’d run over. He didn’t wear his disguise of blue hair anymore, and rather had his silver-gold hair in proud display as it caught the unnatural light flooding through the windows, making him appear almost ethereal.

His Valyrian features, so like her own, were tight with concern as his eyes moved from her face to the scene beyond the windows. “Was that Drogon?”

"...No. Come see this," she commanded, gesturing him forward.

He crossed the chamber quickly and stood beside her at the window. She watched his eyes widen, his pupils contracting against the golden light as he took in the beast circling above their city.

“What in the…”

"Where is Rhaegal?" she asked urgently. "If this huge beast attacks Meereen, we need Rhaegal to fight it off."

Aegon's jaw tightened. "Rhaegal is still chained in the basement. I just returned from feeding him, actually." He shook his head, cursing under his breath. "And I don't think he can beat this creature, aunt. Look at the size difference."

The admission hung heavy in the air. Daenerys felt a flicker of anger at the suggestion that one of her children might be outmatched, but she'd seen Viserion with her own eyes. The golden dragon moved with a predator's lethal confidence.

They weren’t that different in height, but Viserion was wider, thanks to her muscle. She was a rippling sea of muscles that Rhaegal couldn’t compare to. Perhaps Drogon…

"We can't be sure," she replied, unwilling to concede defeat before battle was even joined. "Plus, if Rhaegal is injured, I think Drogon will come flying from wherever he is." She placed a hand on his arm, meeting his violet eyes with her own. "So just be ready... in case this beast attacks. You need to ride Rhaegal."

Aegon's expression shifted, an odd emotion crossing over before he quickly hid it with determination. "Yes," he nodded firmly.

Outside, Viserion roared again, the sound reverberating through the pyramid's ancient stones. Daenerys turned back to the window, watching golden light reflect off the city's sandstone buildings before it began to calm down.

Whatever game her brother was playing, she would not be unprepared.

****

What I needed first of all was to understand the situation in Meereen.

I was here to meet my sister, but I wanted to understand what was going on before that. I also had to decide how to approach this—whether to sneak into her room or make an arrogant official entrance.

The latter would be more suitable for relations between the King of Westeros and the Queen of Meereen, but it wasn't what I needed. I wanted to gauge her reaction upon seeing me, not give her time to prepare and put on a political facade. Surprise often revealed more than cautious conversation.

So, to gather information, I blended into the crowd easily enough. The common folks of Meereen were a diverse lot—traders from across Essos, former slaves with tattooed faces, and sellswords looking for work. My black cloak and hood weren't remarkable in this sea of varied garb. Plus, since my silver hair wasn’t visible, it was safe.

For the next few hours, I wandered the city, listening more than speaking.

Meereen's layout revealed itself to me in fragments. There was a lot to take. The vast pyramid where the "Mother of Dragons" held court, the fighting pits she'd supposedly closed, and the temples converted to barracks for her Unsullied.

What struck me most was how divided the city remained. In the taverns near the harbor, freed slaves praised their "Mhysa" with near-religious fervor. Their eyes lit up when they spoke of the chains she'd broken, the masters she'd crucified. It was the look of people who'd found salvation after a lifetime of torment.

"She came with fire and blood," one man told another as I sat nearby, sipping sour wine. His voice held the reverence of a true believer. "The masters never thought we'd see freedom. Now look at us—citizens, not property. Ah, my life feels complete!"

But in the wealthier districts, where merchants and former slave owners huddled in depleted luxury, the sentiment shifted dramatically.

It was harder to catch their words, but not impossible. There, Daenerys was "the foreign whore," "the mad dragon spawn," a destroyer of tradition and commerce.

"Trade has collapsed," I heard a silk merchant complain bitterly. "Without slaves, who makes the goods? Who loads the ships? This is frustrating. She'll burn this city to the ground with her good intentions."

He has firm logic. This city’s been the center of slavery for centuries, so it’s unable to work like the other cities so fast. It’ll take time. And that’s if Dany survives the dozen assassination attempts, just like the original timeline.

It was exactly as I'd expected. Daenerys had conquered but not truly ruled. She'd broken chains but built nothing sustainable in their place. Classic Targaryen fire—all destruction, little creation. I liked that she still had the family blood.

I mentally noted which neighborhoods housed former masters still clinging to power. If I needed allies against my sister, the seeds of discontent were already well-planted. I hoped not, though.

By mid-afternoon of the next day, I'd learned that my sister had a growing problem with masked assassins calling themselves the Sons of the Harpy. They were already moving.

They struck from shadows, killing Unsullied and freed slaves alike. The whispers suggested these attacks were funded by wealthy families from Yunkai and Astapor—cities she'd "liberated" before moving on.

"Eleven Unsullied dead last week alone," I overheard as I lingered near a baker's stall. "Found them with their throats cut, those golden masks left nearby as a message."

This was useful.

My sister's hold on Meereen was more tenuous than her followers suggested. She was struggling to control even one city, yet dreamed of conquering seven kingdoms? The irony almost made me laugh.

At the same time, it made me worried for her life. I’d prevented many deaths thanks to the decisions I’d taken. This world was already far different than the original. That also meant, since I’d prevented so many deaths, that’d influence the deaths of many others too. That could include my sister. The last true Targaryen blood other than me. I didn’t want that.

I checked the sky occasionally throughout my explorations. Viserion had left the skies of Meereen, likely roaming the lands nearby. I didn't mind. The impact was made last night. Every person in this city now knew a golden dragon had appeared—and many would be asking why the "Mother of Dragons" couldn't control it.

My beautiful beast had grown remarkably since I first hatched her. Her golden scales now gleamed with power, and her wingspan caused shadows that could engulf entire buildings. She was far superior to my sister’s foolish lizards. She was intelligent.

As night descended once again, I found myself in a dingy inn near the fighting pits. The place stank of sweat and cheap liquor, but it was filled with mercenaries and soldiers. It was the perfect place to gather more intelligence.

I ordered ale, the liquid more piss than drink, and took a seat in the corner where shadows provided cover. Meereen trash. I need some Myrish good, I guess. The barkeep, a weary man with deep lines etched into his face, slid the tankard across the wooden counter with practiced ease.

My ears perked up when two men in gleaming armor walked in, their boots heavy against the worn floorboards. I paused for a brief moment. They were the most important bits in this situation.

The golden skull clasps on their cloaks clearly marked them as Golden Company men. That particular sellsword group… The room quieted momentarily before conversation resumed at a lower volume.

"Two of your finest ales," the taller one called out, "and whatever passes for food in this shithole."

They laughed among themselves, taking the best seats near the hearth without asking if they were occupied. The smaller man, with a scar running down his right cheek, kicked his feet onto the table and leaned back in his chair.

The innkeeper hurried over with their drinks and two bowls of what looked like fish stew. He hovered anxiously, wringing his hands. "That'll be three copper stars, if it please you."

Both men stared at him for a moment before erupting in laughter.

"You've got balls, old man," the scarred one said, slapping the table. "Don’t you know us? We're the Golden Company, the people who freed this city. You got no shame asking money from us?"

The innkeeper's face paled. "And I’m thankful for your duty to the city, but… Please, sers, I have a family to—"

The taller soldier stood, his hand moving to his sword hilt. "Did we ask about your fucking family? The Queen's allies drink free. That's the new rule."

With a casual motion, he knocked the cups and bowls to the floor, where they shattered. The innkeeper jumped back, eyes downcast, mumbling apologies.

By then, my blood was boiling. I'd seen this kind of arrogance before—men who thought strength gave them the right to take without giving. It was the same mentality that had built the slaving cities my sister claimed to oppose.

However, it wasn’t the arrogance that made my blood boil. I wasn’t that hypocritical yet.

It was the confirmation. So the news about the Golden Company accompanying my sister was true.

That could only mean one thing. Varys, that snake, played his cards right and sent Faegon to Dany. It irritated me seeing outsiders, fucking Blackfyres, try to meddle in my family business. Those Blackfyre bastards had no right to the Targaryen name, no right to my throne, and certainly no right to manipulate my sister.

A few minutes later, I drained my ale, set the cup down, and walked to the counter. The innkeeper flinched as I approached, likely expecting more abuse.

I placed a gold dragon on the counter. "Keep the change."

“Ah… t-thank you.”

I walked out, following the two Golden Company bastards who'd just left. Their laughter echoed down the street, unaware of the death trailing silently in their wake.

The golden skull clasp would soon match its owner's fate.

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