[93] Meereenese Problems

Chapter 93: Meereenese Problems

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Once I was done kissing my Meereenese widow, I looked at the six masked men crowding the doorway, their harpy masks gleaming dully in the bedroom's dim light.

My arm remained casually draped around Nahreen's shoulder, fingers tracing her curves beneath the sheet she'd hastily pulled over herself. Her body trembled against mine, eyes wide with fear as she stared at the intruders.

"Well?" I prompted, not bothering to cover myself. "You've interrupted something pleasant. Speak."

The masked figures exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably. The leader, distinguished by red threading on his mask, cleared his throat.

"Let's move to a different place. This place..." he glanced disparagingly around the room, at the rumpled sheets and discarded clothing, "smells."

I laughed, low and dangerous. "No. If you don't want to talk, then leave."

Nahreen pressed closer to me, her fingernails digging into my arm. I could feel her heart pounding against my side.

One of the other Harpies stepped forward, his voice higher and more insistent. "You have the wrong idea, foreign bastard. It’s not a request, we—"

My hand moved before he finished the sentence. The dagger appeared between my fingers as if conjured from thin air—a trick of my Inventory—and sailed across the room with deadly precision. It struck the speaker's throat with a wet thud, embedding itself to the hilt.

Blood sprayed in an arc as he collapsed, hands clutching uselessly at the blade. Gurgling sounds escaped his mask as he thrashed once, twice, and went still.

“Hak–!” Nahreen's gasp was sharp beside me, her body curling inward as if trying to disappear into the sheets. The remaining Harpies flinched, then two lunged forward, weapons appearing from beneath their robes.

"Stop, all of you!" their leader barked, throwing out an arm to halt them. The attackers froze mid-step, their tension palpable even through their masks. The leader nodded slowly, his posture stiffening as he turned back to me.

"Forgive the... misunderstanding," he said, stepping over his fallen comrade without a second glance. "We came to propose an alliance, King Viserys."

I arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"The Dragon Queen is no friend to Meereen," he continued, encouraged by my response. "Her... reforms have brought only chaos. The old families suffer while former slaves riot in the streets. Trade falters. Order crumbles. We know your relationship isn’t the best, so we’re here to offer an alliance."

I gestured for him to continue, my expression one of cold amusement.

"We have networks throughout the city. Resources. Information. We can help destabilize her rule, create opportunities for... a different approach. I’m sure you know what I’m trying to say." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "The spoils of her failure would be substantial. And who better to claim them than her own blood?"

Throughout his pitch, Nahreen remained silent beside me, her eyes darting between the masks and my face. When I shifted to sit up straighter, she clutched the blanket to her chest, her knuckles white.

"Interesting proposition," I said finally. "Give me a moment."

I rose from the bed, unconcerned with my nakedness, and walked to a wardrobe in the corner. Opening it, I saw fine men's clothing—the remnants of her husband's wardrobe. I selected a midnight-blue robe embroidered with silver thread.

"Your husband had good taste," I remarked to Nahreen as I slipped it on.

She swallowed visibly. "H-he imported the fabric from Qarth," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The Sons of the Harpy watched silently as I cinched the robe and turned back to face them, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. "You've made your case eloquently," I said, approaching them. "And I've reached my decision."

Without warning, I struck. My fist crushed through the nearest Harpy's mask and the face beneath it in one fluid motion.

Before his body hit the floor, I'd already moved to the next, ripping his head clean off with a savage twist. The third managed a strangled cry before my elbow caved in his chest. The fourth tried to flee but made it only two steps before I caught him, snapping his spine with an audible crack.

It took perhaps three seconds.

Blood spattered across the walls and pooled on the marble floor. Nahreen's scream died in her throat as she pressed herself against the headboard, blanket clutched to her face, eyes wide with horror above it.

Only the leader and one other remained, both frozen in place.

"You," I pointed to the subordinate, "can leave. Tell whoever sent you that I will tolerate no further interference in my affairs. You can continue your plans against my sister; I won’t meddle, but do not try to wind me into your numbers."

The man stood paralyzed with fear.

"Go!" I barked, and he scrambled backward through the door, nearly tripping over the bodies of his comrades.

I turned to the leader, who hadn't moved. “In another life, don’t disturb a King during his relaxation hours,” I said, and with a casual gesture, I broke his neck, letting his body collapse atop the others.

[You’ve killed a human - Sons of Harpy x 5.]

[You’ve received experience points.]

Sadly, not enough to level up. Blood coated my hands and speckled the borrowed robe. I walked to a basin of water on a nearby table and began methodically washing the gore from my skin.

"I apologize for the mess," I said, glancing at Nahreen.

She stared back, her complexion ashen. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants. "N-no, you don’t have to apologize. F-forgive me, Your Grace..." she stammered once she found her voice. "I wasn't aware of your status..."

I shot her an irritated look. "Oh, drop the formalities. You were biting my shoulder a moment ago. I don't like the change."

She stared at me for a long moment before her shoulders visibly relaxed, though her eyes remained fixed on the carnage littering her bedroom floor.

"That was fucking scary, you know?" she whispered. “You should have started your pitch with your identity, I’d have been glad to bed a King.”

I couldn't help but laugh at the immediate change in her attitude. She also cursed like a wanton whore. The noble lady’s proper façade had cracked so thoroughly in the space of a morning.

****

Daenerys shifted on the ebony bench that served as her throne, trying to find a position that didn't send fresh waves of agony through her splinted arm.

The midday heat turned the Great Pyramid's audience chamber into a sweltering cage. Sweat beaded along her spine, making the silks of her Meereenese tokar cling uncomfortably to her skin.

"The fighting pits have been part of Meereen since the city was built, Your Grace," Hizdahr zo Loraq continued, his thin face earnest beneath his elaborately oiled hair. "They are to us what the sept is to your Westeros—sacred tradition. Please…"

Daenerys clenched her jaw. This was the third time in as many days that Hizdahr had appeared before her with the same request. Each time, his arguments grew more intricate, his reasoning more impassioned.

"Sacred?" she repeated. "Men slaughtering each other for sport is sacred?"

Hizdahr spread his hands in supplication. "To deny the people their traditions is to deny their identity. Already, whispers spread through the lower city. They say the foreign queen scorns their customs, mocks their beliefs."

"They say this while sleeping in beds that aren't chains," Daenerys snapped. "While breathing air that isn't fouled by a master's whip."

The pain in her arm flared, hot and insistent. It made her anger more fiery, which only made her more irritated at Viserys, whose face flashed through her mind—that strange, cold confidence as he'd snapped her bone like dry kindling. Her brother had been cruel before, but there had been a desperate edge to his cruelty. This new Viserys was something entirely different.

"Your Grace," Tyrion's voice floated up from below her. The dwarf stood a few steps down, his mismatched eyes thoughtful. "If I may?"

She nodded stiffly.

"The noble Hizdahr isn't wrong," Tyrion said, stroking his stubbled chin. "Think about it. Lasting change requires compromise. The fighting pits could be reopened under new rules—no slaves, only free men who choose to fight. It would show respect for Meereenese customs while maintaining your principles."

"You support this barbarism?" She regretted the sharpness in her tone as soon as the words left her mouth.

Tyrion didn't flinch. "I support stability, Your Grace. The fighting pits bring trade. Trade brings wealth. Wealth brings peace. Peace brings opportunity for the reforms you truly care about."

Ser Jorah cleared his throat. "The Imp speaks sense, Khaleesi. Your hold on Meereen remains precarious."

Even Missandei, usually so reserved, nodded slightly. "The people would see it as a gesture of respect, Your Grace."

Daenerys looked from one advisor to the next, finding the same counsel in each face. Only two days ago, she might have held firm against them all. But Viserys's appearance had changed everything. She needed allies in this city, and quickly.

She exhaled, rubbing her temple with her hand. Finally, she said, "I wish to discuss this matter with my nephew. I also have some other important matters to discuss with him. Has he not responded to my call yet?"

"No, Khaleesi," Missandei answered, her eyes reflecting concern.

Daenerys frowned. "Odd. He's never this late." Her gaze swept the chamber, suddenly noticing another absence. "And Varys isn't here today either."

A cold prickle of unease crawled up her spine. First, Viserys appeared with impossible strength and a dragon, then broke her arm and vanished. Now, both Aegon and Varys were missing. These couldn't be coincidences.

"Do you want me to visit his quarters, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked, his weathered hand resting on his sword hilt. “I’ll bring him here.”

Daenerys considered the question. Aegon was a grown man, not a child to be checked upon. But with Viserys in the city... "Yes," she decided. "Please do, Ser Barristan. And… bring Grey Worm and a squad with you.”

She had a bad feeling about this. It wouldn’t hurt to be careful.

The old knight bowed and departed, his white cloak whispering across the stone floor.

She turned her attention back to Hizdahr, who stood patient and hopeful. An idea formed in her mind—one that would stabilize her position in Meereen while simultaneously sending a message to her brother.

"You," she said, focusing on Hizdahr. "If the decision to hold the games is finalized... I have another plan to follow suit." She paused, letting the tension build. "I shall marry you. That should help strengthen my hold in the city by marrying a Meereenese man."

Hizdahr's jaw slackened, his carefully constructed poise crumbling into naked shock. He opened and closed his mouth twice before stammering, "Y-Your Grace... I am... overwhelmed by such an honor."

“As you should be,” Daenerys allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk. The political advantages were clear—but she couldn't deny the smaller, pettier pleasure in imagining Viserys's face when he learned she'd wed a Meereenese noble.

Her brother had once sold her to a Dothraki Khal, but now she would choose her own husband from among men he considered beneath him.

"I would be a good husband to you, Your Grace," Hizdahr continued, recovering his composure. "My family has ruled Meereen for generations. I know its customs, its people—"

"We will discuss the details later," she interrupted, suddenly weary. The throbbing in her arm had spread to her shoulder, making it difficult to think clearly. "For now, you may go."

As Hizdahr bowed and backed away, Tyrion approached the throne. "A bold move, Your Grace," he said quietly. "Though I wonder if a hasty marriage is wise, given recent... developments. What if that maddens your brother?"

"My brother broke my arm yesterday; that means he’s mad enough," she replied, keeping her voice low. "He also killed an Unsullied with his bare hands and claims my nephew is a Blackfyre pretender. I need stronger roots in this city, and I need them now."

Tyrion's eyes widened slightly at her bluntness. "As you say, Your Grace. Though if I may suggest—perhaps we should investigate these claims about Young Griff before proceeding too far with either the marriage or the fighting pits?"

Daenerys frowned. "You think Viserys might be telling the truth?"

"I think," Tyrion said carefully, "that in my experience, the most dangerous lies always contain a seed of truth. Well, we’ll learn about it soon anyhow when Ser Barristan returns."

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