[97] The Great Fighting Pits

Chapter 97: The Great Fighting Pits

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Hizdahr zo Loraq adjusted the golden collar of his outfit, admiring how the emerald embroidery caught the morning light. The mirror reflected a man of consequence – soon to be more than just a noble of Meereen, but its king in all but name.

His fingers traced the intricate patterns sewn into the fabric, patterns that had adorned the robes of Meereen's greatest rulers for centuries. Patterns that would soon be his by right.

The Dragon Queen had finally bent. Not to fire and blood, but to political necessity. Hizdahr couldn't suppress the smirk that spread across his face. After all those meetings, all those careful suggestions and orchestrated pressures, she had agreed to marry him.

And she doesn't suspect a thing.

He reached for the oils on his dressing table, dabbing scent behind his ears. The perfume of Qarth – expensive, exotic, and impossible to obtain since the Dragon Queen's little tantrum in that city. Yet he had his ways. He always had his ways.

"Once we are wed," he murmured to his reflection, "she'll learn how Meereen truly functions."

The foreign queen with her foreign ideas would soon find herself isolated. The Unsullied were formidable, yes, but they didn't understand politics. They didn't understand Meereen. She had freed the slaves but failed to grasp that power in Slaver's Bay wasn't built on freedom.

His father had died when the queen took the city. A tragedy, certainly. But now Hizdahr would restore everything – and more. Not just Meereen would be his, but all of Slaver's Bay.

The Sons of the Harpy, although an annoyance, indirectly benefited him.

I'll have to eradicate them after coming to power. Otherwise they'll pose a danger to me, too.

He slid a golden ring onto his finger – his father's ring, the symbol of their house. How strange that after such devastating losses, fortune had turned in his favor so dramatically.

The queen needed a Meereenese husband to placate the city. She needed him.

“Hehe…” he couldn't help a chuckle. And after today's spectacle, after our marriage is sealed before the old gods and new, I'll show her what it truly means to wake the dragon.

Hizdahr straightened his outfit one final time, the silk whispering against his skin. The fighting pits awaited. His future queen awaited.

With a satisfied nod to his reflection, he turned and left the chamber, his steps measured and confident as he made his way toward Daznak's Pit.

****

Daenerys sat rigidly on the raised dais, the hot Meereenese sun beating down mercilessly upon her as cheers erupted around the fighting pit.

Her splintered arm rested uncomfortably at her side, a constant reminder of Viserys's cruelty. Beside her, Hizdahr zo Loraq—her husband in mere hours—leaned forward eagerly, his eyes fixed on the bloodshed below.

Two former slaves circled each other on the blood-soaked sand, their bodies glistening with sweat, muscles tensed as they searched for openings in each other's defenses. The larger man lunged, his sword glinting in the sunlight. The smaller fighter spun away, his movements fluid and precise.

"You see how he moves?" Hizdahr gestured excitedly. "That's Oznak vo Hazz's former slave. Trained in the Braavosi water dance—quite rare in these parts."

Daenerys kept her face carefully neutral. "Does he have a name, or just his former master's?"

"Well, I—" Hizdahr faltered, then recovered. "They call him the Storm. Though I don't recall his birth name."

"How convenient," she murmured.

Hizdahr shifted uncomfortably. "My queen, you must understand—these men fight for glory now, not because they're forced. They've chosen this path."

"Have they?" Daenerys turned cold eyes on him. "Or have they simply exchanged one form of slavery for another? Tell me, husband, what other skills were they taught besides killing?"

Before Hizdahr could answer, Ser Barristan leaned down slightly from his position behind her. "The small one knows what he's doing. See how he keeps his enemy moving? Tiring him out."

"I've seen better footwork from Dothraki children," Ser Jorah added dryly, drawing a rare smile from Daenerys.

Hizdahr frowned at the interruption. "The larger fighter is Grazdan mo Ullhor's champion. He’s going to win. Three years undefeated in the lesser pits."

"Until today," Ser Barristan predicted confidently.

"You're quite certain," Hizdahr said. "Care to wager on it?"

"I've never needed gold to know when a man is outmatched," Barristan replied.

Below, the crowd roared as the smaller fighter drew first blood, a quick slash across his opponent's thigh. Daenerys tried not to flinch at the sight of the crimson spray.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" Hizdahr leaned in close, eyes glinting with excitement as the fighters clashed again, steel ringing against steel. The crowd screamed, their faces twisted in primal pleasure.

"Barbaric," Daenerys responded sharply, her voice strained.

Tyrion, seated a short distance away, met her eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the spectacle just like her. He raised his cup in a mock toast, his expression sympathetic. Missandei stood nearby, her face carefully composed, though Daenerys could see the tension in her shoulders.

"My queen," Hizdahr persisted, "these games bond the people. They unite former masters and former slaves alike in a shared spectacle. For centuries, the fighting pits have been—"

"Spare me the history lesson, Hizdahr," Daenerys cut him off. "I've read enough of Meereen's bloody past to last a lifetime."

Hizdahr sighed. "This marriage was meant to bring peace. How can we achieve that if you dismiss our traditions so easily?"

"What do you mean ‘dismiss’? I am allowing this fight, am I not?" she replied, watching as the smaller fighter executed a complex maneuver, narrowly avoiding his opponent's blade. “But peace through bloodshed seems a strange concept. ”

"Yet you conquered this city through bloodshed," Hizdahr observed quietly.

Daenerys felt heat rise to her cheeks. "...To end slavery, not to watch men slaughter each other for entertainment."

"The fighting pits have always been sacred to—"

"Sacred?" she scoffed. "There's nothing sacred about death for sport."

Ser Jorah spoke without taking his eyes off the fighters. "The smaller one is about to win. He's drawing the big one in."

"Nonsense," Hizdahr protested. "Grazdan's man has the reach and the strength. Look at those arms!"

"Strength means little against speed," Ser Barristan commented. "Watch."

As if on cue, the smaller fighter feinted left, then spun right with astonishing speed. His blade found the gap beneath the larger man's arm. The crowd gasped collectively as the champion staggered, blood pouring from the wound. The smaller man darted back, waiting.

"Finish him!" someone in the crowd shouted. Others took up the call, a rhythmic chant that made Daenerys's stomach turn.

"You see?" Hizdahr gestured enthusiastically. "This is what they live for. The moment when life and death hang in the balance. When the gods themselves seem to watch and decide."

"I see men turning death into a game," Daenerys replied coldly. "I see a city that hasn't learned the value of life."

Hizdahr opened his mouth to respond, but something in the air changed. A whisper of unease spread through the arena like ripples in water. Daenerys turned sharply, scanning the stands. Gold masks glinted ominously, scattered amidst the crowd.

Sons of the Harpy.

"Protect the Queen!" Ser Barristan barked sharply, drawing his sword with a smooth, practiced motion. Jorah instantly mirrored him, forming a barrier around Daenerys. Hizdahr froze, eyes wide in shock as the arena erupted in chaos.

"What is happening?" Hizdahr sputtered, rising to his feet. "Guards! Where are the—"

A golden mask appeared behind him, a curved blade flashing in the sunlight. Before Daenerys could cry out a warning, the dagger plunged into Hizdahr's back. Her soon-to-be husband's eyes widened in shock, his mouth forming a perfect "O" of surprise as he crumpled to the ground.

The Sons of the Harpy surged forth, their curved daggers flashing murderously.

Unsullied warriors rushed to meet them, spears clashing, but the Harpies were numerous and ruthless. Blood painted the sand as warriors and rebels fell alike.

"Come, Khaleesi!" Jorah urged, grabbing Daenerys's good arm. She stumbled to her feet, heart pounding in her chest, eyes wide at the carnage unfolding around her. Missandei cried out as a Harpy grabbed her hair, yanking her backward.

"Missandei!" Daenerys reached for her friend, but Barristan pulled her away.

"Grey Worm!" Barristan shouted. The Unsullied commander appeared, still weak from his previous injuries but moving with determination. He drove his spear through the Harpy attacking Missandei, but not before the masked assassin's blade opened a deep gash across her shoulder.

"This way!" Barristan shouted, cutting down a Harpy who lunged from the stands.

Daenerys felt numb as she was pulled along between the two knights, screams and steel ringing in her ears. She saw Tyrion duck beneath a bench, narrowly avoiding a dagger thrust, and scramble to stay alive amid the madness.

A moment later, a Harpy caught him across the cheek with a glancing blow, blood streaming down his face.

"They're everywhere!" Daenerys gasped, the enormity of the betrayal crushing her. "Hizdahr! He’s dead—"

"Forget him!" Barristan shouted back fiercely. "We must get you to safety!"

A Harpy leaped from above, landing on Ser Barristan's shoulders. The old knight staggered but kept his footing, reaching back to grasp his attacker. The Harpy's dagger found Barristan's side, slipping between the plates of his armor. Barristan roared in pain but managed to throw the assassin off, dispatching him with a quick thrust.

"Ser Barristan!" Daenerys cried, seeing the blood blooming across his white cloak.

"It's nothing, Your Grace," he gritted out, though his face had gone pale.

Jorah fought like a man possessed, his sword carving through the attackers, but even he couldn't hold them all back. A dagger caught him across the forearm, opening a deep gash. He barely seemed to notice, pushing Daenerys behind him as more Harpies approached.

But there was no safety to be found—the Harpies surrounded them on all sides, blocking every exit. How were there so many Harpies?! Unsullied bodies lay crumpled around them, the strength of her loyal warriors faltering beneath the relentless assault.

Daenerys closed her eyes briefly, knowing her end was near.

Then—

— Roarghh!

A roar split the air, primal and deafening, shaking the very foundations of the arena.

"...Drogon," she whispered, hope surging through her veins.

The black dragon appeared in a storm of fire and fury, descending from the heavens with wings outstretched and scales shimmering with power. Flames erupted from his jaws, searing the Sons of the Harpy to death and scattering them like frightened vermin.

Perhaps all hope was not lost!

Screams of terror replaced those of triumph as Drogon landed heavily, the earth trembling beneath his massive form.

For a moment, Daenerys felt relief wash over her. Drogon had come to her in her time of need. Her child remembered her, he was here to protect her. But the feeling didn't last.

A brave—or foolish—Harpy charged forward, a long spear clutched in his hands. Before anyone could react, he thrust it upward with all his might. The spearhead sank deep into Drogon's flank, drawing a roar of pain that made the very stones of the arena vibrate.

"No!" Daenerys screamed, her heart twisting at the sight of her child's pain.

Drogon thrashed, his tail smashing through stone seats, his jaws snapping at the air as he tried to reach the spear embedded in his flesh.

More attackers surged forward, encouraged by the sight of the wounded dragon. Drogon shot flames at them, burning tens, but a dozen more followed. Ropes sailed through the air, looping around Drogon's legs and neck. The dragon struggled against the bindings, but each movement seemed to cause him greater pain.

"Khaleesi! Stay away from Drogon, it’s dangerous!" Jorah urged, pulling her away from the dragon.

Daenerys hesitated only a moment, meeting the loyal gaze of Barristan and Jorah before she moved. "No, come with me! We must protect Drogon!" she called desperately.

Barristan hesitated before nodding. He realized the value of her last dragon. "Alright, we will hold them! Go to Drogon!" Barristan shouted, cutting down another attacker.

Her vision blurred with tears as she watched Drogon strain against the ropes, his mighty body trembling with effort and pain. Her chest felt tight, each breath a labor as she witnessed her child's suffering.

She was failing, failing everyone who had believed in her.

More spears came flying, filling Drogon with holes as he screamed in pain. It hurt Dany, it made her heart splinter like glass. At this rate… at this rate Drogon will die. Her baby.

— Roarrghhhh!

And then, a different cry pierced the air—deeper, sharper, louder, and no less powerful. A golden light brightened the midday sun, drawing all eyes upward.

Releasing a screech more powerful than Drogon, Viserion landed, her golden scales bright as she breathed out flames that burned through the ropes restraining Drogon.

People threw spears at her too, but they simply bounced off her gleaming golden scales like twigs against stone. Viserion lifted her majestic head, golden eyes narrowing into slits, and seemed to grin mockingly at the foolish humans below.

"Pathetic humans... dare... to hurt my blood!” Viserion positioned herself protectively over Drogon, her wings flared out like a shimmering golden shield.

The dragon's voice was something Daenerys had never heard before—a deep, guttural rumble that somehow formed recognizable words, sending shivers down the spines of every survivor.

With a quick, brutal motion, Viserion whipped her tail forward, slicing right through several Sons of the Harpy like they were made of paper. Blood splashed everywhere, soaking the sand a deep, ugly red. The dragon lunged ahead, crushing attackers beneath her huge claws, their bones snapping loudly beneath her weight.

One brave, or maybe foolish, Harpy charged at her with his spear, stabbing desperately at Viserion’s chest, but the weapon just shattered against her thick scales. She tilted her head a bit, almost amused by his guts—or stupidity—before casually smashing his skull with one heavy stomp of her massive claw.

Viserion’s magnificent wings spread wide, slicing gracefully through the air like enormous golden blades, leaving destruction in their wake.

The ground quickly became a chaotic scene sprinkled with remnants of battle.

Just as another group of attackers surged toward her, a fierce burst of dragonfire erupted from Drogon, turning them to ash and melting their armor in an instant. But more enemies kept coming, refusing to abandon their futile charge.

Viserion spun around sharply, her massive wings whipping up gusts strong enough to hurl men against the arena walls, their bones breaking upon impact. Her jaws snapped shut, catching two attackers mid-air, tearing them to shreds before flinging their mangled bodies back into the chaos.

– Shiing!

A sharp, blade-like sound spread through the arena, as a new pair of wings cut through the air at a terrible speed. Dany looked up to find Viserys reaching the skies of the arena from wherever he’d been all this time. Her heart skipped a beat as he gilded downward, his wings casting a dark shadow over the battlefield.

Arrows aimed at him were swatted away as if they were mere pests, still floating a dozen feet above the ground. For a brief moment, he hovered silently, casting a cold gaze upon the devastation below.

Then…

"Viserion," he ordered calmly, his voice full of authority. "Gold Dragon's Breath."

At his words, Viserion’s throat expanded as molten fire built up inside her. It wasn’t anything like Drogon’s, no. Dany’s eyes widened as the flames exploded outward in a controlled, blazing stream. Unlike normal Dragonfire, this golden flame twisted and turned as if alive, washing over the Sons of the Harpy and burning them up in an instant.

The whole fighting pit turned into a fiery nightmare, yet somehow, Daenerys and her people remained untouched amid the destruction.

She stared in disbelief at her brother's power, at the control he exerted over his dragon. How had he achieved such mastery? How had Viserion grown so powerful?

The fight was destined to continue—Viserys was here, her brother, coming to her rescue despite everything. The Sons of Harpy didn’t stand a chance!

But Daenerys couldn't stay.

Shame and failure washed over her like a tide. Her city was in chaos, another of her husbands dead, her friends wounded, and her own dragon injured because of her decisions.

With sudden, desperate determination, she swiftly climbed atop Drogon's broad back, ignoring the pain radiating from her injured arm. She clung to his scales as he roared again, his wings spreading wide. “Go,” she begged, “fly.”

With a powerful thrust, Drogon surged upward, leaving chaos and death behind.

The wind tore at her hair, the city shrinking rapidly beneath them. Daenerys looked down, heart aching for those left behind, but she didn't have the courage to show her face to these people anymore. Viserys turned his head and her eyes met his. She was scared he’d give her a mocking look, but his expression… it was full of rage. But not toward her.

N-no, I must be seeing things. Whatever the case, she didn’t want to spend another minute here. She had failed them. Failed as a queen, failed as a ruler, failed as a Targaryen.

And now, as she fled on Drogon's back, she could not escape the truth that her brother, the brother she had dismissed and defied, had come to save what remained of her broken kingdom.

“Dracarys.”

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