Fortunately her wish came true. Drogo actually managed to calm down just enough for them to walk into the seized palace of one of the slave masters. Needless to say that the entire afternoon, Daenerys got her pussy and womb treated thoroughly with Drogo's cock and seeds respectively.
…
Mereen
The messenger was made to kneel in the center of the hall. The floor beneath him was polished marble, but dust clung to his knees. Around him rose pillars carved with the history of Meereen, victories of the great masters etched in stone, but none of that mattered now. His face was pale, his hands trembling, his voice hoarse from riding.
"They took Yunkai," he said. His words echoed across the chamber. "The gates burned. The guards surrendered. The slaves… they turned. They call her 'Mysha.'"
The silence that followed was heavy. Then, like vultures, the masters began to caw.
"A lie," the fat master said, his voice booming with the confidence of a man who had never known hunger or fear. Rolls of flesh bulged beneath his golden robe as he leaned forward. His fingers glittered with rings. "Another story meant to scare us. The horse riders burned the gate? What did they use—torches tied to their cocks?" He laughed, his belly shaking.
"It wasn't fire from men," the messenger whispered. His throat tightened as dozens of eyes fixed on him. "It was a beast. A dragon. Black scales. Red fire. It broke the gate in one breath."
The fat master slammed a jeweled fist on the arm of his chair. "A dragon? A fucking children's tale. We are not fools."
The bald master leaned forward, thin lips pressed together. His head gleamed under the torchlight, skin pulled tight over a long skull. His robe was neat, his eyes sharp. "Don't dismiss it so quickly," he said, his voice dry, calm. "Old Valyria was not built on lies. Dragons once lived, and if even one survives, we should not laugh. Better to prepare an army than pretend fire does not burn."
The rat-faced master spoke next. He was wiry, hunched, his beady eyes darting like a rat sniffing out crumbs. His teeth showed when he smiled, yellow and sharp. "And what good is an army if they fear before the fight? We need to remind them what waits for traitors." He scratched at his chin. "We crucify the children. Line the road with them. Let this silver-haired bitch ride her beast past that."
The hall erupted in noise. Some masters hissed in agreement. Others shouted in protest. The fat master sneered, his face red. "Crucify our own stock? Our own coin? You fool. Children grow into slaves, slaves into coins. Why waste them on fear when we can breed them for profit?"
The rat-faced man shrugged. "Profit means nothing if the city burns. Fear buys time. Fear works faster than swords."
"Listen. Whether you believe in the dragon or not, forty thousand horsemen are no story. They are real. They are fast. And they are coming here. We must arm every man we can. Train every guard. Hire sellswords. Bring steel to the walls." The bald master snapped his fingers for silence, though it took time for the squawking to die down.
"Hire sellswords?" the fat master barked out a laugh. "Pissing away gold to feed drunk killers? Better we spend it on wine and women while the city still stands."
"They will not stand long if you drink away the coffers," the bald one shot back. His voice was calm, but his hands clenched on the arm of his chair.
"They are horsemen," the fat master said with a snort. "We are Meereen. Our walls are high. Our gates are thick. They will smash against us like waves on stone. And when they starve outside, we will sell them food for their own women." He slapped his thigh and chuckled. Some in the back laughed along, though uneasily.
The rat-faced master leaned forward, his grin stretching wider. "No. He is wrong. We don't wait for them to starve. We break their spirit before they reach the gate. The silver-haired girl wants to be a mother ? Then let her see what kind of great masters we are." His voice hissed like a snake. "Crucify the children. Not hundreds. Thousands. A line from the desert to the gate. A forest of bodies. They will see. They will turn back."
The fat master spat on the floor. "Madness."
"Sense," the rat sneered. "You clutch at coins, but coins can't fight a dragon. Fear can."
"Fear won't stop forty thousand riders," the bald one said sharply. His patience cracked. "Steel might. We need sellswords."
"And who will pay them?" the fat master said, his face purple now. "You? From your own coffers? No. You want us all to bleed for your foolishness."
The bald one's voice rose. "Better bleed gold than bleed sons."
The hall broke into chaos again. Shouts. Laughter. Spittle flying. Some masters pounded their fists on the floor, others jeered at the messenger, calling him a liar, a coward. The messenger shrank lower, wishing he had died on the road.
At last the rat-faced master stood. His small frame was nothing compared to the others, but his voice cut sharp. "Enough. Look at you. Fat and stupid. Bald and scared. You argue while the enemy marches. You whine over coins while fire licks the sky. You need someone with teeth, not tongues." He bared his yellow grin. "The slaves obey fear. They have always obeyed fear. Does this girl think she is their mother ? Then we show her what kind of children we raise. The people will see her for what she is, a fraud. The riders will see us for what we are, the great masters ! Cruel. Eternal. Untouchable."
His words slithered through the room. The noise slowed. Faces turned. Some nodded. Some smiled. The fat master muttered under his breath, but even he saw the shift. The bald one's lips thinned, his eyes narrowing, but his voice was drowned by the chant starting at the edges of the hall.
"Fear. Fear. Fear."
The fat master raised a pudgy hand. "We'll prepare the guard. We'll ready the walls. That makes a lot of sense. But no sellswords. They drink, they steal, they turn. Our own are enough."
The rat-faced man licked his lips. "And the children?"
The fat master scowled. "Wasteful. But… if it keeps the streets in line, do what you want."
The bald master slammed his hand against the chair. "Madness. This is madness. You think terror will hold back fire? You think slaves will fight for you when they see their own children ?"
"They won't fight for us," the rat-faced one snapped. "They will fear us. That is better. Fear feeds obedience." And the hall erupted once more, this time with cheers. The decision was made.
The messenger looked up, horror hollowing his chest. He wanted to scream, to warn them that no fear, no wall, no cruelty would stop what was coming. But his tongue stuck to his throat. Around him, the masters laughed and shouted, their jeweled fingers clapping, their fat bellies shaking, their thin lips curling.
Above them all, the rat-faced man grinned, his teeth catching the light like knives.
The city had chosen its path.
…
Next chapter: War of Mereen I