War of Meereen I
Drogon's wings beat hard against the wind. He was bigger now, longer than any stallion I had ever ridden, strong enough to carry me high above the ground. But he still got tired faster than I liked. We had to stop often. He needed water and food to replenish his energy. It was expected even if I didn't like it. Drogon had yet to grow. He has not even reached his juvenile phase yet. Thanks to my training during my days in the Vaes Dothrak, he could easily hunt all on his own. It made our journey a lot easier. He hunted for himself between flights, tearing goats or deer apart while I rested.
I had counted the days. Eight. That was how long it would take to reach Meereen this way. Eight days if Drogon didn't fall from the sky with exhaustion.
I had been watching the horizon when I saw them.
A small group of riders. Dothraki. They were waiting for me, not moving, their horses standing still on the plain below.
And then I saw what they had brought.
I landed in front of them. Drogon's feet cracked the dry earth, dust rising around us. My heart was already beating too fast, and it wasn't from the flight.
The smell hit me first. It was revolting. But I didn't turn away from the bodies they had laid on the ground. There were at least 25 of them.
The children had been nailed to wooden posts. Even though the Dothraki had removed their bodies from the posts, it was clear that they had not done clean work. I never expected them to. Dothraki never took pleasure in killing children. They believe in killing strong men in battle as a proud sign of bravery. So the sign of disgust on their faces was clear.
Long, rough stakes driven through tiny wrists. Bare feet caked with dirt. Their heads were drooping forward because their necks weren't strong enough to hold them up anymore. Their skin was dry, tight over bone. Their eyes were gone, pecked out by birds maybe, or left to rot in the sun until they fell into the sand below.
All of their bodies had fresh signs of torture. They hadn't been killed first. That much was clear. Small bodies twisted in shapes that spoke of hours, maybe days, of crying before the end. Some had bite marks on their arms where they had tried to chew through the ropes around their hands.
One boy couldn't have been older than six. His arms were too thin to hold the nails properly. The iron had split the bone. Another child had been too small even for ropes. They had tied him with strips of cloth instead, the fabric cutting through his skin until the blood dried black.
The Dothraki didn't speak. They didn't need to.
I walked past the bodies slowly, one by one. I forced myself to look at every face. To see every broken arm, every cracked lip, every swollen tongue where thirst had split them open.
There was no message nailed to the wood remnants. No words written in the dirt.
They didn't need to explain.
This was Meereen's way of saying welcome.
Drogon growled behind me, low and deep. He smelled the blood, the death. His claws dug into the earth. I stopped at the last post and stared at the tiny body hanging there. A girl maybe. Or a boy. It didn't matter anymore. The birds had taken away whatever softness had once been there.
Something in me went very, very still. I knew what I had to do. Not for revenge. Revenge is personal. It burns fast and leaves nothing behind. This would be different. The masters of Meereen thought this would scare me. That it would break me. That I would turn my army away, afraid of more cruelty waiting ahead.
They were wrong. This would not end with soldiers dead on the walls and banners flying over the gate. This would end with every master dead. Their families too. Every man, every woman, every youth old enough to hold a whip or command a slave. Twelve years old is the culture for someone to hold a whip. That would be the line. No younger. But everyone else ?
They will die. I have no intention of killing them with dragonfire or any kind of Fire. They will be forgotten as fish food in the ocean. There is no need for me to put them into stakes like the canon Daenerys. They don't deserve to exist. And I will make sure that they are removed from history.
It was evil. I knew it even as the thought formed. I felt it like ice under my skin. But I also knew it was necessary. One evil to kill another. One city to make the world understand. Slavery wasn't just laws or chains. It was a culture. A belief so deep in their bones they thought the world belonged to them and people were only gold with legs. Meereen would be the lesson the world remembered.
Fire for fire. Cruelty for cruelty. The Ghiscari culture would end here, even if I had to burn it down to the roots. I placed my hand on Drogon's side. His scales were warm. Unfortunately I had lost the ability to feel the heat.
I turned back to the Dothraki riders. They were waiting for orders, their faces hard, silent.
"Are these all the children on the road ?" I asked one of them
"No, Khalessi, there are a lot of them way ahead. The masters have put them at every half mile on the way to Mareen. We just brought the nearest ones.
"You have carts for supply ?" I asked them. My voice didn't shake.
"Yes, Khalessi."
"Then bring all the bodies to the city. These children might have their parents left. I don't know if they will want to see their children in this state. But I will not let any proof of the cruelty of the monsters exist in this world. That includes these bodies as well." With that order, I climbed onto Drogon's back. My fingers curled around the rough edge of his spine.
…
The fleet was hidden well. The western mountains curved like a shield around the coast, jagged cliffs blocking any clear view from Meereen's walls. Grey Worm and Jorah had anchored the ships in a small inlet behind the tallest ridge. From the city's towers, nothing could be seen.
They came ashore in a single rowboat, keeping low as they crossed the narrow strip of water toward the meeting point on the far side of the mountains.
Rakharo was already there, waiting alone on his horse. His khalasar was scattered across the western ridges, groups of riders hidden among rocks and scrub. From the walls of Meereen, it would look like empty mountains.
The land around the city was simple to read. To the west: mountains running straight toward the sea, blocking any fleet from direct approach. To the south-west: open plains, flat and dry, leading straight to the main gate. That was the obvious path, the one every army before had taken. Meereen's walls there were thick, the gate heavy iron.
North of the city sat the port, a wide bay curling inward. Any ships approaching from the open sea would have to come straight into the range of the city's defenses.
To the east, there were more mountains. A single narrow road cut through them, twisting like a snake before reaching the southern gate. Easy to block. Easy to kill anyone trying to pass through.
The masters had built Meereen to be untouchable. Mountains on three sides. The sea on the fourth. High walls all around.
But they had never expected an attack from above.
The rowboat slid onto the rocks. Jorah climbed out first, offering a hand to Missandei, though she didn't need it. Grey Worm followed silently, eyes scanning the ridges.
The wind shifted. A shadow passed over the ground.
Drogon dropped from the clouds with a roar, landing hard enough to send dust flying. Daenerys slid off his back, her silver hair snapping in the wind.
She looked at the three men waiting for her. Jorah in his armor, Grey Worm standing straight as a spear, Rakharo leaning on his saddle.
"Well then," Daenerys said, her eyes on the distant walls of Meereen. "Let's get this done with."
…
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