The fighting pit no longer echoed with jeers or cheers, but something colder—anticipation. The crowd had grown. People brought food now, sitting on the stone ledges as if waiting for a play. Children climbed onto shoulders, wide-eyed and whispering. They no longer gasped when the dragons struck.
This was what passed for normal now in Meereen: traitors fed to flame and fang, justice rendered in the open.
And yet, something felt wrong.
"They're watching us like it's a game," Daenerys muttered from her seat in the Queen's Box.
"They're forgetting who the enemy is," Aelya said, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the crowd. "Or worse—they never cared."
Down in the pit, the trio moved like shadows. Tiraxes launched forward first, grabbing the sobbing traitor by the leg and flinging him into the air. Sorynth caught him mid-fall, snapping her jaws cleanly. Nyxarys landed on the edge of the arena wall, staring at the crowd like she was choosing her next meal.
No one flinched.
"They're becoming used to it," Daenerys whispered.
"I'd rather they be used to fear than poisoned by lies."
But even Aelya knew fear alone wouldn't last forever. She could feel it beneath the surface—frustration, confusion. Some saw the justice as entertainment. Others began calling the queens tyrants in hushed voices. The Harpy's plan was failing to break their rule, but it was slowly succeeding at twisting public perception.
And that made them dangerous.
The day dragged on. More criminals were dragged into the arena—caught with harpy masks hidden beneath their robes, blades found wrapped in linen beneath market carts, messages intercepted mid-flight.
Each time, Aelya stood before the pit and read the crimes aloud. Each time, the trio answered.
The executions became methodical, almost theatrical. Nyxarys would circle once in the air before diving. Tiraxes had taken to roaring before he struck, as if taunting the crowd. Sorynth, the most unpredictable, sometimes waited—drawing out the moment, forcing the condemned to look up at her eyes as death came for them.
The crowd was no longer appalled. They were intrigued.
In the market afterward, a young girl mimicked the dragons with her hands, flapping invisible wings and growling. Her mother pulled her away with a fearful look—but she didn't scold her.
It was becoming culture.
When the time came for the final execution of the week, the pit was packed.
"This one was a scribe," Missandei explained, standing beside Aelya beneath the Queen's Box. "Caught passing coded messages between noble houses."
"Let's end it quickly," Aelya said.
But the Harpies had other plans.
As the condemned was dragged into the pit, the crowd fell eerily silent. A flicker of movement in the stands—too fast to be innocent.
The moment the gate closed behind the prisoner, all hell broke loose.
Daggers were drawn.
Cloaks thrown off.
Dozens of masked figures burst from the seats. The screams came from all sides, people scattering in a panic. The pit's guards were overwhelmed almost instantly.
Daenerys rose from her seat, hand flying to her belt—but before she could speak, a masked attacker lunged toward her.
Drakaina struck first, smashing into the assassin mid-air. Her roar silenced half the arena.
Aelya didn't hesitate. She shouted one word:
"Now."
The trio were already moving. Tiraxes dove straight into the crowd, knocking two Harpies from their feet and shredding them with a swipe of his tail. Sorynth breathed a jet of flame across the steps, cutting off an escape route. Nyxarys descended like a bolt of lightning, pinning three attackers with a single slam.
Vaedron's roar shattered the air as he landed in the center of the pit. His flames exploded outward, incinerating a wave of fleeing assassins before they could reach the Queen's Box.
The crowd screamed and surged toward the exits.
The Harpies, who had planned to make a spectacle, were the spectacle themselves now — burning, screaming, dying.
Drakaina circled Daenerys protectively, her tail smashing aside any who dared approach.
The battle was over in minutes.
When the smoke cleared, the sand was black with ash.
Dozens of bodies littered the fighting pit — all of them traitors. Their golden masks had melted into their flesh. Their blades, once hidden, were now nothing but metal slag.
Aelya stepped forward, her face expressionless.
"They planned this attack for weeks," she said, voice carrying through the wreckage. "They believed they would succeed. That no one would stop them."
She turned toward the dragons, who now perched at various points in the pit — watching.
"They forgot we have fire."
The crowd remained silent. Not out of fear.
But awe.
Later that night, the streets of Meereen buzzed. People no longer whispered in corners. They talked openly. Some expressed shame — that their neighbors had harbored killers. Others expressed relief.
One thing was certain: the dragons were no longer just symbols of power. They were enforcers of justice.
And the people finally understood that the Harpy was not a myth. It had worn their faces. It had sat beside them. And it had died before them.
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