298 AC - In Meereen:
The sky above Meereen is a turbulent canvas of smoke and flame. The Masters' fleet launches a barrage of flaming projectiles at the city, striking the Great Pyramid. Explosions echo across the shoreline as buildings and structures ignite, casting an orange glow over the chaos below.
Lucas and Qezza stride into the grand yet somber conference chamber. Drazho, Missandei, Hizdahr, and the recently arrived Daario Naharis stand at attention. Around the room, Unsullied warriors stand like statues, their eyes sharp and alert, ready for battle.
"I was wrong. I admit it," Qezza confesses, her voice unwavering yet tinged with an undercurrent of despair.
Having believed she could sway the recalcitrant masters besieging Meereen, her hopes were shattered. Their intentions turned treacherous, forcing an immediate attack upon her life. However, fortune smiled upon her, as she was saved by Lucas, Daario, and their loyal forces, who valiantly rescued her and conveyed her safely to the Great Pyramid.
"That changes nothing," Lucas stated, his voice devoid of warmth, a stark reminder of their current predicament.
"The Unsullied could mount a defense off the beachhead. If the slavers' forces-" but before Qezza could come up with another plan Lucas cuts her off. "No, you've done enough. I'm taking the new fleet out of the shipyards and ending this," he declared, a hint of their contingency plan with Anakin flickering in his eyes.
Qezza's face tightened, accepting his rebuke, but not his plan. "What good will those ships do you if you don't even know how to sail them," she said, knowing Anakin was the only one who knew how they really worked.
"I… know enough," Lucas argued, seeing no other option in their desperate predicament. The weight of their king's absence pressed heavily on them, their eyes blank with uncertainty. Lucas, taking a deep breath, broke the silence. "We'll not go to the beach. If we go to the beach, the Masters will take the pyramid. The pyramid is the only place in the city we can defend. You will stay here." His words hung in the air as the council absorbed their grim reality.
Drazho, his voice tight, spoke, "And then?"
Lucas, his jaw set, outlined their desperate plan. "And then, either the bay will be clear or you'll be waiting for them to come to you. Then you fight them."
Suddenly, a deafening thud echoed from below, followed by the faint sounds of footsteps, echoing from the audience chamber below.
Missandei swiftly retrieved a knife and positioned herself beside Qezza and Hizdahr, while Lucas, Daario, Drazho, and the Unsullied formed a united front and descended down the marble stairs.
As their formation approached, shields raised and spears poised, they encountered a hooded figure at the foot of the throne's steps. The figure lifted its hood, revealing a familiar head of hair.
In an instant, the Unsullied cast down their weapons and sank into a reverent kneel. It was Anakin.
As he stood unmasked, his uncle, Viserys, also entered the throne room with two infant dragons in hand.
After quickly catching up, Anakin stood on the balcony of his chambers in the Great Pyramid, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene below. The Masters' men continued to launch flaming projectiles at the Great Pyramid and the surrounding city from their ships, the fiery arcs slicing through the night sky. With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the carnage and stepped back into the interior.
Inside the council chambers a tense silence pervaded. Qezza, Grey-Worm, Viserys, Missandei, Hizdahr, Daario, Lucas, and Drazho all awaited him to re-enter the room.
As he came back into the room his mind formulated how he would go about this. Right now he held the advantage since the Masters were most likely unaware he had returned to Meereen.
Suddenly another explosion rocked the building, the sound reverberating through the stone walls.
"Despite appearances, I think you'll find the city's on the rise," Hizdahr said, his voice barely audible over the roar of the chaos outside.
Anakin's gaze lingered on the noticeable bump beneath Qezza's dress, a silent echo of the city's turmoil mirroring his own. "Yes… I can see that," he responded, his voice laced with a mix of adoration and surprise.
"Annie…" Qezza started to speak, but the words caught in her throat, the gravity of their situation pressing down on her.
Anakin's hand, a heavy weight on her arm, brought a surprising wave of comfort to Qezza. She wasn't accustomed to his displays of affection, but this small gesture, rare as it was, relaxed her tension. She decided to let the moment linger. Once they dealt with the crisis at hand, she would share everything that was weighing on her heart, and perhaps, learn more about the feelings hidden behind Anakin's gesture.
He then shifted his focus to Lucas, a steely glint in his eyes. "If you're here, then I take it that means you've done what we planned."
Lucas nodded, his expression grim. "We were just on that. Unless you had a different plan?"
"No. We've given them too much time. I will crucify the Masters. Here, go, set their fleets afire, kill every last one of their soldiers. Drazho, Grey-Worm, accompany him," Anakin ordered, as he handed Lucas a small notebook and the trio, along with a contingent of Unsullied guards, swiftly moved towards the shipyards to finally unleash their fleet. The book illustrated how to operate Meereen's new fleet.
"Daario, I have a mission for you," Anakin turned to the mercenary and whispered a secret mission in his ear, his voice quiet but clear. As Daario excited the room another explosion shook the building.
Viserys, his impatience evident, approached Anakin and asked, "Now what?"
He replied, "Get comfortable, we're going to be here for a while," gesturing toward Missandei and Hizdahr, indicating for them to escort Viserys to his chambers.
As they left, Anakin's black infant dragon slithered off Viserys's shoulder and settled upon the council table. He also dispatched the remaining Unsullied to tail his uncle, a silent escort intended to prevent Viserys from getting into his usual trouble.
The room emptied, leaving Anakin and Qezza alone. A tense silence fell, punctuated only by the faint rustling of the dragon's wings. Qezza found herself unable to meet his gaze.
Her voice broke the silence. "Your uncle seems nice," she says, her gaze lingering on the infant dragon napping on the table.
However, Anakin skips that conversation entirely. "I'm sorry," he uttered.
"Sorry for what?" Qezza asked, her voice tinged with confusion.
"I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't confide in me," Anakin replied, his gaze drifting to her abdomen. "I know I haven't been… loving… so to speak."
Her eyes widened in understanding. "No, it wasn't that. It's just… I didn't want to burden you," she explained.
"You're not a burden, Qezza," Anakin answered as he edged closer to her, asking, "May I?"
Qezza nodded, allowing him to gently place his hand on her stomach. A radiant smile spread across his face as he felt the life growing within her.
"I wish I could have told you under more favorable circumstances," she said apologetically.
"We're not going to worry about anything right now. All right?" Anakin interjected, his own smile conveying happiness. "This is a happy moment. The happiest moment of my life."
With that, Anakin enveloped Qezza in a tender embrace, their love and anticipation for their future child creating a new and stronger bond between them.
Early the next morning, perched on a plateau atop a pyramid overlooking Meereen's distant bay, Qezza surveyed the scene. Below, the sea churned with ships bombarding her besieged city. Across from her, an assembly of Unsullied, Missandei, and Ser Jorah stood steadfast.
Facing them were three Masters: Yezzan zo Qaggaz, Razdal Mo Eraz, and Belicho Paenymion, accompanied by a contingent of their soldiers. Qezza and her advisors met with the Masters to confront the ongoing assault on Meereen.
Razdal Mo Eraz mockingly acknowledged his regret over his earlier attempt on Qezza's life. "Once before, I acted hastily, I was unaware of your condition. I see now how rash that may have been. For that I am sorry. But now, I offer you peace," he said sarcastically.
Qezza's anger flared. "We are here to discuss terms of surrender, not to trade empty apologies."
Razdal presented their terms: "The terms are simple. We will allow you and your friends to live if you abandon the Great Pyramid and the city of Meereen. The Unsullied stolen from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder. The translator you stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder. And your king will be hunted down and dealt with."
As the masters made their threats, a chilling voice echoed across the plateau. "You don't seem to understand. We're here to discuss your surrender, not ours," Anakin declared, approaching the summit.
His arrival sent a shiver of fear through the Masters and their soldiers, but Razdal remained defiant. "You… you… your reign is over" he declared, his voice wavering despite his bravado, a lingering fear of Anakin's power still clinging to him. "The Sons of the Harpy and our men have already breached the beach gates, you've lost the city."
Anakin's gaze swept towards the distant ocean, where the Masters' fleet continued to rain down fire upon the city. Then, from the bay, a sound erupted, unlike anything they had ever heard.
A monstrous trumpet blast, deep and resonant, echoed across the city, shaking the very air and resonating in their chests. It was the roar of a leviathan, primal and powerful, a sound that sent birds scattering from the sky and rippled across the water.
Anakin's mighty fleet had arrived, its presence known to all who heard its deafening call.
The bay teems with colossal fortresses, dwarfing any castle ever built. These behemoths, defying gravity, float effortlessly upon the boundless sea. Crafted from an unyielding material, lighter than iron yet far stronger, their smooth, gray sides rise like towering cliffs from the water. Within each fortress lies a grand hall, the nerve center from which these leviathans are controlled. They are propelled not by oars or wind, but by a hidden power source, a force more potent than any storm, that allows them to cleave through the waves with unmatched speed. This energy source, inexhaustible and tireless, can propel the fortresses for months without pause.
On board, Lucas, Drazho, Grey-Worm, and their seasoned crews navigate with purpose. These fortresses are not merely ships, but weapons of war, capable of raining down fire from afar. Their projectiles can strike with pinpoint accuracy, defying the curvature of the horizon to obliterate targets unseen. Anakin's new fleet is a testament to human ingenuity, a mobile, living citadel that wields power with an unmatched ferocity.
The masters' fleet, accustomed to the familiar creak of their wooden ships, beheld a sight that filled them with both awe and dread. Gliding effortlessly through the water, the sleek, gray hulls of Anakin's ships reflected the sunlight, their construction surpassing any known metal. Propelled by unseen forces, they seemed to dance upon the waves, their otherworldly nature amplified by the deep, resonant blast of their horns. The sound, a guttural bellow that resonated through the air, shattered the silence of the sea, striking terror into the hearts of the masters' sailors.
As Anakin's command ships maneuvered into position, the water around them churned and foamed. Strange, rotating devices on their decks aimed with uncanny precision, and then, a series of deafening booms erupted. From the ships' depths, projectiles spewed forth, fiery and metallic, moving with a speed and accuracy that defied comprehension.
The masters' ships, built for a different kind of warfare, were helpless against this onslaught. The projectiles struck with devastating force, splintering their wooden hulls, setting their sails ablaze, and tearing them apart with a terrifying ease. Boats exploded into fragments, sinking into the churning water with terrifying speed.
The enemy sailors, brave but ill-equipped, responded with their primitive weapons, their arrows and stones falling harmlessly against the ships' impenetrable armor.
From the plateau, the masters watched in horrified disbelief as their entire fleet was eradicated in the blink of an eye.
A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by Anakin's voice. "Magnificent, aren't they?" he said, a tinge of pride in his tone.
"Oh! I almost forgot," he added, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a flare gun. He mimicked his actions in Pentos, firing the flare high into the air. The red light blazed against the bright sky, leaving a trail of crimson smoke in its wake.
At the beach entrance of Meereen, it was a scene of utter chaos. The Sons of the Harpy, masked and merciless, were cutting down the city's citizens with brutal efficiency. Screams of terror and cries of pain filled the air, mingling with the harsh clash of steel. The sand beneath their feet was stained with blood, a grim testament to the violence that had erupted.
Amidst this carnage, the rhythmic pounding of galloping footsteps grew louder, a distant yet growing thunder that made the very ground tremble. One of the Sons of the Harpy, his mask gleaming in the harsh sunlight, turned sharply towards the source of the sound. His eyes widened behind his mask as he saw the approaching storm.
Rounding the bend of a nearby cliff with an almost palpable ferocity, a Dothraki horde appeared, their war cries echoing off the stone walls and rolling across the beach like a wave. At the forefront of the charge was Daario Naharis, his face set in a grim expression of determination. The Dothraki warriors, their braids flying and arakhs gleaming, bore down on the Sons of the Harpy with an unrelenting force.
As the gap closed, Daario surged ahead of his men, his eyes locked on the nearest Son of the Harpy. With a fluid, practiced motion, he swung his blade. The strike was swift and clean, the sharp edge slicing through the air before meeting flesh and bone. The man's head separated from his body in a single, decisive stroke, and the masked head fell to the sand, rolling to a stop amidst the chaos.
The Dothraki horde followed his example, crashing into the Sons of the Harpy like a tidal wave of destruction. The Sons, taken off guard by the ferocity and speed of the attack, fell beneath the onslaught, their cries of defiance quickly drowned out by the triumphant roars of the Dothraki.
The citizens of Meereen, who had moments before faced certain death, now watched in relief as their saviors cut through their oppressors. The tide had turned, and with Daario and the Dothraki Riders leading a charge through the city, hope was rekindled amidst the bloodshed and terror.
Meanwhile, Anakin, standing tall on the plateau, addressed the Masters' soldiers in their own tongue, Valyrian. The Unsullied, spears poised, created a silent, menacing presence behind him. The Masters' soldiers, instinctively mirroring the Unsullied's readiness, watched Anakin with wary eyes.
"Now, you men have a choice," Anakin declared. "Fight and die for the masters who would never fight and die for you, or go home to your families."
Amidst the distant clamor of Dothraki war cries, the Masters' soldiers succumbed to fear and fled, abandoning their weapons.
"Now, last time we spoke, we made a pact. You violated that pact. You declared war upon us. Though my queen does have a forgiving nature, this cannot be forgiven. So, which one of you must die as punishment for your crimes?" Anakin inquired with indifference, his gaze sweeping over the cowering group. "Isn't it peculiar how the deaths of others often seem distant and abstract?" he added ominously.
Amidst anxious glances, Razdal seized Yeezan and propelled him forward. "Him. He should die," he stammered, seeking Anakin's favor.
"Yes, him," Belicho concurred. Anakin's eyes turned to Qezza for confirmation.
"He's not one of us. He's an outsider, a lowborn. He does not speak for us," Razdal explained, justifying his betrayal of a former ally.
Anakin's gaze locked with Yeezan's, a chilling intensity that sent the slaver crashing to his knees. "Please," Yeezan begged, his voice choking with fear.
As Anakin drew his sword, a memory flickered in his mind. He saw the desperate pleas of a man he had slain years ago in the brutal Meereenese fighting pits, eerily mirroring Yeezan's current supplication.
For a moment, Anakin hesitated, the specter of the past haunting him. Then, with a swift, decisive motion, he swung his blade, severing the heads of both Razdal and Belicho in one brutal stroke, sparing Yeezan. The blade vanished back into its scabbard as Anakin stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the carnage.
"You've seen it all haven't you?" he addressed Yeezan, his voice a low rumble. "From Astapor, to Yunkai, Volantis, and now here. I have a job for you. Go, tell your people from Mantarys to Qarth of what happened here. My fleet will soon be at their doorstep, and if they come forward with notions of retribution or ideas about returning the slave cities to their former glory, you tell them: They can be a part of the next world that my empire will build… or… we destroy you." His words dripped with an icy certainty, leaving no room for doubt.
With a final, chilling pat to Yeezan's shoulder, Anakin turned, leaving the fallen slavers in his wake. The air crackled with the unspoken threat of the empire he was building, a stark warning echoing across the bloody sands.
298 AC - In King's Landing:
The clang of armor resonated through the tourney grounds as Lord Eddard Stark approached the renowned Lord Commander Barristan Selmy. Eddard's gaze was grave, his purpose clear: to inquire about the death of Ser Hugh of the Vale. Barristan, bearing the weight of his years with stoic dignity, confirmed that Ser Hugh had died without family or friends, leaving Barristan to stand vigil for the fallen knight.
A shadow crossed Eddard's face. Though the death was declared an accident, suspicion lingered. How, he wondered, could Ser Hugh afford brand new armor so soon after receiving his knighthood? A flicker of irony passed through Barristan as he observed Stark's discerning gaze. Not long ago, they had stood on opposing sides during Robert's Rebellion. Now, united by duty, they were colleagues, bound by a shared purpose to protect the realm.
Eddard learns from Ser Barristan that King Robert intends to participate in the upcoming jousting competition.
Arriving in the Kings tent, Ned observes Robert harassing his squire, Lancel Lannister, sending him on a futile errand with a mocking grin. Despite Robert's determination to enter the joust, Ned voices his concerns over Robert's excessive weight and the likelihood that the other knights will yield to him. Amused by Ned's remarks, Robert reluctantly acknowledges the validity of his argument. Nonetheless, they decide to witness the joust from the spectator stands.
The morning's first joust pitted the monstrous Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, against the charismatic Ser Loras Tyrell, the 'Knight of the Flowers'.
Loras, with his usual flair, presented a vibrant bloom to Sansa Stark, Ned's eldest daughter, before the match. Littlefinger and Lord Renly, wagering on the outcome, placed their bets, Renly backing the favored Loras.
The tension mounted as Loras rode a mare in heat, her scent stirring the Mountain's stallion into a frenzy. The agitated beast bucked, throwing Gregor from the saddle.
Enraged by the defeat, Gregor unleashed his fury, first beheading his own horse, then charging at Loras. Sandor Clegane, the Hound, intervened, shielding Loras from his brother's wrath.
A whirlwind of steel ensued, until King Robert's command halted the brawl. Sandor promptly bowed, while Gregor stormed off, defeated and seething. Despite his reluctance, Sandor was declared the victor by Ser Loras, much to the Hound's chagrin.
Within the Red Keep's imposing walls, Lord Varys sought out Eddard Stark, a man of unwavering honor. With a grave expression, Varys revealed the king's folly and impending doom, urging Ned to intervene.
Intrigued, he questioned the urgency of this revelation, to which Varys tells him he had to be sure Ned could be trusted. He calls him an honorable and true man, maybe the only one in the city.
He then unveiled the truth behind Jon Arryn's demise, confirming the use of the deadly Tears of Lys poison and attributing it to the late Hand because he "started asking questions."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the castle, Arya Stark (Ned's youngest daughter) found herself engrossed in her sword training. Needle in hand, she moved with the grace of a dancer, each swing and thrust a testament to her growing skill. The courtyard was her stage, but today, her performance had an unexpected audience.
A stray cat darted across her path, its sleek form a blur of movement. Arya, ever the adventurer, saw a challenge. With a mischievous grin, she abandoned her training and gave chase. The cat led her through the twisting corridors, down winding staircases, and into the seldom-visited depths of the castle's dungeons.
The air grew colder and the light dimmer as Arya descended, the ancient stones of the dungeon walls pressing in around her. She skidded to a halt, panting, in a vast, shadowy chamber. The skeletal remains of Targaryen dragons loomed overhead, their bones casting eerie shadows.
It was here, amidst these relics of a bygone era, that Arya's sharp ears picked up the murmur of voices. Creeping closer, she hid behind a colossal dragon skull, the voices becoming clearer. She recognized neither of them, but their words sent a chill down her spine.
"He's found one bastard already. He has the book. The rest will come," one voice said, smooth and measured. Arya strained to listen, her heart pounding in her chest.
"And when he knows the truth, what will he do?" the second voice inquired, its tone laced with curiosity and caution.
"The gods alone know. The fools tried to kill his son. What's worse, they botched it. The wolf and the lion will be at each other's throats. We will be at war soon, my friend," the first voice responded.
Arya peeked around the edge of the dragon skull, her breath catching in her throat. There, in the dim light, stood Varys, the Master of Whispers, alongside Magister Illyrio Mopatis from Pentos, though Arya could not make out either of them.
Illyrio, ever the pragmatist, suggested eliminating Eddard to prevent the war, but Varys adamantly refused. "This Hand is not the other," the Master of Whispers retorted.
"We need time. Anakin Targaryen will not make a move until his child is born." Magister Illyrio claims.
"Are we still certain the Targaryens will make a move for the Iron Throne? Word of Meereens renaissance has been… telling," asked Lord Varys.
"The reports of Anakin Targaryen's victories at Volantis and Slaver's Bay paint a formidable picture," Illyrio Mopatis explained. "His legions now number over 100,000, and Meereen's new fleet has struck fear into the hearts of many. Over 100 warships, each forged from unyielding steel," Mopatis continued. "Whispers abound that these vessels dwarf any in the known world, their hulls impenetrable and their power unmatched. When the blockade of Meereen was placed by Mantarys and Tolos, these ships were unleashed upon the enemy," Mopatis said. "They decimated all that stood in their path, leaving a trail of destruction. 'Starfighters' the survivors who bore witness to their might dubbed them."
Varys strokes his chin before adding, "And the dragons?"
"It'll be years before they are fully grown, but once they are there will be nowhere to run," the Magister replied.
"Best we keep news of the dragons to ourselves for now." Varys, his voice dripping with urgency, claims, "'Delay,' you say. 'Move fast,' I reply. This is no longer a game for two players."
"It never was," Illyrio countered ominously.
As their conversation ended, Varys turned, his robes swirling, and locked a heavy gate behind them as they left. Arya's heart sank as she heard the click of the lock. She darted to the gate and tugged at it, but it wouldn't budge. Panic rising, she spun around and dashed deeper into the dungeon, hoping to find another way out.
Afterwards, Varys found Littlefinger in the Great Hall, his eyes fixed on the Iron Throne. He wasted no time in confronting Baelish, revealing his awareness of the latter's involvement in Eddard Stark's investigation of Jon Arryn's death.
Varys laid bare the potential consequences that awaited Littlefinger should the Lannisters uncover his hand in the affair. Baelish, however, remained unfazed. He countered with a chilling revelation – he knew of Varys's earlier meetings with Eddard and Illyrio, a testament to his own network of spies reaching across the Narrow Sea.
Before their tense exchange could escalate further, Renly arrived, announcing Robert's impending arrival for the Small Council meeting.
Escaping the dungeon confines, Arya raced to warn her father, her mind whirling with the dangerous secrets she'd overheard. But upon finding him her words came out jumbled, a chaotic mix of truth and confusion. Their urgent exchange was interrupted by Yoren, who'd ridden hard from the Inn at the Crossroads to deliver news of Catelyn's arrest of Tyrion Lannister. Ned, weighing the implications of this new information, kept silent. Uncertain and worried, Arya turned to Jory Cassel, seeking reassurance about her father's safety. Jory, ever the loyal protector, assured her that Ned's household guard was strong, and there was no need for concern.
Ned, making his way across the King's Landing courtyard towards Robert's council chambers, was intercepted by a royal steward. "Lord Stark, your presence has been requested in the small council chamber. A meeting has been called," the man announced.
"I need to see the King first - alone," Ned replied.
"The King is at the small council meeting, my Lord. He has summoned you."
Concern etched itself on Ned's face. "Is it about my wife?"
The steward shook his head. "No, my Lord. I believe it concerns Anakin Targaryen."
With those words, Ned found himself ushered into the small council chamber, where he was met by the assembled councilors and King Robert himself.
At the head of the table, King Robert's words erupted like venom. "His whore is pregnant," he spat, his gaze locked on Ned as he entered.
Ned's voice was firm. "You're speaking of murdering a child."
A bitter reminder echoed back, "I warned you this would happen. Back in the North, I warned you, 'countless more will perish if we fail to stop him now,' but you didn't care to hear! Well, hear it now!" The king's fury intensified, his voice rising like a tempest. "From Volantis to Astapor, over 100,000 Dothraki Screamers at his back! This is war! I want 'em dead, mother and child both!" he bellowed, his words echoing through the tense atmosphere as he turned to Ned, his eyes blazing. "Is that plain enough for you!? I want them both dead."
"You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."
"Honor?! I've got Seven Kingdoms to rule! One King, Seven Kingdoms. Do you think honor keeps them in line? Do you think it's honor that's keeping the peace? It's fear! Fear and blood!"
"Then we're no better than the Mad King."
"Careful, Ned. Careful now," the King warned his Hand. The air in the throne room crackled with tension as Robert, fueled by fear and rage, declared his intention to wage war across the Narrow Sea.
"You'd wage a war halfway across the world… because the Spider heard a rumor?" questioned Ned, his voice laced with incredulity.
"No rumor, my Lord," countered Varys, his voice a silken whisper. "The wife of Anakin Targaryen is indeed with child."
Ned Stark, ever the pragmatist, remained steadfastly opposed. "The Narrow Sea still lies between us," he stated, "I'll fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water."
Robert, however, refused to be swayed. "And if he's right?" he thundered, his voice echoing through the chamber. "If the whore has a son? What then? Do nothing? That's your wise advice? Do nothing till our enemies are on our shores? You're my council? Counsel! Speak sense to this honorable fool."
Varys, ever the cunning manipulator, played on Robert's fears. "I understand your misgivings, my Lord. Truly, I do," he said, his tone deceptively calm. "It is a terrible thing we must consider, a vile thing. Yet, we who presume to rule must sometimes do vile things for the good of the realm. Should the gods grant Anakin a son, the realm will bleed."
Grand Maester Pycelle, desiring to be the voice of reason, added, "I bear the Targaryens no ill will, but should they invade, how many innocents will die? How many towns will burn? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that they should die now so that tens of thousands might live?"
Renly chimed in with his own callous remark, "We should have had them both killed years ago."
Lord Baelish, ever the schemer, added his own chilling perspective: "When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with. Cut her throat. Be done with it,"
Ned, resolute in his opposition, stood firm. "I followed you into war - twice, without doubts, without second thoughts. But I will not follow you now. The Robert I grew up with didn't tremble at the shadow of an unborn child."
Robert, however, remained steadfast in his decision. "This is war, Ned!" he declared.
"The North will have no part in it," the Lord of Winterfell stated, his voice ringing with defiance.
"You're the King's Hand, Lord Stark," Robert warned, his voice turning icy. "You'll do as I command or I'll find me a Hand who will."
With a final, defiant gesture, Ned removed his badge of office and laid it before the king. "And good luck to him," he stated, his voice laced with condensation. "I thought you were a better man."
Robert erupted from his chair, fury contorting his face. "Out! Out, damn you!" he roared, his voice laced with venom. "I'm done with you. Go! Run back to Winterfell! I'll have your head on a spike! I'll put it there myself, you fool! You think you're too good for this? Too proud and honorable? This is a war!" The king's words echoed through the chamber as Ned, his face grim, exited the room.
Upon Ned's resolute refusal to serve as Hand of the King, eliciting shock and rage from Robert, Eddard swiftly commanded his household to gather their belongings. Amidst the flurry of packing, Lord Petyr Baelish emerged, extending an unexpected proposition. He offered to reveal the whereabouts of Jon Arryn's last destination before he 'fell ill'. Intrigued, Ned acquiesced to Littlefinger's request.
In a secluded bedchamber, Ser Loras and Lord Renly, entwined in a forbidden embrace, shared a heated conversation. The prospect of King Robert's forthcoming hunt in the Kingswood filled Renly with disgust, promising only dreary days and nights trudging through the elements.
Undeterred, Loras seized the opportunity to ignite his lover's ambition. He implored Renly to seize the Iron Throne, wielding the vast wealth and influence of House Tyrell as his weapon. Renly hesitated, citing his fourth-place position in the line of succession.
Loras countered skillfully. He painted a damning portrait of Joffrey as a monstrous brat, Tommen as a mere child, and Stannis as a humorless recluse utterly unsuited for kingship. In contrast, he extolled Renly's inherent kindness, his charisma, and his popular appeal. The people yearned for a sovereign who did not revel in bloodshed like his brothers, Loras insisted.
Later, in a rare moment of camaraderie, Queen Cersei and King Robert shared a drink and discussed the impending Targaryen threat in their chambers.
Cersei, surprisingly, aligned with Eddard Stark's assessment that the Dothraki will not cross the Narrow Sea. Robert acknowledged this but raised the concern that not all those in his ranks were Dothraks, and if they did manage to land, their destructive nature could force the people of Westeros to accept Anakin's rule out of desperation.
Cersei suggested that the combined forces of the Seven Kingdoms could overpower the army, but Robert countered that she underestimated the efficiency and unity of one army with one leader and one purpose as compared to that of the scattered and patchwork armies of Westeros.
Their conversation shifted to Lyanna Stark, a topic that surprised Robert as Cersei had never inquired about her before. He confessed that Lyanna's death had left in him a void that seven kingdoms could not fill. He also tells her that their marriage never had a chance of success because of the hold Lyanna's memory has on him, and bitterly adds he can barely remember what she looked like.
Cersei admits that she felt something for Robert once, even after they lost their first boy, for quite a while. He asks her if there was ever any chance for their marriage and she answers "No."
Elsewhere, Littlefinger, with a calculating gleam in his eye, led Eddard Stark to the last place Jon Arryn had visited before falling ill - one of his own brothels.
There, amidst the silken sheets and heavy perfume, Ned encountered another of Robert's bastards, this time a baby girl with her blonde mother, Mhaegen. The whore remarked on the child's resemblance to Robert, noting her 'black' hair. Curiosity gnawed at Eddard. He questioned Littlefinger about Jon Arryn's interest in Robert's bastards, but his response – a flimsy claim of Robert's newfound paternal interest – was met with skepticism.
Leaving the brothel, Eddard and his companions, Jory Cassel and two guards, were confronted by a formidable group of Lannister guardsmen led by the arrogant Ser Jaime Lannister.
Enraged by the arrest of his brother Tyrion, Jaime demanded an explanation. Ned, unwavering, declared the arrest was made on his orders.
A tense stand-off followed, punctuated by Jaime's threats to kill Eddard. Ned, however, countered, pointing out that Tyrion's death would be a consequence of Jaime's actions. Recognizing the truth of this, Jaime settled for a lesser revenge, targeting Eddard's men. Two Lannister spearmen, with brutal efficiency, ended the lives of Ned's guards, Heward and Wyl.
In response, Eddard and Jory fought back, claiming the lives of six Lannister soldiers. Jory, in a daring move, engaged Jaime, but his bravery was cut short when the Kingslayer, with a swift and merciless strike, stabbed him through the eye.
Fueled by rage and grief, Eddard faced Jaime in a duel. Jaime, initially dismissive, was both shocked and exhilarated by the seasoned warrior he faced. However, as the fight progressed, the tide began to turn. Ned's skill, honed over years of battle, proved formidable.
Just as the fight reached its climax, a Lannister guardsman, cowardly and dishonorable, intervened, spearing Ned in the leg, crippling him.
Annoyed by this interruption, Jaime knocked out the interfering soldier, then departed on horseback, warning Eddard, "My brother, Lord Stark… We want him back."
298 AC - In Meereen:
In the aftermath of the second siege of Meereen, Anakin granted his Khalassar residence within the city walls before leading them back out to war. However, if Yeezan fulfilled the job he set for him and the remaining slave states surrendered, the warpath would be rendered unnecessary.
As Daenerys entered the city with her brother, handmaidens, Grey-Worm, and the rest of the Unsullied army, the setting sun painted the sky crimson.
An unsettling sense of urgency had washed over Anakin, leaving everyone bewildered. Daenerys instantly recognized the look on his face, a familiar one from his childhood nightmares. In the past, she'd often been awakened by Anakin's screams in the night, his nightmares filled with pain, suffering, and death. Though he rarely spoke of these nightmares to anyone, Daenerys was an exception.
Knowing the Unsullied didn't ride, Anakin hastily led the entire Dothraki Khalasar through the Khyzai Pass, ensuring their arrival in Meereen days ahead of the Unsullied.
Despite the recent turmoil in Meereen, the city's infrastructure had undergone a remarkable transformation. Cobblestone roads had been replaced with smooth concrete and steel thoroughfares, illuminating the streets with an unprecedented brilliance. Amidst the ancient pyramids, modern constructions emerged, blending elements of tradition with innovation. Ornate facades and tranquil courtyards coexisted seamlessly with contemporary amenities, creating a unique architectural tapestry. Moreover, paved roads and bridges enhanced connectivity within the city, facilitating the flow of commerce and communication. The combination of ancient grandeur and modern advancement captivated the group making their way through the city.
As Grey-Worm led them, the Great Pyramid's audience chamber unfolded before them, revealing Anakin seated upon the throne, his form silhouetted against the steps. Beside him stood a collection of strangers to his kin, save for Viserys who had accompanied Anakin and the Dothraki.
As Daenerys and Ser Jorah ascended to the plateau, Anakin rose, taking her hand into his own. His voice held a sardonic edge as he uttered, "Missed you."
Daenerys, her retort quick and sharp, countered, "Like you barely left."
Anakin then guided her towards the group of unfamiliar figures, introducing Missandei and the Queen of Meereen herself. "This is Qezza, my wife," he declared, a newfound conviction lacing his words as he referred to her as his Queen.
Immediately following the failed siege on Meereen Anakin convened with his advisors, delegating critical tasks to his most trusted lieutenants. Lucas would lead the new fleet towards Mantarys and Tolos, a menacing presence poised to bombard the cities from the bay if they refused to yield to the burgeoning Targaryen Empire. Daario Naharis, with his armies in Yunkai, would march on Astapor, aiming to take the city once and for all.
With pressing concerns resolved, Anakin had spent the past few days wholly dedicated to his wife. The revelation of her pregnancy had ignited something deep within him. For years, he had believed he would never have a family of his own, haunted by the fear of losing them as his father, Prince Rhaegar, had lost his.
Yet now, the undeniable presence of a new life growing within her kindled a profound affection that surpassed his previous care for her, blossoming into love. Anakin found himself mesmerized by her every movement, every nuance of her being. The way her hand instinctively rested on her abdomen, a protective gesture, filled him with a tenderness he had never known.
Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over their sanctuary, Anakin would sit beside her, his hand gently placed over hers on her growing belly. They spoke of their dreams and hopes for the child, weaving a tapestry of aspirations that stretched far into the future. In those quiet moments, the weight of his lineage and the shadows of his past seemed to fade, replaced by a new, radiant purpose.
Anakin felt complete, his heart full with Daenerys and Viserys by his side. The allure of Westeros faded from his mind, replaced by the warmth of his reunited family.
Upon Anakin's introduction of his pregnant wife, silence descended upon the Targaryen siblings. Their normally distinctive expressions mirrored each other in a rare display of shared astonishment. Having anticipated an encounter with the fabled Queen of Meereen, they were now confronted with the sobering truth: Anakin's impending heir threatened to overshadow their ambitions of reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms. The weight of their predicament settled upon them, casting doubt on their ability to convince their nephew of their ambitions.
Anakin, suddenly remembering the dragons, asked, "Where are the dragons?" The past few days had left his mind in a whirlwind.
Daenerys gestured towards the plateau below, where Doreah, Irri, and Jhiqui stood. "With my handmaidens, in their pens," she replied.
"Best to keep them in sight. Why don't we find a place to kee-" Anakin started, but before he could suggest securing the dragons, Qezza intervened. "My love," she said, "Surely your aunt must be weary from her travels. Why don't I show them to their chambers so they can settle in."
Daenerys noted Anakin's unusual compliance as he replied, "Right… I'll see you tonight."
With that, Qezza, Missandei, and Viserys led Daenerys and Jorah to the thirtieth floor, two levels below the audience hall. Viserys escorted Jorah to his room, where the young prince took his dragon, Viserion, with him. Meanwhile, Qezza and Missandei showed Daenerys and her handmaidens to their rooms, all located in close proximity to one another.
As the handmaidens and Missandei brought in Daenerys's belongings, including Anakin's unnamed dragon and her own green one, Qezza remarked, "They're beautiful. I never thought I'd see a dragon in the flesh. Tiny as they are."
Daenerys, still slightly intimidated by the Queen's presence, inquired about her pregnancy. "Yes, well… apparently my nephew breathes life everywhere he goes. How far along are you?" she asked.
Qezza, ignoring Daenerys' apparent sarcasm, responded, "Months now. Since Anakin left looking for you. He loves you. He spoke much of you."
Daenerys, speechless, and somewhat annoyed by the Queen's stoicism, blurted out a bold question, "Is it his, my nephews?"
Qezza, taken aback by the insinuation, was momentarily lost for words herself. Uncertain if she should feel insulted, she remained silent. Missandei broke the awkward tension, informing Daenerys that her handmaidens were preparing her room.
Bidding farewell, Qezza followed Missandei's lead and allowed the Targaryen Princess to settle in for the day. She couldn't shake off the feeling of hostility radiating from Anakin's aunt. While she had gotten a similar impression from Viserys, even he was not so forward.
Later, in Daenerys' chambers, the Targaryen Princess and her handmaiden, Irri, sat around a small table on the balcony of her room with her infant dragons.
"Dracarys. Dracarys," Daenerys repeats as her dragon spits forth a small flame which cooks the raw meat before him. The women laugh and applaud as Rhaegal eats. "He'll be able to feed himself from now on," she remarked.
As the women re-enter the room Danerys catches Doreah reaching out to touch Anakin's unnamed black dragon. "Let him sleep, Doreah," said Daenerys.
"Yes, princess," the handmaiden replied, but the dragon awoke to climb onto her hand.
"He loves you," Daenerys comments in amusement.
"I rewove this part of the top. And I fixed the heel on this one," her handmaiden, Irri, says in Dothraki as she holds up one of Daenerys's dresses.
"Thank you, my friend."
"Did you see the dress the king had made for you? They say Meereen is the wealthiest city in Slaver's Bay," Doreah remarked on the black dress Missandei had brought to her as she presented it to Daenerys.
"It is known," Irri adds her side comment.
"What makes you think my nephew had the dress brought to me? For all I know it could've been that pregnant woman of his," she replied with a subtle bitterness that doesn't go unnoticed by the Dothraki women.
All three are quiet in the awkward moment before Irri speaks up. "Nephew or not, when a Khal gives a woman a gift such as this it would be rude not to wear it. You are still their guest," she said as the handmaidens exited her chambers.
That night, a grand garden party in the pyramid terraces, in honor of their defense of the city and the return of the King.
The guest list was a testament to the Queen's influence over the domain. Esteemed Great Masters, members of his council, and prominent figures from various walks of life - artisans, traders, and scholars - mingled together, their conversations a symphony of diverse voices.
The gathering was more than just a social event; it was a strategic move designed to introduce Anakin's kin to the city and silence the whispers that had trailed his five-month absence.
It was Hizdahr, his ever-astute advisor, who had suggested this public display. He understood the power of spectacle and the importance of addressing the curiosity surrounding the King's recent whereabouts. The party served its purpose well, casting Anakin not as an aloof ruler but as a present and engaged sovereign, deeply invested in his people and their welfare.
The occasion also provided Qezza with the opportunity to reveal her pregnancy, a revelation met with joyous congratulations from all present. Among those offering their congratulations was Fennesz, a figure from Anakin's past who had once been a slave.
Now a thriving tutor, Fennesz's transformation was a testament to the opportunities that Anakin's reign had created. "Tutors have been in high demand as of late, Your Grace," Fennesz shared, his voice filled with pride.
As Anakin gazed at the man in his luxurious silks and sparkling jewelry, it was hard to reconcile this figure with the former slave he once knew. A smirk of amusement crept across his face as he reflected on how the man's transformation mirrored that of the city since he ascended to the throne. The city's swift modernization, driven by new innovations, had sparked a growing demand for education, enabling Fennesz to expand his practice beyond his wildest dreams. Initially, it was a challenge, given the chaos caused by terrorists and criminals, but the arrival of the Unsullied had changed everything, allowing the city to thrive.
Anakin, genuinely pleased for Fennesz's success, clasped his shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. "I'm happy for you, my friend." A part of him felt vindicated about his decision to remain in power before rushing off in search of his family.
Elsewhere, Daenerys Targaryen, flanked by her handmaidens, mingles with a group of noble women, her silver hair catching the light and marking her as unmistakably regal.
"And you must visit the night market. The Meereenese night market is like no night market you've ever seen," a noblewoman exclaimed, her eyes alight with enthusiasm.
"It sounds wonderful," Daenerys replied, her tone perfectly polite. Yet, even as she spoke, her attention wavered. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her brother, Viserys, and Ser Jorah Mormont engaged in a discussion with two Dothraki men. Her curiosity piqued, she excused herself. "Please excuse me for a moment," she said, moving purposefully towards the small gathering, her handmaidens trailing dutifully behind her.
As she approached, she heard Ser Jorah speaking in the guttural tones of Dothraki. "What are they doing?" she questions.
"Malakko says the statue is too heavy to carry. Kovarro says that Malakko is an idiot. They can pry out the gems, the rest is pure gold. Very soft. He can chop off as much as we can carry," he explained.
"Or melt it. Very simple," Kovarro added in Dothraki, his expression serious.
Daenerys' eyes flashed with irritation. "We are guests! You can't pry it or chop it or melt it," she declared in fluent Dothraki, her voice brooking no argument.
Ser Jorah looked at her with a mixture of respect and regret. "I'm afraid his grace has already given them permission, princess," he said.
"We'll come back for it," Kovarro muttered, as Daenerys' handmaidens accompanied them away. As they left Kovarro pocketed a goblet from a server, his eyes examining the value of the cup.
Viserys, never one to miss an opportunity to provoke, sneered at his sister. "Told you. The only thing the Dothraki know how to do is steal things better men have built."
Daenerys' jaw tightened, but before she could respond, Ser Jorah interjected, his voice sharp. "It's not the only thing. They're quite good at killing the better men." His eyes briefly met Daenerys' before he strode away to intervene in another potential mishandling of Meereenese treasures.
Left alone, the siblings stood in uneasy silence. The tension between them was palpable, a bitter residue of unresolved conflicts. Viserys had tried to sell her to Khal Drogo, a betrayal that had carved a deep rift between them. Daenerys could feel the weight of his resentment, his ambition, and his misguided sense of entitlement pressing down on her.
Curiosity, a familiar companion to Daenerys, finally overcame her silence. She turned to her brother, her voice tentative, almost vulnerable. "How do you compare Meereen to King's Landing?"
Viserys looked at her, his expression laden with condescension. "Hmm, oh, are we speaking again? That's good to know."
Annoyed, Daenerys felt a flush of irritation rise in her chest. "Hold on… are you angry… with 'me'?!"
Viserys dismissed her concern with a casual shrug, his demeanor infuriatingly nonchalant. "Of course not."
Skeptical, she challenged him, her eyes narrowing. "Then what's with that face?"
"What face?" Viserys taunted, a smirk playing on his lips.
Exasperated, Daenerys turned to leave, but Viserys, quick and insistent, grabbed her arm, halting her retreat. "Wait," he commanded, his grip firm but not painful. She paused, her gaze meeting his, and in that moment, she gave him silent permission to continue.
"What did you make of her - this 'Queen'," he asked, using exaggerated air quotes.
To Daenerys's surprise, she and her brother found themselves in a rare sync of curiosity about their nephew's foreign wife. However, she concealed her true feelings behind a practiced facade of politeness. "She seems pleasant, very lovely."
Viserys detected the insincerity in her voice, his eyes narrowing with mocking amusement. "No need to be polite with me, sister. Go on, you can say it - you're disappointed."
Daenerys protested, shaking her head. "I am not."
He chuckled, dismissing her concerns. "No need to worry, sister. Mayhap fortune favors us with a girl, and we may swiftly depart this forsaken realm."
Daenerys arched an inquisitive brow. "And where is it you think we are going?"
"Home, of course," Viserys retorted with apparent certainty.
"You assume our nephew will abandon his child and sail for Westeros upon its birth? You clearly don't know him very well," Daenerys stated.
Viserys's confidence waned as he realized the truth in his sister's words. "That's… not… true?" he murmured to himself, a sense of doubt creeping into his voice. He abruptly leaves Daenerys's presence, his thoughts in disarray as he sought out Anakin.
Daenerys stood alone at the edge of the bustling garden party, a solitary figure amidst the swirl of laughter and music. She watched as couples danced under the lantern-lit trees, their joy contrasting sharply with her own reflective mood. From the periphery of her vision, she catches sight of her nephew and his Queen, walking closely together as they chat with a group of affluent merchants. This sight stirs conflicting emotions in Daenerys. A sense of inadequacy washes over her, and she can't shake off the jealousy that fuels it. She despised her jealousy, and the way it made her feel.
The garden party on the pyramid terraces was a resplendent affair, yet Daenerys felt a certain detachment as she wandered among the opulent flora. The vibrant blossoms and exotic scents did little to soothe her restless mind. She found a quiet corner, away from the laughter and chatter, and let her thoughts drift. Questions for her brother swirled unresolved in her mind.
It was in this moment of solitude that Ser Jorah approached her. His presence was familiar and comforting, a constant in the ever-shifting sands of her journey. "Your Grace," he greeted, bowing his head respectfully.
"Ser Jorah," Daenerys acknowledged, her gaze distant. "How do you find Meereen, compared to King's Landing?"
Jorah considered her question, his eyes surveying the city spread out below them. He remarks that Meereen is remarkable not only in contrast to the capital but also when reflecting on its past; having not visited in years, he notes how the city's once-crumbling infrastructure and decaying society appear transformed, as if something new and magnificent is emerging. While no one living has witnessed the splendor of Old Valyria, Jorah imagines it may have looked like this in its early days.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Anakin and his Queen. Anakin's commanding presence was unmistakable, and his Queen, Qezza, exuded a regal air. "Ser Jorah," Anakin said, acknowledging the knight. "May I introduce my Queen, Qezza zo Galare."
Jorah bowed deeply to her. "My Queen," he said. She nodded graciously.
Afterwards, Anakin and Ser Jorah stepped aside, clearly intent on a private conversation, and Daenerys found herself standing with Qezza in an uncomfortable silence. The distant sounds of the party continued around them, but here, in this small corner of the garden, it felt as if time had paused.
Daenerys struggled to find words, her earlier thoughts plaguing her mind. Qezza's composed demeanor only added to her unease.
Finally, eager to break the Qezza spoke. "I hope you are enjoying the festivities," she ventured. "Your dress is beautiful," she complimented, her eyes admiring the flowing black fabric. "I had to convince Anakin to let you have it. He thought it was too revealing."
Daenerys returned the smile politely, though her mind raced. She was still unfamiliar with her nephew's wife, and every word, every gesture was carefully analyzed. "Thank you," she replied. "You look… lovely as well."
Growing weary of the veiled exchange, Qezza cut through the unspoken. "So, tell me Princess. How long has my husband been in love with you?" she asked directly just as she would with Anakin.
Daenerys' voice wavered as she responded, "He's… not… in love with me."
Qezza's smile widened, easing the tension that had hung between them. "Please," she said, her voice sincere. "I can't be the first to tell you this."
Daenerys tilted her head, her brow furrowed. "Anakin is a good man," she conceded, "He loves those who are loyal to him."
Qezza shook her head gently. "Everyone wants something in return for their loyalty, even Anakin. So my question to you is, what do you want from the King of Meereen."
Daenerys' voice hardened, "I want my nephew to take what is his, what is his right."
"Ah, a conqueror. Is that all he is to you," Qezza countered, her tone laced with disapproval.
Daenerys bristled, "I don't appreciate your insinuations."
"And I didn't appreciate yours," Qezza retorted. "I love Anakin and if there's one thing I know about him. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his family. He won't take Viserys seriously, I've seen what he's like, but you. You must let him come to his own decisions." With that, Qezza turned and left Daenerys to her thoughts.
From the moment Daenerys arrived, Qezza had noticed the look Anakin cast her way, the same one she had given him countless times. It pained her to know that his love was feigned, a facade fueled by the child she carried. But within her, a flicker of hope remained.
Later that night, in their bedchambers, as Qezza and Anakin changed into more sleep wears, they shared a tender moment. He gently caressed her swollen belly, his head resting against it as if listening intently to their unborn child.
"What's wrong," he uttered as he looked up from her stomach.
"Nothing," she replied evasively.
Sensing her reluctance, Anakin urged, "Tell me."
Qezza jokes, "You've developed an uncanny ability to decipher my thoughts," a hint of amusement in her eyes. "I'm not sure I approve." Anakin chuckled lightly before she continued, "Your aunt. She's a haughty young girl isn't she," she ventured as he drew her down onto his lap.
Anakin's surprise was evident. "Haughty? Daenerys?" he asked with an incredulous smile. "That's… interesting. You sure you don't mean Viserys," Anakin inquired.
"Maybe they share more in common than you know," Qezza added as she placed her temple next to Anakin's.
"Do you want me to-" but before he could offer his assistance, Qezza interjected firmly, "No, no… besides, I managed to win you over, didn't I?"
Anakin smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Mhm," he murmured, his gaze filled with enamoration. She leaned in for a kiss, but then suddenly recoiled with a groan, clutching her lower back. "You've been like that since I got back," Anakin noted with concern. "You should ask Ezzara to have a look at you."
"I will. Until then…" she whispered as they kissed again.
That night, Anakin drifted into one of the last peaceful slumbers he would ever have.