295 AC - In the Great Pyramid of Meereen:

In the grandest of Slaver's Bay's cities, the pyramids of Meereen rose like monoliths, towering over the sprawl of structures that filled the city. Among them, none rivaled the splendor of the Great Pyramid, crowned by the gleaming Golden Harpy atop its apex - a symbol of power and dominion, visible from nearly every corner of the city.

The families that governed Meereen were the scions of the ancient Ghiscari Empire, tracing their bloodlines back centuries. Though these ruling houses were plagued by rivalries and old grudges, their wealth and influence often forced them to unite when their dominance was threatened.

Now, under the watchful eye of the Harpy, in the waning light of dusk, they gathered in the Great Hall of the pyramid. The balconies, draped in silk and adorned with gold, offered sweeping views of the city below, a reminder of the wealth and power they wielded. But tonight, their discussions were not about trade, wealth, or influence. Tonight, their attention was fixed on a new threat.

"He is dangerous," declared one of the men, seated at the table. His voice was firm, his gaze intense, though there was no need to clarify whom he meant.

The name 'Vader' had spread through Meereen like wildfire. "And arrogant at that," another added, his tone laced with frustration.

"I fail to see the problem here," replied Pazhak zo Pahl, reclining comfortably in his seat, unfazed by the concern. "If the crowds come to see him fight, the pits will be full, and our coffers likewise. There have been many arrogant fighters before." His casual dismissal only served to irritate the man who had spoken.

"He is a danger to 'us'," the first speaker shot back. "I can feel it. He is not human. The amount of victories he has had. Do you have any idea what the people say about him?! They want to put a damn statue of him over Daznak's Pit!" His voice was nearly a shout, betraying his mounting anxiety.

He wasn't entirely wrong. The people of Meereen held the fighting pits sacred, a place where the gods of Ghis were honored with blood and spectacle. The contests were more than mere slaughter - they were a test of bravery, skill, and strength. For a condemned criminal, the pits offered a final chance at redemption, a trial by combat before the gods. But more than that, the pits were a cornerstone of the city's wealth, with one-tenth of the profits claimed as tax by the ruling houses. Foreign sailors, laden with coin, frequented the pits, seeking entertainment during their stay in the city.

"You're only concerned because your family is drowning in debt to the pits!" a younger man interjected with a smug grin, lounging back in his chair as a slave fed him small, red grapes. The insolence in his voice was palpable, and it stoked the anger of the previous speaker, though he did not deny the accusation.

"Many families are indebted; that is not the point," he retorted sharply. "It's not just the citizens or the slaves causing unrest." His voice dropped as he leaned forward. "Certain priestesses in the Temple of the Graces have grown increasingly…fanatical. Slaves - who are normally barred from entering the temple - have been allowed in. There's talk of a schism among the Graces." His words hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the room.

Hazdak zo Pahl, Pazhak's elder brother and commander of the Meereenese City-Watch, leaned forward from the end of the table. His voice was low and commanding. "Brother, do you or do you not have the slave under control?" The question was pointed, and though Pazhak was wealthy beyond measure, the weight of his brother's words caused him to tense.

"How did things get so out of hand? Can't the City-Guard handle some meager riots," remarked another man in the group, obviously disinterested in the discussion.

Hazdak's face instantly contorted in frustration at what he interpreted as an insult. He was someone who detested criticism, especially regarding his work, a trait he no doubt passed to his son, Oznak zo Pahl.

At 6 feet tall, Hazdak has neatly styled short dark brown hair. His complexion is a light brown, and he has dark brown eyes. His face is oval-shaped and well-groomed, complemented by light stubble that adds to his mature appearance. *Karim Abdel Aziz*

"He can, and will put an end to the disturbances in the pits. I assure you," Pazhak replied, though he himself wasn't certain of the truth behind his words.

"Good," Oznak said, rising to his feet beside his father. "I hope so, uncle. Otherwise, we may have no choice but to rid ourselves of your 'champion'," he added as he exited the room.

Oznak himself possesses a robust and muscular physique that showcases his extensive training in horsemanship and combat. Towering at 6 foot 5, he has a square jaw and well-defined facial features, exuding a commanding aura. His hair is cropped short and is a deep black, contrasting with his medium to light skin tone, while his dark eyes add to his appearance. *Daniel Naprous*

Pazhak watched him leave, hearing the jealousy laced in his nephew's voice. Oznak had been a celebrated fighter in the pits, but he could never match the skill of his champion.

No one could.

The remaining Great Masters slowly departed, leaving Pazhak alone in the vast hall. He slumped back in his chair, the flickering torch-light casting shadows on his face. His mind raced. He had thought Anakin a mere product, a way to fill the pits and line his pockets with gold. But now, the boy had become something far more dangerous - a symbol, a force of nature that Pazhak could no longer control.

He was loath to admit it, but Anakin was proving more dangerous than even he had anticipated. And deep down, his pride - his insatiable need to prove his older brother wrong - urged him to find a way to handle the growing threat.

But how does one contain a dragon?

In the Great Pit of Daznak:

Anakin's memories of his beginnings in the brutal fighting pits of Meereen were ones he would rather forget. He no longer kept count of the matches; all he was aware of was that a year and sixty-four days had gone by since he first set foot on these blood-soaked sands.

Only after surviving countless trials did he earn the fickle affections of the crowd.

In that merciless arena, the strong battled one another, beasts tore each other apart, and the weakest - be they children, dwarfs, or elderly - were thrown into the carnage for the audience's sick pleasure. The nobles watched from their high seats, draped in luxury, while the common folk cheered with equal fervor.

The young men Anakin had once known in the Great Pyramid rarely lasted beyond their first weeks in the pits. Only a few endured, his friend Camarron among them. They had become a brother-in-arms, their bond forged through survival and training. Anakin's relentless push in their sparring sessions was likely what has kept his friend alive this long. There were also others such as Strong Belwas, Steelskin, and Fearless Ithoke who Anakin has come to grow quite close to. Belwas the most intriguing of them all.

Initially, Anakin viewed Belwas as nothing more than an oafish brute. However, after facing life-and-death challenges alongside him, his perception began to shift. Belwas isn't a complex strategist or a schemer; he has a straightforward, uncomplicated view of the world. He eats, fights, and boasts - he doesn't concern himself much with politics or complex social dynamics. While Anakin considered him rather dim-witted, he recognized that Belwas possessed a trait he valued above all else: unwavering loyalty. Despite his bluster, Belwas had come to Anakin's aid more than once during his early struggles in the fighting pits. With this newfound understanding, the thought of wishing Belwas harm no longer felt right. In turn, Belwas has begun to respect him for the growth he has shown.

Anakin had changed. His visions had begun to manifest in unsettling ways, heightening his already formidable abilities. His movements in battle became almost precognitive, his body reacting to attacks before they even happened. The living Force flowed through him, sharpening his instincts to a terrifying degree.

Yet with each victory, a new desire burned within him - not for survival or glory, but for freedom. He wasn't exactly keen on doing this senseless killing forever. 'Who would want to?' Anakin mused.

The sole reason he resolved himself to, however, was to prove something to himself. Although he'd convinced himself that he had overcome his fear of death, Anakin merely transformed it into anger.

On this day, as he stood in the tunnel entrance to Daznak's Pit, the familiar irritation of Pazhak zo Pahl's voice gnawed at him.

Surrounded by his guards, Pazhak, a grotesque man of selfish ambition and greed, barked his complaints. "All you do is kill, kill, kill. The crowd don't want a butcher; they want a hero. We need them to keep coming back. So don't just hack them to pieces, understand?" Pazhak demanded, pacing as he spoke, his eyes flitting between Anakin and the closed wooden gate before them. Light streamed through the cracks, casting wavering shadows as the roar of the crowd grew louder.

Anakin barely listened. His focus was on the arena beyond the gates, where the nobility and the poor alike chanted his moniker: "Vader, Vader, Vader!"

Despite Pazhak's protests, Anakin had become a favorite. The audience had dubbed him 'The Invader,' inspired by his unique appearance - platinum-white hair and sharp violet eyes. He was their champion, whether the Great Masters liked it or not.

"I'm required to kill, so I kill. I don't see the problem," Anakin said, his tone cold as he inspected the sword in his hand.

Anakin wields a practical arming sword known for its simple cruciform shape and one-handed grip. The sword features a straight double-edged blade with a straightforward design, emphasizing functionality. It is characterized by its uncomplicated crossguard and rounded, disk-shaped pommel, which contribute to its balanced and efficient appearance.

He suppressed the urge to drive it through Pazhak's chest, imagining the man's wide, surprised eyes as the blade slid home. The thought sent a chuckle through his head.

"The problem is you are not just a killer. You are an entertainer!" Pazhak snapped.

His voice trembled with frustration, stirring the deep-seated anger within Anakin, especially since he believed he had the power to walk away whenever he chose. However, he refused to flee from death; instead, he would face it head-on until he gained mastery over it.

Without another word, Anakin turned from him and strode toward the gate as it began to creak open. "So entertain!" Pazhak's voice echoed behind him.

As he stepped into the arena, the crowd's chants thundered louder, "Vader! Vader! Vader!" The very ground beneath him trembled with their enthusiasm.

Anakin dons a dark cuirass made of leather and metal that shields his torso. The chest plate features elaborate designs, including the three-headed Targaryen dragon. On his left shoulder, he sports a single large shoulder guard crafted from leather and metal, designed to absorb impacts, enhancing his rugged, battle-hardened appearance. Occasionally, he has a smaller shoulder guard on his right, though it is less prominent. Beneath the armor, he wears a basic, short tunic, typically in shades of dark or brown. Leather belts are used over the tunic to secure the armor and carry his weapons. Anakin also uses leather bracers on his forearms for protection while wielding swords or shields in close-quarter combat, essential for fighting in the arena. His lower attire consists of pteruges, a skirt-like garment made of leather strips that extend from his waist to his knees, providing protection while allowing freedom of movement. To safeguard his shins, he wears greaves over dark knee-high boots.

Across the vast oval pit, six opponents stood ready, but they were wary, their eyes flicking incredulously between one another after noting how young this so-called 'Invader' was.

In the royal box, Pazhak had taken his seat alongside his nephew, Oznak zo Pahl. Oznak, the self-proclaimed champion of the Great Masters, was a man of sadistic pride and brutal reputation.

He usually brandishes a 14-foot lance, adorned with the colors of his house - pink and white. It is whispered that he once removed a man's liver named Scarb, who had dared to gaze improperly at a Meereenese lady. Oznak justified his actions as a defense of the lady's honor, claiming Scarb had 'raped her with his eyes'. No one dared to challenge Oznak's actions, given his uncle's immense wealth in Meereen and his father's command over the City-Guard.

He sipped lazily from a goblet of wine, watching with detached amusement. "Will the slave listen this time?" he asked, eyeing Anakin with a smirk.

"We shall see, nephew," Pazhak muttered, his attention fixed on the fight below.

Daznak's Pit was enormous, its sandy floor vast and unyielding beneath the feet of those who fought and died there. Thousands of spectators filled the circular brick arena with descending tiers of benches, each in a different color. From the steeply tiered seating, their eyes gleam with anticipation. The nobles and their guests were closest to the action, while the commoners filled the higher tiers, eager for bloodshed.

Anakin glanced briefly at the royal box, where Pazhak and his family lounged in arrogant ease. A wave of anger surged through him, but he channeled it elsewhere. Bowing his head slightly, he acknowledged his opponents, who hesitated to attack.

The air in the arena was thick, a mix of anticipation, fear, and the stench of sweat and blood. Thousands of spectators leaned forward on the edge of their seats, their collective breath held as their eyes fixed on the lone figure in the center of the pit.

Anakin stood still, his posture calm, his violet eyes scanning the line of armored men who surrounded him. They were adorned in gleaming steel, faces hidden behind grotesque helmets designed to terrify, weapons in hand. They were performers of death, gladiators meant to turn battle into spectacle.

They carried an arsenal of brutality: swords with serrated edges, axes sharp enough to cleave bone, nets designed to entangle and humiliate, and tridents gleaming under the harsh desert sun. Their weapons weren't just tools of war - they were crafted to thrill, to dazzle the bloodthirsty crowd that roared for carnage.

But for Anakin, this was no game, no theater. He had no intention of playing their part.

The crowd's cheers dimmed to an eerie silence, curiosity overtaking bloodlust. They had expected Anakin to lash out wildly. But instead, he stood still, like a predator biding its time.

The first move came not from his opponents, but from Anakin himself.

His first strike was swift and brutal. He launched forward, a blur of motion, his blade slicing through the first man's throat with surgical precision. Blood sprayed into the dust, and before the body hit the ground, Anakin had moved on. The crowd gasped - this wasn't the choreographed dance of combat they'd paid to see. This was something primal, efficient, and terrifying.

The remaining gladiators hesitated. They had expected a desperate, cornered man. What they faced was something else entirely. But hesitation was fatal. Anakin didn't give them time to regroup. He charged, his movements a cold, calculated rhythm. A net was cast toward him - he sidestepped, grabbing the edge and yanking the wielder forward. The man stumbled, and Anakin's blade found its mark, plunging deep into the armor's weak point at the neck.

One by one, they came for him. One by one, they fell. Anakin fought without flourish, without hesitation. There was no anger in his strikes, no joy, only a grim efficiency that bordered on the mechanical. His blade carved arcs of death through the air, his footfalls steady and relentless. The arena's sand, once golden, darkened with blood.

The last gladiator, a towering man wielding two curved swords, stood his ground, his breath heavy behind his grotesque mask. Anakin paused, his cold gaze locking with his opponent's. The crowd was silent now, transfixed. This was no longer a sport. This was an execution.

The final man lunged, his twin blades spinning in a deadly dance. Anakin met him head-on. The clash of steel echoed through the arena as the two circled and struck, blades singing. But Anakin's endurance was unyielding, his focus unbroken. In a sudden, decisive motion, he disarmed his opponent, seizing both swords.

With two blades in hand, Anakin advanced. The gladiator staggered back, fear evident even behind the mask. It ended with brutal finality - Anakin crossed the twin swords in a scissor-like motion, slicing through the man's neck. The helmeted head toppled to the sand, rolling to a stop as the body crumpled.

Silence fell across peasants and nobles alike. Anakin stood, breathing heavily, his sword dripping red. The six opponents lay dead at his feet, their blood staining the golden sand in dark pools. The crowd was still - stunned by the sheer brutality and efficiency with which Anakin had dispatched his enemies.

He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd in the pit. Thousands of faces were fixed on him, whispering his name. But Anakin did not hear it. He wasn't looking for applause. He wasn't looking for approval. All he felt was anger.

Sheathing his sword with a swift motion, he took a few steps forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the faces of the Great Master seated above him, their expressions smug.

Without thinking, Anakin picked up his last opponent's twin axes and hurled one of them into the royal box. The blade struck a table near Pazhak and Oznak, causing them both to flinch in surprise and gasp of shock to echo across the pit.

Then he turned to the crowd and roared, "ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED!? Are you not entertained?! Is this not why you are here?!" He tossed the second ax to the ground, spitting in contempt before attempting to leave.

For a beat, the crowd faltered at first, unsure how to respond. For the first time, they heard the contempt in his eyes, the anger simmering beneath the surface. This wasn't a man who fought for glory or their applause - this was a man who fought for something far deeper, darker even

Anakin stared them down, his chest heaving with barely controlled rage. The pit remained in an uneasy silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

And then, almost as if on cue, the applause began. Slowly at first, but growing in intensity until the entire stands erupted in wild cheers. "Vader! Vader! Vader!" they chanted, louder than ever. They didn't care about his anger, his disdain. They only cared about the blood he had spilled, the death he had dealt. To them, he was just another pit fighter - albeit a popular one.

Anakin, breathing heavily, paused, surprised by their reaction. This had not been his intention. He turned to look at them, confused yet oddly exhilarated. These people were fascinated by him, like clapping seals.

Suddenly, in the midst of his adulation, guards entered the pit, their arrival causing the crowd to tense once more. As they organized and stood in formation, the leader of the guards shouted, "Drop!" waving his blade at Anakin.

Sensing the shifting mood, he knelt on one knee. When the guard saw him obey he nodded at the men behind him and lowered his sword. "Fighter, the Masters' Champion requests your presence," the guard states.

"Not going anywhere," Anakin replied, arms out gesturing at his surroundings, his voice calm but his mind alert.

The sun beat down on the arena as Oznak zo Pahl stepped onto the sands, his ornate armor catching the light and flashing like a beacon. Each step he took toward Anakin carried the weight of his displeasure, a sword in his hand gleaming menacingly.

As he closed the distance between them, boos and jeers from the crowd grew louder, a cacophony of dissent that echoed off the stone walls.

Oznak stopped just short of Anakin, the blade raised and pointed directly at his face. The disdain in his expression was palpable. "I should gut you like a pig right now," he spat.

In response to this the crowd chanted in unison, "Live! Live! Live!" The voice of the people, once thought by Pazhak to be indifferent, had shifted.

To Anakin, it didn't matter whether they saw something in him or if they simply wanted to defy the masters, he found it all very amusing. He stared up at Oznak, unflinching, even as the shadow of death loomed closer. The cheers from the crowd, their fervent cries for him to live, stirred a smug defiance within him.

He smirked, his eyes narrowing with a challenge. "You think my life is some precious thing to me?" Anakin retorted, his words biting. There was an accusation in his tone, a silent declaration that Oznak was nowhere near the fighter Anakin is.

A flicker of irritation crossed Oznak's face. He pressed the tip of his blade against Anakin's brow, drawing blood. A thin red line traced down his face, but it did nothing to quell the crowd's cries. If anything, it only seemed to embolden them.

The chants of "Live!" grew louder, more insistent. The people had chosen their hero, and it wasn't the Masters' Champion standing over Anakin with a sword - it was the foreign invader bleeding on the sand.

Oznak hesitated, sensing the shift in the crowd. His authority, his status as the favorite, was being questioned. Reluctantly, he withdrew the blade, tossing it on the floor before turning and striding away, his frustration barely concealed.

The crowd erupted in a roar of approval as Anakin slowly rose to his feet, blood trickling down his forehead. Though he's not exactly a fan of the cheering crowds, he played along, lifting his sword high into the air, a gesture of triumph, further sealing his victory in the hearts of the people today.

As the force of their cheers filled the arena, Anakin descended into the pit's depths, the echoes of the crowd bouncing off the stone walls like a wave of energy.

Below, hundreds of gladiators were waiting for him, their voices joining the uproar from above. "Vader, Vader, Vader," they chanted in unison, hailing him as their hero, a leader.

The glances of admiration from those around him stirred something within Anakin, awakening a question he hadn't dared to confront before. Could he lead these people to freedom? Was he meant for such a path? The thought swelled inside him, blossoming into a confidence that felt new but powerful. It was as if, for the first time, he could believe in his own potential, not as an orphan or a slave, but as something more profound, something greater.

In the quiet stillness of his own mind, Anakin began to unravel the threads of his true identity. He was neither lost nor broken, neither confined to the labels of his past nor defined solely by his struggles. He recalled the resolute words of his uncle Viserys, the unwavering belief in Ser Willem's eyes, and the kindness of Daenerys. They had all seen something in him, something he had resisted for so long, perhaps fearing its weight.

But now he felt it: 'I am a king,' he thought, the words resonating like a drumbeat through his soul. He had been born not merely to survive but to rule.

In that crystallizing moment, Anakin understood he could inspire loyalty, and not only for his title. He could inspire because he knew the shackles of servitude and the sting of injustice. He could be their king - not in title alone, but in truth, one who would lift them from their chains.

And as he let that realization take root, the path before him grew clearer.

I am Anakin Targaryen, he said within himself. In his mind a dragon tried to whisper of failure, and weakness, and inevitable death, but with one hand he caught it, crushed away its voice; it tried to rise then, to coil and rear and strike, but Anakin laid his other hand upon it and broke its power with a single effortless twist. I am Anakin Targaryen, he repeated as he ground the dragon's corpse to dust beneath his mental heel, as he watched the dragon's dust and ashes scatter before the blast from his furnace heart, and you, you are nothing at all.

With new resolve, he met the eyes of the men around him, feeling not only worthy of their trust but capable of leading them to the freedom he, too, wants.

In the midst of the chanting throng, Camarron and Ithoke, two of his closest allies, moved to his side, forming a protective barrier as they guided him through the mass of bodies.

The men around him surged with energy, feeding off the victory they all shared. In their eyes, Anakin wasn't just a fellow fighter - he was a symbol of defiance, a figurehead for their rebellion against the Masters who sought to control them.

For a moment, he allowed himself to soak in the adulation. Amidst the chants, the raised fists, and the sea of faces, he stood not as a mere fifteen-year-old boy, but as a king. Though he was no taller than many of the men around him, he radiated a strength that felt far beyond his years. It wasn't just the sword in his hand or the blood on his brow - it was the Force that surged within him.

And as the cheers of the fighters and the crowd above swirled together, Anakin resolved himself.

In the Great Pyramid:

After the brutal confrontation in Daznak's Pit, Anakin sat in the slave barracks, savoring a rare meal of lamb stew, warm whole wheat rolls, sweet apple tart, and even a cup of red wine. The luxurious spread was a stark contrast to the rough life of an average gladiator.

His friend Camarron sat beside him, smiling at the sight of the feast, recalling the Overseer's words that a victorious fighter enjoyed a life of comfort.

"Come on, Anakin," Camarron urged, pushing the cup of wine toward him. "Enjoy the spoils. You already turned down the whores," he added with a childish pout.

But Anakin shook his head, pushing the cup away, his senses alert. There was something off - an ominous sensation tugging at the edges of his consciousness, like a storm brewing in the distance. He didn't need to drink. The Force was whispering a warning, one he couldn't ignore.

"Someone is coming," Anakin said quietly. "Get my sword."

Camarron's expression shifted from amusement to alarm as he hurried to the next room, where their weapons were stored.

The sudden burst of footsteps echoed from the corridor, and before Anakin could fully brace himself, the door to the mess hall swung open. An Overseer entered, flanked by three guards carrying shackles.

"The Great Master wishes to see you," the Overseer announced. There was no room for negotiation.

From behind the curtain of the weapons room, Camarron peered out, gripping the hilt of Anakin's sword, ready to hand it to him. But Anakin shook his head. This was his problem to deal with. He wouldn't drag his friend into what he knew was a trap.

Without resistance, he allowed the guards to bind his wrists, and a rough sack was pulled over his head.

Near the Skahazadhan River:

The journey was long - he felt the jostling of a horse beneath him, the chill of the night air seeping through the sack's rough fabric.

When it was finally removed, he found himself kneeling outside the walls of Meereen, near the foul stench of a sewer gate. He instantly realized that they were likely close to the Skahazadhan River, where the city's massive brick sewers discharge all their waste, also coming to the conclusion they were outside the city walls.

Chains dug into his wrists and neck, binding him tightly. Two men patrolled on horseback in the distance, while three others stood before him. Anakin's gaze immediately recognized two of them - Hazdak zo Pahl, the commander of Meereen's City-Watch, and his son, Oznak. The third was a soldier, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

Anakin immediately knew why he was here. Pazhak zo Pahl had caved in, offering him up for execution like a lamb to slaughter. The man had always been spineless, he thought.

Oznak gave a slight nod to the soldier, who drew his sword and stepped forward. He met Oznak's gaze, defiant. This was his doing - Oznak's desperate need to maintain his fragile reputation.

"If you want me dead," Anakin called out, "At least have the balls to do it yourself."

His words stung Oznak. He could see the anger flare in his eyes. In a way, both men's pride had brought them to this moment. Unable to bear the insult, Oznak grabbed the sword from the soldier and advanced, looming over him much like he had in the pit earlier that day.

"Any last words, Invader?" Oznak sneered.

Anakin's response was simple, a cocky smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. With that, Oznak raised the sword high above his head, ready to deliver the killing blow.

Anakin closed his eyes, letting himself sink deeper into the Force than ever before, trusting fully in it. He murmured quietly, "I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me."

Time slowed. The world around him seemed to blur, and he felt the energy of the Force surging through him. When he opened his eyes, Oznak's sword descended at an almost glacial pace, giving him all the time he needed.

In a swift, calculated move, he raised his arms, allowing Oznak's strike to break the chains binding him.

The sudden clatter of chains falling to the ground was the only sound Oznak heard before Anakin disarmed him in one fluid motion. And in the next instant, plunging the blade into Oznak's chest, the sharp steel piercing flesh and bone.

The Masters' Champion crumpled to the ground, a gurgling rasp escaping his lips.

Enraged, Hazdak and the remaining soldier charged toward Anakin, but the Force was with him now. With a single gesture, he, to his own surprise, sends Hazdak flying backward, his body crashing into the dirt with a force that left him breathless.

The last man hesitated, distracted by Hazdak's fall. That was all the opportunity Anakin needed. He slashed across the man's face, ending his life with brutal efficiency.

As Hazdak struggled to rise, Anakin approached slowly, his senses overwhelmed by the darkness swirling within him. He extended his hand, using the Force to crush his windpipe. The commander of the City-Watch writhed in pain, gasping desperately for air, but Anakin felt no mercy. With a sickening crack, Hazdak's neck snapped, and his body slumped lifelessly on the ground.

It was over. In an instant, two of the most powerful figures in Meereen lay dead at his feet.

For the first time, Anakin felt an eerie detachment from the violence. This was different from the forced battles in the pits - there was a dark satisfaction in it, a power he hadn't fully understood until now.

As he stood there, lost in his thoughts, a faint groan reached his ears. Oznak, though dying, was still alive, gasping for breath, blood pooling around him. Disappointed by this so-called 'champion's' skill, Anakin knelt, pulling the sack that had once covered his head over Oznak's. In one swift motion, he decapitated him, placing the head inside the bag.

The sound of approaching hooves echoed in the distance. A rider. Anakin hid behind the rugged terrain. As the rider reached the scene, surveying the bodies in confusion, Anakin's sword flew through the air, striking him in the chest. The man tumbled from his mount, dead before he hit the ground.

He approached the horse and searched its saddle, finding a ring of keys. He turned them over in his hands, pondering his next move.

With these keys, he could free the slaves in the pyramid, return as the leader they already saw him as. But another thought lingered - his family.

It has been years since he last saw them, and he doubts they would even recognize one another now. The mere thought of Daenerys filled him with a happiness he hadn't felt in ages. Both she and Viserys were out there, waiting. They were the closest thing to a home he had.

But there was confusion in this desire.

He gazed toward the Great Pyramid in the distance, its shadow looming over Meereen. Power stirred within him, the Targaryen blood and the Force intertwining.

"Fire and Blood," he whispered forbearingly, before mounting the horse and setting off towards the pyramid, knowing that his mission in Meereen was far from over.

In Meereen:

In the highest chamber of the Great Pyramid, Pazhak zo Pahl stood atop the marble steps of his balcony, gazing out at the chaos unfolding below.

The city of Meereen, usually a spectacle of wealth and grandeur, was now awash in turmoil. Riots raged in the streets, fires sprouting among the homes of both peasants and slaves. It was his rebellious slave, Anakin, who had ignited the flames of unrest.

From the vantage of his luxurious tower, Pazhak swirled a goblet of wine, feeling equal parts anger and regret. The young slave had sparked an uprising that threatened to topple the very foundation of the city's aristocracy. He had underestimated his power.

As Hazdak, the commander of the City-Watch, and his son Oznak scrambled to quell the insurrection, Pazhak's thoughts instead wandered to the loss Anakin represented - not just a loss of power, but a staggering financial blow. Valued at least over 300,000 honors, Anakin had once been Pazhak's most prized fighter. His defiance, however, had rendered him unsellable, and an unrepentant liability.

Now, with his brother Hazdak likely going to execute the slave who had stirred the rebellion, he felt the full weight of his frustration. Despite all his gold, all his wealth, his influence seemed powerless in the face of his family's growing authority. His mind raced with thoughts of change. Replacing his brother as commander of the City-Watch crossed his mind. His younger siblings were far more pliable, less ambitious, and Pazhak knew how to manipulate them. But for now, he would have to deal with the immediate threat.

Elsewhere, Anakin rode through the streets on a stolen horse, the dark-brown mare galloping through the flames and smoke of the embattled city. The vivid red 'Kill the Masters' slogans painted across walls left no room for doubt: the city had risen in revolt.

For a brief moment, Anakin considered joining the ragtag rebels. But he knew better - poorly armed and disorganized, they were unlikely to get anywhere.

His mission lay elsewhere, and so he urged the mare onward toward the towering walls of the Great Pyramid. Upon reaching the courtyard, Anakin tethered the horse to a nearby tree, knowing it would be his escape later.

His gaze fell on the massive wall ahead, and with an instinct he barely understood, he leaped, higher than he thought he would. Grabbing onto a loose brick, he began his ascent. Halfway down the descent, he lost his grip and plummeted toward the ground - but instead of crashing into the hard earth, he landed lightly, as though something unseen had cushioned him.

"That's useful," he muttered to himself, before stealthily moving toward the barracks where his comrades were imprisoned.

Inside the cells of the Great Pyramid's Pit, Camarron and hundreds of enslaved men heard the commotion coming from the dungeon doors. The clanging of steel and the sounds of chaos outside had put them on edge.

When the door burst open with a violent crash, they turned to see a guard flung across the room. Then, Anakin strode in, bloodied sword in one hand, a crimson-stained sack in the other. He moved to the center of the room, and in a grim display, pulled from the sack the severed head of Oznak zo Pahl. The men gasped, stepping closer to their cell bars for a better look.

"The Masters' Champion and the commander of the City-Watch are dead," Anakin declared. "Meereen is burning. The people fighting back have little chance… Not without us. Together, I know we can tip the scales. There are three slaves for every free man in this city, and the armory is stocked with enough weapons for us to arm them."

His words were met with stunned silence, broken only by the sound of bending metal as the cell bars suddenly gave way, twisted and shattered by a force the men couldn't comprehend. From Belwas to even the usually stoic Steelskin seemed awestruck as Anakin used the Force to crumble the bars before them.

Steelskin is a lean and wiry young man adorned with complex tattoos in shades of green and black that cover his cheeks, forehead, chest, and arms. These sorcerer signs of ancient Valyria supposedly make his skin and flesh as hard as steel.

One by one, the men stepped out of their cells, no longer prisoners. Anakin addressed them, his voice firm but not commanding. He told them they were free to choose - they could fight if they wished, but he would never force them, as their oppressors had.

Camarron was the first to kneel, his voice breaking the tension as he swore his loyalty. Soon, the others followed, their voices rising in unison, bending the knee to Anakin Targaryen - the boy they now called King.

Meanwhile, as rebellion spread through the lower levels of the pyramid, Pazhak re-entered his chambers from the balcony, ready to indulge in a moment of pleasure with a reluctant whore sprawled on his bed. But his plans were interrupted when the doors to his chamber suddenly flew open. Startled and furious, he turned, prepared to scream at the intruder.

Anakin stood in the doorway, calm as ever, walking into the room as though he owned it. The whore hastily pulled the sheets over herself, trying to hide. Anakin, without so much as a glance her way, politely asked her to leave. She wasted no time fleeing.

The sight of Anakin - alive, and standing before him - made Pazhak's blood run cold. He had not expected this. His mind raced. Where were the guards? Where were Hazdak and Oznak? He fumbled over his words, demanding to know what had happened to his brother and nephew.

Without a word, Anakin reached into the satchel and pulled out Oznak's head, tossing it casually at Pazhak's feet. The sight of his nephew's severed head silenced Pazhak. His bravado crumbled, replaced by pure terror.

"Y-Y-You won't get away with this," Pazhak stammered, stepping back toward the sofa. "M-my guards will be here any moment. I-I can still-"

Anakin's piercing gaze stopped him. Pazhak saw the look of pity in his slaves eyes - pity he had seen before, after a kill in the fighting pits. It was the look of a man who had already won, who saw no threat in his opponent. Desperate, Pazhak tried to reason with him, claiming he had always respected Anakin, that he hadn't wanted to turn him over.

"Are you apologizing? Seriously? Oh, Gods, this is embarrassing. You want to know something? I used to be intimidated by you. I did. And now I look at you, I-I'm just… I have no idea why. Truly. You're not even pathetic. You're-you're just… nothing," Anakin admits mockingly to Pazhak, knowing the man won't leave this conversation alive.

"Y-You should be grateful to me. I made you beloved. I gave you power. You were made to serv-"

But, before he could finish that sentence, Anakin dismissed his excuses with a flick of his wrist, and the Force brutally contorted Pazhak's head, breaking his neck in a heartbeat.

It was over. The Great Master of Meereen was dead.

In the span of hours, Anakin had gone from a slave fighting for his life in the arena to a rebel, the very heart of Meereen's power brought to its knees. Standing alone in the chamber, Anakin took a deep breath, clearing his mind. His task was far from over.

He stepped out onto the balcony, looking down at the city below. The streets were ablaze, the rebels rising up just as he had envisioned. His allies from the pits had entered the fray, and the Great Masters were losing their grip. But as his eyes drifted upward, he spotted the harpy statue perched atop the Great Pyramid's apex, a symbol of the city's cruel dominance.

An idea struck him.

He found a large piece of black cloth and began to paint on it, using red ink to draw a crude emblem of House Targaryen - a three-headed dragon. Soon, the city would know that Meereen was under siege, and the old world was crumbling. As the massive black flag rose above the Great Pyramid, overshadowing the gilded harpy, this message was clear.

Shortly after seizing control of the Great Pyramid, Anakin led his rebels into the heart of Meereen's streets. Revolts swept through the city as the slaves, emboldened by their success, moved with swift precision under his command.

They targeted and eliminated slavers wherever they found them, cutting down the old regime in every skirmish. The City-Guard, faced with the overwhelming force and the knowledge that their leaders had been slain, quickly chose to surrender. With their enemies collapsing before them, the rebels gained the upper hand.

In the midst of this chaos, Anakin gathered his closest and most trusted men. Their next objective was clear: the shipyards of Meereen. Anticipating that the remaining Great Masters would attempt to flee the city by sea, he saw the importance of cutting off this final avenue of escape. Rallying the men, they made their way toward the docks, where the sea lay calm and indifferent to the conflict on land.

As they arrived, they found several ships already in motion, slipping from the harbor. But others remained tethered, guarded by fleeing slavers and their mercenaries.

The rebel forces stormed the shipyards. With a combination of sheer numbers and strategic precision, they broke through the makeshift barriers set up by the guards. The clash was brief but fierce, and it wasn't long before Anakin himself reached the ships.

Focusing on one vessel, he raised a hand, calling upon the Force. The anchor, heavy and thick with iron, shuddered in place, refusing to rise. The ship was trapped, unable to escape.

Elsewhere in the shipyard, Camarron, Steelskin, Ithoke, and Belwas led their own contingents in similar assaults. They swept through the docks, overwhelming guards, lowering anchors, and securing the fleeing vessels. By the time the sun began to rise, casting the waters in hues of red and orange, the shipyards had fallen. The last remaining ships were under their control, and with them, the naval power of Meereen.

As the city stilled in the dawn light, the fires of rebellion smoldering in the distance, Anakin and Camarron stepped out of the bustling shipyard.

The last of the Great Masters had been rounded up, and an eerie silence fell over Meereen. The city had, for the first time in memory, no rulers to bow to. Anakin turned his back to the sea and began a march to the Great Pyramid, the towering symbol of the old world's power. His army followed, marching proudly behind him.

From the darkened homes and crumbling alleyways, people emerged. First in twos and threes, then in dozens, until a massive crowd trailed behind the rebels. Slaves and citizens alike gathered, drawn by the promise of freedom and the pull of hope that clung to the man leading them.

As they reached the base of the Great Pyramid, the crowd swelled, their eyes fixed on him with reverence and awe.

Anakin ascended the grand steps, his heart heavy as he looked down upon the multitude. These were not just soldiers or rebels - they were the people of Meereen, all looking to him now for something… something more. He felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him.

The old order was gone, torn down by the very people it had oppressed. Anakin stood, silhouetted against the rising sun. The people of Meereen saw him not just as a liberator, but as something deific. The Chosen One. A title that began as a whisper among them soon grew to a shout, their belief in him becoming absolute.

Yet, as the cheers rose, so too did the ghosts of the fallen. The faces of the dead, combatants and innocents alike, swirled in his mind. Anakin's triumph had come at a steep cost. He knew the removal of the Great Masters was necessary, but it didn't erase the bloodshed that now stained the streets. The cries of the grieving tugged at the edge of his conscience.

But then, among the somber thoughts, something bright pierced through the haze - hope. In the crowd, he saw former slaves - men, women, and children - tearing off their collars, their faces radiant with joy. The sight steadied him, bringing him back to the present.

This, he reminded himself, was why he fought, why he stayed in Meereen. He wasn't just leading an army; he was leading these people to freedom.

As he descended the pyramid steps, children gathered around him, their small hands reaching up, their laughter ringing out like a chorus of triumph. They were followed by his loyal men, and the crowd began to chant in unison, "Dārys! Dārys! Dārys!"- 'King' in Valyrian. The title echoed across the square, cementing Anakin's place in their hearts.

His journey had brought him here, but beneath the surface, something darker churned within him. The anger, the hatred, the fear that had fueled his rise still lingered. From the start, he had deliberately refrained from finding pleasure in ending lives, but this time, he couldn't help but admit that it brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction.

"Your Grace," a voice called out, cutting through the jubilant noise.

It was Ithoke. He has a striking and rugged appearance. Standing at 5 foot 10, he has a lean, athletic physique. His strong jawline and expressive facial features are often framed by a short, scruffy beard or full facial hair. His naturally wavy, dark brown hair has a slightly tousled look, which enhances his rugged charm. With intense blue eyes, his expressions can shift from fierce determination to warmth and approachability, creating a captivating presence. *Andrew Lincoln*

He approached swiftly, his expression grim as he reported, "We've captured over one-hundred of the Great Masters. What are your orders?"

Anakin turned to face him, his eyes cold and calculating. He leaned in close, whispering his decision. As Ithoke pulled back, his heart raced - there was something different about Anakin. His eyes, usually sharp with determination, now glistened with an unsettling yellow hue in the dim light of the dawn. He nodded though, and hurried off to carry out his king's orders.

Anakin remained where he stood, the weight of his choices settling over him. His men awaited his next move, watching for the subtle gestures that had come to define his leadership. With a simple wave of his hand, they followed, no words needed.

Meereen was his now.

But as he gazed out over the city, a quiet storm brewed within him. Though the people now called him King, Anakin knew that title needed to be made evident.

In the Great Pyramid:

As it turned out, laying siege to an entire city is significantly easier than what comes after.

Anakin did not anticipate the responsibilities of being a king, yet he was determined to fulfill that role because he believed it was the right path to choose. However, he had no practical knowledge of governing, and as a result, problems began to accumulate one after another.

He faces the dislike from the nobility of the city, as numerous crimes had been committed during his revolt, and the nobility especially have suffered losses of property and wealth. However, there are also those who support him. Mainly the freedmen, which made up the majority of the city.

He was hailed as a hero and savior by the freedmen in Meereen, who welcomed him as their king with open arms and he wasted no time in issuing a command to pardon the city guards and soldiers who had surrendered during the city's overthrow. This act gave them the opportunity to serve under his rule.

Despite some Great Masters managing to escape the city during the siege, more than three-hundred were captured and being guarded by the new city guards, awaiting Anakin's judgment.

He remained unwavering in his decision to punish the Great Masters, crucifying over one-hundred of them. As the Meereenese slave masters cried out in agony, Anakin's troops impaled them on crosses and positioned their hands on poles along the mountainside as a guide. The piercing cries of the crucified echoed through the city, inspiring fear among the citizens.

It was now official: Anakin embraced his royal identity and was crowned the King of Meereen.

He is clad in a sleeveless tunic of deep brown, crafted from rugged, weathered leather. The form-fitting garment boasts intricate, angular patterns reminiscent of Meereenese armor designs. A wide leather strap crosses his chest, laden with various pouches and gear, enhancing the militaristic vibe of his attire. His dark, durable pants are made from a robust fabric ideal for combat, neatly tucked into knee-high leather boots that have a rough, utilitarian style, fitting for a gladiator or warrior of Meereenese heritage. Complementing his look, he wears bracers on his forearms, fashioned from the same dark leather as his tunic, embellished with gold metal plates for added protection and an intimidating edge. A broad belt featuring a substantial buckle secures the tunic and carries extra equipment, including a castle-forged steel arming sword with a golden grip, a diamond-shaped pommel, and no crossguard. The overall color scheme is grounded in earthy tones - browns, blacks, and muted grays. Anakin's hair appears slightly disheveled, and his expression is more stern and intense, reflecting his new role in life. *Anakin's Zygerrian outfit in the Clone Wars*

He takes up residence in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. 'Ironic,' Anakin thought of his former prison becoming his new home.

Almost a fortnight into his rule, the Great Pyramid stood with a more accurate Targaryen banner billowing in the wind, where a harpy once stood at the apex.

By bearing this symbol, he hopes to gain the attention of his family members, Viserys and Daenerys, wherever they may be in Essos. He is cautious, however, as he remembers Ser Willem's warning that the Targaryen house was always under threat.

Currently, in the grand audience chamber, an ex slave-trader Hizdahr zo Loraq and his 'manservant' approach, seeking an audience with Anakin, who sits above grand steps on his newly constructed ebony bench-throne.

Hizdahr's most notable features include sharp, angular features. His complexion is a light-dark shade, reflecting his origins from the city of Meereen in Slaver's Bay. He is adorned in elegant and ornate garments, which signify his status as a wealthy and influential figure in Meereenese society. Standing at 6 foot 1, his demeanor is typically composed and calculated, embodying the personality of a diplomatic and politically astute individual. *Joel Fry*

The manservant addresses Anakin in Valyrian, introducing Hizdahr. "The noble Hizdahr zo Loraq begs an audience with the king." he says.

Anakin responds in Valyrian, "The noble Hizdahr zo Loraq can speak to me himself."

The manservant steps back, and Hizdahr moves forward, bowing before him. "My King. Mine is one of the oldest and proudest families in Meereen," he says.

"I suppose I should be honored to receive you," Anakin patronized.

Hizdahr informs him, "My father, one of Meereen's most respected and beloved citizens, oversaw the restoration and maintenance of its greatest landmarks. This pyramid included."

"For that, he has my gratitude. I should be honored to meet him," Anakin acknowledges.

Hizdahr reveals, "You have, Your Grace. You crucified him. I pray you'll never live to see a member of your family treated so cruelly."

Anakin's false smile fades, and his eyes scrutinize Hizdahr. "Your father murdered innocents," he replies with venom.

Ever since the Siege of Meereen, he has been consumed by a growing dark influence, a certain aspect of his being becomes driven to rid himself of Hizdahr on the spot, both because of who he is and the actions of his family. But he withheld these thoughts.

"Is it justice to answer one crime with another?" Hizdahr questions the king's sense of justice.

"I am sorry you no longer have a father, but my treatment of the masters was no crime. You'd be wise to remember that," Anakin responds.

Hizdahr sighs in resignation, "What's done is done. You are the king and I am a servant of Meereen. A servant who does not wish to see its traditions eradicated."

"And what traditions do you speak of?" Anakin asked.

"The tradition of funeral rite. Proper burial in the Temple of the Graces," Hizdahr laments, "My father and over a hundred noble Meereenese are still nailed to those posts, carrion for vultures, rotting in the sun." He suddenly drops to his knees and implores, "Your Grace, I ask that you order these men taken down so that they might receive proper burials."

Anakin responded with genuine curiosity, "And what of the thousands of slaves these noble Meereenese crucified? They were rotting in the sun as well. Would you have begged me for their right to a proper burial?" He didn't harbor enough cynicism yet to think that every slaver was cruel and malicious.

"Your Grace, I cannot defend the actions of the masters. I can only speak to you as a son who loved his father. Let me take his body down. Let me have him brought to the temple and buried with dignity so that he might find peace in the next world," Hizdahr begged.

Anakin relented, but the crucified masters had served their purpose by this point, demonstrating to the city that his rule was not to be taken lightly. "Bury your father, Hizdahr zo Loraq," he permitted.

"Thank you, My King," Hizdahr said before leaving the chambers with his manservant.

By the end of his first moon as king, once again, Anakin is sitting on the throne listening to the people's problems. This time an elderly man named Fennesz came before him in the audience chamber.

"Thank you for seeing me, your grace. My name is Fennesz. I can speak the common tongue if you wish," the elderly man addressed Anakin respectfully.

"You speak it very well," Anakin commended.

Fennesz continued, "Before you freed me, I belonged to Master Mighdal. I was tutor to his children. I taught them languages and history. They know a great deal about your family because of me. Little Calla is only seven, but she admires you very much."

"I hope I can prove worthy of her admiration. What can I do for you?" Anakin inquired of the former slave.

"When you took the city, the children begged me not to leave the house. But Master Mighdal and I agreed that I must. So I lost my home. Now I live on the streets," Fennesz narrated his plight since the new king's ascent.

"I have outfitted mess halls to feed all former slaves and barracks to shelter them," Anakin informed him.

"I do not mean to offend, your grace. I went to one of these places. The young prey on the old. Take what they want and beat us if we resist," Fennesz reveals the disturbing conditions plaguing the city.

"They will be made safe again in short order my friend, this I promise you," Anakin assured.

"Even if they are safe, who would I be there? What purpose would I serve? With my master, I was a teacher. I had the respect and love of these children," the former slave laments, causing Anakin to pause expectantly.

"What is it that you want from me?" he inquired resolutely.

"Your Grace, I ask you to let me sell myself back to Master Mighdal," Fennesz pleaded, desperate for stability.

This request jarred Anakin, who had always despised being a slave and assumed everyone else had as well. "You want to return to a man who owned you, like a goat or a chair?" Anakin asked incredulously.

Fennesz implored him to comprehend. "Please, Your Grace, the young may rejoice in the new world you've built for them. But for those of us too old to change there is only fear and squalor. I am not alone. There are many outside waiting to beg the same-" he began, but Anakin interrupted him.

"I did not take this city to preside over the injustice I fought to destroy. I took it to bring people freedom… But freedom means making your own choices. Go, run back to your master. I will allow you to sign a contract with them. It may not cover a period lasting longer than a year," he responded fervently.

"Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you," the former slave bowed his head, then turned and slowly exited the audience chamber.

As Fennesz predicted, this scenario repeats itself several times, with others requesting similar arrangements.

In Anakin's thoughts, a dragon's whispers taunt, dubbing him weak, for sparing Hizdahr and lacking the foresight to anticipate the consequences of his rebellion. This imaginary boogeyman prods at him, and he is determined to disprove it.

In the Great Pyramid Conference Room:

'Meereen had been rich beyond imagining,' Anakin thought to himself as he sat across from the gathering of men.

It wasn't the riches that had ever called to him, though. Had he embraced his greed he would have left the city long ago, embarking on a quest to find his family, to put this part of his life behind him.

Becoming King of Meereen had never been his original plan. But fate had intervened, and in the wake of his conquest, he had stumbled upon vast troves of gold hidden in the city's vaults - enough to rival the wealth of empires. Yet even with all this treasure at his disposal, he knew that gold alone couldn't maintain stability.

Despite having an army of around 20,000, maintaining order in a sprawling metropolis of nearly a million people was proving nearly impossible.

Crime was rampant, poverty endemic, and terrorism an ever-present threat. An insurgent group, whose members hid behind gilded harpy masks, had begun sowing chaos throughout the city.

After the Siege of Meereen three months ago, atrocities had been committed - massacres, rapes, homes burned to the ground. The scars of war ran deep.

Despite these overwhelming odds, Anakin managed to hold the city together through a mixture of fear and respect. Many of the wealthy slaver families had been spared, but some had met brutal ends, like those crucified.

The people of Meereen saw him as both a liberator and a terror. His sorcery - those inexplicable gifts he had mastered in the fighting pits further cemented his rule.

Yet, the very qualities that made him a powerful leader also left him isolated, alone in his authority. He had no council to share the burdens of rule, no one he trusted enough to delegate responsibility.

As Anakin addressed the men gathered before him - Camarron of the Count, Symon Stripeback, Mossador, Tal Toraq, and even nobles Skahaz mo Kandaq and Hizdahr zo Loraq - he emphasized his need for their competence. The city needed structure and order.

They spoke of many things.

Camarron had been busy assembling the 501st Legion, a company of seasoned warriors founded by men they had met in the fighting pits, such as Strong Belwas, Belaquo Bonebreaker, the Spotted Cat, Steelskin, and Fearless Ithoke. These men, like Anakin, carried the legacy of those who had been enslaved within the Great Pyramid and forced to fight for survival.

Symon had organized the Free Brothers, a group of freedmen with combat experience, while Tal Toraq led the Stalwart Shields, a company made up of Meereen's remaining city guards. Toraq was one of the first men to raise arms against the Masters, and join Anakin and his militia with his own battalion during the rebellion.

Mossador spoke on behalf of the newly freed citizens, and Hizdahr represented what remained of the Great Masters, their influence dwindling but still present.

Meanwhile, Skahaz mo Kandaq and the Shavepates had taken over the understaffed City-Watch, a role Anakin didn't mind him assuming considering its state.

Skahaz's brow is deeply furrowed, and his small, baggy eyes convey a weary intensity. His prominent nose is marred by dark blackheads, while his oily complexion takes on a yellow hue that contrasts with the typical amber of most Ghiscari. Notorious for his lack of charm, he seldom smiles, but when he does, his grin can appear almost savage. This merciless nobleman is a skilled torturer, unflinching in his willingness to eliminate hostages. He possesses an ironclad strength.

Collectively Meereen had 20,000 men - a force, but not enough for what he currently needed.

Anakin shared his vision with them. To secure the city's future, he proposed acquiring an Unsullied army from the Good Masters of Astapor.

Hizdahr was the first to raise objections. "You are known for your opposition of slavery, My King. Why would the Good Masters sell you their finest soldiers when you hold such a reputation?" There was skepticism in his voice, but beneath it, a measure of respect.

Skahaz gives his usual stern scowl, clearly expressing his disdain for Hizdahr zo Loraq, a sentiment he has never tried to conceal.

Anakin leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I don't intend to keep them as slaves. I intend to free them." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. "If I don't… they will be turned against us once word of what's happened here becomes 'felt'."

Tal nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, your reputation hasn't spread fully through Slaver's Bay yet. The city's communication and travel networks are still in disarray. There's time to act before anyone realizes what you've done here."

Tal Toraq possesses a captivating presence and unique appearance. Towering at 6 foot 3, he showcases a slender, athletic physique. His angular face features high cheekbones and a prominent jawline, contributing to his striking features. Often exuding intensity, his expressions radiate an easygoing confidence. His dark complexion and deep brown eyes enhance his allure, while his thick, dark hair is styled closely cropped. With a smooth, resonant voice and an effortless style, he embodies a natural charm that draws people in. *Leon Preston Robinson*

Symon, ever practical, spoke up next. "And what then? You purchase an army only to free it. How does that help us hold the city?"

Symon, a former slave from Astapor, is known as Stripeback due to the scars he bears from being whipped by his masters. Standing at around 5 foot 10, he possesses a lean and toned physique. His square face features a strong jawline and a subtly pointed chin, contributing to his sharp and intense appearance. His striking blue-green eyes often convey a piercing or contemplative expression. His naturally medium brown hair is usually worn short, though he occasionally opts for a slightly longer or tousled style. Altogether, he exudes a blend of relatable charm and a hint of edgy mystery. *Michael C. Hall*

"I'm not asking for anyone's permission," Anakin replied, his voice steely. "I'm telling you what's going to happen. Once I leave for Astapor, you'll need to keep order here. We either need the Unsullied with us or out of the picture, not just for now, but for what comes after."

Camarron narrowed his eyes. "After?"

Anakin nodded, "It won't end in Meereen. In case you haven't noticed we just freed thousands of slaves in the most hostile region possible. It's already begun." He signals to Mossador to clarify his meaning.

"They call themselves the Sons of the Harpy, an underground insurgency group opposing the rule of His Grace over Meereen, made by members of the slaver class. They want to put a collar back on our necks," Mossador declares.

The room fell quiet as the gravity of his words sank in.

Anakin broke the silence. "Even if we do stabilize the city, it will only be a matter of time before we catch the attention of the remainder of Slaver's Bay. Before my leave, we need to ensure that Meereen will hold. You'll all need to manage things in my absence."

Each man nodded, understanding the task ahead, but only one had a suggestion. "The Graces might be of help," Hizdahr suggested, referring to the priestesses of the Ghiscari religion who held great sway over much of the populace. "Their influence reaches places even the City-Watch cannot."

Anakin hadn't dealt much with the Graces, though he had seen visions of other priestesses in dreams - dreams that had an unsettling tendency to be prophetic. Hizdahr's suggestion intrigued him, and he nodded slowly. "I'll consider it."

For now, the path was clear. He needed to travel to Astapor, secure the Unsullied, and prepare his council to maintain order in his absence. The road ahead was filled with uncertainty, but he had survived worse.

The only difference now is that he is a King.