Night fell over Meereen.
But the city was no longer cloaked in darkness.
The night sky burned orange, illuminated by hundreds of fires that devoured homes, temples, and streets. The air was thick with ash, the smell of scorched flesh, and the ceaseless wailing of its people. Cries of pain and despair echoed from every corner, blending with the crackling of burning wood—a grim symphony of ruin and regret.
At the summit of the Great Pyramid, Zach Zo Glaz stood motionless.
The evening breeze tugged at his silk tokar robe, once a symbol of wealth and pride, now fluttering like a shroud of mourning. His once-rosy face was now drained of color, pale as the dead. Behind him stood a dozen of Meereen's most powerful lords, men who had ruled this city with arrogance and gold for generations.
They looked down upon their realm.
Or rather—what remained of it.
The proud walls that had stood for centuries, strong enough to withstand siege and fire, were gone. The once-majestic ring of Meereen's defenses had become nothing more than broken, smoking ruins. Gaps hundreds of meters wide yawned open like gaping wounds, still glowing with molten stone.
The outer defenses of Meereen, the pride of the Great Masters, had fallen.
A chief craftsman stumbled up the steps to the platform, covered in soot, his body trembling from exhaustion and terror. When he reached the top, he fell to his knees with a dull thud, pressing his forehead against the cold marble floor.
"Great Lords…" he croaked, his voice hoarse and shaking.
"Seventy percent of the outer wall has been destroyed completely. The remaining sections are fractured and may collapse at any time."
He swallowed hard, choking on tears and smoke.
"It cannot be repaired. We… we have no walls left."
The last sentence struck like thunder in the silent hall.
No walls. No protection. No defense.
The Great Lords stood frozen, their eyes empty, their souls hollow. The realization sank in—the city that had once withstood every army and rebellion now lay naked before its enemies.
Inside the council chamber of the Great Pyramid, silence reigned. The room was filled with the faint scent of expensive Volantene incense burning in a copper brazier, but the sweet fragrance could not mask the stench of fear. The faces of the Great Lords were pale in the flickering firelight, their jeweled rings and golden robes mocking them with their uselessness.
Finally, the patriarch of House Parr—a white-haired man whose voice still carried the weight of authority—slammed his fist on the long table.
"We must shrink our defenses!" he rasped. "Abandon the outer city! Withdraw all Unsullied and slave soldiers to the inner city. Fortify the pyramids and strongholds. Engage in street fighting if we must! If we hold long enough, Yunkai's reinforcements will come!"
Several older lords nodded grimly.
It was a logical plan—the only plan.
But before the silence could settle, another voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Foolishness!"
Zach Zo Glaz's fat body quivered with rage as he slammed his palms onto the table. The golden cups rattled, spilling wine like blood. His face twisted with fury, and his jowls shook as he shouted, "Withdraw? Abandon the outer city? That's easy for you to say, old man!"
He jabbed a finger toward the Parr patriarch, his voice rising with every word.
"What about my estates? The olive groves? The vineyards? The farms that stretch for miles beyond the gates? You expect me to hand them over to those Dothraki savages?!"
Spittle flew as he spoke, and his eyes glowed with a feverish greed.
"And the docks! The Graz family owns seven warehouses at the harbor, filled with silks and spices from Volantis! You say we should abandon them too? That's gold, do you understand? Gold!"
His words struck a chord deep within the hearts of the others.
The room, once filled with fear, now pulsed with something darker—greed.
They were not warriors.
They were merchants, slave traders, and bankers.
Their courage was counted in coins, their faith in ledgers.
The thought of losing their wealth was far more terrifying than the thought of losing their lives.
Zach slammed his fist on the table again. "The dragon only destroyed the wall! His army hasn't arrived yet! The Dothraki are still miles away!"
He pointed to the others, his tone manic, his voice trembling with conviction.
"We still have an army—forty thousand freedmen, fifty thousand slaves! Ninety thousand soldiers! Why should we hide in holes like rats while savages plunder our wealth?!"
Chief Parr rose to his feet, his face red with fury. "Are you insane? Do you even understand what you're saying? The Dothraki are not merchants to be bargained with! Once they see our army of slaves, they'll break them in minutes!"
"So what if they do?" Zach sneered. "Slaves can be replaced. Wealth cannot."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall.
The madness was spreading.
Zach saw it—the flicker of greed, the desperate glint in their eyes—and pressed his advantage.
"My brothers," he said, lowering his voice, dripping with persuasion. "We are the masters of Meereen. Descendants of the Empire of Ghis! Our ancestors once ruled half the world beneath the wings of the Harpy! And now—will we cower like beggars just because one wall fell?"
He straightened his posture, spreading his arms wide. "The walls have fallen, yes. But our treasuries remain full. Our wealth endures. And as long as it does, Meereen endures!"
The room went silent.
He let the words hang in the air before roaring,
"To protect the wealth of Meereen—we must fight!"
His cry echoed through the vast chamber like a war drum.
"For wealth! For the glory of the Harpy!"
The fever caught quickly.
One by one, voices rose around him.
"I agree! We cannot surrender our estates!"
"Yes! The Dothraki are fewer than a hundred thousand—we have the numbers!"
"Fight! Fight for Meereen!"
The reasoned voices were drowned beneath the thunder of greed and fear.
Chief Parr stood motionless as chaos erupted around him. He looked into the faces of his fellow lords—men once considered wise and powerful—and saw only madness staring back. Their eyes gleamed not with courage, but with desperation and avarice.
He sank slowly into his chair, covering his face with trembling hands.
"Meereen is doomed," he whispered to himself.
Within the hour, the decision was made.
There was no debate, no second thought.
The Great Lords of Meereen—the richest men in Slaver's Bay—had sealed their city's fate.
Madness triumphed over reason.
Greed triumphed over fear.
Outside, the fires still burned, casting long, dancing shadows on the marble walls of the Great Pyramid. But now, new torches were being lit—not to mourn, but to march.
A herald rushed down the grand staircase, his bronze mask glinting in the firelight. Standing at the edge of the pyramid steps, he looked down at the crowd gathered in the square below—tens of thousands of frightened citizens and slaves, their faces smeared with ash and soot.
He raised his trumpet and shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the night like the cry of a doomed man.
"The Great Lord has given the order!"
His words thundered across the plaza.
"All warriors of Meereen—assemble at once!"
The people below stirred, murmuring in confusion. Slave soldiers looked at one another with hollow eyes, unsure whether to obey or flee. The firelight reflected off their bronze armor, dull and cracked, like the dying glow of a dying civilization.
Above them, Zach Zo Glaz watched from the balcony of the Great Pyramid, his face flushed with excitement. In his mind, he no longer saw flames or ruin—only piles of gold, safe behind the lines of his army. He did not see the black shadow in the distant sky, circling high above the burning city.
Damian Thorne was still out there—watching.
And when the Dothraki finally arrived at dawn,
Meereen would meet its reckoning.
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