Beneath the towering pyramid of Meereen, the combined noise of ninety thousand men and women merged into a heavy, muddled hum. The air was thick with the sour tang of sweat, fear, and cheap ale, a suffocating mixture that clung to everyone like a second skin.
Fifty thousand slave soldiers, driven forward by the sharp cracks of overseers' whips, shuffled across the immense plaza like cattle being herded into pens. Their so-called "equipment" consisted of rusted spears, battered shields, and ragged clothes that offered no protection from sword or flame. Their eyes were empty, dulled with the resignation of those who had long ago surrendered their souls. They were not men anymore—only walking shells.
Behind them, another forty thousand so-called "freemen" moved with equally hesitant steps. This contingent was even more chaotic than the slaves. These were artisans, peddlers, porters, men who only yesterday had been bargaining for a day's bread or fighting over a crate of goods at the docks. Today, they were pressed into service, hastily fitted with leather armor that barely covered their torsos and short swords that looked more like ceremonial daggers than weapons of war.
Fear draped over them like a sticky, suffocating sweat. Every glance was a question, every tremble an unspoken prayer. They clutched their weapons not with confidence but with desperation, seeking comfort in the illusion of control, however fleeting.
Above the crowd, the Great Lords of Meereen, draped in their gaudy tokar robes, rotated through impassioned speeches.
"People of Meereen!" boomed Zach Zo Glaz, the wealthiest among them, his arms thrown wide in a gesture of theatrical fervor. His voice was shrill, strained by both obesity and excitement. "Those filthy Dothraki wildlings are at our gates! They seek to steal your wives, take your wealth, and reduce your homes to ash!"
He paused, scanning the crowd with a predatory satisfaction. A few freedmen shouted, clapping nervously, encouraged by his words.
"But Meereen will not surrender! The Great Lords will stand with you!" he continued, his voice rising with manic energy. "After victory, every freeman who participates will receive ten silver pieces! Strike down an enemy, and your reward doubles! Kill their leader, and you shall be granted your own estate and slaves!"
The crowd reacted with sporadic, hesitant cheers. The promise of wealth, even if hollow, sparked a brief glimmer of hope and greed. But Zach's gaze carefully avoided the rows of slave soldiers. Fifty thousand lives—he did not need to reward them. They were shields, expendable and easily replaced.
This blatant discrimination only deepened the already yawning gap between the ranks. Tension crackled through the air like lightning before a storm.
At the edge of the Naqian family's formation, Hidara Zo Naqian observed everything silently. He was tall, lean, and alert, his reddish-black hair rustling in the hot Essos wind. His amber skin gleamed with health under the harsh sun, and unlike the other nobles in gaudy robes, he wore practical leather armor. His hands rested on the hilt of his longsword, the knuckles whitening slightly from the tight grip.
He scanned the scene with a cold clarity: Zach shouting atop the steps, the freedmen below spurred by greed, and the slave soldiers—numb, expressionless, like empty shells.
Sheep being driven to slaughter.
The thought was clinical, devoid of emotion, yet precise.
"Uncle," he murmured, leaning toward the middle-aged man at his side, his voice low. "This… this is a farce."
The man, the current patriarch of the Naqian family, let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. His eyes swept across the chaos in the square, exhaustion and helplessness etched into every line of his face.
"We have no choice, Xidala," he said quietly, his voice heavy with defeat. "Damian Thorne's flames have destroyed our walls, and all our escape routes are gone."
He placed a firm hand on Hidara's shoulder. "Preserving the Naqian family's wealth and status is more important than anything else. As long as the family survives, hope remains."
Hidara did not argue. His gaze drifted past his uncle, over the scorched remnants of the city walls, still blackened from dragon fire. Something flickered in his amber eyes—complex, unreadable. Hope? Perhaps. But when the enemy is a true dragon, hope is the most luxurious, dangerous thing one can possess.
That night, within the Naqian family mansion, a secret council convened. The room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, stretching the worried shadows of the assembled elders into long, thin shapes across the walls. Only the core members of the Nachen and Parr families were present, considered the more rational and cautious factions among Meereen's elite.
"Ninety thousand men," the Parr patriarch said, his voice heavy with disbelief as he drained the cup of wine in front of him. "It sounds like a formidable force—but what kind of men are they? A herd of artisans who have never swung a sword, a mass of resentful slaves… fighting against the Dothraki, masters of the great plains? Zach is insane. He is willing to stake all of Meereen just to save his warehouses at the docks!"
Chief Nachen, seated opposite him, nodded solemnly. "He is not insane. He is blinded by greed. And he has convinced the others. Marching out to meet the Dothraki is now 'consensus' among the Great Lords. Anyone who opposes it will be branded a traitor."
"Traitor?" the Parr patriarch whispered, shaking his head. "If we go out, we will be betraying not just our families but the city itself!"
"And what choice do we have?" Nachen countered. "Damian Thorne watches from above, and the Dothraki wait outside. We are trapped, like insects in a jar. Struggle as we might, death is tightening its grip around us."
The elders muttered in despair, each complaint a dull echo of helplessness. They were insects caught in a web—no matter how much they wriggled, the threads of fate only drew tighter.
Sidara Nachen, silent until now, placed his wine glass on the table. The crisp sound of it landing caught everyone's attention. He looked at the assembled elders with a calm, unwavering gaze.
"Since we cannot win," he began, his voice steady and chilling in its calmness, "why do we not surrender?"
The room froze. All eyes turned to him, incredulous.
"Surrender?" Chief Parr's voice trembled as he tried to protest, but Sidara's piercing gaze silenced him.
Sidara stepped forward, pointing to the map on the table, his finger tracing the ruins of Meereen. "Think carefully. Who is our enemy? A man who can transform into a dragon, a being capable of melting our walls with fire as easily as water flows. Damian Thorne is no mere mortal."
Each word fell like an icicle into the hearts of those present.
"He is a descendant of Valyria," Sidara continued. "A true Dragon King. There is no shame in bowing before him. Our ancestors were part of the Valyrian Freehold—they understood loyalty and pragmatism. This is not humiliation; this is survival."
His voice dropped, leaving the room in heavy silence. Then he spoke the words that had plagued him all day.
"We are gambling with ninety thousand lives—sheep sent to the slaughter—just to see if a lion spares us after eating its fill."
"This is not war. This is suicide."
The elders paled. Their minds knew Sidara was right, yet the pride instilled over generations of wealth and slave ownership would not allow them to accept it.
"Shut up!" Sidara's uncle, the Naqian patriarch, slammed the table, veins throbbing on his forehead. "Are you mad, Sidara? Surrender? Have you forgotten who we face? Damian Thorne did not come alone! He brought the Dothraki—hundreds of thousands of warriors, merciless and wild! You would hand our city to these monsters?"
The room shook with the force of his words, but Sidara remained unmoved. His amber eyes, sharp and calculating, reflected neither fear nor despair. They reflected only clarity.
Survival is more valuable than pride. Survival is more valuable than gold.
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