Inside the secret chamber of the Naqian family, the air hung heavy, pressing down like molten lead. Every breath felt thick, every movement sluggish, weighed down by the tension that seemed almost tangible.
"Surrender?!"
The patriarch of the Naqian family, Hidara's uncle, trembled with fury, his hair and beard standing on end as his enraged eyes glared at his nephew. He jabbed a shaking finger toward Sidara's face, spittle flying with each shouted word.
"Are you insane? You would hand over our wealth, our wives, our daughters, to a band of Dothraki barbarians who eat raw meat and drink blood?!" His voice echoed off the stone walls, reverberating like the roar of a storm. "You would bring ruin to the Naqian family itself!"
Sidara Nachen remained calm. Not a muscle twitched on his face, nor did his amber eyes waver. He picked up the wine glass on the table, swirling the deep crimson liquid within as if he were handling a mere trinket. Even as his uncle's furious tirade raged on, Sidara did not flinch.
It was only when the old man's breath grew ragged, his rage spent for the moment, that Sidara finally spoke. His voice was soft, measured, yet it carried across the chamber like a hammer striking iron.
"Uncle… you are mistaken," he said. "It is precisely because he leads the Dothraki that we should consider surrendering."
The words landed like a cold wind, stiffening the spine of every noble in the room. The silence that followed was thick, almost unbearable.
"The Dothraki only obey the strongest," Sidara continued, his gaze shifting across the few allies of the Parr family who had gathered with the Naqian. "If their Khal commanded restraint, they would follow it without question. So the key is not these wild men… it is the one who commands them."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Every noble present understood the implication, though it took courage to admit it out loud.
"It depends entirely on that… Dragon King. Damian Thorne."
Some of the older lords scoffed. A white-haired elder of House Pal shook his head slowly, his cloudy eyes filled with both pity and disbelief, as though Sidara were speaking nonsense to a child.
"Young man… you are still too inexperienced," the elder said, his tone patient, almost condescending. "Dragon Kings, like the Targaryens, are descendants of Valyria. Conquest and rulership are in their blood."
He leaned forward, voice lowering as if sharing a secret lesson from history. "Throughout history, what befell defeated nobles who surrendered to a Dragon King? Gold, oaths of loyalty, protection… perhaps even positions within the court of King's Landing, if fortune favored them. Nothing more."
The elder's gaze was unwavering as he fixed Sidara with a firm, knowing stare. "This is a game played by rules, child. Rules established centuries ago, in the time of the Valyrian Freehold. You ignore them at your peril."
Several nobles in the room nodded slowly, their expressions revealing reluctant recognition. What they feared most was the raw barbarity of the Dothraki, but if the enemy was a Dragon King who knew the rules—a ruler who could be bargained with, reasoned with, or even subtly manipulated—then survival was at least conceivable. Money could be spent to avoid disaster, but the foundations of a family—once destroyed—could never be rebuilt.
"Rules?" Sidara repeated softly, the single word curling with faint irony at the corner of his mouth. He set the glass down and rose, his movements deliberate and composed.
Walking to the window, he pushed open the heavy wooden shutters. The cold night wind blew in, tugging at his long red-and-black hair. Outside, the ruined city of Meereen glowed in the flickering light of scattered fires, smoke rising like phantom ghosts above collapsed walls. Far beyond, the silent military encampments of the Dothraki sprawled across the night like a crawling, predatory beast, radiating menace with every heartbeat of the plains.
A herd of fools.
Sidara sneered inwardly. Using outdated histories and almanacs to judge a creature that bends all rules, even centuries-old ones.
Turning back, his gaze now cold and sharp, he spoke again. The tone was smooth, unnervingly calm, yet every word cut through the room like a blade.
"You all forget one crucial fact," he said. "Damian Thorne—from Astapor to the Dothraki Sea—does not abide by your so-called rules. He is no mere noble who seeks gold or ceremonial loyalty. He freed the slaves of Astapor, and slaughtered those masters who resisted. He burned disobedient Khals to ash, compressing the Dothraki Sea into a fist under his command. He is not here to negotiate, nor to bargain. He came to conquer."
The room grew colder. Candles flickered as if shivering in the presence of Sidara's words. Every noble in the chamber felt a chill of recognition: the Dragon King was not just a military threat; he was a force of history, of destiny itself.
"He wants an empire," Sidara continued, voice low and deliberate. "An empire where obedience is absolute, where the strong command and the weak follow. And he does not share power willingly."
Even the elder of House Pal, who had earlier tried to teach Sidara the 'rules,' found his throat dry. Words failed him.
Sidara did not pause, giving them no chance to recover.
"Furthermore," he said, his voice dripping with cutting sarcasm, "you all forget another inconvenient fact. The Dothraki thrive on plunder. Every victory they achieve, every campaign they wage, is measured by what they can seize. Gold, crops, livestock—this is the lifeblood of their culture. They do not fight for honor. They fight for spoils."
He let the words settle, each one striking like a hammer. "And now, a king who sustains his army through plunder leads a hundred thousand of these wolves to the gates of Meereen, one of the richest cities in the known world."
The faintest trace of a smile appeared on Sidara's lips, sharp with irony. "Do you think he will simply pass up the opportunity to plunder? That he will reward these men with… love? Loyalty? Comfort? No. The riches of this city are the prize, and every one of us who opposes him is expendable."
Silence enveloped the chamber. The ancient logic of surrender—passed down through generations, validated by history—crumbled under the cold, analytical reality Sidara laid bare.
The city walls were gone. The ninety thousand troops—slaves and citizens alike—faced an invincible Dragon King and a hundred thousand elite Dothraki. They were outmatched, outclassed, and outmaneuvered. Surrender, in this context, was no salvation. It was an open invitation to death.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, the elders realized the truth: there was no path to survival through traditional means.
"Y-you mean…" The Pal elder finally spoke, his voice hoarse, dry, and trembling. "Whether we fight or surrender… we could lose everything?"
"No," Sidara said, shaking his head.
Every eye in the room fixed on him, desperate, hungry for some hint of salvation.
"There is another option," he said slowly.
Sidara returned to the table, lifting the glass of wine and draining it in a single gulp. The crimson liquid ran down his throat, staining the rim of the glass. He regarded the wine stains calmly, as if drawing meaning from them.
"Sell out the other families," he said.
Old Parr and Chief Naqian exchanged glances. They understood immediately.
"We can contact the Pal family and several others willing to cooperate. Offer them half of our wealth to the Dragon King. Use it to secure the city, and to persuade fools like Zach Zo Glaz to fall in line," Sidara explained.
His eyes gleamed with a dangerous combination of calculation and audacity. "The wealth of Zach and his allies is more than enough to satisfy Damian Thorne and his army. By positioning ourselves as the pragmatic core of his administration, we become indispensable, a foundation for his rule in Meereen."
He lifted his head, letting the candlelight catch the amber of his eyes, igniting them like twin flames.
"As long as we hold a corner in the Dragon King's palace—even the humblest corner—we will survive. And in time… we will reclaim everything we have lost."
The chamber was silent. For the first time in hours, there was a sense of focus, clarity, and cold, rational determination. Sidara had dissected the chaos, the greed, and the fear, and distilled the path to survival.
This was the logic of surrender, the survival strategy for those who understood that the world had changed, that the Dragon King was no longer a man to be bargained with by old rules.
Here, in the flickering candlelight and heavy shadows of Meereen, Sidara Nachen's mind worked faster than any blade, faster than any army, faster than the fire and fury of Damian Thorne above.
He was not a hero. Not yet. But he was rational, ruthless, and ready to play the only game left to the surviving lords of Meereen.
And in this game, only one principle mattered: survival first.
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