The afternoon sun was a relentless, humid weight, turning the air above Meereen into a shimmering haze of heat and dust. Eddard set up a small banquet on the balcony of his suite, the high altitude offering a slight breeze that carried the distant scent of the sea and the sweet, cloying aroma of the city's spice markets.
"My Lord, it is tonight."
Admiral Groleo offered an irrepressible smile, his eyes reflecting the deep crimson of the Arbor red in his glass. He leaned forward, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I found a few of the 'Free Folk', former slaves I've treated well over the years. They are part of the Brazen Beasts and are stationed at the Deep Pit tonight. We can enter at the Ghost Hour without a single spear being raised."
Eddard nodded with satisfaction. "Well done, Groleo. Do we require disguises, or will our northern faces be enough to freeze their tongues?"
"Everything is ready," Groleo replied, gesturing to a bundle in the corner. "Three sets of Brazen Beast leathers and locust masks. Once we are masked, we only need the password: 'Hero'."
"Hero?" Eddard mused, swirling his wine. "What does it mean?"
Groleo shrugged. "I haven't paid much attention to the court's poetry lately, My Lord. The guards said it was the name of a fallen Unsullied captain. To them, it means vengeance."
"I understand," Eddard said. He looked out at the Great Pyramid's jagged silhouette against the darkening sky. "Enjoy the wine. Tonight, we see if the 'Mother' left any fire behind in her basement."
Salladhor Saan popped a grape into his mouth, his expression one of boyish excitement. "I've heard the stories since I was a boy in Lys. The Field of Fire, the Dance... the Targaryens always had a flair for the dramatic. I never thought I'd actually stand in the presence of a living dragon."
The conversation was interrupted by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of heavy boots. Karas Snow emerged from the inner room, his face grave. "Your Majesty, Ser Barristan requests your presence. He is at his residence on the top floor. He says it is urgent."
Eddard rose, setting his glass aside. "Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. It seems the 'Old Knight' has found a scent."
The climb to the apex of the pyramid was a trek through a vertical city. Eddard moved through the corridors, noting the way the Meereenese nobles in their fringed tokars avoided him, their eyes full of a localized, petty fear. The Unsullied stood like bronze statues, their spears crossed in a silent, professional greeting, while the Brazen Beasts huddled in the shadows, their masks hiding whether they intended to bow or bite.
Ser Barristan's room was a monument to asceticism: a narrow bed, a plain table, and a single wooden box. The legendary knight stood in the center, a silhouette of silver and gold in the dim candlelight.
"My Lord, close the door," Barristan commanded.
"You found the poisoner," Eddard said, skipping the pleasantries.
"I did," Barristan sighed, the sound heavy with a lifetime of disappointment. "Hizdahr's pastry chef. The Sons of the Harpy took his nine-year-old daughter. They promised her return if the Queen died. After Drogon took Her Majesty, they sent the girl back... in nine pieces."
Eddard's expression didn't change, but his eyes turned a shade colder. "And the King?"
"We believe Hizdahr was the door," Barristan said, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "The Harpy cannot move in this pyramid without the Master's consent. Tonight, at the Ghost Hour, we strike. Grey Worm, Jorah Mormont, and the Shavepue's loyalists are already in position. We return Meereen to the Queen's regency."
"A rebellion," Eddard noted. "Moving fast."
"I need your assistance, Eddard," Barristan admitted. "Hizdahr has filled the lower levels with pit-fighters, men who know only how to kill. If a battle erupts, I need your 'Winter Guards' to hold the stairs."
"I'll leave Karas Snow to lead them," Eddard promised. "As for me... I have a separate appointment in the pits."
Barristan nodded, his mind already on the coming blood. "The password is 'Hero.' The Brazen Beasts at the main stairs will let you pass."
Ghost Hour arrived with a heavy, oppressive humidity. The stars were hidden behind a blanket of clouds, and a fine, warm rain began to slick the stone of the pyramid.
Eddard, Saan, and Groleo slipped into the servant's staircase - a narrow, steep descent hidden within the thick brick walls. They were halfway down when heavy, disciplined footsteps echoed from above. Eddard paused, seeing the glint of silver plate. Barristan was already moving.
"Hero," Eddard whispered as the knight passed.
"Hero," Barristan replied without stopping, his face a mask of duty.
The Karstark trio continued their descent, reaching the side door used by merchants and slaves. A mule-drawn cart was currently entering the alley, carrying the heavy scent of raw beef and slaughtered sheep.
Six figures followed the cart, five in masks and one tall, blonde woman with a face mapped by horrific scars.
"Prince Quentyn," Eddard said, stepping into the torchlight.
The group froze. The man in the Lion mask, short and stocky stepped back in shock. Beside him, a man with a head like a pink pebble and no neck stood ready to lunge.
"Who are you?" the "Lion" demanded.
"Dog," the "Bull" added, offering the daytime password.
Eddard took off his mask, a mocking smile on his lips. "Wrong. The password changed at sunset, Prince Quentyn. It's 'Hero' now. And unless you want to explain to Ser Barristan why you're hauling a cart of meat toward the dragons, I suggest you take us with you."
Quentyn Martell pulled off his own mask, his face pale. "You know what I want?"
"You want to prove you're a Dragonrider," Eddard said, pointing to the cart. "You want to bring Daenerys a gift she can't refuse. But you're walking into a furnace, Prince. Either we cooperate, or I take your meat and do it myself."
"You speak as if we have no choice!" the blonde woman, Pretty Meris, hissed, raising a crossbow.
Eddard didn't move his hand to his sword. He simply flicked his wrist.
[Active Skill: Magic Arrow triggered.]
A bolt of prismatic light hissed through the rain. CLACK. The crossbow in Meris's hand was shattered into splinters. The mercenaries of the Windblown recoiled, their eyes wide with a primal, superstitious terror.
"We cooperate," Quentyn said hurriedly. "Let's go. This is no place for a debate."
Eddard smiled. "Sensible. Your uncle Oberyn and I are friends, Quentyn. For his sake, I'll try to keep you from being turned into a charcoal briquette."
The combined party descended into the labyrinthine sub-basements. They passed through humid dungeons and stone cisterns until they reached the massive, double iron doors of the Deep Pit. The doors were a wreck of rusted iron and bulges, the metal warped as if struck by a titan. Three sections of the left panel had burst open, and the corner of the right was a slag of melted slag.
"Hero," Eddard said to the sergeant in the lizard mask.
"Feeding the beasts so late?" the sergeant asked, leaning on his spear.
"The King is occupied," Eddard said with a commanding gravity. "The Queen's Guard has ordered a double-ration to keep them quiet during the transition. You are needed on the sixteenth floor to assist Ser Barristan. Go."
The sergeant, intimidated by Eddard's height and the correct password, didn't hesitate. He handed over the heavy iron keys and led his men away.
Eddard took the key, the arm-thick iron chains clattering as he unlooped them. He heaved the doors open, revealing a yawning abyss of absolute, heat-saturated darkness. From the depths, a low, rhythmic growl vibrated through the floorboards, a sound that wasn't a noise, but a frequency of pure, ancient hunger.
"Please, Prince Quentyn," Eddard said, gesturing toward the dark with Heartbreaker. "After you. The warriors of the Windblown shouldn't be shy."
[System Notification: Narrative Event: The Dragon Taming begun.]
[Target: Viserion & Rhaegal.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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