Chapter 25: Meereen's Reckoning
The dawn broke over the parched plains, painting the immense brick pyramids of Meereen in hues of ochre and blood-orange. King Baelon I Targaryen's grand army, a serpent of black steel and crimson banners, coiled before the ancient city's formidable walls. At their head, Silverwing gleamed, her rider an indomitable figure whose ageless eyes surveyed the last great bastion of Slaver's Bay. Above them, a distortion in the air, a chill that belied the desert heat, marked the unseen presence of Umbraxys.
The Great Masters of Meereen, from the apex of their colossal central pyramid, watched the arrival of this new conqueror with a mixture of arrogance and dawning apprehension. They had received fragmented, terrifying reports from Astapor – of a great shadow beast and fire that melted fortifications. They had heard of Yunkai's strangulation by a relentless blockade. Yet, Meereen was the mightiest, her walls thick, her Ghiscari legions numerous, her brazen beasts fearsome, her history steeped in defiance.
Baelon did not immediately order an assault. Instead, he commanded a single, massive banner to be unfurled – the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, but rendered in stark black against a field of imperial crimson, signifying his new Valyrian Protectorate. Then, a lone rider, a herald clad in Baelon's colours, approached the main gates under a flag of parley.
The message delivered was simple and brutal, echoing the King's earlier proclamation: unconditional surrender, the immediate emancipation of all slaves, the handing over of the Great Masters for judgment, and the city's complete submission to the Iron Throne. Failure to comply within the hour would result in utter annihilation.
Within the council chambers of the Great Pyramid, uproar ensued. Oznak zo Pahl, a master famed for his cruelty and his champion pit fighters, bellowed for defiance. "Shall Meereen bow to this Westerosi savage? To this… dragon-riding barbarian? We are the blood of Old Ghis! We do not kneel!"
Others, more pragmatic, like Grazdan mo Eraz, pointed to the smoking ruins of Astapor's outer defenses and the silence from Yunkai. "His terms are an outrage, but his power… it is not to be dismissed lightly. Perhaps a negotiation? A substantial tribute?"
But Baelon was not interested in negotiation. As the hour drew to a close with no white flag of surrender appearing above Meereen's gates, he gave the order.
It began not with a charge, but with a display of overwhelming, terrifying power. Silverwing ascended, a silver speck against the azure sky, then plunged. But instead of unleashing flame upon the walls, Baelon, his voice amplified by magic so it boomed across the intervening distance, spoke.
"Great Masters of Meereen! You have chosen defiance. You have chosen oblivion."
As he spoke, Umbraxys began to coalesce, the shadow-stuff drawing together, darkening the very sky above the city. The colossal dragon, larger than any Valyrian beast of old, its scales like obsidian shards, its eyes burning embers of cosmic cold, became partially visible, a nightmare silhouette that blotted out the sun over a vast section of Meereen. A collective gasp of pure terror rose from the city, audible even to the legions below. The brazen beasts stirred uneasily in their pens, their handlers struggling to control them.
Then, Baelon gestured. From the ranks of his Royal Academy scholars, an arcane device, one of the unearthed Valyrian schematics, was activated. It hummed with a low thrum, and a focused beam of concentrated sonic energy slammed into a section of Meereen's eastern wall. The bricks, ancient and strong, vibrated, then cracked, then exploded outwards, a fifty-yard breach appearing as if by a Titan's hammer blow.
"That," Baelon's amplified voice declared, "is but a whisper of what awaits."
Panic began to grip Meereen. Inside the city, the enslaved population, who had heard whispers of this new King who broke chains, felt a stirring of forbidden hope mixed with dread. From hidden corners, eyes watched the unfolding spectacle, wondering if this was a new form of tyranny or true liberation.
Oznak zo Pahl, enraged and perhaps mad with fear, ordered his Ghiscari legions to sally forth from the main gates, his champion pit fighters at their head, eager to spill blood. "Drive them back to the sea!" he screamed from the ramparts.
The Meereenite charge was met not by Westerosi heavy infantry initially, but by the freed slave cohorts of Volantis. Armed with spears and short swords, clad in Targaryen black, they met their former oppressors – or those who represented their kind – with a chilling ferocity. Their battle cries were raw, fueled by generations of resentment and the promise of a new future under their liberator King. They fought not merely for conquest, but for a deeply personal vengeance and validation.
Above the fray, Silverwing now did unleash her fire, not indiscriminately, but with pinpoint precision, incinerating siege engines atop the walls and clearing paths for the advancing ground troops. Baelon watched, his expression detached, calculating.
Then, he focused his own will. Reaching out with his enhanced senses, honed by Umbraxys and Valyrian lore, he found the geothermal energies beneath the city. With a massive exertion of his power, he drew upon them, weaving a complex enchantment. The ground before the main Meereenite phalanx, the one led by Oznak's prize fighters, began to tremble. Fissures appeared, spewing hot steam, then with a localized roar, a section of the earth buckled and sank, creating a treacherous, steaming pit that swallowed dozens of Ghiscari soldiers and broke their charge.
"The earth itself rejects your tainted city," Baelon's voice thundered, a palpable wave of magical compulsion washing over the defenders near the breach, sowing doubt and fear. Weaker minds faltered, their resolve crumbling.
Meanwhile, Aemond's bloody work in Astapor was nearing its conclusion. A raven arrived mid-afternoon, its message for the King brief: "Astapor has fallen. The Good Masters are… no more. The Unsullied are broken or captured. Awaiting your orders for repurposing. Vhagar requires sustenance."
Baelon allowed a grim smile. "Excellent. Lord Crakehall will soon send similar news from Yunkai, I imagine."
He turned his full attention back to Meereen. The initial shock and awe had taken its toll. His legions were now pouring through the breach created by the sonic device, engaging the disorganized Meereenite defenders. Umbraxys, under Baelon's direction, began to use its more subtle abilities – not widespread destruction, but targeted applications of shadow and fear. Pockets of defenders found themselves enveloped in impenetrable darkness, their comrades vanishing, their courage failing. Illusions of monstrous beasts stalked the alleyways near the fighting, turning retreats into panicked routs.
Voldemort, sharing Baelon's consciousness, felt the familiar surge of power, of a world bending to his will. They resist, as all lesser beings resist the inevitable. But they will learn. They will all learn. The souls of Meereen, the very essence of its long history of suffering and defiance, seemed to cry out, a symphony of despair that was music to his ears.
As dusk began to fall, the outer districts of Meereen were aflame, the sounds of battle echoing through the labyrinthine streets. Baelon had not yet taken the Great Pyramid, but its shadow now loomed over a city teetering on the brink of utter collapse. He knew the Great Masters would be in a state of terror and disarray.
He prepared for the final push, the one that would bring him to the heart of their power. Tomorrow, he would stand in their council chambers, not as a petitioner, but as their absolute master. The reckoning of Meereen was well underway.