Chapter 11: The Fall of Meereen and the Twenty Years of Peace
The road from Yunkai to Meereen was lined with red banners that grew thicker with every mile. Word of the fall of the Wise Masters had spread like fire through dry grass. Slaves from every pyramid city, every fighting pit, every pleasure house slipped their chains and joined the march. By the time Daenerys's army reached the outskirts of Meereen, it numbered nearly a hundred thousand—zealots, pilgrims, freedmen, defected Unsullied, Dothraki who now called themselves Dragon Riders, and children who had never known a master's whip.
Meereen's Great Masters waited behind black walls and spiked moats. They had heard the tales: Astapor's pyramids burning, Yunkai's gardens turned to ash, the Wise Masters dragged from their towers. They had seen the body of Viserys Targaryen carried through Yunkai's streets on a bier of silk, and they had heard the slaves' chant that followed: "God wills it." They knew what was coming.
But they still believed gold and steel could stop faith.
The Siege of Meereen
Daenerys encircled the city in a single day. No prolonged encirclement this time—she had learned patience was a luxury the slavers no longer deserved. Catapults hurled firebombs day and night. Zealots dug tunnels beneath the walls. Pilgrims prayed in vast circles around braziers, their hymns rising like smoke.
Inside the city, the Sons of the Harpy tried to rally resistance, but the slaves had already turned. Hidden cells opened gates at midnight. Pit fighters led uprisings in the fighting pits. Kitchen slaves poisoned wells meant for the masters. The chant seeped through every crack: "God wills it."
On the seventh night, the main breach came—not from siege engines, but from within. A squad of Unsullied who had secretly converted opened the River Gate. Crusaders poured through like a flood. Street by street, pyramid by pyramid, the city fell.
Daenerys rode through the chaos on her white mare, sword in hand, the shard of crucifixion wood gleaming at her throat. She did not pause to savor the vengeance. She rode straight for the Great Pyramid—the tallest, the most fortified, the seat of the ruling council.
The final stand happened on the terrace where the Great Masters had once watched crucifixions for sport. They stood in a ragged line—silk robes torn, gold chains dangling like nooses. Daenerys dismounted and walked up the steps alone at first, then with Belio, Goghor, and the disciples at her back.
One of the masters stepped forward, hands raised. "We surrender. Name your terms. Gold, slaves—anything."
Daenerys looked past him to the bier that had been prepared in mockery: an empty space where they had once planned to display Viserys's body again, now vacant. She smiled—cold, dragon-sharp.
"My terms are simple," she said. "Your lives end tonight. Your pyramids become temples to the Dragon God. Your chains become offerings in the fire. And your city… belongs to the free."
The masters screamed as the zealots closed in. Goghor took the lead—his massive hands closing around the throat of the head master. One by one they fell, thrown from the terrace to the plaza below as the crowd roared approval.
By dawn, Meereen was hers.
The Great Pyramid was cleansed with ash and flame. Viserys's body—retrieved from Yunkai and carried all this way—was laid in a chamber high above the city, wrapped in red silk, guarded by eternal braziers. Daenerys knelt before it for hours, whispering promises.
"We did it, brother. The bay is free."
The Hatching of the Dragon Eggs
That same night, in the highest chamber of the pyramid—now rededicated as the Temple of the Eternal Flame—Daenerys placed three petrified dragon eggs on a bed of coals. They had been her wedding gift long ago, forgotten in the chaos of exile and war. Now, with the city quiet at last, she felt the pull.
She lit the braziers herself, chanting the old Valyrian prayers she had learned from the bible's hidden verses. The disciples stood in a circle, heads bowed. The twins—now toddlers—watched wide-eyed from their nurse's arms.
The coals glowed hotter. Smoke curled. Then—a crack.
The black egg split first. A tiny snout pushed through, scales gleaming obsidian. Then the green, then the cream. Three hatchlings—small as cats, fierce as storms—screamed into the world. Fire licked from their mouths, not harming the faithful but warming the air like a blessing.
Daenerys laughed through tears. She reached out; the black one nuzzled her hand. "Drogon," she named him. "Rhaegal. Viserion."
The disciples fell to their knees. "The dragons return," Belio whispered. "The Messiah's promise fulfilled."
Outside, the city heard the roars. The chant rose anew—not in war, but in awe.
Twenty Years of Peace Under Targaryen Rule
The Slaver's Bay became the Dragon Dominion. Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai—the three cities were rebuilt as one realm. Pyramids became schools, temples, granaries. Chains were melted into plowshares and bells that rang the hours of prayer. The Dragon God Church spread without conquest now—missionaries walked the Free Cities, the Dothraki sea, even across the Narrow Sea. Temples rose in Pentos, Volantis, Braavos.
Daenerys ruled as High Priestess and Queen Regent until the twins came of age. Rhaegar II grew tall and thoughtful, silver-haired, violet-eyed, with his father's pride tempered by his mother's mercy. Visenya was fierce, dragon-quick, her laughter like fire and her anger like storm. They ruled together—brother and sister, king and queen—keeping the blood pure as the old ways demanded.
The dragons grew. Drogon became a shadow over the bay, protector of the faithful. Rhaegal and Viserion patrolled the skies, their roars a reminder that the Dragon God watched.
Peace lasted twenty years.
Trade flowed. The poor were fed from temple granaries. The Faith taught not only scripture but letters, numbers, healing. Children born free never knew chains. Pilgrims came from Westeros itself—disillusioned knights, smallfolk weary of Baratheon-Lannister wars—seeking the fire that had ended slavery.
Daenerys grew older, silver threading her hair like moonlight, but her eyes never dimmed. She visited Viserys's tomb daily, laying fresh red flowers. "You started this," she would whisper. "We finished it."
In the twentieth year, on the anniversary of the fall of Meereen, Daenerys stood on the Great Pyramid's terrace with her grown children. The dragons circled overhead. The city below was lit by a thousand braziers.
She raised her hands—no blood this time, only open palms.
"Twenty years ago," she said, voice carrying to every ear in the plaza, "we took this city in fire and faith. Today we keep it in peace and flame."
The crowd answered—not with war cries, but with a single, steady chant:
"God wills it."
"God wills it."
"God wills it."
Daenerys looked to the sky, where Drogon roared in answer.
The eternal family endured.
In the Spiritual Space, Alex watched—older now in real time, gray at the temples, but still bound to the screen. He had watched wars, miracles, peace. He had shaped a world.
And for the first time, he felt something like contentment.
The game had become legacy.
(Word count: 1498)