The Great Pyramid of Meereen was a grand thing. Its size unrivalled. It's grandeur with no equal.
Sunlight spilt in through the high apertures, catching on gilded reliefs that depicted a thousand years of chains and conquest.
Helaena sat upon the perched throne, one leg drawn up idly, chin resting against her knuckles.
Her lilac eyes drifted across the hall without focus, with little regard to the gathered assembly.
"Grey Fist…" She said at last, her gaze settling on the solemn Unsullied captain below. "Perhaps I misheard what you had just spoken. Would you mind repeating it?"
Her words prompted a low murmur to ripple through the bound crowd.
They were wealthy, unmistakably so. Silks once dyed in deep indigo and crimson now hung in tatters, dulled beneath a crust of dust.
Gold rings still clung to trembling fingers. Fear sat naked in their eyes, stripping them of all pretence, leaving only small, weak men where masters had once stood.
Grey Fist hesitated. Just for a moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was still flat. Yet, Helaena could tell it held a trace of disbelief. Amusement even.
"They attempted to attack your Highnesses' dragons."
Helaena blinked.
"Dreamfyre?" She asked lightly, not a hint of concern touching her voice.
A few of the captives visibly flinched at the name.
The dragons were housed in the great pits beneath the pyramid, vast caverns carved and reinforced for creatures that could melt stone with their breath.
Even so, they rarely lingered there. Dragons disliked confinement, even comfortable confinement, and only really descended into the pits when boredom, weather, or even mild irritation compelled them.
And even then, they were never chained.
To even consider attacking one…
At least if it had been Dreamfyre, Helaena could almost understand the thought process. Her dragon was gentle, as gentle dragons went, at least and tolerant of foolish things.
A beast that allowed men to get too close before reminding them what she was.
But Dreamfyre had only just returned from flight.
Which meant…
"No." For the briefest heartbeat, Helaena could have sworn she saw the corner of Grey Fist's mouth twitch upward. But when she looked again, his face returned to its sombre self.
"They attacked His Highness Prince Baelon's mount," he continued, "and its companion."
Silence fell.
Helaena stared at him.
Then she laughed. A short, incredulous chuckle before she stopped herself.
The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking. To raise a hand against two mountain-sized beasts was madness bordering on reverence.
It was almost admirable, in the way only terminal stupidity could be.
"So," she said carefully, "there were others?"
Reluctance tinged her voice now.
By all the gods, she wanted no part in this. She had only just returned from the skies herself, her thoughts still occupied by a newly observed subspecies of locust nesting near the Skahazadhan; it was an iridescent-winged and fascinating beauty.
Still, she had to bite back a gag as she remembered the muddy brown waters of Skahazadhan. Unsurprising considering the Meerenese use it to dump their waste. But by the Seven was it foul.
Alas, instead of visiting a river filled with sewage, she had been dragged into this farce. For a moment, she could not tell which was worse.
"Yes," Grey Fist replied. "Their other companions were incinerated by Prince Baelon's mount. However—" He paused. "—we have received word that some among their faction sought to assassinate the Prince himself."
Ah.
So that was how it was.
Helaena narrowed her eyes. The absent Baelon. The sudden attack. Even her return. All of it so perfectly coinciding that she would not deceive herself.
That bastard had predicted this.
Creak!
The great doors of the hall groaned open, their hinges protesting as a gallant figure strode inside.
Baelon entered as though the room belonged to him, which, irritatingly, it did; a boyish grin fixed upon his face, silver hair catching the light.
Well. Speak of the dragon.
"Ah?" He said, spotting her atop the throne. "Sister, when did you return?"
His eyes flicked to the bound nobles, mock interest sparking briefly. Then he sighed theatrically.
"Alas," he said, placing a hand over his heart, "it appears I am interrupting important matters. I shall excuse myself before I impose further."
He turned, already halfway toward the inner chambers.
"Stop!" Helaena snapped.
Baelon halted, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Yes?" He asked innocently. "Is there something you require, Sister?"
She fixed him with a look sharp enough to draw blood.
"This," she said, gesturing lazily at the captives, "was your great plan to weed out resistance? Use yourself as bait, provoke half the city, and then leave me to clean up the aftermath?"
"No." Baelon shook his head solemnly. "How could you think that?"
He straightened, expression earnest.
"As my co-ruler," he continued smoothly, "it is your duty to make decisions in my absence."
"Alas," Helaena replied dryly, propping her chin on her fist as she leaned into the arm of the throne, "you are absent no longer."
Then, Helaena heaved a reluctant sigh as she waved him away.
"Go, rest. I will deal with…this."
Baelon's eyes widened.
"Truly?"
She barely had time to nod before he spun on his heel and all but fled the hall.
Helaena watched him go, unimpressed.
Her brother had shouldered wars, explored the ruins of Valyria, and bound new lands to their rule. If she had to bear the uglier half of kingship now and then, so be it.
Still…
She had thought it acceptable to spare the former slave masters here, as they had in New Ghis. It was, after all, calculated mercy.
Instead, she had nurtured a snake. A snake that bit the hand that fed it.
Unlike New Ghis, where Ghiscari faith was isolated from the secular works of governance, Meereen was steeped in it.
Ritual, identity, and power were knotted together so tightly that cutting one strand only tightened the rest.
To truly change this city, she would need help.
Perhaps she could use the Green Grace of New Ghis to help out here. Maybe then she could see the spectacle of a faith turning against itself.
Helaena glanced once more at the trembling crowd below and sighed.
"Kingship," she murmured. "How bothersome…"
***
Tension snaked through the air of the small council chamber, coiling between stone walls that had heard a thousand lies sworn as truth.
Gone was the decrepit figure of the King. In his place sat a lithe figure clad in green…Queen Alicent Hightower.
Rhaenyra cast the Queen a reluctant glance before returning her gaze to the others seated around the table.
It had only been several years since she had ceased being the royal cupbearer, yet the distance felt far greater than time alone could explain.
Some faces were familiar. Others were not.
Despite that, she could not help but feel most of them regarded her, the Heir Apparent, with something bordering on indifference.
Not hostility. Not loyalty. Merely the cold assessment of men weighing a piece on the board.
Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. 'I should never have returned to this snake pit…'
Still, the memory of her father's frail, rotting form surged in her mind, and she forced her reluctance down, burying it beneath duty.
Whatever Viserys had become in these last few years, he had named her heir, and this den of vipers would not unmake that with their quiet looks nor their careful words.
"My lords."
Alicent shifted in her chair, feigning calm, though Rhaenyra could see through it easily enough. The Queen's composure was thin, stretched tight as a drawn bowstring, quivering beneath the gaze of the council.
"It has been two years since the war began," Alicent continued.
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed.
The Second War of the Stepstones.
Seven above knew what had truly sparked it, but by now the conflict had rotted into something far uglier, a three-way struggle driven less by cause than by greed and momentum.
Pentos and Lys.
Myr and Tyrosh.
And Volantis.
Of the three, Volantis held the thinnest presence, distracted as migrating Dothraki hordes thundered past the mouth of the Rhoyne.
"Prince Regio has sent missives to the Crown," Alicent continued, her tone carefully measured, "regarding a potential alliance against the Myr-Tyroshi rabble. However, it has come to my attention that our preferred ally in this war was to be Volantis."
'Of course, he sent missives.' Rhaenyra scoffed. The migrating khalasars had demanded tribute from the Pentoshi, but when the gold was sent…the Dothraki continued raiding the lands around Pentos.
At this point, Pentos was likely even weaker than Volantis, which was barely maintaining its façade of wealth and power with the help of Lys.
Worse still, even Lys had begun to crumble under the weight of war. At this point, it seemed less a war and more so an amusing fistfight between a group of sickly old men who heaved for every punch they threw.
"Indeed, Your Grace." Otto Hightower answered smoothly, that same ever-proud calm radiating from him. "His Grace believed it prudent to ally with the most desperate force. Volantis has only just begun to breathe again now that the Dothraki migrate east. In time, they will turn their full fury upon the warring states, Lys most of all."
Rhaenyra leaned forward despite herself. "I thought the Elephant Party held the majority of power in Volantis," she said. "Why would their mercantile minds consider allying with Westeros to attack the other two coalitions?"
Her words were met with a brief silence.
"You are most correct, Your Highness," Tyland Lannister replied at last, fingers steepled before him, voice smooth as polished gold. "However, merchants are not always opposed to war, especially when their coffers are put to the blade."
Rhaenyra raised a brow, then sent a glance toward the only man at the table she truly trusted.
Lord Lyman Beesbury caught the questioning look at once and inclined his head, taking it as an invitation enough. "Lord Tyland speaks true, Princess," he said, voice mild. "For the Elephant Party, victory in this war would grant them control of the Summer Sea trade routes. From there, their influence would radiate across Essos like ink in water."
Rhaenyra's eyes flickered with understanding. She nodded once and settled back into her seat, folding her hands before her, choosing silence for the moment.
"However…" Lord Wylde hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "Are we truly to reject the Pentoshi? We already suffer enough where trade is concerned. If we accept their request, their victory would be all but assured."
"That," Rhaenyra said coolly, lifting her gaze once more, "is precisely why we must refuse."
She leaned forward slightly. "Pentos, Lys, Myr and Tyrosh all covet the Stepstones. To ally with any one of them outright is to invite conflict with the others, and worse, to entangle ourselves in a war that cannot end cleanly."
Tyland frowned faintly. "You believe Pentos would fall without our aid?"
"It already has," Rhaenyra replied. "The Dothraki have bled them dry of most of their wealth, whilst their mercenaries had long fled the city. The only thing that is saving Pentos from getting sacked is their tenuous alliance with Lys and their city walls."
"And, once Volantis truly commits its strength, Lys will be forced to divert its fleets and men to the east. That leaves Pentos isolated, alone against Myr and Tyrosh."
She paused, throwing a glance at the council.
"That is a losing war."
Murmurs rippled across the table.
Alicent studied her from the Queen's seat. "And Myr and Tyrosh?" She asked. "What of them?"
Rhaenyra took a deep breath as she answered. "They were chief in the first war in the Stepstones. Westerosi blood still stains those rocks because of their ambition. Any alliance with them would be… poorly received."
"Spurned," Alicent sighed.
"Yes," Rhaenyra agreed. "By the entire realm."
For a long moment, Alicent said nothing. Then she inclined her head. "I find myself in agreement," she said at last. "Myr and Tyrosh have taken much from Westeros already. To stand beside them now would invite outrage and unrest we cannot afford."
Otto's expression remained unreadable, but he did not object.
"And to what extent," Tyland asked carefully, "are we prepared to support Volantis, now?"
"Direct military aid is still out of the question," Alicent said at once. "We will not bleed Westerosi men for Essosi ambitions."
It was then that the previously silent Master of Whisperers stirred.
He was new to the table, appointed only months earlier by Alicent herself, and his presence still felt…faint. Eerie even.
"Rumours from the east suggest Dragon's Bay now feeds half of Essos," Larys said. "Volantis included."
Several brows rose.
"Dragon's Bay?" Beesbury echoed.
"Aye," the man continued. "Since the pair who rule it conquered New Ghis, they have claimed the Isle of Cedars as well. The land has been turned into a vast agricultural holding. Grain, livestock, stores enough to sustain an empire."
Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Which means Volantis has little need of food," Alicent said slowly.
"But plenty of need for arms," Rhaenyra finished.
Silence followed, then nods.
"We sell," Alicent decided. "Armour. Swords. Ships. We will give it to them in full."
"And at a price," Tyland added.
Lyman Beesbury all but beamed. "A very handsome price," he said, unable to contain his excitement. "If Volantis prevails, the coin flowing back to Westeros would be…substantial. Enough to ensure prosperity for decades. The royal coffers would only swell further."
The mood in the chamber shifted into something closer to cautious satisfaction. Soon, the finer points were discussed until at last the matter dwindled into formalities.
One by one, the councillors rose, chairs scraping softly against stone as they departed.
Soon, the chamber stood nearly empty.
Only Alicent remained at the head of the table with only Rhaenyra still seated, watching her carefully as the room faded into silence.
"Princess." Alicent broke the silence at last. "Have you gone to see your father?"
Rhaenyra merely hummed in reply.
Yet as the quiet stretched on, her gaze drifted back to Alicent.
Clad in green robes, the woman who had once been her closest friend, one of the dearest souls in her world, now sat before her as though separated by an immeasurable distance.
They shared the same space, the same air, yet it felt as though an entire realm lay between them.
When had they drifted so far apart?
"Regarding Aemond…I am sorry." Rhaenyra bit her lip, forcing the words past the tightness in her chest. "I can make Daemon apologise. I am certain he would be willing—"
"Do you truly believe that?" Alicent scoffed, bitterness sharp in her tone. "How could you? After all, it was not your son who was left with half his face disfigured."
"Alicent!" Rhaenyra's brows knit as she spoke, her voice stern despite herself.
"What right have you to speak such hypocrisy?" Alicent pressed on, rising anger bleeding into every word. "We both know Daemon would sooner drive a blade through his own chest than offer an apology, least of all to me, or to Aemond. And even if he did, what use would such hollow words be? Half a decade too late, at that."
Rhaenyra stood abruptly, gazing down at her. "You seem awfully proud, lecturing me so." Her voice hardened. "What gives you that pride? Your eldest son? The pair who have gone off to conquer half the world? Or Aemond, with the largest living dragon?"
She had little wish to escalate this into a farce. With her father bedridden, all she wanted was for there to be peace at court.
Yet, as she heard Alicent's words, she could not help herself and fought back with barbed words.
"Pride?" Alicent rose as well, her chest heaving. "Is that truly all you believe I possess?"
Alicent's hands clenched into tight fists, nails biting into flesh until thin rivulets of blood trailed down her palms, dripping onto the floor below.
Rhaenyra forced her gaze away from the stark crimson as Alicent continued, her composure finally fracturing.
"My eldest is a drunkard, content to squander his days among whores while his own children are left for me to raise. Baelon and Helaena have both fled, away from home, from duty, from honour, leaving me to shoulder the blame in their stead. Aemond grows more distant with each passing day. And Daeron…" Her voice faltered. "I have not seen him in years."
Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, watching as tears streaked down Alicent's face.
For the first time, she began to realise that her former friend's reign as queen had not been the life of comfort she had once imagined.
Even at the prior council meeting, Alicent had not been ignored, yet neither had she been heard. Most of the discourse had passed between the other lords, their voices carrying a weight; hers did not command.
It was a far cry from what Rhaenyra remembered of her days as Viserys' cupbearer, when every thought and decision had first been filtered through him, the King.
'Will I be made to contend with men such as these when I ascend the Iron Throne? Scheming and arrogant villains.' The thought left a bitter taste on her tongue.
After a moment's hesitation, she extended a hand, intending to offer comfort. Yet, she withdrew it just as quickly, uncertainty rooting her in place.
Casting one final look at the now-dishevelled Queen, Rhaenyra turned to leave, her thoughts churning as she reflected upon her own conduct.
When had this ugly world begun to taint her so?