Chapter 56 — Damn the Slave Masters
At this point, Daenerys had already dismounted and was walking slowly along the mountain road.
When Drogon circled back and settled onto her shoulder, she felt a trace of strength return to her exhausted body.
I'm becoming more and more reliant on him, she realized quietly.
With Drogon at her side, she felt safer—more confident, more alert, more whole.
After a short rest on the mountain path, they were preparing to move on when Rakharo approached, his expression grim. There seemed to be trouble ahead.
Dothraki screamers were born scouts.
Ever since Barristan Selmy had joined her as a member of the Queensguard, Daenerys no longer kept her bloodriders constantly at her side. Instead, she had them act as kos, leading her small khalasar.
A khalasar was a nomadic horde of the grasslands; a ko was the leader of one of its lesser bands.
Led by Rakharo over a low ridge, Daenerys and Drogon saw it at the same time—
A young girl nailed to a wooden cross by the roadside.
She was not crucified in the traditional way.
Her body had been arranged like a signpost, her right arm pinned across her chest.
Though Drogon had seen this scene before, witnessing it again with his own eyes felt no less shocking.
From the expression frozen on the girl's face, and the dark trails of blood staining her body, it was clear—
she had not been nailed there after death.
Confronted with such cruelty, Daenerys and Missandei both raised their hands to their mouths.
They could not believe that anyone could do something so monstrous to a child.
"There is one such marker every half mile," Rakharo said grimly.
"It likely continues all the way to Meereen."
The Dothraki were known for brutality and for their indifference to death—but even they would never commit such an atrocity, especially not against a child. And ahead lay dozens more of these signposts.
"Your Grace," Jorah said carefully, seeing Daenerys's expression darken,
"I can order the men to take the girls down ahead of us, so you won't have to—"
"No," Daenerys cut in coldly.
"Do not take them down until I have seen each one of their faces."
She stared at the twisted, suffering features of the girl before her, her eyes burning with fury.
"If I do not look upon them," she said, voice low and iron-hard,
"I fear I might forget their pain."
Drogon felt the same fire raging within himself.
They all deserve to die, he thought, rage surging through his chest.
As a soul born of another world, the sight tore at him even more fiercely.
He wasn't sure he could endure seeing every marker before giving in to the urge to fly straight to Meereen and burn every slave master to ash.
The closer they drew to Meereen, the darker Daenerys's expression became.
By the time they counted one hundred such signposts,
they still had not yet reached the city.
Even though she had insisted on seeing every single signpost, after enduring the first hundred Daenerys was barely holding herself together.
It felt as if a fire were burning inside her chest, raging with nowhere to go.
Drogon could no longer bear it.
He flew off into the grasslands, returning only when he judged the time was right. By then, Meereen lay less than two kilometers ahead.
The city of Meereen was built atop a massive hill. From afar, more than a dozen towering pyramids could be seen rising within its walls. The tallest reached nearly two hundred meters into the sky, crowned by an enormous harpy statue at its summit.
The slave masters of Slaver's Bay believed themselves descendants of the harpy. They reveled in pyramid-building, perhaps believing such monuments proved their superiority over common men.
After witnessing all 113 signposts, Daenerys's face had turned as cold and dark as still water. She ordered her army to form ranks beneath the gates of Meereen.
The gatehouse was crowded with Meereen's slave masters—those who called themselves the Great Masters—dressed in luxurious finery. Along the city walls stood rows of slaves, gathered to watch after learning that Daenerys had come.
The laughing, gesturing Great Masters on the battlements formed a cruel contrast to the tortured corpses of the children lining the road.
No sooner had the army completed its formation than the city gates creaked open.
A single knight rode out on a red horse, clad in armor and carrying a long lance—leaving Daenerys's forces momentarily puzzled.
The knight halted before the gates, dismounted just long enough to urinate openly, then shouted several phrases in what sounded like Ghiscari.
Laughter erupted from the gatehouse above.
"He's mocking the Unsullied," Missandei translated, her voice tight. "And challenging us."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes. She was about to ask who would answer the challenge when Daren stepped forward.
"My queen," he said smoothly, "allow me."
Before she could respond, Jorah and Grey Worm also stepped out, volunteering. After a brief pause, Daenerys nodded to Daren.
"Bring Daren his horse," she ordered.
"That won't be necessary," Daren replied with an easy grin.
Daenerys hesitated, concern flickering across her face, but said nothing more.
Seeing Daren step forward, the Meereenese knight kicked his heels into the red horse's flanks and charged. As the lance thundered closer, Daren stood calmly, weapon still sheathed, drawing tense looks from Daenerys and the others.
Only when the horse was less than twenty meters away did Daren casually draw his arakh.
The distance vanished in an instant.
The knight thrust his lance forward—
Daren sidestepped with effortless precision, hooked the rider's momentum, and slashed.
Steel flashed.
The horse's front leg was severed cleanly.
With a shrill scream, the red horse collapsed in a cloud of dust, throwing its rider to the ground. Before the knight could even rise, Daren stepped forward and swung his blade again.
A head flew into the air.
Daren sheathed his arakh, walked a few paces toward the gatehouse, and pulled down his trousers—relieving himself toward the walls.
A wave of shocked cries rose from the Great Masters above.
Show-off, Drogon thought flatly.
Daenerys, long accustomed to Drogon's inner commentary, merely smiled and inclined her head toward Daren. He bowed back with theatrical flair before returning to the ranks.
Then Daenerys rode forward, her voice ringing across the field:
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, of the House Targaryen. Not long ago, I freed the slaves of Astapor and Yunkai—cutting the collars from their throats."
"Now I have come to Meereen. I will cut your collars as well and give your slaves their freedom."
"On the road here, I saw 113 children nailed to posts. Among them were surely your sons, your daughters, your sisters."
"When Meereen is freed," she declared coldly,
"the Great Masters will take their place as signposts."
She raised her hand.
At once, more than a dozen catapults were rolled to the front.
The Great Masters had not expected an immediate assault. Panic broke out on the gatehouse as they scrambled to flee, bodies colliding in their haste.
At that moment—
A whistling roar cut through the air.
Boom!
A projectile smashed into the open ground inside the walls. The barrel shattered, spilling out broken slave collars—large and small, of every shape and color—scattering across the stone.