Chapter 65 — Unbreakable Hatred
Hearing Drogon's inner thought, Daenerys paused to consider, then said calmly:
"You may return to the Great Master's household—but only under new terms. Feeding you and giving you a bed is not proper compensation for the knowledge you provide."
"To ensure the Great Masters never enslave you again, I require that you and he sign an agreement. It must clearly state what you will teach, and how much you will be paid each month."
"If I discover there is no contract, or that he refuses to pay according to the agreement, then you will never teach those children again."
Then her voice softened slightly.
"And I will tell you something else—something good."
"I will soon establish an academy in Meereen. If your knowledge meets the academy's standards, you may enroll and learn deeper subjects."
"If your learning is strong enough, you may even teach others."
"There is tuition to study in the academy. But to teach others, I will pay wages in return. I believe you would want your knowledge to benefit more children—not just the sons and daughters of Great Masters."
Puka's eyes widened, and his voice trembled with emotion.
"Y-you mean… I can enter the a-academy too?"
"Of course," Daenerys answered. "We need teachers like you—educated, and willing to guide children."
---
After Meereen stabilized, Daenerys and her council finalized their plan: the main academy would be built in Meereen, in a smaller pyramid east of the Great Pyramid where Daenerys lived.
Branch academies would also be established in Astapor and Yunkai, smaller in scale, but following the same system.
Puka left, satisfied—almost dazed with hope.
Not long after, another petitioner was brought in.
A boy around thirteen stepped forward, wearing pale yellow noble clothing. One glance was enough to tell he belonged to a Great Master's household.
Missandei stood beside Daenerys and asked gently:
"What do you wish to say to Her Grace?"
The boy looked up at the dais, his fear obvious.
"Y-your Grace… my name is Milayda. I… I beg you to execute the slave who killed my father… and assaulted my mother."
Daenerys's heart did not leap this time.
Not because she lacked sympathy—but because this was no longer rare.
She had heard similar accusations more than once already.
She asked evenly, "Where is this slave now?"
"Only one of them was imprisoned—thrown into the dungeons," Milayda said quickly, as though afraid she might ignore him. "The other two received no punishment at all."
This was not the first such case.
On the very night Daenerys took Meereen, most slaves had risen up in response to her attack.
Some helped Grey Worm seize the city gates.
But many more did what Milayda described—banding together to hunt down and kill those who had enslaved them.
Years of exploitation, humiliation, and cruelty did not vanish just because a queen arrived with an army.
When the chance for revenge appeared… the violence that erupted was terrifying—almost inevitable.
The Unsullied had stopped the worst excesses once they entered the city, but they could not undo what had already happened.
After the battle, only the slaves whose killings were extreme—too widespread, too savage—were arrested, mostly as a symbolic act. The rest were left alone.
Daenerys had learned how to handle such matters.
She asked, "Do you know the names of these three slaves?"
"I only know our household slave's name," Milayda said through clenched teeth. "He is called Ari. But Ari knows the other two."
Daenerys nodded once.
"I will have Ari questioned. He will receive the punishment he deserves."
As she spoke, she gave Missandei a small signal.
But before Missandei could respond, Milayda burst out loudly:
"You won't kill them—will you?"
Daenerys looked down at him, patient but firm.
"That will be decided by judgment and trial."
Milayda's face twisted, fury breaking through his fear.
"They killed my father—assaulted my mother! They deserve to die!"
Daenerys didn't pay much attention to the boy's outburst. She simply asked, evenly:
"Did your kind never torture slaves? Never execute them?"
"They… they were filth!" Milayda shouted as he stumbled forward. "How—how could they do that to my mother?!"
As he spoke, he tried to rush the dais, but the Unsullied blocked him at the foot of the platform. He struggled wildly, rage and humiliation twisting his face.
"Take him away," Daenerys ordered.
She knew there was no point arguing further. Between the Great Masters and the slaves lay hatred that had fermented for nearly a thousand years—and she had no simple answer that could untangle it.
Missandei, long used to such scenes by now, announced the next petitioner.
---
The man who approached had already appeared before Daenerys more than once.
It was Hizdahr zo Loraq—the same noble who had begged to retrieve his father's corpse from the wooden stake.
He entered the hall and immediately dropped to his knees.
"Your Grace, I come with a request. Please reopen the fighting pits."
"Meereen no longer has slaves. If it no longer has the pits, then Meereen will no longer be Meereen. The city will lose its name, its soul—and soon it will be forgotten."
Daenerys's expression darkened instantly.
"The fighting pits are infamous for one reason: slaves slaughtering each other to entertain the Great Masters."
"I will not allow them to reopen."
She could accept that some freedmen might still work in Great Masters' households—for wages, by choice. But the fighting pits were different.
They weren't just a building.
They were a symbol.
A monument to slavery itself.
And she would not permit it to breathe again.
But Hizdahr did not retreat.
"Your Grace," he pressed, "the pits did not contain only slaves. Free men fought there too."
"To prove courage. To harden their will. To win great rewards."
"This has been one of Meereen's defining traditions for thousands of years."
"And if you reopen the pits, you may levy taxes and fees. A fortune, Your Grace—money that could feed your city and strengthen your armies."
Daenerys hesitated, weighing his words.
Then she noticed Daario shifting below, clearly wanting to speak.
She gave him a small nod.
"My queen," Daario said, stepping forward, "before I joined the Second Sons, I fought in Meereen's pits myself."
"He speaks true. It isn't only slaves. Many sellswords enter the pits willingly, to test themselves and gain glory."
With that, Daario stepped back.
---
[One wants to fight, one wants to watch, and it earns coin—what's the harm?]
Drogon's thought drifted lazily through Daenerys's mind, almost amused.
Truth be told, Drogon rather liked the idea.
He could already imagine it—the roaring crowds, the savage thrill of steel and blood, the frenzy of victory.
Daenerys's greatest fear was the pits returning to what they once were: slaves butchered like cattle for noble laughter.
But if the fighters entered by choice…
Then perhaps it could be permitted.
And she did need gold—gold to feed tens of thousands and keep the Unsullied and the sellswords loyal.
At last, Daenerys spoke.
"Very well. I will allow the fighting pits to reopen."
"But there will be a condition."
"Every fighter must enter voluntarily. No coercion. No chains. No hidden ownership."
"If I discover anyone is being forced, the pits will be shut again—and permanently."
Hizdahr's face lit up with relief, almost triumph.
"Thank you, Your Grace!"
He bowed and withdrew.
Since the day Daenerys had crucified one hundred and thirteen Great Masters, Hizdahr had gradually become the spokesman of Meereen's noble class—petitioning her again and again on their behalf, always pushing the limits of what she would tolerate.
---
After Hizdahr left, Daenerys heard another dozen petitions.
Most were trivial. Petty disputes. Minor quarrels. Neighbors arguing like children.
Drogon listened until he nearly lost the will to live.
[Why is she handling all of this herself?
Pick someone—anyone—to deal with these small matters. Or appoint a city governor. A queen isn't meant to drown in nonsense like this.]
This time, Drogon made sure the thought was loud enough to be "heard."
Slaver's Bay wasn't like Westeros.
In Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms were divided among lords and banners. A king ruled the realm by ruling the great houses. Most of the land governed itself through feudal chains.
But here?
Daenerys had conquered cities and broken systems—but she hadn't yet built replacements.
She had too few people she could trust.
So everything landed in her lap.
If it continued like this, she wouldn't need to march on King's Landing to be destroyed.
The work itself would break her first.
Slaver's Bay couldn't be granted away like Westerosi lands—not yet.
But appointing governors—city stewards—might be the only way forward.