Chapter 74 — That Bastard Varys
Only after entering the city did Drogon finally understand why Meereen's gates had been sealed in broad daylight.
The city was in chaos.
The streets—once orderly and disciplined—had turned into a battlefield. Groups of richly dressed Great Masters and their freeborn retainers were brawling with former slaves, and both sides were locked in furious, messy combat.
There were no blades, thankfully.
Instead, it was fists and boots. People dragged one another to the ground, kicked viciously, yanked hair, smashed elbows into faces—some even grabbed stones off the street and hurled them into the crowd.
If weapons had been involved, the roads would have already run red.
Tyrion, Shireen, and Shae stared in stunned disbelief.
From afar on the road, Meereen had seemed quiet—almost peaceful. They had assumed the city under the Dragon Queen would be stable, disciplined… at least functional.
Who could have imagined they'd enter and find a full-on riot?
The carriages couldn't move smoothly at all. The fighting clogged the streets, the shouting and pushing forming a living wall of chaos that blocked every path forward.
Drogon's instincts immediately sharpened.
He already had a pretty good idea what this unrest was truly about.
And since the carriages clearly weren't getting through, he flew ahead of them, rose above the fighting crowd—and unleashed a furious, commanding roar.
A harsh, thunderous screech split the air.
Smoke and sparks burst from his mouth as he roared.
The effect was immediate.
Both sides froze mid-brawl and looked upward, faces paling as they saw the black dragon hovering above them like a living omen.
Almost none of them truly knew Drogon could change his size.
In fact, most people in Meereen—and even across Slaver's Bay—still believed Daenerys Targaryen possessed four dragons:
Three large ones… and one small one.
Even Varys had once been misled by that assumption. It wasn't until his "little birds" investigated carefully that the truth emerged: Drogon could transform.
After all, witnesses had seen two big dragons and one small dragon fighting together.
They had also seen, on the night Meereen fell, three dragons appear at once—one of them so massive it looked larger than the other two combined.
So yes…
The creature in front of them might look small now—
but nobody dared underestimate him.
Some of the crowd had personally seen this very dragon brawl with the other two and hold his ground, fearless and vicious, as if size meant nothing to him.
Now, hearing the anger in his roar, the rioters no longer dared continue fighting in the open street.
In frantic silence, they scrambled backward, pulling away from one another and forcing themselves into order.
A passage opened.
A path cleared.
They yielded the road completely, allowing the carriages to pass.
The convoy had barely advanced when—
two sharp dragon cries ripped through the sky.
High above, two enormous shadows swept in.
Rhaegal.
Viserion.
They had heard Drogon's roar and flown over instantly.
Truthfully, they weren't coming to fight.
They were coming to check on him.
Drogon had been away for two days, and the two young dragons had been uneasy the entire time. They weren't used to him disappearing. They hadn't slept right. They hadn't eaten right.
They had been nervous—restless—almost panicked.
So the moment they sensed him nearby, they couldn't help themselves.
They had to see their leader.
They had to make sure he was there.
Tyrion looked up at them circling overhead, their wings cutting the air like storm clouds, and for the first time—
he truly understood the terror and majesty of dragons.
Compared to those two titans above…
Drogon—resting in his small form—almost seemed like a harmless pet.
But the pressure in the air told Tyrion something else.
The little one was the real problem.
Shireen and Shae had already stepped out of the carriage as well, heads tilted back as they watched Rhaegal and Viserion circle in the sky like twin storms made flesh.
Drogon watched the two dragons swoop and spiral with visible excitement, and a thought surfaced in his mind—half amusement, half threat.
You two have been getting too comfortable…
I've been too busy the past few days to train you. But once I have time, I'm making up for every lesson you missed.
Below them, the chaos in Meereen shifted.
The moment the crowd saw the two great dragons wheeling overhead, the fighting died away in awkward, frightened silence. Even the boldest of the brawlers hesitated.
Whether those dragons had come on the Dragon Queen's orders or not… no one dared risk provoking them.
One burst of dragonfire—one moment of anger—and they'd all be ash.
With Drogon leading the way, the convoy pushed forward smoothly now, weaving through streets that had moments ago been boiling with violence.
At last they arrived at the base of the Great Pyramid, Daenerys' seat of power.
Once Tyrion and the others climbed down from the carriages, Drogon gestured for the guards to wait outside, then personally led the three of them into the pyramid.
Daenerys wasn't in her private quarters.
So Drogon guided them deeper, toward the council chamber.
The Unsullied posted outside recognized him immediately. No one tried to stop him. The doors were opened without hesitation, and the group was allowed inside.
---
Inside the chamber, Daenerys was visibly tense—agitated—speaking with her advisors about the growing unrest in Meereen.
Then the doors opened.
Drogon entered.
And behind him walked three strangers: one tall, two shorter—one of them a dwarf; one a strikingly seductive woman; one a little girl whose face was half-marked by illness.
The room went still.
Everyone stared.
It wasn't just that they were unfamiliar—it was the combination. The trio looked so bizarre together that, if Drogon hadn't personally brought them in, the council would've assumed they were lost travelers who had somehow wandered into the wrong hall.
Barristan Selmy and Daenerys both looked at Tyrion with unmistakable surprise.
And Tyrion, catching that look, suddenly felt a cold, sinking realization.
They don't know I'm coming.
The second he understood it, his stomach tightened.
Even with a skin as thick as his, the awkwardness hit hard.
On the way here he'd imagined many things.
He'd imagined Daenerys' reaction upon seeing a Lannister—especially a Lannister with bloodied history tied to House Targaryen.
He'd imagined suspicion. Hostility. Cold politeness, at best.
He'd imagined questions, tests, perhaps even humiliation.
But he had not imagined this.
Not this kind of embarrassment—standing in front of the Dragon Queen like an unannounced guest at the wrong feast.
---
"Lord Tyrion," Barristan finally said, breaking the silence before it hardened into something dangerous. "If you intended to come, you could have sent word. I would have ridden out to greet you personally."
As he spoke, Barristan flicked a brief glance at Daenerys.
Her expression matched his.
She hadn't known either.
Tyrion had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands.
He forced a smile instead—thin, crooked, resigned.
"Well," he said, "I heard the Mother of Dragons was in Meereen… so I came."
But inside, he was already cursing Varys with a passion that could've powered a forge.
That treacherous bald bastard…
How did Varys coordinate with this so-called "mysterious man," yet somehow manage to arrange Tyrion's arrival with zero notice to the very queen Tyrion had come to serve?
Tyrion had once been Hand of the King, the most powerful man in Westeros beneath the crown.
Now he was being introduced like a wandering fool who'd stumbled into the wrong palace.
His dignity was dying a slow, ugly death.
Drogon immediately sensed the tension—and the potential danger of misunderstanding.
So he pushed his thought directly toward Daenerys, quick and firm.
[I brought them.]
[How do I tell Mother that I'm the one who told them to come?]
He had planned to bring them quietly, privately.
But with Meereen in chaos and the gates shut, everything had turned messy. He'd been forced to rush straight into the council chamber.
---
Daenerys' expression shifted almost instantly.
Her face smoothed. The tension in her gaze eased.
Because she already knew who Tyrion was.
After hearing about Tyrion—the former Hand in King's Landing—Daenerys had once discreetly asked Barristan about him and the rest of the Small Council.
She'd learned that Tyrion had kept King's Landing running efficiently.
That he had personally stood atop the walls during the Battle of the Blackwater, commanding defenses while Stannis' army tried to smash the city apart.
That he had nearly died protecting it.
Yes, she despised Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer.
And through him, that hatred had spread like poison over the name Lannister itself.
But Tyrion…
A dwarf who rose to become Hand of the King, who fought when the city burned, who took wounds meant for others…
Daenerys could not deny it.
She respected him.
And if Drogon had brought him here, then that meant something too.
So she nodded at Tyrion—calm now, and even faintly warm.
A smile appeared.
Small, controlled… but real.
Tyrion finally let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
---
Still, Tyrion wasn't the only one feeling exposed.
Shireen, seeing that Daenerys hadn't known she was coming, suddenly felt awkward too.
After all…
Her uncle Robert Baratheon had killed Prince Rhaegar, seized the Iron Throne, and built his reign on the ruins of House Targaryen.
She was a Baratheon.
She should not be welcome here.
And Shae—standing among nobles, knights, and commanders—felt smaller than she ever had in her life.
She had never been watched like this, not by so many powerful eyes.
Her instincts screamed at her to disappear, to hide her background, to avoid letting anyone see what she was.
Then Barristan's gaze moved to the girl.
"If I'm not mistaken," he said carefully, "this must be Princess Shireen Baratheon… daughter of Lord Stannis."
Shireen's heart jolted.
She immediately stepped forward and performed a proper curtsy, as elegant and formal as she could manage.
"Your Grace."