Chapter 26: The Serpent Ascendant
The fires of the outer districts of Meereen burned with a vengeful light against the encroaching darkness of the desert night. Smoke, thick and acrid, carrying the stench of burnt brick, flesh, and fear, coiled into the sky, a funeral shroud for the dying age of the Great Masters. Within the relative safety of his command pavilion, erected swiftly by disciplined legionaries just beyond the range of the city's remaining trebuchets, King Baelon I Targaryen surveyed a map of Meereen, its great central pyramid marked with a crimson X. The sounds of sporadic fighting still echoed from the breached sections of the city, where his forces were consolidating their gains and methodically clearing pockets of die-hard Ghiscari resistance.
His commanders stood before him, their faces grimed with dust and smoke, but their eyes alight with the fervor of victory. Lord Randyll Tarly, Marshal of the Westerosi Legions in Essos, gave his report. "Your Grace, the eastern districts are largely secure. The freedmen cohorts are proving… exceptionally motivated in rooting out remaining slavers and their loyalists. Our casualties among the legions are moderate, thanks to your… interventions." He nodded towards the breach created by the Valyrian sonic device and the area where Baelon's earth magic had shattered the Ghiscari charge.
"Moderation in victory is a virtue, Lord Tarly," Baelon said, his voice smooth and cold, though his eyes held no warmth. "But thoroughness is paramount. I want no nests of vipers left to strike when we turn our gaze inward, towards the Pyramid."
A messenger hurried in, kneeling to present a scroll sealed with the kraken of House Velaryon, adapted for Lord Crakehall. "Your Grace, a dispatch from Lord Governor Crakehall at Yunkai."
Baelon took it, breaking the seal. He scanned the contents, a flicker of icy satisfaction in his eyes. "As anticipated. Yunkai has capitulated. The Wise Masters, witnessing Astapor's fate and finding their courage… lacking… have accepted all terms. Lord Crakehall is currently disarming their sellswords and securing the city. He awaits your instructions regarding the disposition of their 'assets'."
A low murmur of approval went through the commanders. Two of the three Slaver Cities effectively neutralized within days of each other.
"His instructions will be the same as those for Astapor, and soon, for Meereen," Baelon stated. "The slave trade is abolished. Those fit for military service will be offered the honor of joining my legions, bound by blood oath. Those suited for labor will rebuild what their masters allowed to decay, and then contribute to the glory of the new Valyrian Protectorate. The former masters…" His lips curved into a semblance of a smile. "…will be made examples of. Their wealth will fill our coffers. Their suffering will be a lesson."
He turned back to the map of Meereen. "The Great Pyramid. It is not merely their seat of governance, but the symbol of their entire rotten edifice. Tomorrow, it falls. And I will stand in the Harpy's nest."
Ser Corlys Vaelaros, commander of Baelon's personal dragon guard and a distant Velaryon cousin whose loyalty was absolute, spoke. "The Pyramid is said to be a fortress in itself, Your Grace. Its approaches are narrow, easily defended. The Great Masters will have their most loyal household troops, their pit fighter champions, perhaps even some of the brazen beasts if they can still control them."
"They will have ghosts and shadows, Ser Corlys," Baelon replied, his gaze distant for a moment, as if seeing through the stone and brick to the fear coiling within the Pyramid's heart. "Umbraxys will ensure their courage is but a fleeting memory. Silverwing will command the skies above it. My legions, spearheaded by those who have the most to gain from the Harpy's fall – our new freedmen auxiliary cohorts – will be the steel that pierces its heart." He looked directly at a hulking figure standing silently at the edge of the command group – Kael, a former Volantene pit slave, now a decorated Centurion in the First Freedmen Cohort, his loyalty to Baelon fanatical. "Centurion Kael, your men have tasted vengeance today. Are they prepared for the main course tomorrow?"
Kael's scarred face was a grim mask. He slammed a mailed fist to his chest. "We live to serve the Dragon King who broke our chains! We will climb their cursed Pyramid on the bones of our former masters if need be! Meereen's slaves will see us, and they will know freedom has come!"
"Good," Baelon said. "That is the spirit that builds empires." He then outlined his strategy: a multi-pronged assault on the Pyramid at dawn. Feints at several entrances, while the main thrust, led by Kael's cohort and backed by a veteran Westerosi legion, would target the grand staircase and the primary ceremonial entrance. Siege engines, including the sonic resonator, would be repositioned to target the Pyramid's lower defenses. But Baelon made it clear that brute force was only one component.
"The true weapon," he said, his eyes flicking towards the darkened sky where Umbraxys was a near-imperceptible void, "is terror. They believe themselves safe within their stone monolith. They will learn that no wall can keep out the fear I command."
Later that night, as the camp settled into an uneasy quiet, Baelon stood alone on a small rise overlooking the smoldering city. Silverwing rested nearby, her great head on her paws, her silver eyes like molten moons fixed on her rider. Baelon extended his senses, merging with the vast, cold intellect of Umbraxys.
"The city is ripe with fear, Speaker," Umbraxys communicated, not in words, but in waves of primal understanding and shared intent. Images flooded Baelon's mind: the terrified whispers in the slave pits, the frantic arguments among the Great Masters huddled in the Pyramid, the growing despair of the Ghiscari soldiers who knew their doom was approaching.
Voldemort, the ancient, indomitable will that formed the core of Baelon's being, savored it. "Fear is the great motivator, Umbraxys. Their fear will break them. Their suffering will be the mortar for our new edifice. Meereen will be a jewel in our crown, its people… repurposed… for the glory that awaits." He felt the shadow dragon's immense power thrumming in concert with his own, a symphony of domination. "Tomorrow, we pluck that jewel."
The Ascent of the Serpent
Dawn arrived not with the gentle kiss of light, but with the roar of siege engines and the earth-shattering bellows of Vhagar, as Prince Aemond, having received new orders, made a dramatic, high-altitude pass over Meereen before veering back towards the coast to oversee the processing of Astapor. His brief, terrifying appearance was a calculated move by Baelon, a reminder of the scale of Targaryen power.
Then the assault on the Great Pyramid began. As Baelon had planned, feint attacks drew defenders to the minor entrances, while the primary assault force, led by the screaming, vengeful freedmen, charged towards the Grand Steps of the Pyramid. The Meereenite defense was desperate. Archers loosed hails of arrows from the Pyramid's tiers; cauldrons of boiling oil and sand were tipped onto the attackers. Giant, bronze-masked pit fighters, some visibly enhanced by crude alchemies, met the attackers on the broad staircases, their multi-thonged whips and heavy blades carving bloody paths.
But the attackers were relentless. Kael and his freedmen fought with the fury of men who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, their hatred for the symbols of their enslavement a palpable force. Behind them, the disciplined Westerosi legionaries advanced steadily, their shields locked, their short swords stabbing, providing a steel spine to the freedmen's ferocity.
Above, Silverwing danced through the sky, Baelon upon her back, a figure of incandescent authority. He did not carpet the Pyramid in dragonflame – its structure was to be preserved, repurposed. Instead, he used Silverwing's presence as a terror weapon, her shadow sweeping over the defenders, her roars disorienting them. His own magic, however, was far more direct.
With gestures and words of power that resonated with unnatural energy, Baelon targeted key defensive strongpoints. A section of balustrade crowded with archers simply disintegrated into dust. A group of pit fighters, roaring in a berserk charge, suddenly found their limbs locking up, their muscles spasming uncontrollably as Baelon's will crushed their motor functions. He wove illusions of monstrous, shadowy beasts emerging from the Pyramid's own dark recesses, turning defenders against phantoms, sowing chaos in their ranks.
And then there was Umbraxys.
The shadow dragon, at Baelon's command, descended. It did not fully materialize, which would have risked too much damage to the Pyramid's structure from its sheer mass. Instead, it flowed like a tangible darkness, an invasive, sentient void that seeped through arrow slits and doorways, that coalesced in halls and chambers. It was not fire and claw that Umbraxys brought, but a far more insidious weapon: pure, unadulterated terror. Defenders touched by its tendrils of shadow felt their courage evaporate, replaced by a primal, mind-breaking fear. Some dropped their weapons and fled, screaming. Others simply collapsed, their minds shattered. The Ghiscari, bred for obedience, found their discipline cracking under a weight of dread no training could prepare them for. The air grew unnaturally cold wherever Umbraxys passed, and whispers of forgotten Valyrian curses seemed to echo in the stone.
The fighting on the Grand Steps was a meat grinder. Kael, wielding a massive Ghiscari axe he'd claimed, was a whirlwind of destruction, his black armor splattered with gore. He saw a knot of Great Masters, their rich robes incongruous amidst the slaughter, attempting to direct the defense from a higher tier. With a roar that was more beast than man, he carved a path towards them, his cohort following like a wave of dark water.
One particularly large pit fighter champion, Oznak zo Pahl's prized fighter known as Grozh, stepped forward, his twin barbed whips cracking. He was a mountain of scarred muscle, his eyes burning with a desperate ferocity. He and Kael met in a brutal clash, axe against whip and dagger. For several minutes, they were locked in a deadly dance, surrounded by the swirling melee. But Kael, fueled by a lifetime of rage and the promise of a new dawn, found an opening, his axe cleaving through Grozh's defenses and biting deep into the champion's shoulder, sending him reeling back with a howl of agony. Kael did not pause, finishing him with a swift, brutal downstroke.
Higher still, Baelon directed the flow of battle like a conductor leading a grotesque orchestra. He saw the main gates of the Pyramid begin to buckle under the assault of a captured Meereenite battering ram, now wielded by his legionaries. He amplified the force of their blows with his magic, each impact sending shudders through the ancient structure.
With a final, splintering crash, the great bronze-clad doors of the Great Pyramid burst inwards.
The Harpy's Demise
"Now!" Baelon's voice, magically enhanced, cut through the din. "The heart of the beast!"
The freedmen cohorts, led by Kael, were the first to pour into the gaping maw of the Pyramid's entrance hall. They were met by the terrified remnants of the household guard and a few desperate Great Masters who chose to fight rather than be captured. The slaughter was brief and merciless.
Baelon, having landed Silverwing on one of the Pyramid's lower, now-cleared tiers, strode into the entrance hall, flanked by his elite Dragon Guard. Umbraxys seemed to flow around him like a living cloak of shadows, its presence radiating an aura of absolute menace that cowed even his own hardened soldiers. He ignored the ongoing skirmishes in the side passages, his gaze fixed on the massive stairway leading up to the council chambers and the Masters' private quarters.
"Secure the levels," he commanded Lord Tarly, who had just entered. "Bring me the Great Masters. Alive, if possible. Their public humiliation will be… instructive."
The ascent through the Pyramid was less a battle and more a series of surrenders and swift, brutal suppressions of isolated resistance. The morale of the defenders was utterly broken. Many simply dropped their weapons and prostrated themselves, begging for mercy they clearly did not expect to receive. The freedmen were often disinclined to grant it, and Westerosi officers had to intervene several times to prevent wholesale massacres, under strict orders from Baelon to preserve 'useful assets.'
Finally, they reached the great doors of the Audience Chamber of the Great Masters, the symbolic heart of Meereen's power. These doors were barred from within.
Baelon didn't even bother with a ram. He simply raised a hand. The air crackled. The intricate carvings on the door – scenes of Ghiscari victories and the subjugation of slaves – began to glow with an eerie orange light. Then, with a silent, implosive force, the doors warped, buckled, and were torn from their hinges, collapsing inwards with a mournful groan.
He stepped into the vast chamber. It was opulent, decorated with gold and precious silks, the floor a mosaic of a great harpy. And huddled at the far end, beneath a towering golden harpy statue, were the surviving Great Masters of Meereen. Perhaps two dozen of them, their fine robes disheveled, their faces masks of terror and disbelief. Oznak zo Pahl was among them, his face purple with impotent rage, though he was restrained by two legionaries. Grazdan mo Eraz, the pragmatist, looked pale and utterly defeated.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the terrified whimpers of one of the younger Masters.
Baelon walked slowly towards them, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. Umbraxys flowed behind him, a colossal shadow that seemed to drink the light from the chamber, its burning eyes fixed on the cowering slavers.
He stopped before them, his ageless face unreadable. "So," he said, his voice deceptively soft, yet carrying to every corner of the room. "The mighty Harpy. Plucked, it seems." He looked at Oznak. "You were loud in your defiance, Master Pahl. Are you equally loud in your supplication?"
Oznak spat. "Curse you, Westerosi filth! May the Harpy drag your soul to…"
Before he could finish, a tendril of shadow from Umbraxys lashed out, not physically touching him, but enveloping his head for a moment. Oznak screamed, a horrifying, choked sound, his eyes rolling back, then he collapsed, twitching, foam on his lips. He was alive, but his mind was clearly gone.
"Such a lack of poetry," Baelon commented, unperturbed. He turned to Grazdan mo Eraz. "You, at least, showed a flicker of sense. What say you now, Master Eraz? Was this conquest not… inevitable?"
Grazdan, trembling, fell to his knees. "Mercy, Your Grace! We… we were misguided. We did not understand… your power… your… vision. Meereen will serve you! We will pay any tribute!"
Baelon let out a dry chuckle. "Tribute? Master Eraz, you mistake my purpose. I am not here to bleed Meereen. I am here to transform it. Your entire way of life is anathema to the order I am building." He gestured around the opulent chamber. "This… decadence, built on the backs of millions, ends today. You are not rulers. You are relics. And relics belong in a museum, or buried."
He then addressed them all, his voice rising, imbued with a chilling magical resonance that sent shivers down every spine. "I, Baelon of House Targaryen, First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Suzerain of the Valyrian Protectorate of Essos, do hereby declare the rule of the Great Masters of Meereen to be at an end. This city, and all its peoples, now fall under the direct authority of the Iron Throne. Slavery is abolished, effective immediately. Your properties are forfeit. Your lives…" He paused, letting the word hang in the air. "…are subject to my judgment."
The City Holds its Breath
News of the Great Pyramid's fall spread through Meereen like wildfire. For the legionaries and the freedmen cohorts, it was a moment of triumph, their cheers echoing through the streets. But for the hundreds of thousands of slaves still huddled in their pits, their barracks, and their masters' mansions, it was a moment of stunned disbelief, followed by a hesitant, fragile hope, almost too terrifying to embrace.
Baelon ordered the surviving Great Masters shackled and paraded through the main thoroughfares of the city, from the Great Pyramid down to the slave markets. He wanted every citizen, bond and free, to witness the fall of their former tyrants. The freedmen cohorts, still high on battle-lust and the joy of liberation, formed their escort, their taunts and jeers replacing the customary deference the Masters had always received.
From the steps of the Pyramid, Baelon, flanked by Silverwing, issued his first decrees to the city. His voice, amplified by magic, carried over the stunned silence of the crowds that had begun to gather. He announced the immediate emancipation of all slaves. He declared that food from the Masters' granaries would be distributed. He imposed a strict curfew, enforced by his legions, to prevent widespread looting or reprisals beyond what he deemed… necessary.
"You were slaves!" his voice boomed. "Today, you are free! But freedom is not chaos. Freedom under my reign is order, discipline, and purpose! You will serve the Iron Throne, the power that broke your chains. Some of you will become soldiers, and bring this same liberation to other benighted corners of the world! Some of you will become workers, and you will rebuild this city not for the glory of grasping Masters, but for the enduring strength of the Valyrian Protectorate! Your loyalty will be rewarded. Your defiance will be crushed without mercy. A new age has dawned for Meereen!"
The reaction was mixed. Some slaves wept openly, falling to their knees in gratitude. Others looked on with suspicion, wondering if this was just a new master with a different banner. But the sight of the Great Masters in chains, the sheer, overwhelming power Baelon had displayed, and the disciplined might of his legions began to sway even the most cynical.
As Baelon turned to re-enter the Pyramid, now his Essosi command center, Larys Strong materialized from the shadows of a nearby alcove, his demeanor as unobtrusive as ever, yet his eyes holding a new urgency.
"Your Grace," Larys murmured, falling into step beside him. "A most impressive victory. Meereen is yours. Its… assets… are considerable."
"Indeed, Lord Larys," Baelon said. "The manpower alone will be a significant boon to our legions and labor corps once properly… re-educated."
"While you were… engaged… further word from Braavos, Your Grace. More than just alarm this time. My sources within the House of Black and White confirm that a high-value contract has been formally accepted. The target is described as 'The Ageless Serpent of Westeros, He Who Casts the Titan's Shadow.' There can be no doubt it refers to you."
Baelon paused at the threshold of the Masters' council chamber, his expression unreadable. "And this 'faceless child' Helaena prattled about?"
"The whispers are that the one chosen for this task is indeed young, perhaps even a woman, or one who can appear as such. Unknown, untraceable. They are said to be already en route, or perhaps even… observing. Braavosi methods are subtle, Your Grace. They would not strike amidst the chaos of open battle. They would seek a moment of quiet, of vulnerability." Larys's gaze was pointed.
A flicker of something cold and ancient moved in Baelon's eyes. The Voldemort within acknowledged the audacity, the potential nuisance. An assassin, even a highly skilled one, against him? Against Umbraxys? It seemed laughable. Yet… Helaena's prophecies had an uncomfortable habit of touching upon truths.
"A faceless child, serving a god of many masks," Baelon mused, his voice a low whisper. "Interesting. See that my personal guard is doubled. And redouble your efforts to identify this operative, Lord Larys. Every shadow in this city, and every new arrival, must be scrutinized." He looked out from the high vantage point of the Pyramid's entrance, over the sprawling city of Meereen. Smoke still rose from smoldering ruins, but the sounds of battle were dying down, replaced by an eerie, expectant silence. "They think to slay a god? Let them try. They will find only their own oblivion."
The Serpent's Gaze
As night fully descended, Baelon stood on the highest balcony of the Great Pyramid, the traditional speaking platform of the Great Masters. Now, it was his. The wind whipped his dark cloak around him. Silverwing was a silver silhouette on the vast terrace below. Umbraxys was a palpable presence of immense power, coiled around the Pyramid's peak like a monstrous guardian, invisible to all but its master.
Meereen lay spread out beneath him, a tapestry of flickering lights and deep shadows. His city. His conquest. Another piece firmly placed on the grand board of his ambition. The Slaver Cities were broken. Their armies would be his. Their wealth would be his. Their people would serve his new order.
"The Harpy has fallen, Speaker," Umbraxys communicated, a cold satisfaction resonating in their shared consciousness. "Its nest is now yours. The lands of Ghis will learn to fear your name, as Volantis and the lesser daughters of Valyria have."
Baelon's lips curved into a predatory smile. Voldemort's soul reveled in the absolute dominion. "They will not just fear, Umbraxys. They will obey. They will be remade. This is but the beginning. From this foundation, we shall build an empire that will make Old Valyria's fleeting glory seem like a child's dream. An empire eternal, ruled by an eternal king."
His gaze swept eastward, towards the unseen lands beyond Slaver's Bay – Qarth, the Dothraki Sea, Yi Ti, Asshai-by-the-Shadow. So much more to conquer, to reshape, to bring under his chilling, orderly dominion.
But first, consolidation. And the matter of Braavos. The Iron Bank, the Faceless Men… they were a loose end, a potential irritant. He would deal with them. All in due time. For now, he would savor this victory. Meereen was his. The Serpent was ascendant. And the world would continue to learn the brutal, inexorable truth of his power.