Chapter 27: Whispers in the Shadow of the Pyramid
The first true dawn over a Targaryen-ruled Meereen was an unnerving spectacle. The sun, usually a symbol of Ghiscari resilience and the enduring power of the Great Masters, now seemed to illuminate a city holding its breath, unsure of its new fate. The black and crimson banners of King Baelon I Targaryen hung from the Great Pyramid and key fortifications, stark symbols of a new, implacable authority. Smoke still curled from a few distant, stubbornly burning buildings, but an enforced quiet lay over the city, patrolled by disciplined Westerosi legionaries and the newly empowered, fiercely loyal Freedmen Cohorts. The previous day's terror and elation had given way to a wary, watchful silence.
Within the opulent, now somewhat grimly functional, chambers of the Great Pyramid, King Baelon had already begun to weave the ancient city into the fabric of his burgeoning Essosi protectorate. Maps were spread across polished mahogany tables that once held the feasts of Great Masters. Decrees were being drafted by terrified, hastily conscripted scribes under the watchful eyes of Baelon's stern administrators. The air hummed with a nervous energy, a stark contrast to the centuries of languid cruelty that had previously defined this seat of power.
Lord Randyll Tarly, his craggy face set in its usual severe lines, received his orders: to oversee the complete disarmament of any remaining Meereenite loyalists, to establish rigorous training regimens for the influx of freedmen volunteering—or being strongly encouraged—to join Baelon's legions, and to maintain absolute order within the city walls. "These former slaves are… malleable, Your Grace," Tarly reported, his tone carefully neutral. "Some show promise. Others are still dazed. Discipline will be key."
"Discipline, Lord Tarly, is the crucible in which loyalty is forged," Baelon replied, his gaze sweeping over a list of seized assets. "They have known only the lash of fear. Now they will know the lash of duty, and the reward of purpose under my banner. Ensure the most promising are identified quickly. I want ten new cohorts formed from Meereen alone by month's end, ready for indoctrination and basic training."
Ravens were dispatched to Lord Roland Crakehall in Yunkai and Prince Aemond in Astapor. Crakehall was to begin the systematic cataloging and transfer of Yunkai's tangible wealth – gold, grain, ships, and any skilled artisans – while also initiating the 'repurposing' of its slave population according to the new royal edicts. Aemond, his task of breaking Astapor complete, was instructed to garrison the city with a segment of his legion, begin the grim process of sorting the captured Unsullied – those deemed salvageable for Baelon's armies versus those too broken or defiant – and to prepare Vhagar and the bulk of his forces for a potential redeployment, though their next target was not yet named. Baelon knew Aemond chafed under administrative tasks, but his brutal efficiency was necessary to ensure the conquered cities were pacified beyond any thought of rebellion.
The fate of the captured Great Masters was being decided with cold, methodical precision. Larys Strong, his network of spies already seeping into the cracks of Meereenese society, conducted interrogations in the Pyramid's lower levels. He sought not just hidden caches of wealth, but any whispers of lingering conspiracies, any ties to outside powers, any knowledge that could be exploited. Some Masters, broken by fear and the fall of their world, babbled everything they knew. Others, like Grazdan mo Eraz, attempted to bargain, offering intricate details of trade routes or Ghiscari political factions in exchange for their lives.
A select few, those most infamous for their cruelty or those who remained openly defiant even in chains, were slated for public execution in the Plaza of Punishment, now to be renamed the Plaza of Imperial Justice. Their deaths would be slow, a calculated spectacle designed to etch the price of treason into the collective Meereenite consciousness. The rest, stripped of their names, titles, and dignity, would be assigned to the harshest labor details, a living testament to the totality of Baelon's victory.
The Unseen Blade
Even as Baelon reshaped Meereen with chilling efficiency, the warning from Larys Strong about the Faceless Man cast a subtle, yet pervasive, shadow. Outwardly, the King remained serene, his confidence in his own power, and that of Umbraxys, absolute. He moved about the Pyramid, attended meetings, and issued decrees with his usual detached air. But a new layer of vigilance had been imposed.
His personal Dragon Guard, already an elite unit, was indeed doubled. Ser Corlys Vaelaros ensured that every approach to the King, every morsel of food, every shadow in every corner was scrutinized. Royal Academy scholars, those with aptitude in defensive magics, worked tirelessly to reinforce the wards around Baelon's private chambers and the Pyramid's key command centers. They scryed for intruders, examined auras, and chanted counter-spells until their voices grew hoarse, their eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and fear. The King's presence was inspiring, but the invisible threat of an assassin who could be anyone, anywhere, frayed their nerves.
Larys Strong's agents were a whirlwind of covert activity. They profiled every new arrival to the city, interrogated known informants, and watched the watchers. They followed whispers in the newly liberated slave pits, rumors in the markets, and the furtive glances of those who still clung to the old ways. Several times, individuals were detained – a petty thief trying to use the chaos to his advantage, a former master's spy attempting to flee, even a deranged beggar who claimed to be the Harpy reborn. Each was a false alarm, yet each incident served to ratchet up the underlying tension.
One afternoon, as Baelon conferred with his chief engineer about plans to reconstruct Meereen's damaged harbor defenses to accommodate larger warships, a young serving girl, recently 'liberated' from a Great Master's kitchen and assigned to the Pyramid staff, stumbled while bringing in a tray of chilled wine. The pitcher shattered, its contents spilling harmlessly onto the marble floor. The girl, pale with terror, prostrated herself, babbling apologies.
Ordinarily, Baelon would have ignored such a minor incident, or at most, gestured for her to be removed. But for a fleeting moment, his eyes, amplified by Umbraxys's senses which were perpetually scanning their surroundings for anomalies, detected a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker in her aura – a momentary dissonance, a ripple of something… other. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, dismissed by his conscious mind as a trick of the light or the girl's sheer terror. She was, after all, just a terrified child.
He merely waved a dismissive hand. "Clean it up. And find a servant with steadier hands."
Yet, later that evening, as he reviewed reports in his private study, the image of the girl's fleetingly discordant aura returned to him. It was nothing tangible, nothing he could define. But it was… a note out of tune in the symphony of fear and obedience that now characterized Meereen. He made a mental note to have Larys discreetly look into the girl's background, though he still considered direct, physical assassination against him to be a fool's errand.
"The gnat buzzes, Speaker," Umbraxys conveyed, sensing his master's fleeting distraction. "A tiny thing, easily crushed."
Voldemort, the core of Baelon's consciousness, agreed, yet a pragmatic caution, honed over centuries of outwitting powerful foes, acknowledged that even gnats could carry disease. "Indeed, Umbraxys. But even the smallest irritation must be identified before it is purged. This city is still settling. There are countless shadows for such creatures to hide within." His power was immense, his defenses nigh-impenetrable, but the Faceless Men were renowned for their subtlety and patience. This was a different kind of enemy, one that wouldn't meet him on the battlefield. An irritation, certainly, but one that could prove… inconvenient if not managed.
Forging the New Man
The grand social re-engineering of Meereen was well underway. The vast slave population, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, was being systematically processed. In the former fighting pits, now cleared of their gory remnants, long lines of men and women waited under the watchful eyes of legionaries. Clerks, overseen by Baelon's administrators, recorded names, skills, and former allegiances.
Families were, for the most part, kept together, a calculated act of mercy designed to foster gratitude and quell immediate unrest. But the underlying message was clear: their lives now belonged to the Iron Throne.
The younger, fitter men, and even some women who showed aptitude, were separated for military assessment. Lord Tarly's drill sergeants, hardened veterans from Westeros, put them through grueling exercises, seeking out those with strength, stamina, and, most importantly, a capacity for absolute obedience. Promises were made: of regular food, good pay, the honor of serving the King who freed them, and the chance to visit righteous vengeance upon other slavers. For many who had known nothing but brutality and hopelessness, the offer, backed by the undeniable power of their new ruler, was intoxicating.
One such recruit was a young man named Barsen. Formerly a scribe's slave, he was literate and possessed a quiet intensity. He watched the Targaryen soldiers, their discipline, their gleaming armor, their dragons, and saw not conquerors, but a force of nature. When offered a place in the new legions, he accepted without hesitation, his eyes burning with a convert's zeal. He would serve this Dragon King who spoke of order and purpose. He would help forge this new world.
Others were more circumspect. An older woman, Lyra, who had been a weaver in a Great Master's household, watched her son eagerly take the oath of service. She felt a tremor of fear mixed with a desperate hope. This King Baelon was powerful, yes. He had broken their chains. But the coldness in his eyes, the utter ruthlessness of his conquest, made her wary. What kind of freedom was this, that demanded such absolute fealty, such swift transformation from chattel to soldier or state laborer? She held her younger children close, praying that this new age would be kinder than the last, even as she doubted it.
Beyond military recruitment, vast labor corps were being organized. Baelon had grand plans for Meereen. Its damaged walls and infrastructure would be rebuilt, not with crumbling brick, but with the dark, durable stone favored by Valyrian architecture, quarried from the nearby hills. New roads, broader and more strategically sound, were to be laid out. A vast new harbor, capable of sheltering the growing Targaryen fleet in Essos, was designed. And within the Great Pyramid itself, sections were being converted to house a new branch of the Royal Academy, dedicated to the study of Essosi history, languages, and, more covertly, lost Valyrian magic and technologies that Baelon intended to reclaim from the ashes of the East.
The indoctrination was relentless. Priests of R'hllor, who had seen Baelon's fire magic and the arrival of his dragons as a sign, preached of a new age of fire and order. Royal decrees, posted in every plaza, emphasized the King's benevolence in freeing them, his strength in protecting them, and the glorious future that awaited those who served him loyally. The alternative – the fate of the defiant Great Masters – was a lesson taught daily through public displays and grim whispers.
Echoes and Ambitions
Word from Westeros, when it came via Larys's coded messages, was a mixed tapestry. The realm was quiet, held in the iron grip of Baelon's Legions of the Iron Throne and the ever-watchful presence of the Obsidian Citadel in King's Landing, its shadow stretching longer each year. Princess Rhaenyra's latest letter was a model of filial piety and sisterly concern for his Essosi endeavors, though Larys noted that Lord Corlys Velaryon's private frustrations about Baelon's grip on trade and naval power continued to simmer. Her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were becoming formidable dragonriders in their own right, their loyalty to their mother absolute, and by extension, seemingly to Baelon. The King still considered summoning them to Essos, to bind them more tightly to his will, but the timing was not yet right.
Queen Dowager Alicent remained a recluse in Maegor's Holdfast, her piety deepening. Aegon was a non-entity. It was Helaena who, according to Larys, had recently uttered another cryptic phrase, her words recorded by a nervous serving girl: "The serpent coils around the pyramid, its shadow long. But the many-faced god sends a child of dust and whispers. The price of eternity is paid in unseen tears."
Baelon read the transcript with a flicker of irritation. Dust and whispers. Child. It was consistent with the Faceless Man threat. While he dismissed her as mad, her words had an uncanny resonance that sometimes pricked at the edges of his ancient consciousness. He found himself briefly wondering about the "price of eternity." He was already paying it, in a way, by shedding the last vestiges of common sentiment, by embracing the cold, hard calculus of absolute power required for an eternal reign.
His strategic thoughts increasingly turned towards Braavos. The assassination attempt was a direct challenge, a sign that the Titan of the North would not be cowed by the fate of the southern Free Cities or Slaver's Bay. A frontal assault remained a daunting prospect. But Braavos was built on trade, its power derived from the Iron Bank and its intricate network of commerce. Perhaps, Baelon mused, the Titan could be bled, its foundations eroded from within, its economic pillars systematically dismantled. Larys was already working on such angles, but Baelon began to formulate a more direct, long-term strategy to cripple the city of canals without needing to land a single legionary on its shores – at least, not initially.
He also received confirmation from Aemond that Astapor was secure, its former Unsullied being rigorously assessed. Many, Aemond reported with grim satisfaction, were proving remarkably adaptable to a new, equally harsh, but more rewarding Master. Yunkai, under Crakehall, was already a compliant, if terrified, asset. The wealth and manpower of Slaver's Bay were now firmly in Baelon's grasp.
"Their chains are merely reforged, Speaker," Umbraxys observed, as Baelon reviewed the lists of new recruits and confiscated goods. "Stronger now, and bound to a will that will not falter."
Voldemort, the architect of Baelon's ambition, allowed a rare, internal acknowledgment of progress. "Each link strengthens the whole, Umbraxys. These new 'children' of the empire, born from the ashes of their old lives, will be fanatically loyal. They will carry my banner to the ends of the earth, and their numbers will swell with every city that bends the knee." The thought of the assassin was a minor discordant note in this grand symphony of conquest, an almost trivial detail to be managed.
A Chilling Stillness
As the day drew to a close, an unnatural stillness fell over the Great Pyramid. The usual sounds of a military headquarters – the tramp of boots, the clang of armor, the distant shouts of drill sergeants – seemed muted, absorbed by the ancient stones and the oppressive weight of the unseen shadow dragon that was its new guardian.
Baelon stood on his private balcony, the same one from which he had surveyed his conquest the night before. The city below was a patchwork of flickering torchlight and deep, impenetrable blackness. He had issued a decree that evening, a simple one, yet carrying the full weight of his authority: all former symbols of the Harpy were to be systematically destroyed. Statues, mosaics, flags – anything bearing the image of Meereen's old goddess of slavery was to be ground to dust. It was another step in erasing the past, in making Meereen irrevocably his.
Larys Strong appeared silently beside him, a ghostly presence in the twilight. "Your Grace," he began, his voice lower than usual. "Regarding the… operative from Braavos."
"Have you found this 'child of dust and whispers,' Lord Larys?" Baelon asked, not turning.
"Not found, Your Grace. But… there was an incident. Minor, perhaps. Or perhaps not." Larys paused, choosing his words carefully. "One of the tasters assigned to your evening meal. A new recruit, vetted, from a family that suffered greatly under the Great Masters. He collapsed just moments before the meal was to be served to your guards for their own tasting. No overt poison found in the food itself upon initial inspection. He is currently… incoherent, but alive. The physicians are baffled. They speak of a sudden, inexplicable seizure."
Baelon slowly turned, his eyes like chips of obsidian in the dim light. A taster. Collapsing before the food even reached the guards, let alone him. Incoherent. Baffled physicians. It was subtle. Too subtle, perhaps, for common poison.
"No external marks? No sign of struggle?" Baelon'ed.
"None, Your Grace. He simply… fell."
A long silence stretched, filled only by the distant moan of the desert wind. Baelon looked out over his new city, his face an unreadable mask. The gnat, it seemed, was buzzing closer than he had permitted himself to believe. Or this was an extraordinary coincidence, a servant succumbing to illness at an unfortunate moment. But Baelon, in his long existence, had learned that coincidences involving threats to his person were rarely benign.
"Increase your scrutiny, Lord Larys," Baelon said at last, his voice a silken rasp. "Triple it. I want to know the history of every fly that lands on these walls. This… child… is testing the air. Let us ensure the air itself is poison to them."
Even as he spoke, a profound coldness, deeper than the night air, seemed to emanate from him, a silent promise from the Voldemort within that any who dared to truly threaten his eternal reign would discover a suffering beyond their most terrifying nightmares. The whispers in the shadow of the Pyramid had just grown a little louder, and the Serpent King felt the faintest, most unwelcome prickle of something akin to… anticipation. The game, it seemed, was taking an unexpected, if minor, turn.