Chapter 685: Red Dragon!

Chapter 685: Red Dragon!

Slaver's Bay, Meereen

The Great Pyramid...

“Your Grace, this is the gift the Good Masters have prepared for your Name Day celebration,” a representative of the slave owners from Astapor and Yunkai announced, bowing low with exaggerated respect.

In the Great Hall, Irina sat on the throne, her posture commanding. She wore her favorite slinky blue dress with a high slit—elegant and regal, while giving her freedom of movement. It displayed her queenly grace without the stiffness of more formal attire.

“Valyrian steel?” Irina’s eyes gleamed as her fingers traced the necklace presented to her—a delicate chain with a dragon’s head pendant crafted from Valyrian steel. Upon closer inspection, the links were unremarkable, but the pendant was a masterpiece, clearly from ancient Valyria. She felt a strange sense of recognition, as though she’d seen it somewhere before.

The slave owner stepped forward eagerly, his tone full of flattery. “Only treasures from Valyria’s glorious past are worthy of the noble blood of a true dragon.”

“A fine gift, showing real sincerity,” Irina said with a smile, placing the necklace back into its box. Since her capture of the red dragon that had been missing, rumors had spread like wildfire. The Great Masters of Meereen were now completely submissive, and even the Good Masters and Wise Masters of Astapor and Yunkai had grown more obedient. What had once been a fragile rule was now unshakable.

However...

Irina’s eyes flicked to the bald red-robed wizard standing quietly in the corner of the hall. Her brow furrowed slightly. The plan to fully tame the dragon had been delayed. The last remaining red-robed wizard could not control the creature, and his attempts to seek help from Asshai had yielded no results.

This made the slave owners uneasy. Without the queen riding a dragon, doubt and suspicion were beginning to creep into their minds, and plots were being hatched in the shadows.

As if reading her thoughts, the representative of the slave owners bowed again, his voice dripping with false reverence. “Gracious Queen, when will you hold a grand event to show Slaver’s Bay might to House Targaryen? The people long to see the greatness of the Dragonlord’s lineage.”

The question was thinly veiled. Where is your dragon? The subtext was clear—if she had a dragon, she should show it.

Irina remained calm. “There’s no need to rush. The merchants from Qarth have been visiting Slaver’s Bay frequently of late. After their business is concluded, we’ll host a grand event.”

“But we’ve heard the merchants of Qarth are at war with House Hightower of Oldtown,” a Good Master from Astapor interrupted, stepping forward with a haughty sneer. His short beard curled sharply as he eyed her with skepticism. “They’ve been buying slaves to fuel their attacks, even sending slaves infected with grayscale to sow chaos in Oldtown. The entire Reach has united against them, and no one knows how long the war will last.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. “Are you doubting me?”

The Good Master paled but tried to recover. “No, Your Grace, we are merely... eager.”

“Insult the queen again, and you’ll lose your tongue,” she warned, her tone ice-cold. The man recoiled, quickly bowing in submission.

Irina stood, her patience at its end. “Then go home and wait for news in peace,” she said curtly. Grabbing the box from the maid’s tray, she turned and swept out of the hall, leaving the slave owners behind. They exchanged uneasy glances, frustration simmering beneath their forced smiles, but none dared speak.

The doors of the Great Hall closed with a heavy thud, sealing them in silence.

...

Great Pyramid, Dungeon

Irina, flanked by Unsullied guards, approached the heavy iron door to the dungeon once more.

Rumble!

The door creaked open slowly, releasing a pungent stench of rot and sulfur, mixed with the briny smell of fish. It struck her like a wall, clinging to her senses, refusing to fade.

"Torch," she commanded, her voice steady, though her eyes darkened with unease. One of the Unsullied quickly handed her a torch. With its dim light, she cautiously stepped into the pitch-black dungeon.

Hoo...

A gust of hot, fishy wind blew from the depths of the darkness, brushing against her face. Irina stiffened, her fingers gripping the torch tightly, her hand going numb. In her youth, she had dreamed of finding a dragon and restoring the glory of her house. But after so many failed attempts to control one, her initial courage had crumbled.

"Roar..."

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the dungeon, the sound thick, as though being dragged up from the throat of a monstrous creature. The shadows swallowed everything; even the faint torchlight couldn’t pierce the darkness ahead.

Slaves, clad in mismatched armor and gripping crude weapons, streamed into the arena through the heavy gates. Among them was Aemon, armed with nothing but a rusty iron sword. Blending into the crowd, he spotted the Blackhair giant striding confidently ahead.

“He’s here too,” Aemon muttered, his gaze locking onto the hulking figure. Slowly, he began to edge his way closer.

In the stands, slave owners and merchants whispered eagerly, placing bets on their chosen fighters. The air buzzed with anticipation. Irina sat among them, looking disinterested, her chin resting in her hand as she lazily leaned against the table.

In the arena, Aemon felt a pang of anxiety as he glanced up at the unsightly slave owners gawking at them. Then, he saw her—Irina, sitting in the stands, her hand pressed to her forehead. His stomach tightened.

“It’s her... that old woman,” he mumbled under his breath. He debated whether to make himself known. They had crossed paths a few times, and none of those meetings had gone well. She wasn’t someone to trust, especially not after meddling in her brother’s affairs. If I reveal my identity now, I’ll probably end up locked in some dungeon... never seeing daylight again.

“Kid, stick close to me,” the Blackhair giant interrupted, his deep voice breaking through Aemon’s thoughts.

Aemon nodded quickly, realizing the wisdom in the advice. With his small frame and lack of real skill, there was no way he could survive the bloodbath without protection. “Okay,” he agreed, knowing he needed all the help he could get.

Clang!

The sound of the gong echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the fight. Chaos erupted instantly. Swords flashed, and the sound of metal clashing filled the air as slaves turned on one another, desperate to survive. The arena quickly transformed into a brutal, frenzied battlefield.

Aemon hesitated for a split second—just long enough for a spray of blood to splatter across his face.

“Watch yourself! I can’t protect you all the time!” the Blackhair giant bellowed, swinging his enormous sword as he charged into the throng of combatants.

The arena was a storm of violence, and the Blackhair strongman stood at the center, his massive sword cleaving through enemies with terrifying ease. The weapon, nearly as tall as a man and as wide as a palm, cut through flesh and bone with every swing. No one could stand against him—those who tried were either hacked down or crushed by the force of his blows. Blood splattered in wide arcs, painting the ground red.

Aemon, shaking off his shock, fell into step behind the giant, using him as both a shield and a weapon. He dodged and weaved, staying just out of harm’s way as the strongman carved a path through the battlefield.

Time crept forward, and as noon approached, the once-crowded arena was littered with bodies. Only a handful of slaves remained standing—less than a tenth of those who had entered. Aemon, still alive, had managed to avoid most of the fighting by hiding in the shadows, his heart pounding as he watched the carnage unfold.

Many in the stands had expected him to be among the first to fall. But here he was, quietly lingering at the edge, unnoticed by the bloodthirsty crowd. Against all odds, he had survived.

Clang!

The gong sounded again, signaling the end of the duel. The remaining slaves, battered and exhausted, dragged themselves toward the iron Sect, leaving the gruesome battlefield behind. Aemon lingered at the back, not eager to draw attention to himself among the hardened survivors.

As the survivors filed into the rest area, a rare reward awaited them—food. According to the rules of the arena, those who survived each round would be given a feast before returning to the dark, damp cells below.

Just as Aemon was about to enter the gate, he glanced back over his shoulder. His eyes caught a glimpse of Irina, her blue dress trailing as she rose from the table and made her way out of the stands. Something stirred in his mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

He turned back, stepping through the iron doors, his thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty.

...

As night fell, the Colosseum grew silent, the chaos of the day replaced by an eerie stillness.

In the damp, underground prison cell, Aemon huddled in a corner, gnawing on a half-eaten baked potato. He had survived the day's brutal fight and, as a result, had been temporarily moved to a less crowded cell. It was still cramped and reeked of damp stone, but at least there was more space to breathe.

His eyes drifted toward the Blackhair brawny man who lay near the small, barred window, his eyes closed, breathing steady. The man appeared to be asleep, but there was a tension in his muscles, as if even in sleep, he was ready for anything.

This is an opportunity, Aemon thought, a spark of an idea flickering to life. Perhaps he could win over the strongman, find a way to forge an alliance and secure a future—something he’d never considered before. His older brother Baelon and younger brother Maekar had always been the ones to gather support, building alliances and gaining favor. Aemon, on the other hand, had preferred to keep things simple, focusing on managing Lys and Tyrosh on the other side of the Narrow Sea. He had never lowered himself to treat subordinates with any real respect.

But now, in this unforgiving place, he needed to adapt. Dare to think, dare to act, he told himself, gritting his teeth as he stood up.

He walked toward the window, where the cool night breeze blew through the bars, pushing away the clouds that had been covering the sky. The Pure moonlight broke through, casting a beam over the prison. Aemon’s gaze drifted upward, following the light to the towering shape of the Great Pyramid of Meereen. It loomed high above the city, an oppressive symbol of power, bearing down on those beneath it.

He stared at the pyramid, its size and grandeur crushing to those who stood below it. For a moment, he swore he could hear something—a distant roar. The sound of a dragon, full of fury and rage. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, stirred by the oppressive weight of the night and the towering pyramid. Either way, it stoked a fire within him, setting his heart ablaze with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What are you looking at?” a voice interrupted his thoughts.