The atmosphere in the Great Pyramid was no longer one of scholarly pursuit or trade; it had become a claustrophobic pressure cooker of ambition and survival. With the Wise Masters of Yunkai shattered and the Sons of the Harpy driven into the lightless tunnels beneath the city, the true power brokers of Meereen finally sat around the cedar table.
Eddard Karstark sat at the head, his presence a stark, silver-clad anchor in the center of the volatile room. To his left sat Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak stark against the dark stone of the chamber. To his right stood Grey Worm, his face a mask of emotionless discipline, flanked by three of his most senior Unsullied sergeants.
The mercenaries were the most restless. Daario Naharis, his blue beard trimmed to a razor's edge, lounged with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. Beside him, the "Ragged Prince" of the Windblown and Brown Ben Plumm of the Second Sons sat with their hands near their blades, assessing the room with the eyes of men who knew the wind was shifting.
Eddard tapped the table, the sharp clack silencing the murmurs. "The Yunkish siege is broken, but Meereen is not yet at peace. The 'Pale Mare' still haunts the lower districts, and the Harpy's influence has been severed, not eradicated."
"My Lord," Ser Barristan spoke, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much war. "The city is safe for the moment, but the people look to the Great Pyramid for stability. Without the Queen, they are like lost sheep."
"The people need bread, not symbols," Eddard countered. He looked toward the door, where his guards stood watch. "Karas, ensure the distribution of the salvaged grain continues. If I hear of any noble hoarding supplies while the commoners starve, you have my leave to hang them from their own balcony."
Karas Snow bowed and departed. The mercenaries watched the exchange with varying degrees of unease. They were used to fighting for profit, not to enforce the sanitation of a plague-ridden city.
"You speak of bread, Lord Karstark," Daario Naharis chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "But my men are not bakers. We are soldiers. We fought for the Queen because we were promised gold and glory. Now that she is gone, we find ourselves guarding a city that reeks of death and stagnant water."
"Then you are free to leave, Daario," Eddard said, his voice flat. "But if you leave, you leave without a copper of Karstark gold. If you stay, you follow the sanitation protocols. You wash your hands in the boiled vats. You wear the masks. And you patrol the streets to ensure the curfew is held. Those who violate the order will be treated exactly like the Harpy's conspirators."
Daario's smirk faltered. He looked at the guards lining the walls - Eddard's elite men, armored in plate and radiating a disciplined lethality that made the Stormcrows look like a band of street ruffians.
"Very well," Daario sighed. "But the Queen's contract is with me."
"The Queen is away," Eddard replied. "And until she returns, the North is the only thing keeping this city from descending into a charnel house. You will serve the city, or you will find yourself on the outside of the walls."
The room grew colder. The mercenaries, sensing the shift in the balance of power, retreated into silence.
Eddard turned to Barristan. "Ser Barristan, I need your help. The pyramid must be purged of any remaining informants. I want a list of every servant, every scribe, and every cupbearer who has been in contact with the Yunkish camps in the last month. We are going to find the leaks."
"It is a task for the Shavepue," Barristan said, his face clouding. "He is the one who understands the belly of this city."
"Skahaz mo Kandaq is a butcher," Eddard noted. "He will do the work well, but keep him on a short leash. I don't want a pogrom; I want intelligence."
As the council began to fragment, the doors opened. Missandei entered, her golden eyes wide and haunted. She carried a letter, the seal broken and the parchment trembling in her hand.
"Lord Eddard," she whispered, the room going deathly quiet. "A raven from the North. From Winterfell."
Eddard took the scroll, his heart skipping a beat. He broke the seal, his grey-blue eyes racing over the lines. As he read, the cold, clinical mask of the "Winter Wizard" slipped, revealing a momentary shadow of deep, ancestral grief.
"Robb," he whispered.
"What does it say?" Barristan asked, his voice low.
Eddard didn't answer immediately. He looked at the map of Meereen, then at the map of the world that now hung on the wall, a world he was actively reshaping. The news from Winterfell changed the timing of everything. If the King of the North was dead, the Northern lords would be clamoring for a return to Winterfell, and his legitimacy as a "Regent" of the West would face its first true test.
"The King of the North has fallen," Eddard said, his voice carrying through the chamber.
The mercenaries, the Unsullied, and the noble lords stood in stunned silence. The news of Robb Stark's death in the distant seas was like a frost that silenced the desert heat.
"My Lord," Missandei asked, her voice trembling. "What does this mean for the Queen?"
"It means," Eddard said, slowly folding the letter, "that the war of kings is finished. The war of the living has begun. Karas! Get the fleet ready. We sail for the Stepstones the moment the Queen returns. We are going to reclaim our future."
[Status: Expedition to Meereen (Preparing for final naval maneuver).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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