Meereen had not forgotten the dragon prince's words in the market square.
Days had passed since Rhaego stood between the angry freedman and the frightened young woman, and the city had already begun to twist his attempt at fairness into something else entirely.
Whispers traveled faster than ravens: some said the boy-dragon had a soft heart for the old masters. Others claimed he was wise beyond his years.
A few muttered that he was neither, just a child playing at being a ruler.
The air in the lower districts still carried the faint metallic tang of old blood, but now it mixed with the sharper scent of suspicion.
Rhaego walked through one of the smaller plazas near the pyramid, surrounded by a loose escort of Dothraki bloodriders. Rakharo walked beside him, arakh resting across his hip, eyes scanning the crowd with the easy vigilance of a man who had guarded khaleesi and khalakka both.
Two other bloodriders followed a few paces behind, their bells chiming softly with every step.
The boy-dragon, his silver hair catching the sun like fresh snow. His small black horns were more prominent. His tail swayed lazily behind him as he moved.
A group of freed children had gathered around him, laughing and chattering. Rhaego crouched to their level, a small pouch of dried figs and honeyed nuts in his hands. He tore off pieces and handed them out with a grin.
"Here," he said, voice warm. "Take as much as you want. But share with the smaller ones first."
One boy, no older than six, reached up boldly to touch the tip of Rhaego's tail. Rhaego let him, flicking it gently so the boy giggled.
Rakharo watched with a faint smile, but his eyes never stopped moving across the square.
"You are too soft with them, little stallion," Rakharo muttered in Dothraki, low enough that only Rhaego could hear.
"A khalakka should not play nursemaid."
Rhaego looked up at him, violet-slitted eyes bright with mischief.
"A khalakka who cannot make friends will have no one to ride with when the time comes. Besides… They're hungry. And happy." he said in the same dothraki tongue.
Rakharo grunted, but there was no real disapproval in it.
Rhaego had just handed the last piece of honeyed nut to a little girl when a new sound cut through the laughter, raised voices, sharp and angry, coming from the far side of the plaza near a half-rebuilt stall.
He straightened, ears twitching. Rakharo's hand moved instinctively toward his arakh.
A small crowd had gathered again. This time it was different.
Three former masters, older men in plain but well-made robes stood facing a group of freedmen. One of the masters, a thin man with a nervous smile, was speaking loudly, gesturing toward the children and Rhaego.
"…the dragon prince understands!" he was saying.
"He showed mercy to the daughter of a master only days ago. He knows not all of us are cruel. He has a soft heart for those who wish to live in peace under the new order."
The freedmen's faces darkened. One spat on the ground.
"Soft heart?" a broad-shouldered freedman growled.
"Or soft on the masters? He helps one girl and now they think they can crawl back into power?"
Rhaego's expression changed. The playful light in his eyes dimmed. He stepped forward, Rakharo and the bloodriders moving with him like a silent guard.
The crowd noticed him immediately. Whispers rippled outward.
The thin master turned, his nervous smile widening when he saw Rhaego.
"My prince!" he called, voice oily with hope.
"You see? We only wish to contribute. To help rebuild. We are not your enemies. You showed fairness before, surely you understand that some of us can be useful to the new Meereen."
Rhaego stopped a few paces away. His tail flicked once, slow and deliberate. He looked at the master, then at the freedmen, then back again.
In his mind, he felt a weary frustration.
The man smiled too easily. There was something in it Rhaego did not trust.
They always want me to pick a side. He thought.
He spoke clearly, voice carrying across the plaza.
"I showed fairness because both sides were hurting," Rhaego said.
"The girl had done nothing wrong. But that does not mean the old masters can simply forget what was done to these people. If you want to live here, you must prove you are willing to work beside them, not above them."
The master's smile faltered. "Of course, my prince. We only wish—"
A freedman cut him off, voice rough with anger.
"You wish to keep your fine houses and your soft beds while we still sleep on straw! The dragon prince is kind, but we remember who cracked the whips!"
Rhaego raised a hand, trying to calm the rising voices.
"Enough. Both of you. The problem won't be solved with more fighting. If you truly want peace, then work for it. Together."
The thin master bowed deeply, but his eyes gleamed with calculation. The freedmen muttered darkly, some glaring at Rhaego as though he had betrayed them by not condemning the masters outright.
Rakharo leaned down from his horse, voice low.
"They twist your words already, little stallion. Kindness is seen as weakness by some."
Rhaego exhaled slowly, tail flicking again.
"I know. But if I only give them fire, the city will burn. If I only give them chains, we become what we fought against."
He looked out over the uneasy crowd, feeling the weight of their eyes on him, some hopeful, some resentful, some afraid.
And yet… What could they do?
The masters knew it. The freedmen knew it too.
One did not openly oppose a boy who could breathe blue fire, who had wings strong enough to carry him above the city, who walked with the blood of dragons in his veins.
Even the angriest voices fell quiet when Rhaego spoke. Even the most calculating masters bowed their heads, smiling nervously, because they understood the simple truth:
A dragon's son, even a young one, was still a dragon.
For the first time, the Rhaego who had once only wanted to change the story with his knowledge began to understand how heavy reality in this world could be.
In his mind, he understood it clearly.
They're not listening because they believe I'm right, he thought.
They're listening because they're afraid of what I might do if they don't.
The realization tasted bitter. He had wanted to help bridge the gap, not widen it with fear.
But power, even the quiet kind, had a way of changing how people looked at you, and how loudly people pretended to agree.
Rhaego did not stay long after the crowd began to thin. He excused himself with a quick word to Rakharo.
"I need to fly," he said simply, already turning away from the bloodriders. "Alone. I won't go far."
Rakharo's dark eyes narrowed, but he only grunted.
"Do not stray too long, little stallion. Your mother will ask where you are."
Rhaego gave a small nod, then spread his wings and leaped into the air.
The wind caught him instantly, hot and dry, carrying the scent of dust and distant cookfires. He climbed higher, wings beating in strong, steady strokes until the streets of Meereen shrank beneath him. The great pyramids became toys, the people mere specks moving like ants between red and gold bricks.
Only when he was high enough that the voices of the city faded did he let himself slow.
He flew in wide, lazy circles above the plains, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. The sky turned orange and gold, painting his silver hair and the edges of his dark wings in warm light.
Rhaego folded his arms across his chest, tail streaming behind him, and let the wind carry him.
Up here, Meereen looked almost peaceful.
Small. Manageable.
But Rhaego knew better now. He felt heavy, even as the wind lifted him.
The thought came quiet, unwelcome.
Not the way he had imagined it once.
Not the way it had been in his head, back when it was all pages and scenes and endings he thought could be changed with the right words.
His wings slowed.
Three years, he thought.
Three years in this world… and I still thought it would be easier than this.
Below him, Meereen stretched wide and restless.
I was supposed to change her story.
That had been the goal. The only goal. Save her. Guide her. Fix what the world had broken.
It had sounded so simple… when it wasn't real.
His jaw tightened. The wind rushed past him, cold now against his skin.
He had watched it. Read it. Lived through it from a distance where pain could be paused, where endings could be predicted.
I didn't know anything.
Three years, and still he was learning the same lesson.
This wasn't a story. There were no clean choices. No perfect lines to say.
Only people… Angry. Broken and afraid. The anger. The fear. The way people looked at him, not as a boy, not even as a prince but as something that could burn them if it chose to.
And him… caught between them, pretending he knew how to fix it. By the time he returned, the sun was sinking low, bleeding gold across the city.
The Great Pyramid burned in that light.
Rhaego landed high along the balcony with a stone railing overlooking the city, near the council chamber, the stone still warm beneath his bare feet. The wind tugged at his hair, softer now, like something tired.
He did not go inside.
Instead, he sank down where he stood, folding in on himself.
Wings tucked close. Tail curled loosely around his legs. Forehead resting against his knees.
Small.
Too small, for something they called a dragon.
They don't hear me, he thought.
They hear what I am.
The voices from the plaza still echoed in his mind. His fingers curled tighter.
If I speak gently, they doubt me.
If I speak harshly, they fear me.
If I say nothing… What am I?
The question lingered, unanswered.
How do you make people listen when they're scared of you? he wondered.
How do you fix something when everyone thinks you're either their savior or a monster?
Behind him, the chamber doors opened softly. Missandei paused at the threshold. She approached quietly, her steps soft on the stone.
Her dark eyes were gentle as she looked at the tall boy curled against the railing. He looked troubled, shoulders tense, tail curled tightly, the usual bright spark in his violet eyes dimmed.
"Rhaego," she said softly.
He lifted his head, silver hair falling across his horns.
"Missie"
For a moment she simply looked out over the city with him, the silence comfortable.
"My prince," she said gently.
Rhaego did not look up.
"Did I wake you?" he asked, voice muffled against his knees.
Missandei's lips curved faintly. "You do not move quietly, Your Grace."
That earned the smallest breath of something, almost a laugh.
Almost.
She came to stand beside him, looking out over the city for a moment before lowering herself to lean at his side.
"The wind carried you home," she said softly. "But it did not leave you at peace."
Rhaego was quiet for a long moment.
Then—
"I was just walking," he said. "With the children." His voice was smaller now. Younger.
"I gave them sweets. We were laughing." A pause. "Then it… changed."
Missandei waited.
"Another dispute came from the old masters and freedmen, I tried to help," he went on. "I said what I thought was right, by being fair."
His fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of his trousers.
"They listened," he said. "But not because they believed me."
Now he lifted his head, just enough for her to see his eyes.
"They listened because I'm… this."
A small flick of his wing. His horns.
His difference.
"I don't want that," he said, quieter still. "I don't want them to agree because they're afraid of what I might do."
Missandei watched him carefully. There was no judgment in her gaze.
Only understanding.
"You wish to be heard," she said, "not obeyed."
Rhaego nodded once. "Yes."
Missandei was silent for a moment. Then, gently, she shifted closer.
Slowly, so slowly he could have pulled away if he wished, she placed her arms around him from behind, careful of his wings, her embrace light but steady.
Rhaego stiffened for a heartbeat.
Then… did not pull away.
"The people of this city have lived their whole lives in fear," she said softly near his shoulder. "Of masters. Of chains. Of pain."
Her voice was calm. Measured. True.
"They do not yet know how to listen without it."
Rhaego's eyes lowered again. "That doesn't make it right."
"No," Missandei agreed. "It does not."
A pause.
"But it makes it real."
The wind stirred around them.
"My prince," she continued, "you spoke, and no blood was shed."
Her hold tightened just slightly, not restraining, just there.
"That is not a small thing in Meereen."
Rhaego swallowed. "They still twisted it."
"Yes," she said simply.
Another pause.
Then softer—
"They will twist many things you do."
That made him huff a quiet breath. "That doesn't help."
Missandei smiled faintly against his shoulder.
"No," she said. "But it is truth."
She rested her chin lightly against him, just for a moment.
"You cannot choose how they see you," she said. "Only what you do."
Rhaego was quiet. The city stretched below them, restless and alive.
"…What if what I do isn't enough?" he asked.
Missandei's answer came without hesitation.
"Then you will do more," she said.
Not harsh. Not demanding.
Just certain.
"You are your mother's son."
That made him glance sideways, just slightly. "And something more," she added softly.
Rhaego let out a slow breath. The knot in his chest did not vanish. But it loosened.
Just a little.
He leaned back, not fully, but enough that he no longer felt like he might fold in on himself.
Missandei did not let go.
And for a while, they sat together in the fading light.
The dragon prince and the girl who had once been a slave.
Watching a city that did not yet know what to do with either of them.