Chapter 350: The Wedding

The sky was an endless blue, with not a cloud in sight. The sun's fierce rays heated the bricks of the Great Pyramid until they were nearly scorching.

Daenerys Targaryen's maid, Jhiqui, removed the silk robe draped over her queen's shoulders, while Irri supported her as she stepped into the cool water of the bathing pool.

Sunlight danced across the water's surface, reflecting the shattered shadows of the persimmon trees nearby.

"Your Grace," Missandei began hesitantly, summoning her courage, "are you truly going to marry... Hizdahr?"

Daenerys turned to her handmaiden and smiled faintly.

"What's wrong? You don't want me to marry him?"

"Forgive my boldness," Missandei replied softly, "but everyone knows it is Caesar you truly love…"

Daenerys froze momentarily, her cheeks tinged with pink. Had her feelings been that obvious? She thought the argument she'd staged with Samwell days ago had been fierce enough to deceive anyone.

Missandei continued cautiously, as she gently scrubbed her queen's back:

"I heard you calling his name in your sleep, Your Grace..."

Daenerys felt her face flush deeper. She could only muster a weak defense:

"As a queen, my marriage is not my own—it belongs to my kingdom."

Yet even as she said it, she couldn't help but wonder: if she married Caesar, would it be for herself, or for her realm?

Her maids worked quickly, ensuring Daenerys was impeccably clean, scrubbing away every trace of dust and fatigue.

But even after her bath was finished, Daenerys lingered in the pool, savoring the coolness of the water. She plucked icy fruit from a silver platter and allowed her thoughts to drift to the Seven Kingdoms—a land she had never set foot in but had dreamed of all her life.

The places her brother had described once seemed so vivid and enchanting. But after years of exile, fleeing, rejection, and hardship, those visions had grown faint and hollow.

Now, however, with Caesar's arrival, those old dreams seemed to flicker back to life.

He will take me home.

As she recalled the image of Caesar descending from the sky astride his white dragon, a smile crept across her lips.

The thought gave her the strength to finally leave the water.

Droplets clung to her pale skin, tracing rivulets down her body before dripping from her legs.

Jhiqui brought a soft towel to dry her off, while Irri stood ready to assist.

"What will you wear today, Your Grace?" Irri asked.

Daenerys wanted to wear her sheer purple gown, the one that matched her violet eyes. But today, her attire was not hers to choose. She had to wear the cumbersome tokar gown, as her supposed groom was Hizdahr zo Loraq.

"The yellow tokar," Daenerys said, her voice flat. She vowed silently that this would be the last time she ever wore such an outfit.

"And the red veil," she added. Blood would likely flow freely in Meereen today, and the red would hide any stains.

Jhiqui combed Daenerys' hair while Irri painted her nails. Missandei, after stepping out briefly, returned to announce:

"Your Grace, Quentyn Martell of Dorne requests an audience."

Daenerys hesitated. Caesar had advised her to detain the Dornishman, but she had treated him courteously thus far out of respect for House Martell's loyalty to the Targaryens.

Still, she had no intention of seeing him today.

"Tell Quentyn I am occupied and will meet with him another day."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Once she was dressed and prepared, Daenerys left her chambers.

At the base of the Great Pyramid, Ser Barristan Selmy waited beside a grand, open sedan chair surrounded by stoic Unsullied.

"Your Grace," Barristan said, bowing deeply.

"Is everything in place?" Daenerys asked quietly.

"Yes," he replied. "The Unsullied are guarding all four city gates and the Temple of the Graces. The Yunkish forces outside won't be able to breach the city, and most importantly, you will remain safe. However, we won't be able to control the rest of the city if chaos erupts."

"That's what the Brazen Beasts are for," Daenerys said confidently.

The Brazen Beasts, a militia of former slaves, were tasked with defending the city's streets. To protect them from assassination by the Sons of the Harpy, each wore a mask shaped like an animal's face.

"They lack discipline," Barristan warned. "And the masks hide too much. For all we know, the man under that owl mask today could be a different man from yesterday."

"That's not important," Daenerys said firmly. "The key locations are secure. Once the nobles are dead, Meereen will stabilize."

"Let us hope so," Barristan said, determined to stay by her side for protection.

Daenerys climbed into the sedan chair, and the procession began.

The sun blazed overhead as her chair was carried across the colorful brick plaza before the Great Pyramid. Heat shimmered in waves from the ground, creating a hazy mirage-like effect.

The streets were packed with spectators. As the sedan moved through the city, cheers erupted from the crowd.

The Unsullied formed a protective circle around Daenerys' chair, their spears thudding rhythmically against the bricks to drive back the onlookers.

At every stop, more nobles joined the procession, their carriages laden with gifts: fine robes, dazzling jewels, intricately crafted sculptures. Daenerys accepted each offering with a polite smile, instructing her maids to store them away.

She noticed, however, that the nobles' carriages were pulled not by horses but by people.

Meereenese nobles detested horses, claiming they sullied the streets. Daenerys had hoped this practice would end after abolishing slavery, but the only change was that the laborers were now hired rather than enslaved.

I've changed nothing in this city, she thought bitterly.

The Temple of the Graces loomed ahead, its golden dome glinting in the sunlight. Flanked by towering bronze Harpy statues, it stood as a symbol of Meereen's power and tradition.

The procession halted at the temple's steps, where Barristan helped Daenerys down.

The steps leading to the entrance were tiled in a spectrum of colors—black, purple, blue, green—culminating in red, where Hizdahr zo Loraq stood waiting, a polite smile on his face.

Around him, the priestesses of the temple formed a circle, their robes as vibrant as the tiles beneath their feet. Behind them, the Great Masters of Meereen lined the staircase, each standing in order of their rank and lineage.

Below the stairs, thousands of freedmen pressed together in the square, their cheers echoing across the city.

As Daenerys ascended the steps, the crowd erupted in a single chant:

"Mhysa!"

"Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa!" The cry reverberated, growing louder with each repetition, shaking the very stones of the temple.

Daenerys paused, letting the waves of sound wash over her.

I am not your mother, she thought. I don't deserve that name.

But looking at their jubilant faces, tears welled in her eyes.

I may not be able to truly free you now, she vowed silently, but one day, I will return and finish what I started.

The chant surged higher and higher:

"Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa!"

Overhead, Samwell flew in lazy circles atop his white dragon, listening to the deafening cries.

Do you all wish for her death so eagerly? he mused darkly, a wry smile on his lips. Then I'll make sure she lives.

He patted the white dragon's neck, signaling it to descend. But just as they began to dive, a shadow passed beneath them.

Samwell's sharp eyes immediately recognized it—it was Drogon, the black dragon.

(End of Chapter)