Chapter 360: Meereen’s Choice
The blazing sun scorched the earth, filling the air with the stifling mix of steam and the sickening stench of rotting corpses.
Xima wrapped a cloth around his mouth and nose as he worked under the direction of the Blue Graces, carrying bodies to the deep pits beside the temple.
Once the pits were full, Unsullied soldiers threw in torches and flammable materials.
With a roar, flames rose into the sky, and the scorching heat made Xima instinctively step back.
The Graces, clad in their multicolored robes, surrounded the burning pits, chanting prayers. Their voices, indistinct in the ancient Ghiscari tongue, mingled with the black smoke as it rose toward the heavens.
Similar funeral pyres dotted the city, with even more outside the walls. Trails of smoke carried the spirits of the dead—Meereenese, Yunkish, Astapori, and mercenaries from every corner of the world—into the sky. But whether there were gods above to receive their souls was a question no one could answer.
It took two days to clear the city and its surroundings of the dead. Yet bloodstains on the streets and walls were impossible to clean in such a short time.
Fortunately, a heavy rain swept through the city, washing away much of the carnage. Streams of pale red water coursed through alleys, carrying bits of rubble and debris, leaving Meereen with an almost renewed appearance when the rain finally stopped.
Barefoot, Xima walked cautiously along the damp streets, his feet slipping on the wet stones.
When he saw a patrol of Unsullied approaching, he instinctively stepped aside to kneel before realizing something: he was free.
The realization left him anxious and unsure of himself.
He was free, but he still had to eat.
"Masters," he stammered, gathering the courage to address the Unsullied. "Are there more corpses to clear today?"
"The corpses are gone," an Unsullied replied bluntly.
Hearing this, Xima's face fell. He opened his mouth as if to ask something but thought better of it.
"There is a vote happening at the Plaza of Pride," the Unsullied added. "You may participate."
"A vote?" Xima didn't understand the word but dared not ask further questions. He nodded nervously. "Yes, yes, I'll go."
The Unsullied moved on, delivering the same message to others they encountered.
Curious and apprehensive, Xima made his way to the Plaza of Pride.
There, a crowd of thousands had already gathered. At the center of the square, two large wooden boxes stood before the bronze harpy statue. People queued up before the boxes, dropping objects inside.
On the edges of the plaza, young men in gray robes handed out wooden tokens and explained the process to newcomers.
Eavesdropping on one explanation, Xima finally understood: this "vote" was to decide whether or not Meereen would restore slavery.
Those in favor of restoring slavery were to throw their wooden tokens into the left box; those against it, into the right.
Glancing around, Xima noticed that the queue for the left box was significantly longer than the one for the right.
"Do they all want to be slaves again?" he wondered, feeling a mix of confusion and despair.
A gray-robed man approached him, placing a wooden token in his hand.
"Do you understand what this is for?"
"Yes, yes," Xima said quickly.
"Good. Get in line, cast your vote, and then leave. No one may vote twice."
"Yes, of course."
But as Xima moved toward the boxes, he hesitated.
If he could remain free, why would he choose to be a slave? Yet his newfound freedom had brought him nothing but fear and uncertainty.
At first, he had been excited, answering the Queen's call to plant beans in the fields. But the plants withered within days. Some said it was a lack of water, others blamed poor soil, and still others whispered of the gods' curse.
Xima didn't understand farming—he'd never done it before.
Later, someone suggested planting olive trees, but this time, Xima sought advice from a wise man. That was when he learned that olives took three years to bear fruit.
"I won't survive until the first harvest," he thought.
Starvation loomed, and he began to long for the days when his master at least provided him with food.
Freedom had become a heavy burden, more crushing than chains.
Clutching his token, Xima joined the longer queue—on the left.
Half an hour later, after dropping his token into the box, he felt an overwhelming urge to cry.
"Mhysa," he murmured, thinking of the Dragon Queen.
---
On a balcony of the Great Pyramid, Daenerys watched the scene below. Her heart ached as she saw her people, whom she had freed, now choosing to return to bondage.
"I failed them," she whispered.
"It's not your fault," Samwell said softly, standing beside her. "Given the choice between freedom and bread, Meereen will choose bread."
"Bread soaked in blood," Daenerys replied bitterly.
"Sometimes, that's the only choice people have."
"They call me Mhysa, but I couldn't save them. I've let them down."
Samwell wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "Breaking chains is the easy part. Building something new—that's the real challenge."
From behind them, a voice interrupted.
"I find the old system rather effective," said Xaro Xhoan Daxos as he approached, flanked by guards.
The Qartheen merchant bowed gracefully. "Storm King, Dragon Queen, I hope you'll pardon my intrusion, but I believe the Ghiscari way is not as terrible as it seems."
Daenerys shot him a withering look. "Of course you'd say that. Slavery lines your coffers with gold."
"You misunderstand me, dear Queen," Xaro replied smoothly. "The world is harsh. Sometimes, the most despised systems are also the most practical. Rain, for example."
"Rain?"
"Yes. It soaks us and ruins our plans, but without it, famine follows. Slavery is the rain of civilization."
Don't rush to refute, think about Qarth, think about its achievements in art, music, architecture, trade and so on. It is these achievements that distinguish us humans from beasts and make us, the thirteen giants, sit at the top of the pyramid like you.
But instead of bricks, it is the backbones of countless slaves that support the magnificent Qarth.
Ask yourself, if everyone lives their life facing the earth, who will look up at the endless starry sky?
If everyone is busy trying to survive, who will build magnificent temples to praise the gods? Who will create beautiful paintings and compose moving music?
For the greatness of mankind, some people must become slaves."
"No, slaves are different from rain." Daenerys frowned, "I have been drenched by rain, and I have been sold, but the feeling is different. No one wants to be enslaved."
He gestured to the Plaza of Pride. "Look at them. More seem to prefer servitude."
Daenerys faltered, unable to find a response. After a long pause, she said, "Westeros has no slaves, yet it has art, castles, and music."
Xaro chuckled. "And yet, I've heard from merchants from westeros that peasants in Westeros live no better than slaves—bound to the land, taxed to starvation. Freedom hasn't saved them from suffering."
Daenerys wanted to refute, but she didn't know where to start.
Moreover, she had never been to Westeros, and her impression of the place came from her brother's stories.
Turning to Samwell, Daenerys sought his support.
Samwell stepped forward, addressing Xaro with a calm smile.
"Tell me, Xaro, how long do you think it takes to build a five-acre stone castle with a thousand laborers?"
"Two or three years," Xaro replied.
"I built one in less than a year, even while under attack," Samwell said. "And how long do you think would it take to dig a 700-mile canal?"
"Seven hundred miles? Impossible."
"That's right. A 700-mile-long artificial river that can irrigate nearly 50 million acres of farmland along the way," Samwell said with a smile. "You think it's impossible, because you've probably never seen such a grand project."
"You're right, Your Grace"
"I'm doing it in five years, employing free laborers—I have mobilized nearly 100,000 workers, and this number will increase to 500,000 in the future. Believe me, this artificial river will be completed within five years. If I used slaves, it might take a century."
Xaro frowned, skeptical.
"Whips and chains are tools of the past," Samwell continued. "Efficiency lies in cooperation, not coercion."
Xaro fell silent, deep in thought. Finally, he exhaled.
"Your Grace, you're not going back on your word, are you?" he asked.
Samwell gestured to the plaza. "No, we will respect meerens choice."
(End of Chapter)