Lyla's rule is marked by a commitment to peace, a departure from the harsh governance Meereen had experienced under Daenerys. She believes in diplomacy, in winning the hearts of the people rather than ruling by fear. The fighting pits, once arenas of bloodshed, are transformed into places of entertainment and celebration. The people respond, cautiously at first, to this shift in leadership. Some embrace the change, while others remain skeptical, clinging to the familiarity of the past.
As Lyla immerses herself in the affairs of the city, her thoughts are never far from Aera. The weight of responsibility for the safety and well-being of her daughter is a constant burden. Qorah, the former bloodrider with her tongue cut out, becomes Aera's guardian. It's a role she takes on with silent dedication, her eyes a constant watchful presence.
Lyla often steals moments to check in on Aera, to see the progress she's making in her studies, and simply to reassure herself that her daughter is safe. Qorah, despite her lack of voice, communicates with a subtle language of gestures and expressions, assuring Lyla that Aera is well cared for.
One evening, as the sun sets over Meereen, Lyla finds herself in the quiet sanctuary of her chambers, reviewing scrolls and reports. Varys enters silently, as is his way, and Lyla looks up from her work.
"Any news?" She asks, her voice reflecting the weariness of someone carrying the weight of a city on their shoulders.
Varys shakes his head, "Nothing of concern for the moment, Lady Lyla. Your measures for peace are resonating with the people."
Lyla leans back, a deep sigh escaping her, "But it's not enough, is it? Daenerys had a way of inspiring people. I'm just trying to keep things from falling apart."
Varys, perceptive as always, studies her for a moment before responding, "Leadership takes different forms, Lady Lyla. You may not be Daenerys, but that might be your greatest strength. You bring a different perspective, a different approach. Meereen is a city of diverse voices, and they may find solace in a ruler who listens as much as she commands."
Tyrion, entering the room with a small stack of parchments, chimes in, "Varys is right. You're charting a different course, and that's not a bad thing. Daenerys would be proud of what you're trying to achieve."
Lyla manages a faint smile, grateful for the encouragement, "I just hope it's enough."
Tyrion places the parchments on the table and takes a seat, "Stability takes time, Lady Lyla. King's Landing wasn't built in a day, and Meereen won't be rebuilt in one either."
Later, as the moon hangs high in the sky, Lyla decides to check on Aera. The halls are quiet as she walks towards the chambers where her daughter resides. Qorah is there, ever watchful, and Aera is engrossed in a book, a small smile playing on her lips.
Under the advice of Tyrion, Lyla has presented an invitation to the slavers, to have them visit the golden city of Meereen, much to the disdain of Missandei and Grey Worm.
" We came here to meet the queen and instead we're greeted by a dwarf, a eunuch, and a lowly bastard girl playing queen for a day," Master Yezzan all but sneers as they meet at the top of the pyramid.
" Let's make this simple, shall we? Tell me what you want," Tyrion utters with a goblet of wine in hand in order to keep the conversation going smoothly.
Alas, the only thing the masters want is for the Targaryen Queen to leave Slaver's Bay entirely.
" When we last met, I offered her ships so she could return to Westeros where she belongs. She refused them," The master adds.
" She refused them because hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children still lived in chains," Missandei utters, her posture straight in her chair.
" You think you're a free man now?" The master questions as he stares at Grey Worm," You still follow orders. Just because your master has silver hair and tits doesn't mean she's not a master."
As always, it is Tyrion's job to play peacemaker, to prevent those who've come together from grasping at each other's throats, to prevent bloodshed.
" There have always been those with wealth and power and those with nothing. That is the way of the world. I'm not here to change the way of the world," He surmises.
" Slavery is the way of our world," The master counters.
" You don't need slaves to make money," Tyrion argues," There haven't been slaves in Westeros for hundreds of years and I grew up richer than any of you. But our queen recognizes that she erred by abolishing slavery without providing a new system to replace it. So here is the queen's proposal. Slavery will never return to Meereen, but she will give the other cities of Slaver's Bay time to adjust to the new order. Instead of abolishing slavery overnight, we will give you seven years to end the practice. Slaveholders will be compensated for their losses, of course, at fair prices. In exchange, you will cut off your support for the Sons of the Harpy. I do hope you accept, my friends. You will not receive a better offer," then leans forward to ring a bell," Let us sail on the tide of freedom instead of being drowned by it. And as a parting gift to our honored guests... Give freedom a chance. See if it doesn't taste every bit as good as what came before. "
Tyrion has arranged for three women to come forth and pleasure the masters, in order to potentially sway their vote. But Lyla cannot meet anyone's gaze. Her eyes remain glued to the carpet beneath her feet as she feels her stomach churn.
" You... bastard-girl," One of the masters utters as a woman rubs her hands all over his body," This is your proposal, yes? You are the one playing Queen?"
And just as easy as it is for her to breathe, Lyla lifts her head to meet the master's gaze and answers swiftly.
" I am simply a messenger of the Queen's words and will," She says, before she rises and exits the room to where she hears Tyrion's horrible Valyrian.
The freed slaves of Meeren have come to protest against being so welcoming to the masters, and Tyrion, ever to opportunist, takes this chance to befriend the slaves, to see eye-to-eye and to demolish the overpowering stance given to him atop the stairs by the throne. He wishes for the people to see him as one of them, even though he has guaranteed the slaves of Astapor to remain in their shackles for another 7 long years.
Later that night, the air in Meereen is heavy with tension as Lyla finds herself pacing in the solitude of her chambers. Tyrion's proposal to the slavers gnaws at her, and the weight of her disapproval sits heavily on her shoulders. She can't shake the feeling that they've compromised too much, that the essence of what Daenerys fought for is slipping through their fingers.
A knock on the door interrupts her thoughts.
"Enter," She says, her voice carrying an edge of weariness.
Tyrion steps into the room, his eyes reflecting the events of the evening, "Well, that went as well as expected."
Lyla shoots him a stern look.
"Seven years, Tyrion? We've betrayed everything Daenerys stood for. We've betrayed the very people we set out to liberate."
Tyrion, not one to be easily swayed, takes a seat and motions for Lyla to join him.
"You see, Lady Lyla, ruling is not always about doing what's right. Sometimes, it's about doing what's necessary."
"Necessary?" Lyla's eyes flare with indignation, "What's necessary about prolonging the suffering of those in chains? Daenerys would never have agreed to this."
Tyrion leans back, studying her carefully, "Daenerys isn't here. You are. And the reality is, we need to secure peace in Meereen before we can think about changing the world."
Lyla paces the room, frustration evident in every step, "Peace at what cost? The cost of justice, of freedom?"
"Sometimes, compromises are necessary to maintain order," Tyrion retorts, "We can't undo centuries of tradition overnight. We need time to make this transition smoother. This is a small sacrifice for a greater good."
Lyla halts, her eyes locking onto Tyrion's, "You call this a greater good? Turning our backs on the very principles we swore to uphold?"
Tyrion, undeterred, meets her gaze, "We're playing a long game here. Daenerys understood that. We need allies. We need a Meereen that doesn't crumble the moment we turn our backs."
Lyla sinks into a chair, her frustration transforming into a heavy sigh.
" You sold those girls," She says as her eyes glaze over, spaced out as her eyes are illuminated by the lit candle beside her," As though they were nothing."
" Sometimes the only way to reason with your enemies is by speaking their language," He attempts to argue," And pleasure is one of the few languages that is universal."
Lyla's gaze remains outwards, her mind reeling and her stomach churning from his words.
" This isn't what she'd want," She whispers.
Tyrion nods, acknowledging the absence of the one they all look up to. "She'll be back. And until then, we must carry on. It's not about being Daenerys; it's about preserving what she fought so hard to achieve."
As the night deepens, Lyla finds herself alone in the quiet chamber. The flickering candlelight casts shadows on the walls, creating an atmosphere that mirrors the turmoil within her. She contemplates the journey that led her here, from a pawn in Viserys Targaryen's schemes to the reluctant ruler of Meereen. The weight of responsibility sits on her shoulders, and she can feel the burden of leadership pressing down on her.
She rises from the chair, her steps echoing in the silence. The tapestries that adorn the room seem to bear witness to her transformation. In the dim light, she looks at herself in the small mirror, her reflection a mix of weariness and determination. The girl who was once voiceless and powerless has become a queen, thrust into the center of a political game that she never wanted to play.
The events of the evening replay in her mind like a relentless storm. Tyrion's rationalizations, the compromises made, and the uneasy alliances formed for the sake of peace haunt her thoughts. The very principles Daenerys instilled in her, the ideals that guided their journey, feel like they're slipping away, slipping through her grasp like grains of sand.
Her gaze falls on a small table where a carafe of wine sits. She pours herself a glass, needing something to steady her nerves. The rich, red liquid swirls in the goblet, a reflection of the complexities she faces.
Lyla moves to the window, staring out at the city that has become both her kingdom and her challenge. Meereen, a city yearning for freedom, for justice, now stands at a crossroads. And she, in the absence of Daenerys, stands as the reluctant arbiter of its fate.
Feeling a sudden wave of isolation, Lyla decides she needs solace, a connection in this moment of uncertainty. Her footsteps are nearly silent as she navigates the corridors, seeking refuge in familiar quarters.
The door to Missandei's chamber opens with a gentle creak, and Lyla slips inside. The room is dimly lit, and Missandei, still in her simple sleeping attire, looks up with surprise as Lyla enters.
"Lyla?" Missandei's voice holds a mix of confusion and concern.
Without a word, Lyla crosses the room and sits at the edge of Missandei's bed. She looks at Missandei, her eyes revealing the turmoil within her. Missandei senses the distress and shifts, making space for Lyla.
"What's troubling you?" Missandei asks, her tone soft.
Lyla hesitates for a moment, as if debating whether to voice her concerns. Then, almost instinctively, she crawls under the covers beside Missandei. The warmth of the bed and the proximity to someone she trusts provide a momentary respite. Missandei is taken aback initially, but she senses the vulnerability in Lyla's actions. She adjusts herself to be more comfortable and wraps an arm around Lyla, a gesture of silent comfort.
For a while, neither of them speaks. The quiet of the room is broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the soft rustle of the bedcovers. Lyla finds solace in the presence of another, in the unspoken understanding that exists between them.
"It's all slipping away," Lyla finally murmurs, breaking the silence.
Missandei doesn't press for details but waits, allowing Lyla to share what she wishes. Lyla begins to speak, her words a mix of frustration, fear, and a sense of betrayal. She speaks of the compromises made, the choices that feel like a departure from the path Daenerys had set. Missandei listens, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of Lyla's emotions.
"Daenerys entrusted me with this," Lyla says, her voice wavering, "And I feel like I'm failing her. Failing everyone who believed in us."
Missandei tightens her hold on Lyla, offering silent reassurance. In this quiet exchange, the friendship that has grown between them manifests in its truest form. Lyla's eyes meet Missandei's, finding both empathy and strength.
"I never asked for any of this," She confesses.
"Yet here you are," Missandei replies, "and you're doing your best. No one said it would be easy, and you can't carry the world on your shoulders. Daenerys knows that. You're not her, and you don't have to be. You're you, and that's enough."
A moment of silence passes between them. Lyla's shoulders, once tense with the weight of responsibility, begin to relax. Missandei continues to offer the silent support that transcends words.
The city streets are alive with fervor, whispers of prophecy carried on the wind. The Red Priests and Priestesses, in their flowing crimson robes, weave through the crowds, their voices rising in unison. To those who listen, Daenerys is not just a queen; she is the embodiment of salvation, the fulfillment of ancient prophecies. As Lyla walks through the bustling thoroughfares, it's impossible to escape the echoing refrain: "Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, the one who was promised."
It's a cacophony that follows Lyla like a shadow, and she can't help but feel a twinge of discomfort. The words sound like a symphony of propaganda, carefully composed to elevate Daenerys to a divine status. She glances at Varys and Tyrion, both walking beside her with measured steps, their expressions revealing a shared skepticism.
" I'd call that a successful gambit," Tyrion utters.
" Would you?" Varys questions.
" Look around. The city has come back to life.
" You made a pact with fanatics."
" I did and it worked."
" If you shaved your beard with a straight razor, you'd say the razor worked," Varys quips," That doesn't mean it won't cut your throat."
" Spoken like a man who has never had to shave," Tyrion quips back.
" The razor won't cut your throat so long as you're the one holding it," Lyla utters as she continues to walk forward," And now you've handed off the razor whilst it's still at our throats."
The two men pause as Lyla goes onwards. They stop right at the entrance to the docks as Lyla continues to make her way back inside the pyramid.
Varys is off to acquire both friends in Westeros as well as more ships than anyone currently has. His expedition is for the Queen, it's all for Daenerys.
Meanwhile, Lyla climbs to the top of the pyramid, where a servant has already laid out a goblet of wine, as well as a platter filled with grapes and delicious cheese. She plops down in her chair with a sigh and begins to munch on the food in order to soothe her bundle of nerves.
The sunlight casts a warm glow on the terrace, a stark contrast to the shadows that flicker in Lyla's troubled eyes. She chews on a grape, the burst of sweetness doing little to alleviate the bitterness of the situation. The words of the Red Priests still echo in her ears, their fervent belief in Daenerys reaching a crescendo. It's a symphony she's not sure she entirely trusts.
As she sips the wine, the distant tolling of bells interrupts the relative calm. The goblet pauses midway to her lips as she senses a shift in the air. The city, buzzing with life just moments ago, now hums with an undercurrent of anxiety. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, an instinctual reaction to an impending storm.
A servant, her eyes wide with trepidation, approaches Lyla, her voice shaky, "My lady, the bells... they toll for danger."
Lyla sets down the goblet, her senses on high alert. Danger, a constant companion in these volatile times, now looms closer than ever. She rises, the chair scraping against the stone floor, and makes her way to the edge of the terrace.
From this vantage point, she sees the sea, normally a tranquil expanse, now disrupted by the ominous sails of approaching ships. Flags adorned with the sigil of Astapor flap in the wind, a declaration of unwelcome visitors. The masters have come to claim what they perceive as their property, a stark reminder that Meereen's struggles are far from over.
"Damn it," Lyla mutters under her breath.
The fragile peace she and Tyrion brokered with the slavers teeters on the edge of collapse. The city, blissfully unaware just moments ago, now erupts into chaos. People rush through the streets, shouts and cries filling the air. The Unsullied mobilize, their disciplined ranks forming a defensive perimeter. Meereen, a city caught between liberation and tradition, now braces for the storm of conflict.
Lyla, though shaken, straightens her posture. The weight of leadership settles on her shoulders, and she realizes that the decisions she makes in the coming moments will shape the fate of Meereen.
As the city braces for impact, Lyla takes a final look at the sea, where the masters' fleet grows larger with each passing moment. The fate of Meereen, the fate of Daenerys' vision for a liberated city, now hangs in the balance. The coming days will test not only the strength of the walls but the resilience of the ideals they seek to protect.
" Where is my daughter?" Lyla asks as she charges out of the room with her dagger in hand.
" With Qorah," The servant responds.
" Bring them to the war room," The redhead commands as she marches through the pyramid.
" I was wrong. I admit it," Tyrion mutters.
" That changes nothing," Lyla sneers.
" The Unsullied could mount a defense off the beachhead," He says," If the slavers' forces--"
" No more talking from you. Your talking gave us this," Grey Worm interjects.
" And I have acknowledged that. I'm trying--"
" You're trying to tell me what the army should do. You do not know what the army should do. We'll not go to the beach. If we go to the beach, the Masters will take the pyramid. The pyramid is the only place in the city we can defend. We stay here. We wait for them to come to us. Then we fight them."
Soon enough, Aera is escorted into the room by Qorah, of whom would die fighting to protect the little girl. As Lyla rushes to embrace her daughter, a large crash is heard from the top of the pyramid, sending everyone on high alert. The Unsullied prepare to fight, holding their shields and spears as Lyla pushes Aera behind her and holds the dagger tightly between her fingers.
One of the Unsullied walks out onto the balcony in order to scout for danger, but the sight makes him drop to his knees in an instant, and the rest of the Unsullied follow him.
In the midst of the looming chaos, a hushed silence fills the room as Lyla, dagger in hand, turns to face the balcony. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears, each thud a reminder of the fragility of the moment. Aera's small hand tightens on her mother's cloak, a silent plea for reassurance.
Through the balcony doors, a figure emerges, the silver-haired queen, Daenerys Targaryen, walks in with a regal grace that seems to defy the chaos outside.
Time seems to slow as Daenerys and Lyla lock eyes. It's a gaze that spans the chasm of separation, a connection that transcends words. For a moment, the world around them blurs, leaving only the two of them standing in a space woven with unspoken understanding.
Daenerys, her eyes carrying the weight of battles fought and victories won, steps forward. The clatter of armor, the distant cries of the city, all fade into the background. The room, once filled with tension, now holds an air of suspended emotion.
Lyla, still clutching the dagger, takes a tentative step forward. The air between Daenerys and Lyla crackles with a magnetic force, drawing them closer with an irresistible pull.
It's a reunion charged with unspoken words. The silence envelops them, a canvas upon which the intensity of their connection is painted. The scars of battles fought, the ache of separation, and the unyielding love that binds them converge in this moment.
Daenerys reaches out, her hand extending toward Lyla. The redhead, her heart pounding in her chest, meets that outstretched hand. Their fingers entwine, a silent acknowledgment of the struggles endured and the unspoken promises that linger between them.
In this quiet tableau, amidst the uncertainty of Meereen's fate, there is a sanctuary in the shared gaze of Daenerys and Lyla. The world outside may be chaos, but within these walls, time seems to stand still.
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