The Great Pyramid’s throne hall still smelled faintly of smoke and limewash, the scent of a city remade. The walls were stripped of their golden harpies, their absence leaving pale outlines where pride once perched. The Targaryen sat upon a modest seat of carved stone, the conqueror, listening as freedmen, merchants, and trembling nobles came forth to plead their cases.

Mezzara Galare stood among them, her green silk tokar drawn plain and unadorned, hands clasped before her. Around her, murmurs in low Valyrian and Ghiscari rose and fell like the hum of bees. One by one, the petitioners went and came. A freedman demanded restitution; a noble sought pardon for lost slaves. She watched, silent, her gaze fixed on the dragon sigil now draped where the harpy once hung.