The siege camps of the slavers’ alliance sprawled across the pale sands like a bristling iron sea, a patchwork of Yunkish banners, sellsword camps, and the disciplined formations of the two Ghiscari legions that had marched past dying Astapor. Good Mistress Zhareen zo Kandaq had followed them, spending nearly all that remained of her family’s fractured fortune to hire warriors, baggage trains, and the finest pavilion so she could still afford to be present of the vengence against the Targaryen invader.

Now her tent stood beside the great trebuchet called the Harpy’s Daughter, its massive arms creaking as boulders were hurled endlessly at Meereen’s walls. Zhareen sat upon a cushioned divan, veiled against the dust, golden bangles chiming faintly as she raised a goblet of warm wine.

The Targaryen, the foreign butcher, the breaker of Astapor, the silver-haired calamity who had dismantled centuries of order, was rumored to have fled and given up their cause. The alliance spoke boldly now. Victory seemed near. Meereen’s walls shook under each impact.

Zhareen allowed herself a slow smile as another stone arced overhead.

Outside, the Ghiscari officers barked orders. The air thrummed with confidence. Even the Yunkish overseers swaggered. A city without its ruler was a city already half conquered.

Then a shout tore across the camp.

A second shout followed, this one shriller.

Men pointed skyward.

Zhareen rose, irritated at the commotion, parting the curtain of her tent to step into the hot glare. At first she saw nothing but haze and the rising plume of dust over Meereen. Then, movement. A shadow cutting across the sun. Her cup slipped from her hand as realized what it was when the others began to call out in panic: 'Dragon!'.