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Chapter Text

She hears Viserion’s cry before she sees him fall, fire pouring from his neck first, then a river of blood, so much blood that she knows that there is no hope that he can survive his wound. Rhaegal flies behind, desperate to help, to carry his brother to safety, but he is too far away, and cannot reach Viserion before he crashes into the ice and sinks underwater, out of sight. Rhaegal and Drogon shriek in anguish over the loss of their brother. Her grief for the smallest, sweetest and gentlest of her children is silent, but no less painful.

She sees the hundreds, thousands of Northerners lining the road to Winterfell, their flint-hard eyes taking in the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Queen they follow as the procession passes, their faces as cold as the snow surrounding them. Men and women, nobles and common folk, the elderly and even little children who should be too young to judge, too young to hate, look upon them as savage invaders. She may be here at the request of the man they crowned their King, she may be here to save all of their lives from the Army of the Dead, but she can be in no doubt that she and her people are not welcome in the North.

“The Night King has your dragon. He’s one of them now.”

She wishes that she could have been told in private, that she might steal a few moments to grieve before their work begins. With the eyes of the Northerners upon her, with so many people desperate to scent weakness in her, she cannot afford to shed a tear. She thought that nothing could make the loss of Viserion harder to bear, but the idea of him forced to serve his murderer, forced to attack his brothers, sickens her. ‘A dragon is not a slave’. Across the Narrow Sea, hundreds of thousands of former slaves call her the Breaker of Chains, yet her only hope to free her own son from bondage is to take his life.

She sees a hundred thousand flaming arakhs lighting the night sky as the Dothraki charge against the Army of the Dead, riding into battle against monsters as fearlessly as they rode against mortal men. When the sky grows dark again, too dark to see any movement, she knows that the khalasar that was greater even than the one that Drogo had led, the khalasar that followed her across the poisoned waters, the khalasar that set aside hundreds of years of tradition to follow a woman for the first time because they believed in her, is no more. She has led them to their deaths.

She feels Drogon’s panic when he is swarmed by wights, feels herself thrown from his back as he desperately tries to free himself of their attack. She sees a dead man rise and run at her, his eyes filled with an eerie blue light, and an instant before he can take her life, Ser Jorah is by her side, one arm around her as he hurries her away from the field of battle.

She sees the battle won, but too late to save Ser Jorah, her faithful knight giving his life to save hers, and dying in her arms, too badly wounded and too weakened by his valiant defence of her to speak any final words.

She whispers to his unhearing ear before she lights his pyre, wishing that she could have loved him in the way that he loved her.

She sits in the Great Hall at Winterfell, ostensibly presiding over a feast in honour of their victory, unable to keep herself from noticing that though her forces outnumbered those of the North several times over before the battle, they are now the ones outnumbered, unable to keep herself from wondering if it was through folly or by design that the strategy advocated had placed those who followed her in the positions of greatest danger.

Was it their intention to weaken her forces as much as possible, shifting the balance of power in their favour because it was always their intention to turn on her as soon as she defeated their enemies for them, or was it that they regarded her people as expendable, savages less worthy of survival than the warriors of the North?

She sees Jon hailed by Northmen and freefolk alike, lauded for riding a dragon as though she was not the one to bring dragons back into the world, and the first person in a century and a half to dare to ride a dragon.

She knows in that instant that it won’t matter to them that his claim to be the Targaryen heir is based on nothing more than an unverified record found by his best friend and the word of his brother. There is not a man present who will stop long enough to consider how convenient it is that the Starks have managed to discover that their brother is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, entitled to grant them the rule of the North on a whim. All Jon need do is name himself Aegon Targaryen and they will believe him to be the true heir because they will want to believe it. If he refuses to advance his claim in opposition to hers, there will be many who would be willing to take her life if they think it the surest way to force his hand.

“I’ve never begged for anything, but I’m begging you. Don’t do this. Please.”

She feels Jon pull away from her, knows that he will tell his sisters, and knows that as soon as Sansa Stark is told, she will find a way to use the information to her advantage, whatever the cost others may have to pay.

She hears Rhaegal cry out in agony and sees the monstrous weapons pierce his body, over and over until he falls from sky to sea, sinking beneath waves stained red with his life’s blood. She has never wanted anything as badly as she wants to set Euron Greyjoy’s ships aflame, to see him and every man who follows him perish in dragonfire in payment for her son’s precious life, but she has Drogon to think of, and cannot allow her sole remaining child’s life to be carelessly thrown away, not to avenge his brother or for any other reason.

She sees Missandei standing before Cersei Lannister, her wrists weighed down by the chains Daenerys sought to break.

She hears Missandei’s last word, confirmation from the person whose judgement she trusted more than that of any other that King’s Landing was not worth saving.

She sees Missandei’s head struck from her body by a huge monster of a man, and left to fall into the dirt, while the smug face of Cersei Lannister looks on in amusement.

She feels the first glimmer of hope she has felt in what seems a very long time when she and Grey Worm, the only advisor on whose counsel she can depend, the only advisor who will never allow his personal ambitions or emotions to colour his advice, devise their strategy. That hope grows stronger when she flies over the outer walls of King’s Landing with Drogon, too high for the bolts of the scorpions to reach him, but not so high that his flames cannot destroy the weapons meant to take his life. Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya took the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons. Surely she can hope that one dragon will be enough to allow her to capture one city.

Then there is fire.

Red and green flames engulf this cursed city.

There are screams.

Then those screams are silenced.

The Red Keep is a near-ruin when she reaches it, the few walls still standing looking as if they have melted in the hellish heat of the flames, the scattered bones, charred black, the only signs that people were inside when the city went up in flames. Ash falls like snow, dusting her hair and covering the Iron Throne. In Viserys’ stories, the Iron Throne was a marvel to behold, a mighty symbol of the power their ancestors wielded, and that would be theirs to wield, once they took back what was theirs. He was to sit on the Iron Throne but for her there would be a silver throne with silken cushions, befitting a Queen. When she sees it for herself, she marvels that so many people fought, for so many centuries, over the right to sit in such an ugly chair.

She hears footsteps behind her but doesn’t turn, not until she feels the sharp, burning pain of a blade forced through her back.

Then the world around her turns black.

The chair under Daenerys is not made of iron, its seat worn smooth by three centuries of rulers, and there are no sharp edges to pierce her skin. Its surface, of polished wood, is familiar to her. It is the ebony bench on which she sat on countless occasions to receive the petitioners who came before her.

Her face, wet with tears, is cupped between gentle hands, the fingertips that brush her temples smooth and warm.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps and her heartbeat is rapid and deafeningly loud in her ears.

When Daenerys first opens her eyes, for an instant, the only thing she sees is a pair of brown eyes, warm and ageless, set in a face almost completely concealed by an intricate mask of interlocking gold hexagons.

The patterns etched into the metal are familiar to her, but she can’t remember where she has seen them before.

She blinks once, twice, and her vision gradually begins to clear.

The audience chamber of the Great Pyramid of Meereen comes into focus, evening sunlight streaming through the unglazed windows to illuminate the shadowy, high-ceilinged chamber.

Unsullied guards are stationed at the entrance of the chamber, and at the foot of the stairs leading up to the dais on which she sits, with Grey Worm positioned closest to her. She sees the Greyjoys standing to one side of the stairs, flanked by Tyrion Lannister, whose tunic is not adorned by the silver brooch she remembers pinning to it. Daario stands opposite, his stance casual but his eyes alert.

A sense of relief stronger than any she has ever felt before washes over her when she sees Missandei, alive and well and looking at her with grave concern. She reaches out desperately for her dear friend, and half-sobs when Missandei’s hand finds hers and squeezes it reassuringly, her thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of her hand. Missandei asks no questions, but gives her the comfort she sorely needs.

She feels as if she should know the name of the woman leaning over her but she doesn’t.

“Forgive me, child.” The woman’s voice is soft and full of compassion. She brushes the tears from Daenerys’ cheeks as tenderly as a mother might, stroking her face gently before withdrawing her hand, straightening and moving back a pace or two, giving her space. “I could not spare you any of the pain. You needed to see it all. You needed to know.”

“What have you done to her?” Daario’s question is full of fury, his step quick and light as he bounds up the steps to stand by Daenerys’ side. He has his hand on the hilt of his dagger, ready to slash the woman’s throat if she has dared to harm her in any way. The memory of another blade, driven into her body by a man she loved, a man she believed loved her and was loyal to her, makes her shudder involuntarily. It comforts her to know that Daario’s blade will only ever be wielded in her defence and in her cause, never against her.

Grey Worm likewise has his hand on the hilt of his short sword as he moves to her side, ready to lay his life between her and any who would seek to do her harm.

The woman ignores both men, her attention focused on Daenerys. “Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

It’s the truth, at least as far as she knows, but it’s painfully clear to her that the answer is not what the others in the room, with the possible exception of the woman, expect. The Greyjoys share a puzzled glance. Tyrion Lannister looks troubled, as do Missandei and Grey Worm. Daario is both furious and fearful for her.

The woman does not introduce herself. She simply waits in silence.

After a few moments, the name comes to Daenerys, and with the name, her memory of the woman’s arrival in the throne room, asking for an audience with the Queen of Meereen.

“Your name is Quaithe. You told me that you needed to show me.”

“Yes,” the woman… Quaithe… confirms. “Before you set sail for Westeros, you need to know what awaits you there.”

Daenerys wants so badly to believe that it is a lie.

She wants to believe that this woman, this Quaithe, has been sent by one of her enemies, perhaps the warlocks of Qarth if any of them yet live, to deceive her with a vision of the bleakest future their black imaginations could conjure in order to dissuade her from returning to her homeland.

She has never believed that the common people of Westeros drink secret toasts to her honour, stitching dragon banners so that, when the last Targaryen finally reaches their shores, they will be ready to flock to her cause, to fight to see the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms restored to her father’s throne at last. Viserys had believed that the common people were waiting for the return of their true King from the night they were smuggled across the Narrow Sea until his last breath. Viserys had needed to believe it; that belief, that hope, was all he had had to sustain him when men called him Beggar King and mocked his claim. Daenerys was under no such illusion. She had hoped, however, that once she had a chance to prove herself to them, once she showed them that she was there because she was determined to break the wheel that allowed the highborn to crush those beneath them, they would learn to trust her, and that her ascension to the throne of her ancestors would be a welcome one.

She wants so badly to believe that this vision, which confirms her deepest, most secret fear, that the people of Westeros will never see her as anything but the Mad King’s Daughter, is a false one.

More than that, she desperately needs to believe that the people of Westeros are not right to consider her to be as mad and ruthless as the father she never knew.

“Prince Theon.” The man, not many years older than she is, starts when she speaks his name, inclining his head slightly. “Please describe Jon Snow.”

Theon Greyjoy exchanges a puzzled look with his sister, undoubtedly wondering why Daenerys would know the name of Ned Stark’s bastard in the first place, let alone care enough about him to ask what he looks like, but at Yara’s encouraging nod he obeys. His description of Jon matches that of the man she saw quite well, considering that it has been years since Theon last set eyes on him, when Jon was still more boy than man. At Daenerys’ request, he goes on to describe Sansa Stark, his memory of her fresh and far more vivid, his words painting so clear a picture of the young woman that Daenerys cannot pretend that her vision is not a true one. He confirms that Bran Stark is crippled, and even confirms the name and colouring of Jon’s direwolf.

Far from being offended by Daenerys’ need for verification of the truth of the vision, Quaithe smiles her approval.

“Leave us.”

The Greyjoys are the first to obey her command, sharing a curious look before withdrawing. She is in no doubt that as soon as they find a quiet corner, perhaps sooner than that if they don’t feel any great need to protect her privacy, they will be speculating about what Quaithe could possibly have shown her to prompt such a reaction, wondering if they made a mistake crossing the Narrow Sea to join her cause. She cannot blame them if they have doubts. They came in search of a powerful Queen who would take back the Seven Kingdoms, give them vengeance against the uncle who murdered their father and snatched the rule of the Iron Islands from Yara, and recognise their domain as an independent kingdom once more, not a girl weeping and trembling in the face of a vision.

Tyrion Lannister wavers a moment or two longer, as if debating whether or not it would be wise for him to stay to learn more so that he may offer his counsel, but he opts to obey.

The Unsullied stationed as sentinels in the throne room do not actually leave her presence. As one, they turn on their heels and march to take up positions at the farthest edges of the chamber, far enough away that they will not be able to hear their conversation, provided that they keep their voices low, but not so far that they will not be able to protect her, should the need arise.

It is plain from the expression on her face that Missandei does not want to leave her side, and if truth be told, Daenerys cannot bear to let her out of her sight, not now, not after what she just bore witness to. She tightens her grip on her friend’s hand, a silent signal that she should stay with her.

Neither Daario nor Grey Worm move a muscle, nor do they take their eyes off Quaithe.

She is ready to reiterate her command that they leave but decides that it would be a poor repayment for the service they have given her and the loyalty they have shown her if she shut them out now.

“How long was it?” She addresses her question to all four of them, but it is Missandei who answers.

“No more than a minute, Your Grace.”

“How long was it for you?” Daario asks, more gently than she has ever heard him speak before.

“Months.”

Once she begins to speak of what she saw, she cannot stop, not until she has shared the full horror of her future.

They have a right to know. They have a right to know what kind of Queen they serve. They have a right to know what she would have led them into. They have a right to know the evil that she is capable of. They have a right to know that she was never worthy of the loyalty they gave her.

“Horseshit!” Daario snaps as soon as she voices that thought. The Unsullied sentries do not give any sign that they have heard his exclamation, but all the same, he lowers his voice before he continues. “You risk everything to save their sorry hides from an army of dead monsters who would have wiped them all out if you hadn’t been there, and they still spit on you? It sounds to me like Westeros got the Daenerys Stormborn it deserves.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “The people didn’t deserve that. I’m a monster, worse than Cersei or my father.”

“You are no monster.” Missandei sounds fiercer than Daenerys ever imagined her gentle friend could. “You are the woman who freed me, and hundreds of thousands of others, from our chains. A monster would have set sail for Westeros years ago, as soon as she had her army, not stayed in Meereen for the sake of strangers.”

“This has not yet come to pass, my Queen,” Grey Worm reminds her solemnly. “And it will not.”

“He’s right,” Daario seconds him. “Even if you would have made mistakes before, now that you know what would happen if it all went wrong, you can change your future, everybody’s future, for the better.”

The thought is a tempting one.

If she sails to Westeros, armed with the knowledge Quaithe has gifted her with, surely she can reshape the future to her liking.

She will know better than to be guided by Tyrion’s suggestion of an attack on Casterly Rock, a foolish piece of symbolism when she needs to strike at her enemies fast and hard enough that they have no chance to fight back. She can protect her allies, and take the fight to Cersei from the beginning, targeting only her enemy and those who fight for her, sparing the lives of the innocent people of King’s Landing. If Cersei and her forces could not stand against her with two of her dragons and most of her warriors dead, they have no chance if she comes against them in full force. She can launch her attack from Dragonstone before Cersei Lannister has a chance to send for the Golden Company. She will have the might of six of the kingdoms behind her, and if the King in the North seeks her aid against the Night King and his army, she can name her terms, or leave the North to fight alone, as she chooses. She can keep Viserion far from the Night King’s spear, she can destroy the Iron Fleet before Euron can shoot Rhaegal. She can safeguard her people, and ensure that their lives are not thrown away for the sake of those who despise them. She can build the better future she has dreamed of for so long.

Quaithe’s expression is grave, and for a moment, Daenerys wonders if this woman can read her thoughts.

“Why did you show me this future? Is it so I can be a better Queen, one who deserves the love of her people?”

“Yes.”

The answer should reassure her.

It doesn’t.

The answer may be what she hoped to hear, but she knows from the grave expression on Quaithe’s face that she has asked the wrong question.

“Is it so I can be a better Queen in Westeros, or in Meereen?”

“That is a choice that I cannot make for you. You were born in the West, but you have lived in the East. In the East, you are the Breaker of Chains, but you have learned that it is not enough to simply break chains, you must also ensure that those you have freed remain free. If you travel West, if you avoid the mistakes you have seen, you will sit on the Iron Throne, and you will rule the Seven Kingdoms well.”

“But the people will never accept me, not in their hearts,” Daenerys finishes for her. “They will seek to overthrow me.”

The truth about Jon Snow’s parentage will not remain a secret, no matter how wisely and well she rules the Seven Kingdoms, no matter how much she strives to improve the lot of the common people. Jon might pledge his fealty to her, as he had before, and he might be sincere in his vow not to seek the throne. He may even believe in his heart that she is the better choice to rule, and refuse to challenge her. Even so, he will insist that his sisters be told of his true origins. It won’t matter if Jon swears them to secrecy, even if he makes them swear it before their gods. As soon as Sansa knows, she will seek to use the knowledge to her advantage, and that of her House.

To the eyes of the people of Westeros, she is tainted by both her family’s blood and her foreign upbringing but Jon is one of them, of Stark blood as well as Targaryen, raised by a man admired for his honour.

They will seek to crown him King, whether he wills it or no.

“There will be conflict. Some will accept you, and support you. Others will want to see another in your place. You will not lose the throne, but you will never be free of attempts to take it from you. You will have to fight many battles to remain Queen, and each time you fight, you will prevail.”

“These battles will mean that I must focus on the Seven Kingdoms, and leave this city to fend for itself.”

The Masters will retake it easily, she realizes, instinctively tightening her grip on Missandei’s hand, and feeling the other woman squeeze her hand in return.

She planned to leave Daario behind, heeding Tyrion Lannister’s advice that she could not take him with her if she wanted to use her marriage to bind one of the great Houses to her, and to leave the Second Sons with him to keep the peace, but they would not be able to stand alone against the forces of the slave cities if they attacked again. It was the combined threat of the Second Sons, the Unsullied, the Dothraki and her dragons who would keep them at bay, and if she needed to keep all of her forces in Westeros to defend her hold on the Iron Throne, the Masters would be quick to take advantage of Meereen’s vulnerability. The men, women and children she had freed would be chained once more, with the Masters exacting violent retribution against them for their short years of liberty, so that they might serve as an example to all other slaves who dared to dream of freedom.

“That is so,” Quaithe confirms. “You must choose.”

“What of Ser Jorah? He is travelling to Westeros for a cure. He will expect me to be there when he recovers.” She cannot lose him, not again, not even if it means that she must travel to Dragonstone to be reunited with him.

“You need not fear for him, child. He will be cured of his affliction, and he will come to you, wherever you are.”

“Will Jon Snow be able to defeat the Night King if my armies and my dragons do not fight?”

“No.”

She asks one final question, and when she hears Quaithe’s answer, there is only one choice she can make.

Chapter Text

“I don’t understand.” Tyrion Lannister sounds almost as plaintive as a child.

For the past two days, since Quaithe first shared the vision of the future with her, Daenerys has remained in her private apartments at the top of the pyramid, with Quaithe, Missandei, Daario and Grey Worm, the only people on this side of the Narrow Sea that she could rely on to offer her counsel. The only time she left her apartments was to visit Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion, to reassure herself that all three of her children are alive, healthy and whole. Aside from that, her time has been spent discussing the details of the vision with those she trusts, determined to learn all she can from the terrible experience, and laying out plans for a better future.

If Yara and Theon Greyjoy were offended to be shut out of these meetings, they gave no indication of it. Yara took it upon herself to inspect the ships taken from the Masters after their defeat sent the few survivors scurrying away, as well as seeing to her own fleet by day, with Theon shadowing her and helping her however he could. No questions were asked about how they occupied their nights, though neither had availed of the option of taking their meals in the pyramid, either in the great dining chamber intended to feast the noble families of Meereen and their exalted guests, or in the privacy of the lavish quarters that had been prepared for them. It would not surprise Daenerys to learn that Yara refused to sleep in her quarters at all, preferring to stay onboard her ship and to eat in the company of her men. Both seemed content to wait for her to summon them.

Tyrion, on the other hand, was at a loss to understand why he should not be included in any meetings to discuss her strategy, and he sent multiple messages to her through servants, offering his services as her advisor.

Daenerys could imagine that he was dying of curiousity about what Quaithe had shown her.

That, or he was trying to decide if she was going mad.

She believed in him once, thinking him a clever man, one who understood Westeros and its people more than she could ever hope to, and trusting that he was sincere in his belief that she would bring about a better world. She believed in him enough to follow his advice, even when her own instincts warred with his suggestions.

No more.

She is willing to give him a second chance, to allow him to earn a place among her advisors, but knows that she will never trust him as she did before.

The room in which they sit is not one of the largest or the most lavishly decorated in the pyramid. In truth, Daenerys has not yet explored half of the enormous structure that has been her home for the past two years. This room was simply the first they came across that was furnished with a suitable table and chairs when, just after the Masters of Meereen were ousted from power, Daenerys needed a place where she, Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Daario, Missandei and Grey Worm could meet to discuss what their next move would be. It suited their purposes well enough that none of them saw the need to look elsewhere for a meeting place.

“It’s not like it’s difficult to understand,” Daario drawls. “Your Queen is staying here.”

Tyrion opens his mouth to retort but Yara is the first to speak.

“I thought that you were planning to set sail for Westeros immediately. You already have more men than you’ll need to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, and enough ships to carry them across the Narrow Sea. The longer you stay, the more time Cersei and our uncle have to tighten their grip on the Seven Kingdoms. Why wait?”

“Cersei Lannister and your uncle are nothing,” Daenerys says dismissively, remembering how quickly King’s Landing fell to her and to Drogon when they attacked. Though she knows that it has not yet happened, and that it will never happen now, she feels like a fool for allowing Tyrion, Varys and Jon Snow to convince her that it would be a mistake for her to attack King’s Landing when she was at full strength. They had her believing that if she attacked, she would never be seen as anything but a tyrant and a monster, but if any of them knew of a way to win the war against Cersei without shedding a drop of blood, they had not put words to it. She thinks that she would have done better to listen to Olenna Tyrell, the only one among her advisors with the sense to know that dragons can achieve things that sheep can never aspire to. “Westeros faces a far greater threat, from North of the Wall.”

Theon, raised in Winterfell on stories of the monsters that dwell beyond the Wall, cannot help but shudder, then he flushes in embarrassment when the movement attracts attention from his sister and the others at the table.

“Old Nan used to tell us stories about the White Walkers that would make your blood run cold,” he says in defence of his reaction. “If you heard them, none of you would sleep soundly for a month!”

“You’re right to fear them,” Daenerys tells him. “Whatever she told you was likely true, though not close to the full horror they will inflict. They are coming for the living. They will breach the Wall within a year, and wage war on every man, woman and child in Westeros. The Night King can raise the dead, so every life they take adds a soldier to their army. Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy will not be able to stand against them. Nobody will. By the time they are finished, Westeros will be a land of ice and death.”

“Is that what she showed you?” Tyrion demands, pointing at Quaithe.

“That and more.”

“And you trust her? You’re sure that this isn’t some kind of trick to keep you here?”

“I trust her. This is no trick.”

“Varys is in Westeros as we speak, seeking out allies for your cause. My sister has made an enemy of the Tyrells, so there is a chance that they will be prepared to come over to your side, especially if you can sweeten the pot for them. Dorne has hated the Lannisters since the Mountain murdered your brother’s wife and children. They may support your claim to the Iron Throne if you promise them vengeance.”

That gives Daenerys pause, but only for a moment. “I trust that you have a way to send word to Varys, my lord?” Tyrion nods in response, though he does not elaborate on whatever method he has at his disposal to allow him to send word across the Narrow Sea. Varys’ ‘little birds’ are all but legendary, however, and it is hardly surprising to her that he would have a network of spies and messengers in place to carry word to him, wherever he may be. “Then send him a message telling him that any allies he finds for me should come here. Will your people be prepared to bring them safely across the Narrow Sea?”

The last is addressed to Yara, who nods slowly. “If that is your command,” she says, sounding uncertain, yet willing to go along with Daenerys’ wishes, at least for now.

“It is. If Lady Olenna, and the ladies of Dorne are willing to travel to Meereen, tell them that they need to bring as many of their people as can fit in the ships. Any of the people of the Iron Islands that you can bring should come too. We may not be able to save everybody, but we can at least try to save some of the people.”

She does not yet know what she wishes to do with Varys.

He may not have betrayed her yet, and he may never do so now that she is changing her course of action, but now that she knows that he is capable of turning on her the instant he finds a potential ruler he prefers, she will never be able to trust him. Daario has offered to take his head if he ever sets foot in Meereen, even angrier than she is over the attempt Varys would have made to poison her, but she is loath to take him up on it. It would be unfair to kill him for a crime he has not yet committed, especially when she saw herself do worse.

She decides that she will not summon him back to Meereen, nor forbid his return.

Tyrion will see to it that Varys knows why she is not going to invade Westeros as they had planned, and why she is sending ships to bring those who stood her allies across the Narrow Sea. If he has faith in her, he will choose to join her allies on their journey, and she will receive him and allow him to live out his days in her city. If he chooses to remain in Westeros, his fate will be of his own making.

“You’ll be asking them to trust in a dream!” Tyrion exclaims, frustrated. “What if this is a lie? What if she is wrong about what will happen?”

Daenerys fixes him with a cool gaze. “If it is a lie, if I am wrong, and the White Walkers do not come, I will have lost a year, no more. I will still have the Unsullied and the Dothraki to fight for me, and I will still have three dragons, dragons who will grow even larger and stronger in the year to come, until they rival Balerion the Dread. Your sister has the Lannister army, and she may hire sellswords, if the Iron Bank is willing to fund her, and if she thinks it necessary when I am here and she has only the North to fight. Euron Greyjoy will add more ships to his fleet. It will not be enough to save them if I bring my forces to bear against King’s Landing.”

“But you can’t attack…”

She cuts him off. “If it is not a lie, if I am not wrong, then those who travel to Meereen will be all that is left of Westeros.”

It is a new experience for Tyrion Lannister to have nothing more to say.

A white raven has arrived from the Citadel, intended for the Maester of Winterfell, that he may spread the news that winter has come to the Lord of his castle and the people living in the surrounding area.

Jon Snow can scarcely remember the last winter, but what few memories he has are not pleasant ones.

When the deep snows blanketed the land around Winterfell, as far as the eye could see, Lord Eddard Stark gave the order that any of his people who sought shelter in his great keep, where the worst of the bitter cold was kept at bay by hot springs that sent scalding water rushing through its walls, must be accommodated. In order to make space for the many who sought shelter under his roof, the Lord of Winterfell offered up most of the rooms usually occupied by his family, unwilling to demand that his retainers and servants endure more cramped quarters for the duration of winter when their Lord was not prepared to do the same. The nurseries where the children slept, ate and played were given over to other families. The Stark children shared the Lord and Lady’s chambers, the warmest rooms in the castle, and to Lady Catelyn’s ill-concealed dismay, this included Jon.

Before, Lady Catelyn ignored him for the most part, leaving him to the care of his nurse, and having Robb and baby Sansa brought to her in her solar rather than visiting the nurseries they shared with another woman's son.

During that winter, when she had no choice but to endure his presence, her face was stony, her voice harsh and her hands rough.

During that winter, Jon came to understand that though Robb and Sansa were his brother and sister, though he shared the same rooms, ate the same food and was tended to by the same servants, he was not like them, not truly.

During that winter, he learned what it meant to be a bastard.

Now winter is here again, and Jon Snow is a man grown. If the Maesters are right, this winter will be even longer than the summer that preceded it, a prospect dreaded by smallfolk and great lords alike. He knows, however, that the threat they face is deadlier than a decade of deep snows, icy winds and scarce food. It is deadlier than Cersei Lannister, who cannot be expected to stand idly by while the Starks reclaim Winterfell, defying Lannister rule.

If he cannot make the lords assembled before him in the great dining hall of Winterfell understand the magnitude of the threat they face, they are all lost.

One lord, a man whose name Jon cannot recall, stands. All eyes turn to him as he speaks.

“The Boltons are defeated. The war is over. Winter has come. If the maesters are right, it’ll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms.”

“The war is not over. And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm.”

They do not believe him, do not want to believe him.

They have just fought a hard battle to reclaim Winterfell, and want nothing more than to retreat behind the stone walls of their keeps, secure in the knowledge that the Lannisters will know better than to send their forces North during winter. No Southern army would dare to try to conquer the North in winter. They hope for a quiet winter, and are unwilling to allow Jon to take that hope from them.

Then, a miracle.

Lady Lyanna Mormont, who has not yet seen her eleventh name day, rises to address the assembled lords, her young voice stern.

“Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly. But you refused the call. You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call. And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still you refuse the call. But House Mormont remembers. The North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He’s my king from this day until his last day.”

Lord Manderly is abashed, but to his credit, he acknowledges the truth of her words with a nod, and stands. “Lady Mormont speaks harshly and truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn’t think we’d find another king in my lifetime. I didn’t commit my men to your cause ‘cause I didn’t want more Manderlys dying for nothing. But I was wrong. Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf. The King in the North.” He draws his sword, rests its point on the ground and holds its hilt as he kneels.

Lord Glover is the next to rise. “I did not fight beside you on the field and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousands years. And I will stand behind Jon Snow… the King in the North!” Following Lord Manderly’s example, he draws his sword and kneels to swear fealty. “The King in the North!”

To a man, the other lords in the hall rise, draw their swords and kneel to swear fealty, their voices rising in chorus.

“The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!”

Jon never wanted to be King, never dreamed that a day might come when he would hold the title that his ancestors did until three centuries ago, when Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen, trading his crown to save the lives of his people, and accepting the title of Lord of Winterfell.

For the first time in his life, he knows what it is to be accepted by all as a true son of Lord Eddard Stark, and it is the happiest and proudest moment of his life.

More than that, it gives him hope.

The Bastard of Winterfell could not hope to rally the North behind him to fight the Night King and his Army of the Dead.

Even the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would not be able to get them to follow him into battle.

As King in the North, he has a chance to save them all.

It is a good year for Meereen.

True to her word, Yara ferries Lady Olenna, and several of her granddaughters, from Highgarden, accompanied by over eight hundred of the farmers of the Reach and their families, before returning to make her next crossing.

The soil in the Ghiscari Hills and the lands that surround Meereen is not as rich as the soil of the Reach, but the farmers are accustomed to adapting to harsh winters and to years of hot, dry weather in the summer. They learn from the Meereenese farmers, and soon clear wide fields of dry grasses so that they may plant wheat and olive trees. They carry seedlings of fruits and vegetables from Westeros, something Daenerys did not think to ask of them, and build great glasshouses to cultivate them, with canals to bring water from the rivers to nourish them. They teach the Meereenese farmers in their turn, sharing with them their seedlings and their knowledge.

The first harvest is small, but the next promises to be bountiful.

It is as well that this should be so; with slavery abolished in Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor, the future prosperity of the cities that hail Daenerys as their Queen will lie in agriculture, craft and commerce.

Tyrion rejoices when he learns that Lady Olenna sent word to the Arbor, ruled by her Redwyne kin, that they too might send their people to Essos, for some of the refugees have brought cuttings of their vines in the hope that they may cultivate the grapes that are so much sweeter than those grown in Meereen, and that made their wine famous in the Seven Kingdoms and in Essos alike. He remains adamant that none of the wines or brandies of Essos can compare to Arbor Gold, and declares that he wants a vineyard of his own one day.

Daenerys expects him to ask leave for his brother to be brought to Meereen but he never does. Whether this is because he does not truly believe in the vision about the Night King’s invasion of Westeros, because he knows that not even his plea or the threat of death will induce Jaime to abandon Cersei, or because, without having come face to face with his family once more, his loyalty remains with his new Queen, she does not know.

Not many of the Iron Islanders were willing to abandon their rocky, wind-swept home in favour of a new life in Essos, even at Yara’s command, but those who braved the journey have adapted well enough.

Most turn to fishing, their catch sold fresh in the markets of Meereen, or salted or smoked to be sold in other cities.

For those Iron Islanders who cannot bear the thought of a life devoid of combat, there is service on one of a dozen vessels under the command of Theon Greyjoy, who accepts the task of patrolling the seas that surround the island of Naath, charged with ensuring that no slavers reach its shores.

Missandei refuses to listen to any suggestions that she might return to the island of her birth, adamant that her place is with Daenerys, and content to know that no more of the peaceful people who dwell in Naath will be sold into slavery as long as it lies in her Queen’s power to prevent it.

From Dorne come Ellaria Sand, all but one of Prince Oberyn's eight daughters. The fourth is studying in Oldtown, and a message is sent to her to travel to Highgarden, so that she might sail with the next crossing. The Sands are accompanied on their journey to Meereen by as many of the Dornish people as could be fit into the two dozen ships sent to their kingdom. The three elder daughters are as fierce as any Dothraki warrior, and the younger four look set to follow in their footsteps. Even the youngest, Loreza Sand, a little girl of no more than eight years, is learning to wield a spear that is taller than she is.

Daenerys suspects that, were the fighting pits still in operation, at least one of the Sand Snakes would seek to show her prowess against the pit fighters, and would have a better than fair chance of emerging victorious, but no man or woman will fight to the death for the entertainment of others in her city, not ever again.

Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion decide to claim the abandoned fighting pit for their nest, the huge space and sun-warmed sand suiting them well. There is no roof above them, and no chains to bind them, and they are content.

She feels more closely attuned to her children now than she did before, when Drogon was flying wild, and Rhaegal and Viserion were imprisoned in the catacombs for fear that they too would begin to hunt human prey. They are gentle around her, as eager to vie for her attention and her petting as they were when they were small enough to be cradled in her arms, and they seem to have come to understand that the people are their mother’s, and therefore theirs to protect. On occasion, a goatherd or farmer comes before her to report the theft of their animals but, for the most part, her dragons do their hunting further afield. Sometimes, they are away for days at a time but they are never so far from her that she cannot feel them, as she once felt Rhaego growing inside her. She hears no reports that they have taken human life, and so she leaves them to come and go as they will. With the freedom to fly as they choose, and food aplenty from their hunts, they grow even larger than they did in the vision.

The vision does not leave her.

Too many nights, her sleep is haunted by the memory of the losses she endured, and the death and destruction she rained down on the people of King’s Landing, people who had already suffered under the reigns of the Usurper, the cuckoos in his nest, and finally Cersei. She cannot understand why she did it, when she had already won.

Was she angry with herself for allowing others to dissuade her from taking the fight to Cersei from the beginning, once she saw how quickly and easily she could have conquered the city, had she been guided by her own instincts?

Was she punishing the people for her own mistakes, for her folly in believing that, if she fought to save their lives, they would come to see her as a Queen they could trust to care for them?

Or was it the madness of her father coming out in her?

Was she doomed to burn King’s Landing sooner or later, even if its people threw open the city gates to welcome her?

Too many nights, she wakes up sobbing or screaming, her thrashing body tangled in her bedding.

When she does, Daario is there to hold her, to remind her that she is in Meereen, far from Westeros and its problems, and that she will never be the person she fears she is doomed to be.

She cannot do as he suggests, and go on as if she never saw what she is capable of.

Even if Quaithe had the power or the inclination to wipe her mind of the worst of the memories, she would not allow it.

It is only by facing the worst that she is capable of that she can strive to be better.

She knows that she will never again order that a man be fed to her dragons, no matter the crime committed.

The first time after the vision that she is called upon to stand in judgement over one of the citizens, a young man accused of murdering another, her palms are damp with cold sweat as she listens to the complaint presented, her stomach churning uneasily at the thought of ordering his execution. To her relief, the evidence presented is not strong enough to justify a decision that the man is guilty, and she is able to set him at liberty.

After that, she closets herself in her apartments with Missandei, Grey Worm, Daario, the Greyjoys and Tyrion Lannister, working with them to draft the laws under which the citizens of Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor will live, with punishments set out for those who break them. Henceforth, those accused of a crime will be judged first by a panel of their fellow citizens, chosen by lot, who will hear the evidence and vote on guilt or innocence, though they retain the right to appeal to their Queen for her justice if the outcome of the trial is against them, and she continues to hold the power of pardon. In the new courts, it is guilt, not innocence, that must be proved.

It does not stop her nightmares, but she feels that she is taking a step away from the woman in the vision.

Cersei reads the latest missive from the self-styled King in the North, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. When she is finished, she slides the letter across the table to her brother and lover.

Jaime takes longer to read it than she did. He has always had trouble with his letters, since they were young children and the Maester charged with their education rapped his knuckles for his inability to read and write as well as a mere girl-child. When he is finished, he snorts with laughter.

“Do you think it was the Wall or the wars that turned the poor boy’s wits?”

“Perhaps both.”

“You don’t think there’s any truth to it, do you? The part about the White Walkers, I mean.”

Cersei raises an eyebrow, surprised that he would ask such a foolish question. “I offered to send the Lannister army North to fight against the White Walkers, and whatever other monsters he thinks are coming for them, if he would bend the knee,” she reminds him. “He refused. If there truly is a threat, do you really think that any son of Ned Stark’s would choose to let his people die for the sake of his pride?”

“Fair point. Of course, according to this, he’s not Ned Stark’s son at all.”

They share a laugh before setting the letter aside.

Cersei imagines that it was Sansa Stark’s idea that her half-brother should try to rally support for their family against the Lannisters by claiming to be the long-lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen. By all accounts, Jon Snow is Ned Stark’s son in every way, and would never think to try to dupe people into supporting him.

If truth be told, she is a little disappointed in Sansa.

She thinks that, if nothing else, the little dove should have learned enough from her to be able to come up with a lie that is at least somewhat believable.

The day Jorah returns to her is Daenerys’ happiest since Quaithe shared the vision.

He sends her no word of his coming, and does not take advantage of the fact that he is well known to the Unsullied who guard the pyramid to gain access to her private apartments, that he may greet her there. Instead, he chooses to join the long line of petitioners awaiting an audience with their Queen, waiting patiently while others bring their requests before her, until it is his turn to be conducted into the audience chamber.

When she sees him, she springs from her bench and runs down the stairs to him, all but throwing herself into his arms. He steadies her with gentle hands before she can send them both sprawling to the floor, cradling her to his chest. He is visibly exhausted from his long journey, his clothes worn and travel-stained, but the sight of him is a welcome one, and she does not want to let go.

She hears Missandei’s soft voice command the sentries to instruct the waiting petitioners that the day’s audience is at an end, and to tell them to return tomorrow. She knows that she should overrule this instruction, that the people have been waiting for her for hours, and that she has a duty to her subjects to hear their words and do all in her power to assist them in their troubles, but for once, she allows her duty to wait another day.

Even the sentries leave, trusting that their Queen is as safe in the care of her faithful knight as she would be under their protection.

Without letting one another go, she and Jorah sit at the foot of the stairs, his arm around her shoulders, her fingers twined in his free hand. They sit in silence for several minutes before he finally breaks it.

“I had thought to find you in Westeros, Khaleesi. Why did you not come? What has happened?” he prods gently.

“I can’t go to Westeros.”

“Of course you can. You command over a hundred thousand warriors, and you have your dragons. Even if the Lannisters and the Starks put aside their differences to stand against you, which they will never do, they would not win. You can sweep the Seven Kingdoms and take back your family’s crown.”

“I can’t. If I go to Westeros, I will lose far too many of my people, I will lose my children, and I will do terrible things to the people of Westeros. I will be worse than my father ever was.” He opens his mouth to object but she does not give him the chance to give voice to his certainty that she could never follow in her father into madness. She can’t bring herself to meet his eyes as she relates the events of her vision, cannot bear to see the disappointment in the eyes of the man who believed in the Queen she would be before she truly believed in herself, but she doesn’t allow herself to shrink from telling him everything.

“Khaleesi, you can’t ask me to believe that you would ever…”

“You went to the Citadel in Oldtown in search of a cure. A man named Samwell Tarly treated you, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He was a man of the Night’s Watch, and had served your father before he was killed.”

She fears that this proof that the vision was a true one will lead him to recoil from her in disgust, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t let go of her hand, but he moves his arm from around her shoulder, catching her chin in a warm, calloused palm and gently tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“This will not happen. We will not allow it to happen. Now that we know, we will all make sure that you have our support. You will not be left alone, at the mercy of those who think you their enemy. We will see to it that we are by your side every step of your journey. I know you, Khaleesi… Daenerys. You have a gentle heart, and you want to do right by your people. Give yourself another chance to be the Queen you are meant to be. You can still have the Iron Throne, if you want it. With everything you have learned, we can claim it for you.”

“I want it,” she confesses, angry with herself because, despite all she saw, there is still a part of her that wants to reclaim the throne her ancestor forged, to walk through the walls of the Red Keep, the home stolen from her family by the Usurper, and to know that it belongs to House Targaryen once more. “I want to take the Seven Kingdoms, and to prove that I can rule them well. But I won’t allow my people to pay for it. The price is too high.”

“What will you do?”

“I will do what I set out to do. I will strike the chains off slaves, protect the innocent and leave the world a better place than I found it. But I will do it here in Essos. Will you stay with me, and help me do it?”

He raises their joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of her hand. “I am with you, Khaleesi. Now and always.”

Chapter Text

The Wall stretches for a hundred leagues, from the Bay of Seals to the Bay of Ice, and stands seven hundred feet high at its tallest point. It has stood for eight thousand years, each generation of black brothers striving to raise it higher, to thicken its walls, fortify its nineteen castles, and upgrade its defences.

Though built to defend against the return of the White Walkers, its purpose was all but forgotten for thousands of years, as history became myth.

The men of the Night’s Watch, with only wildlings to fight, have all but forgotten the original purpose of their order, and have not prepared for the return of the true enemy from the Land of Almost Winter.

They have forgotten that the Wall was not just built of ice and stone; ancient magic was woven into its structure, magic that wards against the dead crossing it.

The order of the builders has dutifully maintained the Wall and its castles to the best of its ability. They cut back the forest when it creeps so close to the abandoned castles that an enemy might be able to use it as cover for an attack. They monitor the top of Wall for signs of structural damage, particularly during the summers, when the sun grows hot enough to melt ice, even this far North. They patch the crumbling walls of the nineteen castles stretched along the Wall’s length, even those that are no longer manned, for fear that they might one day be needed, or perhaps in the hope that a day will come when the Night’s Watch will have enough men to once more be able to guard the full length of the Wall. When time and resources allow, they transport ice from the frozen lakes to further fortify the existing structure.

Centuries and millennia ago, each Lord Commander took pride in seeing to it that he left the Wall taller and stronger than he found it. More recent Lord Commanders consider themselves to do well to leave the Wall in no worse state on the day their watch ends than it was on the day of their election.

They have forgotten that it is not just the ice and stone that must continually be repaired and replenished, lest the immense structure collapse, the magic too must be renewed, lest it weaken and fail.

Over the past centuries, there have been few Maesters who, through studying the magical arts, have earned the right to forge a link of Valyrian steel for their chain, and none of these have served on the Wall.

The Wall is perhaps the greatest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms, but all that is needed for a fortress to fall is a crack

The Night King has waited eons, watching for the moment when the magic of the Wall would falter, just a little, just enough to allow the tiniest of cracks to form, the tiniest of chinks in the armour that shields the Seven Kingdoms, knowing that the crossing of his enemy through the Wall, his mark upon its host’s skin, has left its magic the weakest it has been in eight thousand years.

Blue eyes glow as he takes an immense spear of ice and magic in his hand, and hurls it at the crack with unerring precision.

The point of the spear finds the crack in the magic that imbues the Wall, and the Night King watches as the crack lengthens and widens, snow, ice and stone tumbling, magic fracturing, leaving an opening in the wall large enough for half a dozen men to walk abreast.

Their progress through the Wall will be slow, but they have already waited eight thousand years, and time holds no sway over the dead.

Olenna Tyrell has fled.

Cersei scarcely spared a thought for the woman when she first left King’s Landing, save to regret that she did not stay long enough to perish in the Sept of Baelor with her son and grandchildren, but once she consolidated her hold on the Iron Throne, she thought of her more and more.

She is not one to easily stomach an insult, and she longs to repay Lady Olenna for her harsh words, for refusing to accept her overture of peace when she asked for her help against a foe who could bring both of their families low, for daring to take pleasure in her misfortune and humiliation, and for having the audacity to claim that she had lost, as though the scorn of the common scum of the city would be enough to break her, when she has survived the worst they had to throw at her, and repaid them a hundredfold for the pain they inflicted on her.

More than anything else, she wants to exact revenge against her for trying to control the Seven Kingdoms, to control Cersei’s sons, through her harlot of a granddaughter. Bad enough that Joffrey should fall prey to Margaery’s easy charms, that she should be able to effortlessly manipulate him when he openly scorned his mother’s counsel, belittling her to impress his bride-to-be. Perhaps it was to be expected that a boy of his years would be infatuated with a beautiful older woman, one who had a talent for making him believe that she was deeply in love with him. It is beyond enduring that she should do the same to Tommen, convincing her sweet baby boy that she loves him, and taking advantage of his innocence to make him love her in return, to make him love her so much that he would choose to take his own life when she perished, abandoning his mother.

For that, she is determined that Lady Olenna will pay dearly.

Only Jaime can temper her rage against the tart-tongued dowager enough to get her to grudgingly consent to allowing him to offer her a merciful death by poison, rather than the kind of death she fantasises about giving her. If she had her way, Olenna Tyrell would be flayed alive, or worse, her body hung over the gates of the city as a warning to all those foolish enough to underestimate Cersei Lannister. As angry as she is, however, she has to concede his point that it will do her sullied reputation no good if she is seen to exact cruel vengeance against an old lady, particularly when the commoners are irritatingly sentimental about Margaery, and in the end, all that really matters is that Lady Olenna should die knowing that she has lost and that Cersei has won.

In the end, Jaime’s persuasions are for naught.

When the Lannister troops reach Highgarden, they find it deserted.

Lady Olenna and the few other surviving Tyrells are gone, along with the household of servants who should be there. The expansive, airy rooms are stripped of any valuables small enough to carry, though whether by the Tyrells or by the servants after their masters fled, nobody is there to say. The farms and farmhouses in the immediate vicinity of Highgarden are deserted, most of the crops burned in the fields. The livestock is gone, carried or driven away, and the Lannister army cannot spare men to hunt down cows and sheep.

Worst of all, the treasury of Highgarden has been emptied of every coin.

“We needed that money to repay the Iron Bank!” she rages at her brother when he gives her his report on the sack of Highgarden.

Her fool of a husband drove the realm into a debt of millions to pay for his tourneys, wine and whores, and then the Crown was forced to borrow even more money to pay for the soldiers needed to defend Joffrey’s throne against Robert’s brothers, and the damned Stark boy who dared to crown himself King, and to provision the city for the coming winter. If Littlefinger was here, instead of off in the North, sniffing under Sansa Stark’s skirts, Cersei knows that she would strangle him with her bare hands for being such a fool as to resort to borrowing from the Iron Bank to appease Robert’s unending demands.

The Iron Bank always gets its due, one way or another.

She counted on the Tyrell gold to pay them off, and without it, she fears that they will deem her a bad investment. If they think that she cannot or will not pay her debt, they will be all too willing to finance her enemies.

They may be sending envoys to Jon Snow in the North, or to the Targaryen girl, wherever she is, offering them whatever funds they need to pay for sellswords and siege weapons to sack King’s Landing and overthrow the rightful Queen, provided that they commit to repaying the Crown’s debt.

For all she knows, Lady Olenna is meeting with them now, encouraging them to raise another to the throne in her place. She still has at least a couple of granddaughters, left behind at Highgarden when Margaery came to court as the future Queen, and might think to offer one of them to Jon Snow, whose crown will outweigh the taint of bastardy. Or perhaps she has a grandson or grand-nephew to propose as a husband for the Targaryen girl, if she thinks her the safer bet. The damned woman will stop at nothing to control the Seven Kingdoms.

“She must have known that you were coming,” she snaps at Jaime, thinking that he must have been too overconfident as he marched on Highgarden, scorning subtlety and riding with the Lannister banners flying proudly ahead of his host, thereby giving the Tyrells the chance to flee. “She must have known that we would need Highgarden and its gold, and she made sure to take it from us before we could seize it.”

“And the food too,” Jaime reminds her, as though she needed to be reminded of the fact that, with winter fast approaching and the very real possibility of a siege in the near future, they were in desperate need of provisions.

“And the food,” she echoes.

“She probably hasn’t gone far, not at her age,” Jaime suggests, more to comfort her than because he truly believes what he is saying. “She’s a Redwyne; she still has kin at the Arbor who would take her in.”

“She’s too clever to go to the Arbor. She knows that it would be the first place we’d go looking for her, and they’re in no position to defend themselves against our army. She’s probably gone North, to tell the Starks everything she knows about me, all about our defences, our weaknesses.” Lady Olenna had her fingers in every pie at court during her granddaughter’s brief time as Joffrey’s betrothed, then as Tommen’s Queen. She knows far too much for Cersei’s liking, far more than she is comfortable with her enemies being told.

Jaime manages a faint smile. “Then I hope that Lady Olenna is ready to fight the giants or the grumpkins or whatever it is that Jon Snow thinks is coming to kill us all.”

For a moment, Cersei considers the possibility that Lady Olenna also received a message from Jon Snow, warning her of the approach of the White Walkers and the doom they would supposedly bring to Westeros, and that this is why she abandoned Highgarden, but she dismisses the thought almost as soon as it crosses her mind.

She may not like the woman, but she is sure that she is far too clever to be driven from her home by a nursery tale.

Olenna Tyrell is the shrewdest advisor that Daenerys could hope to have.

She never actually invited her to join her council, Lady Olenna simply appeared in their meeting chamber the morning after her arrival in Meereen, and chose a seat.

Not one of them challenged her right to do so. Not one of them dared.

Her knowledge of the inner workings of the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms is on par with Tyrion’s, and she took it in her stride when Daenerys explained to her that she would not be setting sail for Westeros, and why. She spent too little time with Lady Olenna in her vision, and has no secret knowledge of her life that she can offer her as proof that the vision was a true one, but after hearing her story, the older woman calmly accepted it.

“You seem like a clever girl, my dear, and you’re no sheep to be scared away from what is yours by a silly story. If there are monsters coming that a dragon fears to face, we are all better off on this side of the Narrow Sea. I will be sorry not to see the look on Cersei’s face when they come for her, but I suppose that can’t be helped.”

She left unspoken her expectation that, if Daenerys was wrong about the approaching threat, she would expect her to commit any resources necessary to reclaim the Reach from whoever claimed it in the Tyrells’ absence.

Her son may have been Lord of Highgarden before his death, but it soon becomes clear that the farmers look to his mother as the true authority in the Reach, so much so that they left their homes and their country at her instruction, and follow her lead in establishing their new farmlands and in adopting new methods of farming. In this strange new land, they continue to look to her for leadership, and she now serves as their voice on the council.

She has also been invaluable in coordinating the efforts to bring more of the people of the Reach to Essos, her word carrying more weight than Ellaria Sand’s does in Dorne, where many of the people are reluctant to follow the woman who slew their Prince into exile.

Over twenty thousand of the common people of the Reach and the Arbor, and almost half as many of the Dornish, now call Essos their home.

“It’s not enough.” Daenerys doesn’t know the exact date that the Night King and his Army broke through the Wall in her vision, and she knows that, without Viserion, it may take him longer, but the closer it gets to that time, the more anxious she grows for those who will become his victims. Her first duty is to Meereen, Yunkai and Astapor, and to the Unsullied and Dothraki who follow her, but she cannot forget the people of Westeros, or fail to take advantage of an opportunity to bring more of them to safety. “We need to bring more of the people here.”

Yara and her fleet have made the journey to Westeros and back four times already, each time having to vary their route to avoid her uncle and the Iron Fleet, each time returning with the ships packed with refugees, but they have been able to save barely thirty thousand, out of a population of millions.

The rest, Daenerys is abandoning to death and eternal slavery.

“I can make another trip, Your Grace,” Yara volunteers.

“You barely made it back the last time!” Theon objects, earning a light cuff about the ear from his sister.

“The winter storms have begun, and they grow worse by the day,” Jorah points out gravely. “You may be able to cross the Narrow Sea, but it is very unlikely that you or your ships will survive the return trip.”

“I’m willing to give it a go.”

“I’m not willing to risk losing you,” Daenerys says quietly, recognizing the truth of Jorah’s words, and knowing that she cannot be swayed by Yara’s confidence into risking the loss of the Ironborn sailors, or the fleet that they use to defend the Bay of Dragons and the island of Naath.

As Queen, the decision is hers, as are the consequences.

Lady Olenna reaches out, patting her hand lightly. “You have done all you can, my dear, and it’s more than most would do. Mourn the dead, and move on. It is time for you to look to the road before you, not the path behind.”

But she hasn’t done all she can, and she knows it.

She has done all she can without risking the lives of those who follow her.

She had a choice to make, she made it, and now she must live with her choice, for the rest of her life.

Because of the choice she made, millions will live free, and millions will not live at all.

Is it better or worse that she does not doubt that she made the right choice?

That night, as on most nights since Jorah returned to her, she lies in her bed between two men who are devoted to her, two men who will never harm her, two men who have put their rivalry aside that they may both be there for her when she needs them, two men who never ask anything from her but that they be allowed to love her.

When she cries, they dry her tears and murmur words of comfort.

They hold her close as she drifts off, and if her sleep is uneasy, it is at least untroubled by nightmares.

Jon Snow’s face is ashen as he listens to the sole surviving scout, who reports that the Night King’s army is on the move, and tells them how many White Walkers and wights march with him.

From her place by his side, he hears Sansa’s gasp of horror.

Eddard Stark may have sought to shield his girls from war and death, hoping to preserve their innocence even as he ensured that his sons would be prepared to fight any foe they might face in the future, demanding that they learn the grimmest duties of a Lord from childhood that they might be prepared to do their duty in manhood, but Sansa does not need to be schooled in strategy to know that, even with each of the Northern Lords bringing all of their men, together with the Knights of the Vale, even with many of the women and girls taking up arms in defence of the living, they are hopelessly outnumbered. They would have scant chance of defeating an army of mortal men half as large, let alone an army that doesn’t tire, doesn’t stop, and doesn’t feel.

To her credit, Sansa composes herself quickly, her face settling into an expressionless mask.

“Maybe it’s not too late to send to King’s Landing for help,” one of the lords in the hall suggests, though he must know that, even if Cersei was inclined to relent and send her forces North, the Army of the Dead will be at Winterfell long before they arrive. “The Lannister army is ten thousand strong. We might have a chance if they fought with us.”

“We’d need another hundred thousand men to have a chance!” another lord exclaims.

“We might as well wish for a dragon,” Jon cuts in coldly, before panic can set in. Even if Cersei sent her men, even if the Tyrells or the Martells or any other noble House to whom he appealed for aid sent their men, they have no way of arming them. Sam sent word from the Citadel that there were vast deposits of dragonglass on the island of Dragonstone, but the men he brought there could only mine a small amount of it before they received word that the Night King had breached the Wall, forcing them to return to Winterfell. They do not have enough dragonglass to provide each of the fighters they have with a weapon, let alone to put weapons in the hands of the Lannister army, or any other. “We will make our stand here at Winterfell, with the army we have.”

It will be enough.

He has to believe that it will be enough.

Winterfell does not last the night.

Bran waits in the godswood, guarded by Lady Alys Karstark and a dozen of her men.

The Night King will come to him. He knows it. He has hunted the Three-Eyed Raven for thousands of years, and will continue to do so until he slays him, or is slain himself.

Through the eyes of many ravens, he watches the battle unfold, watches the warriors of the North die by the thousand, only to rise again to kill their former comrades in arms.

He watches as the dead in the crypts of Winterfell crawl from their tombs to attack the women and young children who sought shelter there, where they should have been safe, nobody thinking that the Night King would raise the Stark dead as easily as he did those newly slain. He watches Sansa huddle behind a great stone tomb, a dragonglass blade clutched in her hand as she listens to the frightened screams around her. He watches as she steels her courage to emerge from her hiding place, launching herself at one of the dead. Bony fingers rake her face and neck, clawing at her throat to choke the air from her lungs. She slashes at it with her blade, burying it to the hilt in rotten flesh, and when it lets her go, falling to the ground in a tumble of bone, flesh and rags, she runs.

He watches Jon lead his forces, entering the fray where the fighting is thickest, and hacking at the seemingly unending horde of wights with Longclaw. Wights fall to his sword by the score, but more still come.

He watches Arya fight her way through wights, slipping through the darkness of the library like a ghost, a dagger of Valyrian steel in her grasp, trying to reach the godswood, that she might protect him with the weapon once sent to kill him.

He sees other things too, memories that do not match the events unfolding.

He sees a hundred thousand flaming blades move as one through the black night, sees those blades extinguished.

He sees dragons flying overhead, through a raging blizzard conjured by the Night King, their fire cutting a swathe through the Army of the Dead, reducing the number that the fighters on the ground must do battle with.

He sees the Night King riding a dragon, sees another dragon fight with it, keeping it from Winterfell.

He sees a feast, sees a toast raised the Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell, and he knows her for the slayer of the Night King.

But Arya does not reach the godswood in time to slay the Night King.

He watches as she is overrun by wights, a dozen or more of them converging on her, as though they are aware of her purpose and determined to keep her from their master. He watches as she fights until her last breath before they kill her, watches as she rises, her eyes glowing blue, to fight alongside the dead.

He watches Alys Karstark and her men place themselves between him and the Night King, watches as they fall, one by one.

He sends his mind into one of his ravens and watches, from high above, as the Night King approaches his still form, takes a moment to look into his blank, glassy eyes, and then drives his ice spear into his heart.

Winterfell does not fall to the Night King that night.

It is overrun by wights and White Walkers, their numbers swelled by the dead of the North, too many for those yet living to hope to stand against them, when the King in the North gives the order he prayed he would never need to, even as, with the Army of the Dead approaching, he gave the order that oil be spread over the walls and corridors of Winterfell. At his command, men carry torches through the castle and its towers, setting it alight.

Winterfell does not fall to the Night King.

It falls to Jon Snow, who watches the castle that was his childhood home, the castle that he once dared to dream he might be lord of, burn. He cannot help but think of Lady Catelyn, and wonders if her shade is vindicated by the knowledge that her fear that he would bring about the ruin of Winterfell and the Starks has been proven justified.

What few survivors there are flee, and the Night King does not trouble to follow them.

He has slain the Three-Eyed Raven, achieving the goal he has pursued for thousands of years, and turns his sights South, where millions wait to die and be reborn as soldiers in his army, knowing that there will soon be none in Westeros but the dead.

Daenerys does not need Quaithe to tell her that this is the night.

She feels it in her heart, her mind and her soul, knows that by morning light, Winterfell will be no more, and that the Night King will continue to cut his icy path across Westeros, claiming all seven of the kingdoms for the dead. She wonders if there will be any survivors in the North, and if there are, whether they will have the sense to flee Westeros. If they flee, they have a chance to live, but if they try to regroup, try to fight the Night King and his army again, when his numbers are stronger than ever and they lack even the slight advantage of a solid base in Winterfell, they will all die.

The people of King’s Landing, the people on whose heads she would have rained down fire and blood in another life, will die, and rise to live as eternal slaves.

“Don’t think about it, Khaleesi.” Jorah’s voice is a low rumble in her ear, his calloused hand gentle as he runs it slowly up and down her back, seeking to comfort her however he can. The night is hot, too hot for even the fine linen sleep shirts he usually wears, and his chest is bare, the skin mottled with scars where the greyscale was peeled from his flesh. The man who defied the order of Maesters to save his life is most likely dead by now. “There is nothing that you can do for them now, but so much you can still do for your people.”

“If I look back, I am lost.”

“You will never be lost,” he counters immediately. “I won’t let it happen.”

“We won’t let it happen,” Daario corrects from his place on her other side. He brushes a lock of hair from her face, brow creasing in a frown at the misery on her face. “I could kill every one of those bastards for what they did to you. They should consider themselves lucky that the Night King will get there first.”

She closes her eyes, though she knows that it won’t banish the images of the battle of Winterfell, the countless thousands dead, Jorah slain before her eyes, Viserion forced to fight and die in the Night King’s service. She cannot feel anything other than sickened at the thought of what is happening across the Narrow Sea. She knows that whatever death Daario would deliver can only be kinder than the fate she has allowed to be inflicted on them.

“Sorry,” Daario says, as soon as he sees that she is upset. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Daenerys,” Jorah speaks her name softly, his hand moving from the small of her back to her chin, cupping it and turning her face towards his. “How many of your people would have died had you taken them to Westeros?”

“Too many.”

“How many of your people will fall to the Army of the Dead this time?”

“None.”

“What will you give your people instead of death?”

“Life. Prosperity. Freedom.” She repeats the words again, like a chant, or perhaps a prayer, and then opens her eyes to meet his, managing a faint hint of a smile, a silent ‘thank you’ for his reminder that something good will come of the choice she has made, that the lives of millions will be better for it.

“I will remind you every day, every hour, if that is what you need.”

“We are with you, now and always,” Daario pledges with uncharacteristic solemnity. “Whatever you need from us, just say the word.”

“I need you to love me.”

He chuckles. “That is one thing that you will never need to ask of us.”

“We will always love you.”

She leans forward to brush her lips against Jorah’s, then turns in his arms to kiss Daario, her body and her heart craving the closeness she has not had since Quaithe showed her the vision, filling her mind with memories of another man, a man that seemed to have been formed to be her perfect match, the first man that she could ever imagine ruling by her side as her equal, rather than a consort, the man she loved and trusted until the moment she felt his dagger pierce her heart.

These men she can trust with her heart, and with her life. These men she can love, without fear.

“No,” she clarifies, her hands finding theirs and guiding them to her body, ensuring that they can be in no possible doubt about what she wants from them. “I need you to love me.”

They have asked nothing from her, but that they be allowed to love her and support her however they can, however she needs them to. They have shared her bed for months, holding her in their arms and sleeping on either side of her, their presence a shield against the worst of her nightmares, but no more than that. They never demand intimacy from her, never ask it of her, but are content to wait until she is ready. They would live chastely with her for the rest of their lives if that was what she needed and wanted from them.

It isn’t.

“Are you certain?” Jorah has loved her since she was little more than a child, a young girl wedded to a stranger that he might give her brother an army. He has wanted this for almost as long, but hesitates, needing to know that she is certain of what she wants before he takes something from her that she might not be truly ready to give.

“I am.”

“In that case,” Daario says, swooping forward to trail a line of kisses down her neck. “We live to serve our Queen.”

She wakes with the early morning sun streaming through the windows of her apartments, caressing her bare skin, the richly embroidered bedcover long since abandoned on the floor, along with her nightgown, and two pairs of linen breeches.

She wakes with two men she loves and who love her lying on the bed next to her, Daario’s arm flung over his face to shield his eyes from the dawn rays, and Jorah’s soft snores rumbling.

She wakes to the sound of pounding on her door, and a voice, Missandei’s, calling to her.

She is the first out of bed, her movement rousing the other two from their slumbers, and she pauses only as long as it takes her to pick up her discarded nightgown and tug it on before she opens her door.

“You must come quickly, Your Grace.” Her dearest friend does not wait for her to reply, or offer any further explanation, before she guides her back into the apartment, towards the dressing chamber where her gowns are hanging. Missandei does not waste time choosing a gown, or ask Daenerys her preference, she just snatches the nearest one from its peg, and helps to lace her into it. She makes her sit down so she can comb out the tangles born of sleep and love-making, but does not weave it into its customary coronet of elaborate braids.

“What is going on?”

Missandei smiles, her eyes bright. “You’ll see.”

By now, Daario and Jorah are up, dressed and armed, as curious as she is about what has prompted this summons.

Missandei leads the way downstairs and out of the pyramid, where half a dozen of the warriors of the khalasar await them, mounted on horseback. Grey Worm is with them, a broad smile on his usually serious face.

Not even a command from their Queen will induce any of them to tell her what is happening.

When she realizes their destination, her first instinct is to panic, but the smiles on the faces of her friends and her blood-riders reassures her that, whatever is happening, whatever awaits her there, it is not to be dreaded.

Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion are all in the former fighting pit when she arrives, clustered together. They snarl at the group’s approach, displeased by the invasion, but when Daenerys steps forward, their cries are welcoming. They do not move from their positions, their huge eyes gleaming as they watch her approach.

When she reaches Drogon’s feet, he shifts his stance slightly, unfurling an enormous wing.

There, on the scorched sand, ringed protectively by her children, she sees them for the first time.

Three dragon’s eggs, gleaming like jewels in the sunlight.

Chapter Text

The survivors of Winterfell scatter as the castle burns, fleeing to the surrounding forest for cover and hiding there, hoping that this last, desperate strike against the Night King and his army will be enough. Hope is all they have left as the great castle and keep, which is said to have been constructed by the legendary Bran the Builder, and which has stood since the Age of Heroes, burns, and with it thousands upon thousands of the wights that have infested it. For those whose friends, kin and comrades fell in battle, only to rise again as soldiers in the Army of the Dead, attacking their friends with the same ferocity as they once had their enemy, there is the hope that those they love may find peace once the flames consume their flesh and free them from their enslavement.

The wights make no sound as they burn.

The cries of those still living but unable to escape the walls of Winterfell before it is consumed by flames pierce the ears and rend the hearts of those who hear them.

The fire burns long into the night, consuming many of the enemy's forces, but not enough.

The King in the North watches, not daring to breathe, as the Night King emerges from the flames, unharmed, his eerie blue eyes sweeping the landscape before him. Acrid black smoke billows behind him, and dozens of White Walkers pass through it to stand behind their leader. Even some of the wights, those not close enough to Winterfell when the fires were lit to be caught in the blaze, have survived, and they fall into formation, as if summoned by a silent command. For an instant, it seems as if the Night King meets his eyes, and the King in the North fears that it was all for nothing, that he will track down each and every survivor, but instead the Night King turns his face south, towards millions of people, millions of lives that he intends to snuff out.

The survivors watch the Night King and his army march away, none of them daring to move a muscle or make a sound. Even the youngest of the children are silent, from terror or from hands pressed over their mouths. The icy night air bites at exposed skin and stiffens unmoving limbs, but none of them dare to move until long after the Night King and his army are out of sight. Then, and only then, do they look to their King for his next command.

To Jon Snow, their faith in him is both an honour and a burden. His people look to him for safety, and for guidance, yet his short reign has brought nothing but death and despair to the North.

He can’t help but think of Sansa’s advice that he make his true identity known to the other Great Houses, calling on them as Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, to send their forces North to aid in his war against the dead. Only sheer desperation induced him to take her advice, his heart rebelling at the thought of naming another man his father and calling the man who had raised and loved him a liar, but he need not have bothered. Even House Tyrell, who had remained loyal to his grandfather during Robert’s Rebellion, long after the other allies of House Targaryen had deserted them, did not even deign to respond to the ravens he sent to Highgarden. It seemed that nobody cared about his claim to the Iron Throne, if they believed his story at all.

Perhaps they had had the right idea.

If he could not keep one kingdom safe, how could he hope to protect seven?

It will be all he can do to try to keep those still living safe until the morrow.

He gives the order to gather what horses and wagons remain to them, and to prepare for a journey. There is no hope of salvaging anything from Winterfell, even if they could afford to wait about in the dead of a winter night for the fires to burn out. They need to move if they do not want their blood to freeze in their veins, their digits and their limbs to turn black and useless, and their hearts to stop from the cold. Castle Cerwyn is closest, and as Lord Cerwyn obeyed Jon’s command to bring his people to Winterfell, he hopes that the Night King will ignore a castle that is already devoid of life as he leads his army towards richer prey.

He counts his people as they emerge from their hiding places, his eyes alert for any familiar face.

Some he already knows that he will not see.

Lady Lyanna Mormont, who took umbrage at the suggestion that she should hide in the crypts with the women and young children, he saw killed by a giant, when he was too far away from the girl who was his staunchest defender when she needed him to return the favour. She managed to survive just long enough to slay her foe.

Edd, Lord Commander of the remnants of the Night’s Watch, died doing his duty by the realm, as did almost all of the Black Brothers who came with him to Winterfell. The world shall not see their like again.

He wishes that he was not certain that Bran was among the fallen, but he knows that the Night King would not have left Winterfell while the Three-Eyed Raven remained alive. It is not the tall, pale youth with whom he was reunited, the youth who imparted the truth of his origins to him without showing so much as a flicker of emotion, that Jon mourns. He does not want to remember Bran like that, as a stranger who seemed so far removed from the world of men that he was almost as inhuman as the Night King. Jon mourns for the little brother he remembers, the boy who struggled with archery but persevered, the boy who hated to see a man executed but who did not look away because he wanted to make their father proud, the boy who cradled a direwolf pup in his arms and pleaded for its life, the boy who wanted nothing more than to be a knight and have adventures.

Was there anything but memories left of the boy Bran was once he became the Three-Eyed Raven?

The Hound is the first he recognises, his great height setting him apart from other men. He moves stiffly, favouring his right leg, but is otherwise unharmed. He carries a child in one arm, two others close at his heels, the scowl on his face daring any man to draw attention to his protectiveness of them.

Brienne of Tarth is already at work, marshalling the survivors into a group, and snapping at her squire to help her hitch horses to the wagons. The boy is pale with shock and exhaustion, bearing little resemblance to the cheerful, eager youth Jon has got to know over the past months. He follows her commands as if his life depends on it, the task giving him something to focus on other than the horror he has witnessed. Tormund follows her as she carries out her work, though Jon doubts that Brienne will consider him more of a help than a hindrance.

Ser Davos, like the Hound, has found himself the caretaker of a couple of young children, who cling to his hands, refusing to let go of him even after he has lifted them into a wagon. Davos takes a few moments to soothe them, brushing away the children’s tears with his shortened fingers before they can freeze on their cheeks, and then he drags himself away from them to seek out other survivors in need of help.

At least Jon can be grateful that some of the children have survived.

What was he thinking to order that the most vulnerable among them should be sent to the crypts, locked beneath the ground with the Stark dead, and no weapon with which to defend themselves when the Night King used his dark magic to raise the Lords of Winterfell and the old Kings of Winter to attack their own people?

He hears Sam’s cry of relief and joy before he sees him, and turns in time to see him run, faster than he has ever seen him run before, towards a slight figure emerging from the forest, a tiny boy balanced on her hip. Sam enfolds Gilly and Little Sam in his embrace, weeping unashamedly.

“Jon!”

An instant after he hears her voice call out his name, Sansa hurls herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and holding him as tightly as if she means never to let him go. Her face is bloodied and her gown and cloak are dirty but she is blessedly, mercifully alive. He returns her embrace, and can feel her body tremble in his arms, though whether from cold or shock or a combination of the two, he cannot tell.

He once jested that their father would return from the dead to kill him if he let anything happen to her, and he half-believed it, remembering how Ned Stark was always at his softest in the company of his daughters, remembering how he sought to protect them from the evils of the world, even willing to besmirch his honour and support a wicked boy pretender’s claim to the Iron Throne because he knew it to be the only way to save Sansa’s life. When he was able to fight to reclaim Winterfell from the Boltons, when he had Ramsey at his mercy and could make him suffer for the pain he inflicted on Sansa, he hoped that Ned would know, and be proud of him, both for avenging his sister and for ensuring that her home was safe for her once more.

At least he has achieved something tonight.

He has failed to protect his people, failed to stop the Night King before he could turn his sights on the other kingdoms, failed to protect Bran and Rickon, but if he can keep his sisters safe, he has not let his father down.

He pats Sansa’s back awkwardly, his mind searching for something comforting to say, but he can come up with nothing. What can he say to her that would make this better? She is no longer the innocent, sweet girl who loved songs and stories and who would believe in a warrior who could make all well again. She is too clever to be taken in by false reassurances. She knows as well as he does that, though the Night King may be gone, they must still contend with cold and hunger as they travel in search of refuge. In the end, he says nothing, just holds her for another moment before gently disengaging from her embrace, and returning his attention to his people.

The trickle of survivors is slowing now, and to his horror and dismay, they number fewer than two hundred.

Two hundred, of the tens of thousands of fighters gathered from the North and the Vale, and the tens of thousands of people who flocked to Winterfell, trusting in their King to protect them from the approaching threat.

No more than a dozen or so are children.

What future can be left for the North when it has lost its children?

Desperately, Jon scans the face of every survivor, praying to the old gods, the new gods, even the Lord of Light, any god that might listen to his prayer and show him an ounce of mercy, that he will see her among them.

He waits for her a long time, too long given the desperate need to bring his people to safety.

Arya never appears.

His heart aches at the thought of giving her up for dead, and he wants nothing more to wait until the fires burn out so they can search the ruins, until he can order every man to help him sift through the rubble to uncover her. He desperately wants to believe that Arya, who managed to survive all those years alone, against all odds, was able to find some safe corner of Winterfell, concealed from the Night King’s army and protected from the fire. He wants to believe that she is just waiting to emerge, and chide him for doubting that she would outlive them all.

But he knows that Arya is gone.

He gives the order for their band of survivors to set out, mounting the horse closest to him and spurring it forward so he can take his place at the head of the straggling procession, and lead them towards Castle Cerwyn.

Alone at the head of the procession, where none can see his tears, he allows himself to grieve for his little sister.

Castle Cerwyn lies half a day’s ride from Winterfell, but that is for a confident rider with a well-rested mount, on a day when the worst a traveller must contend with is a light summer snow. With icy winds blowing and snow blanketing the ground, with fewer horses than they have men and women to ride them, and with the need to keep pace with the wagons that carry those too young, too old or too injured to travel on horseback, the journey lasts three full days.

By the time Castle Cerwyn comes into view, they are all exhausted, starving and half-frozen.

Jon reins in his horse, halting the animal until Sansa’s horse draws level with his.

“Did Lord Cerwyn send the grain, as you commanded him?” he asks in a low voice as soon as she is within earshot. He knows that many of the lords were reluctant to obey Sansa’s command that they send almost all of the grain they had stored for the coming winter to Winterfell, that it might be provisioned for the arrival of the people of the North when they came to seek shelter within its walls. He suspects that at least a couple of them will have held back more of their stores than they were supposed to, for fear that they would not be able to get it back once the battle was over. If Lord Cerwyn was one of them, Jon will bless the man’s memory.

“Lord Cerwyn was the first to obey the command,” Sansa reports, knowing why he asks. “But I didn’t order any of the lords to send all of their food.”

“Only almost all of it.”

“We needed it! With all of the people coming, I needed to make sure that I would have enough to feed them!”

“I know that. It was the right thing to do.” In his mind, he adds ‘at the time’. There is no question but that Sansa made the right decision, for the right reasons, when she gave the order, one he had not thought to give. The lords may have balked at the idea of turning over their precious stores of grain but there is no question but that they needed to have food to feed the people flooding into the castle, especially as the Boltons were remiss in making the necessary preparations for the coming winter. There is also no question but that things would be at least a little easier for them now if he could believe that they were riding towards a castle whose granary was full to the brim. “We’ll just have to make do with whatever we find there.” What else can they do?

Lord Cerwyn may have obeyed the order to send the vast bulk of his grain to Winterfell, but no such order was given regarding firewood.

It comes as a pleasant surprise to Jon to ride into the small, neat courtyard to see tall stacks of cut logs against the walls, shielded from the worst of the snow by rough canvas covers. Without him needing to give the order, several men dismount, gather armfuls of wood, and carry it inside to the hall. It is an example that others are not slow in following, every man, woman and child present desperate for the warmth of a fire after three days spent travelling through the snow. Fires are laid in the great hearths on either end of the hall, and the people huddle around them as the first, flickering flames dance to life, this first taste of warmth so welcome that, at first, nobody cares about whether or not there is any food in the castle. The fires take hold, driving the chill from the hall.

Jon would like nothing more than to stay in the hall, with his people, allowing the heat of the fire to melt the ice in his blood, restoring fingers and toes that are almost numb with the cold, but he cannot allow himself even this small luxury, not when there is so much still to be done.

When he asks if any of the survivors lived in Castle Cerwyn, two men and a woman step forward, all of them servants to the dead lord. To them, he entrusts the tasks of showing others where the food is stored, and bringing them to the kitchens to light the fires there. It has been too long since any of his people have had a proper meal.

Sam, he summons to join him in the rookery. To his dismay, over half of the birds are stiff in their cages, starved to death when the castle’s Maester and the servants who would have tended them fled to Winterfell. The fourteen still alive are weak.

“We’ll need to feed them up before we try to have them carry any messages,” Sam reports, after spending several minutes studying them. “They won’t make it a league in this state.”

Jon curses under his breath. He was counting on being able to send ravens to all of the great Houses, to the Citadel, and to King’s Landing immediately. Time is of the essence, and the other kingdoms need to know of the approaching threat, as well as the weapons that will prove effective against it.

“How long is it going to take before they’re ready?”

“At least a few days. I’ll need to take it slowly, they’ve been starving for so long that overfeeding them could kill them.”

“I’ll leave it to you to care for them. We need to prepare messages to let everybody know what has happened.”

“Even Queen Cersei?”

“Yes.” Jon has no love for Cersei Lannister, who made herself an enemy of every Northman when she imprisoned Ned Stark and allowed her monstrous son to call for his head, but there are a million people in King’s Landing, and Westeros will be lost forever if they are allowed to become a million soldiers in the Night King’s army. To prevent this, he will give Cersei every bit of help he can to defend her city, and pray that, this time, she heeds his warning and is willing to do what needs to be done to save the people. “If we band together, there is still a chance that we can defeat the Night King. We need to spread the word to as many people as possible.”

Sam, always more comfortable with a pen than with a sword, is already rummaging through the desk in the room, a triumphant smile on his broad face when he unearths paper and ink. He taps the ink bottle, his smile fading slightly when there is no sloshing sound. “Frozen solid,” he reports. “At least I’ll have time to thaw it while the ravens recover their strength.”

“Don’t send them out before they’re ready, but don’t delay either,” Jon cautions him. “As soon as they’re strong enough to carry a message, send them.”

“I will. It’s a shame that ravens can’t cross the sea, isn’t it?” Jon’s bewilderment must show on his face, because Sam is quick to elaborate. “If a raven could cross the Narrow Sea, we could send one to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“The Mad King’s daughter?”

“And Maester Aemon’s great-niece. He used to get letters about her from time to time, and he always asked me to read them to him. She’s Queen of Meereen, or at least she was the last time Maester Aemon got a letter. They made her their Queen when she conquered it to free all of the slaves. She has an army of Unsullied, they’re supposed to be the greatest fighters in the world, and she has three dragons. They must be fully grown by now. Imagine what dragonfire could do against wights.”

Jon can imagine all too easily.

He grew up hearing about Aegon’s conquest in Maester Luwin’s history lessons, and reading the stories about it in the library. He knows all about how, with his two sisters and three dragons between them, Aegon conquered Westeros, uniting the kingdoms under his rule and establishing a dynasty that lasted almost three centuries. The stories of the Targaryen conquest were among his favourites, even though he knew that his ancestor, Torrhen Stark, was forced to renounce his title of King, a title that the Starks had held for thousands of years before the King Who Knelt surrendered it to save his people. At the time, he never dreamed that Aegon Targaryen was as much his ancestor as Torrhen Stark. He knows how the fire of the Targaryen dragons cut through armies, and how it melted the great stone fortress of Harrenhal, reducing it to a smoking ruin.

He can imagine three immense beasts flying over the Night King’s army, breathing fire and destroying wights.

“You couldn’t have said something about her before now?” he grumbles.

“Well, we could hardly expect her to leave everything in Meereen behind and come to Westeros even if we had sent her a letter. Nobody outside the North and the Vale sent so much as a man to fight when you asked for their help, and they all grew up on stories about the White Walkers. Daenerys probably never heard of them. In her shoes, I’d think that the message was a trap to lure me and my dragons into an ambush.”

Jon has to concede that Sam’s point is a fair one. “If I want her to come to Westeros to join the fight, a letter isn’t going to be enough,” he muses aloud. “Is there a map in that desk?”

Sam opens drawers, and rifles through the papers for a few moments before presenting Jon with a map, painstakingly painted on parchment. It is slightly faded, but as detailed as any of the maps that Maester Luwin made Jon and Robb study when they were boys, before they were old enough to escape the schoolroom.

Jon studies the map in silence, tracing the path from Castle Cerwyn to White Harbour with his finger, estimating how long it is likely to take their party to travel that distance, factoring in both the weather and the need to slow their pace to the speed of the wagons. The winter storms will make any crossing difficult, at best, but House Manderly prides itself on building ships strong enough to sail in all weathers.

“Find out if any of the men from White Harbour are among the survivors, and if there are any others with experience of sailing.”

Sam raises a surprised eyebrow at the order. “What are you thinking?”

“That there may still be hope.”

With dragons, he might have been able to defeat the Night King at Winterfell.

With dragons, he might still have a chance to save Westeros.

"The red one is the prettiest."

Like the first set of dragons' eggs gifted to Daenerys as a wedding gift, each of the three eggs is a different colour. One has steel grey scales, with swirls of pale blue. A second has scales as white and smooth as pearls, with delicate silver veins threading through them. The third, the one that Loreza Sand pronounces the prettiest, has scales of a deep ruby red, slashed with pale yellows and oranges that bring to mind the rising sun, the vibrant colours appealing to a little girl who favours bright hues. Unlike the first set of dragon's eggs, however, these have not lost any of their colour, and have not been turned to stone. They glow whenever Drogon, Rhaegal or Viserion breath gentle tongues of flame over them, and at times, Daenerys is certain that she can see them move, ever so slightly. Even now, in the grey of early morning, what little light there is seems to cling to them.

"How much longer will it take for them to hatch?" Loreza asks, her dark eyes fixed on the ruby-red egg that has taken her fancy. The little girl is one of the few to dare to set foot in the former fighting pit. Even her mother and sisters, none of whom lack courage, prefer to observe the dragons from a safe distance. She is only allowed to approach the dragons if Daenerys is with her, and she is eager enough to see the dragons and the eggs that she consents to hold her hand while they are there, as her mother insisted when she granted permission for the visit, though she would usually raise very strong objections to being treated like a baby.

The dragons tolerate her presence well enough, even regarding her with something akin to indulgence. Daenerys wonders if the prospect of baby dragons entering the world has made them more patient with children, or if they can sense the strain of Valyrian blood that Loreza and her sisters inherited from their ancestress, another Daenerys Targaryen, the princess whose wedding brought peace between Dorne and the Targaryen dynasty, and that this makes them more warmly disposed to her than would otherwise be the case.

Her stomach churns uncomfortably at the memory of how Drogon and Rhaegal reacted to Jon Snow, accepting him in a way that they never had a stranger. She should have guessed that he must have had Valyrian blood. She should have... No. She will not think of him. She cannot allow herself to think of him, of what he did to her, of what she did in King's Landing, or of what has become of the people of the Westeros in her absence. She has to move on.

"I don't know," she says, in answer to the question, grateful for Loreza's presence, which gives her something else to focus on besides memories of what will not be.

"But it's been more than two months." An eternity to a child who has not yet celebrated her ninth nameday. It is strange to think that the dragons were born after she was.

"Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion were in their eggs for hundreds of years before they hatched."

"That's too long!"

"The ages turned their eggs to stone. It was different for them. I don't know how long it will take for newly laid eggs to hatch. Perhaps it will happen any day now."

"It will take as long as it takes," Ellaria's voice chimes in from her place in the stands, a vantage point that allows her to keep an eye on her youngest child. "You wanted to see the eggs, and now you have. It is time for Her Grace to go."

"Can I go with you, Your Grace?" Loreza asks at once, casting a pleading look at Daenerys. "Mama will let me, won't you? I'll be very, very good, I promise."

"That will be something new," Ellaria remarks, amusement dancing in her eyes as she watches her daughter bounce in excitement at the prospect of accompanying Daenerys on her trip. The destination is of little interest to Loreza, but the means of transportation holds a definite appeal. "Will Drogon take a passenger, Your Grace?"

"Yes." He never has in this lifetime, but she is certain that if he was willing to accept multiple men as passengers when they flew beyond the Wall to rescue Jorah and the others, Drogon will allow Loreza to ride with her.

Ellaria allows her daughter to wait in suspense for a few moments, smiling as she dances from one foot to the next, impatient for the answer but knowing better than to push her, for fear of being forbidden. At last, she nods. "I have no objection, if you're willing, Your Grace. It's this, or she may try to sneak onto Viserion when our backs are turned."

Loreza adopts an injured expression, as though she would never contemplate trying to ride a dragon without permission, but her face lights up when Daenerys guides her over to Drogon, who lowers one of his massive wings to allow them to climb up onto his back. Daenerys sits the child directly in front of her, reaching around her to hold onto the ridges below his neck, so that her arms are a protective barrier around her.

"Hold on tight," she cautions, waiting until Loreza has followed her example and clutched at the scales before speaking to Drogon. "Valahd."

A heartbeat after Drogon soars into the air, Viserion takes flight. At first he soars even higher than Drogon, then he suddenly swoops down to glide alongside his mother and brother, shrieking with what Daenerys knows to be joy. She has not flown with all three of her sons since the eggs were laid. Between them, they ensure that the eggs are never left without a dragon to defend them; they take it in turns to hunt, and when she flies on Drogon, only one of the other two will accompany them.

On a dragon, she can cover ground at many times the speed of her khalasar, allowing her to set out weeks after they do and still catch up, should she wish to join them on their missions. For the most part, she leaves them to it, but on occasion, she makes a point of flying overhead as a reminder to their enemies that the Mother of Dragons leads the Dothraki.

As a young girl newly wed to Drogo, and new to the life of a Khaleesi, she was shocked to learn that most of the slaves that travelled with the khalasar were given as gifts, even after Jorah explained the reason for the custom.

"If you rule a city and you see the horde approaching, you have two choices; pay tribute or fight. An easy choice for most."

Now, she uses it as part of her work.

Drogo commanded forty thousand warriors. When his khalasar approached a city, its leaders never contemplated trying to fight, as they might have with one of the smaller khalasars, commanded by less formidable Khals. Instead, they were quick to offer him slaves by the thousand, as well as gold, jewels, fine cloth, and the best horses they could find, terrified that he might deem the gifts they presented him with unworthy, even insulting, and that rather than accepting their gifts and moving on, he would instead choose to lead his khalasar in a sack of the city. She commands over a hundred thousand warriors, all of the Dothraki united at last in a single khalasar, the greatest army that the world has ever seen.

Volantis is a powerful city, one of the largest of the Free Cities, and the most highly populated. It has the resources to do a great deal of damage to her forces, were she to wage war on them directly. It is also a city where the slaves vastly outnumber the freemen so, when her khalasar first rode up to its walls, it was not a difficult choice for its leaders to make. Rather than risk conflict with the horde, they gifted them with over fifty thousand slaves. The lives of the slaves were undoubtedly of less value to them than the horses, gold and silver they used to further sweeten the mood of her khalasar.

When the Dothraki rode away, with their gifts in tow, the wealthy citizens of Volantis breathed a sigh of relief.

Then the Dothraki returned to their gates a second time, and even more slaves, horses, and gold were offered up in order to appease them.

She regrets that she was not there for the third time, regrets not being present to see the looks on the faces of the leaders of Volantis when they realised that no matter how many slaves and horses, no matter how much of their coin and treasures they gave her khalasar, they would not be left in peace to continue to grow wealthy off the suffering of those they enslave.

She pretends not to be aware that Tyrion is taking bets about how many more visits it will take before the leaders of Volantis see the wisdom in putting an end to the slave trade altogether.

Her khalasar is visible from a distance, a great column that stretches for miles, less than a day's journey from Meereen. They see her as she soars overhead, and cry out, arakhs raised in salute to their Khaleesi.

The slaves gifted to Drogo walked alongside his khalasar, lashed if they moved too slowly. The slaves gifted to her khalasar travel on horseback or by wagon, and her warriors treat them with the courtesy she commands of them. They are her people now, and they have suffered so much already. A comfortable journey to the territory she rules, and every help and support they can be given to start new lives as free men and women, is the very least they are owed.

Cries of 'Mhysa!' fill the air, and thousands upon thousands of hands wave to her.

Loreza lets go of Drogon long enough to wave back, but resumes her grip at Daenerys' gentle reprimand.

Viserion, even swifter than Drogon, circles overhead a couple of times before flying away.

On their return journey, they fly over the Bay of Dragons, the ships in the port looking tiny below them, and then out to sea. Viserion swoops low, skimming over the foamy surface of the sea, Loreza laughing gleefully as the spray splashes her. Drogon, less amused than Loreza, soars higher, out of reach of his brother's splashing.

Daenerys smiles as she watches Viserion dive under the water, surfacing with a fish that looks tiny in his massive jaw but is large enough for a feast. He tosses the fish high in the air, blackening it with his fire before eating it.

Loreza is saying something but her attention is focused on Viserion's antics, and she scarcely hears the child until one word cuts through her reverie.

"...Westerosi."

"What did you say?"

"That ship is Westerosi. Over there."

Daenerys follows the little girl's pointed finger, and can see the ship she means. It is difficult to judge distance from this height, but there can be no question but that its destination is the Bay of Dragons.

"That's House Manderly's sigil on the sail. They used to come to Dorne for wine."

Daenerys' stomach roils, and she can feel bitter fluid rising in her throat.

She recognises the name.

The North has come to Meereen.

Chapter Text

“Birds.” Little Sam raises his head from his mother’s breast, his eyes wide as he gazes at the sky, and the shapes in the distance.

It is the first word the toddler has spoken in days, and though it is softly spoken, it is enough to attract the attention of the people around him. A few heads turn in his direction, their eyes following the tiny, stubby finger, squinting against the morning sun, but most of the people are still, months of hard travel and scant food leaving them weak and listless, scarcely aware of anything that is happening around them. Gilly does not move, even to restrain her son, who is more alert than he has been in days, and who is beginning to squirm.

“Birds, Mama,” Little Sam repeats, tugging insistently at her sleeve when she does not respond.

Gilly’s face is drawn and pale, her skin blotchy and her lips chapped and bloody. She huddles on the deck, her back resting against the mast. Her cloak is worn, dirty and stiff with sea spray. She keeps it wrapped as tightly around her as she did when she was in the North, though it is warmer by far at sea, its long folds covering the rust-coloured stains on the skirt of her dress. Even for her son, she cannot muster a smile. To appease him, she turns her head slightly, in the direction he is pointing, but her eyes, clouded by pain, exhaustion and grief, take in nothing, nor can she find the strength to pretend. She makes no protest when the child is plucked from her lap.

“Why don’t I take him for a bit, love, give you a rest?” Sam suggests, balancing his small namesake on his hip. Gilly makes a soft noise that he takes for assent, burrowing herself even further into the folds of her cloak.

“Mama?” A frown creases Little Sam’s face when she doesn’t respond.

Sam carries the child away in haste, his heart aching at how light a burden he is.

Before they left Castle Cerwyn, they raided the larder and granaries to provision themselves for the long journey to White Harbour, and then the voyage to Meereen. There was little enough there to sustain two hundred people. Lord Cerwyn was diligent in following Lady Sansa’s order to send the vast bulk of his grain store to Winterfell, where it burned when the great castle did. Some of the women ground what grain was left to bake hard biscuits, food that would keep better than any other on a long journey, and they found salt meat in the larder, and hay and some oats in the stables to sustain the horses. Jon had hoped that they would be able to supplement their meagre rations by hunting, but they had little luck as they made their slow progress across the snow-covered land.

Even Ghost grew leaner as they travelled, his coat and eyes turning dull. Instead of running ahead of their party, alert to any threat, he trotted next to Jon’s horse, both animals slowed by exhaustion and hunger.

Most nights, they slept out in the open, erecting crude shelters from blankets and tree boughs in an attempt to shield themselves from the worst of the snow, but on the few nights when they were able to take shelter in abandoned villages, there was always little, if anything, by way of provisions left behind. They counted themselves blessed if they were able to find a blanket or cloak, knowing that cold would kill them even more quickly in their weakened state. Food was always the first thing the people took when they fled their homes in search of safety.

Most of the members of their party would gladly have gone without in order to ensure that the children could be well-fed, and Sam hated being the one to advise Jon against allowing it. He would have liked to be able to put the children first, his instincts screaming at him to safeguard the most innocent and vulnerable among them, whatever the cost, but he knew that they could ill afford for the adults to grow so weak that they would not be able to continue the journey or to fend off an attack should any of the White Walkers find them.

If that happened, the children would surely freeze to death, or worse.

Sam accepted his ration along with everybody else, but secretly shared his portion with Little Sam and with Gilly, reasoning that the extra meat on his bones would allow him to last longer than a slender man, even on reduced rations. He could remember Allister Thorne’s cruel voice suggesting that a party of rangers could have eaten for a fortnight on him, and still been able to use his bones for soup, and could remember his terrified certainty that, given half a chance, Thorne would gladly have butchered him to feed the brothers he deemed worthier of wearing the black. He took a grim satisfaction from the thought that the weight he carried, the weight that led Thorne to scorn him as worse than useless and his own father to despise him so much that he would choose to see him dead rather than have his fellow lords mock him or, worse still, pity him for having a fat, soft craven as his heir, could help to sustain him, and allow him to provide his family with a little extra food.

Even so, it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to keep Little Sam from growing thinner and weaker, until, like the other children, he lacked the energy to run and play, and spent his days lying in the back of a wagon, then on the deck of the ship, stiller and quieter than any child should ever be, no longer clamouring for songs or stories or games to help pass the time.

It wasn’t enough to keep Gilly from losing their babe.

“Mama is tired. She needs to have a rest. Why don’t you show me what you were looking at?”

Little Sam spends a few moments looking back at his mother, too young to know the reason for her sorrow, too young to understand that the change in her is no fault of his and that she loves him as dearly as she ever did, even if she does not have the energy or the will to play with him, sing to him or tell him stories as she usually does.

“Mama sad.”

“Yes, she is,” Sam agrees, wishing with all his heart that he could do more for her. He spent far more of his brief time in the Citadel scrubbing soiled bed pans and serving meals to the Maesters in the refectory than he did in practicing the art of healing. Lord Commander Mormont’s son was the only patient he treated directly, and though he succeeded in treating his greyscale, his success was not rewarded with further training in the medical arts. Instead, he was condemned to copying manuscripts, and it was only by sheer chance that he happened upon any information of note. He had had to let a few of the matrons take charge of Gilly when the babe began to come away, so many months before its time that they all knew that they could hold out no hope it would live. Even if he had had access to the books in the Citadel’s great library, he had no medicines to give her to heal her body or her heart. “You and I will need to take very good care of her. Will you help me?” Little Sam nods, looking so grave that it breaks Sam’s heart to see it. “Now what was it that you were looking at?”

Little Sam’s enthusiasm seems to have died, but he points anyway. “Birds.”

For as long as he can remember, Sam has not been able to see as well as other men. When his father’s Master at Arms forced him to drill with bow and arrow, he often had trouble making out the bull’s eye and if he stood too far away, even the outline of the target was blurred. Sometimes, it even looked as though there were two targets, overlapping one another by a couple of handspans, and he never knew which of them he should be aiming at. When he dared to say as much, the man cuffed him soundly for seeking to make excuses for his poor performance, and forced him to spend additional hours practicing, for all the good it did him. On more than one occasion, his father scoffed that, not content with being a fat craven, he was determined to crown their House’s shame by making himself blind spending his days poring over books. Even his mother, whose love was the only thing to make his childhood bearable, gently chided him for spending so much of his time in the gloomy library at Horn Hill, fretting that too many hours of reading in the dim light would strain his eyes.

He can make out the shapes in the distance, but cannot hazard a guess as to what kind of bird Little Sam spotted. For the sake of the child in his arms, he feigns interest and delight in the sight, spending a couple of minutes observing the birds to appease him. Even if he cannot tell what kind of bird it is, he takes comfort in the certainty that their presence must surely mean that they are not far from land.

As he watches, it strikes him that the movement of the birds is different somehow. He squints, resettling Little Sam so he can hold him in one arm and using his free hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he observes the pattern of their flight. He lets out an involuntary squeak, planting a quick kiss on Little Sam’s pale cheek before hastening along the deck in search of Jon.

He finds Jon in the tiny cabin where he spends most of his time, when he is not discussing their progress with Ser Davos and the Manderley men, or going out among the people to show them that their King is there to care for them and to protect them. He takes all of his meals in the privacy of his cabin, though Sam knows well that he refuses to consider taking a crumb more than his fair share of the rations. He suspects that this voyage, where Jon is of little use as a sailor and not needed as King or commander, has given his friend his first chance to grieve over his lost brother and sister, and to come to terms with his defeat at the hands of the Night King. There is little else he can do until they reach Meereen, and can approach Daenerys Targaryen for her help.

The cabin is furnished with a narrow bunk set against one of the bulkheads, and a ledge that serves as a table. It is tiny and spare compared to the chambers that a King should occupy, even compared to the austere rooms Jon occupied as Lord Commander, but privacy and a bed are luxuries afforded to only a few of the passengers. Most of them must find a spot on the crowded deck by day, or in the belly of the ship by night.

Jon has a map in front of him when Sam enters but he is staring at it without actually seeing it. His eyes are dull, his brow creased in the frown he has worn since before the Night King defeated him. He glances up when Sam enters, irritated by the interruption, but manages a faint smile when he sees Little Sam.

“What is it?”

“You have to come and see!” Sam insists. Once Jon gets to his feet, he begins to push him out of the cabin, hustling him ahead of him, before they’re gone. Once he reaches the spot where Little Sam saw them, he points. “There.”

No bird moves as these creatures do. Even with his poor eyesight, Sam can see them dipping and soaring, can see the long tails that no bird that he knows of could boast. Behind them, a city rises, as if from the ocean.

“Birds.”

“They’re not birds,” Sam tells the child in his arms. “They’re dragons.”

“No,” Jon corrects him. For the first time in far too long, his eyes are shining and his smile is wide and genuine. “They’re hope.”

“I say we toss them back into the sea.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Off the walls of the city, then.”

“That’s not funny.”

Daario scowls at Jorah’s reproachful tone. “Do you think that I’m joking? You weren’t here when Quaithe showed her what would happen. You didn’t see how much it hurt her. She didn’t just see it, she lived it. It was months for her, months of fighting and horror and loss that ended with somebody she loved driving a dagger into her heart. The coward took advantage of her trust and murdered her as soon as her guard was down. She thought that she was a monster, no matter how many times we told her that she wasn’t. She barely ate or slept. She woke up screaming at night. She’s been happier since you came back, and she’s making peace with her choice. I don’t want to see her lose that because these damned bastards have decided to show up. There’s a big world out there. What right have they to come to her corner of it? They’ve taken too much from her already.”

“They haven’t done anything to her, not in this time.” Jorah defends, albeit half-heartedly, no happier with the actions that the people of his homeland would have taken against his Khaleesi, or with their decision to impose their presence on her, than Daario is. He chooses not to point out that what Daario terms Daenerys’ corner of the world is far from small, and set to expand. Were he a betting man, he would wager every coin he possesses that, before she is ten years older, all of Essos will look to Daenerys as their ruler.

At least Jorah knows that, in that other time, he would have died protecting the woman he loves.

Daario would be lying if he claimed not to be offended and hurt that, on Tyrion Lannister’s advice, Daenerys would have left him behind in Meereen while she sailed to Westeros to claim her father’s throne. He likes to think that, once he learned of her fate, he would have seen to it that Westeros suffered for it, and that the man who killed her died at the end of his blade, but only after he made certain that he was given ample cause to regret that he ever harmed a hair on her head. Alas, he is sure that by the time the news reached him, Grey Worm and the Dothraki would have taken care of it, assuming that Drogon did not beat them to it.

“Only because she knew better than to give them another chance to bring her down.”

“They will never have that chance. You, and I, and hundreds of thousands of others, stand with her. But we can’t shield her from everything in this world that might cause her pain, and she wouldn’t be the woman we love if she let us try. It is for her to decide what is to become of the people from the North, not us.”

“And if she decides that she wants them thrown out of her city? Or into the Bay of Dragons?”

Jorah chuckles grimly. “Then we will have to hope that the Dothraki and the Unsullied are willing to spare a few of them for us.”

The city of Meereen is like nothing Jon has ever seen before.

Its immense sandstone walls dwarf those of any castle or keep in Westeros, save the Wall itself, but where the Wall is grim and austere, its builders concerned only with its size, it is clear at first glance that the walls of Meereen were constructed with an eye to beauty as well as defence. The sandstone glows in the sunlight, and intricate patterns are carved in the walls. The gates stretch close to a hundred feet high, flanked on either side by giant statues of winged creatures standing sentinel. Even with the gates opened less than a quarter-way, he estimates that the gap between them is wide enough for a dozen wagons to pass through it, side by side.

Jon doubts that King’s Landing is half as defensible as this city.

There are soldiers in dark leather tunics and helms, armed with shields and spears, stationed at the gate but they make no attempt to keep Jon and his party from entering the city.

He supposes that the soldiers are unlikely to deem them a threat worth stopping, not in their current state.

It is not far from the port where their ship is docked to the city, but perhaps it is the knowledge that this is to be the last leg of their journey that has led his people to give in to their fatigue rather than fighting it as they did during the long weeks it took them to travel from Castle Cerwyn to White Harbour. In the North, they knew that if they gave in to their need to rest, if they allowed themselves to stop when they had no shelter, they would surely freeze to death, and while they were at sea, they needed every able-bodied man to assist the few experienced sailors in keeping them moving. Now, without desperation and determination to lend them strength, their steps are sluggish, and their breath comes in ragged gasps as they walk, at a slower pace than he would like to set. Every member of their party, man or woman, old or young, highborn or smallfolk, travels on foot now; those horses still alive when they reached White Harbour had to be left behind, as they had no space on the ship for them, and no provisions to sustain them. Jon gave orders that they be killed, to spare them a slow death by starvation.

Or perhaps it is the heat.

It is difficult for him to believe that, while Westeros is in the grip of winter, one the Maesters predicted will be the longest and harshest in living memory, when it was so cold in Winterfell, and Castle Cerwyn, and White Harbour that they were never able to get warm, even with fires burning in the great hearths, and when they risked losing hands and feet to the cold, this land is bathed in sunshine, baking and blistering skins more accustomed to being nipped by frost. Their clothes are little better than rags, worn and soiled after nearly three moons of travel by land and sea, but even so, the thick wool of their shabby garments, woven for a Northern winter, is stifling.

Ghost stays close to him, as always, whining miserably in the heat, his tail drooping. He allows Jon to pat his head and looks up at him with reproachful eyes, as if to ask why he has taken him away from the snowy North, his natural home, to this land of warmth and sunshine.

Their group attracts some curious, pitying looks as they enter the city, and Jon can see fingers pointed at them, though he cannot understand a word they are saying.

“Do you speak their language?” He addresses the question to Davos and Sam, reasoning that they are the most likely to be able to understand what is being said; Davos is widely travelled, and has sailed to some of the Free Cities many times, though he has not been to Meereen itself, while Sam’s scholarly leanings have given him a broader education than most sons of a noble house. Ned Stark saw to it that Jon was given the same lessons as Robb, despite his wife’s ill-concealed disapproval and her muttered predictions that no good would come of allowing a bastard the education of a future Lord, but the lessons that Maester Luwin gave them did not extend to any of the languages of Essos. Septa Mordane likewise saw no need for the young ladies in her charge to learn any language other than the Common Tongue.

A fresh wave of grief washes over him as he remembers how Arya clamoured to learn Valyrian when she was a little girl of five or six, wanting to be able to speak the same language as Visenya Targaryen.

“‘Fraid not, Your Grace.”

“I don’t, sorry.” After a moment, a concerned frown furrows Sam’s brow. “Do you think that Daenerys speaks... surely she must speak the Common Tongue, right?”

“What else would she speak?”

Sam quails a little at Jon’s impatient demand, but doesn’t back down. “She hasn’t been to Westeros since she was a tiny baby. The Targaryens’ mother tongue is High Valyrian, so her brother probably taught her to speak it, and I know that they speak Valyrian in the Free Cities, where she grew up, so...”

“So we have come all this way to see her and you’re telling me that she might not be able to understand a word I’m saying?”

“Let’s not borrow trouble,” Davos cuts in. “If it comes to it, she’s bound to have someone with her who speaks our language.”

“Lord Commander Mormont’s son served her before he got sick,” Sam interjects. “He said that he was going to return to her after he got better. If he has made it back to her, he can translate for us.”

What little Jon knows of Mormont’s son from Ned Stark and from Mormont himself, is not flattering. Ned Stark was disgusted with both the man’s crime and his flight from justice, while Mormont considered his son to have disgraced his House. Both would undoubtedly have an even poorer opinion of him if they knew that he had pledged himself to the service of a Targaryen during his time in exile, and that he had intended to help her take the Iron Throne. However, he takes some comfort in knowing that Daenerys numbers a Northerner among her advisors, somebody who, despite his past sins, must understand the threat that all of Westeros faces, and the need for her to help fight it. Mormont’s son must urge her to send her forces to Westeros, for the sake of his father’s memory and the Night’s Watch he dedicated himself to, if nothing else.

“How many people do you think live here?”

He hears Sansa’s voice and turns to see that she has caught up with them.

While most of the women and girls of their party wear their hair in braids, or tucked under a scarf, or even cut it short to save trouble as they travel, Sansa’s long hair is loose, half-obscuring the right side of her face.

Had Maester Wolkan survived, and had they been able to take the time to treat her before their flight to Castle Cerwyn, he might have been able to clean and stitch Sansa’s wounds, anointing them with one of his concoctions to ensure that they healed well, and that if there was any scarring, it would be so faint as to be all but invisible. Without proper treatment, the long, deep scratches on her face and neck festered, and even when they healed, they left livid, bumpy scars. The left side of her face was almost entirely untouched, but the right was marred by mottled, jagged slashes through smooth, pale skin.

Every time he sees them, Jon feels fresh guilt for his failure. Ned Stark loved him like a son, sacrificed his honour and reputation, lied to his dearest friend and the King he swore fealty to, and almost destroyed his chance for a happy marriage with Lady Catelyn in order to protect him. The least he owed the man who, though he was his uncle in blood, was his father in all ways that mattered, was to protect his children, and he could not do even this much.

He stayed with the Night’s Watch rather than fight by Robb’s side.

He couldn’t reach Rickon quickly enough to shield him from Ramsey’s arrow.

Bran and Arya were casualties of his failed attempt to fight against the Night King.

Even Sansa, the only one he has managed to keep alive, he has not been able to keep out of harm’s way.

It is a cruel joke that he should have made it through the battle with scarcely a scratch to show for it, while his sister, who should have been protected from the fighting, will carry its scars for the rest of her life.

“Hard to say, milady,” Davos says in answer to her question. “Hundreds of thousands, at the very least. It’s at least as big as King’s Landing, though not as crowded, as near as I can tell. Smells a damn sight better too.”

“That’s not difficult,” Sansa points out, grimacing at the memory of her time in the capital that had so failed to live up to her girlhood dreams. She rarely speaks of it to Jon, but when she does, it is clear that it was not just her imprisonment at the hands of the Lannisters that made King’s Landing an unpleasant memory for her.

Their walk through the city brings them to a noisy, bustling marketplace, the street lined with rows of stalls laden with wares of every kind, and the air full of aromas of cooking and baking

Some of the children begin to cry at the sight and smell of the food, pleading with their parents or guardians for something to eat, and Jon feels like crying himself. He has grown accustomed to travelling on a near-empty stomach, and thought that he had learned to master his hunger, but the rich, appetising scents around him make his stomach growl and cramp with hunger, until it feels as if the pain will rob him of breath. His own hunger hurts less than the knowledge that his people, who look to him to protect and sustain them, are starving and he cannot alleviate their hunger. He has no coin to buy food, and though Longclaw would undoubtedly command a handsome price from any man of means with a taste for fine blades, he knows that he cannot afford to part with one of their few weapons capable of killing White Walkers.

The children’s crying has attracted attention, but instead of irritation or disgust or indifference, Jon sees pity in the eyes of the stall owners and their customers.

The first to approach them is a woman with hair and eyes as black as dragonglass, olive skin, and a kind smile. She hastily gathers a basket of round, flat loaves from her stall, and as soon as she reaches their party, she offers one to every child she sees before handing over her basket so the remaining loaves can be distributed among the adults. The children cannot understand her words any more than Jon can, but her voice is gentle and compassionate, her meaning unmistakable, and they need no prompting to snatch at the food she is offering and cram it into their mouths, lest she change her mind and take it back.

The woman is only the first to help them. Others distribute bread or fruit or strips of dried meat, or carry over buckets of water and dippers.

“No money.” Jon doesn’t expect any of them to understand his words but he holds out his empty hands, palm up, praying that they will understand his meaning, that they do not assume that they can offer goods first, and expect payment after. His objection is waved aside, and though he cannot understand their language, he hears several of them speak the same word.

“Mhysa?” Sam too catches the repeated word. “Maybe it’s their word for ‘charity’.”

“You’d not see this in Flea Bottom,” Davos mutters.

Jon can’t help but wonder if there is any market in the Seven Kingdoms where the hungry would be offered food without payment being demanded. More than once, men and women were brought to Winterfell to face his father’s judgement after they were caught stealing food or poaching, and not even pleas that they had no other way to feed starving parents or wives or children could earn them a remission of the punishments prescribed by law. His father knew his duty, and did not shrink from carrying it out. People lost hands to Ice, or accepted a life of service in the Night’s Watch, for less than the food that is being pressed on his people by these generous strangers.

The loaf that is thrust into his hand is still hot from the oven, and smells deliciously of some herb he cannot recognize. It is no thicker than his smallest finger, and when he tears it in two, he can see that it is hollow inside. It tastes so good, especially after months of living almost entirely on scant rations of hard travel biscuits, that he cannot care that it burns his tongue.

Ghost does better still; Jon does not see who feeds his direwolf, but when he looks down at him, he sees Ghost crunching through a raw fowl of some kind with the kind of relish that can only be born of hunger.

Jon has finished his bread and accepted a dipper of water when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, many of them, moving in unison. He looks up to see a company of about twenty men, clad in the same dark leather tunic and helms as those who guarded the gates of the city, marching in formation towards them.

His first instinct is to draw Longclaw but he forces himself to stay his hand, knowing that it would be a bad mistake on his part to show aggression in this city, lest its people change their minds about welcoming his.

The men stop a few yards in front of his group. The crowd of Meereenese people step back to let them through, but show no sign of being wary or frightened in their presence. Jon takes this as a good sign. When one of the soldiers takes a couple of paces forward, Jon does the same.

“You will come with us,” the man, who Jon assumes to be an officer of some kind, though he wears no insignia on his tunic that sets him apart from the others, announces. He is slightly taller than Jon, but slenderer in build. His skin is dark and his face expressionless as he issues the command. His speech is accented, but clear.

“Why? We didn’t steal anything; they gave us the food.”

“You will come with us,” the man repeats. “Daenerys Jelmazmo has ordered it so.”

“She already knows that we’re here?” Sansa speaks up from behind Jon, sounding suspicious.

Jon cannot fault her for being wary, especially after her experience with another Queen, but he reasons that this is why they came to Meereen, and however Daenerys Targaryen has learned of their arrival, anything that will speed up the process of getting an audience with her and obtaining her help against the Night King is welcome.

“We will come.”

Daenerys is sitting at the table with her council when Grey Worm returns.

He snaps to attention when he enters the room. “It is done, my Queen.”

“Thank you, my friend.” She nods for him to take a seat, and knows without looking that she is not the only one to smile when he takes the seat closest to Missandei, who occupies her customary place at Daenerys’ left side.

Jorah and Daario are seated to her right, and Quaithe just beyond them. Lady Olenna sits directly opposite Daenerys, in the place that Tyrion used to claim as often as not, before the imposing dowager arrived in Meereen. Once she decided that the seat should be hers, nobody else would presume to take it. Tyrion is now relegated to the place between Lady Olenna and Quaithe. Lady Ellaria, who attends the council meetings as a representative of Dorne, sits on Olenna’s other side, and Lady Sarella Sand, the last of Prince Oberyn’s daughters to join her half-sisters in Meereen, sits next between her and Greyworm.

Daenerys once thought Tyrion Lannister the most intelligent person she knew, but if he had not already lost that title after her vision, he would have lost it as soon as she became acquainted with Sarella. The other woman is several years her senior and beautiful, with glossy black hair cropped short, eyes so dark that the pupils are almost indistinguishable from the irises, and warm brown skin, and her beauty is easily exceeded by her mind. She was still at Oldtown when Ellaria and her half-sisters were evacuated to Meereen, but travelled to Dorne for one of the later crossings. At Oldtown, disguised as a boy, she studied at the Citadel, where no woman is permitted to set foot, and earned the links for her chain three times faster than the other acolytes. She wears those links in a decorative belt around her waist, cinching her silk gown, rather than around her neck.

There is no doubt but that Daenerys should count herself blessed that Sarella consented to join her Council, her knowledge on a broad range of subjects making her an invaluable advisor.

Had she been able to take the Iron Throne, she likes to think that she would have named Sarella Grand Maester.

“What did you do with them?”

The wary tone with which Tyrion asks the question irritates her more than she cares to admit, but she manages to conceal her feelings as she answers. “I asked Grey Worm to see the Northerners safely to the barracks, where they will find food and shelter. They’re already prepared and stocked for the new arrivals from Volantis, and a few more will make no difference. How many of them are there?”

“Less than two hundred, my Queen,” Grey Worm reports. “Most are men.”

“Are there any children?” She is half-afraid of the answer. She remembers how many children there were at Winterfell in her visions, some there with their families, others orphaned and alone. Even in her vision, too many of them died when the Stark dead rose from their tombs and attacked those who sought refuge in the crypts. How many more of them died this time, when her armies and her dragons were not there to thin the Night King’s forces before they could breach the walls of Winterfell?

“Eleven, my Queen.”

There is silence as they all take this in. Daenerys feels light-headed, her stomach roiling. Jorah catches her hand in his, squeezing it gently, while Daario reaches out to fill a goblet with water, sliding it down the table to her.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, Lady Olenna breaks the silence. “How long do you plan to keep them waiting for an audience, Your Grace?” There is no judgement or censure in her voice, only mild curiousity.

“You don’t need to see them before you’re ready,” Jorah tells her in a soft voice, meant only for her ears. “Or at all, if you’d rather not. You owe them nothing.”

“They are in my city now,” she reminds him. “Everybody in this city has the right seek an audience with its Queen.”

“Shall I send for them and invite them to the Great Pyramid?” Tyrion suggests.

“No.” She won’t deny them an audience, but she is not about to seek them out either. If they want something from her, they can have the decency to come before her. “If they wish to see me, they can do as everybody else in the city does. If they ask at the barracks, they will be told of the days I am due to hear petitions.”

“And they can wait their turn, like everybody else in the city?” Ellaria suggests, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She has been here long enough to know that on the days when Daenerys hears petitions, a hundred people or more will flock to the Great Pyramid to lay their cause before her.

“Yes.”

Daario chuckles. “Then let’s hope they’re early risers.”

Chapter Text

Jon expects to be conducted to the palace where Daenerys Targaryen resides, that he may seek an audience with her, but he and his party are instead led down wide, paved streets, away from the great stone buildings that are unlike anything he has seen before, widest at their base, rising hundreds of feet, and gradually tapering to a narrow point. One, set in the heart of the city, rises taller than any other, and he assumes that this is where Daenerys and her court resides.

The building they are led to is long, stretching the full length of the street, and two storeys high. While some of the structures he has seen in Meereen look as old as any great castle in Westeros, he judges this one to be no more than a few years old. The base is constructed from sandstone blocks, but most of the building is wooden. He wonders if whoever ordered its construction was unwilling to go to the expense of having it made entirely of stone, or if their priority was to ensure that it was built as speedily as possible. He would ask his guide, but although the soldier who acted as spokesperson is not hostile, there is a chill in his manner that tells Jon that he is unlikely to welcome questions.

Their guide opens the door, and leads the way into a long, high-ceilinged room filled with beds; wooden bunks three-deep against the walls, and narrow pallets lined in rows on the floor. Jon begins to count as he follows, but their guide moves so quickly that he gives up the effort and matches his pace to his, but he estimates that there must be a thousand beds, most likely more. He wonders if this is a barracks for the Unsullied army that Sam spoke of.

A door at the back of the room leads to a hall with a staircase leading to the second storey, and through the hall is another massive room, about the same size as the other, except that instead of beds, this room is lined with at least a hundred plain but sturdy wooden tables and benches that remind him of the ones at Castle Black. At the far end of the room, he can see long tables set horizontally, most of them laden with huge, steaming cauldrons, each with a man or woman standing behind it, and a tall stack of bowls next to it. The table at the end is laden with baskets piled high with the flat loaves of bread they were offered in the market place. The closer he gets to them, the more the smell makes his mouth water, his longing for a hot meal so powerful that it almost brings him to his knees.

“Food. Sleep,” their guide tells him, gesturing first to the tables at the end of the room, and then back in the direction of the room with the beds. He then turns on his heel and marches away, either not hearing or choosing to ignore Jon’s protest that he needs to speak to Daenerys Targaryen.

Jon would run after him, to find out where she is, and how he should go about seeking an audience with her, but hunger wins out. He can seek out Daenerys Targaryen just as easily after a meal as with an empty stomach.

After almost three moons of travel on scant provisions, the food distributed at the market place could only blunt the very worst of their hunger for a short time, but Jon notes that this time, instead of crying for food with little expectation that their hunger will be sated, the children seem excited and hopeful, quickening their pace.

The Hound, dogged as always by the three orphans who have been his constant shadows since they left Winterfell, pushes forward with his little band, roughly jostling Jon out of his way, and Davos is quick to encourage the two little girls who, with no kin left, have attached themselves to him to come forward.

“Children first,” the Hound declares gruffly, his scowl daring anybody to defy his edict. At his word, the other six children in their party step forward, or are gently nudged to the head of the line by the other adults.

The woman who stands behind the first cauldron, wielding a huge ladle like a scepter, nods her approval at the Hound, and though none of them can understand her words, the sentiment is clear. She and her fellows begin to fill the bowls, but instead of handing them to the children, and risking that they might spill the steaming contents on themselves in their haste, they carry them to one of the tables, setting out a dozen full bowls on either side of the table, and a spoon next to each bowl, and motioning for the children to take their places. Once they are seated, the first woman all but shoves the Hound down to sit with them. Gilly and the other parents, Sam excepted, are quick to follow suit. Once the group is seated, the men and women bring a basket of bread, tin cups, and two big jugs, setting them at the centre of the table.

Once the children are safely situated, food is distributed to the rest of the party in short order.

Jon accepts a bowl of some sort of stew, hoping that the man who serves him can understand his words of thanks, and moves down the line to take one of the flat loaves of bread and a cup of water.

Just behind him, Sam is holding out his bowl to be filled with stew, and the woman serving him asks a question, of which Jon can only understand one word: Volantis.

“No, we’re not from Volantis, we’re from Westeros,” Sam explains. The woman only nods, apparently caring less about where they might be from than she does about how they are very clearly in desperate need of a good meal.

Jon leads the way to one of the empty tables, nodding for Sam, Davos and Sansa to join him. Brienne follows close at Sansa’s heels, Podrick trailing behind her. Sam casts a worried look towards Gilly and Little Sam but, satisfied that they are eating their own meal, he obediently scurries behind Jon, keeping a careful grip of his bowl, cup and bread, unwilling to spill a drop. They seat themselves at the table Jon has chosen and, at first, nobody speaks, too hungry to do anything other than shovel their food into their mouths. Podrick, pale and silent since Winterfell fell, brightens at the food, a hint of colour on his thin cheeks as he eats. Sansa, the courtly table manners learned from Lady Catelyn and Septa Mordane forgotten, shovels her food into her mouth as rapidly as any of them.

Jon tries to remember when he last ate something that tasted so good. The food served at Castle Black was simple and nourishing, a soldier’s food, and even the Lord Commander could not expect to dine on rich dishes. Not since the feasts at Winterfell during King Robert’s visit has anything tasted as good as this stew, with its hearty chunks of meat and vegetables floating in a gravy well-seasoned with spices he doesn’t recognize. He spoons it eagerly into his mouth, and tears the bread into strips to soak up every last drop of the gravy. His stomach, used to hunger, groans in discomfort at the unaccustomed fullness. He sips his water slowly as he waits for the others to finish.

“This beats a bowl o’ brown hollow,” Davos remarks, when his own bowl is empty. “We’ve landed on our feet if this is how Queen Daenerys and Meereen feed their beggars.”

Sansa’s eyes flash with indignation at his words. “We are not beggars.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but we’ve shown up, uninvited, with near a hundred and eighty to feed, and we’ve not a coin or a crust to feed them with. What else would call us, if not beggars?”

“We are here to seek an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon cuts in before Sansa can give voice to her palpable outrage. “We need her armies and her dragons to fight the Night King.”

“Aye,” Davos agrees, “and that’s a very good reason for us to seek her out to ask for her help, but it’s not a reason for her to want to help us. In my experience, limited though it may be, an alliance usually means that both sides get something out of the bargain. What’s in it for her if she helps us?”

“Jon is her nephew. He’s the only other Targaryen left in the world,” Sansa points out.

“He is, and he’s also heir to the throne that she believes is hers. She may not take kindly to that, not if she has a mind to claim Westeros for herself. We’ll be asking her to risk everything to save a continent she’s not set foot in since she was a babe too young to walk, and to put a man she’s never met on the Iron Throne.”

“What are you suggesting, Ser Davos?” Sam asks warily. “Do you think that she’ll demand that Jon step down in return for her help?”

“I think that we need to anticipate all possibilities.”

“Jon can’t give up the Seven Kingdoms!” Sansa protests. “Not to the Mad King’s daughter!”

“It’ll be best if you don’t call her that to her face, not when we’re here to beg for her help. And we need to consider it, before we go to see her, so we know where we stand.”

“I know where we stand!”

“Enough.” Jon doesn’t speak loudly, but the authority in his voice is enough to get Sansa to subside, though the expression on her face makes it plain how aghast she is at the thought that he might have to give up his claim to the Iron Throne in return for the help they are in such desperate need of.

When Bran first told him of his parentage, he knew that he could not keep it a secret from his sisters, but while part of him hated the idea of telling Arya that he was not her brother by blood, he wanted Sansa to know the truth. When they were children, her loyalty to her mother led her to shun his company, and to ensure that she only ever referred to him as her half-brother or her bastard brother, never as simply her brother. He wanted her to know that their father was never untrue to Lady Catelyn, to remove the sole stain on the honour of Ned Stark, and to reassure that she could love him as a brother without feeling as though she was betraying her mother’s memory. He had given little thought to the Iron Throne, far more concerned with the North than with the other six kingdoms, but Sansa was the one to suggest that where Jon Snow failed to rally the South to fight the Night King, Aegon Targaryen might succeed. While this attempt to gain support failed, he was nonetheless touched by Sansa’s belief that, if he took the Iron Throne, he would be a great King.

“Enough,” he says again, more softly this time. “None of this will matter if Westeros is lost.”

He will see Daenerys Targaryen, tell her of the threat facing the land their ancestors ruled for nearly three centuries, and explain how desperate their need of her help is.

Once she knows that she is the last hope for Westeros, how can she refuse him?

Their guide returns after supper, staying only long enough to inform him that his Queen is to host an audience on the morrow, at the Great Pyramid.

Jon wants to argue with him, to emphasize that it is imperative that he is allowed to speak to her without delay, but the man doesn’t wait for him to answer before marching away. In truth, it is almost a relief to him to know that he will be able to get a night’s sleep first, and he knows that Davos speaks the truth when he points out that his people are in desperate need of rest. The pallet he chooses has a mattress that rustles as he moves, suggesting that it is stuffed with dry grass. It is cooler at night, but not so much so that he needs to use the blanket folded at the foot of his bed. He expects that he will lie awake some hours, thinking over what he is to say to Daenerys Targaryen when they come face to face, but he is so exhausted that, once he stretches out on his pallet, he cannot keep his eyes open for more than a few moments.

There is no cock-crow or bell to awaken the sleepers, and when he opens his eyes, the bright sun streaming through the windows lets him know that it is long past dawn, yet he is among the first to stir.

He is breaking his fast on a big bowl of porridge, with some sort of tart berries that he does not recognize stirred through it, leaving purple streaks in the creamy surface, when the others begin to stream into the room, accepting bowls of porridge from the servers and taking their places at the tables. They scarcely speak as they eat, but agree among themselves that Sansa, Ser Davos and Sam are to accompany him to the Great Pyramid. He knows that there is no sense in dragging all of his people on the journey, not when they can enjoy much needed rest and sustenance here. He also agrees with Davos that he had best leave Longclaw behind, as it is unlikely that they will be permitted to bring weapons into an audience with the Queen.

Once they have eaten, they set out for the Great Pyramid, which rises so far above the other buildings in the city that it is fairly easy for them to find their way there.

They are not the only ones seeking out Daenerys Targaryen.

As the near the Great Pyramid, they see others walking ahead of them, making their way towards the structure that is so immense that it takes Jon’s breath away. Taller than the Wall, it stretches so high that it seems as though its apex must touch the sky. Jon follows the people into the pyramid, through the open doors guarded by sentries.

It would be a lie to claim that he is not dismayed that, instead of hosting audiences on the bottom level of the Great Pyramid, Daenerys Targaryen expects those who seek her out to climb more than thirty long flights of steps to reach her, though he supposes that this is one way to ensure that nobody seeks to waste her time with a frivolous complaint or petition. Sam is breathless, his face damp with sweat and bright pink from exertion, and the rest of them are scarcely in better condition when they finally reach a level at what Jon judges to be almost the very top of the pyramid, only to find a queue of at least sixty or seventy people ahead of them. Most of them look to be smallfolk, clad in homespun tunics, but there are several richly dressed men and women also waiting in line.

His attempt to lead his group past the line is met with an instant stream of protests and, while Jon cannot understand the words, the meaning is unmistakable.

“Please,” he tries to reason with them, speaking loudly enough for all of them to hear him, hoping that at least one of them will know the Common Tongue. “You don’t understand. We need to see your Queen now. Our country is at stake.”

His plea avails him nothing. Those queueing for an audience are quick to block him, pushing him backwards, and when four of the soldiers march towards them to settle the dispute, they refuse to listen to what he has to say. Their only response to his explanation that he must be allowed to see the Queen immediately is to point to the back of the queue, their implacable expressions making it plain that it would not be in his best interests to offer any further argument.

Davos catches him by the elbow, tugging him backwards. “It’ll do no good if you get us tossed out of here.”

Recognising the truth of his words, and guessing that the soldiers are likely to be ready and willing to force them to leave if he makes trouble, Jon allows himself to be led to the back of the line, inwardly berating himself. He should have sent a message ahead to the Great Pyramid, to let Daenerys Targaryen know that a party from Westeros needed to see her as a matter of extreme urgency and to make an appointment to see her, but there is little point in dwelling on it.

All they can do now is wait their turn.

Hours pass as they watch as person after person is conducted through the great, carved doors for their audience. Most emerge after no more than a few minutes, but others take longer. He tries to imagine the kind of issues they bring before their Queen, remembering the times that he sat in the great hall of Winterfell, watching his father receive petitioners. As heir to Winterfell, it was part of Robb’s education to watch his father hold court for his people to lay their grievances and requests before him, and Ned Stark always made it plain that Jon should also attend, though it was certain that many must have wondered why a bastard should ever need to know how a Lord should rule.

He takes note of the expressions on their faces as they return to make their way back downstairs, and most of them appear to be happy with the outcome of their audience. Even those who don’t look happy seem accepting rather than angry, which suggests that Daenerys Targaryen is fair, if nothing else, and makes him feel a little more optimistic.

By the time their turn comes, his legs feel stiff from standing in line for so long. He straightens his doublet, and it occurs to him that, though he dislikes Davos’ characterizing them as beggars, it cannot be denied that they look the part. Even Sansa’s gown, once as fine as anything that Lady Catelyn might have worn for a feast day, has seen better days, the once fine black wool faded and torn, and the embroidery invisible under the stains. If nothing else, he can hope that their present state will serve to emphasize just how desperately they need help.

They are conducted into a massive chamber, its ceiling at least twenty-five, if not thirty feet high, the roof supported by wide, richly carved columns. At the centre of the chamber, a stone staircase rising over half of the height of the ceiling leads to a dais, on which sits the most beautiful woman Jon has ever seen.

A pale, delicately-featured face, framed by long curls too light to be called blonde, the moon-pale silver hair of a Targaryen, looks down at him. He is too far away from her to see the colour of her eyes, and wishes that he could get closer, to see if they are tinted purple, like the eyes of the Targaryens he read of when he was a boy. It occurs to him that this may be the closest he will ever come to seeing what his father, celebrated for his Valyrian colouring as well as his handsome face, looked like, for his own colouring and features are all Stark, with nothing of Rhaegar Targaryen in him. She wears no crown, but she needs none when her bearing makes it plain that she is a Queen.

It takes what feels like an eternity for him to be able to tear his gaze from her face to take in their surroundings, and he fervently hopes that no more than a few moments passed in reality, that he has not been standing there, gaping at her like a fool, for so long that she will think him a madman.

Daenerys Targaryen sits on a plain bench rather than on a throne, flanked on either side by a tall, armed man. Neither wears the livery of the soldiers he has seen, but both hover over her as protectively as any Kingsguard. Two women stand on either side of the dais, both dark skinned and richly dressed. A third stands behind Daenerys, her face covered by an elaborate mask. A few steps down from the dais, two little girls, clad in bright silk gowns with ribbons woven in their dark braids, abandon the game they are playing to watch his party’s approach. Sentries stand at the foot of the steps, and he recognizes one of them as their guide.

He tears his gaze from her to see that there are others in the room, seated on carved chairs between the columns. He recognizes Tyrion Lannister in an instant, and Tyrion raises a goblet to him by way of salute.

“That’s Lady Olenna Tyrell,” Sansa tells him in a whisper, nodding in the direction of an elderly lady, in a gown of green silk so dark that he almost takes it for black, and a richly ornamented headdress. She is attended by two girls of about Sansa’s age, wearing gowns of paler green, embroidered with gold roses. Lady Olenna shows more interest in the tray of pastries set on the table in front of her chair than she does in their approach, but the girls whisper and giggle.

How did Lady Olenna end up in Meereen? Did his request that she send the Tyrell army to aid in the battle against the Night King and his army lead her to abandon Westeros altogether, seeking shelter in a Targaryen court?

Jon does not recognize any of the others present, but notes that they are all ladies, all dark-haired, most of them gowned as richly as Lady Olenna, though three of them wear tunics and leather armour instead. The oldest is no more than forty years, the others ranging in age from several years his senior to younger than Arya.

One of the ladies standing on the dais speaks as they approach. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Protector of her People and Mother of Dragons.”

Jon opens his mouth but cannot force his tongue to speak a single word.

Sansa steps forward, speaking with a confidence that Jon envies. “Allow me to present Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Jon doesn’t think he has ever in his life felt as ridiculous as he does at this moment, standing here, looking far more like a beggar than he does a King, hailed as a protector when he has failed his people so badly.

The older of the little girls sitting on the steps below the dais scowls at this with a ferocity that reminds Jon painfully of Lady Lyanna Mormont. “Our cousin, Prince Aegon, was murdered by the Mountain when he was a babe, when the Lannisters betrayed King Aerys. He had silver hair, didn’t he?”

“He did,” one of the ladies, who looks to be in her mid-twenties and who wears a tunic and armour, confirms. “Father took me to King’s Landing once to see Aunt Elia and our cousins, Your Grace. Prince Aegon had your brother’s hair and eyes. Princess Rhaenys was the one who inherited Aunt Elia’s hair.”

“So my brother told me,” Daenerys agrees.

“He is a liar,” the younger of the little girls pronounces, glaring at Jon. “You are not our cousin.”

“No, no, I’m not trying to pretend that I’m your cousin…” Jon begins, aghast that his audience should have such a bad beginning. He tries to find the words to explain that he is not pretending to be his dead half-brother, the babe left behind at King’s Landing when his father ran away with his mother, but Sam is the first to speak up.

“This is just a misunderstanding, Your Grace; he is not the son of Elia Martell, he is the son of Lady Lyanna Stark.”

“Yet you call him King,” the second of the women flanking Daenerys Targaryen observes. “How can that be?”

“If I may speak, Your Grace. My name is Samwell Tarly, and I was the one who found out about it, from a diary in the Citadel. Prince Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell so that he might marry Lady Lyanna,” Sam explains. If he is shaken by the glares that are now fixed on him, it does not stop him from continuing. “Lady Lyanna… Princess Lyanna, I should say… bore a son in secret in a tower in Dorne, and gave him to her brother, Lord Stark, to keep hidden for his safety.”

“Do you dare to suggest that Princess Elia consented to annul her marriage and make bastards of her children?”

“No, she never knew about it, Prince Rhaegar annulled the marriage in secret, with the High Septon.”

The woman raises an eyebrow, a scornful expression on her face, before turning slightly to address Daenerys. “It appears that standards at the Citadel must have slipped since I earned my platinum link, Your Grace.”

“Platinum… that’s for law. No, I never forged that link… or any link, really. I was only in the Citadel for a very short time, you see, and…”

“And during your time there, you saved Ser Jorah’s life,” Daenerys interjects. Jon feels a painful stab of jealousy when she gives Sam a smile that makes him blush. “You and I must discuss a suitable reward for such a great service.”

“Had you studied in the citadel long enough to earn the right to forge a platinum link, or even one of red gold, you would know that an annulment requires that both parties to a marriage must consent, and that the annulment must be publicly declared. If both do not agree that the marriage should be annulled, there must be a trial before seven Septons, at which both may make their case, and the Septons will pass judgement on the validity of their union. Did this happen?”

“No,” Sam admits, casting an apologetic look at Jon, clearly mortified by his mistake.

“Then Prince Rhaegar’s marriage to Lady Lyanna was unlawful in the eyes of gods and men, and your ‘King’ is a bastard.”

Daenerys wants to laugh, to cry, to scream.

Would that she had had Sarella Sand advising her in Westeros, when Jon first told her of his parentage, and she knew that the man she loved would be a greater barrier to her quest for her ancestors’ throne than Cersei Lannister. She cannot help but frown at Tyrion, irritated that, for all his purported intelligence and learning, he did not know that Jon’s claim to the Iron Throne was never a true one. She half-wishes that she had summoned Varys back to Meereen, that he could be here now so she could demand of him whether he was aware that Jon could not truly claim legitimacy, much less the Seven Kingdoms, or if he had simply ignored the invalidity of Jon’s claim because he preferred to serve a King than a Queen, so much so that he was prepared to murder her to pave Jon’s way to the Iron Throne.

She wonders what her brother was thinking.

Was Rhaegar so ignorant of the laws, and so callous as to be willing to cast aside his wife and children because he was besotted with Lyanna Stark, or had he known all along that the annulment and remarriage would never be accepted yet duped her into believing that they were husband and wife in order to have her give herself to him?

Neither is a good reflection on the older brother she never knew, yet idolized since Viserys first told her stories of him.

“Thank you for clarifying the matter, Lady Sarella,” she says, surprised that she is able to keep her voice so even. “I trust that you will not offer any further insult to the memory of my good-sister, my niece and my nephew.”

“No, Your Grace,” Samwell Tarly says, abashed.

“Does that mean that he’s a Sand, like us?” Loreza sounds decidedly put out at the thought of Jon sharing her surname.

“My name is Jon Snow.”

He sounds relieved when he speaks the name he carried when they first met, in the other life, rather than dismayed to learn that he cannot lay claim to the Targaryen name or to a royal title. She should not be surprised; she never had trouble believing that he was speaking truthfully when he told her that he did not want the crown, and that he supported her as Queen. It was his loyalty to the Starks rather than his ambition that led him to refuse her plea to keep the secret, even when spreading word of his parentage endangered her life as well as her claim to the throne.

“He is King in the North,” Sansa insists, pursing her lips in a pout when Jon rebukes her in hushed tones.

“Why have you come to Meereen, Jon Snow?” Ignoring Sansa, she meets his gaze, and her stomach churns in protest. She swallows the bitter fluid that fills her mouth, unwilling to show weakness by asking for water to wash the taste from her mouth.

“I have come for your help, Your Grace. The Iron Throne doesn’t matter; it’s yours if you want it, with my blessing.”

“Jon!” Sansa protests, aghast, but he ignores her.

“Westeros has been invaded by an enemy unlike any you have ever seen, an army of the dead, and every man, woman and child they kill is another soldier in their army. There aren’t many weapons that can kill them; only dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and fire. They have already overrun the North. The people who travelled to your city with me are all that is left. We need your army and your dragons if we’re to have a hope of saving the rest of Westeros.”

“How long did it take for you and your people to travel here, Jon Snow?”

“Almost three moons, but what has that got to do with...”

She raises a hand to cut him off. “It would take at least as long for us to travel back there, longer, since I would need to gather my forces, and arrange for ships, provisions for our journey, and to garb my people for winter before we could set out. Have you enough weapons to arm over a hundred thousand warriors?”

“A hundred thousand…” His eyes are almost impossibly wide as he takes this in. Word must not have reached Westeros that the Dothraki follow her now. “No, I don’t.”

“How quickly does this army of the dead move? How much ground do you imagine that they have covered since you left Westeros? How much more ground will they cover in the time it would take to travel back?”

She watches the expression on his face shift from one of desperate hope to one of despair at the realization that, with or without her help, it is far too late for him to save Westeros. She cannot help but feel pity for him, and she hates herself for it, hates this weakness, hates that after he let her down in so many ways before his final betrayal, she still feels guilty for letting him down. More than a year has passed since she made her choice, yet the guilt of not being able to save everybody can still pain her.

“You’re telling me that you won’t help me save Westeros.”

“I’m telling you that I can’t help you save Westeros. It’s too late for that. Anybody who is not already dead would be lost long before we could make it back there. I can help your people, and I am prepared to do so. Meereen welcomes all those who seek to make a new life for themselves. Your people can have a home here, under my protection. We have barracks where you can be housed and fed until you can provide for yourselves, and you will be given help to find work.”

“Work?” Sansa repeats in disbelief.

“What about the rest of Westeros?”

“I assume that you sent word to the other six kingdoms about the Army of the Dead?” Jon nods confirmation. “Then we should hope that they will see that the best thing they can do is to sail for Essos with as many of their people as possible.”

“I don’t think that they will believe me,” Jon confesses miserably, his shoulders hunched in defeat. She knows that less than a year separates their births, but in this moment, he looks at least ten years her senior. “None of the Southern Houses sent their armies to help fight against the Army of the Dead. They may not flee Westeros on my word.”

“That is regrettable, but there is nothing I can do to change it. All I can do now is to offer you and your people a fresh start. I hope that you accept.”

She rises, signaling that the audience is at an end, and turns to leave the audience chamber, needing to take some time to compose herself before she sees the next petitioner. She hears footsteps behind her, and knows that Jorah and Daario, and perhaps a few more of the members of her little court will be following behind her, wanting to see how she is coping with coming face to face with the survivors of the kingdoms she abandoned to death.

She has scarcely crossed the threshold into the private antechamber adjoining the audience chamber when she vomits, the contents of her stomach spilling out onto the smooth, polished tiles arranged in patterns on the floor, spattering the hem of her gown.

Jorah is the first to reach her, and he wraps his arms around her, half carrying her over to a chair and making her sit. He fetches her a goblet of water and watches her sip from it, his calloused hand gentle as he strokes first her cheek and then her brow, as if checking for signs of a fever. Daario is hard on his heels, reaching her side a bare moment later.

“Don’t let them distress you, Khaleesi, they’re not worth it,” Jorah urges.

“I know.”

He scrutinizes her face for a few moments, as if to test the sincerity of her response. He must be satisfied, because he leans forward and kisses her brow.

“I’ll have a bath prepared for you,” he offers, and as soon as he says it, she feels as if there is nothing that she wants more than to wash both the smell of sickness and the discomfort of the audience with Jon Snow from her skin. She certainly can’t hear the next petitioner with the smell of vomit clinging to her. At her answering nod, he departs on his errand.

“I’ll send to the kitchens for something to settle your stomach,” Daario volunteers. “I need to see them anyway, to make sure that they know to have plenty of cake ready for supper. Dorea and Loreza deserve a reward. Did you see the look on his face when they scolded him?” He chuckles at the memory, and plants a kiss on the top of her head before he leaves.

Lady Olenna clucks sympathetically when she enters, side-stepping the pool of vomit. Ellaria Sand is with her.

“It seems that your little passenger objects to Northerners, my dear,” Lady Olenna remarks.

“You’re blessed if that’s all that troubles you,” Ellaria tells her cheerfully. “With Dorea, I couldn’t stand the taste or smell of spices. Do you know how boring meals in Dorne are when you can’t stomach spices?”

“What are you talking about?” They can’t mean what she thinks they mean; she is certain of it.

“There’s no need to be coy, child, we’re all women here, and we’ve both been in your shoes.”

“No,” she shakes her head vehemently, rejecting the thought, the hope. “You don’t understand. I can’t have children.”

“Tell that to your little passenger.”

“Why would you think that you can’t have children, Your Grace? You’re young, and healthy, and with two strong men in your bed, you’ve double the chance of one of them leaving you a present. When did you last bleed?”

She hasn’t in years, not since Rhaego, not since Mirri Maz Duur snatched her husband and her son from her, before blighting her womb with a curse. “The witch who murdered my husband told me that I would never bear a child.”

“Well, I’ve had four daughters, and I’m telling you that you’re with child,” Ellaria tells her. She reaches out and gives Daenerys’ breast a light squeeze, as Irri did years ago, and the tenderness is the same as it was with Rhaego.

She touches her abdomen with awed fingers, scarcely daring to believe that it might be true. Lady Olenna lays a wrinkled hand over hers, a motherly smile on her face.

That is how Jorah and Daario find her when they return from their respective errands.

Daario, a steaming goblet in one hand, stops to look from one to the other, the puzzled expression on his face matching Jorah’s. “What did we miss?”

Chapter Text

The words have scarcely left her lips when Daario lets out a wordless cry of elation and triumph, then catches her around the waist, lifting her high and spinning her around the room, his face alight with joy.

“Gently,” Jorah cautions, no less delighted by the news, yet still alarmed by the other man’s exuberant display.

Daario stops at once, setting her carefully on her feet, and drawing her into a quick hug before releasing her so Jorah can have his turn to enfold her in an embrace. Jorah’s lips brush first the crown of her head, then her cheek, and finally her lips, all as gently as if she is as fragile as a soap bubble. Between them, they guide her back to her chair and help her into it, as though they fear for her health if she is allowed to stay standing too long. They hover on either side of her, laying their hands on her abdomen, their touch delicate and tentative, with wide smiles on their faces, and their eyes filled with awe.

“She’s not going to break, silly boys,” Lady Olenna remarks as she watches them, shaking her head in fond exasperation. Lady Ellaria seconds her with a chuckle and an emphatic nod. “You should nip that in the bud, my dear, or the next months will be very long for you, and very tiresome. My late husband would have made a proper nuisance of himself whenever I was carrying a child, had I been fool enough to let him get away with his fussing when he first started it. As if women hadn’t been having babies for thousands of years without needing a man to play the part of a broody hen! If you don’t put your foot down now, they’ll have you wrapped in silk and goose down, and cozened like an invalid, until the babe is born.”

The advice is kindly meant, but Daenerys knows that she cannot fault the men she loves for their concern for her, nor can she convince herself that the caution is unwarranted.

“The witch who killed my first husband never said that I would never conceive another child,” she hears herself telling them, quietly but more calmly than she would have expected to be able to speak of a matter so painful, and so close to her heart. “She told me that I would never bear a living child.”

Is this to be her punishment for leaving Westeros and its people to the Night King and his army?

Is she to be allowed to spend the next six months living in hope, feeling her babe grow inside her womb, sharing her excitement with Jorah, Daario and her loved ones at the quickening and the first kick, imagining what he or she will look like, debating names with Jorah and Daario, and making plans for their future as a family and for the world she wants their child to grow up in, only to lose this precious life she carries, as so many of the people of Westeros lost their lives and the lives of the people they loved because of her, both in this life, and in the life that would have been, had Quaithe not warned her about what the future had in store for her?

She never had a chance to see Rhaego, or to hold him in her arms.

The struggle of birthing, and the foul-tasting concoction that Mirri Maz Duur forced down her throat when she was too weak to protest, left her scarcely aware of what was happening to her, save that she suffered agonies worse by far than the beatings Viserys inflicted on her whenever she did something to wake the dragon, worse even than the terrible nights after her marriage, when Drogo ruthlessly used her for his pleasure, never dissuaded by her pain or her tears, before Doreah taught her other ways to please him.

By the time she regained consciousness, the women had taken Rhaego away, and all she knew of her son was the unsparing description Mirri Maz Duur gave her, the witch taking pleasure in telling her of her son’s deformities, gloating that he was not to have the chance to grow up to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World. She never knew if the women burned Rhaego’s body, or if they buried him in the sand as the Dothraki did their waste, deeming him too monstrous for a funeral pyre, and not wanting to risk that he would be reborn into the world. Jorah did not know, as he had not left her side for a moment, and by the time she was able to ask, the women were long gone, carried away by one or another of Drogo’s blood riders, who wasted no time establishing themselves as Khals in their own right, rather than following the blood of their blood into the Night Lands.

Jorah’s arms tighten around her, as though he hopes that his embrace can shield her from all horror and sorrow in the world, and the mirth fades from Daario’s face, leaving him looking graver than she has ever seen him.

“The babe will live, and grow strong.”

She turns at the sound of Quaithe’s voice, and sees the woman who has become her advisor and friend regarding her, compassion in her eyes, though her expression is, as always, concealed by her elaborate mask.

“But the curse…”

“Had you travelled to Westeros, you would not have borne a child. Do you remember what you asked me before you made your choice?”

How could she forget?

Had Quaithe’s answer been different, she would have had to travel to Westeros, even if she did not stay there after the Night King and his army were defeated. She would have had no choice but to bring her children and her armies to a land that she knew would never welcome them, not even after they risked their lives to save them, knowing that, even if she was able to improve their strategy thanks to all she knew of the battle to be fought at Winterfell, thousands upon thousands of her people would still die in the Great War, knowing that she might lose one or all of her children. She would have had no choice but to fight alongside Jon Snow, knowing that she could never trust him, lest the Night King’s reach spread to Essos, and beyond.

“You told me that my dragons would protect the rest of the world. I thought that was why they laid the eggs.”

“It is,” Quaithe agrees placidly. “Your dragons will be as many and as strong as they need to be to play their part. But as long as there are dragons in the world, there must also be those who carry the blood of the dragon. You are the last true heir of the dragon riders of Old Valyria. The line cannot be allowed to die with you, and so it will continue through your child.”

“Another dragon rider,” Jorah murmurs.

Daario grins. “Seems only fitting that the little dragons will have a little rider of their own, doesn’t it?”

If either of them worries about the prospect of their child growing up to ride a dragon, they give no sign of it.

Daenerys’ memory of riding through the North with Jon, she on Drogon and he on Rhaegal, is tainted by what would have happened afterwards, but she can still remember the exhilaration she felt during their ride. Until she saw how her children responded to Jon, she never imagined sharing the experience of riding a dragon with another person, yet when she saw how he interacted with her sons when they checked on them after their arrival in Winterfell, she knew in that moment that if he could find the courage to try, Rhaegal would accept him as a rider.

With hindsight, she marvels at the thought that she could have come to trust Jon so much, in such a short space of time, that she was prepared to share her children, and most powerful weapons, with him.

It is not a mistake that she will make a second time.

She imagines what it will be like when her child is old enough, and the baby dragons have hatched and grown large enough to carry a rider, and the two of them can take to the skies, flying with their dragons as their ancestors did centuries ago, and as their descendants might centuries from now, sharing something truly precious.

The thought makes her smile.

When they return to the building that has become their temporary abode, it is a hive of activity, crowded with what seems like thousands of people, the sound of thousands of voices filling the space. Every bed in the long sleeping chamber appears to be occupied, and Davos hears the sound of voices drifting through from the dining area, letting him know that some of the new arrivals must be taking their meal.

Almost all of the people wear shabby, homespun garments and are barefoot, though a handful of them are better dressed and wear sandals. There is not one among them who is not dusty from travel. Some have leather and metal collars around their necks, and he can see that those who do not wear collars have patches of chafed and raw skin on their necks, indicating that until very recently, they too were collared. Even those garbed in well-made garments are collared, or show signs of having been collared until a matter of days ago. Each adult he can see has a small tattoo on his or her cheek, or on their brows, in a variety of patterns. Even some of the older children are tattooed.

A dozen or so men and women dressed in simple, but well-made tunics and gowns, circulate among the newcomers, equipped with quills and paper tablets, speaking to them and taking notes.

Ghost pads over to Jon when they enter, whining softly.

“Who are they?” Jon asks in a low voice, petting Ghost with a gentle hand.

“Slaves from Volantis, if I don’t miss my guess.” Davos inclines his head slightly in the direction of the nearest person, a man who looks to be about thirty or so, and whose right cheek is tattooed with an image of a wheel. “The slave masters in Volantis tattoo their slaves so they can’t escape, and to show their role. King Stannis had a fool once; he was called Patchface, for the tattoos in motley all over his face. Nobody knew his real name. I doubt that he remembered it himself, after all he went through on his journey to Westeros. He was from Volantis. Lord Steffon bought him and freed him, and brought him back to Westeros to amuse Stannis.”

It had not surprised him to learn that Stannis was serious even as a boy, so much so that his parents found him a fool in the hopes that he would be able to teach him how to laugh.

He feels a lump in his throat at the memory of how Patchface, though his wits were addled by the terrible shipwreck that claimed the lives of Lord Baratheon, his Lady, and the soldiers and sailors who had escorted them to and from Essos, was a true friend to Shireen. He was one of the few to visit her in her tower, when even the servants avoided her as much as they could hope to get away with, their fear of contagion stronger than their fear of any punishment they might earn for neglecting their lord’s daughter. He enlivened the little girl’s days with his strange songs, playing games with her, and listening with rapt attention when she read him stories from the books she so cherished. He may not have been able to amuse his Lord and Lady, and he was more likely to unnerve bannermen, ladies, knights and retainers that made up their small court than to make them laugh, but he was a faithful friend and companion to a little girl who badly needed him, and for that, Davos blessed him.

His death had left Shireen’s life even lonelier than ever; aside from Davos himself, and the servant who reluctantly, and in exchange for higher wages, came to tend to her bleak chamber and bring her her meals, only Stannis visited her with any frequency, and it was never in Stannis’ nature to show much warmth, even to his only child.

“What are slaves from Volantis doing here?” Lady Sansa asks, addressing her question to those members of their party who did not accompany Jon on his visit to the Great Pyramid.

“They came with the big men on the horses,” a small voice pipes up.

Davos glances down to see Lilla standing by his side, her head scarcely reaching his hip. She slips her hand in his, grasping it tightly.

She and Jeyne were still sleeping when he set out for the Great Pyramid, or he would have had no hope of being able to get away without them.

Neither has wanted to let him out of their sight since he carried them out of the crypt at Winterfell, where they were among the too small number not slain by the Stark dead before those who survived the battle outside the walls of Winterfell were able to come to their aid, forcing their way through barricades meant to keep the invading army out, but which had ended up trapping the most helpless among them. In the end, they had had to burn their way through the barricades, shouting warnings to those on the other side to keep clear, and praying that they were able to hear them. The two little girls were his constant companions during the long months of their journey, and continued to cling to him after they arrived in Meereen, claiming beds on either side of his.

Though he knows that they needed sleep and food far more than they needed to spend hours on end waiting with him for an audience with Queen Daenerys, he still feels a pang of guilt when Lilla fixes him with a frown.

“You went away. I woke up and you were gone.”

Lilla’s cheeks, rounded with baby fat when they first met, are pale and thin now, making the burn scars on one cheek stand in even sharper contrast, but she speaks with the same determination as she did when she announced her intention to guard the crypts, wanting to follow in the footsteps of her soldier brothers. In place of the now filthy and ragged woolen gown, cloak and cap she has worn as long as he has known her, he notices that she is wearing a new dress, which looks to be made of undyed but smoothly-woven linen. It is a bit too long for her, and some of the fabric is folded and tucked under a dark green sash at the waist. She has small leather sandals on her feet. Her hair is slightly damp, and pulled back from her face with a thin strip of cloth the same colour as her sash.

“I came back, love. I’m always going to come back to you; I promise you that. How did you come by your new dress?” He looks around, noting that the other children are likewise outfitted in new dresses or tunics, all in simple but light fabrics better suited to the Meereenese climate than the heavy wool and furs of the North. Quite a few of the adults have also been furnished with a new garment.

Once more, he is impressed by the care that Queen Daenerys and the people of Meereen take of those in need.

His childhood would have been happier if Flea Bottom had had their like helping its people.

“Some women came to bring them, they had lots and lots of clothes, and they made lists of how many people there are so there’ll be enough for everybody,” Lilla explains, before pursing her lips in an adorably discontented pout. “They made me take a bath first!”

“Aye, I thought you smelled a mite sweeter,” he agrees, chuckling at the scowl she gives him. After three moons of travel, with only the clothes on their backs and with no means of washing save snow and seawater, there is not a member of their party who wouldn’t be the better for a tub of water, a bar of strong soap, and a change of clothes. For his part, he has never been a vain man, but the prospect of a bath is a deeply inviting one. He would also be very glad of an opportunity to shave, and to exchange his filthy garments for fresh ones. Those he is wearing are fit only for burning. “Where’s Jeyne?”

“She’s with Ser Sandor and the others, having noon meal.”

No matter how much the Hound grumbles, and proclaims that he is no knight, all of the children insist on referring to him as ‘Ser Sandor’, something he very grudgingly tolerates. He may not have been knighted, and would undoubtedly have thrashed Davos soundly if he dared to offer to confer a knighthood on him, but there can be no question but that he deserves a knight’s honours for overcoming his horror of fire to force his way past the burning barrier to reach the crypts, snatching up every child he could find and carrying them to safety.

He strokes Lilla’s hair with his unmaimed hand, touched that her eagerness to see him has outweighed her hunger for food. “What do you mean by big men on horses?”

“She means the Dothraki,” Brienne interjects. “They rode into the city a few hours past, with thousands of slaves from Volantis. Some of them were brought here. I think that there must be other places like this in other parts of the city, because there were a lot more of them than you see here. A few of them speak the Common Tongue; they tell me that they were freed, and brought here to Mhysa. That’s their name for Queen Daenerys,” she adds before any of them can ask.

“Not ‘charity’, after all,” Sam Tarly mutters, though nobody is paying him any attention, focusing instead on the more pressing issues at hand.

The younger man has been quiet and subdued since leaving the Great Pyramid, speaking only to express his profuse apologies to Jon for his mistake regarding his status as the trueborn heir of House Targaryen, while Lady Sansa grumbled over Queen Daenerys allowing her advisor to embarrass Jon in front of her court. Davos had to bite his tongue to keep himself from pointing out that the embarrassment could have been avoided, had they listened to him and not sought to present Jon to the Queen as the true heir to the Iron Throne.

“Since when do the Dothraki free slaves instead of capturing them?”

“Since they began to follow Queen Daenerys.”

Davos thinks of the Queen he met today. He has travelled enough to have heard plenty of stories of the Dothraki and their ways, and under other circumstances, he would never believe that they would ever follow a woman, let alone a slip of a girl like Daenerys Targaryen. He knows, however, that she must be strong to have achieved all she has in her short life thus far, strong enough to impress even the Dothraki.

It amazes him that she has found a way to harness the strength of the Dothraki to help those in need, rather than to seize tribute for herself, as the Khals he has heard of did.

“Will she help us? How many men can she send to Westeros? Will she send her dragons?” Brienne asks her questions in quick succession, not even pausing to take a breath in between.

Davos knows that she must see the answer in the expressions on their faces before any of them speak a word.

It falls to Lady Sansa to say it aloud. “She refuses to help us. She has more than a hundred thousand men, if she’s telling the truth, but she won’t send any of them to help us save the North.”

“She won’t help us?” Brienne looks crestfallen rather than sharing Lady Sansa’s anger.

“She can’t help us save the North, or any of the Seven Kingdoms, not even if she sends every man in her army back with us, and all of her dragons too,” Jon corrects her. He looks as dejected as Davos has ever seen him, more so than he did when Melisandre brought him back to life, and he remembered dying at the hands of his sworn brothers, or even when he realised that his brother and sister were lost in the battle at Winterfell, and little over two hundred of the people he swore to rule and protect had survived. The last spark of hope, carefully nurtured since their flight from Winterfell, the hope that gave him the strength he needed to lead them on their long, perilous journey East, is snuffed out. “It’s taken us too long to reach her, and it will take even longer to travel back. It’s too late for her to be able to do anything for the Seven Kingdoms; they’ll be lost before we can get back there.”

“We should have realised it for ourselves, I suppose,” Davos remarks, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice.

He should have realised that the plan was doomed to fail, as soon as Jon gathered the small group he counted as his closest advisors together to set out his plan to seek help from the Queen across the Narrow Sea.

He knew, better than most of their party, how long it would take them to travel from White Harbour to Meereen, and then to make the return journey, and his time as King Stannis’ Hand taught him how long it could take to muster and provision an army. Worse still, with so few weapons proving to have any effect on the Night King or his ever-growing army, they would have needed to mine more dragonglass for weapons, assuming that they would have had a chance at reaching Dragonstone with winter upon them, and that the remaining deposits of dragonglass would be enough to arm Queen Daenerys’ army.

He thinks that he should have known that there was no real prospect of her being able to help, and that he should have made his way to his keep at Cape Wrath, to his wife and their remaining sons.

He should have set sail for Essos with his family, and with the members of his small household, bringing them to Essos and safety and a chance at a new life, instead of allowing himself to share in Jon’s belief that they still had a chance… a duty… to save all of Westeros.

He looks down at Lilla, and allows himself to imagine how Marya would have welcomed her and Jeyne. The Mother blessed them with seven strong sons, but Marya would have dearly loved to also have a couple of daughters to dote on. There is no doubt in his mind that she would have opened her heart to the little girls without hesitation, caring only that they were alone in the world, and sorely in need of a mother’s love.

He was a fool, and it cost his family their lives, and himself the chance to hold them in his arms again.

He sees Jon flinch at his words, and knows that the younger man must also be reproaching himself for his short-sightedness, and thinking about what they might have done, who they might have saved, if they had not placed all of their trust in the vain hope that Queen Daenerys would be willing and able to come to their rescue.

A part of him feels that he should offer him a word or two of encouragement and reassurance, to tell a comforting lie about how Jon was right not to give up as long as he believed that there was a chance to save all of the people of Westeros, not just what few they might have been able to round up and ship to safety before winter had the realm so fully in its grasp as to make it nigh impossible to travel, but he can’t bring himself to say it, and he doubts very much that Jon would believe him if he tried.

Lady Sansa shakes her head vehemently, as if rejecting their words will make them untrue, as if she hopes to convince herself that this is not happening. Her blue eyes shine with unshed tears as she looks from Jon to each of the others in turn, as though one of them must know a solution to their woes that they are keeping concealed.

“We can’t give up. We just can’t. The North is ours. We fought for it, and we won it back. We can’t give up on it now! We have to save it! We have to save our people!”

“Sansa…” Jon sounds as weary as a man thrice his age. He is not an especially tall man but, weighed down by worry and grief, and thinner after months of hunger and hard travel, he appears smaller than he should, smaller than the brave young warrior of the Night’s Watch that Davos met when he and Stannis travelled to the Wall.

It feels a lifetime ago.

“You’re a Targaryen too, just as much as she is! If Prince Rhaegar had won at the Trident, he would have declared you legitimate. You would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, not her, and it wouldn’t matter what anybody had to say about his marriage to Aunt Lyanna. Her dragons should be yours. If you claim one of them as your mount, you could take it home and use it to defeat the Night King, once and for all.”

“We are Queen Daenerys’ guests, my lady,” Brienne cuts in, looking aghast that the lady to whose service she is pledged, the lady she takes pride in being sworn shield to, should advocate such an action. “We have sheltered in her city, and eaten her food. It would be dishonorable for us to steal from her.”

“We’re not going to steal!” Jon snaps furiously. “How can you even think of it?”

“She’s not the only ruler in Essos, and her army isn’t the only army,” Sansa continues desperately, undeterred by their reproaches. “Maybe another ruler will want an alliance with the Seven Kingdoms, and will see that they can benefit by helping us, and making you King. Even if they don’t, there are sellswords we can hire!”

“Aye, and do you have a mountain of gold tucked away to pay them?” Jon demands. “Because they’re bound to want extra if we’re asking them to fight an army of the dead! What about ships to carry them? How many of them do you have? Or do you expect me to ask Queen Daenerys to empty her treasury to fund a lost cause, and throw in her navy to boot?”

“It’s the least she can do if she’s not going to send her army!”

Davos feels Lilla’s hand slip into his, and he squeezes it reassuringly. Her pale little face is grave as she watches Sansa argue with Jon, unnerved to see two of those the surviving Northerners look to for leadership in conflict with one another, and he judges it best to take her away before she is frightened more than she already is.

“Let’s see about getting you your noon meal,” he suggests, bending down to scoop her up.

Once she is securely settled in his arms, he moves away from Jon, Sansa and their quarrel as quickly as he can, carrying her through to the dining area, where every table is full.

He notes that the former slaves from Volantis seem quite at ease, though he supposes that it is hardly surprising, considering that this is the first safe harbor for them after years, if not a lifetime, of bondage and cruelty.

The Hound is sitting at a table near to the serving trestles, with four children clustered around him. He greets Davos with a grunt, more interested in his meal than he is in the other man, but the children are more welcoming.

Jeyne gives him a wide, gap-toothed smile, waving to him with her spoon and spattering the table with drops of creamy liquid. Like Lilla, she wears a new dress, her sash red instead of green, and somebody has taken the time and the effort to comb out her tangled mop of blonde curls, securing it with a thin strip of red cloth.

“Ser Davos!”

Her greeting is echoed by two of the other children.

Arnolf is the elder of the boys who trails after the Hound. Still some months shy of turning ten, he was too young to be drafted to fight against the Night King, as his older sisters were. Though he has not said so, Davos suspects that the lad regrets that he did not insist on fighting, that he might have been in the field to shield his sister’s backs. Unusually tall for a boy his age, he looks even thinner than the other children, his face gaunt and his long arms and legs like sticks. His cousin, Dolyse, known to all as Dolly, is four years his junior, and never strays far from his side. He is patient with her, and never unwilling to amuse her with a story or a game. He reminds Davos of his eldest son, Dale, who filled the role of father as well as brother for the younger ones when Davos was at sea.

The only child not to speak is the boy sitting next to the Hound, pressed close to his side as though he fears being torn away from his protector. He gives Davos a shy smile before ducking his head down, and it is not until the Hound gruffly prompts him to finish his meal that he picks up his spoon, sucking on it for a few moments before he scoops up another spoonful of soup.

Nobody knows the little lad’s name, or how old he is, though Davos judges him to be about the same age as Dolly. Nobody knows which village he came from. If he had any family or friends or neighbours with him when he came to Winterfell, they perished in battle or in the crypts. There’s not a soul left in the world who knew him before the Hound carried him out of the crypts, and he has not uttered a word since that night. Davos wonders if, like Patchface before him, the horrors he has witnessed have robbed him of the memory of his name.

The Hound steadfastly refuses any suggestion that they devise a new name for him.

“He’s a boy, not some damned pet! He’ll tell us his name when he’s good and ready, not before.”

One man made the mistake of referring to the boy as the Puppy in the Hound’s hearing, and lost three teeth for it.

The children squeeze closer together to make room, and Davos sets Lilla down between Jeyne and Arnolf, taking a seat at the end of the bench for himself. One of the servers bustles forward bearing two bowls, and bread, setting them in front of the newcomers. Davos is surprised to see that the soup in his bowl is very like the thick, creamy fish soups he has eaten on past visits to the Iron Islands. He didn’t think they grew turnips and leeks in Essos. Instead of flatbreads like the ones they were served for dinner the previous night, they are given round, brown rolls. Lilla tears hers into tiny chunks to float in her bowl of soup, waiting until each of them has soaked up enough liquid to be soggy before she fishes them out with her spoon.

“Do we have to go back on a big ship, Ser Davos?” Jeyne asks anxiously. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Neither do I,” Arnolf is quick to second her.

“That’s because you’re not total fucking idiots.” Even being constantly shadowed by three young children is not enough to prompt the Hound to moderate his language. Thankfully, the children all seem to accept that his swearing is a privilege afforded to him by his age and size, and have not begun to emulate him in that respect.

“Lady Sansa wants to go back,” Lilla announces blithely. “And she wants to steal one of the Queen’s dragons.”

Davos winces, inwardly rebuking himself for not thinking to warn Lilla that she shouldn’t repeat the conversation of their King and his sister to the other children, or anybody else for that matter.

Marya used to say that little pitchers have big ears, he remembers with a pang of grief.

“No surprise there,” the Hound mutters. “The little bird still thinks that this story can have a happy ending. I did think she’d have more sense than to try to steal a dragon, though. Take it this means that the Dragon Queen won’t be letting us borrow her army and a couple of dragons?”

“No.”

“At least she has a brain in her head. More than I can say for some.”

“She says that it’s too late for her to help; by the time she could gather her army, arm them, and sail to Westeros, there’d be nobody left for us to save.”

“I could have told you that. Three bloody moons it took us to get here! You saw how fast those dead shits can move when they want to. If they’re not at King’s Landing yet, they’ll be there before the next moon, and then there’ll have a million other poor fuckers for their army.”

“Why did you come if you thought that there was no hope? Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why wouldn’t I come? Anywhere’s a step up from Westeros. And if I’d said something, your King and the little bird would probably have got it into their fool heads to stay and try to fight, and got us all killed. Is the Dragon Queen planning to kick us out of her city?”

“No. She said that any of our people who want to stay will be welcome. We can stay here, in the barracks, until we find work, and a place to live. We’re not likely to get a better offer elsewhere.”

“The rest of you can do whatever you want, but the four of us are staying right here.”

“Can we stay too, Ser Davos?” Jeyne looks close to tears at the thought of leaving their safe haven to return to the peril they so narrowly escaped. “I don’t want to go back to the monsters!”

“You won’t have to,” Davos reassures her, his mind made up.

Jon and Lady Sansa and the others can do as they think best, but if they return to Westeros to fight the Night King, they will do it without him.

He will stay in Meereen with Lilla and Jeyne, far away from the horrors they left in Westeros. The children can grow sturdy on the plentiful food, and he will seize any opportunity Queen Daenerys offers to make a new life.

A hot bath and a fresh gown see Daenerys fit to continue to hear petitioners for the remainder of the afternoon, her duties proving to be a welcome distraction from thoughts of the Northerners, and the seven doomed kingdoms they left behind.

Her last petitioners are a contingent of the Dothraki, newly returned from Volantis, and eager to regale her with the story of how quickly the masters sought to placate them. The newly liberated slaves have been assigned to the various barracks spread throughout the city, and the gold, jewels and other treasures they lay at her feet will be much welcomed assistance to provide for them, until they can find employment.

The Dothraki leave in good spirits, gratified by her praise and already anticipating their next visit to Volantis, and Daenerys is relieved that her work for the day is done.

Missandei falls into step beside her as she makes her way from the audience chamber up to her private quarters on the topmost level, and once they enter, she gestures for Daenerys to take a seat on the padded stool in front of her mirror, beginning to unpin the elaborate coronet of braids.

“Would you like you change for dinner, Your Grace?”

Daenerys shakes her head, deeming it a needless burden on the laundresses for her to go through three gowns in one day. She closes her eyes and allows herself to relax as Missandei’s gentle hands move through her hair, her touch soothing. Unthinking, her hand moves down to rest over her still-flat abdomen and, a few moments later, she feels Missandei’s hand move to rest over hers, her fingers warm.

“Can you feel the babe move?”

“Not yet.” It was well over four moons before she felt Rhaego’s first flutter inside her. The sensation was so delicate, so sweet, that she knows that her son was perfectly formed within her, before Mirri Maz Duur’s curse. “But soon, I hope.”

Once her hair is loose, with only two small braids at her temple to keep her hair out of her eyes, Daenerys exchanges places with Missandei, styling her hair in return.

She feels like a fool when she remembers how she hoped that Sansa and Arya would like her, and that Jon’s sisters would be willing to welcome her into their family, when she already had the truest friend and dearest sister she could ever hope to have in Missandei. And she let Missandei die for her. She should have surrendered to Cersei then and there, if it meant saving Missandei, but she was so sad and so angry over Rhaegal’s death that she could think of nothing other than making those who took her son from her suffer, could not bear to allow them to win. Why did she not put her pride and her anger and her grief aside, and seize the chance of saving her dearest friend?

“Your Grace,” Missandei’s voice is gentle, but holds a definite hint of disapproval, as it always does when she thinks that Daenerys is chastising herself for mistakes that she would have made in the other life. She has an uncanny knack for sensing it, more so than even Jorah or Daario. “It did not happen. Try not to think of it. Think of the future. The future you will make for all of us.” She turns on the stool, touching Daenerys’ abdomen again. “The future you will make for the babe.”

The babe who would never have been born, if not for the choice she made.

The babe on whose tiny shoulders she will have to lay the burden of keeping the people of the world safe from the Night King after she is gone.

The babe she already loves more than she has ever loved anybody, save Rhaego.

She gives Missandei a smile, grateful, as always, for her wisdom and her love. “You are right, my friend.”

Missandei gives her a look, as if to say that this should come as no surprise to her.

Hand in hand, they make their way to the dining chamber.

When she first claimed the Great Pyramid as her residence, Daenerys was shocked to be told that the previous inhabitant had considered it to be his smallest dining chamber. The room is larger than the great room where Magister Illyrio hosted guests to his manse, with space enough for fifty diners. The next smallest dining chamber can comfortably seat two hundred. The largest could feast an army. A marble fountain, trickling clear water scented with summer flowers, is set at the centre of the room, and the tables are arranged around it. The tables are made from dark wood, the legs ornately carved and inlaid with gold leaf, the surfaces polished to a glossy shine. The padded benches are upholstered in embroidered silk, with plump bolsters and cushions to ensure the comfort of the diners. The marble and lacquered statues ranged around the room watch over the diners, and every wall is ornamented with beautiful frescoes.

Until the Sands, the Tyrells and the Greyjoys joined her in Meereen, Daenerys never used this room, deeming it absurd for the small number of people with whom she shared her meals to need such a large space, and taking meals in the Council chamber, or in the privacy of her quarters, instead. Now, she has enough people with whom she can share her meals that, while they do not fill the room, they do not make it look so empty as to be ridiculous.

The tables are laid with a variety of dishes; richly spiced Essosi dishes, as well as recipes from Dorne and the Reach, recreated by the talented cooks in her kitchens.

She notes that a platter piled high with assorted cakes sits between Loreza and Dorea’s places.

Sarella greets her with a smile when she enters. “Congratulations, Your Grace. You’re not to worry; I’ve seen my share of babes through the narrow path during my training, and I’d be happy to see yours safely into the world.”

At this, Tyrion chokes on his wine, looking from one face to the next, and seeing that nobody shares his surprise. “Am I the last to know?”

“Yes,” Dorea tells him. She glances at her mother and, seeing that she is conversing with Obara and Nymeria, she snakes out her hand to snatch one of the cakes, cramming it into her mouth before anybody can stop her. She is licking honey from sticky fingers when Ellaria realises what she is doing.

“I suppose you’ve earned them,” she says after a few moments, though she gives Daario a quick scowl. He, of course, is entirely unrepentant.

Dorea and Loreza share grins, taking this as permission to ignore the other dishes on the table in favour of cake.

“Will there be a wedding?” Alla Tyrell, Lady Olenna’s middle granddaughter, asks, eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of a royal wedding. If she is scandalised at the thought of an unwed Queen carrying a child, she gives no sign of it. Like her cousins, Megga and Elinor, she is very fair of face, with brown hair and eyes. All three seem like sweet girls, though Daenerys has not spent much time in their company outside of meals.

“I think that that is a matter for the Queen and these two gentlemen to discuss among themselves, don’t you?”

After Lady Olenna speaks, nobody dares to allude to the subject of marriage, though it is clear from the expression on Tyrion’s face that he badly wants to, and conversation turns to other matters, but Daenerys continues to dwell on it as she eats her meal.

She remembers Tyrion’s advice to leave Daario behind, so that he would not be an impediment to her cementing an alliance with one of the Great Houses of Westeros through marriage, and remembers her desperate, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to secure peace in Meereen with a marriage to Hizdahr zo Loraq.

Though she has no need for a political marriage, and though the people of the cities she rules will far more readily accept a child born out of wedlock as her heir than the people of Westeros ever would, the prospect of a marriage built on mutual love and trust is not without appeal.

She loves them both, and she trusts them both.

Lady Olenna is right that the matter is one for the three of them to discuss among themselves, in private, so she forces herself to focus instead on her meal and the conversation around her.

Sarella is full of advice about which foods she would be better off eating, to ensure the babe’s healthy growth, while her mother is adamant that Daenerys will naturally be drawn to whatever it is the babe needs her to eat and repulsed by anything harmful, and that she should allow herself to be guided by her cravings.

Almost everybody at the table stares at her in mingled shock, horror and awe when she tells them of her first pregnancy, and the ritual carried out at Vaes Dothrak, intended to ensure the birth of a strong son.

“Raw meat! For a woman with child! You were lucky that you weren’t ill after eating that,” Sarella scolds her.

“I could hardly refuse.”

“I would have,” Nymeria declares. “I could never want a boy badly enough to do that.”

“Why would you ever want a boy anyway?” Tyene asks scornfully. “Father had eight daughters, and would not have exchanged any of us for a son.”

Daenerys remembers the youngest of the Dosh Khaleen, taken as a girl of twelve, and beaten so badly that her ribs were broken when she presented her Khal with a daughter. Would Drogo have welcomed a sister for Rhaego, or would he have considered her to have failed him if she bore him anything other than boys?

“No horse’s heart this time,” Sarella says sternly, levelling a warning finger at Daenerys, as if she expects her to insist on taking part in the ritual. “If the Dothraki have a quarrel with this, they may take it up with me.”

“I doubt they will be unwelcoming to a little khalakki,” Jorah opines. “You have shown them that they can follow a khaleesi with pride.”

“If I may,” Tyrion speaks up. He looks a little green, and is undoubtedly eager to change the subject to something more agreeable to his digestion. “Has Your Grace decided on what is to be done to the people from the North?”

“You were there when I told them. They are welcome to stay here in Meereen, and they will be sheltered in the barracks until they can find work and lodgings of their own. If they prefer to move to Astapor or Yunkai, they will be given the same help there. If they wish to leave, they may do so. Their lives are theirs to live. I will do no less for them than I would do for any man, woman or child in my cities who was in need of help.”

Tyrion takes a few moments to mull over her words, a frown creasing his brow. She does not know what it is he expects from her, but she can see that he expects more from her than she has said.

“With your permission, Your Grace, I should like to pay a visit to the barracks tomorrow, to speak to Jon Snow, Lady Sansa… to all of them. If I can speak to them, I can find out how we can best help them.”

It is on the tip of her tongue to refuse.

She remembers Tyrion Lannister serving her willingly, if not always wisely, until they travelled to Winterfell, and remembers Missandei confiding in her about the conversation she overheard between him and Sansa Stark in the crypts. In her vision, her dearest friend was indignant on her behalf that he had not spoken a word in her defence when Sansa sneered at her for being the cause of the problems between them. Instead of defending her, instead of standing by her, he had allowed himself to be manipulated into doing Sansa’s dirty work in spreading the tale of Jon’s parentage, speaking of it to Varys rather than to her, the Queen he was supposed to serve.

Her instincts scream at her to do all she can to see to it that Tyrion and Sansa are kept apart, lest his loyalty to her be undermined once more, but she knows that this is foolish of her.

If Tyrion is no worthier of her trust in this life than he was in her vision, if he will choose to be led by his soft spot for Sansa Stark rather than the loyalty he professes to her, it is better that she should know sooner rather than later.

“You have my permission, my lord,” she tells him. “We will go tomorrow, after we break our fast.”

“We, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I will speak with Samwell Tarly.” A few of the Sands scoff at the mention of his name, not ready to forgive him for the insult to their aunt and cousins. “I cannot forget that, without him, I would not have Ser Jorah here. That merits a reward, whatever other mistakes he has made.”

If she told them that Samwell Tarly is not the only one she wants to speak to, that she wants to see all the survivors face to face, she does not doubt that Jorah, Daario and Missadei would all try to dissuade her, fearing that it will hurt her to be confronted with all they have suffered because of the choice she made, so she says nothing.

Instead, she finishes her meal, basking in the conversation and companionship of those around her, and laughing at the little girls’ antics as they squabble over the last of one type of cake that they both favour above the others.

It has been over a year since the Sands and the Tyrells travelled to Meereen, and joined the Greyjoys in accepting her offer that they should live with her in the Great Pyramid until such time as suitable residences could be built for them, but the novelty of sharing meals with them, as well as with Jorah, Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, Quaithe and Tyrion, has not worn off.

It is the closest she has ever come to being part of a large, merry family, and she relishes every moment.

Chapter Text

Their conveyance is of Tyrion’s own design, modelled after the wheelhouses of Westeros. His stunted legs are not equal to travelling long distances on foot, and his Queen would never tolerate the idea of a member of her court being borne in a palanquin, deeming it an unwelcome relic of the days of slavery for the highborn to be carried on the shoulders of men treated as beasts of burden, so he designed this alternative.

It is modest in scale, its frame crafted of dark wood, sanded smooth and polished to a shine. Within, there are two well-padded benches, with plump bolsters at the back, set facing one another, each seating no more than three people, and that at a rather tight squeeze. The only ornamentation is the pair of three-headed dragons, painstakingly carved and inlaid with red, one on each side. He never asked for the dragons to be added, but the craftsmen employed to construct the wheelhouse must have assumed that a member of their Queen’s court would have wanted her sigil to be emblazoned on it, in case she ever wanted to use it.

It is tiny and simple compared with the great, lumbering wheelhouse in which his sister travelled North, what seems like half a dozen lifetimes ago. Cersei insisted that her conveyance must be large enough to comfortably accommodate her, her children, her ladies, and the children’s Septa, and so richly appointed that they could enjoy as many of the luxuries that they did in the Red Keep as possible. The couches set against the walls of the wheelhouse were so long, so wide, and so thickly padded that they could serve as beds, and they did so on more than one night, when their party sought shelter in village inns rather than at the castle of some Lord or another. His sister would never have deigned to spend the night in an inn, sleeping on a straw-stuffed mattress that might well be riddled with fleas, nor would she allow her children to do so, though Tommen and Myrcella would have deemed it an adventure.

He remembers the long journey from King’s Landing to Winterfell only dimly, having spent most of it drunk, his first concern in every village and town in which they spent a night being to locate a brothel and an ale house, in that order.

Though Cersei could sit a horse as well as any knight in a joust, she declined to ride, citing the increasingly chilly weather as her excuse, even when the roads were narrow and uneven, and their party was obliged to travel at a crawl in order to accommodate her wheelhouse, which travelled even more slowly than the wagons that carried their belongings. Tyrion calculated that the presence of the wheelhouse had added a week to their journey. In truth, the prospects of riding next to Robert, as was her right as Queen, and being forced to endure his company and the bawdy tales and tired old jests with which he amused himself, or of riding behind him and swallowing the dust kicked up by his horse’s hooves, were equally unwelcome. Instead, she remained secluded inside her wheelhouse as much as possible, complaining whenever it moved at anything more than a gentle trot.

With hindsight, Tyrion suspects that she intentionally made herself a difficult, burdensome travelling companion, in the hope that Robert would grow sick of it and, if he was not prepared to cancel the journey altogether and content himself with sending a raven to Ned Stark to summon him to serve as Hand, he would at least demand that she take herself, her children, and her blasted wheelhouse back to King’s Landing, sparing her the embarrassment of joining Robert on what was, to him, a near-pilgrimage to the home of his lost, lamented love.

He wonders if it would give Cersei pleasure to learn that Lyanna Stark, the woman Robert loved and mourned until the day he died, the ghost that haunted her marriage from her wedding day until strong wine and a boar did her the kindness of rendering her a widow, willingly ran away with Rhaegar Targaryen. He suspects that, if nothing else, it would amuse her to learn that Robert’s cherished Lyanna was duped into believing herself a wife when she was nothing more than Rhaegar’s mistress, and that his trusted Ned hid his enemy’s son in plain sight.

Who would have ever imagined that the honourable, honest Lord Stark had it in him to fool the entire realm?

It crosses his mind that his sister may now be dead, if the Army of the Dead has travelled from Winterfell to King’s Landing in the past three moons.

His brother too.

Cersei may never have loved him, but Jaime did... or at least he had before Tyrion killed their father. He hoped that the act had not cost him the love of his brother, but could not bring himself to regret it, even if it had. A crossbow bolt was small enough repayment for a lifetime of scorn, denial of love, and the certainty that, if he had been able to devise a way of doing so without branding his late wife a whore, he would have denied that he had ever fathered Tyrion, unable to see anything but a dwarf when he looked upon him, no matter how hard he strove to impress him, no matter how many successes he achieved. Even saving King’s Landing from Stannis was not enough to earn him a kind word. His father scorned him for expecting one.

“Jugglers and singers require applause. You are a Lannister.”

Yet his father was not too much of a Lannister to accept Joffrey’s acclaim as the savior of King’s Landing, when he knew full well that his despised younger son was the only reason that there was anything left of King’s Landing to save by the time he arrived, with the Lannister and Tyrell forces at his back. He even accepted his appointment as Hand of the King from horseback, the better to look down on everybody.

Of all of his family, only Jaime offered him any sincere praise or gratitude for his defence of the city.

He glances at Daenerys, seated opposite him, and wonders if she would have been willing to extend the hospitality of Meereen to Jaime, as she had to the Greyjoys, the Tyrells and the Sands.

The gods knew that Lady Olenna was no innocent, harmless old lady. She did not even try to pretend that she was. Her family had supported first Joffrey, then Tommen as King, and could well have faced Daenerys in battle had she come to seize the throne a couple of years earlier... though he supposed that it was equally likely that even Margaery’s marriage would not have been enough to keep the Tyrells loyal to the Lannisters, not if they believed House Targaryen to be the most likely victor. They turned their cloaks once, when Renly was killed, and managed to do well out of it. They could just as easily have denounced Joffrey, or even sweet, gentle Tommen, as a bastard and a usurper in order to win Daenerys’ favour, ensuring themselves a position of honour in her new court. Perhaps they might even have tried to marry young Loras off to her, in the hope that he might manage to gird his loins to get an heir on the Queen before he dashed into the bed of whichever pretty lad he fancied. He supposes that there are many worse marriages among royalty and nobility; at least neither was likely to begrudge the other their chosen lovers, provided an appearance of unity was maintained.

Both of the Greyjoys had caused their share of mayhem. Like all of the Ironborn, they had seized what they wanted, when they wanted it, uncaring of the destruction they left in their wake. Theon even turned against the Stark boys, children he had known from their infancy, driving them from their home as part of a mad, doomed attempt to annex the North for the Ironborn. He swore that he had not killed them, and Daenerys confirmed this to be true, but it was no kindness to have forced them to live their lives on the run, especially with winter fast approaching. If they managed to survive, it was no thanks to Theon.

Ellaria Sand, together with Oberyn’s eldest three daughters, killed Prince Doran for choosing peace over vengeance, deeming him a coward for not waging a war against the Lannisters that he could not win. They murdered Myrcella, an innocent soul, as lovely in her nature as in her face, for no reason other than the Lannister blood in her veins and their certainty that there was no more painful blow that they could hope to deal Cersei, in payment for Oberyn’s death, than to take her beloved daughter from her, denying her even the chance to see Myrcella one last time in this life. They had made no attempt to conceal their past deeds when they came to Meereen, and Daenerys’ lack of surprise led Tyrion to suspect that, thanks to her vision, it was old news to her.

Nonetheless, they were all made welcome, housed in luxury as honoured guests of the Queen, and allowed the freedom to explore the Great Pyramid, the city, and the surrounding lands, as it pleased them.

Surely she might have done the same for Jaime, especially when she knew his reason for slaying her father, and knew that he never revealed what it was that Aerys had planned, keeping his vow to guard his king’s secrets even when he was scorned as oathbreaker and kingslayer, and could have silenced many of his detractors by making the horror he had prevented known to the world.

Daenerys would surely have had to understand why Jaime did it, and allowed him safe passage to her city.

But Tyrion never asked, and so his brother was doomed.

He could not even hope that Jaime would have the sense to flee by ship, before it was too late, making his way across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. He fought better with one hand than many men did with two, and could have found employment as a sellsword and carved out a life for himself, but Cersei would never agree to release her grip on the Seven Kingdoms, not while there was breath in her body, and Jaime would never leave her side. He might love Tyrion, but he would always love Cersei more.

If Daenerys senses his scrutiny, she gives no sign of it. Her attention is focused on the streets of her city, and the people in it. Citizens call out to Mhysa as she passes, thousands of hands raised in greeting, and she returns their waves and smiles. He knows that, given the choice, she would walk, or ride on horseback, but Jorah and Daario both made such a fuss before they set off that she eventually consented to travel in the wheelhouse instead, though not without warning them that she would not do so for the entire duration of her pregnancy. Grey Worm did not ask before arranging a company of twenty Unsullied to march alongside the wheelhouse to protect her. Missandei would have accompanied them, had Daenerys not entrusted her with the task of receiving petitioners in her stead.

He wants to ask her of her plans, and knows that, as a member of her Council, he should broach the subject sooner rather than later. If she plans to marry one of her lovers, she will need to do so quickly, if there is to be any hope that anybody will believe that the child was conceived in her marriage bed. However, he holds his tongue, knowing without being told that she will not welcome such questions from him.

Shortly after they first met, before the Sons of the Harpy attacked her at the fighting pit, and she was forced to flee on Drogon’s back, he thought that they were well on their way to establishing a good rapport, one built on mutual respect. It was a novel experience to be respected for his intellect by one who truly did not seem to care that he was a dwarf, and he was reasonably certain that Varys was right when he claimed that she was the best ruler among those ready to lay claim to the Iron Throne. For her part, she seemed impressed by him. Even when she returned, having managed to secure the allegiance of the entire Dothraki horde, and found that he had not done quite as good a job of running Meereen as he would have liked to, she still trusted him and heeded his advice.

He allowed himself to imagine that, when she took the Iron Throne, she would invite him to serve as her Hand, and there was even a part of him that regretted killing his father, as he would have loved to see the expression on Tywin Lannister’s face when his despised dwarf son not only ousted him from power, but eclipsed his achievements. His father had served as Hand to a mad king, a vicious idiot king, and a sweet but weak boy king led by first his mother, then his wife, while Tyrion would be Hand to the first good ruler Westeros had had in generations, a queen who would make the Seven Kingdoms a better place for all who lived in them.

Then she had her vision, and everything changed.

She was never unkind, nor did she oust him from his seat on her Council, or his quarters in the Great Pyramid.

When he gave her advice, she listened, but not as she had before. She looked to others for advice before she looked to him, and seemed to hold their opinions in higher regard than she did his. Some of the other members of her Council were occasionally tasked with receiving petitioners in the Queen’s name, as Missandei was today, but she had not once asked Tyrion to perform that duty, and he did not dare volunteer for the task, knowing what her answer would be.

Whatever she had seen in her vision, it had marred her trust in him.

Ser Jorah, Daario, Grey Worm and even gentle Missandei are cool towards him, even though more than a year had passed, so she must have confided in them, even if she did not see fit to tell him what he would have done to have fallen so far from her favour. Nor did she tell him if he had lost her trust forever, or if she kept him on as a test of sorts, waiting to see if he would once more prove worthy of the faith she had had in him.

He would ask what he would have done, but he is half-afraid of what he might hear.

It is cold comfort to know that Varys must have done worse; she had not even sent orders for him to return to Meereen when she had Yara ferry her allies across the sea, and if he has not had the sense to leave Westeros of his own accord, there is a very good chance that he is dead by now.

He is sorry for it. Varys saved his life, saw his worth, and served as the butt of some of his best jokes. It would be nice to still have a friend.

They reach the barracks in good time, arriving in the mid-morning.

Tyrion has never seen the inside of one of the barracks for himself until now. They are austere, but decently built. The temporary structures erected in haste when Daenerys first conquered the city, and wanted to ensure that the newly freed slaves would be fed and sheltered until they could find work as free citizens, and to endeavour to ensure that none of the freemen would feel compelled to return to slavery, seeing it as the only way that they might have full bellies and a safe place to sleep, have been replaced over the past couple of the years with permanent buildings. He knows that each can hold several thousand people, and that they have served as temporary homes to the slaves that the Dothraki have been bringing from Volantis as they make the transition between their former lives as slaves and their new lives as free citizens of whichever of Daenerys’ cities they wish, but it is one thing to imagine a shelter for thousands, and quite another to see it with his own eyes.

Never has he been more thankful for his spacious chambers in the Great Pyramid than he is now, as he follows Daenerys into the barracks, and sees hundreds of rows of bunks and pallets, all of them occupied.

The room is long, longer by far than the throne room in the Red Keep, though not half as wide, and it is crowded with men, women and children. The shelter is overly warm from the press of bodies, and he finds the heat, together with the smell of unwashed flesh, almost overpowering. He would much prefer to be able to return to his spacious chambers, just a few levels below the top of the Great Pyramid, where the rooms are cool and shady, kept spotlessly clean by servants, and where he can sit on his balcony, whose potted trees and flowers make the air smell of summer, looking out over the city, a goblet of wine in hand.

If Daenerys is affected by the smell, she gives no indication of it, her face alight with a smile that makes her look so beautiful that Tyrion’s heart aches at the sight of her as she moves among the people.

The newly freed slaves from Volantis are the first to swarm around her, little children jostling to be the ones to hold her hands and walk with her, while men and women call out blessings and thanks as she passes.

Even after over a year in Meereen, his Valyrian is poor, and his Ghiscari worse, so he scarcely understands a word she says to them, but he is able to catch the general gist of it; words of welcome, and a vow that they are safe now, and will be cared for. He was a slave for a matter of days, not long enough to truly understand what it is to be a slave, at least according to Missandei, but he likes to think that he understands enough of what it is to be a slave to understand why those liberated from Volantis, and escorted to Meereen to begin new lives under Daenerys’ protection, look upon her as mother, queen and near-goddess combined, the savior that their red priestesses promised them, the living embodiment of the hope that has sustained them.

She spends some time talking to them, asking questions and listening to their responses with sincere concern, pausing at intervals to summon one of the scribes over, and giving them instructions.

None of the slaves from Volantis pay any attention to Tyrion, and nor does Daenerys.

He watches her for a few minutes, shifting restlessly from foot to foot as he waits for her to extricate herself from the Volantenes and turn her attention to the party from Westeros, but she does not seem to be in any hurry to do so, and he can’t imagine that she would welcome it if he tried to interrupt. Eventually, he gives up on waiting for her and wanders further down the length of the room, his eyes peeled for a familiar face.

When he spots Podrick Payne, he makes a beeline for him, genuinely thrilled to see his one-time squire.

“Pod!”

The boy… no, he is a man now, a little taller than Tyrion remembers, and thinner, like all of the people from Westeros… flinches at the sound of his name, seeming to shrink in on himself. Instead of returning Tyrion’s greeting, or even his smile, he remains silent and grave, not meeting Tyrion’s eyes. He wraps his arms around himself and ducks his head, as if taking comfort from making himself as small and compact as possible.

“You can’t have forgotten me, Pod.” Tyrion’s tone is as light and jovial as he can make it, but the lad reacts as if he was bellowing in a rage worthy of Robert, when he was in his cups and loudly lambasted poor Lancel, no matter how the lad strove to please him. He is about to reach out to grasp Pod’s hand, but thinks better of the gesture. “You have no idea how pleased I am to see you here, alive and…” he trails off, unable to truthfully describe Pod as ‘well’. “How did you come to be here?” He cannot imagine what could possibly have led to his one-time squire ending up a member of a party that consisted almost exclusively of Northerners, but he supposes that it must be quite a tale.

Not that Pod seems inclined to tell it.

“He doesn’t speak.”

At the sound of a soft, feminine voice, Tyrion turns to see Sansa approach. As soon as his attention is on Sansa, Pod seizes the opportunity to hasten away, not heeding his plea that he stay.

He sees that Sansa has exchanged the dark, woollen gown, reduced almost to rags, that she wore during the audience with Daenerys, for a simple gown of undyed linen, undoubtedly provided to her at the shelter. While he supposes that it must be an improvement over her old gown, it nonetheless feels wrong to see the daughter of a great House dressed so plainly. He remembers when Shae disguised herself as a handmaid. The gowns she wore as part of the role she needed to play were of finer quality than the one Sansa wears now. Her hair is unbound, drawn forward on one side to shadow her face. Tyrion’s winces inwardly at the sight of her scarred cheek and neck, which look as if she was savaged by a beast. He remembers how close he was to weeping when he awoke after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, feeling his face swathed in bandages, and later, when he saw the scar that split his face for the first time. But nobody had ever been able to call him handsome before his maiming… at least nobody other than whores who considered a little flattery to be part of the package for which he was paying them a not inconsiderable sum… so a scar did not matter so much to him.

For Sansa, one of the beauties of Westeros, it must be so much worse.

“He hasn’t spoken since the battle,” she explains, her voice soft with sympathy. “He saw things there, terrible things. We all did.” Saw, and fought, to judge by the look of her. He doesn’t imagine that she got that scar hiding away from the battle. “He is squire to Brienne of Tarth. He was with her when she searched for me, and when she rescued me from…” she trails off, the memory, whatever it is, too painful to speak of. She recovers quickly, masking her emotions with an elegance and grace that Cersei could never emulate. “They stayed with me after that, and fought against the Army of the Dead when they reached Winterfell. He was very brave, my lord.”

“I don’t doubt that, my lady.” The lad may have been shy, and far from practiced in the many duties of a squire. Tywin Lannister would not have wasted a well-trained squire on his younger son. What Pod lacked in skill, he more than made up for in courage, and a loyal heart. Tyrion had regretted leaving him behind, and more than once, had worried that Cersei might have vented her rage at his disappearance on his unfortunate squire. “And I’m sure that you were very brave too.”

She does not smile at the compliment, nor does she tell him anything of her part in the battle, or how she acquired her scars. “I saw Lady Olenna Tyrell in the throne room yesterday,” she says, coming straight to her point.

“Yes, Lady Olenna and her granddaughters are Queen Daenerys’ guests, and Lady Olenna sits on the Queen’s Council.”

She is quiet for a moment as she digests this, and when she speaks, she looks at him as if he holds all hope in his hands. “I need to speak to her. Can you bring me to see her? She was always kind to me, and I know that she will want to help me now. I know that you will help me.”

Tyrion glances behind him, and though he cannot see Daenerys, he can see the crowd that has gathered at the centre of the room, and knows that she must be at the heart of it. If she is engrossed in speaking with the people, finding out what it is they need, she will be here for some hours yet. Jorah and Daario will take turns strangling him if he takes the wheelhouse and leaves her to walk back to the Great Pyramid, but he reasons that it can do no real harm if he and Sansa use it, and he sends it back to the shelter to collect her. He would wager every coin in his purse that she will still be there, still talking to the people, not thinking to leave until long after the wheelhouse returns. The Unsullied will be there in any case, so it is not as if he is leaving her unprotected.

His decision made, he offers Sansa his arm, inclining his head in the slight, courtly bow he always offered her while they were married. This time, she takes his arm eagerly, and her whispered ‘thank you’ is sincere as she allows him to lead her outside.

She reproaches herself for not having better preparations in place to receive the people the Dothraki conduct from Volantis to Meereen by now. The shelters are adequate as a short-term solution, but no place for people to dwell indefinitely, least of all young children, and after the hardship she knows that they will have endured as slaves, what she is offering seems paltry. She imagines that some of them, those with the skills most prized by the masters, were better housed and better fed in Volantis than they are here, yet nobody has any complaints of the accommodation, food or clothes that are provided. For the most part, all they want from her is a chance to speak to her, to thank her, to touch her hand or her silver hair.

She has come here to speak to the people from Westeros, yet how could she brush aside people who have lived through such harshness, and to whom she has extended her protection?

She lets them say what they need to say, and then explains to them that the scribes who are circulating throughout the shelter are there to take note of anything that they might need, and that she will do everything in her power to ensure that they will be as comfortable as possible. They will also make lists of their names, and their skills, in order to help them find work. Tens of thousands of other former slaves from Volantis are now settled in Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai, and the farms that have been established on the lands that stretch between them.

Her final instruction is that they should choose some of their number to act as spokespeople, to bring their needs and complaints before her and then, once she has secured their agreement to do so, she turns her attention to the people of Westeros. The smell of stew and bread tells her that the noon meal is being prepared, and she realizes that close to two hours have passed since she arrived.

Samwell Tarly is the first person she asks to see, and when he comes before her, he is visibly trembling. A young woman and a small boy are just a few paces behind him. She cannot recall the woman’s name, if she ever knew it in the other life, but she seemed to be Samwell’s wife, and the child their son.

Jon never explained how a man of the Night’s Watch had come to have a wife and son, something she knew to be forbidden from the books Jorah gave her when she was wed to Drogo, and of what little he told her of his father, who renounced his position as Lord of Bear Island in favour of his son in order to serve on the Wall.

“Please, Your Grace,” he burbles before she can say a word to him. “I didn’t mean to insult you, or your family, I swear it. I truly thought that Jon was your brother’s trueborn son, or I would never have said that he was the heir to the Iron Throne. Please believe me! The diary was in the Citadel, you see, and I didn’t realise what it meant until Bran told me that Jon’s real mother was Lady Lyanna, and that your brother was his father. He thought that Jon’s true name was Sand, but when he told me what he saw, I told him about the diary and that they were married, and then he looked at the past and saw the wedding for himself.”

He speaks so quickly that she has no chance to interrupt, but she takes note of what he says of Bran Stark being the one to reveal Jon’s parentage.

For a moment, she allows herself to think about what might have happened had Bran Stark not seen fit to share Jon’s secret with Samwell rather than waiting to speak to Jon about it. Surely he should have done Jon the courtesy of telling him first. Had he waited to tell Jon, Samwell would have had no reason to connect the diary to Jon, and Bran would have assumed that Jon was a bastard. Would Sansa still have sought to press Jon’s claim to the Iron Throne ahead of hers? Would Varys have betrayed her, seeing to it that all of Westeros learned that a Targaryen male walked among them, if he knew Jon to be a bastard?

There is no point in asking, not now, but she cannot help but wonder if it might all have been different.

“Jon never wanted the Iron Throne, Your Grace, he only sent word to the Lords to let them know that he was the heir because he hoped that it would lead them to join us in the battle against the Army of the Dead, but nobody came, and it was all for nothing.” His eyes are gleaming with unshed tears, and she imagines that he is thinking of his father and his brother, little realizing that their lives were longer in this life than they were in the other.

“I am not angry with you, Samwell.” At her words, he looks up to meet her gaze, sniffling as he makes a visible effort to control his nervousness. “And I have not come here to punish you for your mistake. I know that it was an honest one, and that you would never have claimed that Jon Snow was not heir to the Iron Throne if you did not believe it to be true. I came here to reward you. When Ser Jorah was stricken with greyscale, I ordered him to find a cure and return to me. It is only thanks to you that he was able to obey my command. It is thanks to you that I have my oldest friend back with me, a man that I dearly love.” His eyes widen at this, but he does not dare to ask any questions about the nature of that love, or the place Jorah holds in her life. “You have done me a great service, and a great service merits a great reward, don’t you agree?”

His only response is a squeak. She supposes that he fears to seem greedy if he agrees that he deserves a reward, yet does not want to refuse out of modesty, in case she takes him at his word and he misses out.

“I… I… thank you, Your Grace,” he manages at last.

In the other life, the reward he sought was a pardon for his theft of books from the library at the Citadel, and of his family’s ancestral sword. The request had amused her, until he told her the name of his House.

This time, she has a reward in mind.

“Lady Sarella Sand trained as a maester, disguised. She advises me as a member of my Council, but she has also undertaken the task of establishing a library in one of the pyramids.” After the purge of the supporters of the Sons of the Harpy, more than one of the pyramids that once housed the wealthy of the city lay vacant. The one closest to the Great Pyramid was to be the first to be repurposed. “It will house books from all over Essos, and beyond. Lady Sarella brought some books from Westeros when she came to Meereen, and Ser Jorah gifted me with books on songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms when I was a girl. I will seek books from Westeros in the Free Cities, and beyond. Westeros may be lost, but that does not mean that its history, its songs and its stories must be lost to the world. Lady Sarella will need men and women of learning to assist her in establishing the library, and in making copies of what books we can gather, so that the knowledge may be preserved and shared. In time, it is my hope to establish a centre of learning, like the Citadel in Oldtown.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Your Grace,” he tells her sincerely.

“I am glad that you think so, because I would like you to assist in this endeavor. You will be paid a good wage, and you and your family will have rooms in the library. You will want for nothing. Lady Sarella believes that your assistance will be valuable to her.” An exaggeration. Sarella grudgingly conceded that Samwell was not a stupid man, and that he might prove useful once she trained him in his duties, but she was adamant that he had much to learn.

“Your Grace, I…” Samwell’s cheeks are pink and he cannot find the words he wants to say.

The woman is quick to step forward, holding the little boy’s hand in hers. “He accepts, Your Grace. Happily.”

“I am glad to hear it. Come to the Great Pyramid at noon tomorrow. Lady Sarella will meet you, and show you to your new home.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the woman says, before grabbing Samwell by the arm and steering him away.

Daenerys watches them leave, glad that, in this life, she has rewarded the man who saved Jorah’s life rather than having to tell him that his father and brother were killed on her order. She is also glad to know that one of the eleven children to survive will be comfortably housed and provided for. Before she leaves, she will have the scribes collect the details of the other child survivors, and any family or guardians they might have, so that they can be prioritized for more permanent housing.

She is debating whether to seek Jon out, or to leave instructions, through the scribes, about the next steps for his people, when she feels a small hand tug at her gown.

She expects to see one of the Volantene children, but the child’s colouring is that of a Northerner. She feels a lump in her throat at the sight of the little girl, who can’t be much older than she herself was when Ser Willem died, and she and Viserys were cast out of the house with the red door. The little girl is thinner than any child should be, and Daenerys can only pray that the scars on her face are old ones, not inflicted on her at Winterfell.

“Are you the Queen?”

“I am.”

“The Queen with the dragons?” the little girl asks, as if there could be more than one Queen in Meereen.

“That’s right.”

The little girl shifts from foot to foot for a few moments, chewing her lower lip as if considering a matter of grave importance. “It’s not nice to tell tales,” she states, as though it is a universally known fact. “But it’s not really telling tales if somebody is going to do something bad, and you can stop it. Is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Daenerys agrees gravely.

After another moment’s consideration, the little girl crooks her finger, gesturing for Daenerys to bend down to her level. When she does, she whispers in her ear. Once she had said all she wants to say, the little girl draws away, an anxious expression on her face. “You won’t say that I told, will you? I didn’t want your dragons hurt.”

“I won’t tell anybody,” Daenerys promises, reaching out to stroke the child’s face with a gentle finger. “You did right to tell me. What is your name?”

“Lilla.”

“Is your mother here? Your father? Have you any brothers or sisters with you?”

“My mother and father were killed when the Boltons came. I don’t have any sisters, but all of my brothers were soldiers. I want to be a soldier too. I was in charge of protecting the crypts, but I didn’t do a very good job. Nearly everybody in there died, when the dead people woke up.”

Though she had no part in planning the strategy this time, Daenerys cannot help but be appalled that they ever thought that it was a good idea to send the women, children, and those too old or weak to fight to shelter among the Stark dead. How could she have been so stupid as to assume that the Starks interred the ashes of their dead, rather than their bodies? She had left Missandei in a trap, primed to be sprung by the Night King.

“I’m sure that you did the best job that anybody could do,” she reassures Lilla, who looks unconvinced. “Who is looking after you?”

“Ser Davos. Well, we look after him too, Jeyne and me. Ser Sandor looks after the others who don’t have family. He says that he is going to stay in Meereen with us, and so is Ser Davos, even if Lady Sansa wants to go back.”

“Could you do something for me, Lilla? Could you ask Ser Davos to come to the Great Pyramid tomorrow at noon, when Samwell Tarly does? I would like to see Ser Davos, Ser Sandor, and all of you.”

“I’ll tell him,” Lilla promises, surprising Daenerys with a quick hug. “Thank you for letting us stay here.”

Daenerys feels as though her heart is breaking as she returns the hug. Every time that she thinks that she has made peace with her decision to stay in Essos, to prioritize the protection of her people over the protection of the people of Westeros, she finds herself questioning it and now, faced with one of just eleven children to survive, she wonders if there might have been a way to save them all, one that she didn’t see because she didn’t want to.

‘If I look back, I am lost,’ she reminds herself.

She made her choice, made the only choice that allowed her to save all of her people. All she can do now is to help the innocent survivors of Westeros start new lives.

When she releases Lilla, the little girl runs off, undoubtedly in search of Ser Davos.

“Find Jon Snow,” she orders the closest scribe. “Tell him that I want to speak to him.”

Sansa can still remember her amazement the first time she beheld the Red Keep.

She can count the number of times she left Winterfell during her childhood on the fingers of one hand. Aside from very rare visits to the castles closest to them, her world consisted only of the great castle, with its godswood, ancient towers and keeps, the winter town that she was sometimes allowed to visit on market day, always chaperoned by the ever-watchful Septa Mordane, and the surrounding lands and woods where she rode, always under the protective eyes of Father’s men at arms, any one of whom would have laid down his life rather than see harm come to one of Ned Stark’s children.

Her mother told her stories of her home at Riverrun, where the rooms were larger and airier than their dimly lit stone chambers at Winterfell, where they had cooks from as far away as the Crownlands to prepare rich, well-spiced dishes, never serving the same dish twice in a fortnight, and could eat cake every day instead of only at feasts, and where Lord Tully always hosted singers to entertain his household. Only once had a singer stayed at Winterfell during her childhood, and he stayed scarcely a month before moving on. Sansa suspected that her mother was almost as grieved as she was when the singer left, denying them the entertainment they had enjoyed for too short a time. She knew without being told that Casterly Rock and Highgarden were more splendid by far than Riverrun, and that the royal court was the grandest and most magnificent of all, a world away from the simple life they led at Winterfell. She was sure that there must be singers and fools and conjurers by the dozen in the Red Keep, and that life there would never be dull.

As her mother brushed her hair at night, she often told Sansa that, one day, a match would be made for her with one of the great Lords of the South, a man who would cherish her for her beauty and for being the most perfect Lady who could ever grace his castle, reassuring her that though she was born in the North, she had all the grace and courtesies of a Southron lady. She was not meant to marry a gruff Northern Lord, and to be forced to spend the rest of her days in a gloomy, chilly castle, but to be Lady of one of the great Southron Houses. She was impatient for the day when she could live like the princesses in her favourite stories, with a different gown for each day of the moon’s turning, each crafted of silk and velvet and samite rather than the wool and fur of the North, with wonderful jewels at her throat and in her hair, even grander than the ones her mother occasionally allowed her to borrow as a special treat. Best of all, she would have a handsome Lord who would adore her as Aemon the Dragonknight did Princess Naerys, or as Florian did Jonquil.

The Red Keep, with all its splendour, luxury and pageantry, lived up to every dream she ever had, at least at first, before she learned what a dangerous place it was, a beautiful place made cold and cruel by the people within.

She was awed by the throne room in which Daenerys Targaryen received them when they sought an audience with her, but it does not compare to the private apartments to which Tyrion shows her and Brienne, who refused to allow her to go anywhere unescorted.

She was dismayed when Tyrion told her that Lady Olenna’s apartments were on the topmost level of the pyramid, dreading the thought of another long climb, but she need not have worried. They did not need to climb the many flights of stairs this time. Instead, Tyrion had conducted her to an iron cage, attached to strange apparatus by chains as thick as a man’s arm. Strong men were stationed near the cage, and moved towards the apparatus at their approach.

“It’s quite safe, my lady,” he told her gently. “They have something like this at the Wall, and it served them well for thousands of years. It’s not used for the petitioners; it would be far too much work for those who man the winch, but the Queen, the court and her household use it.”

She tries not to scowl at the memory of their long, exhausting climb, and is irritated that their guide did not think to mention that there was a much quicker and easier way for them to reach the throne room. Daenerys Targaryen could not have raised any objection to highborn guests, one of them her own nephew, making use of the cage rather than having to follow the smallfolk up the many flights of stairs.

Even in the cage, it takes quite some time to reach the top of the pyramid. As soon as they step out of the cage, Tyrion tugs sharply on a cord.

“It is attached to a bell,” he explains when he sees her puzzlement. “We ring it let them know that the cage is empty, and they can draw it down for the next person.”

Once she sees the topmost level, Sansa’s breath catches in awe.

Even the corridor is beautiful, wider than the galleries at the Red Keep, with frescoes on the walls, intricately carved pillars, and lifelike statues of marble, precious metals, and polished black stone set at intervals. Windows have been cut into the thick sandstone walls, allowing light and air to stream in. The air is cooler up here than it is down on the streets of the city, and she finds the breeze refreshing. For a moment, she remembers the crisp, cold air of the North, and she has to bite her lip to keep from weeping over her lost home.

Tyrion leads her down the corridor, past doors guarded by soldiers in black leather tunics that she assumes lead to the Queen’s private apartments.

“Do you have chambers here, my lord?” she asks politely, wanting to learn as much as she can about Daenerys Targaryen’s court.

“Two levels down. Only the Queen, Lady Olenna and Lady Missandei have chambers on this level.” There is a slight edge to his tone as he answers her query, one that Sansa cannot help but take note of. If the status of those residing in the pyramid is tied to the position of their chambers, then Olenna’s chambers indicate that she stands even higher in favour than Tyrion does, something that he is clearly far from pleased about. She congratulates herself for thinking to approach the old lady rather than relying on Tyrion’s intercession. She might have guessed that Lady Olenna would thrive in any court.

They come to a stop outside an ornately carved door of dark wood, inlaid with gold. Tyrion knocks once.

The door is opened by a girl of about Sansa’s age, with chestnut curls and brown eyes that grow wide when she sees who the visitors are.

“Who has come to disturb us?” a voice that can only belong to Lady Olenna demands.

“It is Lord Tyrion, Grandmother. He has Brienne of Tarth and Sansa Stark with him.” The girl steps back to allow them to enter.

Sansa dimly remembers her as one of the many young ladies who accompanied Margaery to the Red Keep when she came there as Joffrey’s betrothed. Her ‘flock of foolish hens’, Lady Olenna had called them. Margaery described them in kinder terms, quipping that they were “roses from lower on the bush”. Sansa never got to know any of them, not truly. She spent time with Margaery, who was among the very few to offer her any hint of friendship during those lonely days, something for which she would always remember the other woman with fondness, but she could scarcely tell the Tyrell cousins apart.

Had she been allowed to marry Loras and leave for Highgarden with him – and how different her life might have been if she had! – she imagines that she would have come to know them well, and perhaps even count them as friends.

They used to inspire both envy and pity in her; envy for the innocence they still possessed, and that had been robbed from her forever the moment Joffrey called for Father’s head, and pity for their childish certainty that they would prosper at court, little realising how dangerous a place it was, or what viciousness Joffrey and Cersei concealed behind their gracious masks.

Now, she finds herself envying their brightly coloured silk gowns, their smooth, rosy faces, their glossy hair, and their lavish surroundings.

In the year before the battle at Winterfell, the keep more resembled a soldiers’ barracks than a court worthy of the Lady of Winterfell, let alone the royal House of the North.

Jon wanted to have as many of the people of the North as possible to take shelter in Winterfell, reasoning that they would have little warning when the Army of the Dead breached the Wall, and that they could not afford to take the risk that, if their advance was a sudden one, there would not be enough time to bring everybody safely to Winterfell. As a result, they spent a year living in crowded conditions. Meals were served in shifts, both inside the hall and outside in the courtyard, and the fare was plain. There were more highborn staying under Winterfell’s roof than at any time in Sansa’s life, even when her father hosted King Robert and invited his bannermen to pay homage to his royal guest, and more they had suitable guest chambers for, obliging many of them to share. Sansa had shared the Lord’s chamber, hers by right as Lady of Winterfell even if the Northern Lords chose to name Jon their King, and even her bed with Arya, while Brienne slept on a pallet near the door, at her own insistence. Every morning and afternoon, the courtyards and the fields outside the castle were a hive of activity as everybody between ten and sixty was required to drill with weapons, even those who were to take shelter in the crypts when the attack came. Sansa had no natural talent for warfare, and found herself envying Arya’s skills for the first time in their lives. Her duties as Lady of Winterfell frequently left her too busy to spare any time for the yard, but on the occasions where she could not avoid it, she ended the training sessions bruised and blistered.

And all the while, the Tyrell ladies were living like princesses in Meereen.

It is difficult for Sansa to swallow her resentment and to force a pleasant smile to her face as she approaches Lady Olenna, dipping a slight curtsey in deference to her age.

“You look as though you have had a difficult time of it, child,” Lady Olenna remarks, never one to mince words. Sansa supposes that she should have expected that, while another lady might have pretended not to notice Sansa’s scars, or that her gown was better suited to one of the smallfolk than to the Lady of a great House, and the sister of two Kings, it was too much to expect that Lady Olenna would be tactful.

“Father used to say that men and women should be proud of their battle scars, not ashamed,” a lilting voice pipes up. “It means that they fought, and lived to tell the tale.”

The speaker is a girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen, the youngest person in the room and around the same age as Sansa was when she still thought the world a beautiful place, a place where a beautiful, highborn girl was certain to lead a joyous life, a life untouched by hardship or darkness. She is gowned as richly as any of the Tyrell girls, in a silk gown the colour of a setting sun, but the likeness ends there. Where the Tyrell girls have skin like cream, with roses in their cheeks, chestnut hair, and round, open faces, this girl has glossy, jet-black waves, dark, piercing eyes, and a complexion that Sansa has only seen on Dornishmen and foreigners.

“You know my granddaughters, of course.” Much to Sansa’s irritation, Lady Olenna seems to take it for granted that she will remember them well enough for there to be no need for her to name them. “Allow me to present the Lady Obella of House Sand. Lady Obella, this is Sansa Stark, and the magnificent creature with her is Brienne of Tarth, who could give any of your sisters a run for their money. Any two of them, I’d wager.”

The girl inclines her head in a regal nod.

“House Sand?” Sansa repeats, before she can stop herself. The only people she knows of who use the name Sand are bastards born in Dorne. Had Sam Tarly not told them of Aunt Lyanna’s marriage to Prince Rhaegar, Jon might have claimed that name when Bran first told him who his parents were. She remembers that one of the little girls sitting on the steps beneath Daenerys Targaryen’s throne called herself a Sand, taking umbrage at the idea that Jon might share her name. This girl, this Obella, looks enough like the little girls for Sansa to be confident that she is their sister, but she has never before heard a bastard name spoken of as if it was the name of a noble House.

“Lady Ellaria Sand sits on the Queen’s Council, and represents those who have travelled from Dorne, as I represent the people from the Reach. Her Grace has decreed that she, and all of the daughters of Prince Oberyn, should be accorded the status of ladies of a noble House of Meereen. She granted the same honour to House Tyrell when she invited us to be her guests.”

“But you were already a noble House!” Sansa protests. The Tyrells were never Kings, as the Starks were, but they were still a noble House, with a history dating back to the Age of Heroes. They do not need Daenerys Targaryen’s permission to claim their due as members of the old nobility.

“We were a noble House of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, but this is not Westeros. We are in Essos now,” Lady Olenna says, as though Sansa should have thought of this for herself. She does not wait for Sansa to respond before turning her attention to Tyrion. “Do you intend to join us, Lord Tyrion? I should not have thought that tea and the chatter of ladies would be to your taste.”

When Tyrion takes the opportunity to excuse himself, Lady Olenna indicates the gilded chairs and ornate sofa set around the high-backed chair on which she sits, her feet resting on a well-padded footstool.

“Do sit down. I am an old woman, and likely to strain my neck if I have to spend much longer craning it to look up at you both.”

Brienne waits until Sansa has taken a seat on the chair at Lady Olenna’s side before gingerly lowering herself into the chair on Sansa’s other side. With their guests seated, the Tyrell girls claim places on the couch and the remaining chair.

Sansa takes the opportunity to take in her surroundings. The room is large, easily twice the size of Cersei’s solar, and it is even more ornately decorated than the corridor. There is a seating area set around a polished marble firepit, which is laid in readiness for a fire but not lit. Low tables are set on either side of the firepit, just in front of the couch and the chairs. Doors set with glazed panes are open, allowing light and air into the room, and through them, Sansa can glimpse a balcony, with small trees and flowering bushes growing from great stone pots. A table crafted from dark wood, its surface polished to a high shine and its legs intricately carved, long enough to seat a dozen, is set at the far side of the room. There are beautifully silk hangings on the walls, depicting exotic scenes. Aside from the door through which they entered, there is another, which she assumes leads to a bedchamber.

She suspects that the Tyrell girls have been hard at work on their embroidery since their arrival, as she can see that cushions and cloth covers emblazoned with the gold rose of House Tyrell are set over the back of the couch.

Even as a young girl, imagining her future as Joffrey’s Queen, she could have envisioned no grander surroundings.

“My brother wrote to you, my lady,” she begins, trying to keep her voice mild and even. “Before the Army of the Dead attacked. He sought help from all of the noble Houses, even the Lannisters.”

And instead of bringing the Tyrell forces to Winterfell, where their strength might have made the difference between defeat and victory, where they might have helped to save the North and all of the realm, Lady Olenna chose to gather up her remaining granddaughters and flee her homeland for the court of an exiled Targaryen.

“I can’t imagine that he got much of a response from them. Most of them probably thought him mad, especially when he started to call himself Aegon Targaryen. What did Cersei have to say about it all?”

“She promised to help, if Jon bent the knee to her and swore to keep the Queen’s peace.”

“And you were still defeated? The Lannisters had close to twenty thousand men when we left. Did none of them survive the battle? As I heard it, virtually all of the survivors were of the North.”

“Jon didn’t agree to her terms!” Sansa is aghast at the idea that he might have.

“I see.” Lady Olenna says no more on the matter, but Sansa feels uncomfortably conscious of her disapproval though she, of all people, should understand why the North could never accept Cersei as its Queen. She reaches out to pat Sansa’s hand with soft, wrinkled fingers, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentle. “I never had a chance to apologise to you, my dear, for using you to get rid of that monstrous boy. I couldn’t let my Margaery be his wife. The gods alone know what he would have done to her. I make no apologies for protecting her, but I am sorry that I put you at risk, and pleased to see that you survived the Lannisters.”

“You killed Joffrey?” Littlefinger led her to believe that the scheme was his alone, the hapless Ser Dontos his sole accomplice, other than unnamed ‘friends’. She supposes that she should not be surprised to learn that he lied.

“You will never know how much I regret that I never got the chance to tell Cersei that it was me. I could send a letter I suppose, but it wouldn’t be the same as seeing the look on her face.”

Sansa bites her lower lip as she tries to imagine what might have become of her had she not fled King’s Landing with Littlefinger that night, had she not been used as the means by which poison was smuggled to the wedding feast. Littlefinger would not have had an opportunity to make her believe that marrying Ramsey was her best chance at gaining control of the North, and she would never have suffered at that monster’s hands. But if Cersei believed that there was the slightest chance that she might have been involved in the assassination, she would not have been satisfied with anything less than her head on a spike. With Robb gone, Cersei might not have felt the need to keep her alive as a hostage, and while gentle Tommen would never want to see her harmed, Sansa could not imagine that he would have had it in him to go against his mother on her behalf. Even if her life was spared, she would be trapped in King’s Landing now, doomed.

There is a knock at the door, and one of the Tyrell girls springs to her feet to open it, admitting three men in fine linen tunics, each carrying a tray laden with pots of fragrant tea, delicate cups, and an assortment of cakes and other delicacies. Sansa’s mouth waters at the rich aroma of the cakes, and it is all she can do to wait until the servants have set down their burdens on the low tables before she helps herself, savouring the first sweet taste of cake she has had in what feels like years.

Lady Olenna smiles with relish as she accepts a plate with an assortment of cakes and creamy cheeses. “Nobody here tries to argue with me when I tell them that I want the cheese served with the cake.”

Sansa manages a polite smile by way of response.

“Your journey here must have been terrible,” Lady Olenna continues, between bites of food and sips of tea. “Ours was dreadful, even in one of the best ships in the Iron Fleet, and earlier in winter. I imagine that you must have been relieved to reach land, and when you were brought to the barracks. A wonderful initiative, aren’t they? King’s Landing would have been much the better if they had a proper place for those in need to be sheltered and fed proper meals. I wish that my Margaery could be here to see it. I know that she would approve.”

She says it as though there could be no higher praise, and Sansa supposes that it is natural for Lady Olenna to see it that way. She never made any secret of the fact that Margaery was the best-loved of her grandchildren.

“Thousands upon thousands of former slaves have passed through those barracks. You will have met the latest to arrive from Volantis. They will shelter there until they find work. You could have your pick of the city guard, or the Second Sons, or you could sail with the Iron Fleet or ride with the Dothraki, if you prefer a bit of an adventure,” she tells Brienne. “A good fighter can always find a place.”

“I have sworn my sword to Lady Sansa,” Brienne says stoutly. “I serve her.”

“I see. And what of you, Sansa? Have you given any thought to the kind of work you would like to do?”

It is several moments before Sansa can speak, so shocked is she by the question.

Even when Daenerys Targaryen spoke of the survivors of the North finding work in her city, she had not let herself believe that it applied to her.

The Tyrell girls, and Obella Sand, are listening intently to the conversation, but they do not say a word.

“I could never… it’s not fitting that I… there’s no work that I can do.”

“Oh, come now, child,” Lady Olenna says briskly. “I know that Cersei always said that you were a stupid girl, but I never thought that you believed her. Surely you don’t so underrate yourself that you think you cannot find a way to earn a living. There is plenty of work that you can do. You could easily find a position as a handmaid. You know the duties well enough from the other side, and there’s more than one wealthy merchant whose wife would like the idea of being attended by a girl of noble blood. No doubt your Septa saw to it that you learned to dance and sing and play music. You could give lessons. You’re good with your needle, are you not? There is always work for a seamstress. You could work in the barracks, in the kitchens. You’ll have seen for yourself that they need many hands. Once they’ve fed you up a bit, you’ll be strong enough for farming, if you’d like to work with the settlers from the Reach. You might prefer to be around people who speak the Common Tongue. It would do you good to be out in the fresh air. If nothing else, you can surely learn to scrub a floor!”

Sansa feels tears prick the back of her eyes as she pictures herself tending to a merchant’s wife, when she should be the one attended by handmaids, or of spending her days stitching fine gowns that she will never have a chance to wear, or of working in fields, her skin red from the sun and her hands rough, or of scrubbing a floor on her hands and knees, as if she was no better than the humblest servant in a castle.

If it is a joke, it is cruel one, yet there is no trace of humour or malice on Lady Olenna’s face, or on the faces of the other girls.

They all seem to take it for granted that she will have to work.

“You said that you represent the people from the Reach, and that Ellaria Sand represents the people from Dorne,” she says, seizing on the idea as soon as it strikes her. “The people from the North will need a representative too.”

“There are few enough of them that they will surely be able to speak for themselves, should they wish to approach the Queen on any matter. What need have they of a representative?”

“She has welcomed you to her court. You and all of the Sands.”

“We are her allies, and the young ladies of House Sand are also the nieces of the Queen’s good-sister, and cousins to her niece and nephew. Had Prince Rhaegar lived, they would have called him ‘uncle’. Of course Her Grace made them welcome in her court, when they are kin to her by marriage.”

Sansa bites her tongue so hard that, for an instant, she fears that she has drawn blood.

It is all she can do not to scream at Lady Olenna that, had Prince Rhaegar lived, he would have set aside Princess Elia, lawfully, and taken her Aunt Lyanna to be his Queen. She would be the one to call him ‘uncle’.

Why should the Sands enjoy Daenerys Targaryen’s favour when her aunt was the one Prince Rhaegar truly loved, and Jon the child that he would have wanted to rule after him?

She has as much right to her hospitality as the Sands have, if not more.

“Your apartment is beautiful, and the pyramid is so big, bigger than the Red Keep.” She hates that her voice sounds so desperate, wants so badly to be strong and proud and brave, as a Stark should be, but it is all she can do not to break down in sobs, pleading with Lady Olenna to intercede with Daenerys Targaryen on her behalf. The pyramid is different to the castles of Westeros but so grand and lovely that Sansa is sure that she could be happy here.

A Queen should offer hospitality to highborn guests. Has nobody ever taught Daenerys Targaryen this?

“Her Grace is not shy.”

“What do you mean?” It is not the answer Sansa is expecting.

“I mean what I say. She is not shy. If she wanted your company, she would invite you to live here, as she invited us. The gods know that there is space aplenty. I am sure that you don’t expect me to demand that the Queen extend you her hospitality when I am a guest myself? My old Septa, the gods rest her soul, would take a rod to my backside if she saw me do something so ill-mannered.”

Sansa feels her cheeks grow hot. Never in her life has she been accused of bad manners, and it is so unfair that Lady Olenna can’t, or won’t, see how wrong all of this is.

“I am Lady Stark of Winterfell.” She has to say it aloud, to remind them, to remind herself, who she is. The blood of kings flows in her veins. Her family ruled the North for eight thousand years, before the dragons came and forced them to kneel. They won their crown back and they would have ruled it for another eight thousand years, or more, if not for the Night King. She was meant for greater things than the life of a servant or common labourer.

“No, child, you are not.” Lady Olenna’s voice is almost unbearably gentle. “You are no more Lady of Winterfell than I am Lady of Highgarden. We cannot claim those titles when Winterfell and Highgarden are no more, can we? You are just Sansa Stark now, and if you so choose, you can be a citizen under the rule of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. There are many worse fates, I can assure you. If you will take an old woman’s advice, for what it is worth, you will seize this chance with both hands. You are young still, and can start afresh.”

Despite her determination not to allow herself to weep in front of them, Sansa knows that she has lost that battle when the first tear trickles down her scarred cheek, dripping off the end of her chin.

Other tears follow, and sobs erupt from her, her shoulders heaving.

She cannot accept that this is the life she is meant to lead.

She will not accept it.

There is a way for her to have all she deserves. There must be. She will not settle for less.

Jon Snow does not argue when she tells him that he is to leave his weapons behind but it is plain that he is not pleased by the order. No doubt he considers it an affront to his honour that she should think that he would harm her, but she will never again be such a fool as to allow him to come within striking distance of her while he is armed. She watches him as he unbuckles his sword belt and passes it to one of the Northerners for safekeeping, and lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding when he also removes a dagger from its sheath, and hands it over.

She has no idea if this is the same dagger that he used on her.

She never saw it.

She never anticipated the deathblow.

Four of the Unsullied fall into step with them as she leads the way out of the barracks, their bodies a shield between her and Jon. He follows her outside, where the wheelhouse is waiting for them. Before she can ask where Tyrion is, the driver explains, in Valyrian, that Tyrion travelled to the Great Pyramid in the company of a young before instructing him to return for her. She knows better than to ask for a description of the woman.

Who but Sansa Stark could lead Tyrion to leave her behind, without doing her the courtesy of letting her know that he was leaving, much less asking her permission to bring somebody into her home?

She reminds herself that it was her choice to allow a situation where Tyrion could come face to face with Sansa, and that it is far better for her to find out if she can trust him to be loyal to her in this life. She has done nothing to justify him turning on her, she knows, but she also knows that she did nothing to justify him and Varys deciding to turn on her in favour of Jon in the other life. She followed their advice, and paid far too heavy a price for it. But this is not Westeros, where she lost her friends and allies one by one, and was left with only Grey Worm, whose loyalty never wavered. This time, she has people who love her and have faith in her. If Tyrion decides to turn on her, for Sansa Stark or for any other reason, she knows that they will stand by her.

Their journey is a short one.

It is something of a tight squeeze, as the four Unsullied travel in the wheelhouse with them, two on either side of her, two on either side of Jon. They sit stiffly, far more accustomed to marching, and sometimes to riding on horseback, than they are with being drawn in a wheelhouse. They never take their eyes off Jon, and she knows that at the first hint of aggression on his part, they would not hesitate to restrain him, or kill him if that was her wish.

She does not tell Jon where they are going, curious to see how long it will take him to ask. He must assume that they are on their way to the Great Pyramid, for it is not until they pass it by that he speaks.

“Where are you taking me? Your Grace,” he belatedly tacks on. At least he does not address her as ‘Aunt’.

“I need to see something.”

He opens his mouth, ready to ask her what she means by that, then closes it, evidently deciding to let her take the lead.

When they reach their destination, she lets Red Mouse help her out of the wheelhouse, and Jon follows. His eyes widen with awe as he takes in the structure before him.

“This was once the largest of the fighting pits in Meereen,” she tells him as she leads the way towards it. “For thousands of years, men, women, children and animals were forced to fight and die to entertain the Masters. The Masters told them that it was an honour to fight, and promised them a chance at glory, even dangled the hope of freedom, if they won enough bouts, and made enough money for their owners.”

Daario had tried to reconcile her to the necessity of reopening the fighting pits by speaking of his own experiences, indicating that he considered all he endured there to have been worth it, as it allowed him to learn the skills that had brought him into her life, but she knew now that it was a terrible mistake on her part to have allowed herself to be convinced to allow this savagery to persist in her city in the name of ensuring peace. There was nothing that she could have done that would win her the good will of the Masters, short of leaving Meereen and allowing them to re-enslave those she had freed, and allowing the fighting pits to be reopened had only allowed those who were struggling to support themselves to be enticed into risking their lives for the promise of coin. No son of a Master sought the so-called honour of fighting.

“And now?”

“Now it belongs to my children.” They reach the tunnel leading to the arena, and she raises a hand, signalling for him to stop. “Wait here. I will go in first. Do not follow me until I give you the word.”

Drogon is standing watch over the eggs today, crouching protectively over them, and occasionally burnishing them with a gentle lick of flame. Rhaegal must have been hunting; the well-charred carcass of what looks like a cow, the bones stripped almost entirely bare of meat, stands between him and Drogon. She had noticed before that they take turns in guarding the eggs, and also that the other two will share their kills with the one on duty.

Viserion is the first to approach her, lowering his massive head until it is level with hers, and then a little more, his nose nudging her abdomen with a gentleness that belies his size.

“You knew before I did, didn’t you?” she accuses playfully. His huff of breath bathes her face in a wave of hot air, and sounds almost like a laugh. He nudges her shoulder next, just as gently, and lets out a low whine as he looks up at the sky, leaving her in no doubt about what he wants from her. “Later, sweet one,” she promises. No doubt Sarella will want her to stop riding on dragonback when she comes close to her time, but as long as it is safe for the baby, she needs to fly as much as her dragons do. “There is somebody I want you to meet. All of you.”

Drogon huffs in acknowledgement of her words, rearranging his body to better shield the eggs from view.

She moves over to Rhaegal, who lowers his head so she can pet his green scales, and kiss his snout. Rhaegal preens at her attention, almost purring in satisfaction. She leans against his side for a few moments, feeling the heat from his body warm her. Before their eggs hatched, she was the only one who could feel the warmth that emanated from them, while everybody else felt only cold stone. Now, while she found their bodies pleasantly warm, the few others who were allowed to get close enough to them to touch them found the heat all but unbearable. Even Loreza found them hot to the touch, though this did not discourage her from approaching them.

“It’s alright,” she whispers to Rhaegal. “Whatever you want, it’s alright.”

Rhaegal was happy to have a rider. She remembers feeling his joy as though it was her own the first time that Jon climbed onto his back, and he took to the skies with a rider, for the first time. She remembers when she decided that she could not stay at Winterfell any longer, knowing that if she agreed to Sansa Stark’s suggestion that they rest before fighting Cersei, she would take advantage of the delay to convince the Northern Lords to refuse to fight. Jon declined to fly to Dragonstone with her, citing Rhaegal’s need to recover, and for a terrible moment, she feared that Rhaegal would refuse to go with her and Drogon, that though she had hatched him from an egg and loved and cared for him since he was tiny enough to be cradled in her arms, his bond with his new rider would prove stronger than his bond with his mother. In the end, he chose her, but he would have lived had he stayed with Jon.

It will break her heart if he chooses Jon over her this time, but she cannot let Rhaegal see this.

If bonding with Jon will make him happiest, she cannot stand in his way.

She strokes Rhaegal’s green scales again, then walks back to the tunnel, where Jon is waiting for her. His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs slightly open. She supposes that it is one thing to know that dragons exist, and another to see them in the flesh.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” She asked him that before. If he calls them ‘beasts’ this time, she may slap him.

He opens his mouth to speak, closes it with a snap, and opens and closes it twice more before he can manage to speak an audible word. “They must be bigger than Balerion the Dread!”

“Come with me,” is all she says.

They have not taken half a dozen steps before Drogon shifts his position again, and the movement is enough to draw Jon’s attention.

“Eggs? You have eggs as well as dragons?”

“Perhaps your sister would like you to steal them too. They are incredibly valuable. You could hire an army. Or do you think she will content herself with selling them so she can live like a rich woman for the rest of her days?”

Jon stops in his tracks. “Your Grace, I…”

“Do not insult me by pretending that your sister has not demanded that you steal one of my dragons.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“To tell me that she is plotting to steal from me? I never imagined that you were.”

“I wouldn’t have stolen from you, Your Grace, but you must see that even one of your dragons could save Westeros. That’s all that Sansa wants.”

“You dare to defend her?” She shouldn’t be surprised. In the other life, he did not say a word when Sansa openly disrespected the Queen to whom he willingly swore fealty, and who had come to Winterfell as an ally. When she tried to warn him that Sansa would use his parentage as a weapon against her and destroy everything she hoped to build, he dismissed her fears, refusing to believe that his sister would betray his trust. Even when Sansa proved herself willing to betray his trust to serve her own ends, he defended her. “Even when she is ready to put your life in jeopardy to get her what she wants? She’s not trying to steal a dragon herself, is she? She will risk your life, but not her own.” Jon flinches at this, but cannot deny the truth of her words. “Go on, then. Claim one of them, if you can. If one of my children will accept you, you may become his rider, with my blessing.”

It is plain to see that Jon is wary, but he does not have it in him to refuse her challenge, not when he has the chance of securing ownership of a dragon that he could ride back to Westeros to battle the Army of the Dead.

She watches him move closer, one tentative step at a time, and berates herself for letting her temper get the better of her, hating the idea that he might succeed, that she might have to watch him ride away with one of her children.

He moves towards Drogon first, evidently deciding to try for the biggest, but he scuttles back as soon as Drogon lets out a mighty roar, warning the stranger not to come any nearer to the eggs. Viserion hisses at him, arching his back and making it very plain that Jon’s presence is unwelcome.

Rhaegal is the quietest of the three, his eyes tracking Jon’s every move. As soon as Jon moves towards him, however, he screeches loudly in protest, rearing up, his wings unfolding. He unleashes a jet of fire in Jon’s direction, one that would have engulfed him if Jon had not hurled himself onto the sand, narrowly missing the flames. With a final screech, Rhaegal moves over to Drogon and the eggs, and Viserion is quick to join them.

“We should leave,” she tells Jon. Despite everything, she does not want to see him burn, and she worries that she may have pushed her children too far, so much so that even her presence will not be enough to keep them from attacking Jon if he makes a wrong move.

Jon does not need to be told twice.

She does not speak again until they are outside the fighting pit. “I have tried to make sure that you and your people have all they need for a fresh start. You have shelter, food, clothing, and once you have recovered from your journey, you will have all of the help you need to find work and housing and to start new lives as citizens of Meereen. But in return, you will need to abide by our laws. Tell your sister that theft will not be tolerated, nor will conspiring to have others do her dirty work. If she cannot obey the law, she will have to leave.”

“You can’t throw out all of my people for one person’s mistake!”

“I said nothing about your people leaving. Those who are willing to abide by the law are welcome to stay. I assume that you do not intend to demand that they should leave a safe haven for Sansa Stark’s sake.” She does not trouble to hide her disgust at the thought that he might expect the innocent people who look to him for protection and leadership to give up their chance at a new life in Meereen to share Sansa’s exile.

Jon’s face reddens, and his eyes are downcast. “I’ll talk to Sansa,” he vows, as if he expects this to do some good. “I’ll see to it that she keeps your laws, that all of my people do. She’s been through a lot, and that’s why she wants to go back to save the North, so we can be safe there. It’s hard for her to trust people, and she doesn’t know you.”

“Neither do you,” she observes, more gently this time. She looks at him for a few moments before coming to a decision. “Come to the Great Pyramid tomorrow. Watch my audiences with the people, and my meetings with my Council. Learn how Meereen is governed, and how its people live. Before your people decide to make their lives here, they have a right to know what it will mean for them. They chose you to lead them. Be their eyes and ears.”

“You’d let me do that?”

“Yes.”

It is the fair thing to do, she knows. The people from the North have a right to know what kind of Queen will rule them should they choose to stay, and Jon is the person whose judgement they are most likely to trust. But she also knows that this is not the reason why she wants him there. She wants him there so he can see for himself that she is a just Queen, one who cares for her people, and will care for the people he has brought with him from Westeros.

In the other life, his people scorned her. Even when she abandoned her war against Cersei in order to bring her armies and her dragons North to save their lives, they acted as though having her as Queen would be a fate worse than death.

This time, she wants them to choose her.

Winters are milder in King’s Landing than they are in most of the Seven Kingdoms, save Dorne.

The air grows crisp and cold in the last days of autumn, and in a bad winter, they might have snow for days at a time, but they never have the constant snowfalls that blanket the North. Snow in King’s Landing might come up to the top of a man’s boots, not to the top of a castle’s walls, as it does in the North during the coldest part of winter. Winter days in King’s Landing are almost as long as its summer days, while other kingdoms might have to count themselves fortunate to have a couple of hours of sunlight each day. It is rare for the winter weather to keep the people of King’s Landing from going about their daily business.

Until now.

It should be close to noon, yet the sky is as dark as if it was the middle of the night.

Heavy clouds block out even the light of the stars, a fierce blizzard freezes the air, threatening to bury the Red Keep in snow, colossal waves crash against the sea wall, and the rumble of thunder is deafening.

The windows of Cersei’s chambers are closed, blankets fastened over them to keep out any draughts, a log fire burns in the grate, and a full dozen braziers are lit, yet nothing drives the cold from the room.

It feels as though her blood must be freezing in her veins.

The cradle is set just in front of the fire, and its tiny occupant is swaddled in woollen blankets and tucked under a heavy coverlet lined with fur, yet she shivers, and her skin is pale and cold to the touch.

Cersei doesn’t dare to take her in her arms. She has no heat in her body to share with her.

For three days this storm has raged, and far from showing signs of abating, it has only grown more terrible.

The Targaryen girl was born during a fierce summer storm that sank the remains of the royal fleet.

Two days ago, the Iron Fleet was smashed to pieces by the storm, when Euron Greyjoy sought to sail to calmer waters.

Cersei remembers Jon Snow’s letter.

Our enemy brings the storm, it had said, and at the time, she did not know if he was half-mad or just a poor liar.

The door to her chamber is flung open, the noise waking the babe.

Cersei is ready to upbraid Jaime, but the harsh words die on her tongue when she sees his face.

He looks older than their father was when he died, his skin is ashen, and his expression is one of utter defeat. Even when they lost their children, he had not looked so stricken, as if all hope and light had fled the word.

“One of the scouts made it back, barely.”

They sent out hundreds, after scattered ravens struggled to King’s Landing from castles across the realm, bearing desperate pleas for aid in fighting against an army of monsters.

Cersei swallows a lump in her throat, and casts an anxious glance at the cradle before she can ask the question she must ask, however much she fears the answer.

“How many?”

“Millions.”

Chapter Text

This is not how it was meant to be.

Cersei knew that she was meant to be Queen since she was a little girl, when Father promised her that he would see to it that she married Prince Rhaegar. He told her not to speak of it to anybody else, not yet, for he did not wish to excite the jealousy and enmity of every petty Lord who dreamed of seeing his sister or daughter wear the Queen’s crown. They must keep their secret until the time was right to announce the betrothal, but he promised her that he would see it done.

To the child she was then, his pledge was all the surety she needed, for there was nothing in the world that was beyond the power and influence of Tywin Lannister.

When she was ten, King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar paid a visit to Casterly Rock, and Father staged a tourney in honour of his royal guests. Aunt Genna fussed over her gown and hair, telling her that she must look especially beautiful, and even allowed her to wear a necklace and bracelet from Mother’s jewel box in honour of the occasion, something Father had never allowed before. He was not a sentimental man by nature, but every keepsake of Mother was precious to him, and he usually refused to allow even their only daughter to touch her jewels, for fear that they might be damaged. That night, however, he relented, knowing that the future Queen of the realm deserved better than the simple ornaments of girlhood.

Aunt Genna whispered in her ear that her betrothal to the Prince was to be announced at the final feast, and even hinted that she might soon be summoned to court, to be a companion to Queen Rhaella, and to learn from her all the thing she would need to know when it was her turn to be Queen.

Not that she had any intention of being like Queen Rhaella, ignored by her husband, except when he wanted to put a baby inside her, and wielding no power.

She would be Rhaegar’s love, his helpmeet, his confidante in all things, and his staunchest supporter. One day, she would rule the Seven Kingdoms by his side.

Young as she was, Cersei knew that living in the Red Keep would also be a chance for her to make herself known among the Lords and Ladies of the court, and to determine which of them were worth cultivating as friends.

It never occurred to her to worry about potential enemies, for who would dare try to harm a girl who was the daughter of the King’s Hand, the future good-daughter of the King, and the beloved future bride of Prince Rhaegar. There was no doubt but that they would be jealous of her, but they would know that any unkindness they showed her as a girl would be repaid a hundred times over once she was Queen.

She knew that every lady at court, young or old, would be falling over one another to be the first to befriend her, that the most powerful Lords would be sure to show her every courtesy and kindness, and that the most skilled and gallant knights would vie to be the one to carry her favour in tourneys, so that all might see that she favoured them. Not that she would bestow that honour on any man but her husband to be.

The night before the royal party was due to depart, Cersei slipped away with Melara to visit Maggy the Frog, who confirmed that she was to be Queen, and she was so thrilled at the thought of being married to Prince Rhaegar… to King Rhaegar… that she refused to allow herself to dwell on the rest of the woman’s prophecy, telling herself that the old hag was just jealous of the glorious future that awaited her, knowing that Cersei was to be Queen while she would spend the rest of her days wallowing in her hovel, with nobody ever troubling to see her except when they had use of her unnatural sight, and wanted to frighten her.

But there was no final feast.

After the tourney, Aerys, his son, and the company of knights who had accompanied him on the visit, departed for King’s Landing with discourteous haste.

The King’s mood was black, and Father’s was blacker still.

Father did not deign to explain to her why the plan had changed. It was as if he had never considered offering her hand to Prince Rhaegar, much less that he had promised her that she was to be Queen.

It fell to Aunt Genna to tell her that, while Father had proposed the match, Aerys refused to consider it, insulting his Hand by declaring that he would not wed his son to the daughter of his servant, as if Tywin Lannister was no better than a stablehand or scullion, as if ladies of lesser Houses had not married into the royal family before, as if Aerys’ own grandmother had not been a mere Blackwood, and far beneath a Lannister of Casterly Rock.

No reassurance from her aunt that this was no fault of hers, that no complaint could be made of her charm or courtesy, much less her beauty, and that there was nothing she could have done that would have changed the King’s mind, could comfort her. Nor did she take any consolation from Aunt Genna’s promise that, when she was a little older, her father would find her an even better man.

What man could be better than Prince Rhaegar?

What other man could make her a Queen?

Had Mad Aerys not been so jealous of Father, knowing as he must that Tywin Lannister was the true ruler of the realm, no matter that his own backside warmed the Iron Throne, and so determined to shame his Hand by declaring his daughter beneath Prince Rhaegar, the Seven Kingdoms would have been the better for it.

She was no Elia of Dorne, too frail to bear a child without being left bedridden for months on end, and incapable of holding the attention of a man like Rhaegar. Had they been allowed to marry, they would have been true to one another. Even Jaime could not steal her heart from Rhaegar, and he certainly would not have spared a second glance to a near-savage from the frozen wastelands of the North if he had her for his wife.

There would have been no Rebellion.

Robert could have had his Lyanna, and welcome. He could have spent the rest of his life drinking and whoring in Storm’s End, bedding every comely serving woman. He could be another Walder Frey, fielding an army from his breeches, except that most of his sons would be born on the wrong side of the blanket. He would have been obliged to bend the knee to her and to Rhaegar whenever he was invited to court, and his brats by his precious she-wolf would vie for the honour of serving as companions to her princes and princesses.

Everybody from Dorne to the Wall would have rejoiced the day the Mad King died, and their Silver Prince took the Iron Throne, with a golden Queen by his side.

Their children would be so beautiful that the gods themselves would weep at the sight of them.

She could never truly forgive Robert for killing Rhaegar, but she would have been a good wife to him, had he given her a chance. He was a handsome man, fresh from victory at the Trident and newly crowned King, when they were wed. There was no Lord to compare to him, and not a maid in the Seven Kingdoms who did not dream of him. It pleased her to know that he was hers, and not just because their marriage made her the Queen that Father had promised she would be. For that, she was prepared to make the best of their marriage. But though she was willing to try to put Rhaegar from her thoughts, and even to cast Jaime from her bed, Robert refused to return the courtesy. Even on their wedding night, he refused to banish Lyanna Stark from his thoughts, pining for a corpse when he had the most beautiful woman in Westeros in his bed.

She wondered if he was ever able to admit to himself that the true reason for the great love he believed he had for the girl he had scarcely known was that marriage to her would have allowed him to call his beloved Ned 'brother'.

On their wedding night, with Robert lying next to her, snoring and snorting, stinking of sweat and wine, his ruddy cheeks stained with the tears he shed for the dead girl who held his heart so completely that no corner of it was left for Cersei to claim, she resolved that, as he refused to give up Lyanna Stark, she would not give up Jaime.

Thankfully, Jon Arryn was mindful of the need for the Crown to maintain ties with Tywin Lannister, so even Ned Stark could not persuade Robert to force Jaime to take the black for slaying Aerys, or to cast him from the Kingsguard, much as it would have pleased Father to have his heir restored to Casterly Rock, so she could always keep her twin, the other half of her soul, with her.

Robert, his head swollen from the flattery of the countless whores who were well paid to put on a good show of devotion, never imagined that his wife might look to another man to find a better lover, and a better father for her children. Or perhaps he simply did not care what she did, as long as she did not force her company on him.

Having Jaime with her was the only thing that made her marriage bearable, until her children were born.

She should have killed Robert sooner.

She should have killed him before Ned Stark could uncover who had fathered her children, before Jon Arryn could grow suspicious that none of her children resembled Robert when each of his bastards bore his stamp on their faces, and before Joffrey was old enough to know that, no matter how hard he strove to win the approval of the man he knew as his father, Robert would never praise him, much less love him as he wished he would.

Joffrey was so sweet when he was small, a golden-haired, sunny-natured little boy. On the rare occasions when he appeared before the people, women cooed and wished that their own sons could be half as beautiful, and even the men always had a smile for their prince. Those who saw him murmured that he was a fine boy, strong and handsome, everything a prince should be. His nursemaids squabbled over who was to have the honour of rocking him to sleep each night. The cooks sneaked cakes to the nursery, just to make him smile.

He was so eager to please, looking on Robert with the same reverence that a Septon would the Father, craving his love no matter how much attention and affection she lavished on him. Perhaps Robert was stupid and sentimental enough to think it a betrayal of his precious Lyanna if he opened his heart to another woman's child, even a child as bright and sweet and beautiful as the three she presented to him. Myrcella and Tommen he ignored, but Joffrey he scorned. Perhaps he resented her poor son because he knew that, no matter how little he might wish to have her as his wife, no matter how much he resented that their marriage was the only thing holding the realm together, he could have no justification to set her aside once she bore a prince.

If she had killed Robert when Joffrey was still little, still sweet, the people would have embraced their child King. They would have given Joffrey the love that Robert denied him, and that love would have made her son blossom. He would have craved their approval, as he once craved Robert’s, but they would not have withheld it from him. He would have grown to be a ruler who deserved the love of his subjects. She would have been Regent, and Father would have been Hand. Between them, they would have taught him all he needed to know to earn the love of the commons and the respect of the highborn. They would have helped Joffrey grow into a King that the realm could be proud of, a King who might carry the Baratheon name but who would embody the best of the Lannisters.

But she had waited too long to rid herself of Robert, and by the time Joffrey took the Iron Throne, he was beyond her influence.

He became a King with few friends and an ever-increasing number of enemies, and he was murdered at his own wedding feast.

Tyrion, besotted with the little bride he had not even wanted to marry in the first place, must have seen it as a fitting vengeance for her mother and brother’s deaths, must have thought that, ugly and stunted as he was, he might yet succeed in winning Sansa Stark’s heart if he avenged her kin. It had probably been a shock to him to learn that the little dove fled the city, leaving him alone to face justice for their crime.

She should never have allowed herself to be persuaded to agree to the match between Tommen and Margaery.

Father, Pycelle, and the Spider all insisted that they needed the support of the Tyrells if they were to have a hope of defeating Stannis, and of feeding the city through the long winter that the Maesters agreed was coming.

Even Jaime agreed with them, stating bluntly that Tommen was as good as dead if the Tyrells went over to Stannis’ side, and that the rest of them would follow him into the grave.

If the price for the support of the Tyrells was that Tommen be married to Margaery, Father was ready and willing to pay it, turning a deaf ear to any protest she might have made, refusing to consider that she might know more than he did about what was best for her son and his realm. He knew that Margaery would manipulate Tommen, just as she had manipulated Joffrey, but he did not care, not as long as the marriage maintained the Tyrell alliance.

She should have demanded that he wait, should have argued more vehemently against Tommen marrying before he was a man. She should have insisted that Margaery remain unwed for at least two years out of respect for Joff’s memory, rather than insulting her son by marrying his little brother before his body was cold, as good as shouting to the realm that she had never cared for him in the least. She should have married Loras if that was what it took. The Tyrells could have had no cause for complaint if their unnatural heir was married to the Queen Regent, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She was even willing to bear him a son, if he was not so unmanned as to be incapable of getting one on her. That should have been enough to bind the Tyrells to them, enough to buy them at least a few years before they had to let Margaery get her claws into Tommen.

In a few years, Tommen would be older and wiser, less vulnerable to Margaery’s manipulations. He would know not to take her sweet words at face value, know that his mother should have his trust, above all others.

In a few years, Stannis could be dead, his army scattered, the Lords of the Stormlands ready to bend the knee to Tommen, never again daring to suggest that he was not Robert’s trueborn son and heir.

In a few years, they could have found Sansa Stark and executed her for her treasons, or the wretched girl might have died, forgotten, in a gutter, the last spark of rebellion in the North dying with her.

In a few years, they would have far less need of the Tyrells, and could find Tommen a worthier bride, one who would know her place, and know that Tommen needed his mother to guide him far more than he needed a wife to beguile him. She would choose the girl this time, and would find one who would love Tommen with the devotion he deserved, yet never try to make him hers.

Tommen was gentle and good and wanted so badly to do right by his people.

He was the first man in fifty years who deserved to sit on the Iron Throne.

Those who knew or suspected that he was Jaime's son reviled him as a bastard born of incest but she knew that he would have been a better King, a better man, by far than any brat born of Robert's seed could ever hope to be.

Margaery manipulated him into falling in love with her, determined to drive a wedge between mother and son, determined to steal all of Tommen's love for herself, even trying to persuade him to banish his mother to Casterly Rock.

There was no choice but to be rid of her.

She never imagined that Tommen would choose to follow his wife in death than to live on under his mother’s care and guidance.

She should never have allowed Tyrion to sell Myrcella to Dorne. She should have delayed him, by any means necessary, until Father came to take his place as Hand, putting an end to the free reign he had given Tyrion. She would have been able to convince Father that, no matter what they might say, no matter what bribe they were offered, there was too much bad blood between their Houses for the Martells to ever be relied upon as allies. The Martells might promise peace, but they would never forget that Princess Elia and her children had been wrapped in Lannister crimson when their bodies were presented to Robert. It was folly to give them a hostage. She knew it as soon as Grand Maester Pycelle told her what it was Tyrion had planned, and she was proven right when Jaime returned, Myrcella’s body already growing cold.

“You will have three… Gold will be their crowns. Gold their shrouds.”

But she proved the witch wrong, and the proof lay in the cradle by the fireside, grumbling her discontent at the tight swaddling that kept her warm, but also prevented her from kicking her little legs or chewing on her tiny fists.

The Princess Joanna of House Lannister.

One day to be Joanna, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Joanna was born to be the future of House Lannister and of Westeros both. She was the fourth child, born in defiance of Maggy the Frog’s prophecy. She would never have to bear the Baratheon name, forced to pretend that she was born of the seed of an arrogant fool who went to war for a girl who jilted him, who murdered Rhaegar, hunted children, and seized Seven Kingdoms that he was unfit to govern. She would be as sweet as Joffrey was when he was little, and know no unkindness that would ever mar that sweetness. She would be as gentle as Tommen, and as eager to do right by the people, yet wise enough not to be fooled by false friends. She would be as clever and kind-hearted as Myrcella, but she would be a Queen in her own right, not a pawn to be traded like cattle to advance the schemes of men.

Cersei knew before the crown was placed on her head that the people would never love her.

But they would love Joanna.

Let them say what they would about Queen Cersei, let them call her an adulteress, a brother-fucker, a traitor, a murderess, whatever names they wished, but they would have to see that Joanna was perfect in body and mind, a beautiful, kind, bright child who would grow to be a wise, gentle and compassionate young woman.

Let them pray for the day when she would die, and pass her crown on to her daughter.

Joanna would be her redemption, and that of Westeros.

Hundreds of years from now, when the Maesters wrote of Robert’s Rebellion, of a land torn apart because men were foolish enough to think that Lyanna Stark was worth fighting over, of the downfall of House Targaryen, of the War of Five Kings that brought an end to Houses Baratheon, Tyrell, and Stark, and of the rise of the Royal House of Lannister, they would look back on Cersei’s reign and know that she was unjustly reviled, that every hard choice she ever made, every moment of harshness, had been to pave the way for Queen Joanna.

Queen Joanna would have the luxury of being merciful, because those who would have threatened her were gone.

Queen Joanna would be able to be generous, because her mother would see to it that she had plenty to give.

Queen Joanna would have peace, because her mother had fought all of the wars, and won.

Queen Joanna would be loved, because the hatred of the realm was focused on Queen Cersei.

This was how the story of House Lannister was to begin anew.

It was never meant to end like this.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies on the wings of many birds, their fragile minds and bodies unable to bear his essence for more than a day or two, some of them lasting only a matter of hours before he must seek another host and their tiny bodies, hollowed out to receive him and empty once he leaves, fall from the sky.

He watches the Night King and his army move South, winter storms fiercer than any the land has seen in thousands of years heralding their approach.

The dead sweep through villages, towns, and castles, leaving no survivors.

The slain swell their ranks, and the army grows larger with each small conquest.

They regain the numbers they lost in battle at Winterfell many times over as they pass through the North.

Over a hundred thousand cross the Neck.

By the time they pass through the Vale, their army is over a million strong, and their numbers have doubled before they leave the Riverlands.

They move as one, never dividing their forces.

The vessel that was once Brandon Stark of Winterfell bore the Night King’s mark on his flesh, and so the Night King could follow him, crossing the Wall and the protections that had stood for eight thousand years, and follow him to Winterfell. The Three-Eyed Raven left the mark behind when he left the vessel, an instant before the Night King cut it down. Without the mark to tie him to the magic of the Night King, the Three-Eyed Raven can no longer be traced, yet there are times, when he flies too close, his wings beating frantically against the snowstorm, his tiny, fragile body buffeted by heavy, icy winds, that the Night King seems to be able to sense that he is being watched.

The Night King makes no effort to seek out his enemy, and never has the millions of wights at his command attack the birds overhead with stones or sticks or whatever else they might find to throw.

He knows as well as the Three-Eyed Raven does that it would be a wasted effort.

Without a host, the Three-Eyed Raven cannot survive.

He need only wait.

“There must be something that we can do!” Cersei’s skirts are too heavy to do more than twitch slightly as she paces the length of her solar, moving as much out of a desire to warm herself as out of frustration. She wears two of her heaviest gowns, one over the other, with woolen petticoats underneath, and a fur-lined cloak wrapped around her, yet she cannot keep the chill from her blood and bones.

Before being dismissed, one of her ladies heated wine for her by leaving a poker in the fire until its tip glowed red, and then sticking it in a jug of wine. The wine hissed and bubbled at first, and steam rose as the girl poured it out before withdrawing, but it was only warm when she took her first sip, and quickly grew tepid, then cold.

Jaime and Qyburn are with her, both ignoring the chairs in favour of huddling by the fireside. Jaime has had to set aside his armor, as the gilded steel is icy from the cold, and Qyburn wears so many robes, one on top of the other, that he looks as plump as the High Septon, the one torn apart by the mob during the riot.

Ser Gregor, his dead flesh immune to the cold, stands, impassive, by the door.

How can it have come to this?

Her reign is not two years old.

She was prepared to fight against House Tyrell, House Martell, even House Stark, if its last survivors decided to venture outside their beloved frozen hell, knowing that the North could not hope to survive the coming winter if they did not have the support of the Iron Throne. She could fight an army of men. Men could be cut down. Men could flee the field of battle when they saw that their cause was lost. Men could even be persuaded that it was in their interests to serve a new master, one who could offer them more generous rewards than the one they fought for. An army of men could be met in the field by an opposing army, and while thousands would die on both sides, there was always a chance for victory, particularly for the side with the greater numbers. This army, however, could not be swayed by promises or surrender. This army would keep going, no matter how many of its warriors it lost. This army would grow with every man, woman and child they slew.

“According to Lord Snow’s message, there are only three weapons that can be of use against this army of the dead,” Qyburn observes. “Dragonglass…”

“Which we don’t have, and we have no way to get to Dragonstone to get it,” Cersei cuts him off.

It would be a lie to say that she grieves for Euron’s loss, but the loss of his fleet is an undeniable blow. If the strongest ships in the Iron Fleet could not survive the storms, there is no hope that the few vessels left in the royal navy will be able to make the crossing to Dragonstone, and even if they could, it would be folly for them to waste the effort on securing a few weapons to fend off an army of millions. If they had any seaworthy vessels, and if there was a chance that they would not be shattered by the storm, she would use them to get away.

Better for Joanna to live in the Free Cities than for her to die in the Red Keep.

Even Jon Snow has fled Westeros, choosing to save his skin when he had the chance rather than stay to fight a losing battle. At least he has more sense than his father… than both of his fathers, if there is any truth to his outlandish claim. She cannot imagine that anything would have persuaded Ned Stark or Prince Rhaegar to flee. They would have insisted on staying to play the part of the hero, even if anybody with a brain could see that their cause was lost, and that the best thing they could do would be to save as many of their people as they could, and leave it to the gods to sort out the rest.

“Quite so, Your Grace,” Qyburn agrees mildly.

His calm unnerves her. He would be of no use to her if he spent his time wailing, and she knows that if he shed a tear in her presence, she would immediately demand that he pull himself together and be silent if he could not be helpful, yet it is still unsettling to see that, when faced with the advent of an army of monsters, he seems almost entirely untroubled. She supposes that his chief disappointment is that he will not have a chance to capture one of these wights or Walkers or, better still, the Night King himself, so that he might cut it open and see how it operates, see if he can find a way to bring these creatures under his control, as he did Ser Gregor.

“Valyrian steel will work,” Jaime chimes in, his hand brushing the gilded hilt of Widow’s Wail.

“You should never have given your sword to that great beast of a woman,” she snaps at him.

She did not realise at first that he had given away the sword Father gave him, the larger of the two forged for House Lannister. It was not until after Joff’s death when, instead of putting Widow’s Wail away until Tommen was old enough and skilled enough to be trusted to bear Valyrian steel without hurting himself, Jaime chose to carry Joffrey’s sword himself, that she asked questions. She was touched at first, thinking that he had chosen to carry Widow’s Wail rather than the longer sword Father had made for him in memory of their firstborn, and that he intended that his own sword would pass to Tommen when he was of age, that father and son should each wield one in defence of their family and the realm. Instead, when she asked, Jaime confessed that he gave his sword to Brienne of Tarth.

He was lucky that she had not told Father how little his precious Jaime thought of the Valyrian steel sword that he had spent so long trying to obtain for their family before he was finally able to replace Brightroar. Instead of cherishing it as both a gift from Father and a future heirloom of their House, he handed it over to a woman who fancied herself a knight, and who would have fought for Renly against their family, if she had had her way.

When word reached them, through Qyburn’s network of little birds, that Brienne of Tarth had entered the service of Sansa Stark, pledging herself to the bitch who had plotted with Tyrion to murder Joffrey, she wished that she had told Father, and let Jaime face his anger for allowing a Lannister sword to be used to protect their enemy.

“If you hadn’t given away your sword…”

“We would have two Valyrian steel swords, instead of one,” Jaime finishes for her. “No doubt that would make all the difference.”

She imagines for a moment what damage Ser Gregor would be able to do to these wights, armed with a Valyrian steel sword in each hand. He was monstrously strong while he lived, capable of beheading his great destrier in a single stroke. In a melee or in battle, he cut through men as easily as he might cut through dry grass. When Qyburn succeeded in bringing his corpse back to life, or a semblance of life, he lost none of his strength but he no longer felt pain or fatigue, and no longer cared about preserving his own life, or about anything other than obeying the orders that she and Qyburn gave him. If so ordered, he would single-handedly charge against this army of walking dead, cutting them down by the dozen. Or he could be stationed outside her chambers, guarding them against the invading force and killing any wights who approached.

But even Ser Gregor could not hope to defeat an army millions strong, whether he faced them head-on or stood guard over her and Joanna. Sooner or later, he would fall to their numbers.

“That leaves fire,” she says at last.

She tries to imagine what Father would order if he was here. Flaming arrows fired from the walls of the Red Keep against the approaching horde? To find a way to lure them into a large enough space, perhaps the Dragonpit, one that would be laid with pitch and wildfire, ready to be ignited as soon as they entered it?

“According to Jon Snow, if we kill one of the White Walkers, all of the wights that follow them will be destroyed,” Jaime muses aloud. “And he thinks that if the Night King is killed, all of his army will be destroyed with him.”

“Then he will never be stupid enough to join the battle.” She may not have had the opportunity to study battle strategy with a Maester, or at Father’s knee, as Jaime had when they were children, but she knows enough to be certain that no enemy with a weakness that could so easily be exploited would risk everything by entering the fray, not when he could leave it to his army of slaves to do the killing for him.

“We don’t know that they’re clever enough to strategize like that.”

“We know that they’re clever enough to have swept through half of Westeros, and clever enough to build their forces before they came to the biggest city in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jaime dipped his head slightly, as if conceding her point. “What about evacuating? They’re coming for the city. Is there any way we can get the people out? Can we at least get away from here ourselves with Joanna?”

“It should be possible to ensure that at least some of the people can flee the city, Ser Jaime,” Qyburn says, in his maddeningly placid tone. “There are tunnels, and we have some hours yet before the army is outside the city walls. Fleeing is the easy part, and it will be quicker and easier if it is just a small number of people. Finding a place to flee to is more difficult, however, and surviving the cold long enough to reach it would be impossible. You can feel the cold as we speak, though we are behind thick walls and a great fire burns in the hearth,” he adds, speaking as gently as he might to one of his little birds. “It is colder by far outside. The snows are far too heavy to travel by wagon, and I doubt that horses would long survive the elements. Princess Joanna could never hope to survive. Even if you could flee King’s Landing, even if you could survive the cold long enough to reach the next village or town, this army of the dead will simply move on once they have taken the city, and their numbers will be greater still. They do not appear to be able to swim, so the islands may be safe, but we have no way to reach them.”

Cersei moves to the cradle, scooping Joanna up and holding her as close as the blankets and furs in which she is swaddled allow. Her baby yawns widely, and opens her eyes.

Her eyes are Lannister green, and look up at her with such innocent trust.

She never noticed before that Joanna has Tommen’s eyes.

She remembers the Battle of the Blackwater, remembers the terror she felt when all hope seemed lost, and Stannis’ victory a certainty. She remembers the flash of gratitude she felt that Myrcella was not there to become a casualty of war, her hope that if she was murdered in Dorne, they would do it with a gentle poison, that she would be spared the fate of Princess Rhaenys or, worse, Princess Elia. She remembers Lancel bringing word that the battle was lost, that Stannis’ troops were at the gates. She remembers taking Tommen away from the frightened hens, lest their tears and whimpers frighten him more than he already was, and sitting on the Iron Throne with her baby boy on her knee, distracting him with a story of a mother lion and her little cub. She remembers how it felt to bring a vial of poison to his lips, knowing that it was the kindest thing she could do for him, that it was a thousand times better for him to die a gentle death, in his mother’s arms, than that he be left to Stannis’ non-existent mercies.

She would poison Joanna now, if it would spare her baby, if it would allow her to slip peacefully away in her mother’s arms, never to know a moment of pain or terror.

But she knows that it would do no good.

This Night King has the power to raise the dead, to force them to serve in his army.

Do the children he raises continue to grow? Will Joanna grow into a monstrous womanhood, or will she remain as small as she is now, and become the tiniest soldier in the Night King’s army?

No.

This will not be Joanna’s fate.

She will not allow this to be Joanna’s fate.

“How much wildfire do we have?” she demands.

The order is issued that all of the people are to remain indoors. Those who do not wish to take shelter in the Red Keep, or who are too far away to be able to brave the bad weather to reach it are to remain in their homes, or with their neighbours, with their doors bolted, and their windows blocked with whatever they can get their hands on.

The only people not to take shelter are those sentries who stand watch, ready to send word when the Night King and his army have entered the city, and those who stand ready to do what they must when that time comes.

Cersei orders that the granary and food stores set aside for the army be emptied, its contents distributed to the people, with instructions that every man, woman and child in the city is to eat their fill this night. To the cooks at the Red Keep, she gives orders that they are to empty the pantry, and prepare a feast the like that this castle has never seen. The dishes they prepare are simpler than the seventy-seven served at Joffrey’s wedding feast, but they are far more numerous, and the tables set out in the throne room, and in the great dining halls, groan under their weight. The cellars are emptied of Dornish Reds and even Arbor Gold, all laid out for the feast.

A huge log fire burns in every hearth, and braziers are set between them, driving the worst of the cold from the rooms.

The people who manage to reach the shelter of the Red Keep gape in wonder at the feast laid out for them, and at first, they hesitate, as if they are afraid that she has laid some sort of trap for them, that the first to help himself to the feast spread before them will find himself arrested for his presumption.

Their wariness irritates her.

If Margaery was the one to summon them to the Red Keep and invite them to dine, they would seize the opportunity with both hands, and heap blessings on her for her generosity.

She supposes that it is not without cause. She has never given them any reason to love her before, and one good meal is unlikely to do much to change their view of her.

She rises from the Iron Throne, drawing herself to her full height, and speaking with all the authority she can muster. “Eat. Drink. Your Queen commands it of you.”

That is enough to prompt them to begin to make their wary way towards the tables, and once the first few have begun to ladle food onto their plates, with no move made to stop them, the rest are quick to follow, fearing that if they hesitate too long, there will be nothing left… or perhaps fearing that she means to send those who refuse her hospitality to the Black Cells.

Jaime extends his arm to her as she steps down from the dais, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, and escorting her out of the throne room. He opens his mouth to say something, but she speaks before he has a chance.

“They won’t die with empty bellies. I can give them that much.”

A simple supper is laid out in her solar, and a jug of Arbor Gold sits on the table.

The fire is banked high, and a full dozen braziers are lit.

For the first time in far too long, she is warm.

She takes Joanna from her nurse, and dismisses the woman to eat her own supper downstairs. When she and Jaime sit down at the table, she can almost imagine that they are like any ordinary family, sharing a meal after a long day, and enjoying one another’s company.

Might their life have been like this, had she listened to Ned Stark, and fled with her children? Might she and Jaime have found a place where they could live in peace, as a family?

She doubts it; Robert would have hunted them to the end of their days, even more determined to see them dead than he was to have the bodies of the last Targaryen children laid before him. And even if they could escape his wrath, how could she ever have explained to them why they were no longer princes and princess?

She finds that she has no appetite for the food, and even the wine does not appeal to her. Jaime crumbles a slice of bread without eating any of it, pours himself a goblet of Arbor Gold, and swirls the wine slowly, staring into his goblet as though he hopes that he will be able to find an answer there, some means of escape they overlooked.

Joanna whimpers at first, before erupting in hungry wails.

It takes her a moment to unlace the front of her gown, and she quickly brings her daughter to her breast, immediately enfolding them both in her fur-lined cloak.

Joanna sucks strongly, her little legs shifting slightly inside her swaddling. Her eyes close, and her rosebud mouth curves in a slight smile of contentment.

Jaime watches them in silence for several minutes before he speaks.

“The Mad King was going to do it,” he says quietly. “He was going to burn the city, and everybody in it, rather than allow Robert to claim it.” In another time, she might have made a joke of it, might have quipped that it would have been a mercy to the people of King’s Landing to spare them the suffering they endured during the sack of their city, and later due to Robert’s incompetence, or a mercy to all of their noses if this cesspool of a city had been destroyed, and a new one built in its place, but she cannot make light of it, not now. Jaime never speaks of Aerys, not even to her. “He kept saying it, over and over again. ‘Burn them all!’.” He lets out a brief chuckle, but there is no humour in it. “They say that some of the Targaryens could see the future in their dreams. That’s how they came to settle on Dragonstone in the first place. One of them foretold the Doom of Valyria, and warned her family. I forget her name.”

“Daenys the Dreamer. You always forget the women.”

“Daenys the Dreamer,” Jaime repeats. “Maybe Aerys took after her. Maybe he foresaw all of this, and wanted to stop it. He was just more than twenty years too early.”

She doubts that this was the case, but says only “Seeing this could drive anybody mad.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t get us away.”

“It’s not your fault.”

There is a part of her that would like to be able to blame somebody. To blame Jon Snow, for expecting her to take his word for it that the threat approached, without presenting her with a shred of proof to give credence to such a far-fetched story, or being willing to meet her halfway. To blame Sansa Stark, who undoubtedly convinced her brother to refuse the offer of aid from the Lannister forces, in exchange for his bending the knee, though she must surely have known that Cersei could not believe in the threat if Ned Stark’s son proved unwilling to swear fealty in order to save his people. To blame Olenna Tyrell, and Ellaria Sand, both of whom managed to vanish from Westeros before the Night King could reach them in their domains. To blame Euron Greyjoy, for not having stronger ships, ships capable of seeing them safely through the storm, and across the Narrow Sea to a new life. To blame Tyrion for murdering Father, who might have been able to find a solution that eluded them. To blame the men of the Night’s Watch, for spending eight thousand years guarding the Wall, only to fail in their duty to protect the realm when it truly mattered. To blame whatever vile magic gave life to the Night King.

But there is no point to blame. Not now.

She has given orders that they are not to be disturbed, and not to be told when the Night King’s army has breached the city walls, or when they come close to the Red Keep.

Qyburn and her men have their orders, and know what it is they must do when the time comes.

She does not want to be warned when the moment arrives.

She wants to enjoy these last, precious hours or minutes with the only two people left to her to love.

“If your plan works, the Reach and Dorne will be safe,” Jaime observes.

“Don’t remind me,” she says, but there is no anger or resentment in her voice. She chuckles, despite herself. “If they only knew...” If this works, it will be the greatest deed of her life, but nobody will ever know of it.

Jaime moves his chair over next to hers, sitting so close that their knees brush one another’s, and their heads touch are they watch Joanna, who is drowsing off at her breast, a dribble of milky drool running down her chin.

“She would have been a wonderful Queen. She would have been a wonderful woman.”

Jaime’s smile is sad as he leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of Joanna’s head, rumpling her golden hair. “The best,” he agrees.

Joanna, roused from her drowsy state by her father’s kiss, opens heavy-lidded eyes to look to each of her parents in turn. Cersei’s nipple slips free of her tiny mouth, and she lets out a chuckle of pure, innocent joy.

She will never see Joanna again.

She is under no illusions on that score.

If the gods exist, she has committed sins aplenty, enough for them to consign her to one or another of the Seven Hells. Even if her plan can save lives, it will not be enough to spare her the punishment her sins have bought her. She may see Joffrey in the world beyond death; her poor, precious boy had sins of his own to answer for, and even a King cannot escape the wrath of the gods. Myrcella and Tommen were as sweet and innocent as Joanna is, and no god could be so cruel as to deny them peace in one of the Seven Heavens.

She kisses Joanna once for Myrcella, a second time for Tommen, and a third time for herself, and then moves her lips to the shell of her little ear, whispering a plea to her baby to pass her kisses on to the sister and brother she never had a chance to know, and to tell them how much their mother loves them.

For a moment, she finds peace in the thought of three of her children enjoying an eternity of happiness together.

The Three-Eyed Raven watches.

The streets of King’s Landing are deserted. With the exception of the small number of sentries keeping watch for the approach of the Night King, every soul in the city is safe behind the walls of their home, or taking shelter in the Red Keep. Doors are barred, and every window is boarded over or covered with heavy cloth, but that does not keep the Three-Eyed Raven from seeing, with his mind’s eye, all that happens in the city.

He sees families huddled around fires, cooking meals, relishing the all but forgotten taste of salted meat and fish, the vegetables that have been worth their weight in gold these long months past, and marveling that Queen Cersei should have given the food to them.

He sees mothers singing softly or telling stories to children who drift to sleep without hunger gnawing at them.

He sees fathers gather knives and axes and shovels and clubs, anything that can be used as a weapon, ready to fight and die to defend their families from whatever foe it is that Queen Cersei is making ready to battle. They have been told to stay in their homes, that the Lannister army will meet the enemy in battle, yet virtually all of the men, and many of the women besides, are ready to fight against this unknown foe.

He sees a blacksmith in his forge, the blaze of the great furnaces driving away the cold. The blacksmith has opened his forge to shelter his neighbors, and distributed the weapons in his shop to any man or woman who wishes to wield them, but he keeps the finest for himself, a great war hammer.

He sees people gathering in small clusters, and hears their prayers.

He sees thousands feasting in the Red Keep.

He sees soldiers at their posts beneath the city, torches ready.

He sees the approach of the Night King, an army of millions at his back.

Wights and White Walkers pour into the city, an icy river of dead men. As they march, the snows swirl more violently, and the air becomes colder and colder. They pour into the city, filling the streets, drawn to life, drawn to warmth. The Night King leads hundreds of thousands towards the centre of the city, to the Red Keep, where so many have sought shelter, while others move off, guided by their master’s unspoken command, to target the homes in the city, seeking to end the lives of those within, that they might be raised to swell their forces.

It happens quickly.

The bells of the city peal so loudly that not even the fierce storm can muffle the sound.

The people in their homes hear them, and shudder, knowing that the ringing of bells never means anything good.

The soldiers stationed beneath the city hear them, and do their duty.

Tens of thousands of casks of wildfire, carefully spread through tunnels and sewers and catacombs, ignite.

Green flames engulf the city.

For the people, it is over in moments, before most of them have a chance to realize the true nature of the salvation that Queen Cersei promised them.

Every wight caught in the inferno is incinerated.

White Walkers explode in shards of ice, the green flames burning hotter and faster than any natural fire, too hot and too fast for the cold of the White Walkers to extinguish them, as it would natural fire. As White Walkers are destroyed, the wights they raised are destroyed too, even those who remain outside the city walls, and who escape the wildfire.

The Three-Eyed Raven watches the green inferno blaze below.

He is not grieved by the loss of the people who perished, or pleased to see so many of the Others destroyed, or relieved to think that the battle against the Night King may be over at last, but as he watches the city below him burn, something stirs within him, something that reminds him of the memories of hope he has gleaned from his vessels.

It takes a long time for the green inferno to burn out.

When it does, the Three-Eyed Raven sees the Night King standing, unharmed, amid the ashes.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies.

Though snow still falls, each snowflake sizzling as it lands on the smoldering rubble that is all that remains of what was once one of the greatest cities on the continent, the storm has eased. The Night King may have brought the storm, but with most of his wights destroyed, and without his White Walkers to lend him their strength, his power is weaker. Not extinguished. It seems that nothing, short of his destruction, will extinguish his power. But he is weaker, and so the storm eases. Even the seas are calmer now.

As the Three-Eyed Raven flies from his enemy, he sees the people to the South, those the Night King and his army would have visited once the people of King’s Landing had swelled their ranks.

The Night King will not stop.

The Night King will never stop, not while there is a soul in Westeros that still lives.

But this defeat will slow him, force him to create new White Walkers, force him to target small villages first, to build his numbers gradually, before he can move to the Reach, or to Dorne to finish his work.

The people who still live have more time now, time that they can use to flee this continent before it is forever claimed by the dead.

There is not enough time for the Three-Eyed Raven. If there was another greenseer still living, he could take it, but the vessel that was Brandon Stark was the last, and he cannot wait for the next to be born.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies.

Few weirwoods grow this far South, where those who worship new gods have destroyed almost all remnants of the Old Ways, and the Three-Eyed Raven knows that the body that contains his essence does not have the strength to reach the closest one. Already, he can feel its wings weaken, its heart beat impossibly fast, its mind breaking under the strain of hosting that which it was never meant to host.

A weirwood would be best, but any tree will do.

The body that contains his essence is almost dead when it reaches the forest, but it clings to life long enough to fly to the tallest, oldest tree.

The Three-Eyed Raven can feel his vessel’s feeble struggles, its desperate attempt to assert its will, to ensure its survival, but it cannot hope to overpower him. He flies to the tree, to its heart, where a broken branch is the opening he needs. He flies hard, and the force of his collision with the broken branch pierces the bird’s breast. As the bird’s blood mingles with the sap of the tree, the Three-Eyed Raven pours his essence into the tree, from branch to bough to trunk to roots, from the roots to the soil of the forest, and from the soil of the forest he spreads across the land.

He is this land and this land is him and though the Night King may destroy every living soul, may freeze the continent so that no tree or flower or any plant may grow, he cannot destroy the land.

Burrowed deep beneath the ground, too deep for the cold to touch him, the Three-Eyed Raven sleeps.

They take their meal on the rooftop garden that evening, just the three of them.

The setting sun bathed the city in light that shifts from gold to orange to pink before the purple that gives way to twilight. As the sky darkens, the dainty white flowers of the jasmine shrubs begin to bloom, their perfume mingling with the scent of the other flowers, and contrasting with the sharper tang of the orange and lemon trees arrayed in great ceramic pots throughout the garden.

By the time they have finished almost all of the meal prepared for them: fried bread, goat and lamb basted in honey, wine and spices, roasted and cut into bite-sized cubes, and sliced fruit, the sky is dark enough to see the first stars of the night.

Even at this late hour, and from eight hundred feet above the city, the night is hot and dry. Daenerys has always been less troubled by the heat than others, but still wears a light linen gown, so finely woven that the cloth is as translucent as the dress Magister Illyrio gave her when he was selling her to Drogo. The cloth feels almost as light as air against her skin. Even Jorah has abandoned his usual wool tunics. He rolls his breeches past his knees and dangles his feet in the pool. The water is tepid from the day in the sun.

Daario, after declaring himself so hot that he might melt, and insisting that he does not want to leave the sheets of their bed stained with sweat, strips off his shirt and breeches, and jumps into the pool. He flicks water at Jorah’s leg, grinning impishly at him, before paddling over to Daenerys, and extending a hand to her.

“Why not cool down a bit?” he invites, his smile widening when she nods and, after Jorah has helped her unlace the back of her gown, slips it over her head and places her hand in his, allowing him to draw her into the pool.

The water might be tepid to others, but it feels chilly to Daenerys. Ordinarily, she prefers her baths scalding, and more than once, she has contemplated asking one of her children to use their fire to heat the water in the pool for her, but on a night like this, the coldness of the water is a blessed relief.

Daario moves his hand to rest over her abdomen. “How long before you feel this little one move?”

“Another month, maybe a little longer, or a little less.” Though Daenerys believes that the child was conceived on the first night when she lay with them both, she cannot be certain, not yet. Once the babe quickens, Sarella will be able to estimate the dates. “It will take longer before you can feel it,” she adds, anticipating his next question.

Jorah clears his throat before speaking. “We have not yet had a chance to discuss this,” he begins, his awkward posture hinting that he would prefer not to have to broach the topic. “But the next months may pass far very quickly. We need to talk about the baby’s future. This is not Westeros, but for an unwed Queen to bear a child…”

Daenerys remembers one of the stories Viserys used to tell her of Rhaenyra, the Half-Year Queen. Though they were descended from her last surviving son, Viserys’ namesake, he never had a kind word to say about her, and his tales made much of the rumours that her Velaryon sons were not Velaryons at all, but the bastards of Ser Harwin Strong. He heaped insults on Queen Rhaenyra for her wanton ways, and for the selfish ambition that had torn the realm apart and destroyed so many of their House’s dragons. With hindsight, she recognizes that her brother used their ancestress as a cautionary tale for her, to warn her that a sister who failed to support her brother’s lawful claim would come to no good end, and that the same was doubly true of a wife who betrayed her lord husband. His vivid description of Rhaenyra being eaten alive by her brother’s dragon gave her nightmares.

The account of Rhaenyra in the books Jorah gave her was not quite as venomous as Viserys’ tales, but they made much of the rumours that her sons were not her husband’s, and Daenerys wondered if this was part of the reason why so many of the lords who had sworn to defend her succession had instead supported Aegon.

Had the princess once adored as the Realm’s Delight lost the love and loyalty of those who had sworn fealty to her, those who swore to uphold her right to follow her father on the Iron Throne, lost the crown that should have been hers, for doing the same thing that countless men did every day?

“Our child will be my heir.” There is no question of that in her mind. Boy or girl, this baby will one day follow her on her throne, care for her dragons, and keep her people safe.

“Is this your way of proposing?” Daario asks, more solemnly than he intended.

Jorah hesitates a long moment before shaking his head regretfully. “I am already married,” he reminds them. “If I were free, there is little that would give me greater joy than to ask you to take me for your husband, but Lynesse may yet live, and if she does, I am bound to her. You, however, are free,” he tells Daario.

“Free to make an honest woman of me? Why would you want us to marry, when it would leave you out?”

Their relationship may not be ordinary, but it works. She loves them and they love her, and she cannot bear the thought of losing either of them. Why would Jorah want to change things in a way that would divide them; her and Daario as man and wife, and himself the outsider? If they do this, it will change things between them, no matter how hard they try to keep everything between them as it is. Sooner or later, Jorah will draw away from them.

“I don’t want anybody to be able to call the baby a bastard,” Jorah tells her gently.

“Not ‘the baby’,” Daario corrects him. “It’s our baby. All of ours. And none of Daenerys’ people will call her child a bastard. All they need to know is that it is their Queen’s. They will love the baby because they love her.”

This is not a conversation that should take place while two of them bob in the pool, so Daenerys starts to climb out. Jorah is quick to help her, and as soon as she is out of the water, he hastens to fetch a soft linen towel and her silk nightrobe. He wraps her in the towel, delicately brushing his fingertips over her shoulders.

Daario climbs out after her, shaking his head vigorously and sending drops of water splattering everywhere. He accepts a towel from Jorah, drying himself briskly.

“I will not choose between you,” Daenerys says firmly, once she is dry and sitting beside the pool. “Many men take more than one wife. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Why should I not have two husbands?” As soon as she says it aloud, it makes perfect sense to her.

“Why not, indeed?” Daario seconds her, raising a challenging eyebrow in Jorah’s direction. “If you were free…”

“I am not free,” Jorah interjects.

“How can you be sure of that? How long has it been since you last clapped eyes on the woman? For all you know, she is dead already, and even if she is still alive, she’s hardly going to march into Meereen and tell Daenerys that she wants her husband back, is she?” Despite himself, Jorah cannot keep his hope from showing on his face, and Daario presses on. “She ran off with another man, didn’t she? Nobody in Meereen would deny you your right to cast her aside for that. Daenerys can declare you free tonight, or first thing in the morning if we need witnesses.”

“I don’t know of any marriage ceremony for a woman to take two husbands,” Jorah points out.

“If there is one, Sarella will know of it.” Daenerys is frequently astounded by the breadth of Sarella’s knowledge, which leaves her acutely aware of her own lack of a formal education. “If not, we will make our own ceremony.”

“Not everybody will be willing to accept it as lawful,” Jorah warns her.

“That doesn’t matter. I will know that you are my husbands, you will both know that I am your wife, and our baby will know that you are both his or her fathers.”

“Does this make me Daario Targaryen?”

She smiles at the quip, but shakes her head. “No. We all have names, and none of us should give them up.”

Jorah nods agreement, and when he speaks, his tone is resolute. “The baby… our baby is of House Targaryen.”

Daenerys would never argue with this, and she sees Daario nod his approval.

“That’s one of the baby’s names decided on,” Daario says. “What about the other?”

When she first knew that she carried Drogo’s son, there was never any question for Daenerys but that she would name him for Rhaegar. She wanted so badly to honour the valiant brother she had never had a chance to know, and she hoped that using his name would bless her son with his strength, courage and honour. Now that she knows more about him than the pretty stories that Viserys and Ser Barristan told her, knows that he was prepared to see the realm torn apart and their family destroyed for the sake of his lust for Lyanna Stark, knows that he left his wife and two little children unprotected while commanding that three of the Kingsguard should defend his mistress, she knows that she would not use his name for this baby, any more than she would use their father’s.

“Your father’s name was Jeor, was it not? Jeor Targaryen has a ring to it.” She hopes that the suggestion will please him, but he hesitates for a long moment, before reluctantly shaking his head.

“My father died ashamed of me,” he says, his voice filled with sorry and self-loathing. “I don’t know that he would wish to be namesake to my child.”

The silence stretches between the three of them before Daario breaks it. “I won’t be able to be much help,” he announces, with forced good cheer. “I don’t even know who my father was.”

“Ser Barristan was a great man,” Daenerys suggests, before another name springs to mind. “Ser Willem Darry smuggled Viserys and me from Dragonstone, when the rest of the garrison wanted to sell us to the Usurper. He could have had lands, castles, and gold for the asking. The Usurper would have given him whatever he wanted in exchange for our heads, but instead he left everything behind and risked his life to save us. He brought us across the Narrow Sea when I was a baby, to the house with the red door, and he kept us safe there until the day he died. He was the kindest man I have ever known. He used to call me ‘little princess’.”

“They would both be worthy namesakes for a son,” Jorah agrees gently. “What if it’s a daughter?”

“If we have a daughter, I would like to name her for my mother.”

“I can think of no more fitting name.”

“Barristan, Willem, or Rhaella,” Daario ticks the names off on his fingers before grinning mischievously at her. “Maybe you’re hiding triplets in there, and we can use all of them.”

The thought of bearing triplets would both thrill and alarm Daenerys, if she did not already know from Quaithe that she carries one baby.

“Just one baby,” she tells him, resting her hand over her abdomen.

“It will be the best loved baby in the world,” Daario vows, and Daenerys knows that he speaks the truth.

Their baby will have everything she ever dreamed of when she was a little girl, and more.

Their baby will have the love of its mother, fathers, and the friends, the family, she has made on her journey.

Their baby will never know cold or hunger or fear.

Their baby will have friends and toys, everything a child could ever wish to have.

They will grow lemon trees on their baby’s balcony, Daenerys decides, and the door of the nursery will be painted red.

Chapter Text

Sansa can only marvel at how readily her people seem to have taken to their new surroundings.

Meereen seems to her to be as different from the North and Winterfell as day from night, so foreign and strange that it is difficult to believe that the two places could exist in the same world.

How is it that women and children who had never set foot outside the North, or ever strayed more than a dozen leagues from the villages in which they were born until they were commanded to Winterfell for protection against the Army of the Dead, and men whose only experience of the world outside their homes was restricted to what they had seen while marching in Robb's army, or her father's if they were old enough to have fought in Robert's Rebellion, can be at ease in their new, strange surroundings?

More at ease than Sansa herself, if truth be told.

They had had the barracks to themselves that first night, and Sansa found that uncomfortable enough, the immense sleeping hall seeming to stretch for miles in the near darkness as she lay on her pallet, longing to be back in her feather bed at Winterfell, snug under woolen blankets and heavy furs, with Arya by her side and Brienne by their door. As exhausted as she was, the sounds of almost two hundred people snuffling and snoring kept her awake long after most of her people had fallen asleep, lulled by full bellies and the sense of safety that came with being on dry land, under a roof, and thousands of miles away from the monsters that had destroyed their home.

When the Dothraki horde returned with the slaves from Volantis, she gave orders that her people should take pallets and bunks in one corner of the room, and that they should take their meals at the same time, wanting the newcomers to see that they were a people united, and that they would defend their own against any attack.

She might as well have spared her efforts.

A few of the boldest of the children are running around the sleeping hall with a dozen or so of the slave children, tossing a leather ball, given to them by the attendants in charge of the shelter, as they weave their way through the sleeping hall, ducking nimbly around the pallets, or leaping over them altogether if their legs are long enough. Every time one of the children fails to catch the ball, the one who threw it to them points to an object in the room, and the other child gives the word for it, the Northern children in the Common Tongue, the others in Valyrian or whatever language they speak. They take turns repeating the word until the child who threw the ball can pronounce it perfectly. The odd forfeit has resulted in the Northern children picking up a few words already.

And it is not just the children.

Too many of the adults have already approached the scribes that Daenerys Targaryen sent, giving details of their background and any skills that they might possess, and she knows that at least some of them are already making plans for the jobs that they could do in Meereen. If the impression Lady Olenna’s words gave her is accurate, there is work of all sorts available in Daenerys Targaryen’s cities, and in the surrounding lands. She has certainly been quick to send her people to lure the Northerners into staying to enrich her kingdom with their labour, rather than helping them save their true home.

The Hound is watching the game, in which two of the children who have attached themselves to him are eager participants. The girl seems particularly excited, shrieking with laughter as she runs around. The third child, the smaller of the boys, stands by his side, sucking lightly on the fingers of one hand while the other is wrapped tightly around the hem of the Hound’s shirt, seemingly content to watch rather than play.

“You should not allow them to spend so much time with these children,” Sansa admonishes him. She takes care to keep her voice low, not wanting these strangers to know how much they discomfit her. “We know nothing about these children… these people… or where they have come from. We should keep apart. They might have…”

“Lice? Fleas? The bloody shits?” The Hound scoffs, and Sansa feels her cheeks burn at both his coarse words and the loud voice in which he utters them, certain that he must be drawing attention to them. “I’d say they’re like to be in better shape than we are. They didn’t spend three months in that stinking tub!”

Sansa can feel her cheeks burn at the thought of what she must have looked like when she reached Meereen… what she must have smelled like. She could not deny that three months without a clean gown or smallclothes, and nothing but seawater to wash in had left her in no better state than the poor of King’s Landing. Worse, she did not have a chance to take a bath, or receive her new clothes, until after their audience with Daenerys Targaryen.

“It is not wise to let them get too close,” she persists, forcing herself not to think of what Daenerys Targaryen and her court must have thought of her when she, Jon, and the others sought an audience at the Great Pyramid. She keeps her voice low, almost a whisper, though she has scant hope that he will emulate her discretion.

“Why the fuck not? How long has it been since any of them have had a chance to play like this?”

“They should not forget where they come from, and who their people are.”

“You mean who their people were,” he corrects her. “It looks to me that these are going to be their people now.”

“No, they won’t!” Sansa snaps back, more loudly than she intended. “They are of Westeros, and the North. That will never change.”

“The North is gone, little bird, and if the rest of the Seven Kingdoms aren’t lost by now, they will be before any of this lot have grown another inch. You can do what you want. Try to find a captain mad enough to bring you back to Westeros so the Night King can kill you and the crew, or to sail around the world to search for another frozen Hell so you can call yourself its Lady. I’m staying here, and it looks to me like the rest of them are going to do the same. Them that have more than half a brain in their head, at any rate. Could be worse. At least the weather is an improvement, and the food’s decent. It sounds like there’ll be work for anybody who wants it. Only an idiot wouldn’t choose a new life here over going back there to die!”

The worst of it is that she knows in her heart that he is right.

The thought of never returning home is so painful that it threatens to choke her.

All of those years spent first as a captive in the Red Keep, tormented by Joffrey, brutally beaten every time Robb won a victory that made him fear that his hold on the Iron Throne was slipping away, and sold to Tyrion so the Lannisters might use her to claim the North, then in hiding in the Eyrie, with only the dream of home to sustain her. Then Ramsey, who sought to turn her home into her prison, thinking that the torture he inflicted on her would drive away all memory of being safe, warm and happy with her family, and make her think only of pain and degradation when she thought of Winterfell.

She had defeated them all.

She had taken back her home, and even Jon did not dispute her claim to it. He might not have refused the title of King, recognizing that it was more fitting by far that she, Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter, should be proclaimed Queen, but at least he had respected her right to Winterfell.

Lady Olenna told her that she could not be Lady of Winterfell if Winterfell was no more, but Sansa refuses to believe it.

Even if her home is burned, even if its ashes are buried beneath a hundred feet of snow, it remains hers.

She is Lady of Winterfell, the last Stark in a line that stretches back for over eight thousand years.

She is descended from Kings.

She is sister to two Kings.

If they were still home, she would be proclaimed Jon’s heiress, next in line to rule the North.

Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell. A title that exists only in her thoughts, but that must surely have been hers had the North endured.

In the stories she used to love as a child, fair princesses and maidens who were pure of heart might suffer at the hands of the wicked, might lose their homes and all that they held dear, might even be forced to live as smallfolk or servants for a time, as Sansa was once forced to pretend to be Littlefinger’s bastard, but in the end, they were always rewarded for their virtue, for suffering yet never allowing their purity of heart or their sweetness of nature to be marred by it. Whatever they lost would be restored to them. Often, they gained even more than they ever lost. Their castles would be restored to them, but they would also have won the love of a handsome, gallant Lord or even a prince or King, who would cherish them as every lady dreams of being cherished, and ensure that they would never again know a moment of sorrow, fear or pain.

After all that she lost, all that she suffered, she thought that when they won Winterfell back, she would be safe, that she would have the happy ending she deserved.

Then they lost Winterfell, not to the Lannisters or the Boltons, but to a monstrous, merciless, unnatural force, undeterred by the winter snows, a force that killed Arya and Bran, leaving Sansa as the last true Stark, a force that drove them from their home, and their land, leaving them to seek refuge half a world away from all they knew.

“It’s not right,” she says, more to herself than to the Hound. “It’s not fair.”

He barks a laugh. “When was anything in this shit world ever fair?”

“Daenerys Targaryen should show hospitality to those of noble birth. I am a Stark of Winterfell…”

“You think that being Ned Stark’s get is going to be a point in your favour?” His laughter is harsh. “Your father helped to put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne, and he damn near wiped out her family. Even sent men to kill her when she was still puking breast milk and pissing her swaddling. If Cersei loved Robert half as much as your father did, every one of her brats would’ve had black hair! And you expect her to ask you to live under her roof?”

A true lady never raises her voice in anger, but Sansa is sorely tempted to ignore this lesson, drilled into her by Mother and by Septa Mordane.

Father was a good man, a just man, and a man of honour. He would never have raised his sword against House Targaryen if the cause was not a just one. He would never have helped to put King Robert on the Iron Throne if he did not believe that he would be a good King. How was he to know that his friend would turn fat and drunk and stupid, with none of the dignity or wisdom that a King should have? How was he to know that Cersei would betray her husband, giving him a monster like Joffrey in place of the noble, gentle prince of true Baratheon blood she should have borne him, the dark-haired prince, even handsomer than Lord Renly, who should have been Sansa’s husband?

How dare Daenerys Targaryen think ill of Father when he always sought to do the honourable thing!

How dare she snub Sansa, denying her the hospitality and honourable treatment to which a noble lady is entitled, to punish her for a war that was fought before either of them were born!

“Jon is her nephew.”

“And she welcomed him with open arms, did she?”

She ignores this. “Whether she likes it or not, Jon is her nephew, her only family, and I am Jon’s family.”

“I don’t think she cares about that, little bird.”

“She will have no choice but to care.”

Jon returns to the barracks shortly before dinner and, to Sansa’s frustration, every time she tries to draw him aside in order to quiz him about what happened between him and Daenerys Targaryen, he is with one or another of their people, deep in conversation. She knows without being told that he will not welcome any interruptions on her part.

Ghost emerges from the cool, shadowy corner he had claimed as a resting place as soon as Jon returns, and remains by his side as he speaks to their people.

Sansa feels the old sense of regret and jealousy as she watches Ghost nuzzle Jon’s hand with his massive snout, imagining how much safer she would feel if she could still have Lady by her side.

She wishes that she could reach back through the veil of time, and shake some sense into the silly girl she was.

What would have happened, had she been able to see Joffrey for what he was when they first met, been able to see how unworthy he was of the love she offered him? If she told King Robert the truth, told him that the boy he called ‘son’ had attacked a defenseless butcher’s boy, and that he would have killed Arya had Nymeria not stopped him, would he have taken their part? Would he have punished Joffrey for his wickedness, and refused to heed Cersei’s demand that Lady be killed? Perhaps he would have been too weak to stand against the demands of his Queen, how ever wrong they were, too stupid and too lazy to behave as a King ought to. Perhaps he would think that an attack on the boy he believed to be his son must be punished, regardless of cause. Perhaps he would have let Lady be killed, no matter what Sansa said or did, but at least then she would have nothing for which to reproach herself.

She misses Lady more than ever in this place, so different from home.

There were six direwolf pups once, one for each of them.

Now Ghost is the last of his kind, as she and Jon are the last of the Starks.

If the future of their family must be in this place, Sansa means to see to it that they will have their due.

When a gong is rung to signal the first dinner shift, the one she decreed that her people should partake of, Sansa hastens to stand directly behind Jon in line, collecting her bowl of stew, mug of water and hunk of bread, following him to the table, and claiming the seat to his right.

Ghost, already familiar with the routine in the barracks, lies down at Jon’s feet, waiting patiently until one of the servers comes over with an immense bowl of offal and chunks of bloody, fatty meat. A feast to a direwolf who has spent three months at sea, subsisting on scraps.

As usual, Ser Davos, Samwell Tarly, Brienne and Podrick join them at the table. The Hound sits at the next table over, with the five children he and Ser Davos are caring for.

Before Sansa can say a word, Samwell Tarly blurts out his news. “Queen Daenerys has offered me a job. She wants me to work with Lady Sarella Sand to build up the new library. It’s going to be in one of the pyramids that used to belong to the Masters, and there’s going to be lodgings for the library workers. I will have rooms above the library, and Gilly and Little Sam will live there with me.”

“Why should she single you out for favour?” Sansa asks, trying to keep the envy from her voice. It is so unfair that Samwell Tarly and his Wildling lover are to be allowed to leave the barracks to live in privacy and comfort in a suite of rooms in a pyramid. If Daenerys Targaryen can do this for them, how can she refuse to offer hospitality to her?

“When I was at the Citadel, a knight came to the healing wing there, suffering from greyscale. When I found out that he was Lord Commander Mormont’s son, I knew that I had to find a way to save him.” This last part is addressed to Jon, who nods his approval and understanding. “Archmaester thought that the disease had progressed too far for there to be any hope, and was going to send him to Valyria, to join the stone men there. I found a book that described a possible cure. The Archmaesters had decided that it was too dangerous to use it, in case the healer also became infected, so it was forbidden, but I had to try. I came back alone, and when I told him what I wanted to do, he agreed to it. I think that he would have done anything if it meant that he had a chance to get better. That treatment…” He shudders visibly at what is clearly an unpleasant memory before continuing. “We were very lucky that nobody caught me! I treated him, and he was cured. The knight was Ser Jorah Mormont, and he serves Queen Daenerys. I think he’s her Queensguard, or on her Council, or something like that.”

Sansa remembers the first audience with Daenerys Targaryen, and how she spoke to Samwell Tarly. At the time, she was more concerned with impressing on the woman that Jon was the true King of the Seven Kingdoms, but now that she thinks of it, she remembers Daenerys Targaryen speaking of a reward.

“House Mormont is sworn to House Stark,” she observes aloud. “If this Ser Jorah has her ear, he might be able to convince her to help us.” She vaguely recalls hearing of a Lord Mormont who fled her father’s justice, though she could not recall the man’s given name. Whatever he had done, Father was very angry about it, and angrier still that the man fled rather than staying to face the King’s justice, or taking the black to wash away the stain of his crime. She cannot imagine what he would say if he knew that one of his own bannermen had pledged himself to Daenerys Targaryen, when his own loyalty was to House Baratheon until the day he died. If this is the same man, he should be grateful to be offered an opportunity to make amends for his crimes by aiding House Stark in its time of need.

“I’d say that she already is, milady,” Ser Davos observes, gesturing to the bowls of food in front of them. “Food, clothes, shelter, safety, a home in any of her cities, and any help we need to find work. It’s more than I expected. Her Grace has also asked to see me and Clegane tomorrow,” he adds, addressing Jon. “Young Lilla told me.”

“Why?” Sansa demands. Is Daenerys Targaryen trying to taunt her by bringing so many to the Great Pyramid while she is ignored?

“I’ll have to ask her why I see her. Maybe she has a soft spot for children. Maybe she wants me to take up smuggling again.”

“Maybe she wants you to be her Master of Ships,” Samwell Tarly suggests, only half in jest.

“Gods help her if she needs an old smuggler like me for the job!”

“She could do a lot worse,” Jon tells him. The smile he gives him briefly lightens his solemn countenance. “Queen Daenerys has asked that I attend her tomorrow, to watch her audiences and the meeting with her Council.”

Sansa feels her mouth curve upwards in a smile, and she inwardly chastises herself for her harsh thoughts about Daenerys Targaryen. It seems that the Queen can be reasonable after all. She waits for Jon to say more, but instead he turns his attention to the stew in front of him, spooning it eagerly into his mouth, before using his bread to soak up the last of the gravy. She pays scant attention to her own meal as she eats it, allowing her thoughts to drift to her visit with Lady Olenna, and the dainty cakes they were served with their tea. It seems a lifetime ago that such things were part of her daily life. For all their cruelty to her, the Lannisters never stooped to using food, or any other material comfort, to punish her. She always had many sumptuous dishes to choose from, even when the smallfolk of the city rioted for want of bread. She wore silk and satin and Myrish lace, finer than anything she had had at Winterfell, and lived in rooms fit for a princess. She never forgot that she was a prisoner, yet she could not help but be thankful not to be consigned to a dungeon, wearing rags and subsisting on scraps fit only for pigs.

Soon, she will once again live as a lady of noble… of royal birth ought to, and in time, the hardships she has endured will fade to an unpleasant but distant memory.

She regards Jon critically as he finishes his meal. His hair is too long, but at least he has had a chance to wash the grime and salt from it. His beard makes him look older than his years… but perhaps it is better that he looks older. He will impress nobody, least of all a Queen, if he looks like a beardless boy, still as green as summer grass. Like the other men, he has been given a linen shirt, a pair of light breeches, and sandals. Does she have time to embroider a direwolf over the breast of his shirt? Should she embroider a dragon instead? A dragon and a direwolf both, to remind Daenerys Targaryen that, though Jon is her nephew, he is still Sansa’s family? Where might she find a needle and thread to do it? Should Jon bring Ghost, or would Daenerys Targaryen see his presence as a threat?

So deep in thought is she that she almost misses it when Jon rises to leave the table.

Scrambling to her feet, she follows him from the dining hall. She catches him by the arm, and looks around for a quiet corner in which they can speak privately. To her irritation, there seem to be people everywhere. She leads him over to the section of the sleeping chamber where the Northerners have their beds. As almost all of them are still at table, it is probably the quietest place in the barracks, at least for the next few minutes. She takes a step back from him, so she can take in his appearance.

“Maybe you should wear your cloak tomorrow,” she muses aloud. He looked a true Lord in the cloak she made him at Castle Black, a cloak just like the one Father used to wear.

“Are you mad? I’ll be baked alive if I wear that!”

“If I can find a needle, and some dark thread, I can make our clothes look more fit for our station.” She twitches the skirt of her plain linen gown impatiently. The sooner she can exchange it for a one befitting her station, the better. “I don’t want us to look like beggars in front of her court.”

“You’re not coming with me. She knows that you wanted me to steal a dragon.”

“How can she possibly know that?” She cannot imagine who would betray her like that. Who among her people could be so heartless and disloyal as to give Daenerys Targaryen a reason to think ill of her when she is so close to earning her good will?

“I don’t know who told her, and it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if we can pretend that it isn’t true. What matters is that she knows, and she doesn’t trust you. She brought me to see her dragons, and their eggs…”

“She has eggs too? How many?”

“Sansa!” Jon’s voice is sharp as he speaks her name.

“You shouldn’t have had to steal a dragon,” she insists. “You are a Targaryen too.”

“A Targaryen bastard.”

“That doesn’t matter. The dragonseeds were able to claim dragons during the Dance of Dragons. The dragons didn’t care that they were bastards. And it’s not as if you are an ordinary bastard. Your father married your mother before a heart tree, and if he had lived, he would have made sure to annul his first marriage properly so Aunt Lyanna could be his Queen, and you a prince. You have just as much of a right to claim a dragon as she does.”

“And she gave me a chance to try. She told me that if one of her dragons accepted me as a rider, I could claim it. All three of them rejected me. The green one was ready to burn me to ash for coming near it, and all three of them would have turned their fire on me if I had tried to go near the eggs. It doesn’t truly matter, does it? Maybe dragonfire would have been enough to destroy the Night King, if we had had it at Winterfell, but he’s had three months to grow his army since then. Do you think that anybody is still alive in Westeros? Do you think that there is anybody left who is not part of his army? We tried to stop him, and we failed. We lost the North, and it’s too late for us to help the other kingdoms.”

“I only wanted to save our home,” Sansa says, hating that her voice sounds so small and weak, like the foolish little girl she was before Joffrey called for Father’s head. “I used to be so stupid. I thought that I hated Winterfell, and couldn’t wait to go South. I thought that everything was so much better in the South, that they had finer clothes, grander castles, musicians at every court, gallant knights, and feasts every night. After I left, all I wanted was to go home, and then when we finally got there, we lost it again. I didn’t want to believe that we had lost it forever. I thought that, if you could claim a dragon, there would still be hope that you could defeat the Night King and bring us all home. You need to make her understand that I would never have thought of stealing a dragon if it wasn’t so important. You need to make her see that I am her ally, not her enemy. Her family, through you. You need to make her see that, so she doesn’t try to make you leave me behind.”

“Why would I have to leave you behind? Where am I going?”

She barely manages to suppress a sigh. She loves Jon for his honourable nature and his honesty, which sometimes remind her so much of Father that it seems that he is still alive in Jon, but she cannot help but be frustrated with his utter inability to play the game of thrones.

Tyrion or Littlefinger or Lady Olenna or even Cersei would see in an instant the opportunity that Jon is blind to.

“Daenerys Targaryen rules over this city, and two others. She rules over the Dothraki.” Sansa never excelled at geography and, in any case, Maester Luwin’s lessons focused on the geography of Westeros, not the other continents. She has no idea how much territory is encompassed by the three cities, and the surrounding lands, but she dimly recalls Maester Luwin describing the Dothraki territory as being larger than any of the Seven Kingdoms, even the North. Even if all of her cities and other territory combined are no bigger than one kingdom, she must still rule over vast lands, and millions of people.

“I know that.”

“She is a Queen in her own right. She has forged a mighty kingdom, but she has no heir to inherit it, and no husband to give her one.” Jon’s expression remains frustratingly blank. How can he not grasp her meaning? “You are close in age to her, and you know that you are a comely man. If she takes you as her husband…”

“She’s my aunt!”

“She’s a Targaryen, she won’t be troubled by that. You could be King. Our people chose you to rule them before, think how pleased they would be to have you rule them again!”

“Sansa…”

“And if she doesn’t want a husband, you are still her closest kinsman. She might not want to marry.” Sansa did not blame her if she was reluctant to take a husband. If she was Queen in her own right, she knew that she would not want a husband to take all that was hers from her. “If not, she can name you her heir, and then she won’t have to worry about her Council pressing her to take a husband. She has asked you to attend meetings with her Council for a reason, don’t you see? She wants to get your measure. You need to show her that you know how to rule.”

“I don’t want to rule. I’m clearly no good at it. I was Lord Commander, and half of my men banded against me and killed me. I was King in the North, and now there’s nothing left of the North.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” she tells him gently. While it is true that, during his brief time as King in the North, he made choices that she disagreed with, none of those choices were to blame for their fate. It was no fault of his that the Night King was too strong, or that those to whom they appealed for aid ignored him. “You always tried to do the right thing for your people, not yourself, and that makes you the best King I’ve ever known.”

“That’s a pretty low bar.”

“Don’t underrate yourself,” she scolds him. “You can't expect her to see your worth if you refuse to see it yourself. It’s not your fault that the Army of the Dead came through the Wall. You tried to stop them, and if you had not brought the Wildlings through, there would have been even more of the dead to fight. Maybe none of us would have been able to get away from Winterfell if there were more of them. If there was no Night King, you would be King now, and you would rule well.”

“If there was no Night King, I would not have allowed the Free Folk past the Wall, and my brothers would not have killed me. I would still be a man of the Night’s Watch, sworn to wear no crown.”

Her bannermen would have declared her their Queen, had Jon remained Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

She knows that it should not matter to her any more, now that the North is forever lost to them, but it is still painful to remember how eagerly the Northern Lords clamoured for Jon to be King, ignoring her own, stronger claim, and how Jon did not think to refuse to accept the crown, deferring to her as the rightful Queen in the North.

“You need to make a favourable impression on her,” she tells him, doing her best to banish thoughts of the Queen that she might have been, in a kinder, more just world, and focusing on the King that Jon can still be, one way or the other. “If she wants you to be her husband, or her heir, you need to say ‘yes’. You may not want to be King, but you are good at it, and it will be so much easier for our people to feel at home here if they can look to you, a man they know and trust, to rule them. Would you deny them that?”

“She won’t want to marry me, or to make me her heir.” Jon sounds hopeful rather than dismayed at the thought of being passed over, denied his rights as nephew to the Queen.

“Perhaps not,” she concedes, knowing that to push too hard might alarm him. “If she does, all I ask is that you not refuse her out of hand, that you think about all of the good that you could do before you give her an answer.”

Jon’s nod is slow, and reluctant, but Sansa is satisfied with it.

Like Father, Jon will always strive to do right by their people, and his family.

Like Father, Jon will not put his own desires ahead of the good of his pack.

Knowing all he can do for them as Daenerys Targaryen’s King, or even as her heir, he will not shirk his duty. He will accept her offer, and if he is reluctant at first, he will soon come to see that it was the right choice to make.

And whether she takes Jon as her husband, or names him her heir, Daenerys Targaryen will have no choice but to accept that, as Jon’s sister, Sansa too must be made welcome to live in the Great Pyramid, honoured as the princess she should always have been.

Tyrion is one of the first to arrive for breakfast in the morning.

One of the tables in the smallest dining chamber has food set out on it: a large bowl of chopped fruits, a platter piled with fried bread, flatbreads and soft rolls, and a tray set with an array of cold meats, cheeses, smoked fish, and hard-boiled eggs. Steam rises from a plate covered in fat sausages and slices of bacon that have been fried to a crisp, the aroma making his mouth water. Jugs of water, juice and a light, spiced ale are placed next to the food. No wine, alas. His Queen remains convinced that it is a bad idea to serve wine or strong spirits before the work of the day is completed, despite Tyrion’s best efforts to persuade her that, while wine or, better still, Tyroshi pear brandy might dull the wits of another man, a couple of good drinks sharpen his mind.

He piles a plate with food, including a liberal helping of bacon, and fills his goblet with ale, before sitting down to eat.

Sarella greets him with a distracted nod, her attention focused on some papers in front of her rather than on her meal. Loreza and Dorea, squabbling over possession of a bowl of honey, do not seem to notice his arrival.

As Tyrion works his way through his breakfast, the others drift into the room, first Missandei and Grey Worm, then Lady Olenna and Ellaria Sand. He is nursing a second goblet of ale when Daenerys arrives, with Jorah and Daario shadowing her, as usual.

He waits until they have filled their plates and sat down before he speaks.

“Have you given any thought to marriage, Your Grace?” he asks tentatively, glancing briefly between Jorah and Daario, wondering which of them Daenerys is likely to choose as a husband, and how the other is likely to react to being passed over. “With the baby on the way, the sooner you take a husband, the better. You should speak to the Graces about a marriage ceremony, today if possible. I don’t know how long it will take for them to make whatever preparations they will need to make before you can be married. If you want the people to believe that the baby was conceived in your marriage bed, you cannot afford to delay any longer.”

Lady Olenna snorts derisively. “Anybody who would believe that she grew a baby in six months will believe that she did it in five.”

“We will be married,” Daenerys declares. “As soon as I find somebody who will marry us.”

Tyrion watches her smile on each of her lovers in turn, knowing without being told that she has no intention of choosing one of them. He barely manages to suppress a groan of frustration. It would be bad enough for Daenerys to take a knight old enough to be her father, or a former pit fighter turned sellsword as her husband. He doesn’t want to think about what will be said of her when it becomes known that she is to marry them both. He cannot help but be thankful that she gave up on the idea of claiming the Iron Throne, as he can imagine, all too easily, how the Lords of Westeros would have reacted if they were expected to bend the knee before these men. Even the Targaryen kings had not been able to get away with taking multiple wives, not since Maegor the Cruel. A Targaryen queen could not hope to get away with taking two husbands.

The subject seemingly closed, she moves on to the next matter at hand. “Jon Snow will be joining us in our meeting this morning, and attending court when I hear petitions,” she announces.

“What time are they to arrive?”

“‘They’?”

“Jon Snow and Lady Sansa.”

“I have asked that Jon Snow join us,” Daenerys tells him, an edge to her voice. “His people chose him to be their King. I am sure that he can speak for them without needing his sister to hold his hand.”

“But…”

“If I wished to invite Sansa Stark, I would have done so. I trust that you will remember that the next time you think to take it upon yourself to invite her, or anybody else, into my home without my leave.”

“Your Grace, Lady Sansa is a daughter of House Stark. My father recognized that she was the key to the North when he commanded that I marry her. If you want the people of the North to settle here, welcoming Lady Sansa as a member of your council, and earning her friendship, could go a long way towards helping them trust you. If they see that she accepts you as her Queen, they will follow her lead.” If Ellaria Sand and her daughters can be made welcome and allowed to speak for the people who came with them from Dorne, after killing their Prince, after killing Myrcella, then surely Sansa can too. The gods know that there is no shortage of space in the Great Pyramid.

When Daenerys fixes her gaze on him, her expression is hard. “The people of the North may stay, or go, as they choose. They are free to decide. If I must scramble for Sansa Stark’s approval to persuade them to respect that I am Queen here, it is better that they leave now.” Tyrion opens his mouth to speak, but when he sees the fire burning in her eyes, the words die on his tongue. “I realize that you may feel an obligation towards Sansa Stark, as she was once your wife. If you think it your duty to care for her, I will gladly release you from my service, and you may find work to support her and make a home for you both. Is that what you want, Tyrion?”

Her omission of the title of ‘Lord’, his by courtesy as a member of the Queen’s council, does not escape any of them, Tyrion least of all.

“No, Your Grace,” he says quickly, inwardly wondering what work she could possibly expect him to find. He has no hope of making his living as a manual labourer, and Meereen is full of freedmen who are far more experienced than he when it comes to bookkeeping or scribing. He has no desire to earn his bread by capering in motley.

Daenerys’ only response is a curt nod.

The meal finishes in silence, the cloud of the Queen’s displeasure overshadowing what started out as a pleasant morning, and she is the first to leave the room, her lovers close on her heels.

The looks that Jorah and Daario cast in his direction as they leave make Tyrion shudder, knowing that both men would gladly slit his throat if they thought that it would please Daenerys.

Missandei and Grey Worm look even more disgusted with him, if such a thing is possible.

“There are times when I marvel that a man who is thought so clever can be so utterly stupid,” Lady Olenna remarks. “I thought that my son was a fool, the gods rest him, but there are times when you manage to make the Lord Oaf of Highgarden look cleverer than a Citadel of Archmaesters.”

“What do you mean?” It irritates him that he has to give her the satisfaction of hearing him ask the question, but he has no idea what she means, no idea why Daenerys has taken such offence to his speaking for Sansa. Daenerys knows what it is to be exiled from her home, to be sold in marriage, to suffer for the name she was born with. To his mind, she should feel empathy for Sansa, and want to do all in her power to help a girl who has known the same struggles, yet for some reason he cannot fathom, she wants nothing to do with her.

“Why am I in Meereen? Why are Lady Ellaria, and her daughters?”

“Because the Queen asked you to come here.”

“And why did she do that?”

“You know why! Because she had a vision of what would happen if she went to Westeros, and knew that if you stayed there, you would die!”

“And what does that tell you?” When he does not answer, she lets out an impatient huff of breath, as if exasperated by his inability to read her thoughts. “It means that, whatever happened in that vision, whatever I did in that life our Queen experienced, it was enough to make her think of me as an ally worth saving. She didn’t have to invite me to Meereen, or to send ships to bring as many of my people as she could to safety before those ice monsters could overrun the Reach. I had nothing to offer her when her mind was set against coming to Westeros, yet she cared enough to want to make sure that I, and what family is left to me, would be safe. I clearly made quite an impression on our Queen in the other life. Not that this is a surprise. As for you, you can at least be certain that whatever it was you did, you did nothing so terrible that she saw a need to banish you from her city.”

Which is more than can be said for Varys, Tyrion thinks, though he does not give voice to the thought. Daenerys knew that Varys was returning to Westeros, and charged him with sending the Tyrells and the Sands to Meereen, but had not commanded him to return with them. What had Varys done that she would not try to save him?

“You can be certain that if our Queen was given any reason to think kindly of Sansa in the other life, she would be as hospitable to her as she has been to the rest of us. The gods alone know what folly that silly girl committed in the other life, but it was clearly enough that she forfeited the good will of our Queen, so much so that Her Grace would rather dismiss you from her council than hear you speak for Sansa.”

Tyrion would like to believe that the threat is an empty one, that Daenerys values his counsel too highly to dismiss him, but he cannot make himself pretend that this is so. She trusts Missandei’s counsel more than anybody else’s, and Jorah, Daario and Grey Worm’s almost as much. She trusts Sarella, Olenna, and Ellaria, particularly when it comes to matters relating to the people who fled Westeros with them. She even trusts Quaithe’s words more than Tyrion’s, and Quaithe rarely speaks! He once dreamed of being her Hand, but must now accept that she could easily, and willingly, do without his presence on her council.

“If you persist in this nonsense, if you continue to try to push her to welcome Sansa Stark into our midst, be in no doubt that she will cast you out,” Olenna advises him. For a moment, her gaze softens. “I know that you tried to protect Sansa before. I respected you for it. I can only imagine how difficult it was for you, working to keep a monster like Joffrey on that ugly chair, and I do not doubt that you saw in Sansa a way to do something good, for a change. She was a sweet child then, and she deserved better than she received at your nephew’s hands, but she is a child no longer. She must make her own way in the world. Your choice is a simple one, Tyrion. You can stay here, and help our Queen as best you can, or you can leave, find work, and earn money to support Sansa. You must choose whether you wish to be the Queen’s advisor or Sansa’s shining knight. You cannot be both.”

Olenna does not wait for him to respond before sweeping out of the room, bound for the Council chambers.

Tyrion does not hesitate before following her.

He was fond of Sansa, once, and had hoped that she might grow fond of him in return, even if she could never give him the love a wife should have for husband. He likes to think that, if nothing else, she came to see him as somebody she could trust not to cause her harm, somebody she could confide in about her true feelings, knowing that he would not betray her secrets to Joffrey or to Cersei.

He gave her his protection, for what little it was worth.

But he will not give up all he has for her.

He knows that he is not a man who can be content with a life of honest labour, putting callouses on his hands to put bread on his table.

Casterly Rock is gone. Westeros is gone. His brother and sister are gone, or soon will be. He is all that is left of House Lannister, and perhaps it will be better if he takes no wife and fathers no children, and the name dies with him. He will never be a king in all but name, as Father was, but he can be part of building an empire. He still has a chance to do some good with his life.

He knows that he will never give that up, for Sansa or for anybody else.

As long as Daenerys is willing to have him on her Council, he will advise her. If a day ever comes when she asks him to retire… well, he dreams of owning a vineyard, and with the cuttings brought from Dorne and the Arbor, a day may yet come when he can make that dream a reality, and raise a toast his Queen with the Imp’s Delight.

Olenna sweeps into the Council chamber ahead of him, but he is close on her heels, his stunted legs keeping pace with her aged ones well enough. He takes the place at the table that has become his by custom, uncomfortably conscious that it is further from the Queen’s than he would like. He notes that an extra chair has been set at the table, towards the bottom, opposite his and several places away from the Queen’s chair, intended for Jon Snow.

Daenerys greets him with a silent nod, but Tyrion is certain that he sees approval in her eyes, and comforts himself with the thought that, though she may be willing to accept his resignation, she is pleased not to have to. 

He has scarcely settled into his chair when the door to the chamber opens to admit Jon Snow, flanked by two Unsullied.

“Your Grace,” he greets Daenerys stiffly, his posture awkward. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Please sit, Jon Snow.” She waits for him to take his place before giving the rest of them a slight smile. “Shall we begin?”

Council meetings are briefer on days when Daenerys is due to hold audiences, but they still manage to cover a number of issues over the course of the morning. Jon is asked some questions about how his people are faring, but the chief focus is on the progress being made cultivating land for farming. Tyrion, who knows little of such matters, leaves it to Olenna to take the lead. He remembers all too well the deprivation the plagued the city when it was under siege by the Masters, and knows how vital it is that the Bay of Dragons be able to sustain itself. Daenerys’ crusade against slavery has made her many enemies, and little would please the rulers of the slave cities more than that the Bay of Dragons descend into poverty, starvation and chaos, proving, to their eyes, that prosperity and order are only possible if some are denied freedom and human dignity so that others may thrive.

He allows talk of soil, and crop types, and grass and the Dothraki sea, and canals and ditches for irrigation to wash over him as he studies Jon, comparing the man who now sits before him with his memories of the boy whose journey to the Wall he shared.

He remembers a boy who, try as he might, could not hide his dismay when he realized that the reality of the Night’s Watch bore scant resemblance to the noble order he imagined from his father and uncle’s tales, but whose pride would never have allowed him to leave the Wall, not only because he knew that Lady Stark would not welcome his return to Winterfell, but because he could not bear to disappoint Ned Stark. He remembers teasing him about grumpkins and snarks, little realizing that a deadly threat truly did lie in wait beyond the Wall.

Jon Snow is a man grown now, one who looks older than his years, weighed down by the heavy burdens he has had to shoulder since Tyrion met him. His Meereenese garments suit him well, though Tyrion imagines that it must feel strange to him to be wearing light linen instead of heavy layers of wool, leather and fur.

He sits stiffly in his chair, listening intently to the proceedings but saying little.

He smiles only once, when Daenerys tells him of her intention to order that those who have charge of the Northern children will be prioritized for housing.

“Until their new homes are built, they may stay in the Great Pyramid, or they can have lodging in the library, if they would rather stay there than in the barracks. I have asked that Ser Davos and Ser Sandor to attend an audience, to let them know of my plans, and my offer.”

It is odd for Tyrion to hear the Hound referred to as Ser Sandor… he is reasonably certain that the man is not actually a knight, but far be it for him to correct his Queen… but odder still that she is prepared to welcome them to the Great Pyramid, when she is adamantly opposed to allowing Sansa to dwell there. He knows that she has a tender spot in her heart for children, but it still baffles him that she would rather house a handful of the smallfolk than to offer her hospitality to a highborn lady, whatever Sansa did or did not do in the other life.

He bites his tongue to keep himself from saying as much.

When their Council meeting ends, Daenerys reiterates her invitation for Jon to join them in the audience chamber, to attend her as she receives petitioners.

Tyrion catches up to Jon as they leave, tugging lightly at the sleeve of his shirt and motioning for him to sit with him. Chairs and small tables are set at the side of the great chamber, and while Daenerys ascends the flight of stone steps that lead to the wooden bench she uses instead of a throne, flanked by Jorah, Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Sarella, he takes a seat at one of them. As soon as he is seated, he reaches eagerly for the jug of wine set there. His Queen does not like that he drinks in the audience chamber, but she is prepared to tolerate it, as long as his consumption is moderate. It irritates him that she seeks to restrict his consumption when she has no such concerns about Lady Olenna’s cakes and cheese. He pours himself a goblet, and takes a long drink before he offers it to Jon. It’s a sour Dornish red, which would not be his first choice, but the tartness is not unpleasant. Who knows how much of it is left, or how long it will take before the new vineyards are productive? He should probably savor it while he can. He empties the goblet in a few mouthfuls, and refills it before thinking to offer it to Jon.

Jon nods acceptance, and cradles his goblet in his hands, sipping occasionally.

Daenerys gestures to the Unsullied standing sentry on either side of the entrance to admit the first petitioners.

A small group of men and women, simply-clad in the same type of clothing that is provided to those given shelter in the barracks, enters.

Missandei takes a step forward, her clear voice echoing softly in the high-ceilinged chamber. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Protector of her People and Mother of Dragons. Your Grace, this is the delegation representing the people newly arrived from Volantis.”

Daenerys addresses them in flawless Valyrian, speaking words of welcome, and promising that they will be given all of the help they need to settle in Meereen, or in any of the territory under her rule, and start new lives. It is a speech Tyrion has heard her give before, and familiarity allows him to follow her words with ease.

The proceedings would be of scant interest to him, except that when he looks up from his goblet to get the measure of the small group, he sees a familiar face in their midst.

“You!” he blurts, before he can stop himself. The woman is clad in the same simple garments as the rest of them, rather than the red gown she wore the last time he saw her, but he recognizes her by her dark hair, fine features, and something indefinable in her bearing that sets her apart. “You’re not a slave.”

“Indeed,” the woman inclines her head in his direction, switching from Valyrian to the Common Tongue. “I apologize for my deception, Your Grace, but I thought that coming to Meereen among those that your khalasar has freed would allow me to experience for myself the life that you are providing, that I may return to Volantis to tell all who remain in bondage there of the life that will be theirs when they cast down the Masters. You have already brought hope to millions.”

Daenerys smiles, clearly touched by her words. “Who are you?”

“This is Kinvara,” Tyrion speaks up. “She helped me keep the peace in Meereen in your absence.”

“Then I owe you a debt.”

“Lady Kinvara is High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light,” one of the men in the group announces, frowning reproachfully at Tyrion, as though he expects him to be able to remember the long list of titles.

Daenerys sits a little taller on her bench, her eyes bright with interest at this. “You are a priestess.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“How long will it take you to prepare to perform marriage rites?”

The clatter of a goblet striking the stone floor echoes through the audience chamber.

Tyrion cannot begin to understand why his Queen’s question should put such a frightened expression on Jon Snow’s face.