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Chapter Text

FOREWARD
By Archmaester Byric
Written in The Citadel of Oldtown, 491 AC

The following volume, written by Lord Lassiter, is primarily a narrative work. At Lord Lassiter’s request, I have read it for historical accuracy and can assure the reader that even though it presents these events in a theatrical way, the author has taken extraordinary measures to make sure it aligns with everything known from the participants’ own words, records and writings from the time and from contemporaries’ first-hand accounts.

But then, when the subject matter is Empress Daenerys I of House Targaryen, First Protector of New Valyria, Essos, Dragon’s Bay, Westeros and the Lands Beyond the Wall, fantasy becomes fact and legend becomes history.

The events of Empress Daenerys’ life very often are presented as a list of what are commonly known as Daenerys’ Seven Great Works: Her Birth of Dragons, the Ending of Slavery, Uniting the Dothraki, the Defeat of the White Walkers, Conquering Death, Rebuilding Valyria, and Defeating the Three-Eyed Raven. However, there is more to the Empress than even those colossal achievements. (It should be noted here that Daenerys herself hated the honorific “Empress” and preferred “First Protector”.)

She had a few loves in her life, even before meeting her equally legendary husband Emperor Aegon I of New Valyria (Aegon VI of House Targaryen in Westeros). She knew the tragedy of losing her first husband, a Dothraki khal, and her first child at a very early age. She was forced to cross deserts, avoid assassins’ knives and deal with devastating betrayals before the age of 20.

Her first triumphant sack of the city formerly known as Kings Landing was literally to be her crowning achievement until the villainy of House Blackfyre turned it into a setback no one ever could have recovered from – no one but her.

The following tale by Lord Lassiter picks up the events after that disastrous turn of events and how she conquered both death itself, two massive continents and turned New Valyria into the brightest jewel in the world.

At the age of 80 (although many eyewitness accounts say that she looked no older than half that age), Empress Daenerys and Emperor Aegon announced they were going on a royal trip to Yi Ti and Asshai. They left instructions with their eight grown children and half-Targaryen nieces and nephews (they collectively became known as the 8 Wonders of the World, but that’s a story for another volume) and climbed aboard their dragons and flew east. They were never seen again.

Some song-singers say the two lovers found an island paradise and live there still. Others in the North of Westeros swear they spent the rest of their days in an isolated spot they once visited before the Battle of Winterfell. Others still claim they battle for justice in the unknown regions of Sothoryos. One popular legend says that when Westeros needs them most, they will return. Often such legends bring about snorts of derisive laughter here in the Citadel. When they are spoken about Daenerys and Aegon, they are taken seriously.

Whatever became of them, it’s true that their impact is felt just as keenly today as the day they left. Thousands of songs, epic poems, plays and books have been written about Empress Daenerys. Women and men still look upon her images or read her words and fall madly in love with her. People still publicly proclaim their loyalty to her.

In the capital city of Valyria, a statue more than 100 cubits high stands of Daenerys with Aegon, with the statues holding the world aloft in one hand between them. In the middle of the Great Grass Sea, a statue of her can be seen riding a horse and dressed in Dothraki garb. Dothraki still pray to the Great Khaleesi and ask for her blessings.

In Essos, all of the places that once prominently displayed statues of the Harpy of Ghis now have images of the Empress instead, usually on the back of a dragon with a sword aloft. The most famous of these is on the Great Pyramid of Meereen, where a Targaryen banner has flown for almost 190 years.

The city of Daenaria was once named Qohor, the City of Sorcerers, until Empress Daenerys sacked the city, smashed the cult of the dark god known as the Black Goat and set the city up as a haven for freed slaves.

To atone for the Blackfyres’ evil deeds in the capital city of Westeros, Empress Daenerys poured enormous resources to ensure no one would go hungry, thirsty or without comfortable shelter and in turn the city is now known as Queen’s Haven.

But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. This is all a part of the tale you will read presently, of how the world was remade…

Chapter Text

Chapter 1
DAENERYS

She felt like she was drowning, sinking ever further into darkness. She tried to move her arms and legs, but they wouldn’t respond. Further down she went, then further.

But dragons don’t drown.

Somewhere, high above her, was warmth, light. Fire.

She began to wiggle her body like a fish, trying in vain to make her limbs act and then she realized ever so slowly, she was ascending. Inch by inch, struggling.

I must reach the fire. So cold. The fire is my savior.

Her progress increased, she was beginning to understand how to move. But now she was running out of air. She could see the fire above her head, but she didn’t think she was going to make it.

Dragons don’t drown.

She was almost there. She could feel the blessed warmth, the ecstasy of the flames licking the top of her head. She thought she might run out of air, here so close.

With one last mighty push, she broke from the depths into the red and orange heat.

Daenerys opened her eyes and gasped. Her body felt like it was covered in insects crawling over every piece of her skin and for a moment she felt she would retch, then realized she couldn’t move.

The room was dark and she could not even see the ceiling. Was she in her chambers in Mereen? She could hear nothing, but the room was warm.

She thought she saw something dash from the room out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t be sure. Where was she?

A thought came to her: The last thing she remembered was standing in front of the Iron Throne in the destroyed Red Keep. What had happened? Was she in the Red Keep now? Had it been a dream?

Another thought came forward: Her begging Jon to rule with her and he embraced her.

And then a sharp pain in her chest.

Had he stabbed her? That couldn’t be true.

She heard something or someone enter the room. A face appeared above her, a beautiful olive-skinned woman with piercing eyes. Did she know her?

“My queen, be calm. You are with friends.”

“Where am I?” Daenerys asked.

“Relax, Your Grace. Rest.”

“You’ll tell me now. Where am I?”

The woman nodded.

“You are at the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis. Your dragon brought you here.”

“My son. Where is he?”

“He circles above the temple, your grace.”

Daenerys thought for a moment. Her hands went to the scar on her chest.

“I was stabbed, in the chest by Jon.”

The woman was silent for a moment. “Yes. He killed you. Then you were brought here. The Lord of Light is not finished with you.”

She sat up and as she did, the woman wrapped her in a red robe.

“Who are you?” Daenerys asked.

“My name is Kinvara. I served you in Mereen. Our high priest, Benerro, believes you are Azor Ahai, come to bring light to this dark world.”

She stared ahead for some time. It might have been seconds or hours. Memories flooded her. She was flying over the city on Drogon. As the bells rang in surrender, something took hold of her, making her body feel thick and slow. She saw Drogon breathing fire on men, women and children – not soldiers - as they fled. This time she did retch.

“What happened to me?” Daenerys demanded. “Why did that happen? I did not do that. I would never.”

Kinvara gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “The Night King was not the Great Other, your grace. He was only the Great Other’s champion. The Three-Eyed Raven is the Great Other. The one known as Bloodraven, your distant kin, thought he could contain the power of the Three Eyed Raven. He was successful for a time, but he eventually failed.”

“I thought Bran Stark was the Three-Eyed Raven.”

“The one known as Bran Stark is the Raven’s host. But it is likely Bran Stark no longer exists. He has been overtaken by the Raven. And the Raven has been pulling strings – like you, like Jon Snow, like others.”

Daenerys turned to face Kinvara in fury.

“I am the blood of the Dragon! I am no one’s puppet!”

After a moment, Daenerys looked away, then continued. “Does Jon Snow sit on the Iron Throne?”

“No, your grace. Jon Snow was exiled for your murder. Bran Stark, or should I say the Raven, rules most of Westeros. The Iron Throne no longer exists. The dragon melted it.”

“I would see my son,” Daenerys said.

Shortly Daenerys and Kinvara were standing on the top of the temple. A figure in a red robe stood with them. The person’s head was encased in a shining steel mask. Steel mesh was on the eyes and mouth. Otherwise it was perfectly polished, like a mirror.

“Who is that?” Daenerys asked Kinvara.

“She is a friend. She will protect you. She is called The Steel Rose. She has trained in our fighting arts since girlhood and is the leader of the Fiery Hand and a Shadowbinder as well.”

Daenerys turned from the odd looking personage and searched the skies for Drogon.

Drogon was flying in circles above Volantis. Daenerys waved and the dragon turned and began flying directly toward her. Anyone else in the world would have been beyond terror, but this was her son.

Drogon landed on the roof of the temple and ran toward his mother. Daenerys put her hand on his nose as he curled his wing in to her, his version of an embrace.

“My boy, my child. I am sorry I was away from you. Thank you for all you have done. You are all I have left.”

She kissed him on the nose and he snorted.

“My queen, you have many still loyal to you. Many are ready to fight with you still.”

Daenerys looked at her. “Where are the Unsullied?”

They were two days from reaching the island of Naath. Grey Worm looked out at the sea, but he saw nothing. The vision of the death of Missandei filled his mind. He had killed many of the Westerosi. But not enough. Never enough.

His jaws clenched and unclenched. He should have killed Jon Snow. He should have killed Tyrion Lannister. He should have killed every one of those jackals until they cut him down.

A shadow appeared over the ship, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. But a noise, a growl, made him look up.
It was Drogon, directly above. Before he could do anything, something fell from the dragon to the deck of the ship. He saw a flash of gold and silver and then he was convinced something was wrong.

Queen Daenerys stood before him, in a black riding suit with a red cloak. The red emblem of House Targaryen was on her chest, embroidered in fine red silk thread. How was it possible?

“Grey Worm. Are you still my Master of War? Do you still follow me?”

“Yes, my queen. Forever. But how?”

“The red priestesses in Volantis used their arts to revive me. We still have a mission. Do you still serve?”

“Valar Dohaeris.”

Chapter Text

ONE YEAR LATER

He walked through the main square of the city briskly, heading for the tower at the center. The tall, purple towers and castles rose to the sky, decorated with elaborate carvings of dragons and sphinxes. On his left a woman had a small dragon on her shoulder which was breathing fire on a stone, turning into a putty she molded with thick gloves made of some unknown material. She was fashioning it into a unspeakably lifelike and beautiful statue of a woman.

He looked overhead at the several dragons soaring over and in between the towers of the city. The air was warm, he smiled at the people who passed him and waved. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the sense of belonging and purpose.

Finally reaching the tower that was his destination, he raced up the steps to the tower’s balcony. He looked down on the city, bustling with new construction and optimism. A silver dragon flew by, roaring in what he took as delight.

There was someone next to him, radiating what he could only describe as a perfume of intensity: love, lust, power and fire. He turned to see them…

Jon opened his eyes. It was cold and his arms hurt from holding himself, trying to keep warm. Ghost was by his side, but he still shivered. The fire had died down in his shelter, made of tanned animal skins, log and bones. He winced, then got up and added wood to the fire and stoked it, then warmed his hands.

Gods damn it, he thought. Why couldn’t it have been real this time?

He had the same dream almost every night now, of being in the city of warmth. It’s Valyria, no need trying to fool myself. Or at least Valyria how I’ve always imagined it.

The dreams tortured him. He was here, in the freezing north, with the wildlings, his kin. Of course, he thought, he himself was a wildling now. When he was supposed to join the Night’s Watch, the ancient order was unsettled and unorganized and he volunteered to guide the wildlings back home, knowing he never planned to return. He never said vows this second time, so he doubted anyone would come looking for him.

At least I’m not an oathbreaker.

But he knew he was far worse. He had killed the queen he had pledged his loyalty to. He had killed the woman he loved. And he didn’t know why. He remembered going to confront Daenerys, only for his arms and legs to suddenly feel thick and to watch himself kill her, as if someone else was in control of his body.

He came to later in a cell, in disbelief at what had happened. He still was. He loved her more than anything, and he had killed her. Now he was alone. She had been the center of his world, the one who gave everything for him. And he had killed her.

Everything had happened so fast. They were on the verge of changing the world. Anything was possible with her, he had thought. And it ended before they could even begin. He closed his eyes and wished he could die. He had died before. It hadn’t been so bad. He thought about Ned Stark. He was as tough a man as you could find. The man he had always thought was his father had always warned him winter was coming. It had for Jon. Forever.

Tormund opened the flap to his shelter. “Someone’s looking for you,” he said.

Jon stood, threw on another cloak and strapped his sword Longclaw to his waist. “Come, Ghost,” he said to the massive white direwolf with red eyes.

A hard-looking woman with short reddish brown hair approached him. Her face was lined, but as she drew closer, it became apparent she was actually quite young. She had lived hard here in the wilderness.

She looked at him. “Are you the Dragon?”

Jon shot an angry glance at Tormund. Tormund had spun tall tales about Jon’s exploits against the White Walkers at Winterfell. He had told them of Jon’s riding the dragon and how Jon’s father was a dragon prince of the Targaryens. Jon was still trying to make sense of the knowledge of his heritage. His head still wasn’t fully sure he believed it. Your heart knows it’s true, a voice inside him said.

“My name’s Jon Snow. Why are you looking for me?”

The woman hesitated. “I’ve heard people say that you… help those that need it.”

Jon hesitated, but gave a nod. “I try, when I can. How do you need help?”

“It’s Valkd Bonebreaker and his raiders. My boy Claren’s gone missing, he went up north of the east fork of the Antler River, hunting. I think they took him.”

Bonebreaker and his party had terrorized the area Jon settled. They raided several of the small villages and encampments and stolen children. Bonebreaker styled himself as a prophet of dark gods and Jon himself had seen evidence of grisly sacrifices left by them. Jon and Tormund had battled them and killed several of Bonebreaker’s men, but had never caught the man himself.

Jon looked at Tormund, who nodded.

“We’ll go try to find Claren,” Jon said, gently. “And if we find Bonebreaker or his men, they’ll die by our hand. I promise you.”

The woman nodded and embraced Jon. “Please bring him back.”

It was midmorning by the time they left to journey north of the east fork of the river. They moved briskly with Ghost following beside them. They barely stopped to eat, Jon did not want to lose any time in case Claren was in danger.

Jon pondered his dream. He knew it was Valyria. But why was it coming to him every night, with the same thing? It’s in your blood, you know. Old Valyria, a voice said. It was difficult for him to accept that notion. His entire life, he had been raised as a Northerner, with the blood of the First Men in his veins.

Of course, the question of his mother’s identity had always been in his mind. He knew it was a possibility she had been from the southern portion of Westeros. He had even heard whispers of Ned Stark’s boyhood love for Ashara Dayne in Dorne and had often wondered if she was indeed his mother. Now that he knew Lyanna Stark was his mother and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen his father, it had changed his whole worldview.

As he was growing up, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and King Daeron the Young Dragon had been two of his heroes. When playing knights, he had almost always picked Prince Aemon as the one he would roleplay. And he learned to read by pouring through King Daeron’s The Conquest of Dorne. They’re not just legends, he thought. They’re my family.

But every time he caught himself thinking about Aegon the Conqueror or King Daeron, the thought of also being related to Maegor the Monstrous or even the Mad King, people who had occupied the villain role in his mind his entire life. It made him feel like retching.

And then there was Daenerys. The most amazing woman he had ever known. She was like Prince Aemon and King Daeron. And something made me kill her.

He realized he would never know what happened to him that day. He couldn’t think about it or he wouldn’t be able to go on. He pushed it out of his mind. He had gone to her to join her to tell her he wanted to be with her forever, despite the words of Tyrion Lannister.

And then… his mind had gone dark. He remembered his body behaving as if something else was commanding it. As if he were a bystander in his own body. He remembered his hands pulling out the knife. And then…

Jon barely remembered any of what happened next. His mind didn’t really clear until after he was beyond the wall. As they walked by the Antler River, he looked and instead of seeing snowy wilderness with rushing water, he saw tall purple towers with sphinxes carved in the sides and a glowing blue globe in the center atop a pedestal.

After shaking his head, he looked again and saw trees and wilderness. My mind is going. Fair enough. Let it end.

They marched many miles north of the end of the river, into the Haunted Forest. Jon had never been in the forest, most wildlings avoided it. But the tracks they found indicated that Bonebreaker’s men went this way. Jon could tell Tormund was nervous, but said nothing. They had battled White Walkers and been a part of the army that defeated them. What in the forest could be worse?

The forest was so thick it blocked most of the sunlight. After a time, they came to a site of what may have been an abandoned camp and stopped to investigate. They found a bear that had been sacrificed and its organs strewn about in a disturbing pattern.

Jon shook his head. “They’re madmen,” he said. “Never seen anything like this, not to a bear. The Thenns are cannibals, but this would probably be too brutal for them.”

After almost an hour, they came up a slight slope. At the top, they looked down and saw the base of a mountain, and saw three men standing around the opening of a cavern.

“Bonebreaker’s men,” Jon said. “But I don’t see him. Have you ever seen that cavern?”

“No, never been up this way,” Tormund answered. “Few have.”

They decided they each would attack one man, with Ghost taking another. They worked their way around the slope, so they could attack from the right and mostly take the men by surprise.

As silent as his namesake, Ghost attacked the closest man, ripping off his sword arm and shaking it, sending fountains of blood in arcs on the snow. Jon and Tormund rushed the other two. One barely got his hand on his sword before Tormund’s axe split his face with a sickening crack.

The last man got his sword up, but he wasn’t much of a fighter. Too used to killing animals or children, Jon thought. After a feint, Longclaw slit the villain’s throat and he hit the ground, crimson liquid spraying everywhere.

Jon lit a torch and entered the cavern, half climbing down an incline before reaching the bottom.

“Claren!” he yelled.

He heard something muffled and then a hissing. Jon picked up his pace and after rounding a turn, was knocked to the ground. It was Bonebreaker. Long, greasy hair framed his wild green eyes. His teeth were sharpened, as were his fingernails and he was naked and almost blue from the cold.

Bonebreaker tackled him, forcing him to drop the torch, but it stayed lit. The wild man was strong, and tried to push his thumbnails into Jon’s eyes, all the while screeching something incomprehensible. He snapped at Jon like a wild animal and almost took off a piece of his nose. His sickly breath filled the icy air. Jon slowly pushed his hands back and kneed his attacker in the groin and pushed him off.

As Bonebreaker clambered to his feet for another attack, Jon brought down Longclaw, sending his head bouncing past the torch. He stared at the severed head for a moment, then Jon picked up the torch and called for Claren again. After what seemed like a minute, he heard something.

Jon jogged and found the boy bound and gagged, but clothed. After removing the bonds, he embraced the boy.

“Did he hurt you?”

Claren buried his face in Jon’s shoulder and sobbed. “No, I’m fine. I’m cold.

“Let’s get you to your mother,” Jon said. “She sent me.”

He led the boy through the cavern, with his arm around his shoulder. Tormund came down to meet them and picked the boy up. As Tormund was lifting the boy, Jon saw something sparkle in the corner of his eye.

He walked over to the side of the cave and looked into a crack with his torch.

“What is it?” Tormund asked.

Jon said nothing, but continued to look. Finally, he took out a dagger and chipped away at the crack until a large piece hit the ground. Jon kicked it over with his foot. The piece of cavern shimmered. Jon turned and knocked more out with his dagger, sending more head-sized pieces to the ground.

Jon picked up one of the fragments and whistled.

“What?” Tormund asked.

“I’m not an expert,” Jon said. “But it appears this entire mountain is filled with gold.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion Lannister stood on a balcony of the Red Keep in King’s Landing, looking out at a city being rebuilt. It had been more than a year since the sack of the city by Daenerys Targaryen’s forces and the sights of construction were everywhere. Builders had come from all over Westeros and from Essos as well to get in on the work of making the capital a living city once again.

The Red Keep’s throne room had been rebuilt and the building was mostly functional. Nobody writes songs about rebuilding after the battle. Minstrels don’t earn their keep by singing about construction bids, only battles. Still, it was the work that really mattered and Tyrion was enjoying it.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a servant running up to him.

“Everyone is ready for the meeting, my lord. Everyone except the Master of Coin.”

“Well, go find him. Just about everything the small council discusses needs his input. Check all his usual spots.” Tyrion said.

“Yes, my lord,” the young man said before running off.

Tyrion made his way to the small council chamber. Archmaester Tarly was actually there for once. He and his wife had a small child, forcing him to miss way too many meetings. Previously, maesters were supposed to be celibate and not married, but in this time of change, exceptions had been made for Tarly.

The Mistress of Whispers, Sharelle, sat next to Sam, which made the young man nervous. Sharelle was a fine looking woman in her sixties, dressed in expensive velvet clothing with a ring on every finger. Her cosmetics made her look perhaps twenty years younger. She had been married to a merchant in Myr, and when he died, Sharelle took the money and purchased a number of brothels in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea. “Men talk when they are with a beautiful woman,” she had said, and Tyrion knew how correct she was. Her network of doxies and hangers-on had proven invaluable.

Davos, Master of Ships sat in his usual place with his usual look of resigned consternation. The royal navy had grown quickly in a short time, one of the few things that had gone right in the last year.

Ser Brienne represented the Kingsguard, as was customary on the small council, but didn’t usually say much unless the protection of the monarch was an issue.

Tyrion pulled up his chair and got started.

“The king will not be joining us once again. He is in…meditation,” Tyrion announced.

King Bran had increasingly been alone and journeying into the past, or sometimes the present. Very often when Tyrion visited with him to consult about matters, Bran’s eyes were that disturbing grey color and looking at nothing. When Bran did pull himself out of the trances, he usually answered questions in a monosyllabic manner before asking to be left alone.

“What were the results of the negotiations with the Iron Bank?” Davos asked.

The Iron Bank had been increasingly insistent on being paid back the unfathomable sum that had been loaned to the crown over the last two decades. Some of that even fell on Davos, who had borrowed on behalf of Stannis Baratheon and had it added to the realm’s debt.

Master of Coin Bronn had convinced Tyrion he knew how to handle the situation.

“Y’see, banks are just criminals, when you get down to it. Hard men,” Bronn said the previous day. “They want to intimidate you, then get you off balance. But I’m not some skinny copper counter. I’ve killed men, been in wars. Done things those people would never believe. You’ll see.”

Bronn had told the representative of the Iron Bank that if they weren’t careful, the crown would invade Braavos and burn the Iron Bank to the ground. He made other threats about the things his men might do to the wives of the men in Braavos. The small man who came on behalf of the bank began shaking nervously and said he would report back.

After the “negotiation”, Bronn had said: “See, told you intimidation was the key.” Tyrion was shocked that it seemed to actually have worked.

Tyrion answered Davos: “The negotiations were robust and I’m hopeful we’ll be able to reach good terms on repayment. Mistress of Whisperers, let’s hear your report.”

Sharelle leaned forward. “I’m hearing things are not going well for young Lord Baratheon. The Storm Lords are trying to bull him out of the way for leadership and are fighting among themselves.”

Lord Gendry Baratheon was in fact Gendry Waters, a bastard of the former King Robert Baratheon. He had been an apprentice blacksmith in Flea Bottom, but during the Battle of Winterfell made a name for himself and was made the Lord of Storm’s End by Daenerys Targaryen. After her death, the young blacksmith’s closeness to members of the Stark family persuaded King Bran to keep him as lord of Storm’s End.

“Which houses are winning the struggle?”

“House Penrose and House Selmy are the main ones hoping to get the upper hand. Arstan Selmy fancies himself as the new Storm Lord. Poor Gendry just didn’t have a base of support and there was no way those proud lords there were going to accept a bastard blacksmith jumped up by Mad Dany.”

Mad Dany. Tyrion still inwardly cringed a little when he heard that name. She had been mad, of course, he thought. But he still wished it could have turned out differently. He had hoped Jon Snow, or Aegon Targaryen as he was officially, could have been the new king. But after Dany’s death things had taken on a life of their own. There’s nothing for it, Tyrion thought. She’ll be Mad Dany to history. But if we do our jobs, Bran’s reign will be glorious and Mad Dany nothing but a footnote.

“And what else?”

“I hear Dorne is murmuring about rebellion,” Sharelle said.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “When is Dorne not murmuring about rebellion?”

“Fair enough,” Sharelle said. “But I’m passing along what I’m hearing. Also, there’s been another spotting of the dragon. This time over Lys.”

Dany’s dragon Drogon had disappeared after her death and had been spotted numerous times, but improbably, never appeared to bother anyone or anything. Still, it was good to keep an eye out to see if it ever got close to Westeros. A full array of scorpions had been positioned in the city in case it came near and Tyrion and Samwell had put together a program to raise an alarm if it was spotted by a Gold Cloak in a tower. The city was still on edge after the sack a year ago.

“Fine, what else?”

“It appears Queen Sansa is beginning to look for a husband.”

Davos nodded. “It makes sense for her. Who are her options?”

“Lord Blackwood has is pushing his eldest, Brynden. She’s taking it under consideration since Tytos is her Hand of the Queen. But my people tell me she’s looking more at the Vale.”

“Is she actually considering Lord Robin?” Tyrion asked, laughing.

“I think she’d prefer not to. She already has his ear, he looks at her as a mother figure, since she looks so much like his mother. No, I think she’s looking at the Royces. The Royces and Starks are related and I believe the queen would like to shore up her support. She may actually give a branch of the Royces the former Bolton lands.”

Tyrion scowled. Sansa technically was queen of the North only. But she had a strong influence on her uncle Edmure at Riverrun and on her cousin Robin in the Vale. Not only that, but Lord Blackwood of the Riverlands was a part of her court. Essentially, she had nominal control over two major portions of the Six Kingdoms, and it was starting to chafe some of the lords of the South. Giving the Royces the Bolton lands would only increase her power.

We should have just picked Sansa to sit on the throne and saved us all a lot of time, Tyrion thought.

“Now comes the bad news,” Sharelle said.

Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. “You mean Queen Sansa slowly gobbling up our territory wasn’t the bad news?”

Sharelle shook her head. “Oh, no. It gets worse. Unrest is spreading quickly. The winter is starving people and so many lords have been killed, the smallfolk in many areas have no one to turn to.”

She hesitated before continuing. “They’re whispering about King Bran. They say he’s not fit to be a leader. They believe because he can’t walk he’s not a true king.”

“And I’m sure they follow up that talk with how a dwarf shouldn’t be the Hand. Am I right?”

“Yes. But this isn’t just talk. They’re organizing.”

“Who is?” Samwell asked.

“There seem to be two main factions. One is the Faith Militant. The destruction of the Great Sept killed many of the Faith’s orthodox and official clergy, but a movement has sprung up that is devout, but unconnected to the main network of septons. This new Faith Militant has selected its own High Septon, a man who lives in the wilderness with a wild, unruly beard. He apparently once fought with the Lannisters, but quit when Ser Gregor butchered an entire village.”

“What do we know about this new High Septon?” Tyrion said.

“He’s not a meek country septon. He’s tall, powerfully built. The smallfolk who hear him swear he’s the Warrior’s envoy on Westeros. After his sermons, young men join him by the dozen. They memorize his words and spread them to every village and holdfast.”

Davos cut in. “What do they want?”

“They want a new Great Sept built. They are furious that the two monarchs on the continent are not members of the Faith. They believe godlessness is poisoning the Realm and they want a pious king to put everything back on course.”

Tyrion snorted. “They had Baelor the Blessed in charge once and it was a disaster.”

“They say the Targaryens weren’t truly pious, with maybe a few exceptions. They say it is time for a true King that truly honors the Seven to heal the Realm.”

“Are they rallying behind anyone?” Davos asked.

“Not at the moment. There aren’t any real suitable candidates they like. Lord Tully at Riverrun follows the Seven, but he’s Sansa’s uncle and an idiot.”

“Is the King in danger?” Brienne said.

“Right now, everything is talk, no specific plans. But it is brewing.”

“What about the other faction?” Tyrion said.

“Mostly remnants of the Brotherhood without Banners. Many worship R’hllor, as Lord Beric did. But their movement isn’t religious in nature. They are still loyal to Daenerys and Targaryen restoration in general. They are spreading rumors that Jon Snow is the true Targaryen king. They refuse to believe the story that Snow killed her and that he was sent Beyond the Wall because he was a threat to the current regime.”

The “rumor” about Jon Snow’s true parentage hadn’t taken long to get out, and even though the crown officially denied the rumors, people believed it. It was a great story, after all. A bastard war hero turns out to be the lost king. In this case, it had the added benefit of being true.

Now that the danger had passed and the Unsullied and Dothraki were mostly out of Westeros, Tyrion toyed with the idea of a royal pardon and bringing him back to the capital. He was a natural leader and would be an asset at any position in the government. But Sharelle’s information made it obvious that that course of action would be dangerous.

“People are hungry. When we get some relief from the Iron Bank, we can put more coins into feeding people and the rebellion talk will vanish like mist,” Tyrion said.

A servant knocked on the door and Tyrion called for him to enter. The young man had wide eyes and short black hair and appeared to be shaking.

“My lord, we found the Master of Coin,” he said.

“Well, tell him we need him here!” Tyrion said. “Where is the devil, anyway?”

The young man hesitated. “He’s dead, my lord. Found in his quarters here at the keep. His throat was cut, blood everywhere. He had this on his chest.”

He handed Tyrion a parchment scroll and the Hand of the King opened it.

It read:

“The Iron Bank will have its due, Lord Tyrion. Our next visit will be to you.”

Chapter Text

The attacker’s blade came whistling toward Daenerys’ head, her attacker intent on ending her life. Daenerys calmly brought up her own blade and blocked it, then parried and launched her own attack. Her foe beat back her thrust and with a twist of his wrist, brought his blade to her heart, the point stopping on her tunic.

“The Queen is dead,” said the tall, dark-skinned swordsman. “But Her Grace’s improvement is remarkable.”

Daenerys breathed heavily and brushed her hair from her face. “How long?”

The man, Ervan Kamala, was her fencing teacher and a renowned Water Dancer from Braavos. His parents had come to Braavos from the Summer Islands. He was lean, with a shaved head, but a face that was pleasant – when he wasn’t fencing. He glanced at the water clock.

“You fought eleven minutes before I landed the final blow. Very good against a master Water Dancer. You are my finest student I’ve ever had. Your speed is unreal, your cleverness is…”

At that moment, he whipped his blade at Daenerys’ head again. Once again, she caught it with her blade.

“I won’t be tricked by pleasant words ever again,” Daenerys said.

Kamlala nodded. “Very good. Our lesson is at an end today, if it pleases Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled. “It is. Tomorrow, bring a second. I need to be tested. I won’t ever be untrained or unarmed again.”

The master swordsman inclined his head, and left. Every morning, Daenerys trained with the fencer, begging him to work her harder. She had to be better. She had to be a master. She would never be unarmed, unaware or unable to defend herself again. She had read an account of one of her ancestors, King Jaeherys I, who likewise battled his own Kingsguard every day to sharpen his prowess, and decided to embark on a similar course.

Daenerys had returned to Meereen, to rule. She ruled in secret, however, not keen to allow her enemies in Essos or Westeros to realize she had returned, lest they send assassins after her. To all outside appearances, Daario was the ruler of Meereen. Only her small council knew the truth.

She walked with purpose to the baths to prepare to meet her council. As she left the room, the woman known as the Steel Rose fell in beside her. The woman became Daenerys’ bodyguard and went with her everywhere. Kinvara was usually with them, but occasionally had to return to Volantis to conduct rites at the Red Temple, where she was now.

“Your council is ready to discuss matters with you, Your Grace,” the Steel Rose said through her mask.

Daenerys nodded and bathed as the shadowbinder awaited by the pool, every on guard for threats. She trusted the woman from Asshai – or wherever she truly came from. The Steel Rose had been with her since she was awakened from death by Kinvara and had found her advice sound.

Shortly, Dany strode into the small room she had declared her reception area. She wore a sleeveless red gown with black accents, in order to stay cool in the heat of Meereen. She nodded to everyone in the room, who all sat around a circular table.

“What news do you have for me today, my friends?” Dany asked.

Verato stood. He was an older man with bronze skin, a shaved head and a cropped silver beard. He had been freed from slavery to a merchant house in Astapor. The merchant house had Verato working at keeping sums and counts of inventory, but clearly had no idea what they really had in the man.

He had come to Meereen after freedom, seeking work for Daenerys, but arrived just prior to her leaving for Westeros. Since she returned, he had become indispensable. Verato could speak and read a number of languages, was obsessed with mathematics and was scribbling drawings and sketches of bizarre looking contraptions. Yesterday he had presented her with a new crossbow of his own design. It was unlike any crossbow she had seen and it had springs that pushed a new arrow up from an internal mechanism that allowed it to fire three arrows in the span of ten heartbeats – with incredible range.

He was also her Master of Whispers, since he had so many contacts from the merchant house. He signed his Whispers reports to her in a strange cypher, which made no sense to her, but seemed to amuse him.

“Your Grace, we have reports the Sons of the Harpy are re-forming and re-arming. As many as fifty sellsword companies have been employed by them. I believe they are going to try a land attack, knowing that a sea invasion would leave them vulnerable to Drogon’s air assault.”

“How many swords have they?” she asked.

“More than twenty thousand. Growing every day, Your Grace.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. “Twenty thousand. How do they have the gold to pay that many?”

“The merchant houses are pooling their resources and the rulers of many of the Free Cities as well, Volantis chiefly. Still, it’s hard to imagine that amount of gold.”

“What are our numbers, my friends?”

“There are less than one thousand five hundred Unsullied, my queen,” Grey Worm said. “About three hundred Dothraki total, one third of that are warriors. We have about two thousand freed men who are volunteering for an army, but they are untrained. Many are unfit or too young.”

“Training them will take time,” Daario said. “And it is time we do not have.”

He still looks at me with longing, she thought. He can’t understand how different things are now. But he has always been loyal to me. I won’t forget it.

Daenerys had not been with Daario since she returned to Meereen. He told her he had threatened to invade Kings Landing with whatever men he could muster when he heard about her death. He at first hadn’t been able to believe she was returned. He expected things to be the same as when she left. But that was impossible. He had remained a loyal advisor, however, despite his disappointment their romance did not continue. He was the most loyal of the men I’ve known. But I’m not ready.

“We will have to take advantage of the time given to us to train them as well as we can,” she said. “What of the women?”

Daario shrugged. “Most are not strong enough to swing a sword with effectiveness or to wear armor, even though they have the spirit.”

“But they’re strong enough to pull a trigger,” she said.

Daario looked confused. Daenerys turned to Verato.

“How many of those crossbows can you make, Verato?”

He looked at the ceiling and tilted his head side to side, thinking.

“I would say about about fifty, your grace.”

“Very well. Build fifty of them and find the women with the best eyesight in Meereen. We don’t have to teach them how to see well, just how to shoot. And with the extra arrows in each crossbow, it will triple their effectiveness.”

Grey Worm nodded once. “It will be done your grace,” he said.

“Excellent. Now, how is the work going with teaching all children to read?”

Verato exhaled, then grunted.

“It goes, your grace. It is an enormous undertaking. But it has begun we have more than three hundred children in places around the city. We’re hoping to add another hundred in the next two moons.”

“Very well, keep it up. I want every child literate as soon as possible. What of Westeros?”

Whenever she asked of news of Westeros, the council grew tense. None wanted to discuss what had happened when she went west with her ships two years ago. They tried to pretend it had never happened, but the queen wouldn’t allow it.

“Bran Stark is acting more erratic every day, our reports say. He barely sees anyone and spends all his time in meditation. The Iron Bank has assassinated Lord Bronn of Highgarden, now formerly the Master of Coin.”

Daenerys smiled. “What else?”

“Lord Tyrion is cursed by almost everyone because he has been forced to raise taxes on everything to appease the Iron Bank. Full scale riots take place in Kings Landing most every day. And things are getting worse for him. Rebel groups, including those linked with the Faith, threaten to make serious trouble for the Starks’ rule.”

“What of the North? How are they enjoying their independence?”

“Queen Sansa is in the fortunate position to have a strong influence on her uncle in Riverrun and her cousin in the Vale. She effectively controls those areas, to a degree. But all is not rosy. The winter has been particularly brutal and many areas in the North, still struggling after the war, are on the brink of starvation. The help they get from the Riverlands and Vale is all that is keeping them going. And, they’re having their own troubles with the Iron Bank, but not as bad as the South.”

Daenerys thought of the trouble she had with Jon’s family. Or should I say Aegon? She had risked her army, her children, her own life to save them, only for them to betray her and eventually have her killed. For a split second, she was pleased with their struggles. But then she thought of people like little Ned Umber and the good-hearted people she had met and seen there. She wanted to help them. But I don’t know if I am in a position to do so.

A knock at the door alarmed them. To keep her continued existence a secret, Daario had instructed that when he was in a meeting to not be disturbed. A servant was sent to the door.

“The king is not to be disturbed,” the servant said to one outside the door.

“A visitor is here, they say it is urgent,” said the guard at the door.

“It cannot be that urgent. Tell them to wait.”

“They say they are a representative from Dorne, to speak with the king.”

Daenerys could hear what they were saying. “Show them in,” she said.

The servant looked doubtful, but nodded and opened the door. A woman of about twenty entered. She was dark-skinned and had curly hair extending from a widow’s peak on her forehead. She wore a brown sleeveless shirt and tan breeches, with a golden cloak around her shoulders. Four other girls, of varying ages and looks, entered behind her.

The woman’s eyes scanned the room and when they landed on Daenerys, it was apparent she was thunderstruck. Her jaw dropped and her self-confidence slagged. She instantly went to one knee.

“Q-queen Daenerys. We were told you had been killed. I-I never dreamed…”

Daenerys chuckled. “It’s alright. I am allowing people to believe I was killed for the moment. It’s safer that way. I understand you have come from Dorne. Who are you and why are you here?”

The woman stood. “I am Sarella Sand. I am the daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell, the brother of Elia Martell. These others with me are my sisters, also Prince Oberyn’s daughters. We have been sent on a mission by Prince Orland Martell, the current Prince of Dorne.”

The queen stood, went to Sarella and embraced her. “Our friends – our kin - in Dorne are always welcome.”

She motioned for the servants to bring chairs for Sarella and the other Sand sisters. Once this was done and they had been brought refreshments, Daenerys asked Sarella to continue with her message.

“Prince Orland is prepared to declare independence, along with the Ironborn. He has given Bran Stark all indications of being loyal – he even voted for him in that farce of a council that was held in King’s Landing. However, the prince is seeking allies. I was sent to ask King Daario if he would be receptive to an alliance, but now that I see you, I am afraid.”

Daenerys was confused. “Afraid? Why?”

“Bran Stark can see everything and everywhere, it is said. We knew that he might be aware of my mission, but it was assumed this could only help us bargain with the crown, if he knew we were seeking outside allies. But now he may know you are alive. And that could be disastrous.”

Suddenly, the Steel Rose spoke up, her clear voice sounding metallic. “I wouldn’t count on that. I do not believe the Three-Eyed Raven, the demon that controls the one known as Bran Stark, can view that which has been consecrated to R’hllor.” At that, she indicated the small bright red altar to R’hllor that stood in the corner, with a tiny flame burning in the center from a lamp.

The room was quiet for a moment, the enormity of the proceedings struck them. They were facing an enemy that could see anywhere at any time. Was the Steel Rose correct? They had no way of knowing.

“Are there others who wish to join us?” Daenerys asked.

Sarella nodded. “Your family’s oldest allies, the Velaryons, have contacted us through back channels about helping Dorne, as have the Celtigars.”

“Very well. Send a message to Prince Orland. Tell him I am alive and we welcome his alliance. We may need his spears and the ships of the Ironborn sooner than we would like.”

Daario spoke up.

“Is that wise, my queen? I can send a message telling him I consent to alliance, but we can keep knowledge of your existence secret. We cannot risk that knowledge falling into the hands of the Starks. Lannister will send assassins after you.”

At this, Daenerys laughed.

“I’ve had assassins after me since childhood. The only one who was successful convinced me he was on my side. That won’t happen again. No, the time has come. Perhaps the Lord of Light sent Sarella and her message today for a reason. Please make Sarella and her sisters comfortable and give them every courtesy. Verato, make copies of your designs of the new crossbow and give them to Sarella to send back to Prince Orland as a gift. In Dorne they have more resources to make many of them.”

“Thank you, your grace. Dorne thanks you,” Sarella answered.

“Once Dorne and the Iron Islands become independent, it will take away another source of income for the crown. That will be to our advantage. Dorne and the Ironborn will be able to trade with the Free Cities and assist us with spears and ships,” the queen said.

“What if King Bran sends armies to Dorne?” Verato asked.

“No one has ever conquered Dorne. Not even Aegon the Conqueror. Daeron the First was only briefly successful. And if they get too close, then Prince Orland needs to know I will defend Sunspear with fire and blood.”

She looked outside and everyone followed her gaze to see Drogon circling above Meereen.

“Very well, Sarella, send the message to the Prince. I will speak with my bodyguard now.”

Everyone stood and left the room, leaving Daenerys and the Steel Rose alone. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

“Is it true? The raven cannot see somewhere that has been dedicated to R’hllor?”

“Bennaro and Kinvara believe that to be so,” the Steel Rose said. “But I believe it’s best to take precautions and assume that is not true. But at the same time, we cannot be so paranoid we do nothing.”

Daenerys went to the window and looked out. Drogon flew past and she smiled. When she looked down at the city, she no longer saw Meereen. She saw huge gold and purple towers with elaborate carvings of sphinxes and dragons. Golden and turquoise domes glittered and a massive central tower with a gigantic carving of a dragon at the apex stood over all.

Multiple dragons flew around the towers, chasing and snapping in play at each other. The splendor took her breath. She blinked, and the glory was gone. Meereen was there once again.

“Your Grace?” the Steel Rose asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m still having the dreams and visions we talked about. They’re coming more frequently. It’s Valyria.”

The Steel Rose nodded. “I know.”

Dany turned to her. “What is known about the Doom?”

“Your ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer, wrote Signs and Portents about what she thought would happen. It became true.”

“Have you read it?” Daenerys asked.

“Only two unconnected pages. Only one full copy is said to exist, in the vaults of the Sealord of Braavos. But even that is very likely a legend.”

“I have to know….” Daenerys said, her voice trailing off. Then she looked at the Steel Rose.

“I suppose we must pay a visit to the Sealord of Braavos.”