Chapter Text
“Volantis has fallen,” Myria spoke to the Small Council meeting.
“Fallen to whom? Has Daario Narharis extended his reach?” Asked Tyrion as he moved closer to the table.
Daario Naharis had done well in the years since Daenerys left him behind in Meereen. His armies retook Yunkai and what was left of Astapor after the bloody flux had passed. They crossed the mountains south into the lands of Old Ghis before going west to capture Tolos and Mantarys. Daario didn’t neglect his navy after Daenerys sailed with most of it to Westeros. His ships ferried soldiers to take Elyria by way of Tolos and later through the Gulf Grief to occupy New Ghis. Myria had no “little birds” around the Bay of Dragons, but merchants reported the building of a larger fleet for invading Qarth.
“He has,” Myria the Minister of Whispers replied. “The Dothraki are allied with Meereen. Narharis has convinced them to raid northward along the Rhoyne towards Qohor. But there’s more from Volantis.”
Tyrion took a long drink from his goblet. “Please, do tell. What other happy news comes with this?”
“An enormous dragon took part in defeating Volantis,” Myria answered as a matter of fact.
Tyrion put down his goblet. Minister of Coin Willas Tyrell sighed loudly. Ser Brienne closed her eyes then instinctively moved closer to where King Bran sat. Queen Consort Meera simply bit her lower lip.
“Did your birds see a rider atop the dragon?” Asked King Bran. He never found Drogon despite searching. He could no longer see across the Narrow Sea at all. His greensight fading since the Battle at Winterfell, he retained sight near weirwood trees. He could still skinchange through animals, especially birds, dogs, and wolves. He had become more a man than the Three Eyed Raven.
“No, your Grace, they did not,” Myria answered. “The enormity of the beast is that its bulk blocks seeing such from the ground. They did say that it appeared immune to ballistae and other scorpion like weapons loosed from the ground. Chains descended to spikes along its shoulders, possibly leading to a saddle.”
“Tyrion, did Daenerys ever use a saddle on Drogon?” The King asked to be sure.
“No, your Grace, she held on to his spines,” Tyrion began in reply. “But Drogon has had ten years to grow, his spines may be too large for any rider to grip.”
“Very well,” the King said. “Let’s leave Volantis and discuss affairs here in Westeros. Lord Penrose, how are our defenses against Ironborn raiders progressing?”
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The meeting finally over, Tyrion walked back through the King’s Hall to the Hand’s Tower. He and Myria ascended to the top by lift, a machinery he first saw at the wall. Although not nearly as tall as its predecessor in the Red Keep, Tyrion appreciated not climbing stairs to reach the rooftop. He always descended by the stairs. Sometimes he longed for his past meetings with King Bran. When the King knew answers to his questions before asking. When the King had no need for a Minister of Whispers and her little birds. Myria had been one of Varys’ older birds in Pentos. After his execution, she retained his flock and recruited anew. She sailed into King’s Landing six years prior to offer services. After a trial period, the King appointed her to the Small Council.
“I’m glad you come up here with me after those meetings,” said Tyrion while looking out over the rebuilt city.
“I do because I enjoy your company and there are things to say that I cannot yet speak before the King and Council,” Myria said while sipping slowly on wine that Tyrion had thoughtfully brought along. “Things that I am not sure of, but suspect to be true.”
“So, you are about to tell me there is more from Volantis?” Tyrion asked.
“Indeed, there is,” she began. “There are rumors, and only rumors, of a silver haired queen behind the scenes in Meereen. She usually dresses in blue and wears a hood over her hair. My birds in Volantis saw such a person outside the Black Walls following the battle. That many of the Old Blood died suddenly that day.”
“Daenerys resurrected?” Tyrion said while shaking his head. “If the Red Priests brought her back, then the followers of R’hilor, especially the Fiery Hand, would have let the world know by now.”
Myria nodded in agreement, “Which is why I am uncertain of this information. This queen could very well be a daughter of Old Valyria that has taken the role, perhaps as a figurehead. One who Drogon would accept as a rider. Nonetheless, some of my older birds will travel from Lys to Meereen to learn more. Merchants have said that Targaryen banners still fly over the city.”
“Even in death, her cult lives on,” Tyrion said while turning to the stairs.
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“Bran’s Keep” as it was called was much smaller than the Red Keep had been. The King decreed that only stone salvaged from the destroyed former keep would be used. This by itself limited the extent of the keep atop Aegon’s High Hill. Central to the keep was the King’s Hall with its Weirwood Throne. The hall would have easily fit inside the former Throne room. To either side of the Hall stood the Hand’s Tower and the Ministers’ Tower. Tyrion had one tower mostly to himself, while the remaining ministers had their quarters in the other. The Maidenvault had survived the burning. It currently housed the Kingsguard and Lady Commander Brienne’s quarters. Behind the King’s Hall stood two nearly identical buildings. The Council Hall contained their meeting room and rooms for various administrative functions. The second building held kitchens and a central mess hall for those working in the keep along with a few quarters. A larger building stood beyond these two. This was the King’s Castle which included quarters for visiting dignitaries. A lift serviced all floors, the King’s being at the top, on fourth floor. The bottom floor included the Grand Dining Hall and kitchens serving the castle.
Beyond the castle laid the Godswood, centered around a weirwood tree dug up and brought from the Isle of Faces in the God’s Eye. The tree took well here, tripling in height and span over eight years. The Godswood backed to the outer wall, which itself looked out over the Blackwater Bay.
Likewise, King’s Landing was rebuilt to a lesser extent than had existed. Lady Commander Brienne insisted the gates be rebuilt first. Streets were wider, buildings less densely placed, green open spaces for the dwellers to visit. Flea Bottom now looked no different than any other district, but retained its old name. Deep wells and cisterns were dug in the open spaces to bring fresh water to the city while a planned aqueduct awaited the coin to begin construction. The trades flourished in the rebuilt city. Weavers, garment makers, jewelers, potteries, food processors, and others joined the smiths around the Street of Steel. An improved system of sewers and storm drains carried away waste and water far into the Blackwater Bay. Many buildings had privies that connected directly to the sewers.
The Great Sept of Baelor was rebuilt, more or less. The High Septon and Most Devout remained in Oldtown, refusing to live in a city where the King rules from a tree. The Dragonpit remained as it had been.
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Several moons passed. The weather had become noticeably colder, but the Citadel had yet to send ravens announcing the arrival of winter. A ship from White Harbor had arrived with goods to trade. Trade with the north had improved since their attempt at independence collapsed in starvation and near ruin. The King named Sansa Wardeness of the North. She had finally remarried. A cousin of House Karstark took her hand, but she kept the name of House Stark and planned to merge the two depleted houses. She gave birth to a healthy daughter and later a son named Cregan. Heir to House Stark and the Stark lineage, or so she thought at his birth.
A knight sworn to House Manderly emerged from the ship, procured a horse and rode hard to the King’s keep. He had come to King’s landing to purchase steel forged in the city. He asked, rather demanded, to see the Hand immediately. After some delay, he was allowed to pass, unarmed, making his way to the council chamber. Tyrion was there alone, reading a book translated from High Valyrian on the construction of aqueducts. Surprisingly to him, the Valyrians did not use dragons to help build their water supply.
“Lord Tyrion, pardon my interruption, but I have urgent news,” the knight stammered and out of breath.
“Breathe, Ser then tell me what is so important!” Tyrion advised. The knight’s mouth moved, but no words emerged.
Tyrion handed the knight a cup of wine, which the knight quickly quaffed. “I, I, I, . . . There are dra --, drag --, dragons over Dragonstone! Four dragons!”
“Four dragons you say?” Tyrion questioned skeptically? “How large? Are you sure they are not some large birds? Vultures? Sea eagles?”
The knight found his voice, “No, my Lord. They were dragons. Each as large as the beast that Euron Greyjoy killed over the Blackwater. All of the ship’s crew and passengers saw them!”
Tyrion rose to leave. “Go to the building next door. Wash yourself as best you can. Have a meal and a bit of drink, but not too much. I will bring the Council together. We will call for you when the King is ready.”
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The Council rose as Meera wheeled in the King. Ser Brienne took her usual place behind him and to the left. Meera sat on a small chair to his right.
“Please, sit,” the King said while motioning with his hand. “Tyrion has called us together for news that could not wait until the morrow. You have a guest, I understand. Please call him in.”
The knight entered the room and upon seeing the King, fell to one knee. “Your grace,” he said with a hint of panic with his head bowed. “I am greatly humbled in your presence.”
“Rise Ser . . . ,” Bran began. “I don’t believe we know your name.”
“I am your humble servant, Ser Aryian Flint, sworn to House Manderly of White Harbor, your Grace.”
“To what do we owe the pleasure of meeting you, Ser Aryian?” The King had gained a modicum of polite speech during his reign. It set visitors at ease.
“Dragons, your Grace. Four dragons seen by me, ships’ crew and passengers. All flying over Dragonstone,” Ser Aryian answered, now calmed.
The King questioned his answer, “How do you know they are dragons? Have your ever seen a dragon in your life?”
“Yes, your Grace, I have,” the knight answered. “As a squire I saw two dragons circle then fly past White Harbor, heading south. I was told by my knight that the mad Queen rode the larger one named Drogon. Although we didn’t know her as the mad Queen at the time. The four dragons are each the size of the smaller dragon I saw that day. The one said to have been killed over the Blackwater Bay.”
“Rhaegal was the smaller one,” Tyrion interrupted. “He was green and bronze in color. Did you perhaps discern the color of these dragons?”
“Two were mostly bronze, one with red and the other with perhaps green or blue colorings. The others were mostly black, but I could not see other colors, if there were any,” Ser Aryian answered.
“Did you see anything else around Dragonstone?” The King asked. “Ships with unusual sails or sigils? People on its shores or about the castle?” Bran could not see onto Dragonstone, not even after a weirwood was planted in Aegon’s Garden. Any bird he entered turned away from the island before dropping him from its being. He could see through the trees planted on Driftmark, Sharp and Crackclaw Points, but his vision ended before the black island’s shores. For that reason, he left Dragonstone abandoned except for the smallfolk living in the fishing village.
“No, your Grace,” was the knight’s quick answer. “Only the dragons, which appeared to be interested in the mount on the island. Perhaps to make a roost, but I do not know the ways of dragons.”
“Tyrion knows more about dragons than anyone here,” the King said. “Please, Lord Tyrion, how old do you suppose these dragons are?”
Tyrion cleared his throat, glad to be deemed the King’s expert on dragons. “Rhaegal was seven years of age when killed. But was smaller than Drogon, having been chained in Meereen for some time. Yet, from Targaryen history, we know that dragons grow at varying rates, but not why. Some of the same age are smaller, some larger. All we know for sure is that they do not stop growing, as the sighting of what appears to be Drogon over Volantis has shown.”
“Get to the answer,” Minister Myria said under her breath.
“So, taking all that in consideration, I’d say the dragons are between six and ten years of age. Ten years coinciding worryingly with the mad Queen’s death, I may add.”
Lord Willas asked, “did any of the dragons bear riders?”
“No, my Lord,” came the knights answer. “That much was clear to us.”
“Thank you for the timely report, Ser Aryian,” the King said ending the knight’s visit. “I understand you came to King’s Landing looking to procure raw steel. Ours is the best in Westeros. I wish you safe travels.”
Ser Aryian was escorted from the room before the King continued. “Tyrion, see that the maester sends ravens to all castles at the mouth of the Blackwater. To the north and south as well. Order the Lords to report immediately on sighting of any ships not normally seen along our shores. Have our ships patrol around Dragonstone and the Gullet.
“Yes, your Grace,” Tyrion said. The council filed out or the room as Meera wheeled Bran to the Godswood.
“Do you think she lives?” Asked Meera.
“I don’t know,” was Bran’s response. “I simply do not know.”
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More time passed. Storms whipped out of the south battering the shores along the Narrow Sea. The dragons came and went from Dragonstone. Reports had them heading out to sea, only to return later with prey in their talons. Tyrion was thankful that they hunted over the sea and not over land. Rains still fell after a particularly stormy night. A dozen ships, among them four war galleys sat at anchor off Dragonstone. The King’s ships sent off ravens with the news, as did those Lords closest to the island.
The sun rose to reveal a carrack and two galleys tied up on the Blackwater Rush alongside the River Gate. Their black sails were struck, strapped down to the booms and spirts. Red markings were visible on the carefully folded sails. From the carrack came a procession of helmed soldiers carrying spears. The Unsullied. Following them came two men, one with tanned skin, deep blue eyes, curly hair dyed blue. A gold tooth was visible behind his parted lips. The other was also an Unsullied, yet he wore dark breeches, a black thigh length coat, and no helmet. Rather than a spear, he bore a short sword in a black scabbard.
Close behind came two women. The taller wore a pale, nearly white, long shift covered by a hooded smock of the same tone. Her shoes appeared to be of woven cloth. The other wore a long blue dress. She too wore a hooded smock, shorter and of finer craftsmanship. Both wore the hoods over their heads, with nearly white hair appearing around the taller woman’s face.
More men emerged from the ships, appearing to be of Essosi birth. They brought forward four horses. A white mare which the shorter woman easily mounted without aid. One of the men helped the taller woman on to her mount. The gold toothed man and breech wearing Unsullied mounted the other horses. The procession made its way to the River Gate, where they were stopped by a detachment of City Watchmen.
“Identify yourselves and state your purpose here!” Shouted the captain of watchmen.
The tall woman spoke, “We are a delegation from Meereen seeking audience with King Bran of Westeros.”
“Is his Grace aware of your visit?” The captain questioned?
“No, but he should be,” answered the woman in blue.
The captain spoke with his men. Deciding this was a matter best left to the Kingsguard, he would escort the procession to the keep, forbidding the larger group of Unsullied warriors to proceed. Defying the captain, the group of Essosi guards split their ranks, half in front, the rest in back. Two watchmen raced to the keep on horse to alert the Kingsguard.
Lady Commander Brienne met the visitors at the gate to the Keep. She was angry with the Watch captain, but did not deny entry. “Those of you on horse may proceed and dismount inside, the others will remain outside the gate,” she said with a commanding voice.
The Unsullied rider looked familiar to her. He grimaced and held up four fingers on each hand.
“Six, you may bring along six men, unarmed. You and your side man will also leave your weapons here.” Brienne continued. Wait inside the gate, we will serve you refreshments while the King prepares for Court.
“Thank you, my Lady,” the tall woman said. The group entered the keep to sit around a fire-warmed shelter held up by six posts. Although the seats looked comfortable, being covered with furs, none sat and none took up on drink or food.
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“You stand in the presence of Bran of House Stark, First of His Name, King of Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the Broken, and Protector of the Realm,” Tyrion announced without taking a breath.
King Bran sat in, rather than on, his weirwood throne. The throne was the base of a large weirwood, struck by lightning or snapped in storm. Its jagged wood reached upward as its unearthed roots stretched outward. A red face, now darkened, stared over the hall. The tree was carved so that the King’s chair could be wheeled into place. He sat in the chair, at the level of the roots. His wheeled chair seemed to vanish into the tree.
All but the blue woman bowed. She slightly lowered her head, still hooded. The pale woman stepped forward, the two men on either side of the blue woman, the other men in a line behind them. The Kingsguard looked upon them warily.
“Your Grace, I am Tyra of New Ghis,” spoke the tall woman. She lowered the hood to reveal pale nearly white hair, blue eyes, white brows and lashes. A faintest pink tone appeared on her otherwise colorless white skin. A person without pigment, Tyrion thought. No wonder she was all covered up, even in winter.
Tyra continued, “Before your Grace is Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of New Valyria, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons.”
Tyrion shuddered as Daenerys lowered her hood. He half expected to hear Drogon roar over the keep, but an extended silence came over the hall. She wore her silver hair long, in only three braids which came together at the middle of her back. Crowfeet were visible beside her violet eyes. A few wrinkles appeared on her forehead, no doubt exaggerated by persistent raising and lowering of her brows as she spoke. A golden crown sat on her head. It bore three dragons, with rubies for eyes and emeralds for claws. Tyrion recognized it as the crown Daenerys had described as her mother’s.
King Bran sat straight in his chair, with a slight smile on his lips, “Welcome, your Grace. I hope you had a pleasant journey. We are a bit surprised to see you, although news from Volantis and Dragonstone hinted at your reappearance.”
“Thank you, your Grace. You look well,” Daenerys observed with surprising familiarity. “You have been introduced to my hand, Tyra. To my right is my Minister in General, Daario Naharis. To my right, my Minister of War, Torgo Nudho. Some here may remember him as Grey Worm.”
Both Daario and Torgo Nudho gave a slight bow in acknowledgement. Daario gave Tyrion a wink and sly smile. Brienne, her suspicions confirmed, looked closely at the Unsullied. He was to settle in Naath. Now he arrives with his Queen bearing a sword and no spear.
“I admire your throne, Your Grace,” Daenerys observed. “It’s an improvement over the monstrosity that one stood here.”
“You stand on your throne,” King Bran replied.
“I what?” Daenerys responded. She looked down to see that indeed she was standing on a once molten slab of steel laid into the stone floor. Faint outlines of blades and pommels stood out from the steel now polished by many feet treading there. “I never sat on it,” she added.
“Now that we have been introduced and reacquainted, we should retire to the Council room while guest’s chambers are readied,” the King suggested. Food and drink await. Your guards are welcome to our kitchens and mess. The food is very good.”
Brienne fell in alongside Torgo Nudho. “I’m impressed to see you still serving your Queen. I thought you were to settle in Naath?”
“I will never stop serving Daenerys. I sailed to Naath to bring Missandei’s bones. I followed my Queen to Meereen.”
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Bran sat at one end of the Small Council table. Meera at his side as usual. Daenerys sat at the opposite end. Tyra, her hand, was to her right. To her left sat Torgo Nudho, across from him sat Daario Naharis. The food and drink were excellent. Bread and salt were passed to the visitors.
“Allow me to introduce the others,” King Bran stated after taking a drink of northern ale. “Please stand, Meera. I present to you Meera of House Reed, my wife and Queen Consort. More importantly the mother of our sons, Eddard and Benjen. Don’t look surprised, your Grace. I am Bran the Broken, but not that broken. Nobody had asked and I did not think about it until Meera returned to me from the Neck. I owe her my life and my love.”
Daenerys raised her goblet and said, “to Meera!” Which the others in the room repeated.
Bran continued, “To my left is Myria of Pentos, my Minister of Whispers. I noticed that you too use the title of minister rather than master. Across from her is Lord Willas Tyrell, Minister of Coin.
Ser Rickard Redwyne is my Minister of Ships, who along with Minister of War Lord Penrose is away dealing with Ironborn raiders in the west. Ser Brienne of Tarth is Lady Commander of Kingsguard. Please sit, Brienne, you don’t need to stand. I see no threat here.”
Brienne took a seat next to Torgo Nudho. As usual, he took no drink, only water when near his Queen. The King continued to explain how he had no Minister of Laws, seeing it as unnecessary. He was awaiting a new Grand Maester after Samwell Tarley was recalled to the Citadel to earn his links. He told of sending his first Master of Ships, Lord Davos home to be with his wife. He finished with the sordid tale of Lord Bronn, one-time Minister of Coin and Lord Paramount of the Reach who absconded by ship with trunks full of treasure. Supposedly in Essos, he had kept well out sight.
“I will look for this Bronn and if found, bring him to your justice, your Grace,” Daenerys offered. Have you ever thought to hire the Faceless Men to end him?”
Tyrion answered, “We have, your Grace. The Faceless Men demand coin that we would rather spend here in Westeros. We still owe the Iron Bank.”
After more talk, with no mention of why Daenerys had travelled to King’s Landing, no talk of dragons, and no word of the past, the King moved to adjourn until the next day after breaking fast. “Your quarters are ready. I do hope you will find them acceptable, it’s not the Red Keep of old.”
After Meera wheeled out the King, the other council members said polite parting words and left. Tyrion remained sitting. Daenerys whispered to her advisors, who left the room. Torgo Nudho and Daario would remain outside the room, where Brienne joined them. Tyra made way to the castle to see to her Queen’s needs before both retired. A chest of clothes and sundry items had been brought from their ship.
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Daenerys and Tyrion were left alone in the room. Tyrion sipped from his goblet while the Queen sat with her hands folded over in front of her. Eventually, Tyrion broke the ice.
“It is good to see you again, your Grace,” he began. Surprising, frightening, but good none the less.”
“Good you say?” Daenerys questioned. “Was it good the last time you saw me? When you threw down your Hand’s pin and stormed off to conspire against me?”
“No, simply good in its own way,” Tyrion replied without answering her questions. “I will not ask you why you are here or what you want. Those questions are for the King. But I will ask two things. Questions that the King would avoid asking himself.”
“Go on,” she replied.
“How is it you are alive? Tyrion asked. “We banished Jon, or should I say Aemon Targaryen to the wall for your death. He’s gone further north, if you care to know. Yet here you are, alive and well as if nothing happened.”
“If I bared my chest, you’d see that something happened,” Daenerys began with anger in her voice. “Quite simply, I did not die. Jon failed to murder me as he failed me otherwise. I was near death when Drogon brought me to Dragonstone. Maester Pylos and Dothraki women brought me back from the edge of darkness.”
“But how could you survive a blade to the heart?” Tyrion asked incredulously.
“Jon missed,” she said with a hint of laughter. “He buried his blade into my lung, which would have been fatal if not for the poison Varys put into my body. It thickened my blood, slowing the bleeding. In a way, Jon saved me. The poison would have killed me had not I lost so much blood draining some of it away. The Maester and healers used rarely attempted measures to save me.”
“Poison?” Tyrion asked in surprise. “I knew Varys betrayed you, but knew nothing of poison. What were these measures?”
“If I suspected you knew of the poison, you would not be here today,” She stated. “Your ashes would have blown into the sea along with Varys’. As for the measures, the healers and Maester cut me open between two ribs. They exposed my lung and closed bleeding vessels with hot steel and stiches. To this day, I feel my breathing is labored from that side. They stitched closed the lung then drained blood pooled in my chest. The wound they stitched twice, once deeply and then on along my skin with the finest silk thread. The scar is pronounced but not nearly as one would expect.”
“How long did you linger on Dragonstone?” Tyrion knew he was asking more than two questions, but carried on.
“I was unconscious for more than a moon. They fed me liquids and gave me tea to restore my lost blood. Then bled me again to drain more poison. When I awoke, Torgo Nudho had already come ashore while sailing away from King’s Landing. He stayed with some hundreds of men. He sent the Dothraki warriors back to Essos. I remained on Dragonstone for another seven moons.”
“More than eight moons on Dragonstone and we knew not that you were there! Why so long?” Tyrion continued.
“To give birth to my sons, Rhaegar and Aenar,” Daenerys spoke with pride.
“Sons! You were with twins when stabbed! Had I only known!” Tyrion protested.
“Yes, twins, sons of Jon Aemon Targaryen,” she continued. “I did not know I carried the babes until regaining consciousness. Jon not only tried to kill me, he would have killed his sons.”
She continued, “I placed dragon eggs in their cribs, two for each. The eggs hatched in Meereen. They were Rhaegal’s eggs. An Unsullied found Rhaegal’s carcass washed up on the shore of Dragonstone. They pulled it out by ship to deeper water so that I would not see. In doing so, they discovered four eggs. I think you’ve used up your first question. You had another?”
Tyrion sighed and sat silent for some time, sipping from his goblet that he’d forgotten up to then. “Daenerys, if I may call you that, your Grace, why did you do it?”
Daenerys paused, closing her eyes. When she looked at him again, she began. “Tyrion, you may call me Daenerys when we are alone. As to why I burned the city and keep, I do not really know. Perhaps it was the poison. Perhaps it was the betrayals and loss of those I cared for. Or Rhaegal and Viserion. Or vengeance over what was mine but would never be mine. Or all those together.”
“Not madness?” Tyrion softly asked.
“What is madness?” She replied. “Is it something that comes with birth? Does it arrive later after long imprisonment like my father’s? An irrational belief in prophecy my brother carried to his death? Or is it something that lays in all of us, stronger in some than others, that waits patiently for the time to strike?”
Tyrion rebutted, he enjoyed debates with Daenerys in the past, but this one pushed past any limits he observed before.
“It’s madness to burn a city, killing thousands and claim to have freed them. It’s madness to state you will go on killing and burning to free the world!”
“Oh Tyrion, you put words in my mouth!” Daenerys shook her head before continuing. “You understood no Dothraki and only a few words in High Valyrian, yet think you found meaning in my speech?”
“Winterfell and Dorne,” Tyrion began the list. “From Lannisport to Qarth.”
She sighed, shaking her head again. “and ‘from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea, women, men, and children have suffered too long beneath the wheel. Will you break the wheel with me?’ Yes, those are my words. They describe the world as we knew it then! Points north and south, east and west! I intended to rid the world of slavery. I continue to do so today. Volantis is free but not burned. Qarth will soon be free but not burned.”
“Yet while I sat in the black cells awaiting death, I could smell death wafting through gaps in the walls,” Tyrion was almost scolding. “Ashes fell for days, funeral pyres burned for weeks. Those people you burned were free indeed. Free from life.”
Daenerys rose to leave, “I admit to burning the city. I admit to burning its people. What I did was wrong. What I did I can explain no further.”
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“She’s late,” Myria uttered to the assembled Council.
“It’s her way,” Tyrion said. “She enjoys an attention-grabbing entrance.”
“She shouldn’t keep a King waiting,” Tyria replied as the far doors to Small Council room opened.
Two of the Queen’s men held open the doors while the rest remained outside. Tyra entered first, followed by Daario Naharis and Torgo Nudho. Each stood at their chairs as Daenerys entered. She wore a darker blue dress but over it a black leather tailcoat and cape. The coat embossed with dragon scales showed highlights in red, her family sigil pinned over her right breast. A decorative chain ran down under her left breast and back over the right shoulder. Her hair was in the style she wore on her last day in King’s Landing. Tight braids wrapped around under her crown, long loose hair cascading down over her cape. This was the conquering Daenerys from Tyrion’s memories. Stunningly beautiful yet frightening.
Daenerys motioned her advisors to sit. She took her place, sitting straight with hands laid over each other on the table. Her men left the room, closing the doors behind them. “Shall we begin?” She spoke first.
Meera appeared intimated by the Dragon Queen. King Bran placed his hand over hers as he opened, “I hope you found your accommodations to your liking, your Grace. Lord Tyrion graciously recounted points you discussed together yesterday. Congratulation on two healthy sons. I suppose they will soon take to the skies on dragons. We now know how you are here, but now we ask why you are here.”
The Queen smiled slightly before rising from her chair. “Thank you, your Grace. My sons already ride Skyfyre and Verrax. The others, Aegonys and Sunfyre follow them around, but are without riders. The quarters were excellent, they remind me of the North.”
“Now to your question. I am here to make two requests. Requests -- I am not expecting to make demands. The first is land. I ask that you cede Dragonstone and Driftmark to New Valyria. In the manner once held by Old Valyria, they will serve as outposts in Westeros. Close to King’s Landing, the islands will aid with trade and stem any disagreements between the Seven Kingdoms and New Valyria before they can escalate.”
“Close enough for your dragons too,” the Master of Whispers added with disdain.
“My dragons will remain in Essos. My first son is heir to New Valyria. I expect my second son to govern over western Essos in his name. The dragons are symbols of their future rule.
“Lethal symbols,” Tyrion remarked. “Dragonstone, I understand. We abandoned it and Your Grace seems to have occupied it already. By why Driftmark? What of the smallfolk living there and on Dragonstone?”
“Dragonstone is not large and cannot be made self-sufficient,” the Dragon Queen replied. “Driftmark has pastures and fresh water suitable for raising livestock and grazing horses. As for the smallfolk, they may leave and I will compensate for their relocation. Or, they may remain as citizens of New Valyria, with all rights and privileges that brings.”
“Citizens, not subjects, Your Grace?” Asked Willas Tyrell. “I appreciate the offer to pay for their relocation, but what exactly is a ‘citizen of New Valyria?’”
Daenerys moved closer to the Master of Coin before answering. “When I break the wheel, former subjects and slaves become citizens. They have the right to move about, take any occupation, to receive schooling and training in the trades. New Valyria reaches from the Rhoyne to the Lhazar. From Mantarys to New Ghis. Soon it will include Qarth to which my builders will lay a road across the Red Waste. In my lifetime, I expect to break the wheel from the Summer Sea to the Shivering Sea. The Free Cities will indeed be free.”
“Each of these lands is ruled by a Governor appointed by me with advice from my counsel. I leave behind a vestige of former rule that answers to the Governor. A city may also have an Archon, Triarchs, or Lords. The Governors answer to me and the people.”
“So . . . ,” began Tyrion slowly. “What happens to those masters and slavers that refuse to live under such a regime?”
“They die or are banished,” Daenerys answered unemotionally. “Some die outright for the crimes they committed against their people.”
“Very well,” the King spoke. “I will cede Dragonstone and Driftmark to New Valyria. In turn, Her Grace will agree to an exchange of dignitaries to promote trade and peace between our realms. The smallfolk will remain or leave as they choose, Her Grace will compensate for relocation. Tyrion will draft the papers for our seals. Are we done with land, your Grace?”
Daenerys returned to her seat, “The Stepstones are a haven for pirates, slavers, and scoundrels. I intend on ending that. With islands cleansed, my enemies in Tyrosh and Lys will have no place to flee and hide. I ask that Westeros not interfere there, leaving it to my fleets. In time I will decide if the Stepstones remain on their own, or become part of New Valyria.”
“The Stepstones are not part of the Realm and I have no say over them. Dorne may object as it has interests close to its shores,” the King answered.
Daenerys raised her brows saying, “Does not Dorne answer to the King of the Seven Kingdoms?”
King Bran sighed, “Targaryens knew Dorne better than any other. Dorne answers when the Prince wishes to. Otherwise, the Dornish keep to themselves. Sometimes paying taxes, sometimes not. At least they are not raiding our shores like the Ironborn.”
“I see,” Daenerys said, astonished at the King’s admission. She wondered if Yara Greyjoy still lived, but would not ask. “Then my fleets will proceed with special care around Dorne.”
Myria did not like this at all. She would send ravens to Lords Penrose and Redwyne. The Broken Arm is a bridge for the mad Queen’s forces to invade Westeros. The Dornish had pledged fealty to Daenerys ten or so years ago. She had no reason to believe they would not do so again.
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Moods lightened as servants brought in food and drink. Lord Willas amused the group by telling of Ser Bronn’s theft and departure. Bronn had one worthy idea; drain the tunnels below Castle Castamere and mine for gold. Miners dug horizontal tunnels to release the waters. After removing the remains of House Reyne, the men got to work. Plenty of gold and silver remained below the ruined castle. Enough to substantially pay down the Realm’s debt to the Iron Bank. But fewer chests of gold made their way to King’s Landing than were lifted from the ground. The Master of Coin had been helping himself by stowing gold and coin in the hold of his own ship. When the ship could carry no more, he made off to points unknown. Queen Daenerys again offered that if found in Essos, she’d send him back live, beheaded, or burnt. Tyrion preferred live to stand before the King’s justice.
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Servants cleared the table and brought in fresh drink. Daenerys poured herself lemon water. She didn’t think her hosts would poison her at this point. Daario had been discreetly tasting her drink. Although he had been taking mithridate to prepare for these talks, he’d know if the drink were tampered with. The Queen rose. Gone was the friendly face she wore during their break. She wore emotionless mask while striding to her left then right.
“My second request is this,” she began. “Summon my nephew, Jon Aemon Targaryen, to King’s Landing and turn him over to me.”
Her hosts stared without making a sound. The Queen only raised her eye brows. Myria broke the silence, “You intend on executing or taking him to Essos as prisoner?”
“On the contrary, my Lady. I have two reasons in asking for him,” Daenerys’ mask began to soften as she spoke. “First, his sons deserve to meet their father. Although he has been absent from their lives, they know the circumstances surrounding their birth and why he is not with us.”
Meera nodded understandingly then spoke for the first time, “Are your sons here in Westeros. On Dragonstone, perhaps?”
“No, your Grace, they are not,” Daenerys spoke while shaking her head. “They are in Meereen, but will come to Dragonstone to meet their father.”
“And your second reason is?” Meera asked while putting her hand on Brans shoulder.
Daenerys took a deep breath before answering. “I have two sons. I am nearing four and thirty years of age. I know my best child bearing years are in the past. But it’s not too late to have another, for whom I would risk my life. I desire a daughter. I wish her to continue the female Targaryen line as my sons continue the male.”
“Certainly, Your Grace has no shortage of suitors in Essos?” Tyrion asked while looking at Daario Naharis.
Daenerys let out a slight laugh, “Oh, Tyrion you do not know! But my Hand Tyra is Daario’s goodsister. They look much alike, except his wife Dala is olive skinned and dark in hair and eyes! They have four . . .,” Daenerys glanced at Daario who nodded, “four children. When Daario is not out conquering lands in my name, he’s at home trying to make more!”
A gentle chuckle arose before Myria asked, “Do you intend on betrothing a daughter to one of your sons in the Targaryen fashion?”
Daenerys bit her lower lip while shaking her head at Myria’s rude question. “It ought matter not to you, but I do not. I do not hold my family’s obsession with blood purity. An obsession that manifested itself in madness from time to time. Valyrian blood runs strong in Essos. She may find a suitable mate from among them, or so I hope. But in the end, she will choose who she loves.”
“You are the product of that obsession, are you not?” Myria continued while twitching her nose. “Jon is your nephew, you seek him for his Targaryen blood!”
“Nephew and aunt. Niece and uncle. Cousin and cousin,” she spoke, almost scolding. “All those you accept, but not for me? Indeed, he carries my brother’s blood. But Stark blood runs strong in him. No others have ever both warged into a beast and bound with a dragon. He is wolf and dragon made man.”
“If I grant your request, it will not be a simple matter of summoning him,” the King said. “He’s far in the north, in the Thenn near a village of Freefolk, keeping mostly to himself. We have no ravens for that far north, although I may be able to guide one there. Still, he may not respond, so we’ll need an escort.”
“Then I ask you send an escort,” Daenerys replied, “How long would it take?”
The King continued, “Many moons, but it is not that simple. The Freefolk would not respond kindly to an escort of Southron men coming for Jon. The Freefolk now live somewhat peacefully among the Northerners, so this needs Northern cooperation and that means Sansa.
“Sansa is in deep debt to the Crown, Your Grace, Lord Willas mentioned. “You can have her summon Jon to Winterfell, then turn him over to us.”
“I would not deceive my brother in that manner,” Bran said to Willas. “I will always consider him my brother. I could order Sansa to bring him south, to answer my summons. Our men can join hers along the way, be it at Winterfell or White Harbor if they travel by sea.”
“I will pay Sansa’s debt for this, your Grace,” Daenerys offered. “She does not need to know how or why her debt has been released.”
Tyrion nodded, “That would go a long way to convincing her to cooperate.”
“I will consult with my council and render my decision, shortly, Your Grace,” Bran spoke as to end the meeting.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace,” Daenerys answered. “I will await your decision on my ship.” She turned to the door which had been opened and departed, followed by her advisors.
“She still loves him,” Tyrion said softly.
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The full small council stood in the King’s Hall to await Jon Aemon Targaryen’s arrival. Meera stood by King Bran with their sons. The Kingsguard was at attention along one side. Jon came forward, unarmed, escorted by members of the City Watch. He glanced down at the steel slab in the floor, instantly recognizing what it was.
“You stand before . . .,” Tyrion began before King Bran waved him off.
“You look well, brother,” Bran said to Jon. Indeed, Jon did look well. He was fed properly and provided new clothes on his long journey from beyond the wall. His trimmed beard showed signs of grey and silver, as did his hair, worn loose and not in his usual bun.
“As do you, Your Grace,” Jon answered. He looked towards Meera and the two boys standing next to her. “Your family?”
“Please Jon, you will always be my brother and I will always be Bran to you,” Bran answered. “Yes, my family. Wife Meera, who’ve you’ve met, and sons Eddard and Benjen.”
“No so broken, eh brother? I did not know,” Jon observed while smiling. “Tell me, why have you summoned me after all these years?”
The smile faded from Bran and Meera’s faces as the two boys unconsciously stepped back. “I asked him to,” came a woman’s voice from behind. Jon clenched his fists, his jaw shook open and closed, a darkness came over his sight before being replaced by images of fire. He closed his eyes tightly.
“Turn around Jon, or have you forgotten my voice?” Daenerys spoke with a harshness hardened by memories flooding into her mind.
Jon slowly turned. There she stood, as he remembered her in the ruined Throne Room. Leather coat with pointed shoulders like dragon spikes, silver chain and sigil with a reddish half cape draped behind her. Black dress sewn to appear like dragon scales. Boots that could have been made from dragon talons. A golden crown resting on tightly woven braids was the only difference he could recall.
“H- . . . H- . . . How?” Jon stuttered. So taken by her, he did not notice Torgo Nudho’s murderous stare.
“You failed, Jon,” Daenerys answered. “You failed my trust, you failed me, then you failed to murder me. Do you remember this blade, Jon?” Daenerys held the blade under his chin. Ser Brienne moved her hand to hilt, but the King waved her off.
“You missed, Jon!” She shouted while circling him like a stalking shadowcat. “I gave you my heart but you missed it with this blade! Had you known that my heart still beat, would you have stabbed me again? Cut my throat?”
“The blood! Dro-, Drogon took you!” Jon stammered back.
“From my lung!” She again shouted now standing face to face. “Hear the rasp in my voice? It’s from my butchered lung! Drogon sensed life and took me to Dragonstone!”
Jon stood silent, composing himself, then asked, “Why did you come here for me? Why not just let me be? Do you intend for me what I failed at with you?” He stepped forward, intending to grasp her shoulders.
“Don’t you dare touch me!” She shouted. “Kill you? Your King would not allow it and I swore not to harm you. I came and waited for moons because our sons deserve to meet their father!”
“Sons?” Jon sank to the floor as the realization of what he had almost done years ago came over him like a hammer blow. He pulled at his hair, crying, “No! You were with children? I didn’t know! How could I know?”
“Nor did I, Jon,” Daenerys replied, shaking her head. She felt some pity for him, but not much. “I didn’t learn until I awoke, almost two moons later.”
“Dany, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he said still weeping.
“You may not call me that!” She yelled. “I am Queen of New Valyria, you are now a wildling from the far north! Now get up, nephew. You are still a Targaryen and not a beggar.”
Jon slowly rose, wiping tears from his eyes. “What now, Your Grace?” He asked.
“We leave for Dragonstone in three hours,” she replied. “Spend some time with your cousin and family. You will be brought to docks by his men and mine.”
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Tyrion accompanied Jon to the docks, sharing some of what he learned from Daenerys. He did not mention the Queen’s intentions for Jon. That, he’d leave to her.
“Was it worth it?” Jon asked.
“What do you mean?” Tyrion replied, forgetting that day long ago.
“I asked you that when I left for the Wall more than ten years ago,” Jon reminded Tyrion. “You answered ‘Ask me again in ten years.’ I am asking you again, was it worth it?”
Tyrion paused, wishing he had brought along a wine sack. He looked back at Jon and answered, “Yes.”
“How so?” Jon questioned, a bit surprised.
“Jon, I loved Daenerys Targaryen,” Tyrion began. “Not in the way she loved you, or perhaps you loved her. I loved her the way she loved Jorah Mormont. I did not want her dead, but had no choice but to betray her knowing what I did then.”
Jon appeared confused, “Knowing then, but with what you know now?”
Tyrion continued, “Daenerys has no intentions for Westeros, she will not return to again claim a throne that has passed from her family. Had I not convinced you to kill her, she would have died from Varys’ poison. Gods! Had she not burned King’s Landing, she likely would have died! I believe Essos, if not the world, is a better place with her alive today. It’s a hopeless knot, tangled by us all. But yes, it was worth it.”