Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I am not attempting to make a profit off this story.

Summary: AU. Daenerys Targaryen sits the Iron Throne, but she has become as mad as her father. Ser Barristan listens without hearing as she destroys her kingdom. Spoilers for ADWD.

The man is visibly shaking as his name is called, and he stumbles forwards on unsteady legs, his face pale and grey. Fool, Ser Barristan thinks, as he watches the man's halting progress. You never should have come here. You should have stayed in your hovel, on your farm, in your back alley.

'Y-your Grace,' starts the man, his voice wavering. Apprehension claws around Selmy's heart, and he has to force himself to keep a blank expression.

Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, leans back in the Iron Throne and looks upon the man with ill-concealed contempt. Once she would have regarded him with pity and have spoken kind words to him. That time is long past, however, and the woman sitting the throne is nothing like the girl he once met across the Narrow Sea. 'What do you want?'

'I ... I beg your pardon, Your Grace,' the man says, taking another step forwards. That was a mistake. 'One of your ... your ... d-dragons, flew over my lands yesterday. The b-big black one.'

'His name is Drogon,' says Daenerys, her voice venom. 'You might have troubled to learn his name. There are only three dragons in the world, after all. I am certain that even one such as you could manage to memorize three names.'

The man visibly pales. Ser Barristan shifts uncomfortably. Listen without hearing. 'My ... my apologies, Your Grace.'

Daenerys flicks her hand in dismissal. 'Now what do you want?'

'Your dragon, D-Drogon, he ... he burned my daughter,' says the man, his eyes filling with tears. Seven save me, not another one. 'She is still alive, but they are not sure whether she will make it. Her wounds are ... terrible to look upon.'

'And why should your problems concern me?' asks Daenerys Targaryen, leaning forwards in her barbed chair. Once she would have wept, thinks Ser Barristan, as he averts his eyes to the floor. Once she would have mourned this girl as she did Hazzea. But that name has ceased to mean anything to Daenerys.

'I ... I had hoped ... I had hoped Your Grace might –'

'What? Compensate you for your daughter?' asks Daenerys, the contempt palpable this time. 'I conquered this realm with fire and blood. I burned thousands of men to get here. I left cities in ashes and turned palaces to dust. Tell me why I should care about the death of one girl. Tell me.'

The man recoils as though he has been slapped, and for a moment Ser Barristan hopes he will turn around and walk right out of the throne room. Then something hardens in the man's face, and Selmy knows that his hopes are forfeit.

'They told me you were just,' says the man, his voice risinghysterically. 'They call you mother, but what mother treats her children the way you have treated us?'

Daenerys' reaction is immediate. 'So it is treason!' she shrieks. 'Grey Worm, take this man and throw him into a cell! I want him executed on the morrow!'

The man takes an angry step forwards, blind rage overwhelming his common sense. Ser Barristan has to try hard not to close his eyes or look away from the ensuing chaos. 'Liar! You are no queen of mine!'

'KILL HIM!' shouts Daenerys Targaryen, flailing her arms wildly. Her arm catches on one of the swords embedded in the Iron Throne, still sharp after hundreds of years. The sound as her sleeve tears is terrible, and the blood that stains the rags around her arm is even worse to look upon. Grey Worm and his Unsullied march up to the man and take him by the arms, dragging him bodily from the throne room. As Grey Worm leads his Unsullied toward the door, Ser Barristan catches his eye. The eunuch's face is blank, but Selmy finds himself wondering what the other man is thinking all the same. Is he as appalled as he is? Does he want to interfere? Does he feel just as bound by his horrific vows as he himself does?

Daenerys rises from the Iron Throne, clutching her arm. At least she does not scream and curse as Aerys did, thinks Ser Barristan wryly. 'No more petitioners for today, Ser Barristan,' says Daenerys, her tone almost casual. For a moment he is reminded of the little girl he served in Meereen, a lifetime ago.

'Yes, Your Grace,' he says, and follows her from the hall when she beckons to him.

The blood from the wound on her arm is dripping onto the ground by the time they reach the stairs. Every drop feels like the stab of a sharp knife, and Ser Barristan wishes he could banish the image. I thought I had seen enough blood spilled on the Iron Throne while I served Aerys, he thinks, feeling lost.

How has it come to this? Daenerys has turned into the mirror image of her father, though she herself will not hear a word about it. I tried to prevent this, I tried, he thinks, as they ascend the stairs. I sought her out to see for myself that she was sane, and she was. I did not want to serve another Aerys. Daenerys seemed just, good, kind-hearted. How did I not see that the same madness reigned in her as did in her royal father?

But perhaps it hadn't, at that time. Daenerys had been kind and fair up to the moment she flew off on Drogon's back. When she had finally come back after what felt like a century, she had been different, somehow. He should have known then, but he had deluded himself into thinking she was simply scarred from her ordeal. I did not wish to see it, but now I am living it.

'Tell me of Rhaegar,' commands Daenerys, as she wraps the remainder of her sleeve more tightly around her arm in a futile effort to stop the bleeding.

This is a command he is used to, though he no longer relishes speaking of Rhaegar. It reminds him too much of what Daenerys will never be. 'He was a great knight, Your Grace,' says Ser Barristan for the hundredth time.

'This I know,' she answers, patiently. How can she be so normal one moment and insane the next? 'Tell me what he would have been like as a ruler.'

I am treading on thin ice. 'He would have been an excellent ruler, Your Grace,' says Selmy, carefully. 'He was fair in his judgment and kind to lesser men and women.' Unlike you, he thinks, regretfully.

'I should have liked to meet him,' reiterates Daenerys. 'But I know he would have been proud of what I have achieved for House Targaryen.'

'As you say, Your Grace.' His tongue seems thick as he speaks, his mouth congealed with lies. He wonders what Jorah would have done had he been in his position. Would he have stayed loyal to his queen? Would he have loved her even despite what she had become? Or would he see her as she truly was and act accordingly? But it is useless to ponder on those things. Jorah has been dead for many years, and Ser Barristan must needs fulfil his role as protector of the Queen.

I am beginning to understand Jaime Lannister, reflects Ser Barristan ruefully. I called him Kingslayer and spat on his name, but perhaps he had the right of it. Ser Barristan's gaze falls on his sword, and he wonders what it will be like to skewer Daenerys Targaryen with it. In a single stroke, he could save the realm from another mad Targaryen. And then the Unsullied would turn on me and kill me. That does not trouble him, though. He is an old man, and he has seen more than he cares to.

But if I kill her, it will mean war. New Kings and Queens will rise up from the dust, playing their game of thrones. And the smallfolk will suffer and starve, as the great Lords and Ladies fight over the last crumbs of the kingdom like dogs with a bone. And he knows that whatever else he might do, he cannot condemn more innocents to die by starting another useless war.

So he takes the Queen's arm and gently steers her towards the maester's chambers, hoping that the poor man can take care of the latest addition to Daenerys Targaryen's tapestry of cuts.