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Chapter Two: Dragon Glass

Hair is grey and the fires are burning
So many dreams on the shelf
You say I wanted you to be proud
I always wanted that myself

-"Winter", Tori Amos

It has been four years since I have seen King's Landing.

It has been four years since I have seen this building.

I step out of the black cab, cradling a little plastic aquarium, and look up to the skyline. I remember the shining steel and the great glass windows. I remember the name Dragon Glass in silver letters. I remember the revolving door and the polished marble floors just inside.

I remember the building my father, and his father, and his father built.

It does not feel like coming home.

The lobby feels strange. It's cavernously large, and eerily quiet. The place seems dark, even with the wide windows that overlook the sidewalk...even with the sleek new decor. Furnishings that were once deep crimson and shadowy black have been replaced with burnished reds and golds.

Despite the colors of fire, it is cold here.

My heart flutters.

In the very middle of the enormous lobby, the crowning relic of my youth is still displayed: a great skull, pale bone pocked with fossils and time, sharp teeth nearly six inches long, and eye sockets big enough for a little white-haired girl with an overactive imagination to have climbed through.

Tyrannosaurus rex.

She is one of the most complete skulls in the world, only missing tooth 18 and tooth 19. She had been a wedding present to my parents, excavated from the sandy, fabled dunes of Dorne by a great Martell prince. I stand before her again, and feel her power as I did when I was a child. She was a true dragon, reigning over the earth before lowly humans had even climbed out of the primordial sludge.

"Look," I whisper to the aquarium, still tucked under my arm. My three little monitors are quiet and listless from the cold trip. I turn back to the skull and reach out, my fingertips nearly grazing the snout -

"You can't touch that, ma'am," comes a voice across the lobby.

I yank my hand back, as if the scolding burned it. I swallow and look around. There's only one other person here - a boy, perhaps a little younger than me, sitting behind the reception desk. He has blond hair and a hard, stern frown.

My footsteps echo off the high ceilings as I walk towards him, sheepish and small.

"Can I help you?" He barely glances up from his computer now. He wears a name tag - Lancel.

"I'm here to see Cersei Lannister." The name feels strange on my tongue. It's like a whisper, no matter how loudly I speak.

"Do you have an appointment?" He looks from a memo back to the monitor, typing without missing a beat.

"She sent me a letter. An invitation."

He licks the tip of his finger, and flips a page in the memo. "An invitation to what?"

"The uh...the…" I stammer, setting the aquarium on the desk and digging through the messenger bag slung across my chest. "Reading of Mr. Lannister's will."

I can't find the fucking letter. Where's the goddamn letter?

"And you are?" He clears his pretty throat and stares up at my struggle, unblinking. I watch his eyes fall on my boys in their travel tank, and then his graceful hand creeps slowly across his desk towards a red security button.

"Daenerys Targaryen."

His cold gaze flickers up to me. He stares at my face. "Targaryen?"

My jaw tenses. "Do you want to see an I.D.?"

"I didn't know…that there were any Targaryens left…" he says strangely, reaching now for the phone instead.

I sigh, rapping on the counter. "Just one."

He nods at me, glaring at my hair, his eyes narrowing. He cradles the phone between his shoulder and mouth. "There's a...girl here, who showed up for Ms. Lannister. About the estate. Targaryen." He clutches the phone then. "She says she received an invitation. Yes. Yes, I'm sure...no, I don't...I know. I know." He smiles tightly, cruelly for whoever is at the end of the line. "Just...just check for me, please?"

He replaces the receiver, exhaling heavily. He looks up at me again, and nods towards a cluster of leather seating. "Her assistant will be down shortly."

I give him a tight-lipped smile, and walk back across the lobby. The couch squeaks a little as I sit. I lean back against the cushions, eyes scanning the room I remember racing through as a little girl, while Rhaegar shouted at me to slow down. To behave.

I never listened.

It's much more...sleek...than it was when my father had control of the company. Everything is sharp and measured and precise. The sofas and chairs are perfectly angled. There's a vibrant ficus next to me, and an espresso machine sits on a little end table with cups and creamer and honey and sugar. The air smells faintly of coffee.

A monitor against one wall flashes with market prices. Another showcases their annual report: ...our newest mining operations for FY 300. As leaders in the diamond sector, Dragon Glass is committed to the development of innovative…

I pick at the neat, tight stitching on the arm of the couch. I cross my ankles. I uncross them. I bounce my leg.

I don't like waiting.

Lancel glances nervously at me now and again. I hear the clatter of his keyboard. The phone rings several times, and he answers each call with the same looping script and crisp voice - Dragon Glass, how may I help you, hold please.

I sigh. I twist the strap of my bag. I play with the golden tassels of a throw pillow on the couch.

I shouldn't have come here. Missy told me it was a mistake. I told myself it was a mistake. Even as I sat in the airplane, resting with my forehead pressed against the little oval window, watching the clouds rolling beneath me...I told myself this wasn't a good idea.

I tell myself again now, my mind on the same kind of looping script as Lancel's.

Dragon Glass, how may I help you, hold please.

This is a mistake.

Dragon Glass...

Again, and again, and again.

A door across the lobby finally opens.

The girl who hurries through it is tall and pale and has hair like autumn leaves. Her eyes are wide and blue. They volley from the receptionist, to me, and back again.

He scowls at her.

"Miss Targaryen?" she asks, and her wide blue eyes change from worried to warm. She slips on a pretty customer service smile. She crosses the room in four long strides.

I stand as she reaches me.

Sansa, her name tag says. Assistant. The Dragon Glass logo glints black in the overhead lights.

"We're so glad you're here," she says. The smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She looks nearly as tired as I feel. "I'll show you upstairs."

"I'm very sorry you had to wait." Sansa walks quickly, clutching a notebook to her chest. "Lancel hasn't been with us long. I'm sure that's the last thing you needed after your flight."

I smile halfheartedly. The halls are empty, and the light slants through tall windows. She leads me towards the elevator, reaching out and pressing the button.

"I hope it was a nice trip." Her eyes are on me. I watch the number change above the elevator. "I hate airports. I haven't flown in...well, a few years. It can be such a nightmare."

"Yes," I say. I nod.

She makes a little noise at the back of her throat. I hear pages rustling as she flips through the notebook, pretending to look at something.

The elevator beeps as it passes each floor of the tower.

"It's very terrible, about Mr. Lannister," she says. I feel her eyes on me again. "I mean, it was peaceful. His family...well, most of them, they were all there. But still. These things are always awful."

"They are," I say, glancing at her.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She purses her lips, eyes flickering up to the bright red number seven on the display, then down to the floor. She clicks her pen five times.

"Have you been with the company long?" I ask. I don't want to ask, but she's trying. She raises her eyes, and her lips turn up in a smile.

"Only two years," she says. "Or three, really, if you count the internship. It's been such an amazing opportunity. I'd never even been to King's Landing before then, honestly. I know that sounds ridiculous. But my father helped me land the position, and-"

She's sincerely friendly, once I get her talking. A little too friendly. She chatters about college and her family and the city, and I nod, the strange false smile pressed tight to my lips.

My father never had an assistant. Not for long. He'd say they were incompetent. He'd say he couldn't trust them. He'd say they were liabilities, and he'd fire them one after the other.

I think he'd hoped one of us would stay. Rhaegar. Viserys. Me.

A trio of disappointments.

But here I am. Back where he wanted me. Back where I swore I'd never be.

The elevator reaches the first floor, and the doors open quietly. Sansa motions for me to enter first. She steps in behind me.

"Ms. Lannister sends her apologies, of course," she says, as she leans forward and presses a button. The doors close with a soft chime. "She didn't expect her meeting to run over as long as it has. And she's very eager to meet you...but you'll want to rest a little, I'm sure, and-"

"I'm not going to see her?" I turn to her, frowning.

"Oh. Um." She glances down at the notebook again, like the answer's etched on the cover. Her tongue darts out over her bottom lip. "Not...not yet. She's very busy today, meeting with the estate attorney. But it shouldn't take much longer." She clicks her pen again.

She's very nervous. She seems too soft for this place.

Too soft for Cersei Lannister, CEO.

I bite my tongue, staring at the little orange glow of the button she's pressed.

Floor fifty-eight.

I have been to floor fifty-eight a hundred times. A thousand times.

I wonder what it will feel like, when the doors slide open, and the entrance to the penthouse stares back at me. The place where I grew up. The place I called home.

I swallow, watching the numbers climb higher as the elevator rises.

The suite hasn't changed much.

I'm not sure it's changed at all, really. Sansa leads me through the doors - an elaborate dragon carved on each - and I'm standing in a room full of white and black. Gleaming dark marble floors, sleek low-profile furniture, strange empty walls that slice apart the open space like exhibits in a museum.

This penthouse is a museum.

A museum full of Targaryen ghosts.

"There's Perrier in the refrigerator," Sansa is saying, a few steps ahead of me. "They can have it fully stocked by this evening, if you give me a list of what you'd like."

She stops near the counter that separates the kitchen from the main living space. The countertop seems nearly a mile long, heavy black stone flecked with mica, and a single empty fruit bowl sits on it, a piece thrown by a well-known artist whose name now escapes me.

The balcony to the left runs the entire length of the penthouse, overlooking the city. A hall to the right leads to an office and a cluster of bedrooms. The floating stairs before me lead up to the enormous master suite. I look up - the height of the ceilings is still staggering, dizzying, unbelievable.

I know this place. This cathedral of a home.

I know it like I have never left it.

I know how the light will look as the sun sets and the city turns gold. I know how the shadows will stretch across the floor. I know how hot the water in the entry level bathroom runs. I know which marble tile has a hairline crack.

There's a fire burning in the glass hearth that splits the formal dining room and the great open space of the parlor. I watch the gas-lit flames dance orange and yellow and blue, casting odd shapes on the shimmering onyx floors.

Sansa is still talking. "...but there's also a new place just down the block with great shawarma. Or that's what I've heard. I haven't ever had time to go…"

"I think...I'm just going to rest for a while," I say. My voice is not as strong as it should be. It echoes hollowly from the walls and the ceilings.

"Oh, right. Of course." From the corner of my eye, I see her nod emphatically. "Make yourself at home. Mr. Lannister...his son, Tyrion, I mean...he'll be up to see you as soon as the meeting ends. I know he's eager to-"

"Yes." I barely hear her. I step forward, lost in the echo of things from years ago. Rhaegar's deep, echoing laugh. Viserys's snide little quips. My father's cold, steely orders. My mother's…

I don't know her voice.

I close my eyes. I remember the portrait of her - the one my father hung in the master suite, on the wall that faces the red rising sun.

Four years ago, I disowned this place. Ripped up my roots and washed away the dirt beneath my nails. Told myself I would never return - that I didn't belong in these halls that felt like a crypt. That I would find a new home in the dry breeze and waving grass of the Mesa.

I told myself that there was nothing here for me but loss.

I don't know if I was wrong.

"My card is there on the counter…just let me know if you need anything," Sansa says, very softly. She's too friendly, and too eager, but she's smart. Smart enough not to say anything else.

I hear her footsteps trail away.

I hear the door closing.

I hear a siren wailing in the distance. I hear a pigeon cooing on the balcony. I hear the ambient hum of the building beneath me, the city below me.

I hear the thrum of my own pulse, steady and solemn. A small, fragile sound.

I know I am the last of my family. I know that I am no longer a part of this place. I know that I am not a part of any place. I know that I am alone.

I have known this for years, and never truly felt it.

Standing in this place now...standing here again...it settles in my blood like silt on a riverbed.

There's a knock on the penthouse door.

I'm sitting on the couch. My back is ramrod straight. My hands are folded in my lap.

I'm not sure how long I've been here. Less than an hour, I think. I have not rested. My eyes are tired and my body is sore. I've been staring at the walls, the windows, the fireplace. Staring and staring until things grew blurry.

I'm not sure I could rest here even if I wanted to.

"Come in," I say, tilting my head towards the door.

I should stand. I have come here to stay, I remind myself. I should be gracious, and friendly, and professional.

I do not move.

The door opens. A man clears his throat behind me.

"Miss Targaryen," he says. "It's been too long."

I don't know much about Tyrion Lannister. He wasn't involved in the company under my father. His own father rarely talked about him. But sometime in the last four years, he has been given a position as chief marketing officer. It was a line in one of the many letters I received and skimmed - a brief point on a memo.

"I hope you're well," he continues, shutting the door behind him. I stand then, and I turn, watching as he glances around the penthouse. His eyes drift from the great windows to the stunning mural to the sprawling kitchen. He gives a little nod, assessing the place. "And comfortable."

"I am. Thank you." The words are odd and stilted. My thoughts drag too slowly, stumbling behind me. This place has me hanging crooked, scrabbling to hold on.

I tighten my grip on myself.

"I'm very sorry," I say, after a moment of uneasy silence. "About your father."

"I appreciate the sentiment." He seems to take that as an invitation, walking forward into the living area. "It's no great loss for the world, though. I assure you."

I'm not sure if I'm meant to laugh at that.

I know Tywin Lannister was...difficult. He worked as the COO of Dragon Glass for nearly twenty years, before his promotion. He was shrewd and sharp and never smiled. He drank black coffee and skipped breakfast each morning. He sat in the corner during meetings, scanning the faces of everyone in the room. He kept his office blinds pulled closed.

He was one of the few men whose advice my father would heed.

Tyrion seems oblivious to my lack of response. He stands beside one of the armchairs - leather, low-backed, cold metal armrests - and keeps looking up, looking to the side, looking all around.

Looking at me.

"It's funny," he says, eyes locked on mine, "but seeing you back here, now...it seems right. Fitting." He takes a seat in the armchair, grimacing, trying to shift his weight into a comfortable position. He frowns at the strange armrests. "I was going to say that this place suits you, but I'm not sure it would be a compliment."

I feel the faintest flicker of a smile at that.

"You've terrified her, you know," he says abruptly. "I've never seen her… afraid, of anything really."

I start. My eyes are wide. "I'm… I'm sorry, I've terrified who?"

"Cersei." He hops down, walking around the low chaise lounge instead, running his hand down the cushion, before taking a seat across from me. He leans back, apparently more satisfied with this option.

I laugh. "What? Why?"

"Because you're Daenerys Targaryen," he says matter-of-factly.

"Some days, yes," I reply, looking down at my hands.

"She believes…you're here to contest her rise to CEO." He stares at me pointedly.

"Oh." I glance up from my hands. "You can tell your sister that I don't know the first thing about diamonds. Or running…a billion dollar business," I say, gesturing around the penthouse. "And as you can see -"

He nods, and smiles.

"There are no lawyers hidden anywhere." I finally smile too.

"Just you…and the lizards," he says.

They're on the long, slate bar between the living room and the kitchen.

"Just me and the lizards," I echo. We watch them for a moment; they're perking up in the warmth. They'll be better once I set up their heat lamp.

"So then…Miss Targaryen…" I can tell he relishes the way the name rolls off his tongue. He pats his thighs. "Why are you in lovely King's Landing?"

"I just came for the reading. Of your father's will." I cross my ankles.

"Ah. Well," he inhales deeply. "You'll be waiting quite a while for that."

I frown. "Is it not…customary…for the Lannisters to distribute inheritance…" I stumble on the question, unsure of the polite way to say soon after death. Their father had to have been cold in the ground by now.

"Oh no, nothing like that." He gazes out the wall of glass. Droplets of rain gather on the tall windows, blurring the image of the city. It feels like we're in the clouds. "Our brother, Jaime -"

"I remember." And I do. I remember exactly the way my young heart thundered in my chest at the sight of him - a rare thing, perhaps once a year, at a company retreat. Tall, athletic, blond. He was nearly Targaryen.

"Everyone remembers him," Tyrion sighs playfully, rolling his eyes. "It would appear, though, that he has forgotten us."

"What do you mean?" I lean forward, my chin resting on my hand.

Tyrion leans forward as well. There's an air of intrigue around him, as if everything he says will be the start of the most interesting story that's ever been told. I don't know Tyrion Lannister yet…but I adore him.

"Jaime came back from the war, the same one as -"

"Rhaegar," I finish for him. They both went in as officers. Only one made it home.

"May Rhaegar rest in peace." Tyrion touches his chest, just above his heart. "Jaime, as I'm sure you heard, lost his hand."

"Rebel forces?" I ask out of politeness, but I already know the story; it was harrowing enough to make the news. Torture and mutilation for over a month until he was finally liberated by a special forces team Tywin bought and paid for. Despite my personal misgivings about the Lannisters as a whole, I pitied Jaime. He seemed to be the only one of the bunch who knew real suffering.

"Yes, sadly. He was never quite the same after that. A shadow of himself."

I nod. "War changes everything."

"Indeed." He pauses, touches a finger to his lips. "After he came home...well, you know how it happens. Night terrors, unprovoked rages. Cersei and I…our father…we had no idea what to do. Jaime was lost."

I hum in sympathetic agreement.

"And then he found the Brotherhood Without Banners."

Brotherhood Without Banners - a contracted security group, internationally known for their less than savory assignments. "Mercenary work? That's what he's doing now?" I almost can't believe it. Almost.

Tyrion is silent for a moment. "He's been gone since… last July? Our sources tracked him down in the Disputed Lands. He won't accept a call from either of us… and so all we can do is…wait."

"Wow." I don't know what to say. "I'm...so sorry."

Tyrion looks up, seeming to shake himself out of reverie. He gets down off the chaise lounge. "You're a wonderful listener, Ms. Targaryen. I shouldn't have imposed on you like this. You must be exhausted."

I stand with him. "No…no, it's nothing. I'm glad for the company. Really."

He smiles up at me, warmly. He begins to walk towards the door; I follow. "In light of Jaime's absence…and the delay of the reading," he says over his shoulder, "will you be heading back east?"

I hesitate. We both stop and stare at each other in the stark entryway. "That's part of…well, I wondered if…" I wring my hands. The neat little speech I'd rehearsed on the plane unravels. "I had hoped to speak with Cersei. About...finding a job. With Dragon Glass."

He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. "A job?" he asks, his mouth turning up in a disarmingly crooked smile.