Levers of Power

In a single moment of a thousand potentialities, Elaena could have easily been burned alive. Several had, and several others had been given burns severe enough that they certainly wished they should have been burned alive. For that moment, Drogon's breath whispered over her in a roar of dragonfire, and one more Valyrian-blooded aspirant was tured to ash and cinder in the ultimate abnegation of the purity of their blood.

Drogon looked at her. She raced the last distance, and then slowed, and pressed herself up against the Dragon's side. He snorted, a hiss of steam from his breath. Elaena shivered, a cold shiver, despite the immense heat of the dragon against her.

There was a flash, a surge, as much in her heart as her mind. Then she felt the Dragon, she could feel Drogon closely, a longing, a longing inside of him. He lowered his neck; on spines and crags of scales, she clambered above his shoulders.

The longing was still there. There was a certain distance between them, even as she felt a connection she had never imagined—a completeness, an implicit understanding of the dragon's will. It gave her just enough warning to grab onto the spikes, and hang on desperately, as Drogon crouched himself, and then lunged into the sky. The crowds roared with triumph that one of the Volantenes had flown.

Elaena felt like she could see the Dragon Queen looking up to her, even as she knew it would be impossible, there was no way to make out her eyes. But it felt like she was there, or, perhaps she was there for Drogon.

Why did the Dragon Queen matter? With a jerk, she realised she was flying – that she was looking down on the distant scene of the court. It was the visceral realisation that followed the initial, intellectual moment of Drogon's flight. She nearly lost herself from it, her grip loosening on the spikes of the Dragon's neck and shoulders before they tightened again.

For some reason, as Drogon banked and rose, climbed and dived, Elaena tracked with each movement. She could see herself spatially in the atmosphere above Volantis, and it began to give her confidence.

The young woman at last looked down again, and saw the city laid out like a model before her. She could see the massive expanse of the mouth of the Rhoyne, the west bank, the bridge—the largest in the world, the Volantenes always said—and the city itself with the black walls standing like a shimmering combination of rock and the darkest glass that could be imagined, under the bright light of the sun. Focusing, she thought for a moment that her eyes identified the particular one-block large Villa that the Saerganyon had lived in now for two centuries.

This was the power of Gods. She could see the land around for so long that, as the books taught, as her family lore repeated, Elaena could clearly see the curvature of the ground below. At last, her confidence overcame her other feelings. She could see the sea to the south, and leaning and straining on the spikes growing from Drogon, coaxed him to turn to the south, and then to descend steadily toward the surface.

At last, skimming along the waves with great and powerful beats of his wings, Elaena on his back coaxed Drogon to turn, and cried "Dracarys!" The heat wafted back even as far as her position on his back, and the burst of flames swept like a flash of light through the atmosphere, crackling with with ozone, and the trees flared away with a flash, the trunks exploding.

Drogon then seemed to follow a distant call, and Elaena, connected to him at some primal level, felt a lassitude that kept her from wanting to resist it. He turned back toward the city, rising to a comfortable height, and flying around to circle for a place to land near his mother.

When he landed, Elaena sat there, dimly, dumbly, now, only when Drogon was again on the ground, fully processing just what she had done—she had flown. Sitting quietly on his back, it took several minutes for Elaena to realise that Drogon, snorting and sniffing, was done playing with his new friend for the day; he wanted Elaena to dismount, and she carefully slid down through spikes and over scales to reach the ground, so he could rise and bask in the sun behind her, instead of remaining close to the ground for her convenience. I have flown.

It seemed like the most perfect moment that had ever existed. She was ebullient with the feeling of triumph, even if Drogon's connection to her, and continued connection to the Dragon Queen, defied what her family had taught her, of the old legends of the Zaldrizes. Her happiness made her ignore the contradictions. Surely this was going to be the happiest day of her life.

After flying Drogon, a coterie of guards surrounded her, and led her to the Queen's Palace, inside the Black Walls. They were a barrier no longer to those of lesser races, but this procession saw her placed in a wheelhouse, so she could be screened from view by those around her, she supposed. Alone, and locked in, Elaena curled against one side, her heart still soaring with the knowledge that she had claimed a dragon.

It was a feeling like being a God. She remembered well the stories of her family, of the days of old, when Valyrian had a thousand dragons, when the spires of magic stone rose into the air above rivers of lava, when the whole of western Essos bowed to the power of the dragon, when magic was raised in rock and fire and blood, when witches could sing down storms, and their blood could grant powerful wizards and sorceresses lives lasting centuries.

When half of Essos were slaves of the dragon.

Slaves. Elaena had never thought much about slavery before the past few weeks. It was something that had always existed, would always exist, and was as natural to her family's way of life as breathing. The blood of the old Freehold ruled over their inferiors. Such was the way of the world. But it was not true, not really, was it? Elaena remembered slaves who had a colouration similar to her own. She remembered her father remarking when Astapor had been overthrown, that it served right the Ghiscari, the upstarts, who on the destruction of Valyria, had overthrown and enslaved the Valyrians in their cities, so that in fact many of the slaves of Ghis were of Valyrian blood. He, with confidence, imagined the Dragon Queen reestablishing a Valyrian-dominated society on the eastern shore of Slaver's Bay.

Then they had heard wild, lurid rumours, and hope and idle speculation, that perhaps Volantis would become the home of a Dragonlord again, gave way to envy, hate, and fear. And incomprehension. After all, hadn't Valyrians been the greatest slaveholders in all of history?

Now, Queen Daenerys was the greatest liberator in history, and she was apparently not done yet. Elaena was buoyed by the confidence of her dragonflight, which kept her blood hot and confident. She had triumphed at the Queen's test, she would serve the Queen.

She was not at all expecting to be dragged from the carriage, once they were inside the palace, which had once belonged to one of the Triarchs. She was not expecting to be made to kneel, and she was not expecting to be fitted with slave-manacles, and then frog-marched into the palace. By the time it was done, a chill had settled over her soul. A terror gripped her, and she felt a certainty that perhaps it had all been a jape, that the Queen had no need of a rider for Drogon. She would be tortured and killed as a warning to her class, or perhaps simply for the Queen's amusement. Or, worse, for in the months before, when they had sent their fleets against her, many lurid stories about the Queen and her unnatural tastes had been circulated in the city.

Up into the palace she was marched, and former slaves jeered her. "Murderess!" they shouted, knowing nothing about who she was. "Bitch, whore, demons will eat your heart!"

"Give her to me and I will eat her heart!"

"Give her to me, and she will wish I ate her heart!"

They assumed she was brought for judgement for some particularly savage crime. A girl of thirteen name-days, each scream tore deeper into her, until, at least, she was brought to the audience hall. By then, there were already tears on her cheeks, fear, confusion, anger. I thought this was going to be the happiest day of my life! It was! What have I done!?

Inside the gleaming black stone of the hall, with the ceiling lined with gold leaf to reflect light across it splendidly, on a low dais at the far end, the Dragon Queen sat. Her advisors—the Red Priestess and the Shadowbinder of Asshai—flanked her, as well as a coterie of temple guards. The Queen's face glowed with light, and Elaena shuddered and gasped in a breath in shock.

The guards leading her in dragged her forward, and then pushed her down to her knees. They yanked at her clothes, then, and brutally tore them from her body, laying welts across her as the humble fabrics, which had once belonged to her family's slaves—and were still far better than the common servile chattel in the fields would wear—were torn to shreds, bearing her alabaster skin, unburning under the sun—a mark of the Valyrian race—for all the court to see.

Shame gripped her in equal measure with fear. Elaena thought it could not get worse, that having fallen from the heights of riding a dragon, she could go no lower… When one of the guards approached from behind, and with a few rough cuts of a knife, removed the better part of her fine, silver-blonde hair from her head, falling in a tangled mass of long locks behind her. She sobbed harder.

But nothing could prepare her for the cold iron around her neck as a slave collar was brought into place, snapped around her fine, unmarred, youthful skin, and then bolted tight with a few turns of the rough bolt scoring at her skin. A whimper and a gasp brought home the horrified feeling of nightmarish role reversal, and she looked dimly up at the gleaming, silvery figure of the Dragon Queen.

By what cruel jape am I to die?

Queen and advisors alike sat rigidly still, and quiet, observing her. Sniffling and sobbing, Elaena looked up at them across the distance of the black rock floor, with a carpet in red rolled out from the dais down to the entrance. She heard footfalls on the bare stone behind her.

She heard the whistling through the air.

If she thought she had been unprepared for a slave collar, she was perfectly unprepared for the true agony of a whip. Elaena had grown up watching many people be whipped, all of them slaves, many of trivial crimes or even just displeasing their master or mistress. She had been raised to think nothing of it. She was a Valyrian, a Volantene noblewoman raised inside the Black Walls. Those people were literally beneath her, morally, spiritually, racially.

The whip slammed into her back like a blow she could not imagine. There was the sting, there was the cut flesh, but the actual strength behind it staggered her, and caused her to collapse forward, until her forehead was against the rock. Her breath expelled in a sharp, ragged gasp. The pain was too great for her to find where to scream, until it blossomed fully, deeper into her back from the cut, and an exquisitely howling yowl of pain ripped from her thirteen year old lungs like nothing she had known before.

And that was just the first stroke. They could whip slaves for a hundred.

"There is no need for another," the woman on the throne said with a distant voice, and rose. "Lower that whip—and go burn it at once!"

The words confused Elaena as much as the torture had. She looked around frantically, and saw the men retreating, while the silver-masked Queen, with her advisors at her sides, descended toward Elaena, walking down the carpet.

Still, through the fog of the confusion and the pain, Elaena lifted herself up, desperate for one chance, and sure she had one chance only. She remembered what the slaves of the city said. "Mhysa, free me!" She called.

The woman in the silver mask, with the circlet on her head, and the hair that had been like Elaena's until it was cut, stopped immediately, and stared at her for a moment that seemed to last forever, in silence. Then she raced forward, and Elaena felt warm hands on her neck, working the bolt with fingers that seemed weak. One of the guards approached, bowed deeply, and handed the Queen his tool, and it came smoothly.

"Cut the manacles, and condemn them with the collar to the flames also!" Daenerys ordered harshly; and her guards rushed to comply.

Then, gentle hands, of dry and taut flesh, reached up, while the guards worked to free Elaena of her bonds, and retreated. They wiped the tears from the girl's eyes, and she spoke in a sad voice: "Anyone can be a slave, Elaena Saerganyon. I was sold to a man like a piece of meat to be his to do with as he pleased; though I was made a wife, I had no power over my own body. In Old Ghis Valyrians are owned as slaves, and in Volantis, Ghiscari are owned as slaves. Your family owned slaves, your family committed crimes. I was going to teach you the wickedness of this, but I heard my name called; it cannot go on. You have learned enough. You understand what it means. Mhysa. I know what my duty is." Her hands brushed gently across Elaena's cheeks, and through the chopped remnants of her hair.

"How," the Dragon Queen asked her, so softly, in a voice that seemed gentle and hollow all at once, "do you want me to make amends?"

"Spare my family," Elaena gasped, through hoarse, ragged breaths. The intensity of the roiling, conflicting emotions made it impossible for her to stop sobbing, as those taut but gentle hands caressed her, face inscrutably hidden behind the silver mask.

"A fair price for a blow of the whip. It will be done. They will receive no further punishment for their past crimes."

Elaena sank against the hem of the Queen's dress, and kissed it. In response, Daenerys tugged her to her feet. The Queen, though an older woman by a fair number of years, was barely larger than she was, a small and delicate person whose power had come from her dragons, but more than that, from her intense fortitude of will. Kinvara helped her lift Elaena, and helped Elaena to walk.

The Queen pressed close to her side, they took Elaena back into the Queen's private apartments, and to the baths there, filled with hot water. The Queen stood and watched quietly, as servants, paid servants now, helped Elaena into the water, and bathed her, and dressed up her chopped-off hair as well as they could, and packed the single open wound across her back with a healing balm that brought much comfort, wrapped her torso with dressings to protect it, and clothed her nicely in the finest of silk tunics, an undergarment in public or a general spaces household, but suitable by itself for wear in the intimate women's quarters of a household. The Queen watched, too, as she was taken to one of the rooms, and on the bed, given tisanes of herbs and spices to help her recover her strength, and fed a light meal of fruit, and bread spread with fish-paste.

In the meanwhile, a comfortable chair had been brought for the Queen, and she settled into it, still watching Elaena intensely.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Elaena used the more formal honorific in Valyrian.

"Grace," Daenerys answered idly, correcting her. "You will not worship me with such exalted titles. The one God has certainly made His presence known in the world, or else I would not be here."

"The Lord of Light raised you? The rumours, they're all true?"

"They are all true," Kinvara at last interjected. "She is Azor Ahai, and she will remake the world, girl, in His image. You have paid a small price in blood, for a crime that should be expunged with fire. I hope you prove wise enough in time to appreciate that such a bargain is only granted because Azor Ahai has need of you, and the Lord of Light grants favours to his chosen. You are needed."

"I garnered I am needed, for Drogon, yes, that's what we all thought, but then, I was taken back and…"

"I will not discuss the rumour. Kinvara, Quaithe, if you would please?" Daenerys abruptly got up, and stepped out, leaving Elaena with her lips pursed, and a rather sad expression upon her face.

"It is no fault of your's, but it still grievously hurts Her Grace's heart," the wooden-masked woman of Asshai began, and then allowed Kinvara to speak.

"She has been brought back, only for so long as the Lord of Light has need of her" remarked the Red Priestess. "It is an honour and a privilege, to serve the Lord in this way. But, I fear there is little joy in being brought back into such a life. You lose much of yourself along the way. She told you, she was sold to the Dothraki. She cannot even remember what her husband looked like. All her memories are vague and faint, save for the final weeks of her first life. Those, she remembers all too well, the betrayals and the lies by those who claimed to be her friends and allies. The treason of the man who pretended to love her. Those memories haunt her endlessly….." She was silent for a while, before continuing. "She no longer experiences life as we do. It is the fire of the Lord that sustains her."

Elaena shivered, and blanched. It seemed an awful existence, worse than she could care to imagine. A life that was not quite a life.

Kinvara read her well, an arch expression as she turned away with a shrug. "Perhaps you think me cruel to have restored her to such an existence. I do the will of the Lord of Light, that is all. He has need of her. Once she has fulfilled his purposes, he will grant her the true death that she craves. The servants of the Many-Faced God believe death to be a gift. In that at least, they are correct."

"I had hoped that Her Grace would teach me," Elaena admitted. "We are Targaryen of old blood, but long has our line resided in Volantis and been of this city."

"Even before, she did not know much of her family. She was more of an exile than your ancestress Princess Saera, for Princess Saera had the wealth and power to bequeath to her family all the books of Old Valyria that it pleased her to bequeath," Quaithe again spoke without preamble. "Your function, however, girl, is to be her Sword."

"Drogon." Elaena looked to the two. "Why, then, can she not fly Drogon herself? What stands between them?"

"There are two ways that a Dragon will follow another being," Quaithe answered. "A bond of family, and a bond of a rider. Even in this state, Drogon recognises Her Grace as his mother, through the natural bond of his creation on the pyre. It is this way that she commanded all three of her dragons, even when she did not ride them, which was unusual and exceptional in the history of the Dragons of Valyria. However, as a rider, she was Drogon's rider, specifically. And that bond was severed by death, as the other bond was not. So while the Mother's will may still be sensed for Drogon, and he will follow her as his mother, she cannot mount him as his rider again. We need someone to lead Drogon in battle, to be the precise weapon the dragons often were not, in Her Grace's previous campaigns. That will be you, girl."

Elaena quietly bowed her head. Now she understood her purpose. She also knew better than to quibble. Having found herself in this position, it was best to grasp the nettle tightly. A thirteen year old Volantene girl had still already been educated in a fair measure of politics, and how it was played.

So she raised her head and smiled. "Honoured Kinvara, would you instruct me on the Faith of the Lord of Light?"

Whatever Kinvara thought of it, she clearly leapt at the chance. "Of course, Elaena."

With a slight shake of her head, Quaithe turned away.

In Tyrion's long career, which had involved serving a variety of rulers in varying positions, some well, and some badly, he had never been in quite this position. Meetings were an opportunity to plan, to discuss possible actions, to curry favour, to receive the instructions of a Lord or King.

When it came to Bran the Broken, meetings were something else entirely. He was rolled in before his Small Council. Already, Yara Greyjoy had departed for the Iron Islands. The Prince of Dorne, had returned to Dorne. The world was starting to settle down and return to what it had been.

In theory. As a practical matter, Bran showed up—and asked about Drogon. "Have you received any evidence of the Dragon's position yet?"

It had been this way through each meeting they had had so far. Tyrion, busy with his reconstruction plans for King's Landing, including the construction of new brothels (out of the kindness of his heart, he had taken several whores who didn't have brothels into residence in the Tower of the Hand. The nobility and the Church were too broken to really muster complaints about such things at the moment, so it was nice to take advantage of it while the opening lasted), had generally ignored the issue as not within the scope of his competency. Bran was interested in it for some mystical reason linked to his powers, and certainly it would solve itself eventually. After all, most of the mystical prophecies and words and predictions had failed so far. The Night's King was easily defeated.

"Now we have other matters to attend to," Bran said after a moment, after he had taken the report like usual. "My Hand. I have written down a list of names…" He handed them over. "These are those who pose a threat to Our rule."

Tyrion stared at the list for a moment. Mostly Septons and Septas, there were also several nobles on the list. Especially in Dorne and the Iron Islands. Yara and the Prince would not be happy about this. Also, why not, why this information at this time? "Your Grace, why … How was this obtained? Are you sure?"

"I have made the determination based on what I have observed of them."

A chill went through the room, and Tyrion exchanged a glance with Brienne, who was frowning. Davos also went a little stiff, while Sam – was ignoring it. Bronn seemed to care not a whit about it. The Master of Whispers, an apparently soft looking Kingslander boy named Allyron, of no special birth, had been appointed for his connections to Varys. He had delivered the report on Drogon, with no evidence as yet. His eyes, though, gleamed with avarice at the King's information, just as Varys' might of.

Tyrion cleared his throat. He felt that his stomach was somewhere close to his loins, for how he felt. He saw it in their minds. He saw it in their minds. Perhaps Varys would have, in fact, not appreciated this development after all. The silence from the Hand made Bran look after a moment. "My Hand, will you… Take care of it? That is my expectation."

If you don't, he'll take care of you. And he'll be paying far more attention to you than to anyone else. If he wants to see inside your mind, he can do it at will, and you're the biggest threat, so he'll look the most, especially if he has the time to look at these other imbeciles and Septons.

Suddenly, Bran's election as King seemed far more stupid than anything else Tyrion had ever done in his life. He smiled blandly and politely, though. Tyrion was quick-witted enough to realise that, really, as long as he did what Bran wanted, it wasn't terrible; he would be rich and powerful and have all the women he wanted, and, in fact, if Bran used this ability to secure the realms, so much the better, as it would remove threats to him personally. 'A rising tide could lift all boats'. Perhaps making Bran King was both the stupidest and the smartest thing he had ever pushed for.

"Of course, Your Grace. I will organise their arrests and interrogations for confessions at once," Tyrion answered. "Of course, this will have political problems with Dorne and the Iron Islands. Are you aware of any issues with … Yara Greyjoy?"

"At the moment, she is distant to me," Bran answered, leading Tyrion to wonder what exactly that meant, especially for his apparently omniscient powers. "However, her true intentions will doubtless be resolved soon. If she is loyal, she cannot object to the punishment of treason."

Well, that's one way to look at it. Tyrion just wondered how big the second list would be.

After some days of rest, Elaena had been given the finest clothes, and now had sat with Daenerys' council as she administered justice in the realms. She had asked, very pointedly, for Grey Worm, for Yara, for Daario; for those she still remembered as loyal and faithful to her. Various inquiries were made.

Ultimately, the news from King's Landing had arrived. "It's said that after the election of this Three-Eyed Raven," Kinvara remarked, "that The Greyjoy left the capital quickly with her squadrons, and is sailing back home. I do not know if she would be loyal or disloyal to your cause, Your Grace. I have not yet seen it."

Daenerys, behind her silver mask, was silent. That she was contemplating the matter, there was no doubt, but what she thought was inscrutable underneath the silver mask. "Send Yara a warning. If she be loyal, she will come, and it will keep her alive by separating her from the Three-Eyed Raven's reach. Parchment."

A piece of parchment was presented to her, with ink and quill. She scrawled out a message, with gloved hands that were still steady with the pen in them. "Send the fastest ship in Volantis with this message for the Iron Islands," she instructed, and then looked squarely to Elaena. "You will find that true friends are very hard to find. I once thought I had found true friends, and discovered many betrayed me. However, it is best to treat all those who have not betrayed me, for now, as if they are true; I will not trust them with power over me, until they have earned it, but if they earn it, I will at last know who is true, and who is not. Nor will I condemn them for the compromises they made when I was not …" She trailed off.

"Well. Young Elaena, you should understand this. It's best to use force sparingly, but when you do, leave nothing behind. That was my first mistake."

"Your Grace," Elaena dipped her head politely. "We may hope…"

"Do not hope. Hope did not serve me well before." Daenerys' voice had a haunting, haunted air when she said that, and even Kinvara looked uncomfortable.

However, the Red Priestess had the best rejoinder. "Indeed, do not hope in the Goodness of Man, but have faith in the Goodness of God. He will sift the righteous. Let them come, we will welcome them, and if they do not deserve the welcome, we will deal with them as all traitors must face their fate. Trust is earned by actions."

"I understand," Elaena affirmed, those words too intense to let out of her soul. The expression of the Valyrian eyes under the violet mask was redolent, too, with the intensity of the betrayal.

"Well, you may not now, but you will, Elaena. You will."

Elaena sucked her breath in, and shivered. Sometimes, it seemed as if something of the cold of death had gotten through with Daenerys, and changed her forever, and lingered over those around her. But Kinvara and Quaithe knew no fear of it, and as fearful as she was, Elaena also felt a growing fascination. She wanted to understand the perspective of the Dragon Queen. She wanted to know. She even fancied that the Dragon Queen wanted her to know, but whatever tests would satisfy her admission to the Dragon Queen's confidence, she had not yet passed, nor did she even have the faintest idea of what they were.

"I will not fail your expectations, Your Grace."

"See that you do not."

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