Beginnings are a Delicate Time

From the very first moment, she had realised that she was in tremendous danger, more danger than the storm had ever brought her. More danger than battle had ever brought her. Her life hung by a matter of inches, like she was sailing with the maelstrom on one side and the tempest on the other. The slightest deviation from the true course would tear apart her life in a single heartbeat.

So she had behaved oddly, in ways that terrified her crew. She had bowed down to the crippled King. She had filled her mind with the haze of alcohol and other drugs. She had even ordered the tiniest measure of the Milk of the Poppy. She had kept her mind empty, and dully gone along with events in King's Landing.

At sea, she had continued the practice. She spoke nothing of her subordination to King Bran the Broken and his Small Council, or why she had given up their independence. She lived in such terrible indolence that the days passed as a haze. Qarl had procured a bevy of whores for her in King's Landing, and she slept with them regularly, lest she think about anything important at all.

By the kind of natural understanding of a situation which makes a born commander and shipmaster able to see the danger in a situation, and comprehend its order, she had seen the danger she was in. She could not even think about what she needed to do.

So she did not think.

Ravens would have put the fleet of the Arbor in the path of her small group of ships if she had thought, she was sure. Ravens would have summoned the remaining ships of The Reach or the Westerlands, for a chance to overtake her. Assassins would have been infiltrated to the Iron islands and would be waiting for her. Landings would be made at unexpected points, by written instructions from the King, and her men would not know that he had seen their positions and plans with his own eyes, and then had the Imp draft the final counters to them.

So she drank and whored and drugged herself until after a month, a sesquinavigation of Westeros, she was at Pyke. Her Lords were shocked by her appearance, and angry. But they had been preempted, because, written like a madwoman in a scrawl of a dagger around her cabin, had been the one word that she repeated automatically, drilled into her like a single mnemonic thought surging through induced madness.

"PRIESTS!"

Qarl and Ser Tristifer had summoned every damned Priest of the Drowned God on the Islands. They helped Yara approach, until she shook them off, and placing on the Driftwood Crown and resting her weakened body on a staff of driftwood, she stepped before her Lords, Captains, and Priests. They looked in shock at the woman-king they had given themselves and how emaciated she was.

She whispered the second word she had scrawled across the cabin to Tristifer. He stepped forward and conferred with the priests, his eyes wide. He had thought, after Daenerys, that his Queen would never make such a command. But that single word, in context, could only mean one thing.

The Priests thought it was for the Queen's health. Certainly the only explanation was that a tumour was taking her life; certainly nothing else could strike her down so. They obliged the command, as Yara leaned against her staff, and thought, distantly, of beautiful Daenerys, who had challenged her to be more than any holder of the Seastone Chair before. Daenerys, who would be horrified at what was happening right now, and furious.

Daenerys, dead, without even a body to bury, by the connivance of the monster.

Yara hung on her staff, and watched the thralls—battle captives from the North, as most of the thralls they currently held were-being dragged into the surf, where their necks were slit, and their bodies were given to the Drowned God, while their blood rolled and licked the shore amidst the waves, until they were all turned a frothing, hideous red. Again, and again. Thrall after thrall. The priests, all the priests of the island, were busy that day. The massacre was great. Dozens, hundreds, Yara's head throbbed, her vision threatened to black out on her from the aftereffects of the drugs, she couldn't be exactly sure.

But sacrifice them they did, and Yara forced herself, with Qarl helping, to hobble down to the water, and plunge into the frothing red surf. But before the priests could raise a prayer for her, she instead raised her staff.

"What is dead may never die," she whispered, and added, softly, "protect your children." Before turning back to stand in the roiling, red surf, and face the notables of her harsh Kingdom.

While she looked so weak, her voice had not weakened even a rush. "LORDS, CAPTAINS, DROWNED MEN, IRONBORN! A terrible new power is in the Greenlands. It is nothing less than the Devil-Lord of the North, the Raven of Ravens, the monster which commands the souls and minds of men! I have feigned madness in King's Landing and on all of this voyage home, so that I could survive and bring you this warning! We would all be his slaves until the hour of death, and denied our seas as our home, unless we stand fast against him! My Faithful, I warn you – I needed you all together, because I need us INSTANTLY at arms! The only protection this speech and our plans laid this day have against his mind is that which the Drowned God provides us! God knows, I have said we will raid no more, but as in the days of old, I have laid the blood of thralls in the surf because he has the power to know what we think when we think it, to know what we plan when we plan it, to know our dispositions before battle, to know our hearts before we choose—the Three-Eyed Raven! That is the monster they have made King!"

"My prayer before Our Lord today is only that he keep us fast so that we may force the servants of the Raven to meet us iron-for-iron, on seas of our choosing! He can see us our thoughts and deeds, but he cannot cause our strength to falter. I want the fleet ready to sail—we will strike first! He thinks our position is hopeless, because he can see our futures and know our minds. But what is dead may never die!"

The roar swept over them, and the horror of desperation slowly melted from Yara's bones. Slowly, she felt a rising confidence that, at least, she would die on a ship, in battle. They would surround her, and not let a single assassin through. She would have to regain her strength quickly, but she had gained it once, and she was still a young enough woman to recover from what she had done, to deny the Raven the pleasure of having her mind for its own.

She walked under her own volition to Pyke, where a massive fire was roaring in the main hall, to warm her feet close by the fire in the Great Keep. Yara sank into the great chair, which consumed her, and her bare feet were dried by the fire, still sticking with saltwater that had mingled with the blood of sacrifices.

Yara regretted it. She wanted to be the Queen that Daenerys had hoped she would be; she still had a crush for the girl, really. Terrifying, brilliant, brave, dangerous, and yet so soft, small, and vulnerable, too. With a brilliant smile and a way of motivating utter loyalty—that was the woman she had gladly allied herself to. Daenerys would have hated human sacrifice with all of her heart and soul, and hated Yara for it.

But Yara didn't have dragons. She was facing a nightmare, a monster which could read the thoughts of men the moment they had them. Only if the Drowned God was with them, could her nation survive, and be free. She had no choice. They would hate her for centuries, and speak black legends of her around half the globe, but if she kept her oaths to her people, and kept them free of that monster, then she would still account it a life well-lived. So she had turned the surf red with sacrifice.

Yara went to sleep that night in the chair, covered in furs, before the roaring fire. A double guard of her most loyal men were posted all around, even here in her own halls. The next morning when she awoke, she felt truly awful, in every respect. Not all the healing tisanes of her Maester seemed to make the slightest dint on the raging headache she had, though Tristifer rubbing her scalp brought a measure of relief.

Then a messenger came from the harbour, dressed in clothes of the east. He was thoroughly searched, and searched, and searched again. He was presented to the suspicious Queen, and Tristifer handled the message himself, taking it from him to Yara. She opened it, and with pale and trembling hands, read the contents, and read the message again, and then again.

She sank back in the heavy old wooden chair, shaking. What is dead may never die.

"As soon as the fleet is ready," she rasped, suddenly feeling hoarse, "We will sail for Volantis. Every ship, Ser Tristifer. Every ship."

In the most perverse way imaginable, her prayers had been answered. She had broken her faith to the Dragon Queen, and somehow, been rewarded with the discovery that the Dragon Queen was still alive. Held her handwriting in her hands. Yara sank back down under her blankets, and called for food. If it saved her people from that monster, it did not matter. Nothing could. She laughed, and hidden under the blankets, even cried a little, and whispered, "never again." The guilt would stay with her for a long time, but she would never be quite sure if she would have survived to feel it, if she hadn't ordered that cruel deed out of desperation on that windswept day, when standing before the very omniscient eye of evil itself, and for the want of anything else to do.

Some twelve weeks after the events that had unfolded in Volantis and with the King still undecided on the loyalty of Yara Greyjoy, Tyrion was doing his utmost to keep the people of Kings Landing in a state of abject obedience. This was difficult, because the people of the city had much to be unhappy about, and the new regime was having a great deal of difficulty meeting their human wants. Starvation and homelessness were rife, and so King Brandon's rule had already started to become unpopular. But unpopularity and instability were another matter entirely, and Tyrion had quickly adapted to the situation he found himself in, and the unique advantages the powers of his King gave to his administration.

Much of the city still lay in ruins, and the work of rebuilding was going very slowly. But, he had moved fast to establish a holding camp, outside the city, for the growing number of political prisoners who threatened the rule of the Three-Eyed Raven. The King had insisted he make this a priority, one that was far more pressing than feeding or sheltering the city's population. After all, his master could detect which of his subjects held treasonous thoughts, and demanded arrests accordingly.

The second list of suspects had been followed by further lists. Some of those named were marked down for immediate execution, others for detention and interrogation; others still, simply vanished, their families kept in suspense and fear. Not all of those detained had appeared on the King's lists. The man had made plain to Tyrion and the Master of Whisperers, Allyron, that he expected them to use their initiative in detecting, and arresting, suspects. In turn, they had hired scores of men and women, only too eager to gain the rich rewards on offer to those who denounced their neighbours. Guilt or innocence was in a sense, irrelevant. A climate of fear was needed to keep the population quiescent, and that was an easy task in the current circumstances, when there was no organised opposition to the government, all of it having been destroyed in the wars—Lords, Church, people, all destitute—and the ubiquitous agents of the Hand and the Master of Whisperers could quickly teach the people how to be cowed into passive obedience.

Of course, there were upsides to the entire process which had quickly put an end to any sense of distaste the Hand felt. Tyrion himself took a share of the property of each person who was arrested. And sometimes, took payments from their families to release them (it was not necessary to execute or hold, or disappear, everyone; if the experience of arresting them terrified them, they could be made obedient without additional force. That was another lesson, and one that offered an opportunity for personal riches). The holding camp, located aptly enough at a village called Pity Me, contained almost four thousand inmates. Former adherents of the Dragon Queen, prominent members of the Faith, men and women connected to House Martell or Yara Greyjoy, were especially targeted—even without the King having formally condemned the Greyjoy or the new Prince of Dorne yet, Tyrion felt it was best to make sure they had no supporters in the capital who could open the gates for a sudden descent. Even in such a short space of time, the camp had thus begun to acquire an infamous reputation. He was currently speaking to the camp commander.

"What is this fellow's offence?" he asked the man.

"Insubordination, my Lord, " replied the man. Tyrion nodded, and continued to ask questions about the condemned men and women. Plainly, they had to die, guilty as they were of such crimes as subversion, libelling the King, and shirking labour service. Fools that they were, the Smallfolk failed to see that their hard work was essential to rebuild the city—the corvée was the only way they would ever repair the murderous damage caused by the Dragon Bitch and Drogon. There were a dozen of them, some terrified, some sullen, lined up in front of the scaffold. There was a thin drizzle in the dawn air, in keeping with the sombre nature of the proceedings. One young woman, wearing the remains of a Septa's robes, was defiant. She spat at him, before saying "There are millions of us, Imp. You can't hang us all." A guard casually backhanded her across the face.

"I apologise for that, My Lord," remarked the commander. "Even now, there are incorrigibles among the prisoners."

Tyrion nodded again to the commander, who instructed his guards to lead the condemned up onto the scaffold, feeling distant and distracted by the entire affair. Nooses were fastened around their necks. Only then was it his turn to do something. He turned to address the assembled crowd. All the prisoners had been led out to witness the executions. "You are here because you have committed serious offences against his Grace, King Brandon Stark, First of His Name, and against your Motherland. You will work on behalf of your country, until you have redeemed yourselves in the eyes of the King's Grace. What you are about to witness here today, is not revenge, but justice."

He then turned back to the scaffold. Each of the prisoners was pushed forward in turn, and slowly choked, most of them pissing themselves as they expired. Tyrion watched until the last of them stopped twitching, and then instructed the commander to dismiss the watching prisoners. Then he turned to the commander, "there are matters which I need to discuss with you."

They trudged down the muddy main street of the camp, towards the commander's quarters. The commander led him into his sitting room. "Wine my Lord?" he enquired.

"Thank you." The room was cold and cheerless. There was a weak fire in the grate, and the obligatory portrait of the King on the wall behind the commander. The All-Seeing Three Eyed Raven, who could detect a traitor by his thoughts alone. Tyrion drank heavily from the cup. When he got back to the Tower of the Hand, there would be plenty more, and all the whores he could want, too. Being Hand in an age when the faith was broken had its advantages. Speaking of…

"Are you a religious man?" he asked the commander.

"I was born and raised in the Faith" the man replied cautiously, perhaps unsure where this conversation was going.

"Yet, I trust you would place your duty to the King's Grace above any consideration of religion?"

"Of course, my lord".

"Good. You are aware, I am sure, that King Brandon is not a follower of the Faith. That has led prominent Septons and Septas to denounce him, even to conspire against him." Tyrion allowed a bit of his old bemusement to colour his voice. The current situation was funny, in the context of all of those Septons and Septas destroying themselves and their stupid, corrupt church now that they had encountered a real power, when their Gods did nothing for them.

"There are dozens in this camp, my Lord. That bitch who insulted you was one. Rest assured my Lord, I hate them as much as you do. I live to serve the King's Grace."

"That is well. You will be facing a new influx of prisoners. King Brandon detected a fresh conspiracy. The ringleaders and their adherents have been arrested, and will be sent here in due course."

"My lord, we have barely sufficient room for those already here. Many of them are diseased. And food is short. Not that I'm complaining," he added, hurriedly.

"Then you must make room for the new prisoners. Do you take my meaning?"

"Perfectly, my Lord, I assure you, there are no firmer hands than mine. Are you setting me a quota?"

Tyrion nodded. There was no other way to do it, and frankly the Septons and Septas were the biggest threat left at this point. The nobility was broken. "I would suggest another three hundred executions. Choose the most guilty. Know that your diligence will be reported to the King himself."

The commander nodded. "It shall be, my Lord, as you command."

"Good. That concludes our business together, for the time being." Tyrion rose, and the commander accompanied him to the entrance, where a litter awaited him, surrounded by armed guards. For all things were well in hand here at King's Landing and in the vicinity, they were more concerning further afield. Strange rumours had begun to circulate from the East. Rumours of an unpleasant kind-of dragons being sighted, of slave revolts. Even a wild tale that his former mistress had been restored to life. He would have dismissed that out of hand, once upon a time, but he had known a man who had died, and then been brought back.

That, of course, was Jon Snow, the man he had persuaded to kill Daenerys Targaryen, in order to save his own hide. He, his King, and Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, had had no compunction in exiling the man into the far North, once he had served his purpose. Snow was a broken man, filled with remorse for the murder of his own aunt, and fully aware now that his own family had used, and then betrayed him. With any luck the man would take his own life. Or else, Queen Sansa would send an assassin for him. Privately, she had admitted to Tyrion that she considered him a traitor to the North, as well as a potential threat to her own rule. He doubted if Jon Snow would remain in the land of the living for much longer.

The thought that Daenerys might have returned to life, though, that was the real problem. Snow just proved it was possible. The thought of Daenerys—that chilled him to the marrow. He could expect no mercy if that were true. His betrayal of her had begun the moment they had set foot on Dragonstone, as he gave her one bad piece of advice after another, that cost her armies dear. He had sought to weaken her, leaving her no option but to come to terms with his siblings. Well, his siblings had still died, in any event, but he at least, had prospered. No, there was one man alone who could tell him if the rumours were well-founded. His own King, the Three Eyed Raven. He would raise the issue with him today, at the meeting of the Small Council.

When the message had come from Volantis, Daario had placed Meereen under the charge of the most reliable of the men who had helped him hold it for the past year. He had no idea why his Queen was in Volantis, all so suddenly, and the contents of the message, while vague, had sounded dire. So he had prepared a force of twenty light frigatas, faster, lighter galleys used for dispatch, and set out with a picked body of the new Lockstep Legions he had formed, from the volunteers from the city's former slave caste. In his stead, he had left Skahaz "The Shavepate" mo Kandaq behind, trusting the man to act in their shared interests, for while Skahaz was not a pleasant fellow, he had a reliable power-base of patronage among the freed slaves, and so his power was now bound up in their freedom.

As all voyages to Volantis did, the trip involved rounding the great peninsula which had been smashed into an archipelago by the Doom of Valyria. This forced them to stand out far to the south, as they sailed whenever they could, and the oarsmen worked their oars, but now for coin, whenever the wind didn't favour them. As it was, free men always pulled the oars better than slaves; they were making good time.

It was southwest of Valyria, as they were trying to catch a favourable wind to sail north for the mouth of the Rhoyne, that they encountered a fleet sailing from King's Landing, comprised of merchant ships. They were hailed, when this squadron sighted the Dragon Queen's banners over their frigatas; it was Grey Worm, with the remainder of the Unsullied.

Daario had welcomed him aboard, as they both drifted together, with their sails reefed, on the open sea. Grey Worm had explained, bitterly, his voice laced with pain and failure, how he had been unable to prevent Daenerys' savage betrayal and murder at the hands of Jon Snow. "She was betrayed from the beginning", the Unsullied commander said. "The Imp, the Spider. I thought at first, they had merely given her bad advice. But, later, the Spider sought to murder her on Dragonstone. She gave him to Drogon, a far kinder death than he merited. The Imp tried to save the Usurper, his sister, before persuading Snow to slay her. He serves the creature in Kings Landing as his Hand, now."

"As for the Northmen….." he made a sound of disgust. "They hated us from the outset, even as we risked our lives on their behalf. Missandei…..they treated her as if she were diseased. Not that that stopped them from murdering, robbing, and raping, when the city fell, while blaming the Queen for their own actions. But, Snow was the worst of them." Daario sank in agony, as Grey Worm laid out the whole sordid tale, but above all, at the thought of this man, loving the woman he loved, taking advantage of their relationship as blood, so attractive to the Valyrian race, and then betraying it and his oaths to slay her.

But then he held the dated letter, and showed it to Grey Worm. They both agreed that the letter merited investigation. Neither one dared voice the hope they felt, after Grey Worm explained the story of Jon Snow himself. Instead, if it was a trick, they agreed to punish those who authored it, and then, the two fleets set out together. Surrounded by the fast frigatas and loaded with Unsullied, the merchant captains—and many of them and their crews were from Driftmark and loyal Dragonmen anyway—took no chances, and obligingly also made their way for Volantis.

After another two weeks of sailing, they arrived at Volantis, almost seven weeks after the fateful day that Drogon had arrived over the city. When Daario saw the banners of the Targaryen flying over the city, and the drums and bells that sounded in salute to his own ships arriving under the same banner, he was overcome with emotion. When they reached dock, and ready crowds of freed slaves provided muscle to haul the ships in and secure the lines, he could see that Grey Worm was similarly emotional.

One did not work a merchant galley, or even a frigata, up river quickly. The authorities in Volantis had plenty of time to prepare. So a herald had arrived from the Black Walls. "The Queen's Grace will receive you in audience within the Black Walls," he announced after a slight, precise bow.

"The Queen? Queen Daenerys, Queen of Meereen and the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men?" Daario clarified, just to make sure.

"Her Grace, Daenerys, Queen of Volantis, Meereen, and of the Seven Kingdoms," the herald agreed after a moment.

Daario staggered in hope; Grey Worm was impacted, deeply, by his sense of shame. But both of them made haste, with the provided carriage moving at a brisk clip. Of course, the inside of the Black Walls of Volantis was a fabulous place. There were fountains everywhere, and baths with steam, and hot water, and cold water, and dry heat; there were public toilets, flushed by continuously running water, and cafés on the corners where ready-made food could be purchased casually to eat on the street, and all the villas had delicate, amazing frescoes, in multiple stories. There were mechanical contraptions of gears which opened and closed the great doors of temples, and powered mechanical menageries of bronze reproductions of strange birds and creatures from Sothyros, making them scream with the hiss of steam; in the houses of the very wealthy, it was even used to lift people from one floor to another of their homes.

For all that, the inner city had a real air of fear. The houses were splendid, and amazing, but they were starting to be noticeably unkempt. Some of these high-born, pure-blood families had managed to hire their servants back at wages, but that meant they were living on reserves. It would last, for a little while, unless they found another way to make their money in the radically changed economy of the city that Daenerys' conquest had enforced.

At length, they were taken to the palace of one of the Triarchs, which was now the Royal Palace, and presented to her court. It was then that both men could see the shining figure on the throne, the silvered mask, the hair which was still impossibly beautiful, the gowns which were reflected on by the light from above, in black and red. Her advisors were at her side, a Red Priestess, that Kinvara; the woman in the wooden mask from Asshai that Daario had been told stories of, and a young woman of fine Valyrian features, more a girl, really.

It was with thanks in his heart that he knelt.

"Approach, Lord Daario," Daenerys' voice echoed in the great chamber, and it sounded both a bit distant, which worried him, and still also a bit warm. He rose, approached the customary distance, and knelt again. Grey Worm remained behind.

"Daario, I made you my Viceroy of Meereen, and you have kept the faith. Your reports show the city well-governed, and those who disputed your talent are obviously shown to be false, or speaking from base pretences. You have earned high rank. And you answered you my call. I have confidence, that in the end, it was you who were loyal, when so many others betrayed me. You will command my armies, and we will make the world tremble."

"I will follow you to the end of the world, My Queen," he answered, feeling almost out of his own body as he did.

"Rise, and take your place with my advisors at my side."

She looked to Grey Worm now. "Grey Worm, approach."

Daario watched him rise, and step forward, and kneel again, as he approached, and looked at Daenerys, amazed both at the detail on the fine silver mask, meant to look as an angelic imitation in silver of a perfect young woman's face, while still wondering, with a hint of fear, at what it hid.

When he knelt again, she spoke. "Grey Worm, you did your best. You kept the faith. You fought hard for me as one of my loyals. I violated your own recommendations, and let that man, that traitor, close to me. The fault is not with you. Had I followed your instincts and recommendations, I would not have made myself vulnerable to the Northern schemes. Tell me, however; I have sent for Yara, will she also be loyal?"

"Your Grace, she held fear in her heart of the monster, and hid it well, and bowed to keep her people safe. I do not believe she was disloyal."

"That is a hard place. Unlike the two of you, she has a nation to see to, and it is gravely threatened. Rise, Grey Worm, and take your place at my side, as the Commander of My Guard. I will not discount your precautions again."

He rose, and with relief and a burning desire to prove himself, also rejoined her side.

She left them there for a while during the other audiences, and then summoned Daario with her back to her private apartments, leave Grey Worm to meet with the commanders of the Guard that had already been formed for her, to make arrangements for the rotation of the watch. The remaining Unsullied would become the field guard.

Daario was surprised by the presence of the young Valyrian girl, but Daenerys introduced her. "Lady Elaena, a descendant of Saera Targaryen."

The former mercenary commander started for a moment, but began to immediately suspect why she was there. Daenerys had known she was barren for years. Had this brush with death, then, made her think of the succession?

"My Lord," Elaena offered with a polite curtsy.

"Gratified, likewise…" Daario bowed and kissed her hands.

"Leave us please, Lady Elaena," Daenerys instructed, which left them alone, the guards just outside, inside of Daenerys' chambers.

"Gods," Daario whispered. "What did they do to you, Daenerys?"

"They killed me," she answered hoarsely, with dreadful anguish layered into her voice. "It was awful, and I can't describe it; but Kinvara has brought me back, to serve the cause of freedom. To complete breaking the wheel. To finish my work. I will have revenge, and the best revenge will be breaking the wheel the whole world over!"

"I thought I'd spend my life fighting, and if that's what it still comes to, but I spend it fighting for you, a fair enough trade, My Queen," he answered, and gently took and kissed her hands. "What…"

"I could barely remember you until you came close. The memories came flooding back," Daenerys explained, leaning close into Daario. "The mask is… It's because I'm not whole, Daario. They brought me back as well as they could, but it's not… Perfect."

Daario's heart missed a beat, but he held Daenerys' hands fiercely, but gently, seeing now how emaciated they were, and shivering, with the unnatural fear of a man confronted with powers beyond his ken.

Daenerys shook her hands loose from his hand, and gently reached up to undo the straps on the silvered mask, to take it off, to set it aside. The black rings around her eyes, the emaciated character of her face, the way the flesh, pasty white, hung taut to her skull.

Perhaps the most manful thing Daario had ever done in his life was to refuse to betray even a single shudder, and he was proud of himself for it. Daenerys did not deserve a shudder.

In the very soft voice of a girl left very alone, she asked, simply, "will you kiss me, so that I can remember, what it's like to be loved?"

Daario kissed her. "I'll do more than that. I'll love you." Then he kissed her again. He would not abandon his Queen, not now. Not ever. But keeping it together, through what he saw had been done to her and the shell of the vibrant and beautiful woman she was, was indeed one of the hardest things he had ever done.

And he burned with hate at those who had done it to her.

And he was so thankful that he could still bring her a measure of happiness.