Loyalties

The opportunity to ask the King about the rumours came soon enough, on another day in King's Landing, where, if anything, the partial burning of the city had reduced the incidence of disease. Tyrion waddled into the Small Council Chamber, to find he was the last. "Your Grace, I apologise for my tardiness," he said to the man in the wheelchair. In truth, he had had a most disturbing experience on the way to the meeting. The King gave an enigmatic smile.

"I appreciate the work which you have been carrying out on behalf of the Realm. I note and approve your zeal in pursuing traitors and subversives," The King answered, in a distant voice that made him wonder if this was really Bran Stark, or someone else entirely.

Tyrion heard Brienne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, loudly clear her throat, attracting the attention of the gathering. "Is Your Grace aware" she asked "that men and women are being kidnapped and killed, throughout the city and its surrounds?" She looked uncharacteristically nervous.

There was a tense silence. Stupid woman, do you truly imagine that our lord and master could be unaware? That any of us are unaware? Do you think the camp at Pity Me just sprung up out of the ground by itself? Worse still, a smart person would know the truth, and know that it was best not spoken aloud. Brienne was clearly enough of a lackwit as to not realise either.

The Three-Eyed Raven looked piercingly at his Lord Commander. She met his gaze. Then, in a measured tone, he spoke. "Naturally, I am aware of this. It is by my order that these things happen."

"They're being put to death without trial, your Grace," Brienne's voice was cool.

"Why would trials be necessary? I can sense their guilt. Their thoughts are treasonous."

"So, people are being killed simply for what they think, not what they do."

"Treason begins with bad thoughts" interjected Tyrion. He had no interest in letting Brienne continue this line of thought. "Bad thoughts lead to bad actions. Better we should apprehend traitors before the Realm suffers the consequences of their actions."

"His Grace is right-The Lord Hand is right," commented Grand Maester Tarly. "We are fortunate indeed to possess a king with such insight into mens' souls."

"Have a care, Lord Commander" murmured the King and Raven, "lest you yourself should stray into improper thought." She looked embarrassed, but said nothing.

Bronn spoke up, his face evidencing a nasty sense of bemusement. "The way I see it, the more frightened we keep the people, the easier it is for his Grace to govern. The strong do what they will, the weak do what they must. Nobody will dare mess with a government like this. We don't have to worry about any rebellions as long as we strike first." Tyrion saw the King nod approvingly.

"To business" remarked the King. "Lord Bronn, how goes recruitment?"

"Well, your Grace. I've recruited over eight thousand; former Gold Cloaks, Lannister solders, sellswords, masterless men, all keen to serve your Grace. More than sufficient to keep order in the city. I've thought of a name you might like for them, "The Raven's Claws". Vicious bastards, every one. With the confiscations, we've got enough coin to pay them. I've found a good man to lead them, Urswyck, a former sellsword. We will give them land, exempt from the authority of the nobles that remain, and answerable only to Your Grace. That will create a self-sustaining system."

"Good. As you are aware, I have exposed a conspiracy among the upper ranks of the Faith. The treason of these men and women renders their families unreliable. They must be placed under surveillance. Of course, I can do much of this work myself, but I shall require your assistance," he nodded at Tyrion and Allyron. "I can survey anyone I choose. But, I cannot survey everyone at once. And of course, there will be those who have not yet given grounds for suspicion, yet who are a danger to the Realm. That is where your work is essential."

"Of course your Grace" Allyron nodded.

Interesting. He has never been so frank about the extent, and limitations of his powers, before.

"Lord Allyron, my dear sister in the North is forming her own Inquisition on my recommendation. I expect you to establish close links with that organisation. A traitor to either one of us is a traitor to both.

"Of course, your Grace" Allyron nodded again.

That had been enough. Tyrion could not wait to speak about his own business. "Speaking of threats to the Realm, your Grace..." He began.

"Go on."

"I've heard disturbing rumours from the East" Tyrion continued. "Stories that the Targaryen Whore has been restored to life. I'd dismiss all this as travellers' tales, but, we all know a man who returned from the dead. I've seen the dead raised by the Night King." There was a sharp intake of breath, around the Council table, a look of pure horror on the face of the Grand Maester. This information was not known, save to the King, of course.

The Raven wasted no time assuaging the concerns of his councillors. "The rumours are correct. I have learned that Drogon bore her body to Volantis. I do not know, but I can surmise, that the Red Priests restored her to life. This was the reason for my concern over Drogon."

"Your Grace does not know for certain?" asked Tyrion, carefully, knowing it would reveal more about His Grace's powers than he might care to.

Bran was expressionless as he answered. "There are dark powers in the East. The demon R'hllor, the strange gods of Asshai. They cast a shadow over my vision of events in Essos. What conclusions do you draw from this news, Lord Tyrion? Assume the worst."

"She must be destroyed, utterly. She threatens the world."

"Yet, you served her as Hand, Lord Tyrion," remarked Ser Davos Seaworth.

"I never truly served her, as his Grace is aware" he replied indignantly. "I gained her confidence, but my loyalty has always been to House Stark." He fancied he saw a fleeting flash of disgust on the faces of Brienne and Ser Davos, and contemptuously ignored it. Of course they would care about such things. She was a monster. There were more pressing questions, anyway. "Could we hire a Faceless Man?"

"You could enquire" remarked the King, "but I fear we have insufficient funds. They may in any case sympathise with her misguided efforts to eliminate slavery in the East. They were founded by escaped slaves, you may recall. In any case, the price for a Queen, even a deposed one, will exceed our finances until the realm has recovered." The King was clearly more aware of financial matters than his Master of Coin, who was essentially the Tax Farmer-General of the realm, but perhaps he liked it that way.

The discussion continued, as Tyrion thought back on the encounter that had happened in the morning, and that had disturbed him so much. He had been reading in his litter, as they processed up the Street of Silk—enjoying that the city now smelled much better, with the chance to do urban renewal after the fires. There was a commotion outside, and they had come to a halt. A young beggar had accosted them, a girl, caked in dirt (some things among the commoners would never change).

One of his guards gave her the end of his boot, sending her sprawling in the filth. She got up, staring at him intently. There was something about her gaze that drew his attention. He saw her pupils dilate, until her eyes were black, and then she spoke, in a voice deep and low, not the voice of a young girl.

"You fear me, Lord Tyrion? So you should. All you who are vile. Would you like to know how you will die? The sacred time is near. Beware the dragon. Behold her reborn from death. Beware the descendant of a whore. She will come for you. She will come, and she will scour you from the earth. She will bring your world to an end."

"Get away from me, your urchin" he snarled. A guard swung his whip at her, even as she scampered away. Who had spoken to him? The Red God, one of his priests, a sorcerer? He switched his attention back to the meeting, quickly deciding to pay it no more attention. He believed the power behind the girl was real—but so was the power behind the King. And the King was giving him instructions. The same as he always gave him. More arrests, more repression, more surveillance.

"Your will, Sire" he replied.

It was the first time that Drogon had ever borne a saddle. The books containing the detailed instructions for making and fitting it had been in the library of Elaena's family. It was practical, at Daenerys' insistence, because there were no time for baubles and finery, and it was for fighting. But no expense had been spared in making it. All the finest iron-forges in the city had employed their blacksmiths; one did not make a dragon saddle out of anything iron, and a single rare fibre said to have once come from Valyria, which was exquisitely expensive and hard to work, and had dark legends associated with it. This was the only padding.

The same work had provided the first suit of armour for Elaena. It would not be the first. It was the first dragonrider's suit made in centuries, and even longer, here in Volantis. Specially padded, with layers of the same strange fabric, it was meant to cushion the worst blows, and never to burn, to keep one alive through a whiff of dragon's flame. Every inch of the body was completely covered in metal. Special finely polished crystals were used to cover even the visor, to protect the eyes, with a second outer metal visor that could be closed over them in turn, if it became necessary, and one had the chance. The links to the chains were forged of Valyrian steel, salvaged from older suits found in the armoury within the Black Walls.

Daenerys had helped Elaena fit it, though she had mostly just served to help keep Drogon calm while this was work was done. "We will fly tomorrow," Daenerys had said at last, with confidence, and then they had returned to the Palace from the large interior park, where Drogon was now chained down for the safety of the city.

Elaena imagined her Queen made love to her Daario that night. Elaena had figured out quickly from his return that they had become lovers, and Lord Daario was inordinately defensive of the Queen, but had slowly been won over to being kind to her, though he seemed stressed. It was said that, at night, the Queen retired to her private chambers; and even Daario did not sleep with her, and only Kinvara and Quaithe could visit her there.

The Saerganyon girl decided that she didn't really need to know what the Queen thought of when she was alone.

The next day, she was served her breakfast with the other Officers of State. The Queen was never present. Then she was dressed in her unarmoured flying rig, which included chains crossed through outer layers of leather to support comfortable flying, in the style of a dress. When they met, the Queen, in her silver mask, was similarly attired.

"You are ready, Elaena?"

The young woman could feel the anticipation in her voice, perhaps as vibrant and alive as she had yet known Daenerys.

"Of course, Your Grace," Elaena curtsied, and then fell in at the Queen's side, and slightly behind, as she ought. Daenerys started off without further comment, and guarded by Unsullied from the fleet, they made their way quickly toward the park, and Drogon. A bright sun in lovely rays of orange and lush purple was marking the dawn, dispelling the dew along the river.

When they arrived at the perimeter, that the people of the city were banned from passing through for their own safety, they paused for a moment. Drogon, great and black, Balerion Reborn, snorted and lifted his head with the gentleness of recognising his mother. With their riding gloves on, Daenerys extended her hand to Elaena. "Help me to him," her voice instructed, with soft longing.

Elaena took the honour of the Queen's hand, and led her across the somewhat singed grass.

"Courage, Elaena. You are a Dragonrider now."

She couldn't help herself; she grinned to the Queen. "Of course, Your Grace, we'll ride together."

It brought a faint ring of laughter from Daenerys. Hand in hand, they made the final lunge for the chains, and then hauled themselves up as Drogon obligingly descended his neck to the ground. They moved as one, and settled in to the settle, hooking their chains to the ones linked around the saddle, and Elaena, unfurling her rider's whip. But Drogon needed no guidance for the sentiment felt by mother and rider alike to take to the air.

Daenerys laughed, in triumph and tragedy, with pain and happiness in her voice, that she was flying again, as the powerful legs of the great Zaldrizes drove him into the air over the latest city she had conquered, one whose population, in the main of its impoverished former slaves, welcomed her far more heartily than the city of her ancestors.

Swinging and spinning through the air, the great beats of huge, leathery wings carried them higher and higher into the air. Many of the people of the city came out at the news that their Queen had taken flight with Drogon, to witness this great day for themselves.

Daenerys leaned into Elaena from behind, her hands lightly looped around the girl's hips. The wind blew strong upon them. It was an east wind, rare in this parts, and it was hot and dry, and pleasant, at least at this altitude. They were still climbing, as they headed into the wind toward the east, and left the city behind them. Valyria was there, to the southeast.

"Are you not thankful?" Daenerys asked.

"I would trade this for nothing, Your Grace," she laughed.

"Good." The cool silver of the mask pressed against her from behind. "It means you are a Targaryen, you know. The blood flows in your family. It's what really matters. Not legitimacy of birth, not appearance, but this. They say, during the Dance, that there was a girl named Nettles, from Dragonstone. She was the bastard daughter of a Prince, and Summer Islander. Dark skinned and curly haired. She flew the dragon sheepstealer, claimed her fair and well. She was more of a Dragonrider than anyone of Valyrian features who cannot do the same. She was a Targaryen."

Daenerys' hold on her abruptly tightened, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "But even another Targaryen can betray me."

"Jon Snow. I've heard Lord Daario mutter his name," Elaena hissed, over the whistle of the wind. The world unfolded like the perfect map below them. No wonder that Valyrian maps were so fine.

"My nephew. My closest living blood. If he can betray me, anyone can betray me. Deeds, Elaena, deeds."

Elaena shivered. Those hands, that voice, seemed impossibly intense, even here in the air. "Daario," the Queen continued, "Repaired to my side without hesitation. Grey Worm came to me with his ships and men, begging forgiveness. I will soon see Yara's mettle, and that of Dorne. You – Here we are on Drogon. What would you do?"

They were still rising, and a sharp blast from a gust of cold air took Elaena's breath away, but she rallied. "I'll break thrones for you, Your Grace. That's what a Dragonlord does."

The girl could feel, rather than see, the smile. "Dive." Daenerys instructed her. "Tell Drogon… To dive."

The chains pressed on horns, the whip snapped. A moment later, they were plunging through the air, whistling past them too loudly to hear anything, ominous in its own right. The chains held them down to the saddle. The ground spun up lazily as Drogon delighted in the move.

"When shall we pull up, Your Grace?"

"I ordered you to dive, not to pull up," Daenerys answered.

Elaena paled, and leaned down into the saddle. Daenerys was still pressed tightly to her, and she took reassurance from the Queen's warmth, even as the ground began to loom up ominously before Drogon. She wanted to open her mouth to scream, or to ask again, but she remembered the conversation, oh yes she did: The Queen wanted deeds. And she was reassured that Daenerys, surely, did not want to experience death twice. She was warm, and even tender, even in the heavy riding clothes.

The dusty yellow-brown grass east of Volantis, the hills with dirt visible on the flanks, the rolling terrain, and the sharp defiles of the eroded hills as the water descended in rivulets to the low valley-floors which fed into the great, open, flat terrain of the Rhoyne to the west, all of it loomed up and consumed her vision, until she could see nothing else of the world.

Then Drogon roared, and reared back, and with his wings beating powerfully, skimmed over the hills east of Volantis, and the sky returned to Elaena's sight. The Queen was laughing, and Elaena laughed with her.

"Trust Drogon!" Daenerys laughed. "As long as you are mine, Elaena, you can trust Drogon! He will never let you down. He did not let me down, he will not let us down." Her silver masked face looked down Drogon's length, to his great face ahead of them, the wings beating to the side. "Let's cut back over the ocean. I should like a sea-breeze now, won't that be nice?"

"Your Grace!" Elaena shot her an old Valyrian salute before guiding the dragon about to the right and the south, briefly looking to the southeast—to an imagined somewhere beyond the sea which was Valyria, old, doomed Valyria. This land to the northwest, these lands of Volantis, they had known the beat of dragon wings for so long, and perhaps would finally know them again, permanently.

Behind her, Daenerys seemed comfortable, her silver mask shining in the sun.

Davos waited in the gloom. The cavern was damp, smelling of the sea, which filled it twice daily. He had an hour, before the tide returned. A smugglers' haunt for centuries, it lay deep beneath the city. A rough passage, hewn through the living rock, led up to Kings Landing. Once, the passage had been hewed at the behest of Maegor, perhaps supervised by his mother, the formidable Visenya Targaryen. His wife, the ruthless Tyanna of the Tower, perhaps walked those passages where only the occasional mark hinted at their origins. Davos could imagine, from the stories his bards had sung in happier times of service to Stannis, that other evil had been brought in them too, perhaps during the Dance. The same cave he had brought Tyrion and his brother too, in the past. He cursed himself inwardly for his folly, but how could have known? Of course, given the choice, he'd sooner serve Maegor now over what he was faced with. Then he at last heard footsteps approach, hoping it was his companion, and not an assassin sent by the thing that ruled the city.

"Ser Davos?" whispered Brienne. She was ready for a fight, but a good Lord Commander always should be.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and emerged from behind the rock that had hidden him. "Lord Commander. " He'd always thought of her as fearless. Now for the first time, he could see that she looked frightened. As frightened as he was.

"I can guess your reasons for wanting to meet here. But, even now, he could be watching us," she warned.

"He could. But I'm an old man now. I've seen more evil than I care to. I'll take that chance. How did it come to this, Brienne? Whatever it is that rules us, that's not Brandon Stark. Something has taken over his body. The Night King? A demon? Some angry old God? I just don't know."

"That's treason, Davos. We gave him our oaths."

"Like Jaime Lannister gave his oath to the Mad King?" She had no answer to that, and Davos continued. "You heard what he said. Men and women are being murdered, just because of their thoughts. And, by all accounts, things are getting as bad up North. That girl you rescued from the Boltons? She's gone for good. That's one cold, hard, murderous bitch that rules Winterfell. We were fools to turn on the Dragon Queen. And, we'll get no mercy from her, you can be sure, when she comes back. Not that we deserve any."

"She burned this city, Davos."

"Huh, you weren't there. It suited us all to pin the blame on her. None of us has clean hands. The Northmen didn't march a thousand miles South to take prisoners. They murdered and raped their way across the city. They had Ned Stark and the Red Wedding to avenge. As for the rest, that little fucker and the Spider wanted to starve the population out. I've known hunger, Brienne. I wouldn't wish that death on a dog. Don't think that any one of them gave a toss for the people of this city. What the Queen did was awful, but let's not kid ourselves that anyone else would have done different. She gave Cersei the chance to surrender and save her life and the lives of her people, and that cunt murdered her best friend in front of her."

"Lord Tyrion was betraying her, too" replied Brienne. "He boasted of it in the meeting. What a filthy business. I had no love for Daenerys Targaryen, but what a creature he is! Murdering his own father, and his lover! Worming his way into the Dragon Queen's confidence, before betraying her! Now, he's growing rich on the backs of those he arrests!"

"Never trust a Lannister. Jaime might have been different, but the Imp, he's worse than his sister or father ever were. And as for the Spider, he was selling her out, too.. I found out later, he tried to poison her." Brienne gave a sound of disgust. "A kitchen girl confessed it to me, he bribed her to put Tears of Lys in her food. I've no doubt Sansa Stark was up to her neck in it, too."

So, what do we do, Davos? I'm a soldier, not a politician. I believed in Renly. I believed in Jaime. I believed in the Starks." She sighed. "I've made some terrible choices, haven't I?"

"We all have. I believed in Stannis. He went and burned his daughter. These are the times. I'll tell you what I'll do. Leave. Sail East. Get down on my hands and knees to the true Queen and beg for her forgiveness. If she kills me, so be it. But, I'd like to do the right thing, just once in my life."

What answer could Brienne give to that?

The War Room of the Triarch's palace was fixed with permanent relief table-maps, like that of the Palace of Dragonstone. They were a popular style from Valyrian works, with little figurines and other moulded pieces representing information, and little holders for miniature banners, showing the possession of various cities.

Daenerys sat in a carved wood chair, with entwining dragons along the outside, which perhaps dated back to before the Doom. It was raised to allow her to look over the tables. Everyone else stood, with Elaena close to Grey Worm's side.

Daario presented a courtly bow to Daenerys, before he took a long wooden pointer. "I'm ready, Your Grace, at your command."

Daenerys leaned to the side in the chair, her mask gleaming. She seemed very intense, but her casualness, a reflection of the way she had once been the People's Queen in Meereen, made Daario smile. "Let us begin."

Daario stepped over to the map table which showed the lands east of the Rhoyne. "We control Meereen, and Volantis. The subordinate cities of Volantis have been forced to do homage to Your Grace, and we have installed garrisons in all of them, and freed their slaves. Between us sit the cities of Mantarys, Elyria, and Tolos, all of Valyrian stock, both the free and the slaves. To take them, we will have to advance our Army down the Demon Road. Peasant stock, of Valyrian origin, inhabits the south-facing valleys of the Painted Mountains, which are too rugged for the Dothraki to have been tempted to raid across. These three cities extract tribute from them, and food, as a means of maintaining what prosperity they have left. Mantarys, of course, is the city of monsters."

"Then I will be in good company," Daenerys cracked a jape; Daario couldn't help grimace a little in sympathy, though, as it landed close to home.

"Your Grace…"

"It is no matter, Daario. To be called the Queen of Slaves and Monsters is a great honour for me."

Kinvara smiled. "All shall be cleansed in the Light of the Lord, and the least shall be the first. How shall we liberate these cities, Lord Daario?"

"Well, the problem is, we need to send some of the troops back to Meereen, and thus some of the fleet. But the best way to assault Mantarys… It has a harbour, long disused, on the Sea of Sighs. Once, ships could sail there, but the Antarim River, it's said, became unnavigable after the Doom. My plan is to portage ships around the rapids and assault Mantarys from the Sea of Sighs. The abandoned wharves and storehouses that our spies say crowd the sea-walls, are much more vulnerable than the walls on the other fronts. So we will advance on them from three directions, but it requires splitting the fleet: The demon road to the west, to the east, and the Sea of Sighs."

"Do we expect the remaining Ghiscari cities to intervene?" Grey Worm asked.

"Absolutely," Daario replied grimly. "Yunkai has appointed a governor of Astapor, and has a military alliance with the three Valyrian cities, and New Ghis. Their fleets were destroyed, of course, by Her Grace's dragons; however, they are rebuilding them."

"Then it would be best not to split the fleet?" Daenerys asked. "Send our full strength back to the Bay of Dragons, especially since Elyria must be assaulted from the sea?"

"It would, Your Grace, but then we'd be tied down into a long siege of Mantarys," Daario explained. "Unless of course we use Drogon to open the walls."

"I come to bring liberation. We will support the attack to gain a breach, if it can be arranged without imperiling the city, but that is all. However, I fear we discount The Greyjoy. I have not yet abandoned the possibility that my message reached her, and the Three-Eyed Raven could not overcome her. The Ironborn ships would be perfect for a portage, they know this kind of warfare from the Riverlands very well. Elaena, let us not leave this as a matter of uncertainty in our planning."

The girl jerked and looked up. "Your Grace?"

"Take Drogon and fly west. Do not land at Lys, for they will try to poison you. Follow the Orange shore, and the Disputed Lands, as far as our guard-posts and towns stretch. Fly south from them a half-day, from each one, until you reach the westernmost, and then return. If you find Yara's fleet, I will write another message for you to deliver, and you will return at once to Volantis to inform me of it."

"Your Grace," Elaena saluted and bowed. "I'm honoured in the confidence."

"We will do this right," Daenerys observed. "We will know our strength before we set out, and we will be fighting to make a nation of free men, from the Disputed Lands to the Khyzai Pass. Lord Daario, Grey Worm, prepare with Kinvara as the representative of the Faith—her units will be involved—two divisions: One that assumes the Ironborn will assault Mantarys from the Sea of Sighs, and one that does not. I wish lists of units and ships for each force in either case. And have Elaena with you when you do. I wish her to learn this craft."

After the audience, Daario, of course, was permitted to follow Daenerys back to her chambers. In fact, they had made love several more times, but by a sort of unspoken mutual assent, Daenerys had kept her mask on. She preferred it that way, hiding what had been done to her was more comforting, in a way.

"Why Elaena? Isn't that a matter of trust?" Daario asked, when they were well and good away.

"It's a trial, Daario," Daenerys explained. "And it is a trial she needs."

"Why is that?"

"I will never have children. You know the Witch's curse that was laid on me for her people. I will especially never have children now," she added with her voice growing cold from bitterness creeping in. "I wanted my father's throne, but I was running, hiding from that reality, that I would be the last Targaryen of my line, when I sought it. I couldn't face it. That was a critical mistake, and it's not one I will make again. They thought they could end the Dragon by killing me. This time, I am going to make them afraid of my passing. The dragon has no beginning, and no end. We Are."