Oh gods, oh gods, Tyrion knew that something terrible awaited him. He had spent several weeks sharing a stinking cell in the Red Keep, with Tarly. That cowardly pig had been put to the question, and had then been returned to the cell, snivelling. He had wept and raved, after being sentenced to burn. Both men had been chained up securely, to prevent them harming themselves or each other. They had been spoonfed disgusting gruel and water by their guards, and each provided with a bucket, emptied infrequently, for them to squat over. He had wondered that, unlike his companion, he had not been tortured. It turned out, he was being reserved for the Dornish to punish.

After the Dragonwhore had passed sentence, following his farce of a trial, the Dornish had stripped him, loaded him with chains, and placed him on board a ship, bound for Sunspear. He was guarded day and night. That bitch, Gwyneth Yronwood, had led a group of them into the hold to mock at him. One great bearded brute had introduced himself as the partisan leader, El Matarife. He had casually unbuttoned his breeches and drenched Tyrion with his piss, as the others laughed. He raged at the injustice of it all, especially at Casterly Rock being given to Yara Greyjoy, presumably for her prowess at fucking the Empress! On top of everything else, it turned out that Daenerys Targaryen was a degenerate who coupled with women, and doubtless with many types of animal as well! If only he'd strangled her like Shae, when he'd had the chance!

He had made every effort he could to suborn the guards, promising them rich reward if they should set him free. One or two seemed interested, he thought, until the first mate had got wind of this. The man had warned him that any further attempt would see Tyrion lose a finger. He had continued his efforts, and been duly reported. His right hand had been laid on a block and the mate had severed the middle finger with a cleaver. He had passed out, when the wound was cauterised. It still throbbed relentlessly. The guards had promised him a feast of torture, once he reached Dorne. A pail of seawater, emptied over him from time to time, constituted the extent of his toilet. Now he waited, in the ship's stinking hold, bearded and lousy. He sensed that the ship had docked, and waited for the end.

He blinked as the trap door opened, flooding the hold with light. "Bring him" the captain commanded the guards. They dragged him up on to the deck, where a jeering crowd of noteables and sailors awaited him. Gwyneth Yronwood, was leading them. She stepped forward, performing a mocking curtsey.

"Lord Imp, we thought you might want to beg for your life. We all enjoy a good beg, you know" she said, grinning. He had to make an effort.

"My lady, I am an innocent man. I did all in my power to prevent atrocities against your people. I never wanted to lead an army into Dorne, indeed, I advised the Small Council against it. Bronn Stokeworth, Ronnett Connington, Utt, Raffington, those were the guilty men. I raged at them for their crimes against your people. "

"Is that so? Are you suggesting that the Empress has misjudged you."

"She has. I never betrayed her, and I never wanted to serve the Three Eyed Raven. Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, those are the guilty parties. Arya Stark, too. They plotted against her from the outset, and I warned her of their treachery. Yet, they have been spared. Her Majesty does not see that they will betray her again."

"I would give Sansa Stark and Jon Snow an eternity of suffering, were they to fall into my hands" remarked Gwyneth, thoughtfully. Was he persuading them? This seemed hopeful.

"Release me, please, so that I may warn Her Majesty of their treason, I beg of you. The Starks are a wretched family. Their father betrayed my nephew, a lad I loved like my own son. " Then, inspiration struck. "Remember Princess Elia, and her two children. Ned Stark and my own vile father murdered them cruelly. I slew my own father for that deed, as he sat on the privy. Believe me, when I say I am a friend of the Dornish."

Lady Yronwood gave him a long, cold, stare, before replying.

"My father has told me much of Ned Stark. He fought us on the Trident. He was our enemy, but I also know he was no murderer of mothers and their infants. Venom drips from your serpent's tongue."

"Do go on, little Imp" remarked El Matarife, in his deep bass voice. "I find it amusing to watch a viper wriggle and turn, trying to save its foul skin." They all roared with laughter.

What now? He would have begged, sucked cocks, done anything to save his life, but he knew it would be useless. He kept silent, desperately racking his brains for a way of escape. "You won't treat us to one of your witty japes? I am so disappointed", continued Gwyneth. "Prepare him." The guards dragged him down a gangplank onto a jetty. At the far end of the jetty was a frame, propped against a cart, to which a pair of horses was harnessed. They unlocked his chains, before hauling him over to the frame, and tying his hands and legs to it, exposing him to full view. A bucket of water was emptied over his head, and then he was roughly shaved bald. One man placed a paper dunce's cap on his head, before spitting a mouthful of phlegm into his face, as he cringed away. Then the guards lifted the frame into the cart, wedging it so that it would not fall. They set off for the Shadow City. Quite the crowd had gathered to laugh and mock at him, some pelting him with dung and rotten fruit. He started to weep at the unfairness of it all, only adding to the general merriment. He choked in disgust, as a dog turd splattered across his nose and mouth. To complete his humiliation, he found he had lost control of his bladder, pissing himself uncontrollably. They entered the Shadow City, his entire world now contracted to the shrieking, contorted faces of an entire people expressing their hatred for him. He shut his eyes, desperate to avoid their scorn.

At last the cart halted. He risked a glance, and found they were in a square, thousands of onlookers jeering. In the centre of square, above a fire, was a cauldron, filled, he guessed from the smell, with boiling oil. Smoke rose from the cauldron, as the oil bubbled away. Boiled alive! Never in his worst moments had he thought this would be his fate. What had he been thinking, to betray Daenerys Targaryen, all those years ago! The guards picked up the frame, before laying it down on the ground, Tyrion staring up into the sky. He saw a man in a golden robe, presumably, the Prince of Dorne, looking down at him impassively. Then the man turned to the crowds, and raised his hands.

When they had fallen silent, he proclaimed "Good men and women of the Shadow City. Today, you witness justice being performed on your oppressor. A man whose sins and crimes are beyond count. In her kindness and mercy, our beloved Empress, Her Majesty Daenerys Targaryen, has given him to us to use as we wish. Rest assured, we will not disappoint the Empress! Among his many crimes, this creature destroyed our olive trees, the source of our food and light. It is only fitting that the oil of that fruit be used to inflict his punishment!" And with that, a great roar went up from the crowd.

Mad now with panic, he struggled fruitlessly against his bonds as he watched the Prince approach the cauldron. A guard handed the man a pair of horsehair gloves and a bucket, and proceeded to ladle the boiling liquid into it. The Prince walked back towards Tyrion, by now howling and moaning with fear. Carefully, very carefully, the Prince tipped the liquid over the Imp's groin, searing his prick and balls. The pain was white hot, infernal, as Tyrion shrieked, the sounds barely human. He stared briefly at the red, blistered ruin of his genitals and screamed again. This time, it was Lady Yronwood who bore a ladle. Rough hands gripped his head, holding it tight, as she tipped the ladle over his eyes. He screamed as the world went dark, blinded as he was by the heated oil, even as more was poured over his face, burning hot. He felt the frame being tipped over, leaving him face down in the dust, grovelling and choking. Then, through his pain, he felt his final humiliation, as a hard implement was thrust deep into his rear parts. He guessed it was a tube, and realised what was coming; he would have wept had he any eyes left to weep with. He howled again, a second later, as he felt scalding liquid enter his bowels, flooding deep into his body. His guts felt as if someone had just lit a bonfire inside them. He felt the tube removed and then an object, like a stopper, being wedged tight in his arse, presumably to prevent the oil from flowing back out. More boiling oil was tipped over the back of his head and his neck; incapable now of screaming, he just grunted in his agony. The frame was then hauled upright. He felt more oil being splashed across his body, but hardly reacted now, so far gone he was with pain. He would suffer a full day of hell, racked with pain and thirst, drifting in and out of consciousness, before he breathed his last. His body was chopped into pieces and fed to pigs.

Two months after they received notice of Tyrion's death in Dorne, the situation had generally calmed in the realms. The Maesters had long been opposed to magic and the power of the Targaryen dragons, but short-term interests had overcome that. They had wanted Tarly gone, and they had gotten what they wanted. Likely, they would remain a subtle threat going forward into the future, but that could be dealt with.

For now, then, there was no more opposition. The lands of Westeros were ruined. The wealth of almost every Lord in the realms had been brought to penury. There was no resistance, because there was no money for resistance. Daenerys had made doubly sure of it, by exacting harsh wealth taxes against the Lords who had sought pardons, and taking what was left of their money after a decade of war. She had used it in a negotiated agreement to settle the claims the Iron Bank had against Westeros, and thus had cleared the foolish loans that the Baratheons and Cersei had taken out, without raising taxes on the peasantry.

Of course, Daenerys had a negotiating advantage over the Iron Bank that few rulers could dream of. Daario grinned at that, he could think of Drogon flying over Braavos—it hadn't happened, but the mere prospect of it had influenced negotiations. The Braavosi were cordial with the regime, but they were also practical, and that meant recognising that Daenerys would quickly draw the line at any scheme for settling the debt that would lay undue hardship on the common people.

And Elaena and Drogon certainly had been visiting many, many Lords, to remind them of their responsibilities to their Empress. She came back with stories of Lords who, in far-flung corners of the Kingdom, had knelt and scraped before Drogon in fear, and others who had almost embarrassed themselves to propose a marriage or offer a son in the same vein.

Daario felt bad for her. He understand why Daenerys had done what she had done, and he didn't feel a fig of compassion for Jon Snow, but he did sympathise with Elaena being forced to be around him.

With Elaena so busy and so very much in demand because of Drogon, Daario had been given the remit of rebuilding King's Landing. Unlike the Three-Eyed Raven's reconstruction, it was not focused on the walls and the Red Keep, but on trying to repair and reconstruct the city for the needs of the people that lived there. Sewers, the beginnings of aqueducts, improving the fountains from wells, drilling new ones and adding cisterns; throwing up new buildings, high tenements in the Essosi style that would at least provide a decent and clean apartment for each family.

He had found that being cynical and worldly-wise was helpful in cutting through the endless layers of excuses and extravagant promises that were offered in the world of building and rebuilding cities. He'd started to cultivate that talent while managing Meereen as the Viceroy for Daenerys when she had sailed for Westeros the first time. And he looked forward to continuing it as the Lord Governor in Tyrosh, the ruler of his native city.

The Unsullied stood guard as he arrived before the Solar of the Red Keep, which was usually Daenerys' residence now. Daario was one of the few they allowed to pass under arms into Daenerys' private chambers—only Yara, Grey Worm and Elaena also had this privilege.

He bowed, on seeing her there, as she often was, looking out over the city. "Your Majesty, I have come as I was called."

"Oh come, Daario, no need to be so formal," she smiled faintly, unmasked, here, where she was alone.

Daario unbuckled his sword and hung his outer coat. He stepped over to her side, took the empty chair. "That may be, Daenerys, but you, also, need to stop looking at the city. It's coming together. The smallfolk know peace."

"I won't forgive myself for the day I acted like all the others," she answered flatly, but turned to flash a small smile to him. "Still, you are right about this, and I'm going to be doing something about it, in fact. I'm going to return to Dragonstone. I think it's a better place for me to administer the realms, anyway, my messages will reach Volantis and Meereen faster from there, and … It is the place I was born, and I must say that after all of this, I want to enjoy the Valyrian architecture, the forced air heating, the baths …"

Daario smiled fondly. "You mean to say, Dany, that you're homesick?"

"More than slightly." Her voice shook. "I was going to complain about the food and the toilets here as well, but then I remembered that's just a memory, of Dragonstone before, of King's Landing from the very brief before. A memory I won't be reprising."

"I'd do anything.." He trailed off. She knew that. The sad look in his eyes told him as much.

She smiled, he smiled, both wanly. "Sometimes you don't get what you want. But I have King's Landing, the Red Keep, Dragonstone… Maybe I should have stayed with the House with the Red Door. That Red Door, it's all I remember from my childhood. I suppose it's best I don't remember Viserys really, from what I've heard, or Drogo. It's cleaner this way, I wonder if I will remember them when…"

"Dany?"

"Oh, nevermind. I have a request for you, Daario. I'd like you to stay here and finish rebuilding the city."

"I'd rather not leave your side."

"But I trust you. You took very good care of Meereen for me. You'll do the same to King's Landing. I can focus on policy for the whole of the realms, and know King's Landing is in your good hands."

He closed his eyes. It felt like the future was slipping further away. "If that is your command."

"It is," she answered, but rose, and embraced him, and kissed him. "But, not tonight."

The Heir of the Thrice-Crowned, Sovereign of Three Empires. The woman who flew throughout Westeros, demanding the submission of the Lords to the Crown.

When she woke up heaving into a chamber pot, she expected she shared a problem with even the least of baseborn washerwomen. Elaena was seized with a sudden misery at her situation, lurching over to the wall of her apartments and staring out over the drill grounds of the Red Keep. After a while, she felt better, and called for a simple breakfast. The smell of fresh bread with a pat of butter and hot tea revived her, and she ate quietly, on her own. After the dry heaves, it felt better than the most lavish meal in the whole world.

She didn't want to tell Daenerys. She wanted to be sure, first. And she definitely didn't want to tell Jon; she didn't even know how to approach that. A wash of conflicting emotions came over her. He was the child's father by rights, but Daenerys intended for it to matter as if it were nothing at all.

So she went to Shiera, instead. N othing more than her mere existence would serve to terrify the Westerosi, so she took a low profile and had no formal role at court . Even as a heroine, and trusted advisor to the Empress, she was still a dark figure, most of all for her near-immortality, but also because of the reputed dark powers around her. Still, she had had her revenge, and was Shiera Targaryen by rights now; though she was only Lady Shiera, not Princess. Even as a Goddess, Daenerys might go too far by making the undead witch a Princess.

Shiera had set up her apartments in the lower level of the Tower of the Hand, which might normally be occupied by the family of the Hand, but that role was being informally occupied by Yara at the moment. The Westerosi had been forced to get used to many things like that; the commander of the re-formed Goldcloaks was even Sezza mo'Khazziq, the Meereenese soldiering woman, though like most of the other such appointments, it was intended to be as brief as possible until reliable Westerosi men could be found to replace them. Daenerys and Elaena knew well that beyond just the matter of Shiera that, in general, pushing to far, too fast would produce a backlash even to a woman now worshipped in some quarters of the world as a Goddess.

Elaena arrived at Quaithe/Shiera's apartments and knocked. "M'lady?"

"Come in, Elaena, we do need to talk." She was there, in her mask, in the back of the apartment, and only after Elaena had gone through three doors did she her, supervising a bubbling cauldron.

"I think I'm pregnant," Elaena said simply. "It's been twice the length of my time, and this morning I came down sick, for no reason at all, and I felt somewhat faint, too. Though I've held my food since, and I've no fever."

"You are," Shiera agreed, and slipped the mask off to face her.

Elaena stared for a moment. "You're sure?"

"I smell the changes to your body. Daresay I can smell them."

"Did you already know, then?"

"Yes, but I didn't wish to surprise you, or make you hear it, and doubt that it was true." A grin struck the woman's face, and then she stepped out and tenderly embraced Elaena. "You must go with us to Dragonstone, with the Queen. There, I will supervise the pregnancy and the birthing myself, and we'll keep you away from these Maesters and their leaches."

Elaena laughed ruefully. "Thank you. It means more than the world to me at this point. Uhm… They?"

"Twins, dear."

"OH God."

Shiera's laugh was almost merry, but not quite, as she turned back to her cauldron. "Is there anything else?"

"How… What should I do in regard to telling Jon?"

"Nothing, let the Empress do that, when and if it pleases her. Though certainly I suspect that you can stop laying with him, if that suits you at this point. Or she may even command it."

Elaena grimaced faintly. She was angry at him, probably never would stop being angry at him for what he had done to Daenerys, but it still didn't sit well.

Dragonstone had become a home and a refuge for the entire Imperial Court. Derlyn was becoming prosperous again, filled with Essosi settlers and the warehouses and docks being repaired. Drogon nested on the Dragonmount, and descended to Dragonstone Castle for food on a regular basis.

Elaena often took evening walks with Shiera amidst the heather and the moors near the castle on the uplands of the island, which were filled with sheep and marked by nothing more than tidy little roads and small Crofter's villages. Slowly she had grown more pregnant, while Daenerys held court from the great hall with the Painted Table which was the symbol of authority, and conquest, and indeed of the House Targaryen.

Together, they had explored the castle, and made an incredible discovery. Hidden behind a bookshelf in the heart of the Old Library (the books were long abandoned, replaced by those of the Maesters), was a passage which lead for an incredible length toward the heart of the Dragonmont, growing hotter and hotter as it went. Shiera discovered a way to activate charms along the walls, which glowed queerly like the Glass Candles now did, with the flickering power of magic having come back into the world.

Though, due to her pregnant condition, Daenerys had prevailed upon her to avoid further explorations, Shiera had ultimately presented to the two of them together an incredible work: A black-rock hewn scale model of the Dragonpit, like it had been created by the same magic which forged Black Rock, in Valyrian roads and walls, but as a prototype to that tremendous work which had become such a miserable ruin.

"All the scholars of building and construction we have brought from Essos express wonder, and say it could not stand on its own, despite the fact that it once did," Elaena remarked in wonder.

"That is because, Visenya used the sacrifice of those burned in her sister's Sept, as the power by which to make the beams into black rock, thus giving them the strength to hold up the rest," Shiera explained. "That's what the fragments of the texts say. We are transcribing all we can."

"Do they say anything else?" Daenerys asked, looking out the windows from the solar to the sea and the iron-bound coast beyond.

"They speak only of her wistful hope for another," Shiera answered. "I … Am not sure, but I think her blood might not be entirely extinct."

"That would be fabulous, if true; but it could only be a bastard of Maegor's, and he would have put any bastard of his on the Iron Throne as his heir, even a girl-child, without hesitation. Such was Maegor's obsession."

"If he had known that she existed," Shiera shrugged. "Well, it is alluded to, a granddaughter, and sometimes I have felt that I am not the only one who practices this magic, but if it is so, then she is very far away, and this realm is not her story; and she would be near-akin to me by this age, even if she was a very powerful Storm Singer and Blood Mage indeed. Or perhaps it is descendants in turn that I sometimes feel a whisper of. It's nice not to have all of the mystery gone from the world."

"I think there's more than enough mystery, in dark places," Daenerys answered. "I have had quite enough of this world. Please do continue your other work. It may be the only chance for me to fly with my son again, soon enough."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty?" Elaena asked, preparing to turn to follow.

"Don't worry," Daenerys laughed. "I won't come between you and him, and you won't come between me and him, either. It will all work out alright."

And then Elaena felt a very distinctive sort of pain. "Ahh! Daenerys, Shiera?"

They both stopped, and looked to the young woman of Saera's line.

"...I think it may well be time."

Shiera handled the birthing, with Yara close by. Sansa was a prisoner in the household, and still well treated; she was allowed to be near, though not present in the room itself, but in the antechamber where Yara waited with the Empress. There, she was allowed to work with the Ladies-in-Waiting, boiling rags and cloths and having them available at Shiera's insistence, but after a while, they were told to leave, and served a feast in honour of the young Prince and Princess, but she was not allowed to be present for the viewing.

After twelve hours, Elaena, bathed in sweat and exhausted, had delivered two healthy children, though she was bedridden for near the next week; pregnancy was often hardest, the first time, and let alone with twins. But she rallied, and was back up and riding two weeks later, after spending some time nursing her own children, to the shock of the women of the castle, at Shiera's advice, until at last being prevailed upon for a nursemaid.

Jon was not allowed to see his own children.

They looked purely Targaryen.

Elaena had evaded Jon for the first months after she gave birth. During the first weeks, she had been unwell; then she had taken to riding horses to regain her strength, and then to flying Drogon to regain her confidence in the dragon-saddle. There was nursing her children, handing them off to the wet-nurse, and of course, naming them. Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaella. Those were the names that Daenerys chose and Elaena concurred with, and they were not at all bad. One Aegon because, of course one had to be Aegon.

And one Rhaella because Daenerys spent a great deal of time thinking about her mother, those days. Daenerys had spent the last year busy forcing through reforms to the laws of the realms, and trying to administer her sprawling set of three Empires. A raven network now existed for Essos as well, allowing some communications to occur quickly, and Shiera had made arrangements to keep glass candles lit at Volantis and Meereen, which meant that at least the two other capitals were linked to Dragonstone for the purpose of instant communications, albeit through cut-outs. She was constantly busy with the affairs of three Empires, but one could sense a certain restlessness in her, and Elaena, as the children started to grow healthy and strong past the time of peak danger, and she herself recovered, stood proud at the ceremony where Daenerys lawfully made them Targaryens and part of the succession to the Three Thrones, started to appreciate fully and be thankful of just how much more content the children made Daenerys; but it seemed an ominous, quiet kind of contented.

Jon finally caught up with her in the stables of Dragonstone Castle. He contrived to help some of the stable-hands with shoeing a horse, and rose to greet her just after she passed, returning from riding.

"Your Highness."

"Jon," Elaena allowed, freezing in place for a moment. It was a remember of the passion they had shared, the tenderness and pleasure that had blossomed in the midst of what had at first been a compelled relationship. Rape, she'd called it then, but in any such situation, if it goes on long enough, accommodations get made.

"I wanted to offer you my wishes for your health. I heard it was hard," he began, hesitating.

"I'm better now, as you can see. A dragonlord can't be weak, in heart or soul or body, and I'm proud of myself for recovering as I did. I'm sure I'll have many more—Lady Shiera says it gets easier after the first pregnancy. I… What do you want, Jon?"

"I want us to…" He took a step closer. "Was there ever anything real there, Ela?"

"There was," she answered. "I don't know what the Lord would have me call it. I think it not love, but it was something that was important, and mattered, I acknowledge that much, Jon."

"Not love, but we've two children from it. They call that a sin where I was raised."

"They're legitimate, Jon, by the Empress' decree. That's all that matters. They have in them the blood of the Dragon."

"Well, I wouldn't know. I haven't even seen them, Ela."

She stiffened, winced. Flushed. It was true. It felt awful, in a certain way. "I'm sorry."

"Can't I just see them, even only a single time, Ela?"

"I can't give that to you, Jon."

"...And why not? You're their mother."

"The Empress specifically ordered that you not be allowed to see them, Jon."

He froze. Looked poleaxed, really. By now, the stable-hands were edging away, wanting to be as far from that conversation as possible. "She ordered you not to let me see them?"

"Aye, that's the Lord's own truth."

"I…"

"Jon, if you don't like it, go have an audience with her, ask her, but she gave me the absolute strictest instructions that you were to never see them. They are her children, in her mind, not your's."

"But that's just damn well not true. I'm their father. And it should count for something."

"You killed her."

He looked as if he had been hit. She couldn't resist, she repeated it again. "You killed her, Jon. Ask her if you want to, but I'd thank the Gods you worship if I were you, given this life you've had these past two years, when you're by rights the murderer of the Empress."

Jon turned away, in anger. "I will see her. A man should not be denied seeing his children grow up."

He stalked off, and Elaena watched him go, and then quietly under her breath, said, "but the noose denies to a man seeing his children grow up, if he is a murderer."

Notes:

1. Olive oil starts smoking at 200 degrees. This temperature is high enough to inflict intense pain, without being high enough to destroy nerve endings. Tyrion would therefore have felt as if he was being burned alive, without suffering sufficient harm to kill him swiftly. The Dornish are expert at these things.