A/N: Chap 22 review responses are in my forums as normal.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Like a Father

On the morning of her official coronation nearly one week after her conquest of the southern half of Westeros, Taylor woke to one of the ugliest men she'd ever seen in her bed. She slapped his hairy chest, waking him with a start. "Wha…! What was that for?"

"Get your ass out of my room, you ugly shit," she snapped. "I have to get ready, and the maids are terrified of you."

Rather than get out, the former sellsword stared at her admiringly. "I knew you couldn't resist my wiles."

"I couldn't stand your whining," she countered. She leaned over and kissed him. "I'll grant, you were good, Wylis. But you understand that this can't happen again, right? And I mean that."

"Sure you do."

He caressed her hip as she stood there, and as always it amazed her how such strong, ugly men could touch so softly. She also knew if she didn't stop it, she'd be on top of him again. "Wylis, last night was fun. But if you're not out of my room in the next minute you're going to finish your service to me with the Unsullied."

"Right-o! I'll be on my way then. Toodles!" The man scrambled from the bed Missandei had found for her, gathered up his linens and armor, and ran from the room.

She watched him as he went, enjoying the muscles of that slim ass of his. The man was a walking V, broad shoulders, slim waist, and a talented swordsman with any blade. She didn't mind the tattoos-he got them for being a horrible slave. As far as she was concerned, that was a badge of honor. He was also a foul-mouthed ass, and a surprisingly gentle lover.

It didn't surprise her a bit when Quaithe walked unannounced into the room just moments later with a cup of tea in her hand, a faint smile on her unmasked face, and a sway to her hips that made Taylor think the Queen was not the only one who got laid the previous night. Taylor stared at it suspiciously. "That's moon tea, isn't it?"

"The Asshai version, yes," Quaithe said. "Unless you wish a child?"

"That sure of a thing?"

She handed the tea over. With a sigh, Taylor downed it all. "I bet the whole Keep knows."

"You are the warrior queen," Quaithe said. "And warriors take lovers after great battles."

"How did Ser Jorah fare?"

"He fought a mighty battle, and so enjoyed a mighty reward. I did not drink the tea."

Taylor laughed, though she could sense a bitterness in her own voice. "Us and old soldiers. So, I did it. I took King's Landing. After five days of no sleep, I think I've got the city back from the brink of a riot, so I'm a queen now. Does that mean I get a bath made for me?"

"I might have seen castle staff bringing water up," Quaithe admitted.

"And I don't have to ever empty a chamber pot again in my life?"

"I believe you actually have a maiden of the privy for that purpose."

"Good. First thing I'm going to do once all this is over? Design indoor plumbing. And toilet paper. Force above, I miss toilet paper. And pizza…" Quaithe led her to her waiting bath.

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

They were gathered in the bailey of the Red Keep. The stones from the outer walls she'd shattered with dragon-delivered bombs had been removed. In their place stood one thousand of her Unsullied, in two rows of five hundred each. Taylor made sure that those who were with her during the defense of Port Royal had places of honor in her personal guard.

She managed to eat a quick breakfast as four girls she'd met just that morning fought a desperate battle to make her less ugly. And by her side the entire time, Quaithe sat patiently watching with a proud look in her eyes. Now that others were around the queen, she was masked.

The girls were all noble-born from surrounding keeps and castles. Both Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah assured her that it was normal for the king or queen to keep a retinue of nobles outside of their official duties. Ladies in waiting, is what Barristan called it. These ladies were all young, unmarried and from families that Taylor's forces did not have to decimate in the course of the fighting. And she couldn't have named them at that moment if she wanted to.

They did a good enough job on her hair, piling it up in what looked at first glance like a haphazard mess but which after a moment's study actually turned into a beautiful cascade of curls.

Her gown was exquisite Qartheen silk in a thick brocade of Targaryen red with black dragons artfully sewn in. And over that they hung a coronation robe that felt like she was wearing sheets of steel, it was so heavy with cloth of gold, rubies large enough to fund navies, and a cape that ran ten feet behind her.

They were all scandalized by her black boots, but Taylor was not about to walk through the entirety of the city twice in slippers.

A knock at the door sent one of the girls, this one barely twelve, to the door to let in Ser Barristan. The man stood resplendent in gold-inlaid armor, with a long white cape hanging from his shoulders. Taylor had no intention of maintaining the Queensguard, and Ser Barristan knew and accepted that fact. But for today?

Today, he was her knight. And as he stepped in with his great helm in hand, he stared at her with a gleam in his eye that made her breath catch. "Ser Barristan," Taylor said. "I'm about to be crowned and I'm wearing cosmetics that make my face feel like mud. If you make me cry, I will be very upset with you."

The older man cleared his throat suspiciously. "Of course, your grace." There was so much meaning in those words, and so much pride in those eyes, she almost cried anyway.

Instead, she forced herself to look into the ornately framed, horribly expensive Myrish glass mirror at her black and gold dragon-eyes. Her face looked pale under the make-up, which made her black hair and eyes stand out. "You know this was the easy part, right?"

"I do, your grace. But I also know, no matter the challenge, nor matter the hardship, I shall be by your side to face it as long as I live."

She swallowed, hard. "You're making me want to cry again, Barristan."

The man laughed, and it was the bittersweet laugh of a father watching his daughter leave to live her own life. "Aye, for myself as well, my queen. Are you ready?"

Taylor looked to Quaithe, who gently nodded. "You are ready, Aeksiae."

Taylor stood with effort. The gown and robe weren't nearly as heavy as the gold she stole from Qarth, but she knew this was not going to be a comfortable day. She turned to regard the four young women who helped her. The oldest was seventeen, the youngest twelve. All were dressed in matching red gowns with little rubies on gold wire laced their their hair. Taylor found it suspicious that all were blonde, as if to play up the distinctiveness of her dark hair.

"You did well girls," she said. "Thank you. It's going to be a long walk. Make sure to drink some water before we leave. We don't want anyone passing out."

The girls all curtseyed, and then scrambled to the water pitcher. They were a literal bunch. Taylor moved ponderously to Ser Barristan. "If some idiot attacks me, I'm going to be useless in this. And from what the 'gods' are telling me, there's going to be at least one attempt today."

"Lord Varys has agents spread all along our route. I understand he's already intercepted a conspiracy among the good brothers of Lord Caswell of Bitterbridge, who was among those killed in the Dornish campaign."

Taylor was surprised that there was only one so far. Conspiracies were like cockroaches-she knew there were likely others. If not for the fact that Varys' intelligence helped her actually conquer the city, and more so, Storm's End, she might have been suspicious of him. The eunuch, though, held loyalty not to her, but to the ideal of the throne. And evidently she fit the ideal better than anyone he knew.

Despite all that, the Force had been whispering of danger to her. The whisper felt suppressed and distant, but there. "Ser Barristan, my knight. My good friend, I would not be here today if not for your faith and friendship. Are you ready?"

"I am, my queen," Barristan said.

Got him, she thought, as she saw the glimmer of a tear in his eye.

He didn't offer his arm. She was not a bride to be given away in marriage. She was a queen, and by tradition could not accept any assistance. That didn't stop her four handmaids from falling in behind her to carry her ridiculous train off the floor.

Missandei was already at the Sept of Baelor, making sure the queen's interests actually played some small part in the coronation. Ser Jorah was also there with a handful of the Golden Company men. The long walk she'd let Barristan talk her into was a Targaryen tradition the city had not seen since Aerys II was crowned almost forty years previous.

She had only herself to blame for making it a public spectacle.

It amazed her how many people worked in the castle. She knew that Varys, the slippery eunuch who had evidently been feeding her information for months before the invasion, had vetted most of them as much as possible. But these were the same people who served in the castle under the Lannisters, and under Baratheon. The older ones might have even worked under her supposed grandfather.

They stood in a line down the hall that led from her chamber to the wide stairs, and they stood on the stairs themselves. They watched with hopeful expressions or stony ones. Some looked as if they did not care who was queen, while others looked upon her as their best chance for survival.

Down the stairs, she reached the throne room. She would be back in four hours, after prostrating herself before the gods in the Sept of Baelor. Fortunately, she would be able to ride back rather than walk. But the walk to the sept was a public act of piety that she agreed was needed. She was a foreign queen of another faith. The people needed to know she would respect their traditions and beliefs.

They left the throne room with its line of nobles who had already declared for her. She knew most did not care who sat on the throne. She suspected if they knew her long-term goals, they would try to kill her en masse.

They reached the recently cleared bailey, with the now gaping hole where Temeraire and Elliot had dropped their bombs, and there she did not find commoners. Only the Unsullied, and her children.

Those behind her faltered. The youngest of the handmaids whimpered.

"Do not worry," Taylor told them. "These are my children. They will not hurt you." She walked right up to Temeraire, fully aware of how terrified the girls behind her were, and rubbed his scales affectionately. "You've done well, my friend. Thank you so much."

The dragon purred. It sounded like a motorboat running. She greeted Elliot and Saphira as well, pouring out love and affection through their shared Force bond. Assured she still belonged to them, the dragons roared and blew fire into the air before climbing the broken walls of the keep and launching themselves into flight.

Beyond the wall, Taylor heard cheering.

Bread and circuses. She stepped into the street of King's Landing, flanked by soldiers. A line of three of the Golden Company elephants walked behind them. Instead of archers in the huge saddles, she had soldiers tossing copper coins and sweat meats to the cheering crowds.

So began the long walk across the city to the Sept of Baelor, where she would prostrate herself before the gods.

After ten minutes, she felt bored and hot. She wasn't supposed to talk, though. Instead all of her thoughts were supposed to be dedicated to contemplation of the gods and her role as their servant on earth.

She chose to sink into a light meditation, thinking that was close enough.

Though she tried to meditate daily, the last five days had not left her much time to do so. The problem with direct monarchy was that the monarch was in charge. And decisions tended to float up in the same way that shit floated down. There were so many decisions to be made. The crushing debt she agreed to take on; food shortages in the city; a constant stream of petty nobles crying for their share of imagined spoils or compensation from losses incurred by the civil war. She had meetings for two days straight with Ser Laswell Peake and his Captains General to keep the Golden Company in place for a little longer.

Last night was her first opportunity for a few hours of time to herself. She'd enjoyed a long bath, a luxurious dinner, and then… And then Wylis Toyne had walked in on her while she was in her bath.

"Do you have a death wish?" she'd told him.

He started taking off his fucking clothes. "Aye. I want to die happy."

She should have sent him flying out of the room with a blast of Force energy. But the fact was she was almost a year on Westeros and hadn't so much as a kiss, and watching the man strip down made her ache in a way she hadn't since Hawaii. She wasn't a very sensual person, and her first experiences with love did little to help that, but when the mood struck, it struck hard. He was good, too.

He'd be at the Sept now, she knew, as one of her senior officers. He'd be there with Missandei and Ser Jorah, making sure everything was just right. Most of the rest of her people would remain at the Red Keep for the actual crowning or walk behind her in places of honor.

Her steps continued. Her black boots were safely hidden under her gown and robe. The weight of the robe pressed down on her, while her steps were forced to be slow and ponderous because of her train, and the four young girls tasked to carry it.

Her thoughts wandered to Quaithe and Zhan Li. They had warned that much danger remained ahead of them. "My visions are being obscured again," Quaithe warned her. "Whatever danger awaits us has its own magic."

Which Taylor thought was just great. Why not face a supernatural threat? It was what the Long Night was, she'd been told. White Walkers and monsters beyond description.

The sound of the Unsullied marching beside her were almost lost in the constant cheering of the people. They lined the street, no more than two or three deep. It was a long street, though. The city was one of the largest population centers in all of Westeros. And it had neither sewers nor schools. No plumbing, no electricity and no hospitals.

It was amazing these people weren't all dead of the flu or dysentery.

The thought led to a sudden flash of a vision that seeped into her eyes, of the people no longer cheering but staring at her with empty sockets in fire-blackened skulls. The buildings behind them were shattered into rubble and the sky overhead burned red.

The vision struck so hard she stumbled and came to a full stop. The people around cheered, perhaps thinking she was going to greet them personally. Blinking, she looked up the steps of Visenya's Hill and the massive, domed seven-sided building that dominated the center of the city as thoroughly as the Red Keep dominated the southern side. Her feet had led her right to the steps leading up to the Sept.

She opened her mind and closed her eyes, and let the Force flow through her. She felt life, vibrant and trembling all around. And in the Force, an odd figure appeared before her.

A man with a long face and a bowl haircut. He looked young, wearing supple leather and wool. He stood with his hands behind his back.

When he opened his mouth, she did not hear words. She sensed them in her mind. You see so much, but you have been blinded to the truth. For my brother's life, I give you yours. See the truth.

He disappeared, but the danger she felt swelled in his place, growing so potent and terrible it stole her breath away. She pushed at the veils of the Force, trying to understand more. Before her mind's eye, she saw a shimmering wall lifted up and away between her and the Sept.

In the skies over the sept, visible only in the Force, she sensed glowing turtles flying across the red skies.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

Ser Barristan came to her side. "Your grace, are you ill?"

"Barristan, evacuate the Sept," Taylor hissed. "Warlocks are in the city! Something's going to happen. Get those people away from the Sept and the surrounding area."

The man's eyes widened. Taylor spun to the girls, then the cheering people around her. Now behind her, Barristan was running up the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him. Taylor raised her hands and summoned the Force, letting her words seep through people's minds.

"My friends, our enemies conspire to harm us! We are in danger! Everyone move away from the Sept!"

With the Force, her words penetrated people's minds even if their ears could not hear. The cheering started to falter, and in the tense silence that followed, Taylor looked at her Unsullied. "There is a trap, some danger I can sense. Evacuate the people. I can be coronated some other day…"

The Sept of Baelor and the entire hill it rested on exploded. Billows if green fire rose in a column within the domed structure. The stone and glass acted like the shell of an explosive, adding pressure to the fire, until the whole Sept exploded like one of her bombs, only far, far larger.

People screamed as horrid green fire blasted up from under the hillside around the Sept's foundations as well. Taylor found herself staring at a wall of green flame billowing right toward her. The people behind her screamed in terror.

The Force flowed. Taylor rose into the air and pushed with all the power, dark side and light, that permeated the world. It answered her eagerly, driven by her anguish and determination. The air itself flickered as the wall of green flame struck. The power of it made her cry out and pushed her back, but still she held.

The rest of the world lost meaning. All that existed was her, the Force, and the green fire. The eternity lasted only moments before the vicious, hateful flame burned itself out. Freed from the necessity, Taylor dropped back down to the ground and stumbled from the exhaustion of it. Her four young handmaids were huddled together behind her, crying in terror. The Unsullied were mixed in with the crowd they had been trying to evacuate, and all stared at her in wonder and fear.

And in front of her, where Visenya's Hill and the Sept of Baelor used to be, she saw nothing more than crater and a swath of crushed, burned homes and shattered people.

Barristan. I sent Barristan into that. She started to move forward until hands caught her. She spun, incensed, only to stop when she saw Quaithe there. The Shadowbinder had pulled her mask off and tears ran down her cheeks.

"The spell was broken, I was able to see at the last," the Shadowbinder yelled over the screams of the injured. "My queen, more wild fire remains in the city! Cersei's vengeance. My queen...her agents mean to burn the whole city! We must be quick."

"Barristan…"

Quaithe took Taylor's cheeks in her hand. "My queen. My Aeksiae." Her voice cracked and her eyes burned. "My Jorah was there as well."

Taylor's entire advisory council. Even…"Missandei." Wylis.

"Yes."

Taylor ripped her train off. She glanced around until she spotted Gray Worm. "There's still a danger," she told him, eager to put off the crushing truth of her loss with work. "We need to evacuate the city. Spread the word-the Lannisters have planted wildfire in the city. Someone find Varys. We have a lot of work to do."

~~Quintessence~~

~~Quintessence~~

Late that night, after almost eight straight hours of searching through the tunnels of the city, and another explosion that burned half of Flea Bottom, Taylor received notice from Rezhal personally that they had the situation contained and five warlocks and four Lannister agents captured.

Dressed in her kilt and plate, with her lightsabers at her waist, Taylor followed the Ghiscari officer down into the cells of the castle. She felt numb and tired in a way she hadn't felt since just after her trigger event. It felt almost as if she were wrapped up in containment foam in a supersonic transport to hell. She saw Quaithe's familiar Shadow runes over the door, magically securing it from any spells the Warlock's might try.

The Lannister agents and warlocks were held together in one of the black cells, surrounded by angry Unsullied. Varys stood just outside the door in a hall lit by rush lights. He looked filthy and exhausted, having donned sturdy wool that smelled of sewage and blood. He had a cut on his neck and mud smeared across his bald head.

He bowed from the waist. "I failed you, your grace," the man said. No tears, nor defense. "I knew there was wildfire in the city. Lord Tyrion used some in the Battle of the Blackwater. But I… I failed you. I failed to imagine what Cersei might do."

Taylor looked at the thick wood door. She held out a hand, formed a fist, and crushed the door into splinters. Varys stepped back in shock. The Unsullied just nodded-they had seen their queen angry. Taylor stepped into the cell.

Four men sat on the floor and five warlocks stood in a corner. She ignored the Lannisters for the moment, focusing on the greater threat.

The warlocks were almost indistinguishable in features-bald heads and drug-stained eyes and lips. They faced her with outward calm-she felt nothing from them in the Force.

"I'm going to burn Warlocks Way to ash," Taylor said coldly. "I'm going to spread the word-a thousand gold dragons for any warlock's head. I will not stop until every one of you dies."

"Death is but an illusion," one of the Warlocks said. "This is not your world, interloper."

"It is now," Taylor said. With a surge of anger and the Force, the five warlocks were crushed. Their bones shattered and their organs ruptured, and all five fell dead to the floor without a word spoken.

Taylor turned away and stared at where the now thoroughly terrified Lannister agents sat in their chains. One looked old and thin, in a brown robe of the same cut as that of the Maesters, but without a chain. Next to him sat men who looked like soldiers.

"Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Osmond Kettleback, and Ser Boros Blount," Varys said in a subdued tone. "The Kingsguard of Joffrey Baratheon. And this last is Qyburn, a disgraced Maester in the service of Queen Cersei."

"How many casks have we found?" Taylor asked the spy.

"Four hundred twelve at various points around the city," Varys said.

Taylor looked at where the former Maester sat. At a gesture, she lifted him in the air and slammed him against the wall. She didn't bother with words. Instead, she slammed her hand to his forehead and tore into his thoughts, just like she did with the murderous Baelish. The man screamed and kicked at the agony of it. What she found was a cesspit; a mind utterly absent of morals, ethics or decency. The experiments he was doing left her sickened.

She pushed past his detached delight in vivisecting children until she found the full conspiracy. "There's another two hundred casks under these very cells, Varys. The fourth cell down the hall to your left has a trap door. Gray Worm caught them before they could set the candle to light it. Get the barrels out, carefully."

Gray Worm nodded and stepped out to set his men to the task. He returned seconds later.

Taylor let the former maester fall. He collapsed into a boneless heap, moaning. "I could make you all suffer in ways you can't imagine," she whispered. "You didn't just kill my people. You killed my friends. Ser Barristan was like a…" Her voice caught. "I could make you scream for years until your heart burst from the pain and your minds broke. But then, I would be just like you. So, I'm not going to make you suffer."

She lit her saber. One of the knights-Trant-tried to say something, but it was already done. Four flicks of her saber; four heads fell to the ground. She deactivated her blade and stared at the ground as the tears finally came. She squatted down and covered her face, and let grief wash over her.

Death was a part of life. Loss came with gain. And grieving was a part of love. And she loved Ser Barristan, she realized. She loved him like the father she lost when she was fifteen.

After several minutes, the wave of grief passed. She felt hollow and empty in its wake, but at least she was able to think. She stood and turned back to the silent Varys, and the inscrutable Gray Worm.

"Mount the murderer's heads along the edge of the Baelor crater. Let the people know who they were, and that the people of this city suffered as they did at the behest of Cersei Lannister. Throw the bodies into the sea for the bottom feeders."

"It will be done, Aeksiae," Gray Worm declared.

Varys remained still, watching as if petrified. Within the intricate passages of his mind she sensed a strange calm. He expected her to kill him. Because that's what his previous masters would have done.

"Tell me what you could have done to stop this," she asked him.

The question surprised him. "I knew these men survived the battle, Your Grace. I assumed they fled. I should have instead anticipated that Queen Cersei would not go gracefully into death. Even a fool would know she would want vengeance. I should have gone to the Alchemist's Guild to verify the wild fire casks were in place. I did not. I should have had my birds combing the tunnels, but instead I had them combing the streets. The two I did send down were...subverted by Qyburn. Truly, in every way I failed."

Taylor's voice shook. "I just lost my best friends and advisors, Varys. There are very few left I can trust at this point. I didn't conquer this land to burn it to the ground. Barristan wanted me to save Westeros from itself. I've come too far to fail his vision now. So do better."

The man bowed again. "On my life, I swear it, my queen."

Taylor stalked out of the room, as empty and hollow as before. She won the battle for the city, but the victory left a taste of ash in her mouth.