Book II – Chapter 9: Who Runs the World?

Goldflower's Words

'Dear Daenerys,

By now, you will have read through my notes and journals about the senate plan, Jon, and our dream for a better world. I have tried my best to anticipate some of the questions you undoubtedly had while reading, but I'm confident I have not caught them all. I hope to be able to speak with you in person sometime soon.

I will admit that my first instinct upon learning of your existence was to fear you and your dragons. But thankfully, that fear was banished quickly by the news of your righteous campaign in Slaver's Bay, and my heart soared into the heavens. Here was a woman similar to myself, who clearly understands the plight of those beneath her instead of stepping above in her silks with an upturned nose. You could have done anything with three dragons at your command. Few would have dared oppose you; armies would flock to you. The people of Westeros would be utterly enamoured, following your orders without question. Instead, you turned your gaze towards those in the most dire of situations and said, 'enough is enough'.

You have my eternal thanks and gratitude and praise, and should you ever need assistance, you have but to call, and I will do whatever I can.

I hope you have seen the benefit of our plan, our ideal, and can see a place for yourself within it. Or perhaps, and I can only pray that it is so, you have seen some fundamental flaw that Jon and I have not and have a solution we can implement together.

I am an intelligent woman, willing to see the larger picture where Jon and Rhae are not. I know our dream is a fickle thing, that it is unlikely to ever genuinely manifest without some significant shift in the power dynamics of Westeros I cannot foresee. Maybe it can be you and your dragons. Maybe it won't be. I also know that you have no reason to believe anything from the notes I have given you and less to trust in myself or my husband.

You have ambitions of sitting on the Iron Throne, as I have the goal of sitting Jon there. At the surface, these seem like two incompatible desires, yet I would argue that they are not. Both you and Jon seek the throne to help others, rather than simply for power or greed. As such, there is a viable solution, one that allows you to continue your good work of liberation while Jon and I labour with the smallfolk of Westeros. Then, together, we can wrangle the Great Houses and High Lords. I have the beginnings of a plan, but it is far from complete, so I hesitate to commit it to a paper as important as this.

Finally, I wish to say this. I would love to call you friend in person or from afar, as Jon and Rhaenys are both desperate for family. And even without meeting you, I would trust you to hold my child, your great-niece or nephew, simply because Jon would trust you. However, if I am wrong about you, and you are as ruthless and unforgiving as your father, I will obliterate you. Dragons or no.

Good tidings and good luck, Daenerys Stormborn. I hope to meet you soon.

Her Grace,

Margaery of the Houses Tyrell and Targaryen,

Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

Lady of Roses

Philosopher

Wife

Mother

Goldflower.

The Blackwater Filth

"Seven Hells… what happened here?" Tyene breathed as the pair crested a rise of silt and sand, finally getting a good view of Kings Landing for the first time since… since the fall.

Kings Landing was a bloated corpse of its former self. The outer wall still stood, a fitting boundary between the world without and the world within, but half the city's neighbourhoods had been reduced to rubble, pillars of smoke still wafting into the sky from some isolated sections. Visenya's Hill was simply gone, fallen into the abyss where Jaime and Tyene had been trapped. Rhaenys' Hill had blackened to ash all the way up to the Dragon Pit. Fleebottom had simply disintegrated. Hells, even the manses and palaces of the rich and wealthy seemed utterly destroyed.

But the Red Keep was untouched. It just sat silently atop Aegon's High Hill. As if waiting for something. But what?

Tyene's comment had not been about the dead city, though. Instead, she was pointing towards what had grown up outside it.

Cramped between the docks, the Blackwater itself, and the city wall was what looked like Fleebottom's daughter – a sickly shanty town, cramped and sprawling in all directions. Rows of tents pitched in mud, scattered around newly constructed wooden lean-tos and original stone buildings. Not a single ship was docked in the harbour.

"Where are the troops?" Jaime muttered. "The armies…"

Who was sitting on the Iron Throne? It can't have simply been abandoned? He had no way of knowing who had been killed during the explosion or who had survived, but surely someone had sat their fat ass on that fucking chair? Where were their armies? Who was caring for the survivors?

Slowly, hesitantly, they made their way down the bluff and towards the edge of the town. Tyene kept an arm around Jaime's shoulders the whole time, and they needed to stop every few minutes so she could cough and take ragged breaths – she was still ill, but the few days in the smuggler's camp appeared to have done some good. Jaime was feeling better than he had in… since the fall. Oh, he knew he'd probably never been in worse shape in his life. He was malnourished, his muscles ached horribly, his beard and hair were atrocious and matted, and the less said about his clothes or the multitude of scabs on his feet, the better. But he still felt like he could run a marathon. Maybe it was the fresh air or just the knowledge that he was free. He didn't know, and he didn't care. Right now, his goal was finding help for Tyene. An apothecary or Maester.

However, as they reached the shantytown, his hopes began to erode rapidly.

Mud and filth and shit and piss were everywhere, clogging gutters between the dirt roads and tents on either side. Homeless folk, coughing, spluttering and spewing blood, leaned against rotted wooden walls or sat in the spaces between tents, while bodies lay discarded and mangled in the mud, robbed naked and left to rot. A haze lay thick over the filth that stung the eyes and left the ears ringing. But the smell was the worst. It was so putrid you could almost drown in it. Jaime had thought Kings Landing stank. He'd been wrong.

Hundreds, thousands, maybe more. People were everywhere. Women, children and men alike, clothed in threadbare rags or even fine outfits. Either way, mud and filth splattered their garments and skin alike, flies and mosquitoes flitting in every direction, hovering and settling in people's hair and in their skin. Jamie and Tyene were quickly trying to swat the creatures as they moved, hurrying their pace as much as they could.

And everywhere, the looks of the destitute and the hopeless followed them. Men loitering in alleys, sizing them up. Did they have money or weapons? Could they overpower Jaime? Women calling for their children between bouts of coughing. Children squelching through the dirt and faeces. Jaime and Tyene didn't dare speak as they weaved through the filth, and luckily, no one decided to try their luck. Jamie didn't doubt that he could take them – they were as weak from lack of food and water as he was – he didn't want to risk anything happening to Tyene. If he could find a temple to the seven…

By the time they found a sept – right down by the harbour in a stone and wood structure that looked like it used to be a warehouse – the sun was going down, and Jaime and Tyene were utterly exhausted. Dozens of people lay on the cobblestone road in front of the chapel, wrapped in threadbare blankets and shawls, grey-robed and ragged looking septas flitting between them, praying or, in some cases, applying poultices to burns.

"Please," Jaime begged as they approached, lungs burning with every breath of foul air. "We need help…."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," the septa, a middle-aged woman with deep bags under her eyes, said, not looking up from her patient. "We just don't have the room. You could try the Red God's temple at the Rosby Camp, but word is they're just as busy."

"I just need something for the rattles," Tyene whispered. "An infusion tea with ephedra root… it's all I need, and I should be able to fight through…."

The septa snapped up, scanning Tyene's face and the remains of her grey robe.

"You're a wise woman? You know healing herbs and prayers?"

Tyene nodded rapidly. "I was a septa, in the Sept of Baelor. I was underground when it…."

"Mistress Almeara!" The septa shouted, startling several of the patients nearby. A woman standing with three septas near the entrance to the temple looked up, fixing her attention on Jaime and Tyene, then hurrying towards them.

She was stunningly young for someone clearly in charge, with a round face, large eyes that seemed too big for her face, and long black hair tied into a braid that fell down her back. Her blue wool dress and yellow-tinted shawl were far cleaner than any other garments Jaime had seen since arriving. And she had a red circle painted on her forehead.

"Edesina? What is it?" Mistress Almeara asked, approaching and looking the two over.

"She's a septa, a wise-woman who knows her herbs and…."

"You are? Thank the Light. I'm desperately low on anyone who has even a modicum of medicinal knowledge. Are you well? Would you be willing to work? I don't have anything to pay you, but I can offer shelter and better meals than you'd find elsewhere…."

…

Fuck, this woman talked fast.

"Yes, I can work. But I need…." Tyene broke out in a fit of coughing before she could finish her sentence, and Mistress Almeara withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to Tyene's mouth as Jaime held her upright and rubbed circles into her back. When the coughing subsided, the Mistress withdrew her handkerchief and looked at it.

"No blood. One of the lucky ones," she muttered.

"It's the rattles," Tyene said again, eyes drooping, breath hoarse. "Not worse. Not yet, at least. But…"

"Ma huang, yes, I have some left. Stocks are running low, though, so you're lucky." The Mistress paused, then raised a hand to measure Jaime's height. "My, but you're a tall one. Are you well, man? Speak up!"

Well, she clearly knew her stuff, but she could certainly use some manners. Cersei would be livid if someone talked to her like that.

"Just hungry and sore, but I can lift and carry heavy things, and I'm a good hand with a sword."

The woman sighed. "Only thing men are good for, really; doesn't mean I can't put you to use. Come, and I'll get you that tea. Lan! Can you help these two inside?"

A man even taller than Jaime, with shoulder-length black hair and the stance of a skilled warrior, pushed himself out of the shadows of the chapel wall and took Tyene from Jaime's tied arms. If he weren't exhausted, he would have protested. But as it was, he let Mistress Almeara and the soldier guide him inside.

Oil lanterns hung around the single room, illuminating several bedrolls and a large table covered with concoctions and cauldrons. An alter to the seven had been set up near the entrance, a low-burning firepit had been constructed in the centre of the room, a large stack of dry wood in the corner. And, incredibly, the smell and haze that engulfed the city were nowhere to be found.

"Who are you? You aren't Westerosi," Jaime asked, unable to control himself as Mistress Almeara set a kettle over the fireplace and started prodding the embers back to life. The soldier, Lan, lowered Tyene to the ground next to one of the bedrolls, and Jaime took a seat beside her, thankful to finally be off his aching legs.

The Mistress snorted, rolling her eyes. "Westerosi. Self-important fools the lot of you. Caring more about your stupid game of houses than making sure your country doesn't implode. Oh, wait."

"Game of Thrones," Jaime corrected before wincing. 'Shut up, Cersei,' he added in his mind.

"Same difference," the Mistress muttered.

"We're from Saath," Lan said, grabbing a bottle of what looked like wine and throwing it to Jaime, who caught it and nodded his thanks. "Last city of Sarnor."

Mistress Almeara returned with the tea and offered it to Tyene, who took it and drank in several light sips. The effects appeared nearly instant, as colour returned to her face almost instantly.

"We were in your filth city searching for… well, it doesn't matter now. Now we're still here trying to do our part because nobody else seems to be," the Mistress said, collapsing on the floor herself. Lan placed a hand on her shoulder, and she gave him a warm smile.

"What do you mean nobody else is? Who is sitting on the Iron Throne?" Jaime asked, taking a swig from the bottle of wine and embracing the sweet taste as it trickled down his throat.

Lan and the Mistress both frowned.

"What? Did I say something funny?" Jaime asked, voice laced with bitterness.

"Where have you been the past few moons?"

"Stuck at the bottom of Visenya's Hill," Jaime snarked, before wincing, again. Gods, but the old him tended to creep out when he was tired. "Sorry."

"Light blind me," the Mistress whispered, shivering in her shawl. "And you survived?"

"Found a sewer pipe. Climbed out," Jaime whispered, not wanting to think about it any more than he had to. Barristan, Bronn, Maeglin, everyone who'd survived and helped them, everyone they'd found… all dead. It was just the two of them now.

The Mistress swallowed hard as Tyene continued to drink, a soft mewl escaping her lips.

"The Iron Throne is empty," Lan explained, grabbing the bottle back from Jaime and taking a sip himself, eyes downcast. He didn't seem as tired as everyone else for some reason. "House Baratheon is ripping the country apart fighting a civil war. The Lannisters, the Tyrells and the Dornish support the King's Daughter, the Narrow Sea lords and the Arryns support Stannis, and the Stormlands have split three ways between Stannis, the Princess, and Renly."

"Renly? The kings youngest brother? The poncy fop?"

Lan shrugged. "I don't know anything about him. All I know is that once Tywin Lannister fled the city, Stannis wasn't far behind, and he took most of the fighting men with him. Didn't take long for peace in the refugee camps to break down. There was a fight, and the priests of the R'hllor took control of the settlement and exiled anyone who refused to convert. Most followers of the seven ended up here, cramped between the Blackwater and the city wall. There's no room. Anyone with money fled immediately, a lot who don't have tried their luck walking. All the ship captains set sail the second disease started breaking out. The Blackwater Filth, people have started calling it. Appropriate."

Jaime's daughter a Queen? His father alive? What about Cersei? Joffrey and Tommen clearly hadn't made it if Myrcella was Queen. His boys were dead.

He supposed he should care more, but he was just too tired, and he'd never loved Joffrey. But his heart threatened to shatter at the thought of little Tommen. He supposed his body was just one of many floating in the silt of the abyss.

"Priests of R'hllor? In Westeros?" Tyene croaked, clearly stunned, though Jaime didn't' see why that was what she focussed on.

Both the Mistress and Lan scowled.

"They showed up after Stannis left. His Priestess probably called them. But an explosion of 'holy fire' like that? A city in ruins? Like moths to a candle flame for those glorified cultists. It wasn't hard for them to start converting en-mass. The fires starting in the Seven's greatest monument certainly helped. Very thematic."

Tyene shivered, but Jaime didn't care about some eastern god or whatever.

"Who else survived? If Tywin Lannister lived…."

The Mistress gripped her braid and tugged on it. "The Queen did; you could hear the wails night and day. Other than that? I don't know. Why care about your lords anyway? They certainly don't care about the hundreds of thousands of people who died in the city."

The queen. Cersei lived. Jaime didn't know who to pray to, but he did anyway, closing his eyes for a moment and just saying thank you to anyone who might be listening.

"Where is she? The Queen."

"Don't know, don't care. She vanished when the camps split. Glad to be rid of her," the Mistress declared before standing, stretching, and rubbing her eyes.

"I better get back out there. Light knows those idiots can't do anything without me. Healing through prayer. Bah!" Then she was walking away, Lan handing the wine back to Jaime before rising to follow – a silent shadow.

Cersei was alive and missing. But if the Iron Throne was empty… there was only one place she would go.

He needed to get into the Red Keep.

Sansa Underfoot

Sansa was not built for clandestine operations. She was a lady, not a spy or a warrior or some such nonsense. Yet she found herself creeping towards Raventree Hall's rookery all the same, and for the first time in her life, she really wished she was more like Arya. Sansa's younger sister would have had no problems whatsoever with her current task. She probably would have completed it the day she had the idea, rather than waiting nearly a week just to gather enough courage to try it.

It may have taken her a little while, but she had bucked up enough to try her desperate plan, so that was something.

"Sorry, ser," Sansa mumbled, head bowed and eyes studiously counting flagstones as she jumped out of the path of a passing knight. He grumbled something unintelligible, then continued walking, not even giving her a second glance. Honestly, that was just rude.

Uh, Sansa? You're trying NOT to be noticed!

Oh, yeah. Right. Still rude.

Sansa continued her walk, not at all aided by her trembling hands and frantic heartbeat. The maid's outfit she'd managed to pinch from the laundry as she picked up her clothes was itchy and uncomfortable, but it hid her well enough. Fortunately, she was not the only one in the castle with crimson red locks, so the tresses that gave her away instantly in the North actually helped her blend in. Talk about irony.

Pitcher of water in hand, she reached the door to the rookery and curtseyed to the guards baring the door.

"The mistress says I'm to replace the ravens' water," Sansa said, lightening her voice to disguise the shakiness.

"All right," one of the men said, pulling a key from his belt and unlocking the door. "Quickly now."

Seriously? It was that easy?

Again, with the complaining!? Just move!

Sansa dipped into another curtsey, then darted up the stairs a touch faster than she probably should have, but she wasn't taking any chances they'd slam the door closed on her. Fortunately, Sansa's years of dancing had gifted her with light footfalls, so she was able to climb the spiral staircase to the rookery in near-total silence. She paused at the top of the stairs, listening for any sounds within, but she heard nothing save the drumbeat in her ears, so she rounded the corner and stepped into the turret.

She'd made it. All by herself. She, Sansa Stark, had infiltrated the rookery of Raventree Hall.

Arya would be so proud of her right now.

Quickly, Sansa, you've no time for dawdling!

Placing the pitcher on the ground, she withdrew the raven scrolls she'd kept tucked between her breasts and got to work. First, a letter to Robb, explaining everything she knew and not so subtly pleading for him to hurry up and send a rescue party for her. Or a ransom. At this point, she didn't really care; she just wanted out of the fucking castle and away from that gods' forsaken tree. Next, a letter to Goldflower and Sunhair with much the same information (though without the begging, she was more cultured than that). Hopefully, Margaery and Myrcella could use what little Sansa knew to better strategise and defeat Stannis' army. Finally, her gamble. A letter for Barbara Bracken, assuming she was even still alive. If Tytos Blackwood's ego wouldn't let him seek a deal with the Brackens, Sansa would do her darndest to make one under his extremely long nose. Convincing Blackwood to write to the Lannisters was an excellent first step; this was part two. If she could pull this off, get the Lannisters, the Blackwoods, the Mallisters and whoever was leading the Brackens in the same room, they might be able to hash out an alliance and finally deal Stannis a decisive blow.

She could only hope, and it was all she could do from here. If it worked? Well, Sansa deserved a whole flagon of wine.

Setting the ravens to flight, Sansa grabbed the pitcher and filled the water basins before hurrying back down the stairs. The guards didn't even acknowledge her as she left, and Sansa rolled her eyes in contempt. Honestly, if she were in command of this castle, she'd have those two disciplined. Not even checking who goes into the rookery? Unbelievable.

Sansa's inner voice could do nothing but sigh as she made her way back to her rooms. The second she locked the door, she started dancing, a beaming smile blossoming across her face as she screamed into a pillow.

The Doom of Slaver's Bay

Daenerys folded Goldflower's letter and tucked it into her rucksack beside the second message delivered by rider yesterday. A letter from Khal Jommo demanding she meet him for single combat in Vaes Dothrak, where he'd apparently set himself up.

Two weeks had passed since she'd made her power-play, and her scouts said the Dothraki were split. Half were coming to Daenerys and her promises; the other half had retreated to the Womb of the World, waiting to see what would happen. Right now, Daenerys had the strongest khalasar after Jommo – it seemed Tyrion's gambit had paid off; the offer of new lands to conquer and a new purpose drew in the horse lords of the Dothraki Sea like a moth to a flame. Forty-thousand were already amassing along the banks of the Skahazadhan, with more coming by the day. So many that the first signs of a permanent settlement had begun to appear, with wooden huts and temples being raised to the Mother of Mountains and the Silver Rider.

Letters tucked away; Daenerys gripped the amulet Rhaenys had given her. The sigil of House Targaryen gilded in silver, printed on a flat metallic coin with a rippling pattern of red and black within the metal. It was gorgeous, not just in appearance, but for what it meant as well. It was supposed to symbolise a new era for their house. An age of unity, not just amongst the family but throughout Westeros as well.

"Are you sure she's here?" Came the distinctive voice of one Tyrion Lannister from a short distance behind her, followed by several sets of footsteps. "Because times up, we need to talk about what happens next…."

"The Queen will speak when she intends to speak, dwarf," Grey Worm stated. "You will wait until she does."

Daenerys had taken up her vigil at the edge of the longest dock in Meereen's harbour. The Dragon's Wrath, her newly completed flagship, was docked a few metres behind her. It and the almost three-hundred ships filling the port beyond were ready to sail on her word. The dragons soared overhead, their cries sometimes loud enough to reach the shore as they dove for fish or snapped up seagulls and waterfowl.

One last trip and Dany would be home. One last voyage and all she'd ever wanted could be hers.

"Uh… your Grace? What are you wearing?"

That was Varys, Master of Whisperers to Daenerys own father, and to hear him tell it, an agent of her brother Rhaegar before his passing. She wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.

Daenerys had dressed in a new set of Dothraki leathers today, chosen by her blood-riders, Missandei, and both her old and her new Dothraki attendants. Her long hair had been braided in a half-dozen different swirling patterns; tiny bells tressed throughout. Combined with the rucksack tied to her back with a tight rope, Daenerys intentions were unmistakable.

"Good, you're all here. I've been waiting for you."

Daenerys spun around, plastering a warm smile on her face, pushing down all her fears about what was to come and the decisions she'd have to make. Rhaenys, Arianne and Tyrion stood at the head of the group, Varys, Aggo, Grey Worm, Strickland, Daario and the Sand-Snakes behind. Jorah, Connington and Oberyn – the three tallest – brought up the rear. Missandei, who'd accompanied Dany to the docks, stood a little way to the side.

"I have made my final decision. Here and now, the Doom of Slaver's Bay is to be decided."

Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief while Oberyn clasped his hands together, a fevered look of glee in his eyes.

"So, we are going home then? Good. I can't wait to sink my spear into Tywin Lannister's throat."

This was the moment. All her careful deliberations boiled down to this. Had she decided right or wrong? What had she missed? Had she been deceived?

No turning back now.

"We will be travelling to Westeros," Daenerys said. "But not together, and not at the same time."

"Smart," Tyrion said. "Less chance of retaliation, and we'll hold the element of surprise."

"Princess Rhaenys will lead the Golden Company and the bulk of the fleet to Sunspear. Make berth in a port we know is safe, then assess the situation from there."

Rhaenys nodded, a smile splintering across her face. Strickland and Connington both looked ready to argue, but a single sharp look had them holding their tongues. She really needed to explore why she seemed to have that effect on Connington, but now wasn't the time. Rhaenys was a Targaryen, a Dragonlord, and they would follow her orders. Especially if it meant they could finally go home.

"Strickland, Connington; prepare your men and your war weapons. I'm certain they'll be needed before we can claim Westeros as secure – regardless of who is sitting on the Iron Throne when we arrive."

Daenerys spotted Jorah's eyes tightening out of the corner of her gaze. He'd noticed that Dany hadn't said she'd be with the fleet. Oberyn caught it too.

"Daario; the Stormcrows and the Second Suns will remain here in Meereen with a third of the Unsullied. I trust that, together, you'll hold the city from any outside forces. Particularly considering I'm going to be paying you quite handsomely, and I'm sure your men will prefer guard duty and good pay rather than betraying me at the behest of an opposing house in Westeros?"

Daario snorted, not refuting her statement. But his face fell rather blatantly, and anyone who looked could tell he intended to have words with her later. He wouldn't get the chance. Daenerys had already put the next steps in motion. If all went to plan, she wouldn't see him again for a very long time. It was for the best. She couldn't risk being tied down when she returned home, by him or his sellswords. They were a major risk and hazard – with the potential to betray her very quickly. At least here, the incentives to turn their backs on her would be far less. And, if Dany was honest, she preferred Arianne's company. Daario had a tendency to just agree with everything Daenerys said – both in bed and beyond it. That wasn't the counsel she needed.

"However, I will be leaving a council in charge of the city in my absence; Lord Tyrion will be my voice."

Daenerys bowed to the dwarf, whose jaw was hanging open slightly.

"My Lord, can I rely on you to uphold peace in the Bay of Dragons until I can return? You'll have the leaders of the Freemen on your side, and Missandei has agreed to stay with you as a translator, instructor, and counsellor. She has my authority and voice – trust her."

Tyrion swallowed, then straightened his back and clenched his teeth, eyes shining with determination.

"Good. Once Westeros is secure, I promise I will do everything in my power to guarantee Casterly Rock is yours. I am no liar, and no thief. Serve me faithfully, and the castle is yours."

"Thank you, your Grace… Thank you."

Excellent. She had a feeling the man would rise to the challenge – and the trust – if she placed it upon his shoulders. He was desperate for recognition, and Daenerys would give him just that if he succeeded.

"If Yunkai becomes a problem – and I suspect it will – you have my permission to do what you must to rectify the problem and secure your position. Just remember, the people come first. If it comes down to the freemen or the noblemen, kill the nobles."

Tyrion and Daario both nodded, so Daenerys turned to the Martells.

"Princess Arianne will accompany me to Sunspear so she can take up her seat as Princess of Dorne."

Arianne raised an eyebrow, before offering a sultry curtsey. Dany had to resist the urge to smirk at her.

"But Prince Oberyn, Lady Obara, Lady Nymeria, Lady Sarella… I have a different mission in mind for you, if you are willing."

"What mission?" Oberyn asked, narrowing his eyes.

Daenerys looked back to the sea, face contorting into a sneer as she squeezed the cold metal of the necklace in her hand. "I have a problem I was hoping you would be willing to help me solve. A problem I believe your particular skillsets are amenable to solving for me. You see, there is one major slave-city still out there, and I have it on good authority that the Volantene are none too pleased with my disruption of their primary source of income. Lord Varys' little birds say the Old Blood are preparing to retaliate. I plan to give them something else to worry about."

"How do you intend to do that?" Connington asked, "the Volantene fleet is five-hundred ships strong, and the walls are built of dragonstone – impervious to fire. Not to mention, the city houses siege weapons capable of destroying anything we could throw at them. Even dragons."

"You're right," Daenerys answered. "Attacking by sea would be suicide. Which is why I don't intend to attack by sea."

"Ah," Oberyn whistled, now seeing her point. "The Dothraki. Volantis is not so well defended on the inland side." Daenerys spun back around; lips turned upwards.

"Precisely. Prince Oberyn, I would ask that you lead half the Dothraki force to Volantis via land while your daughters infiltrate the city and report any weaknesses they can find. It will take time, but a khalasar doesn't move fast – especially a large one. More than enough to set up inside the city."

The three girls – Obella, Nymeria and Sarella – all looked to one another, then they turned back to Daenerys.

"We'll do it," Nymeria said. Oberyn glanced to his daughters, then back to Daenerys, indecision etched across his face. Did he see what Daenerys intended? A clever gambit. Oberyn would be useful in Westeros, she had no doubt, but given his lust for revenge, she couldn't trust him not to lose sight of the greater goal and go after Tywin Lannister or the Mountain before she was ready. Daenerys intended for both men to pay with their lives for what they'd done to Kings Landing and to Elia and little Aegon, but for now, Tywin was supposedly on their side, and for Jon and Margaery's plan to work, he needed to stay that way. Sending Oberyn's daughters into Volantis was the perfect distraction to keep him in the east. Two birds, one stone.

Oberyn grit his teeth, searching Daenerys eyes for the plot hidden beneath. Eventually, he took a deep breath and bowed.

"As you command. But I want Tywin Lannister's head, your Grace. And the Mountain's as well. I will ride on Volantis for you, but then, if the deed is not done, I will see it done myself, and Doran is no longer here to stop me."

Good enough.

"But Princess," Arianne said, stepping slightly forward. "Where are you going? You're not going with the fleet, and you're not staying here…."

"No," Daenerys confirmed, glancing towards Drogon, who was flying high overhead. "I will meet the fleet in Westeros, but I have some unfinished business first. Drogon and I will fly for Vaes Dothrak once we're done here. Leaving a second khalasar behind to stab us in the back is foolish, so I intend to dissolve it. One way or another."

"Go. Make your preparations," Daenerys said, taking the necklace and clasping it around her neck. Decision made, future cemented. This was her path now, and she would see it through until she came face to face with her nephew. Then… then she would judge him and his wife in person. If she found deception, her next move would be simple. If she found family… she wasn't sure what she'd do. After all, she had no intention of becoming the junior member of some partnership, but if Margaery had a plan as she claimed she did, maybe Daenerys didn't need to know.

"I want the fleet en-route within a week. I'll meet you when I can. I doubt my excursion will take long."

The assembled group bowed and curtsied before splintering off and hurrying back the way they came. Until it was only Rhaenys, Jorah, Arianne and Missandei waiting on the dock.

"You're going to rain fire again?" Rhaenys asked, biting her lip.

"Yes," Daenerys said simply, stomach twisting at the memory. "But only on the khals. I know where they will be and how to strike. I just need to know when."

"I don't like the idea of you going alone, Khalessi," Jorah said, one hand on his sword hilt, the other scratching his forehead. "Any number of things could go wrong."

"I know. But speed is key, and the dragons aren't ready to carry me, you, your armour, your weapons, and provisions for both of us. Don't worry, though; I don't intend to go alone."

Daenerys looked to Arianne with a smile, just in time to watch her eyes bulge out of her head.

"Me? Ride a dragon?!"

"Unless you're scared…."

"NO!" Arianne exclaimed, a beaming smile warping onto her face as she looked up to Drogon, flying lower and lower by the second. "I… I'd be honoured to accompany you, your Grace."

Daenerys winked at her, while Jorah just rolled his eyes.

"Please, Jorah. Go with Rhae. Protect her until I can catch up with you. She'll need all the help she can get." Then Dany turned back to Rhaenys. "You'll need to keep Rhaegal and Viserion under control until I return. Can you do that?"

Rhaenys nodded, then jumped forward and pulled Dany into a fierce hug.

"See you soon," Rhaenys whispered into her ear.

"I promise," Daenerys replied.

They split apart, and Rhaenys walked away, grabbing Jorah's arm as she did so. Jorah did not look happy. However, to his credit, he let Rhaenys drag him away, leaving only Daenerys alone with Missandei and Arianne. Quickly, she pulled her friend into a similar hug, squeezing for all she was worth.

"Keep the dwarf from being skewered for me, would you?"

"Of course, Your Grace. And I'll be watching for your return."

"You better be." Daenerys pulled away, then kissed Missandei on the forehead. With one final glance back to the pyramid, Dany took Arianne's hand and walked to the edge of the dock.

"Drogon!" She called, and the dragon responded, arcing low.

"Oh, holy gods, this is insane," Arianne muttered. "I'm going to ride a dragon. And not just metaphorically! Best. Day. Ever!"

Se Vesterozia

'I conclude therefore that true freedom is not, as the Faith claims, a peaceful life in service to the Seven Gods. If such an existence were, in fact, freedom, why then do those who profess as such segregate the participation of men and women within their order? As the research I have described above attests, women are fifty-three per cent more likely to worship the Faith in an active manner than men are, yet women who join the institution itself are relegated to second-class participation. They cannot lead sermons, nor has a woman ever been chosen for a leadership position, certainly not as High-Septon.

Yet, I also dispute the definition put forward by the Citadel. 'Freedom is the ability for men to live without infringement on their house and family,' so says Maester Amyr, yet he appears to have confused freedom with the holding of property. As such, I deem him a fool and would ask should our paths cross which lord paid him to write as such. If freedom is the possession of property and household and the knowledge that such things shall not be violated, then only the Great Houses can genuinely claim to be free. For even House Tyrell, long considered the least reactive of the powers of Westeros, could raise its levies to decimate a rival's lands and rape their family should it so choose. How does the esteemed Maester and his colleagues deem to describe the life of a farmer who must open his fields and larders to any passing army less he be destroyed? He has property and a family, yet the army has no qualms about violating it. Where is his freedom?

Freedom has little to do with property or faith; I propose freedom as a far more personal a concept. It is choice. A man with true freedom can decide his own fate. The path he wishes to tread in life is up to him and no other. That is freedom. A woman's power to leave a place she believes does not value her, or the right to say no when the army camps upon your doorstep and demands tribute. If this truly is a 'free world', why then do we live in constant fear? Why is the bastard child inherently evil when the trueborn is not? Why does the Faith or the Citadel believe excluding women from their ranks is a valid act? I say it does not, and that both the order of Maesters and the Faith of the Seven are hypocrites.

Let them retort as they will, for I possess a voice you cannot silence, unlike the countless women who have come before me. I am Margaery of the House Tyrell. Declare me a heretic or destroy my work, and you simply prove my point. My freedom is my choice, and this is how I will use it.'

Margaery lay her quill down on the desk and pressed her shaking hand on her belly to calm herself.

"Another chapter finished," Margaery whispered as Mira appeared beside her, looking at the sheets of parchment on the desk as if they were some holy thing. "Bring the new pages to the scribe on the Street of Ink. He already has the first sections."

Mira nodded, swallowing in the back of her throat.

"Marge… are you sure this is wise? You will be banished from the Church… the Citadel may even condemn you," Mira said, taking the ink-stained pages in her hands and cradling them to her bosom.

"Yes. I am already near to ex-communication anyway, given I refused to reveal the father of my 'bastard' when the new High-Septon showed his face last week."

That had been a harrowing week indeed, and it certainly didn't help that Margaery's mood had her on the edge of tears near the entire time for no reason.

"But if Jon is to be a King, won't this undermine him…."

"If the Senate is ever to be a reality, we will need to drag the Faith and the Citadel with us as much as we do the Great Houses. If the Faith declares our work a heresy before we even start, we will never win the people over. If I make the first move, and the minor lords read my words and think over their meanings before the Faith or the Citadel has a chance to retaliate, I am already three steps ahead. Jon is out there, fighting for his life and the new world we're trying to build… I can't just… just sit and wait until the babe is born before helping him. I have to do something. He needs to win the war, but I have to secure it for him and our babe. Protect the kingdoms from shattering apart once more."

Mira bowed her head before taking the pages and retreating from the room. Margaery rose to her feet and followed behind a few minutes later, greeting passers-by with kind words and a smile. Given her current state, it took far longer to reach the spot than it used to.

It was simply hers now. She spent so much time on the one balcony no one else even dared to use it. Yet another example of freedom restrained by power.

Margaery had spent the weeks since Jon's departure in a frenzy of work. From sunup to sundown, her quill was dipped in ink, writing and discarding pages upon pages. She needed to get this right, needed to prove to herself that she mattered without Jon standing beside her. She couldn't stand in the heart of the war and help him – not only would anything she said be ignored, but Jon would never stop worrying about her safety. At least in Highgarden, she was constantly protected, eternally shadowed by a half-dozen guards, or two dozen if she even tried to leave the palace, something all but forbidden to her now. She certainly wasn't allowed back down to the Warrens; Grandmother nearly had a heart attack when Margaery tried and failed to sneak away two weeks previously. She might have managed it too if the baby hadn't decided to press against Margaery's bladder as she made her daring escape.

So, Margaery had poured all her efforts into study and writing – the construction of her own treatise. The never-ending tirade of thoughts in her mind condensed into a single text and presented in such a way that anyone could read it – well, everyone who could read. Others could have it read to them. If she could get this completed before the war was over, then published and dispersed, she'd outwit the Maesters and the Faith before they even realised she was a threat.

She even had a title. 'Se Vesterozia.' The People of Westeros. Perhaps that was somewhat on the nose, but she didn't care. Margaery had long since consumed nearly every text on philosophy and political theory she could get her hands on. Debating the mechanics of power between the Great Houses, what constituted proper military strength, or the best tactics for maintaining a stable government were all essential subjects, that Margaery didn't deny. But the Maesters cared little for addressing issues from perspectives that weren't their own. Margaery intended to change that. Her book would be about the people of Westeros instead of the institutions like the crown that held it up; the nation, not the country.

She stepped onto the balcony, closed her eyes and took a long breath of fresh air. Yes, this was how she could contribute for now. She still had no news of Sansa, Myrcella was out of contact, Robb was riding towards the Wall to deal with this Wildling army before it became a problem, she had no idea where Arya or Bran were, and Jon was on the frontlines. He wrote to her as often as he could, but it was no surprise that was few and far between, given how fast the host was moving. His task was the war – the here and now. She could work on what came after – a book and a babe. She wished, wished so very, very hard, for a baby boy. And, if she was lucky, he would even have silver hair. A true Targaryen, and no one would be able to doubt…

Smoke.

There was ash on the wind.

Margaery's eyes snapped open, fixating on a funnel of black clouds rising from… oh gods, from the Warrens.

"Find out what's going on! Send sand crews and water teams down there! NOW!" Margaery barked to her guards, and three of them raced away at once. Every part of her screamed to get down there. To help. To do something. That was no ordinary woodsmoke, and the black ash ridden smoke was stark against the grey, cloud-covered sky. Oh, if only it would rain!

Grandmother. She needed to find Grandmother…

But there was something else. We're those… sails? In the middle distance? Yes. Coming up the Mander were perhaps a half-dozen small sail craft; the type usually used to transport goods. And they bore the sigil of House Hightower of Oldtown. Those would be the shipments of masonry for restoring the collapsed barracks on the southern side of the lower ring. A shipment that should have come a week ago.

Coincidence?

This was no coincidence.

Highgarden was under attack.

Authors Notes: So, apparently it's Saturday, not Friday. Meh, here's 7,000 words, Margaery, and some braid-tugging.

On a slightly different track, anyone have any good Harry/Daphne fics they can rec me? Lockdown sucks.