A/N: Chap 33 review responses are in my forums as normal. Thanks all for reading.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Another Brick in the Wall
On his third day in King's Landing, the day after the Queen's Mage Quaithe gave birth to Adjorah Mormont, Bran Stark took his first unaided steps across the room in the royal quarters of the Red Keep.
Oh, he'd walked before. During the three weeks after they settled the Free Folk and suffered their first open attack of the White Walkers, he'd practiced walking every day with the Force. But on that third day after he rode on Saphira at the queen's side, he took steps without aid of his crutches or the Force.
His thighs trembled somewhat, and the tendons in his ankles and the back of his knees felt terribly loose and wobbly, but even so he walked carefully around the burgundy Myrish carpet that softened the stones of his chambers.
Each step consumed the entirety of his concentration, which is why he did not sense the intruder until the tips of her sandals came into view. He looked up in surprise before stumbling back. He would have fallen rather spectacularly if his intruder had not yelped in dismay and jumped to aid him.
"Lord Bran, I'm so sorry!" the thirteen-year-old Lady Baratheon declared as she caught his arm and softened his fall. "I thought...you normally know when I arrive!"
Bran felt his cheeks burning from embarrassment, but just like his brothers never let him shy away from his own follies, neither did the queen. He'd grown accustomed to admitting his own foibles. "I was concentrating on just walking."
"Oh." A moment later the girl's eyes widened. "OH! Lord Bran, were you...were you walking unaided?"
He nodded. To his surprise, Shireen laughed and clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, that's wonderful! Wonderful news! I'm so very pleased for you. May I help you up?"
And that was Shireen in a nutshell. She wasn't the prettiest girl in Red Keep, but she was without a doubt the kindest and most thoughtful. And in her unofficial role as the Queen's Secretary, she was also developing some political power. Just the day before, one of the Maesters the Queen had running around the Red Keep came to Shireen with a question. More importantly, it was a question she was able to answer.
"If you'd be willing to fetch my crutches I'd be grateful," Bran told her. It felt odd to summon it to his hand in front of her. He didn't want to show off.
"Of course!" She strode firmly across his room. Like the queen often did, the young Lady Baratheon did not wear a dress. Rather, she wore dark red velvet culottes that bloomed about her waist like a dress, but parted easily with her steps. Over it she wore a light woolen blouse with a silken overcoat of matching burgundy, but with cloth-of-gold stags and amethyst dragons woven artfully into it. She returned and handed the crutches to Bran.
He did not use the Force to regain his footing, so it took more effort than normal, but doing so helped him build his muscles further. Reaching with his magic (No, Force, he reminded himself), he felt his queen's summons. "She sent for us?" He asked for Shireen's sake.
She nodded. "Shall we go?"
"Of course." Though weak, he moved much faster than he used to on the crutches. In fact, he depended on them less and less each day. Still, the Red Keep was replete with stairs in every direction, and he found the crutches still helped him navigate such. It was only a matter of time before he didn't need them.
Rhaenys never offered him an alternate means of getting around the keep; she expected him to find a way. But when he did, he could feel her approval. Not so much a test, he reasoned, as a benchmark of his progress.
When they arrived at the Small Council chambers, they found the Queen busy reviewing parchments. Lord Tyrion sat one chair over to her right, leaving the right chair empty for Bran himself. Without looking up, the queen said, "Have a seat, Bran. Shireen."
Shireen curtsied with perfect court manners and moved about to her separate writing desk near the queen. She wasn't technically a part of the Small Council, but as the queen's secretary she stayed close.
Lord Admiral Seaworth walked into the room at a brisk pace, pausing only long enough for a perfunctory bow. "I apologize for my tardiness, your grace," he said.
She waved the apology away while continuing to read whatever it was Lord Tyrion gave her. "You're fine, Davos. Have a seat."
So, they came, the men and women who ran the kingdom. Lady Commander Brienne stepped into the room in full armor, with her gold cloak hanging from her shoulders. Lord Varys slithered his way in, his mind unusually quiet to Bran's senses. Then again, the man was unreadable even to the queen unless she intentionally violated his thoughts.
Rezhal Mo Zhaeq sauntered in beside Laswell Pyke. Each man bowed before assuming their seats beside Ser Davos.
Maester Marwyn sat where the Lady Quaithe would ordinarily sit, if she were not still recuperating from the birth of her son. Though the Maester had his specialty in magic, in truth Bran thought the man quite knowledgeable in many fields of study. More than any at the table, he'd also travelled more of the world.
The other Maester the queen had appointed to the council was a short, squat, balding man named Haerwyn. He was an archmaester of architecture.
The last to enter made Bran's cheeks burn with the way he leered at the queen. Prince Oberyn Martell was freshly returned from pacifying the Westerlands. With his brother Prince Doran's return to Dorne, the younger brother had come to King's Landing to represent Dorne's interest.
The queen didn't even look up from the parchments as the Dornish prince helped himself to wine and took the far seat opposite. Finally, she finished and handed the stack back to Lord Tyrion.
"Excellent work, Tyrion," she said with a genuine smile. "We're getting very close. We may have to split it out, though. We don't want the treasury lending money. Let's keep the royal bank a chartered institution, rather than one under direct royal decree. The crown will still require majority ownership, but I'd rather have a professional managing it full time, with a separation of public and crown assets."
Tyrion furiously took down notes, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he did so. "Not the Iron bank, but the Gold Bank of Volantis recently had a change of staff with the latest election. We might be able to poach some experienced hands."
"Good thinking. Make the inquiry, see what we can turn up." With that, she swept the table with her black-gold eyes. "My friends. Thank you for coming. Lady Brienne, would you like to start with your report?"
So it went. Shireen scribbled furiously as, one by one, the members of the queen's council gave their weekly report on the state of the city and the kingdom. The reports were concise, but even so the queen often asked pointed questions. Of Brienne, Rhaenys asked about the new recruits.
The other Maester at the table, Master Haerwyn, answered detailed questions regarding a proposal for a sewer system. The questions turned into sketches where the queen wanted a means to ensure storms or high tides wouldn't wash the sewage back into the city. The scope of the project left Bran somewhat speechless, until the squat, bald, pot-bellied Maester pointed out the tunnels that already wormed their way through the city's foundations.
"Just a matter of firming them up and building the aqueduct to make sure the water goes where we wish, just like the Valyrians did. That liquid rock formula you helped us develop is going to change the city, you grace. Within my lifetime, you'll see."
"Liquid rock?" Prince Oberyn hadn't been paying attention until that moment. "What's this?"
"Concrete," the queen said. "A thick slurry that dries into a stone. You can shape it with wooden forms. You might also know it as Valyrian stone. My ancestors used a type of ash from the volcanoes of Valyria that made the concrete black, but pumice or other ash will work almost as well. Using existing tunnels where we can, hopefully we can get the sewers built with minimal disruption to the city. As soon as we do, I anticipate illnesses to drop markedly."
"And you know this how, my niece?" The prince sat up in his chair as he cradled his cup of wine. "Like the last meeting. You speak of things that not even Maesters know, and speak of it as if it was common knowledge. How do you know these things?"
"The lands beyond Asshai use concrete," the queen said with a casual shrug. "So, when I saw it in Volantis I recognized what it was. The formula, though, took experimentation to get right. How many versions did we try, Maester Haerwyn?"
"'Bout a hundred and fifty, Your Grace," the man said. Rather than be upset about it, he sounded thrilled by the difficulty of it.
"And it took more tries than that for the blasting powder," Rezhal pointed out as he sipped his watered wine. "Days and days."
"I know things from my reading, uncle," the queen said with a steady expression. "But I don't know everything. So, I learn. Or I recruit others to help me learn, until we get it right. And all benefit."
"Just so," Oberyn said, with a nod. "None can argue that all have benefitted from having you on the throne."
"Thank you," the queen said with a humorless smile. Though Bran knew his queen had some affection for Prince Doran, she didn't seem to share the same feelings for Oberyn. "Lord Admiral, how goes the fleet?"
Ser Davos clasped his partially mutilated hands together-the leather of his gloves squeaked faintly. "Well, your grace," the former smuggler said. "We caught four slavers and ten smugglers trying to pass through the Stepstones. Their crews were seized and ships impounded for auction. The slaves were mostly Summer Islanders or Lazhareen, and have been sent back home."
"Good. And the Alchemist Guild?"
"Most have already relocated to White Harbor, your grace," Davos reported somberly. "None too happy about it. But when I told them why, they seemed to go along well enough. I've dedicated two skippers to transporting of materials to keep them working."
"Excellent work. Anything else?"
"A flotilla came from Slaver's Bay," the admiral said. "Ten ships, seven hundred men. They hoisted back flags of war and attacked Port Royal."
The queen sat up in alarm. "Why am I just now hearing about this?"
Davos snorted. "They didn't even make it to the harbor mouth, your grace. Those fortifications you put in? Had every ship sunk within ten minutes of their flags rising. The Dornish ships holding the port pulled a few men from the water to get the story. Slaver's Bay is burning. The cities are fighting each other and the slaves are revolting. The slavers blame you."
The queen leaned back in her seat. "I see. When did you get word?"
"Yesterday evening, your grace. If not for the morning's meeting I'd have told you sooner."
"Okay. Attacks from foreign cities or states? Go ahead and tell me sooner rather than later. Eventually I'm going to go back and clean Slaver's Bay out. Just as soon as I know Westeros is safe. Speaking, what's the word, Varys?"
"The word is Qarth, my queen," the spymaster said. "The Faceless Men of Bravos have received five separate contracts from Qarth for your assassination that we know of. Likely more that we don't. All within the past six months."
The queen seemed neither alarmed nor surprised. "The Sealord of Bravos is a very reasonable man, as I recall."
Varys smirked. "I have always found him to be so. The House of Black and White has many dedicated followers, and provides a service to the people of Braavos no others provide. The Sealord explained to the leaders of that house how much it would pain the people if they were to find their temple burned to rubble by dragon fire."
Across the table, Rezhal snorted. "Which would be why we know about these offers?"
Varys bobbed his head. "Just so."
"The Warlocks have made a few more attempts," the queen admitted. "Unfortunately, that will take as much effort as cleaning out Slaver's Bay. In the meantime, Varys, spread the word. Five thousand golden dragons for the head of any warlock of Qarth."
That raised a few brows. "Do you think any will be successful, your grace?" Lady Brienne asked
"Not at all. They're warlocks. They have magic. But it'll give them something to think about until I can take Temeraire back there to burn the city to the ground."
The queen leaned back in her chair. "Rezhal?"
"The mercenaries have been released from their contracts, those that wish to leave," he said. "I'm training the new levies and those fighting men who chose to stay. Lord Laswell has been handling the cavalry."
"The new recruits are shite," Laswell said. "Most barely know how to sit astride a horse, much less ride."
"I have no doubt you'll teach them well," the Queen said. "Lord Commander Stannis reports three more incursion attempts by the Others. They were minor attempts—the wights climbed the Wall and attacked those men at the top. One had an ice-spider the size of a horse. There were fatalities, but the incursions were repulsed each time. The Night King is probing for weaknesses."
"There's a massive amount of wall to defend," Laswell noted.. "Even with Ser Baelor's men and those wildlings you've set free, there's still more wall than people to defend it."
"I've been thinking about that," the queen agreed. "Which is why I've commissioned a rail system to be built along the base of the wall."
"A rail system?" Oberyn asked.
Maester Haerwyn answered for the queen. "Bloody genius, it is. Take a YiTish mine cart rail, widen it and make the rails with steel 'stead 'o beams, and make big bleedin' carts to carry men. And the queen drew up these things—pedals with bloomin' big cogs and chains that drive the things! The men sit there and kick their feet, and the cart goes. A hundred men can fly down the rail faster than the fastest horse."
"It'll be a lot of work—years' worth, really," the queen said. "But by the time it's done we'll be able to move men much faster along the base of the wall to help shore up attacks."
"The cost will be significant," Tyrion noted. "Along with the sewer work…"
"The cost of losing the wall will be worse," the queen noted. When no one added anything else, the queen nodded and moved on. "Speaking of cost, Varys, have you heard from our emissary to the Summer Islands?"
The man brightened. "Indeed, I received a raven from Magister Mopatis just last night. He is happy to report his negotiations have been successful. The Summer Island Trading Company has been incorporated with the Iron Throne as a major partner, along with select Magisters of Pentos and the Sealord of Bravos. The Prince Jhaldabara Jhon is the fourth partner. According to the raven, the first shipment of sugar left under escort for Port Royal."
Prince Oberyn choked a little as he struggled not to spit wine. "You partnered with Summer Islanders?"
"It is my goal, Uncle, to have the Iron Throne and royal family expenses be separate and independent of the kingdom's finances," the queen said. "I do not want the people's taxes used for my personal benefit except where necessary for the operation of the government. Nor will I use the kingdom's coin to make investments for my personal benefit. Instead, I had Varys work with his friend from Pentos to invest my own, personal funds. I own outright the distillery at Port Royal, and my personal brand of rum will be sold across the Narrow Sea. Doing so allows me to fund the Red Keep while allowing taxes and fees to go toward the betterment of the kingdom, and the war efforts."
"Her grace is very wealthy," Lord Tyrion noted somberly. Bran fought back a giggle-the man sounded as if he were praising the Seven themselves.
"But you own the city, why would you need to invest in Summer Islanders?"
Tyrion cleared his throat. "If it pleases you, Prince Oberyn, tonight I shall share some Royal Crown Rum with you. Perhaps then you'll understand better."
The queen nodded firmly, dismissing it. "Now, it's time to discuss the upcoming first session of Parliament, and where to hold it…"
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
"Bran, go! Go! Hodor, take him and go!"
Bran woke with a start. Meera's terrified screams echoed in his ears, fading only to the sound of insects coming from the godswood below the windows of his chambers. Taking deep breaths, Bran called on the Force to slow his raging heart and stem the tide of tears that always threatened when he thought of Meera.
When he had a semblance of control, he sat up from his bed and looked at the thick woolen robe that hung over the footboard of his head. With a gesture, it came to him. He doubted the magic he called the Force would ever flow through him as powerfully as it did the queen, but what he could use he found amazing. He stood with almost no effort and pulled on his robe.
The stairs made his legs tremble, but he did not pause as he made his way down to the Red Keep's godswood. Lady Quaithe, at the queen's direction, planted a weirwood sapling in the middle of the garden over the body of a dog the Shadowbinder herself had slaughtered. The weirwoods only took root in soil stained with the blood of a sacrifice.
As he came down, he saw black leaves under the half-light of the moon. The sapling was young, looking little different than any other plants. In fact, the leaves were still green and the bark brown. It would not be for three or more years that the leaves would turn red. Even so, Bran felt the spark of magic within it. It was still too small to see with, but in time he could use the tree to see the world.
He sat on the grass near the tree, pulled his legs up as the queen showed him, and tried to meditate.
Only to be interrupted once more by Lady Shireen Baratheon.
"Oh, I didn't...what are you doing out here?"
Bran turned and saw that the young lady's cheeks glistened in the moonlight. "I could ask the same. Are you well, my lady?"
She sniffed. "I'm fine, m'lord. I'm sorry to bother you, I'll…"
"You don't have to leave. I just had a bad dream, is all."
Lady Shireen sniffed and wiped her nose with a little kerchief of red silk. "A bad dream? I thought you and the queen didn't have bad dreams because of your magic."
Bran considered that, then shrugged. "Her grace has nightmares as well, m'lady. I know for a fact that she dreams often of the day Ser Selmy Barristan died, or her other friends who passed in the Firing. She was fond of him, and misses him even months later."
"And who do you miss, m'lord?" The question came out as if in jest, obviously not expecting an answer.
He answered anyway. "Her name was Meera Reed of House Reed, one of my father's vassal houses. She was screaming at me to leave when the Night King came for me. I...often hear her screams in my sleep."
For the longest time she stood staring down at him, her eyes wide and dark in the colorless moonlight. Finally, though, she drifted back and sat primly on one of the stone benches the queen had placed around the sapling.
"Was she...special to you?"
For the first time since returning to the south, Bran found the story spilling out. Of the Bolton's betrayal and attack; of escaping Winterfell and travelling north. Lady Shireen only spoke to ask clarifying questions, and then only rarely.
Bran told her about Jojen Reed's visions, and how Meera kept them fed and safe as they travelled. And when it came to that terrible day when his own hubris and foolishness shattered their safety, the flood or words slowed to a pained but steady trickle.
"I could have sent Hodor back, or had him hold the door. But I was afraid Meera wasn't strong enough to carry me. She thought so too-she used her trident to bolt the door and then held it as best she could, yelling at us to go and...and…"
The moisture on his cheek surprised him. Bran looked up to see if it was raining, and only when the stars blurred did he realize he was crying. He hadn't wept since he was very young-Stark men did not weep, after all. Not even when he woke to find his legs stolen from him, did Bran weep.
And to his even more intense surprise, Lady Shireen knelt in front of him, holding his hand with a look of acceptance and grief. No judgement nor condemnation for his sins. Just a simple sharing of grief for his loss, and regret for those no longer there.
In the midst of that, it dawned on Bran that she had been crying herself when she came. So, still holding her hand, he said, "And who have you lost, my lady?"
That's how Bran learned of the suicide of Shireen's mother, and how her uncles were burned alive by the wicked red woman. How she was sure her father would die, save for the queen's boundless mercy. By the time she finished, she, too, was weeping. Still they held hands until the words came to a halt and both felt empty and exhausted from the release.
Which is why, when the queen sat down between of them, both screamed in alarm. "Your...Your Grace!" Shireen sputtered.
In answer, the queen handed a cup to the young lady, and then another to Bran, before revealing a steeping pot. She poured what smelled like honey-sweetened tea for the two, before pouring a third for herself. "Chamomile," the queen said with a smile. "It's good for restless nights."
"You're...not upset with us?" Shireen asked.
The question seemed to surprise the queen. "Upset? Shireen, sit back down, sweetie."
The young lady complied, putting her on the queen's left and Bran on her right. They sipped their tea for a few long moments. Bran had to admit he enjoyed it. After weeping so openly, the warmth of it soothed his throat.
Overhead, they could see a distant red splotch in the sky; the Gods' Eye.
"It's a nebula," the queen said, following his gaze.
"A nebula?" Bran was not surprised that she sensed his thought.
"The sun that warms us is a star. It is neither special nor unique-every star in the sky is either a similar sun, or a cluster of them. Untold millions, in fact. Like us, stars grow old and die. They're fires, you see. Like a huge bonfire in the sky that can burn for billions of years. But even those billions of years will end, they run out of fuel like a fire runs out of wood. Smaller ones just go cold and dark. But the really big ones? They can explode, and sometimes form nebula just like that."
"Gods," Shireen whispered. "How...how do you know?"
Bran expected the queen to give her normal answer of magic. Instead, she surprised them both by placing her odd black helm on the ground in front of her. Beside it she placed what looked almost like a vambrace.
Shireen made a fascinated sound as the vambrace lit up with fey, alien light. And then, to their mutual shock, the air above it shimmered into a diorama. It featured a large, roiling mass of yellow-gold fire, with smaller circles spinning around it.
"This is our star system," the queen said softly. "That's your sun, there. That planet, the sixth out from the star? That's us. Our planet. Beyond that, a giant planet made only of gas."
"I don't understand," Shireen admitted.
Bran knew more, but only just. He'd never seen anything like this.
"I'm not from this world, Shireen. I go by Rhaenys Targaryen only because a man who loved Westeros more than his own life saw in me a way of ending the war and saving his land. I am, however, the Prince who was promised. My coming to this world was foretold by your ancestors millenia ago. I've come to save the world from the Others."
"But...why tell me this?" Shireen asked.
"Because her grace won't stay, when it's done." The moment he spoke, he realized how true his words were. "Because this is not your home. We aren't your people, not really."
Rather than argue, the queen placed her alien vambrace down, and then quietly took their hands. "Like yours, my world suffered through terrible wars. I was uniquely placed to help them recover. Not as a queen, but as a leader. I owe it to my family to return to them, and guide them into the stars. But I also owe it to you, and to Barristan Selmy and Missandei and Gray Worm and all the others to set your feet onto a better path. I wasn't sure how I was going to do that, until I met you, Bran. And you, Shireen."
His breath caught in his throat. "I'm not worthy," he whispered.
"Neither am I," the queen said with a wry smile. "And yet here we are. No one is ever worthy, Bran. That's the harshest lesson I've learned. Worthiness is not a state of being. It's a journey. I had to suffer badly before I finally realized that. And with the Force, I've placed your feet on the road to take that journey. I'm not going to teach you all of my science or technology. But I'm going to teach you all I can about the Force.
"Shireen, I'm not going to teach you all of my knowledge, but I'm going to try my best to give you the tools to achieve your own. And when it's time for me to go home, you two will assume the Iron throne as King and Queen."
"Queen…?" Shireen squeaked the word.
The queen chuckled, and hugged them both. "You two are adorable. This is the only time in my life when I'm glad for your betrothal traditions. If you accept, I intend to formally adopt Bran as my heir. And you, Shireen, I would very much like betrothed to him. It'll be a few more years before I can even think about leaving, so don't worry about being rushed into marriage before you're ready."
"I...your grace, I'm honored. But why me? I understand Lord Bran has the gift of magic, but…"
Only then, with the queen acting as a conduit, did Bran realize that Shireen, too, had the Force. It was, perhaps, not as strongly attuned as his own. And compared to the blazing power of the queen it seemed almost inconsequential, but it was there.
"Lady Shireen?" Bran asked softly.
She leaned over to see him around the queen.
"Yes?"
"For my part, I...think I would welcome such a betrothal. I think you would, more than any other save her grace, make an extraordinary queen."
The young lady's cheeks blushed. "I...thank you, my lord."
"My origins must remain secret for now, Shireen," the queen said gently. "My mission to save Westeros is too important to risk with internal squabbling. But tomorrow I will have the High Septon formalize my adoption of Bran as Brandon Stark Targaryen of House Targaryen. And, since your father has already given his blessing, I will announce your betrothal."
"I...thank you, your grace," Shireen said softly.
"You're welcome. Tomorrow night, come to my study. You'll be joining Bran and myself in our studies. For now, go get some sleep. We have a lot to do, the three of us."