A.N.: You're going to hate me. I mean really…hate.
Valyrian Steel
25
Fire and Blood
The air was thick with smoke and the screams of Dothraki bloodriders flinging themselves from their mounts to slash at Lannister soldiers struggling to raise their spears, shuddering with dread, as a great black dragon circled and banked over the river, his sheer proximity causing the water to hiss and bubble, as fire sparked in the back of his gullet, the only warning for a group of soldiers who saw him - and fled, screaming as Drogon belched fire upon them, setting alight wagons and the horses that pulled them, soldiers roasted inside their gilded-steel armour as their screams grew high and tinny, desperate to reach the river, now black with soot and the blood of soldiers slain by the Dothraki, the riverbanks littered with the still-burning dead turning to ash carried on the winds, carried in the water, as Dothraki bloodriders leapt through great curtains of flame, fearless, their horses charging through, biting and kicking, heedless of fear or injury, as the Westerosi soldiers buckled, and fell back, and were slain in their droves.
The Lannister line was buckling: Officers on horseback galloped behind their men, and Larra watched Ser Jaime Lannister, his gilded-steel hand gleaming, riding with no helmet, astride a beautiful white horse, encouraging his men to "Hold the line!"
For every spear that struck its target, felling a Dothraki horse and its bloodrider, a dozen Lannister soldiers were trampled underfoot as the horde advanced.
And Larra watched grimly, her eyes wide, and Robert Baratheon's voice inexplicably resounded in her head: "If the Targaryen girl convinces her horse-lord husband to invade, and the Dothraki horde crosses the Narrow Sea, we won't be able to stop them… We hole up in our castles, a wise move. Only a fool would meet the Dothraki in an open field… They leave us in our castles. They go from town to town, looting and burning, killing every man who can't hide behind a stone wall, stealing all our crops and livestock, enslaving all our women and children…"
Robert was right.
In matters of war, there was no-one with better instincts than Robert Baratheon, who had only lost a single battle… Possibly one better, Larra thought, Robb's face flickering in her mind. Robb had died undefeated. But even he could not have fought off the hordes, not in open field, and everyone knew it.
The Dothraki could not be defeated in open field. An irrefutable truth. They had never crossed the Narrow Sea. Now they had.
The screaming hordes of the Dothraki.
They were magnificent, Larra admitted it, bold, exultant in combat, utterly unafraid, in their leather vests and oiled braids, their arakhs gleaming in the firelight as they flung themselves from the saddle, their horses struck down by archers - and behind them, even more, an endless river of bloodriders, bellowing, pushing themselves up to stand on their saddles, aiming their wicked, curved bows. To watch a horde descend on its enemy…breath-taking.
Larra frowned.
There was no need to unleash the dragon. No need to belch fire upon the armies: The Dothraki were making quick work of the most well-trained army in Westeros.
She spied a glimmer of silver amid the shadows and smoke.
Daenerys Targaryen looked little more than a tick, dug in on Drogon's back.
Larra's lips parted, following the direction of the dragon - who vomited fire and caused a line of wagons and carts to explode in a fury, scattering debris.
"Was that food?" Larra muttered, glancing darkly at Brandon, who was watching, tall and shrewd beside her. On his other side was Sansa, wide-eyed, bewildered, and utterly horrified - she had been removed from the Battle of the Bastards, seen everything only from a distance, and the aftermath, the survivors covered in gore.
They were fully immersed, and Sansa flinched every time a bloodrider slashed their arakh, and jumped as Drogon set alight more men, her lips parting on gasps as her cheeks went ashen, hollowed, and the dragon wheeled and banked in the air, goring the earth with deep burns.
Ser Jaime Lannister, sat astride his fine white horse, organised archers, as Drogon flew high above, wheeling and circling back around.
The archers loosed their arrows: High above, Drogon shrieked and exposed his armoured belly, sweeping down dangerously fast, to incinerate more of the archers.
Fire burned everywhere, men screamed as they blistered and turned to ash, bloodriders bellowed as they revelled in the slaughter - and that was what it was.
It was no battle: It was a massacre.
And the Dothraki adored it. They hollered as they rode through the Lannister infantrymen, some swinging twin arakhs, some wielding barbed whips, some had wicked spears or blade-tipped bows. And every time Drogon vomited fire, the Dothraki screams grew louder, more aggressive, more triumphant - they followed the greatest khal, riding the most horrifying mount in their history.
She gave them glorious death: And they loved her for it.
It was chaos. Pure chaos, everything on fire: The smoke obscured the sky, turning day to night, and ash drifted through the air like snow. Everywhere, the clang of metal as arakh met broadsword and spears clashed, and shields shattered - or turned to dust as Drogon breathed great waves of fire across the plains, along with the men that hid behind them.
A slim man in plain leathers galloped on a dark horse, clashing with a bloodrider - and he ran, toward a canvas-covered wagon, pausing only to change direction, avoiding more bloodriders, and free the sword from a burning soldier's chest as he screamed, pinioned to a carriage, and killed a bloodrider, ducking as Drogon screamed overhead, the sky obscured by smoke and ash, everything burning, heat rippling in the air, and the strange screams of the dragon sent chills down the spines of all those who were still fighting.
He dived inside of the wagon, and a moment later, the sides of it fell away, unfolding to the ground like ramps, revealing the man - and the biggest crossbow Larra had ever seen. Not a crossbow, she remembered, thinking back to her cyvasse games with the boys. A scorpion. Robb used to use them against cavalry of armoured elephants - they had often argued over the practicality of any Essosi armies transporting the elephants across the Narrow Sea.
"The Dornish scorpion," Bran sighed softly. His eyes glimmered as he gazed at the weapon, and Larra focused on the man and the scorpion, as he primed the weapon with great spoked wheels, winching the bowstring back, and armed it with a steel spear six feet long, barbed and evil, heavy - and perfect for piercing tough flesh.
Anyone who knew their histories knew that a single, lucky bolt from a scorpion had pierced the dragon Meraxes' eye, striking the dragon dead in mid-flight, and causing Queen Rhaenys Targaryen to plummet to her death.
One lucky shot was all that slim man and his scorpion needed.
But the sky was choked with smoke. Day was night, and though Larra felt merely as if they were stood in some balmy meadow, to the soldiers, it would be blisteringly hot - smoke stinging their eyes, sweat drenching their bodies.
As the little man in the leathers primed the weapon that was going ignored by Daenerys Targaryen while she burned soldiers alive, Ser Jaime shouted, "Take cover!"
They were close enough to Ser Jaime to see the look on his face as the men in front of him turned from flesh to fire to ash in a heartbeat, brushed away by the wind. He closed his eyes, shock and agony flitted across his face. Devastation quickly turned to grim determination as he opened his eyes, and set his jaw.
Men stood a chance of surviving against the hordes: There was no way to war against fire.
And Ser Jaime had watched Daenerys' father burn men alive. Had stood guard over the monster he was sworn to protect while he burned Rickard Stark alive, his son Brandon asphyxiating himself trying to get free to save his father…
Aerys had wildfire.
Daenerys had dragons.
The bolt went wide.
The man in leathers primed the weapon - it was a job for a team, but he worked alone, feverishly arming the scorpion.
The second bolt struck true. They heard it - not the impact, but its aftermath: Drogon shrieked, the sound unholy, making even the marrow in Larra's bones shrivel in dread, and blood rained down on the bloodriders below the beast, great fat droplets.
Drogon fell.
Larra raised her hand to shield her eyes as the wind swept billows of smoke away, briefly revealing the sun, and watched as Drogon careened through the air toward the unforgiving earth, his wings flapping uselessly, tail lashing in pain, and her lips parted as she lowered her gaze, squinting…
"Sansa…" she said, and her sister followed her gaze. On the horizon, watching the massacre, a tiny man was surrounded by bloodriders, their horses finer than any of the bloodriders', silver circles gleaming on their furred vests - a three-headed dragon ouroboros worn by the Queen's favoured few. "Lord Tyrion."
"Ser Jaime is the only one who ever showed him kindness," Sansa said urgently. "If he dies -"
"The Queen may find herself short a Hand," Larra muttered, as Drogon appeared to recover from his shock at being injured. Fifty feet above the ground, his great wings flapped, stirring the fires, disturbing the ash, and Lannisters and Dothraki alike dived out of the way as he screamed so loudly Sansa clamped her hands over her ears, grimacing.
The man in leathers dived from the scorpion, just as Drogon vomited fire, destroying it in an explosion that rocked the ground beneath their feet. He belched so much fire upon the thing that had stung him, Drogon created a crater fifteen feet deep, scarred and smouldering and black with soot.
Up close - the only ones immune to death by dragonfire on this godsforsaken plain - Larra could see the injury that had stunned Drogon mid-air.
The bolt had hit its mark, but not accurately. The bolt intended for his eyes, the only vulnerable part of the beast, had struck the side of his head, piercing through, the barbs of the bolt tearing through the skin and sinew: the bolt had passed through the side of his armoured head, shattered one of his great horns, and slashed along his neck, before embedding itself in Drogon's back, two feet from where Daenerys clung on, wild-eyed terror at her fall replaced quickly by fury that she had nearly been killed.
The dragon shrieked and screamed, and did more harm to the hordes as their horses - trained to be fearless in battle - whickered and snorted and screamed, and bolted, heedless of their riders, who fled the area as Drogon screamed and thrashed and vomited fire, blood splashing from his face, pooling along his neck.
Drogon thrashed too much for Daenerys to cling on; she tumbled off his back, and glanced around, wide-eyed, barking orders in Dothraki to bloodriders who bellowed and charged to her, arakhs raised - to protect her.
She had no weapon but her dragon, and he was beyond her control, a wild beast in tremendous pain.
And across the water, a knight on a white steed watched the white-haired girl, grimacing and attempting to climb back onto Drogon's back - to pull free the bolt causing him such pain.
Ser Jaime saw Daenerys, vulnerable.
He saw Lannister spears littering the ground. Watched the bloodriders holler as they surged toward their khaleesi. And winced against the pain of the sound as Drogon screamed, the barb twisted and tugged by Daenerys, embedded deep into his flesh - they did not know it, but embedded into his bone - and Ser Jaime acted.
He spurred on his horse.
Plucked an upright spear from the chest of a Dothraki bloodrider.
And charged.
A lifetime of jousting, trained since he was old enough to hold a stick aloft, a lifetime of battles and war and inexplicable bravery mingled with stupidity, Ser Jaime charged.
Daenerys yanked the bolt free. Drogon screamed. Turned his head. Vicious eyes lanced on Ser Jaime as he advanced with a lance of his own - Drogon opened his mouth.
The slim man in leathers barrelled out of nowhere, jumping off his horse to shove Ser Jaime out of the way as Drogon bathed their horses in fire.
With a tremendous splash, Ser Jaime Lannister landed in the water, weighted down by his gilded armour.
The common sell-sword in plain leathers, who had wounded Drogon the Dread, hit the water, already dead of shock as half his body burned.
When the fighting was done, they watched Lord Tyrion softly pad through the ash-meadow. Searching… He was searching for his brother…
"Ser Jaime resurfaced just beyond the river-bend," Bran said gently. "He is alive, though he nearly drowned. He is on his way to King's Landing, to tell Cersei."
"He'll wish the dragon devoured him," Sansa said curtly.
Larra followed Lord Tyrion, as he came upon Daenerys. She rested on a rocky outcrop, Drogon resting behind her, smoke billowing, embers hissing, the Dothraki shoving the prisoners-of-war toward their Khaleesi for judgement. She strode closer, the better to hear Daenerys and her advisor; Sansa appeared at her side, the wool of her gown immaculate, untouched by the scorched earth, by the blood of the slain, by the ash and smoke lingering in the air. She was paler than usual, but watching Lord Tyrion and Daenerys shrewdly.
"Our strategy was to unleash the hordes," Lord Tyrion said sharply. "Not to spew dragonfire across the Westerlands."
"My enemy is defeated."
"And Drogon is injured. Your child…is injured," Lord Tyrion frowned. "How often must he take the weapons aimed at you before you realise he is still vulnerable?"
"Drogon grows bigger with every moon-turn," Daenerys said dismissively. "He will heal."
"And possibly come to associate you with pain," Tyrion warned.
"I am his mother."
"It is mothers who should protect their children," Tyrion said, with soft accusation, "not the other way round. Do not give Westeros even more reason to endanger these rare creatures you brought forth into this world. They are far too precious to risk with your foolhardiness."
Daenerys glowered, but had no reply.
Her bloodriders shoved their prisoners forward. Daenerys turned her expression almost neutral, but her coaxing came off as condescending when she started to speak. "I know what Cersei has told you. That I've come to destroy your cities, burn down your homes, murder you and orphan your children… That's Cersei Lannister, not me." Larra scoffed incredulously; Sansa raised her eyebrows. "I'm not here to murder, and all I want to destroy is the wheel that has rolled over rich and poor, to the benefit of no-one but the Cersei Lannisters of the world."
"She wants the Iron Throne," Sansa said succinctly. "If she truly wanted to eradicate the wheel, she would melt the hideous thing down and go back to Essos where she's wanted."
"I offer you a choice," Daenerys said. "Bend the knee and join me. Together, we will leave the world a better place than we found it… Or refuse, and die."
"I'd rather she be plain stupid than delusional," Larra sighed, shaking her head. "Submit or die? She will unite the entirety of Westeros against her to fight for their freedom!"
Some men knelt, without thinking. Others stood taller, shoulders back, levelling glares at the white-haired girl. Drogon shrieked, flaring his wings, blood splattering from his still-seeping wound. More men knelt, quickly. But there were some - nearly a dozen - who stood with their backs ramrod straight, even in the face of a dragon's fury. Most of them were surprisingly young, despite the soot and blood smearing their faces.
"Step forward, my lord." Daenerys did not speak above a murmur.
An older, dour-looking man in armour emblazoned with the sigil of a striding huntsman stepped forward.
"House Tarly," Larra murmured. She remembered Samwell. Had learned all the sigils of Westeros as a girl; knew this must be Samwell's father, and stood beside him, tall and strapping, with a handsome face and bloodshot eyes pinched with dread, must be Sam's younger brother. They were as alike as chalk and cheese, though the earnestness shining from his face reminded her of Sam.
"You will not kneel?"
"I already have a queen."
"My sister. She wasn't your queen until quite recently, though, was she? Before she murdered your rightful queen, and destroyed House Tyrell for all time," Lord Tyrion said glacially. "Your allegiances appear to be somewhat flexible."
"Less so than yours, my lord Hand," Lord Tarly retorted accusingly, his eyes flickering to the symbol of office pinned to Lord Tyrion's leather jerkin, and Tyrion had the grace to shift uncomfortably under Lord Tarly's quelling gaze. "Say what you will of your sister, she was born and raised in Westeros with all our histories and customs, she has spent over twenty years ruling the Seven Kingdoms - all but the last few years those of peace and plenty. Two short wars - one started by Balon Greyjoy - the other…by your father when Lady Catelyn arrested you upon the Kingsroad; and you repaid him with murder. And now you have threatened the freedoms of Westeros by inviting fire-worms and savages and foreign warlords to our shores to destroy all that we are - out of spite for your family."
"You will not trade your honour for your life," Daenerys said coolly. "I respect that."
"Perhaps he could take the black, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion interjected quickly, barely concealing his anxiousness as Drogon furled and unfurled his wings behind them, assessing the damage. "Whatever else he is, he is a true soldier. He will be invaluable at the Wall."
"This man, you tell me, is Lord Randyll Tarly - the only man to defeat Robert Baratheon in battle during the Rebellion," Daenerys said. "Send one of the greatest living military leaders to my northern enemies, give him to Jon Snow to lead his armies?"
"Jon Snow is not your enemy, he is King in the North and a potential ally," Lord Tyrion said, sounding long-suffering. "Lord Tarly is indeed a most seasoned commander; if you will not lend Jon Snow troops to defeat the Night King, then send the Night's Watch your prisoners of war to do with as they so choose, as sovereigns have for thousands of years - including your ancestors."
"You cannot send me to the Wall," growled Lord Tarly. "Only my true Queen, Cersei Lannister, has the power to exile me. You are nothing but a foreign invader clinging to the legacy of a cruel people dethroned decades ago."
Daenerys' eyes narrowed. She nodded at her commanders. The bloodriders strode forward, removing Lord Tarly from the rest.
"You will have to kill me, too."
"Step back and shut your mouth!" Lord Tarly barked, whirling to knock the hands of the Dothraki from his shoulders, glaring at the boy.
"Who are you?" Daenerys asked.
"A stupid boy!"
"I am Dickon Tarly, son of Randyll Tarly."
"You are the future of your House. This war has already wiped one great House from the world," Lord Tyrion warned, and he sounded rather hectic. "Don't let it happen again, bend the knee!"
"If it shows Westeros her true quality, then I shall die," said Lord Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill, every bit as honourable and brave - and perhaps as clever - as his older-brother. "I will not kneel."
Lord Tyrion grimaced, turned to Daenerys, said hastily, "Your Grace, nothing scrubs bold notions from a man's head than a few weeks in a dark cell."
"I meant what I said," Daenerys said silkily, her voice heavy with threat. "I'm not here to put men in chains."
"No, you would rather burn them," Lord Tyrion said scathingly, his voice sneering, and Larra's lips twitched toward a smile in spite of the circumstances. There he is… "Murder them, you are no better than Cersei was when she blew up the Sept of Baelor. You will show the world only that you take no prisoners; and your enemies will respond accordingly."
"If imprisonment becomes an option, many will take it," Daenerys said sharply. "I gave them a choice…they made it."
"You offered them a lifetime in bondage to you or death. Is that not what the slavers of Essos offer?" Lord Tyrion insisted vehemently, and Daenerys looked as if she had been struck. "The ashes of your enemies are not a firm foundation on which you can build the world you wish to create. It is your choice. Do not make the wrong one."
The Queen stared long and hard at her Hand, her expression yielding nothing. She turned, and stared out at the men gathered beyond. There was no love, no respect in their gazes, as the sooty men in heat-warped armour glared up at her on their knees. Only cold fear, and a slow, burning hatred kindled by the murder of their friends and brothers, slain by savages. No-one cheered; there were no smiles, or hands reaching toward her, whispering in awe. Only hostility. The reminder of her lost family, of everything they had taken from her.
Drogon called out, and Daenerys glanced up at him; the dragon's great head, shining with blood, was turned northwest, toward a cluster of bloodriders galloping toward them at high speed. A khalasaar was easy to find; one led by a dragon, even easier, and Drogon dominated the horizon, flapping his monstrous wings, the ground shuddering with every harrowing scream.
Daenerys stared as the bloodriders hurtled closer, the men on the ground and the Tarlys stood in Drogon's shadow shifting uneasily, their warped armour clanking, sweat dripping down their faces, leaving streaks through the soot and grime clinging to their skin, and the Dothraki commanders, those men who had remained behind with Lord Tyrion during the carnage - their braids were long and glossy and tinkled with silver bells that sang of prowess in battle, showing their status - muttering amongst themselves, as the small group of bloodriders approached. Their bare arms were smeared with black and blood-red slashes, as Khal Drogo's khalasaar had once worn vibrant blue: They wore her colours. Targaryen colours.
The bloodrider at the head of the cluster leapt from his saddle, muttered to some of his commanders, and approached respectfully Daenerys, "Khaleesi…"
"What's he telling her?" Sansa murmured, frowning.
"Nothing good," Larra muttered, watching the Queen's face. Whatever news he brought, she had been waiting for it: triumph made her face burn with a cruel arrogance, exultant.
"Something has happened," Brandon said sharply, and Larra glanced at him. And she realised it was not Brandon, but Bran: because his eyes were wide with alarm, his cheeks pale, and he was gazing beseechingly at Larra, horror-struck. Her brother's face shone through the mask of the Three-Eyed Raven, and dread, something like heartbreak, despair, flickered across his face. Tall Brandon was replaced by the courageous, impish little brother she remembered, curious and innocent. "Something worse."
"How could things get worse?" Sansa asked, her face still pale, eyes flickering from the charred, smoking plains to the Dothraki laughing callously as they looted dead bodies, and Daenerys, rigid and cold above them, framed by Drogon's bulk as the sun started to dip lower toward the horizon.
"Never ask that," Larra warned grimly.
The vision changed.
They were no longer in open plains jutting with great natural stone monuments, but in a picturesque canyon. Either side, red stone walls rose, jagged and vibrant, turning the vivid blue sky into a winding ribbon of sapphire above them; a shallow river wound lazily along a faint, little-used trail, bubbling playfully. The riverbanks were lined with trees and shrubs, hardy flowers growing unexpectedly from crevices halfway up the walls. Some trees were tall and striving, amber leaves flickering in the breeze, among sycamore and elder, ash and chokecherry trees, redwoods, while some were short and shrubby, with dainty yellow flowers, velvet mesquite and juniper, mulberry and white oak, ancient olive trees, walnut and desert willow, the ground littered with agaves and prickly cacti, crimson penstemons, sprawling cliffroses, dainty gaura, bladderpod, spiderwort and catclaws heavy with seedpods, four-wing saltbush, desert broom and the golden chrysanthemum coveted as an emblem of the Westerlands.
It was a beautiful place.
"Wait - what about the Tarlys?" Sansa blurted, blinking around, shielding her eyes from the sun that suddenly seemed much harsher without the smoke blocking its rays.
Larra was already staring grimly.
It was a beautiful place: It was also a perfect place for an ambush.
And an ambush there had been.
"The Tarlys are alive," Bran said softly, his expression despondent as he winced, and they watched.
A caravan of incredibly fine carriage-houses had been ambushed. One wheelhouse lay on its side, one of the horses screaming, its leg broken: a bloodrider put it out of its misery, making the people clustered by the side of the wheelhouse whimper. They were richly dressed, jewels glinting gold and silver, the fabric of their clothing shimmering, furs gleaming, but some of them were bleeding superficially from being thrown about in the wheelhouse. The carriage-houses themselves were outfitted for royalty, golden lions inlaid into the sides of the polished carriage walls.
A dozen wheelhouses, wagons trailing out of sight behind them, guarded by Dothraki.
Lannister guards were heaped in piles - or had been left where they were slain, their blood colouring the dusty earth a rich ruby red, quickly cooling to black, attracting flies and curious lizards. It had been quick, the ambush - the bloodriders had caught the Lannisters before they even realised they were under attack. Their men lay butchered.
Now, the bloodriders threw open the doors of the wheelhouses, barking orders that no-one understood - some, who knew a few words of the common tongue, spoke harshly, poking their heads inside the wheelhouses - and a few bellowed and fell back, dragging older men out, snatching the daggers from their hands. They were killed on the spot, and the sound of feminine screams echoed off the eternal red-stone walls.
"There's smoke to the south," Sansa murmured, her eyes raised to the skies, as one carriage-house was emptied of people, who were herded together at the point of an arakh, wielded almost lazily by a smirking bloodrider.
"That's south-east," Larra said gently, judging the skies.
"The fires burn that high?"
"We're just that close," Larra said.
Small children started crying. Every wheelhouse was emptied, sometimes roughly, sometimes at the point of an arakh, with dread gripping the faces of the girls manhandled toward their mothers, who held their beautiful daughters close, and young boys and old men knew they were soon to die, unarmed and useless. They were golden, all of them. Golden, and green-eyed; some had the stern silver hair of age, faces lined with wisdom. But they were all handsome, and all of them dressed richly in the manner of the West, in the asymmetric style favoured in the court of Queen Rhaella. And every one of them showed their colours - and their loyalties - with golden lions stitched somewhere, or draped around their throats, or studding belts or embossing lapels.
Then they heard it. The crash of thunder, and a scream…a shriek that curdled marrow and liquefied the insides of brave men. Drogon. It was not the sound of thunder; it was Drogon's great wings, and a heartbeat later, plumes of dust rose as those great leathery wings flapped, and the beast gained footing. He shook his head, snarling, and Larra shivered, watching Drogon peer down at them from above the canyon, looming, his tail swishing - he reminded her of a shadowcat, she thought, stalking its prey, hungry for the kill…
A speck of silver and shadow dripped off Drogon's back, climbing down, met by bloodriders to guide her on a sure-footed path, descending into the creek.
Larra watched the smoke off in the distance, now white - the fires were burning themselves out - and it seemed as if Daenerys had brought winter with her: Snow seemed to be falling in the creek, dusting the vibrant flowers and the bodies of the fallen. It wasn't snow, though; snow did not look like that. It was ash.
The wind had brought the ashes of the dead Lannister army to the last of House Lannister.
Penned in by gleaming arakhs and wicked smiles, frightened children whimpered and cried as brittle old men tried to shield pregnant women and frail ladies and young mothers with small children clutching their skirts and clamped to their hips tucked their babies even closer, bright eyes darting, terrified, between the Dothraki and the dragon.
Daenerys walked toward her captives, dozens of them - all of Casterly Rock emptied, the Lannisters summoned to King's Landing to support their Queen at court.
She walked past the Lannisters, bloodriders falling into place behind her, arakhs swinging loosely at their sides, bows idle, whips whispering like snakes across the dusty earth as the bloodriders grinned viciously at their captives, their dark eyes lingering on the prettiest women among them.
The bloodriders guided Daenerys to the wagons and carts behind the wheelhouses, removing tarpaulins and canvas to reveal trunks full of clothes, furniture, exotic animals in cages, musical instruments, a fortune in tapestries and bolts of Qartheen silks, velvets, heavier fabrics for winter, golden furs. Several armoured wagons hauled bars of gold; another, precious jewels. Finery all fit for a queen - and that was who it was intended for: Cersei. Gifts for their kinswoman and Queen. Further away, the bloodriders told Daenerys, the wagons were full of grain and other footstuffs.
"Very good," she told the bloodriders. "Guide the wagons to join the rest of the khalasaar; the spoils we took from the battlefield will feed our armies. I want the khalasaar to protect the food. Escort it back to the poisoned water. When we have reached Dragonstone, I shall have my pick of the treasures, and make gifts of the rest."
"Yes, Khaleesi," the bloodrider nodded, and barked orders; bloodriders leapt onto their steeds, hollering and snapping their whips at liveried Lannister servants driving the wagons and carts.
"Your army has been defeated," Daenerys said, walking forward with her hands clasped loosely before her. Her voice was calm, her face benign: Some of the Lannisters whimpered. "My Lord Hand, your kinsman Tyrion Lannister, bade me spare the life of those bannermen so unwise as to pledge their swords to your House."
She paused for effect, and when no-one spoke up, she went on, "It occurred to me in that moment that, wise though he undoubtedly is, my Lord Hand is, by the nature of his familial loyalty to his House, conflicted in his interests. I cannot have that. Nor can I allow my servants to question my decrees."
She let the words fall heavy in the air, and a soft gasp issued from the pride of trapped lions.
"I look at you, and see in you the very same fear I once felt, facing down a Dothraki horde," Daenerys mused, "facing down my wedding-night with my new horse-lord husband, little more than a girl, sold to be mounted. Do not fear. I shall not give your daughters to my bloodriders for their entertainment, nor as their khaleen. They deserve neither such brutality, nor such an honour."
Mothers gripped their daughters even tighter. Old men glowered at the Queen, suddenly feeling sixteen again, strong enough to fight the savages to protect their nieces and granddaughters.
"I maintain an iron hold upon my bloodriders," Daenerys said, her voice cold and clear. "They will not rape. They will not butcher innocents. They will sate their bloodlust only upon the battlefield, defeating my enemies. The same could not be said of the Lannister armies that marched upon Highgarden. Infants and the heads of young children were mounted on spikes beside those of their fathers, their mothers and sisters mutilated and left to bleed out where they were shoved to the ground to be raped… Who shall pay for this atrocity? Genna Lannister."
A querulous-looking woman stepped forward, square of figure, her long shining golden hair curling past her waist, but for thick braids coiled into buns over her ears, held fast by ruby-studded gold nets, gold ribbons crossing her brow like a circlet. Larra watched her, and Sansa seemed to recognise a little of Tywin Lannister in her hard eyes, for her lips parted, and she glanced uncertainly at Larra, at Bran. Lady Genna did not look in the least bit perturbed by the appearance of Daenerys, her bloodriders, or her dragon. She looked imperious and almost smug, as if she knew exactly what was going to happen, and what the far-reaching consequences would be. She looked at Daenerys Targaryen, and her lip curled.
Daenerys saw it, and bristled. "I vowed before I ever left my queendom of Meereen that I would answer injustice with justice. My Lord Hand reminded me of it. He reminded me of the danger of allowing injustice to go unanswered," she said, her eyes widening, that fierce expression of self-righteousness consuming her face, turning her unnerving, half-wild. That unshakeable belief in herself above all things… "To allow disloyalty to fester. I intend to burn away the disease, before it may take hold…"
Larra frowned, watching the Queen. Burn away the disease, before it may take hold…? The disease…is loyalty?
"Seven Tyrells were spared the atrocities committed at Highgarden," Daenerys continued lightly, seeming to calm herself down. Her purple eyes drifted over the gathered Lannisters. There were strapping young men considered too old to squire but too young to command, old men with steel in their trimmed beards, little boys with dimpled cheeks and perfect golden curls rioting all over their heads. There were pretty young mothers with swaddled infants in their arms, and little girls with ribbons in their hair, young ladies still in the schoolroom with their septas, and old women with the bloom out of their cheeks and a firm grip on their precious grandchildren. Generations of Lannisters, from the very elderly - a white-haired woman leaned heavily on her cane, rheumy-eyed and gummy but dressed in finery, small children clustered around her for the feeling of safety she emanated - to the unborn, the belly of a young woman with tumbles of golden curls gloriously fat, heavy with a child. She was not the only one expecting; jewelled fingers rested on the rounded bellies of at least two other women.
"When Cersei Lannister blew up the Sept of Baelor, which was built by my ancestors, she showed the world the value she placed on not only her enemies, but her kinsmen as well. I do not believe in wholesale slaughter, nor in vengeance for the sake of it. However, someone must be held to account for the atrocities committed at Highgarden," Daenerys told them sternly, her eyes resting on Lady Genna. "Seven Tyrells were spared the Uprooting of Highgarden, all of them female. I shall spare seven Lannisters - a kindness to my Hand, though you do not deserve it. And you, Lady Genna, shall choose. Choose amongst yourselves. Choose from among the innocent, and choose wisely. Choose who lives."
Stunned silence met her proclamation. Lady Genna seemed to swell with rage, but it was a quiet rage, her green eyes glowing like wildfire, fixed on Daenerys' face. There was no false promise in her words, or her eyes; nothing but cruel, unyielding intent.
"Choose…or I shall."
"Surely, she won't - " Sansa breathed, gazing at Larra and Bran, startled. Watching the field of fire had been harrowing enough, to someone unaccustomed to unbridled carnage, but this… Larra frowned, something coiling unpleasantly in her stomach, knotting and twisting, tight… She winced, and glanced at Bran.
"Bran, tell me she doesn't slaughter them?"
Bran said nothing, but sighed, and watched - and that was his role; to watch. Never to intervene, or alter things. He was a passive observer. Bran murmured miserably, "Yes, now the rains weep o'er his halls, and not a soul to hear…"
Lady Genna stared at Daenerys long and hard. Finally, she glanced over her shoulder, and her kinsmen gasped, and it began. Begging. Pleading. Threats. Women weeping on their knees. Screaming, as their daughters were prised from their arms. The sharp slap of Lady Genna's hand, and the low warning that their daughters would remember… Lady Genna chose.
Seven girls. The eldest little older than thirteen, already elegant, regal and poised, an exquisite beauty with gleaming green eyes, her golden hair shining to her bottom, dainty twists coiled like a circlet around her head, glimmering lions stitched onto the shoulders of her asymmetric ruby silk gown; the youngest, a tiny dumpling of four, had the most perfect golden curls coiled at her temples and bobbing over her neck, and sucked her thumb as her mother yielded her to Lady Genna, looking only slightly perturbed by the disruption. Seven, between the ages of thirteen and four.
Each of the girls was separated from their families - who wept, and screamed, and raged, attacking Lady Genna, who stood still and unyielding as a steel monument, every inch her brother's sister. Her eyes remained fixed on Daenerys, who watched with an expression of mild interest, as the girls were penned by bloodriders. The eldest two stood rigid, their eyes wary of the savage men eyeing them with a cruel hunger - the eldest showed subtle evidence of budding breasts, a woman's figure starting to blossom. Old enough for the Dothraki. One of the youngest girls started to cry, confused, calling out to her Mama, her tiny hands reaching for her, as her mother clawed and fought to get to her, her face shining with tears. Another gazed up at the older girls uncertainly. And one took the hand of the youngest, her unaccountably pretty face hardening as she glared at Daenerys with such scathing hatred, such viciousness, that Larra was surprised the Queen's skin did not blister.
"Great beauties," Daenerys said, and her tone was condescending as she cast her eyes over the seven girls. Whether it was a trick, a manipulation to show her power over the Lannisters, by forcing Lady Genna to choose…it was effective. The Lannisters were clawing at each other, screaming, arguing - showing their disunity: When it came to their survival, their children, what parent would not fight to the death so that their child might live?
"I don't choose them for their beauty," Lady Genna snapped, her expression of utmost disdain as she sneered at Daenerys. "I chose them for their natures - the better to survive you…" She drew herself up, her neck bleeding where one of her kinswomen had scratched her. She eyed Daenerys from the top of her head - her intricate white braids - to her toes, still caked with mud and ash and blood from the site of the massacre. "Tywin was right: It would have been better had King Aerys died at Duskendale. Rhaegar would still sit upon the Iron Throne…and you, girl…you would never have been born to replace your father in cruelty - and firelust." She gave Daenerys a look that would have broken braver men. Her lip curled. "It'll be the end of you. Your father was King of Corpses by the end…and you…you shall be Queen of naught but ashes." Daenerys blanched. Then her face twisted, her expression wrathful. Teasingly, Lady Genna warned her, "Targaryens have always been their own undoing."
Daenerys snarled, and spat, "Dracarys."
Sansa gasped. Larra's jaw dropped. Bran lowered his eyes sadly: he had seen this before.
Drogon craned his bleeding neck into the canyon and bathed the Lannisters in dragonfire.
Larra's hands shook, and she felt dizzy, nauseous, needing to rest her hands on her knees and take great gulps of air deep into her lungs, retching. Sansa whimpered, her eyes glinting, and Bran sighed, reaching out to hug his arm around her shoulders, as she watched the people - old men, pregnant women, grand old ladies and little boys with perfect golden curls - burn alive. One mother had tried to break away from the rest, pelting for her daughter - her hair caught alight, her gown, and her brittle, hideous scream was harrowing - she burned before their eyes, tumbling to the ground.
The Lannisters died as their soldiers did - flesh turned to fire turned to ash in a matter of heartbeats quickly stopped. The dusty earth was scorched. Nothing remained of House Lannister but fragile statues of ash, and seven beautiful girls.
The eldest, in her fabulous silk gown, went white as a sheet, her eyes widening - but she did not look away. Did not react. Not until the next in age, with billows of frothing silver-gold curls, fell into a dead faint, knocking against her; she caught her cousin, and gently lowered her to the ground, tenderly stroking her face to wake her, as tears dripped down her cheeks, and the girl with eyes of the most vivid sapphire and paler, straight blonde hair to her waist screamed and screamed and screamed. The baby blinked confusedly, watching the fires subside, and ash appear in place of her family. The two younger girls sobbed, and the older visibly wet herself at the sight of such horror, while the younger collapsed in a heap on the ground, crying. The seventh, of middling age, with hair almost as pale as the Queen's, stood with her eyes swimming, her face fierce, her body shuddering with suppressed rage and grief, her fists clenched.
The fires subsided. The Lannisters had become statues of ash; the breeze undid Daenerys' work, teasing the piles of ash.
The youngest girl got free, running toward the ash, for the woman that had run for them. She looked confused, gazing this way and that, seeking - she frowned, tilting her head so that her bright golden curls bounced. "Mummy?"
She reached out to the pile of ash: The statue crumbled into the breeze at her touch. The breeze embraced the statues, carrying them away in its arms, dispersing the ash here and there like snow, brushing delicately against the girls' skin like the ghosts of the kisses of their loved ones, lingering in their long golden hair. Several of the girls looked frightened to breathe; another swatted at her hair and clothes as if she had been set alight, swatting the flames, and Larra thought she might wake up from such nightmares the rest of her life.
The eldest watched the baby, her eyes widening in horror: She pushed off from the ground, and was allowed to descend on her cousin, scooping her up, carrying her back to the rest.
Daenerys approached the girls, and Larra was made more uneasy by the benign smile on her face than by any of the gruesome bloodshed she had witnessed on the battlefield. She approached them slowly, looking serene, and her smile shone from her eyes, her body-language relaxed and unassuming - as if to coax and reassure them, as if she was not the executioner of their families but their benevolent saviour. She stood before them, giving the girl who had wet herself a compassionate look, her eyes wandering to the girl in a dead faint on the ground.
The little girl who stood with clenched fists and rippling pale silver-blonde hair tilted her head at Daenerys. And projectile-vomited.
All over Daenerys' fine boots, the fur-trimmed hem of her flying leathers.
The little girl - her name was Calanthe - straightened, spat, drew her sleeve across her mouth, and glared, never taking her eyes off Daenerys', as the Queen started, and gaped down at her ruined boots, disgusted - and annoyed. She raised her eyes to glare at Calanthe.
On the ground, the eldest, Narcisa, finally roused her cousin, Crisantha, named for the famed beauty of the golden chrysanthemums of the West. Blue-eyed Delphine's screams had subsided to a ragged whimper, and then to silence, but her lips were still parted, as if she could no longer give voice to the grief screaming in her heart; she stood like a statue frozen, her mouth open, eyes glazed.
Larra's heart had made the same sound when she learned Father had been killed.
She had heard it again, when she learned of Robb's fate, of Rickon's. As if the grief throbbing through her heart would never gentle, always paining her. It was silent, but it was strong.
The vomiting girl, Calanthe, gave Daenerys another withering glower, and tucked her arms stoutly around the shoulders of her two younger cousins, delicate Altheda in her shimmering golden gown damp with her own urine, and little Rosamund, uncertainly clutching her doll, her eyes damp. The baby, Leona, sat on the ground by Crisantha, sucking her thumb complacently, ash collecting in her curls.
It was the little lioness, Calanthe, whose glare caused Daenerys' smile to falter. Hostile, tear-streaked little faces, pale and afraid, gazed back at her: The younger girls continued to cry silently. Crisantha roused, confused, and turned green as she glanced around and saw the blackened earth, collapsing into her cousin Narcisa's lap with a moan.
Larra watched Daenerys. She looked…confused…that the girls were not breathless with wonder, awe and gratitude that their lives had been spared, even as the wind continued to churn their family's remains around them, flecks of ash caressing their skin.
The sound of hooves made the girls startle, and Daenerys' face was imperious and unyielding once more as her bloodriders appeared - with Lord Tyrion, in his clever, modified saddle. His cunning eyes swept over the creek, the Lannister lions on the wheelhouses, the dead soldiers sprawled where they had been slain, the blackened earth and swirling ash, the crying girls.
Assessing, weighing… Lord Tyrion turned a dark look on Daenerys as Narcisa recognised Lord Tyrion and let out a shuddering gasp, a soft sob. "What have you done?"
"Let the last of the Lannisters be an example to all of the Houses of Westeros," Daenerys said coolly. "Now that House Lannister is extinct but for this handful of small girls and my Lord Hand, I trust I have his undivided attention…and loyalty."
"You think it's a good idea?"
"I think it's one of the few chances I might have. I think I could drag a wight into Daenerys' court and she'd sooner blind herself to the truth," Jon grunted. "You heard her the other night, she will not be distracted by small men… People have to be shocked out of apathy, and Daenerys…"
"What about Cersei?" Theon prompted, and Jon pulled a face, shrugging.
"As for her, I doubt I'd manage to arrange an audience with her - not without finding myself in a Black Cell," Jon sighed. "She'd likely accuse me of conspiring with Daenerys to depose her - out of vengeance for Father."
"You're King in the North," Theon reminded him. "You could call an armistice… If you truly want the North to remain neutral, it's an opportunity for you - get the queens to meet on neutral terms, so you can show the both of them what's truly at stake."
"I'd have to guarantee I'd have something worth showing," Jon said, glancing at Theon. Without the presence of Ser Davos on the island the last few weeks, Jon had found himself more and more seeking counsel with Theon, of all people. But he had been Jon's brother once. And he had learned from his past.
"And how d'you do that?" Theon muttered, gazing out to sea. They sat on the clifftop, the frostbitten grass shivering; Jon wore no cloak, enjoying the sun shining down on them. The days had been fine, and he raised his face to the sun, resting; his nights had been exhilarating but exhausting.
After their first few nights together, Jon now returned to his chamber every night to find Nora already waiting for him, a smile on her face. No matter how exhausted he was, that delicate smile, the excitement glowing in her green eyes, was enough to set his blood afire, thrilled and excited. They had been learning each other - and they were emboldened; they were unabashed, confident in each other's company, each other's embrace. Nora was gentle and voracious; Jon gave her what she wanted, and relished every opportunity.
If others had caught wind that Lady Tyrell had been slipping into the chambers of the King in the North for weeks, and did not reappear until past dawn, her lips swollen, skin delicately flushed from a dawn tumble in the sheets - or beside the hearth, or over the chaise - then nobody mentioned it. Not even the Sandsnake Nymeria, who revelled in intrigue and gossip.
If Theon guessed the truth about Nora, he didn't mention it, but he had seen her wandering down the corridor the other morning, when he had come to meet Jon to discuss news from White Harbour carried by the Ironborn who had shipped obsidian north.
"There's only one way," Jon said grimly, glancing at Theon, who frowned. Jon tugged at the long grasses and spent wildflowers. The last few weeks had brought harsh winds and unforgiving sleet-rain: Theon warned they would not have favourable weather to sail for much longer. Jon would need to be headed North before then. "Go beyond the Wall and snatch a wight, and drag it to King's Landing if I have to."
Theon gaped. "Do you wish to die?" Jon scowled. "Jon, you cannot go beyond the Wall, not after what you've told me about Hard Home... Sansa will be furious that you'd put your life at risk - again."
"Then I shan't tell her 'til the thing is done!" Jon blurted, the mention of Sansa's name rubbing him the wrong way - because he knew exactly how Sansa would feel about it, and couldn't understand the hot flush that spread through him, close to shame, at the idea of disappointing her, or frightening her.
"And if you fail?" Theon said sternly. "Sansa will think Daenerys is to blame; you went beyond the Wall to snatch a wight because she would not believe… Sansa will go to war on Queen Daenerys over you. And Daenerys will destroy Winterfell."
"Interesting, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Everyone on this island seems to understand that Daenerys' first instinct is the very worst instinct."
Theon sighed, shaking his head. He muttered, "You remember what Maester Luwin used to tell us, as we planned our cyvasse campaigns?"
"Which part?"
"That if our words don't match our actions, very quickly people will come to realise that our word means nothing," Theon said, his voice heavy with guilt and grief. Theon eyed Jon thoughtfully, and asked, his tone careful, "What d'you think of her?"
"She claims to want to break the wheel of oppression…but she's invaded Westeros to take the Iron Throne."
"And everything before the word 'but' is horseshit."
"Father…" Jon sighed. He stared out over the choppy bright-grey sea, admitting miserably, "I miss him."
"Me too. I miss them all…" Theon grunted. "I wish none of us had ever left Winterfell. I wish none of this had happened."
"When it comes down to it, I suppose all we can do is decide what to do with what life flings at us," Jon said. "It's our choices that matter, how we react."
After a little while, Theon asked, "Think Daenerys will win?"
"She'll take the Iron Throne, I've no doubt about that…it's just a matter of what she'll lose in the process…and if it really matters to her, after all."
"I wonder what Sansa would think of her."
Jon exchanged an arch look with Theon.
"I believe we both know what Sansa would think of her. Sansa's far too used to sweet courtesies concealing true cruelty not to see through Daenerys," Jon said, and Theon smirked. They both admired Sansa. "And for all her fine clothes and prettier words about breaking chains, at her heart Daenerys Targaryen is a warlord, a conqueror. By its very definition, that makes the Queen an oppressor."
"I think you should be careful of what you say around her," Theon said softly.
"Lest I end up kindling?" Jon quipped, his smile grim. It had always been a possibility - and for the obsidian now being shipped to White Harbour, it was a risk Jon had always had to take.
"I mean it, Jon. She's come to respect you and your opinion has weight - but the things she respects you for are the same reasons you're a threat to her," Theon said, uncharacteristically wise. "She's too busy lusting after you at the moment to realise it, but the moment you say the wrong thing and her lust turns to hate…"
"I know," Jon sighed, shaking his head. "You think I'm afraid to die?"
"No," Theon said honestly, eyeing him shrewdly. "It might even be a blessed relief, to rest. We're soldiers… We've both been soldiers since we left Winterfell."
Jon sighed heavily, and they stared out to sea. With the sea so bright, he could almost imagine it was the snow-covered moors outside Winterfell. "We learned how to die a long time ago."
The solar was silent, but for the crackle of the flames, and Sansa's delicate sniffles, her fingers trembling as she raised her hand to wipe her eyes. Shock; that was what it was. Larra slumped in the settle, hugging one of Sansa's embroidered cushions, dazed. Bran sat gazing sadly at them.
"Bran…tell me that was a version of a possible future," Larra said hollowly.
"It was always a possibility," he said softly.
"She spared the soldiers but slaughtered the innocents," Sansa sniffed, wiping her eyes. She shook out her hands, frustrated with herself for crying, but Larra understood: she just felt numb. All she could think of was those seven little girls. Her lips twitched at the memory of Calanthe, vomiting all over Daenerys' boots. "People need to know about this. What she's done."
"You don't think Daenerys will crow about this?" Larra said grimly. "The entirety of Westeros will hear of it. Jon definitely will."
"What if Jon is imprisoned on Dragonstone?" Sansa asked, her voice bright with fear. "We've had no word from him in weeks."
"You heard Daenerys - she will not put a man in chains," Larra said, her tone mocking.
"Then he is dead!"
"Sansa, calm down," Larra told her gently.
"Jon is safe," Bran said softly.
"What's he doing? What is he doing, right this moment? I want to know," Sansa said, her tone fierce. "I need to know he is safe."
"He's…engaged in a delicate diplomatic task," Bran said, his lips twitching.
"You aren't half ominous, Bran," Larra told him, rolling her eyes.
"Don't worry; he's enjoying it."
"You won't get a straight answer out of him," Larra warned Sansa, who looked like she wanted to press the issue. "Let it suffice we know he's alive."
"Very much so," Bran quipped. His amusement faded, and he sighed, "He will learn soon enough what Daenerys Targaryen has done. And he will not linger long on Dragonstone."
"How do you know?" Sansa asked breathlessly. Bran smiled warmly at them.
"I know our brother." One of the guards arrived, and Bran nodded silently to him.
"Off to bed? Goodnight," Larra said, and leaned in to kiss Bran's cheek. He smiled softly, and the guard wheeled him around, pushing him out of the solar. Sansa groaned and slumped back, folding a washcloth soaked with hot water and camomile over her eyes. She handed one to Larra, and for a little while, they rested. They were too rattled from the ash meadow…
"You haven't said much about the fact that Bran has visions."
"I'm still wrapping my mind around it. He has such power… Has he shown you…her?" Sansa asked, and Larra heard her sit up; she did the same, letting the cloth fall from her eyes, already cooling. It had felt delicious, soothing the phantom sting of smoke in her eyes.
"Yes. On our journey from Last Hearth. The last vision he shared was Jon's arrival at Dragonstone…" Larra said, and Sansa nodded thoughtfully. "It's important he showed you. I know it's…absurd, and terrifying, that Bran has this…this power. Even more spectacular that he has the gift to share it with us… It's important that you saw for yourself, without embellishment or others' bias…to get your own measure of her. You need to be prepared."
"She thinks of the North as her property…her enemy… She has two more dragons. If she decides to use them, to really use them…"
"Then we stop her," Larra said bluntly. Sansa stared at her. And then she nodded, seeing the unyielding look in Larra's eyes.
"We stop her," she agreed. Sansa's voice was very young, and scared, when she asked, "What about Jon?"
"Jon's intuitive," Larra said. "He'll have very quickly made up his mind about her."
"She is beautiful," Sansa said mournfully, and Larra pulled a face.
"Less and less with every massacre," she grunted, and Sansa raised an eyebrow, agreeing. "Sansa…how did you feel when she smiled at the girls?"
"For a heartbeat I thought of Joffrey…then I wondered whether she was even aware of the horror of what she had done," Sansa said, thoughtful. "It wasn't…malicious and joyful, the way Joffrey always was when he indulged in cruelty…it wasn't entertaining…to her, it…it seemed like…"
"Like she felt righteous in the act. You remember what I said about our way? We pass the sentence, we swing the sword…" Larra said, and Sansa nodded. "She's already forgotten what death is… Those girls…the eldest could not be older than you were when Father was executed. And the youngest… Sansa, do you think it possible Tyrion condoned such a thing, perhaps…was it planned between them?"
"No," Sansa said slowly. "No, I do not believe Tyrion would ever have a hand in that. Daenerys said it was a kindness to her Hand, but…"
"But what?"
"She had already won the battle. The bannermen had bent the knee to Drogon. What reason could she possibly have for going after the Lannisters? They were unarmed, women and children and old men. She killed them all to punish Tyrion - because Jaime Lannister outsmarted her. She was humiliated, in front of people who had warned her," Sansa said, working it through slowly. "She killed them as punishment for her wounded pride, and she kept the girls alive to remind Tyrion of it. Now their fates rest with Tyrion. Whatever disappointment she suffers, she will be sure to threaten to take it out on the last Lannisters. Whipping-girls to ensure Tyrion's best efforts against Cersei… What?"
Larra was smiling softly at her, proud. "You're thinking like a true strategist now… What will Tyrion do?" Sansa sighed, and thought long and hard before she answered.
"When he came to King's Landing, Lord Tyrion treated me with courtesy and respect. The first thing he did, in front of the court, in front of Joffrey, was to offer his condolences over Father's execution. He didn't rub my nose in it; he was in earnest…" Sansa said, clearing her throat awkwardly, still shedding the conditioning that saw her apologising for their father's treason. "He was the only one who ever frightened Joffrey…the only one who stopped Joffrey's torments. Before the Blackwater, he outwitted everyone in order to implement his own plans to defend the city. The city, and everyone who lived there, including Cersei… He will do what he must to ensure those girls are safe. Ultimately he's too decent a person to let them be hurt because of him - or because of her whims… He's too clever not to realise why Daenerys spared them."
"What she did was an atrocity," Larra said coldly. "Why did she go after them, after the fact?"
"The bannermen. Everywhere she's gone, people have worshipped her… That scorpion did more than injure Drogon; it gave her ego a sharp sting," Sansa said tartly. "She's not wanted here, or desired, or admired…she's reviled and distrusted. In Essos, she was deified. In Westeros, people would rather die than follow her."
"Strange, isn't it? That someone who claims to want to bring an end to tyranny forces those she defeats to choose between utter subservience and death."
"You don't think much to her."
"Not of the person she has become. I think she started with a wonderful dream that's become confused by conflicting desires. I think what she's done, and become, is in conflict with what she was conditioned to want since she was old enough to remember wanting anything," Larra said, considering. "She can bring an end to slavery; that should have been her life's work. Or she can claim the Iron Throne. There is no world in which she can have both. Becoming the Breaker of Chains was a happy by-product of her journey to amassing the armies and wealth to launch her campaign on Westeros."
"She stayed in Meereen to practise at ruling…and she left because the reality of ruling became too much of a headache," Sansa said disdainfully, her eyes sliding to the great working desk. The hour was late, but their day was far from over. "She was more interested in planning her invasion."
"Ultimately her actions have proven her words as worth very little," Larra said, shaking her head. "You must make sure to match your actions to your words, or people will learn your word means nothing."
"Did Father tell you that?"
"Maester Luwin."
"Did he give you lessons like this, too?"
"Is this a lesson?" Larra asked, her smile cunning; Sansa gave her a look, and she grinned. "Yes, he did. After Jon had left and Robb was busy ruling the North for Father and I was exhausted with Rickon…we'd sit in the Maester's Tower, and I had my own chair by the fire. We would sit, and Maester Luwin would pick a topic, and we would just talk about it…sometimes I'd fall asleep. I'd always wake up with a blanket tucked over me… He always took care of me…" She sighed wistfully, miserably. She missed Maester Luwin like a constant toothache. She smiled sadly: "Taking care. That's what it comes down to, ruling. Taking care of as many people as you can."
"How does arming the entire living North to fight the Night King tie up with your policy of minimal-loss?" Sansa asked.
"It doesn't," Larra said grimly. "But it is necessary. If we can't stop the Night King…well, we won't be around to wring our hands about it… All Septa Mordane's talk of souls and heavens…sometimes I wonder if we'll leave our bodies behind, our corpses trudging along, and Father will be waiting for us."
"I'm no longer certain about religion…but I do believe they're waiting for us," Sansa said softly, gazing into the dying fire. She raised her blue eyes to Larra's violet ones, and her smile could have made the sun rise. "All of them. We will see them again…but not yet."
Larra smiled softly, agreeing, "Not yet."
The court echoed with silence. Only a few stubborn candles flickered, the rest burned low.
Lord Varys sat still holding the raven-scroll in his hand.
Theon kept catching Jon's eye, and they communicated silently, as only brothers could.
The news was…irrefutable, written in Lord Tyrion's own hand. Telling them of atrocities, war-crimes committed on the Gold Road.
They sat for a very long time, in silence, in darkness. Finally, as the last candle wavered, and Jon sighed, pushing himself to his feet, Lord Varys seemed to shake himself from his stupor.
"Your Grace," he said softly, and Jon paused, glanced back at the eunuch. "I will do everything in my power to help you. I hear talk of a Northern expedition. You will need help. And I am particularly situated to make arrangements that will see our queens behaving themselves for your sake."
"I thank you, Lord Varys," Jon said sincerely, glancing at Theon, who shrugged.
Nora was fast asleep in his bed when he arrived, the fire built up. Jon stripped, and climbed into bed, relishing the softness and warmth of her skin as he gathered her up close. She sighed, stretching luxuriously against him, and relaxed, nuzzling against him.
He woke her at dawn, making her toes curl, watching her blush and writhe, swallowing her dainty gasps, hissing as she raked her fingernails down his back and brushed delicate kisses over his chest and shoulders. The crisp dawn light spilled across the bed, turning her skin to silver and her hair to spun bronze, and they cried out as they came, Jon spending deep inside her with a decadent groan that made her smile, humming softly as she nuzzled his neck.
He rolled to his back, gathering her up close, and sighed as he gazed out of the window, into the bay.
Jon spied a ship on the horizon, his lips quirking into a smile.
Winter had come.
A.N.: I know…I know… Yeah - I…know. Sorry.