A/N: This is the last chapter leading up to the finale of the story. Final chapter count will be 38 chapters and an epilogue. Thanks all for reading.
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Swan on the Summer Sea
Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord Admiral of the United Kingdom of Westeros, stood in the aft castle of her majesty's newest ship, the Port Royal. The ship was a beast-a four-masted, square-rigged monster of a boat larger than any Ser Davos had even heard of, much less sailed.
The ship, built in the Blackwater Rush shipyards, featured a lanteen fore-and-aft rig on the rear masts, and was built along the caravel model, only larger. The queen worked with a dozen shipwrights to design a new pintle and gudgeon rudder to better steer the craft, and a line of the new cannons the queen's weapons smiths had designed for use initially on the wall lined the high line of the hull on either side.
With a fleet of only five such ships, the queen had sailed into Slaver's Bay and blown the entire slaver's fleet out of the water. It was such a stunning turn of events, she'd only had to take flight with her dragon twice. Even now, Prince Doran as the queen's ambassador was overseeing talks to dismantle the slave trade once and for all.
Which is why Davos was surprised that the queen herself was not there. Instead, the queen stood at the prow of his ship as they sailed the Summer Sea. He wondered if they were going to Qarth to burn the Warlocks as she'd often spoken of.
Instead, after a seemingly interminable amount of time, the queen raised her hand. "Admiral, this is the spot."
Davos nodded, then nodded to his captain. Orgary bellowed out: "Stow the sails, cast anchor."
The call echoed across the ship until they stowed the many sails of the ship and dropped anchor. For the day the queen wore her odd black bodysuit, which covered her completely and yet fitted so tightly to her body it left little of her shape to the imagination. She carried her odd helm in her hand, and on her back was a strange contraption of metal and tubes that were connected to the back of her helm.
"Hold position until I return," she ordered
She pulled on her helm, and then to everyone's shock dove into the water.
Over the next two hours, she returned to the surface using her remarkable magic to bring massive, barnacle-encrusted objects from the mysterious depths. Some were hand-sized; others were so large if not for her magic they would not have made it to the deck. The wood groaned under the weight of them. When the last object was retained, she herself flew out of the water, borne by magic alone.
The crew, composed of veterans and Unsullied, accepted the show of power as expected, right and just. The queen removed her helmet as they pulled anchor. With a satisfied nod, she made her way to the aft castle where Davos stood. "Start back to Westeros," she ordered casually. "I don't know what has distracted the White Walkers, but I don't want to be away any longer than I have to be. Temeraire and I have another appointment we need to keep."
"What's that, your grace?"
"We're so close to Qarth, it would be a shame if we didn't swing by and pay our respects to the Warlocks," she said with a wry smile.
"Will they enjoy those respects, your grace?"
"Probably not, Lord Admiral. Probably not."
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
"The fuck's that?" Tormund Giantsbane asked.
Laboda, Magnar of the Thens, ran a hand through his thick black beard as he contemplated the strange metal rails that seemed to run forever along the base of the Wall. In the far distance, they could see the workers who laid the tracks. Where the land dipped, they flattened it. Where it rose, they dug through it. And all they left in their wake were the rails.
"Don't know," Laboda finally admitted.
The two men accepted assignments at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool along with a hundred of their fellows. Six months into the first winter they'd seen in eight years, the snow fell hard and fast. If not for the shipments of food from the kneeler queen in the south, they'd have starved by now. Instead, they had food and shelter and weapons to beat back the little tendrals of undead that seemed to be forever testing the wall defenses. Laboda's woman was fat with a child, and one of Tormond's daughters as well.
And the castle of Woodswatch-by-the-Pool had a thousand men in it, guarding their portion of the wall. The two Free Folk were coming back from their throne-mandated once a quarter furlough.
Their answer to the question of the rails came not half an hour later in the form of the oddest, most Gods-cursed thing either had ever seen. It was a thick wood cart set on four steel wheels. Ten men sat on it, all in a row, but instead of sitting like sensible people, they had their feet moving round-and-round on strange metal wheels. The wheels hooked into a long chain that ran under them and somehow turned the steel wheels as well.
Behind it was a second cart stacked high with roughly hewn wooden beams and more of the long steel rails. Despite the size of it, the little cart flew by the two men as fast as a horse at gallop, moving toward the workers to the east.
"Them kneelers are fucked in the heads," Tormund said.
"Aye."
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
Archmaester Ebrose fought back tears.
In his fifty years of study and life at the Citadel of Oldtown, he'd saved so many lives. He'd lost so many more. But never, in all that time, did any king or queen challenge his role like Queen Rhaenys did.
And yet, though she was slowly dismantling everything he loved, she built something wondrously new.
The man the Queen sent wasn't even a Maester, nor even a full man. Lord Tyrion served as the Minister of Finance for the realm. But he was a learned man, if haphazardly. And when the queen ordered the construction of a house of healing in King's Landing, she bribed Ebrose for his expertise with a device of Lord Tyrion's design.
The tiny man himself oversaw it. It was a large, odd contraption perhaps the size of a cell at the Citadel. The innovations were not the press itself-Archmaester Marwyn reported that the Yi Tish had wood-block printing that could make a hundred scrolls in the time it took a scribe to make one.
No, the innovation Lord Tyrion and (Ebrose suspected) the queen made was in everything else. Small metal shingles, each carved with an individual letter, could be fitted into a larger metal plate to form sheets of words or images to take on ink. Instead of parchment, the device used paper made from pulped wood. That itself was a startling innovation.
Finally, the whole was set over a thick layer of sturdy hide hooked on rollers, allowing a new sheet of paper to be quickly slotted into the first. The plate was dipped into a tray of ink and then pressed to the sheet of paper, quickly transferring the ink in the shape of the letters. A crank was turned, a new sheet was moved, and the worker pressed another. And another.
Another man collected the sheets while a third set more letters in more sticks for the next page. Why, with enough machines and ink they could have printed a hundred copies of an entire scroll or book in the space of a day!
And the thought of it brought tears to the old healer's eyes. "Yes," he said, croaking the word.
Beside him, Queen Rhaenys nodded. "Men have children, and those children grow. If the man is lucky, his children will surpass him. The Citadel's time is passing, Archmaester, but your children will reach such heights as legends are made of. And it begins now. I'll have ten such presses commissioned for the Citadel. In return, the Queen's Libraries here, in Dorne and at White Harber shall each receive a copy of every book. And you, my friend, will be the new head physician of the Queen's Hospital. It'll be the marvel of the world, Ebrose. You'll see."
"Of that I have no doubt, your grace," Ebrose said as he wiped his cheeks dry.
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
Oberyn prowled the Red Keep, looking for his supposed niece. It was his beloved, however, who found the queen.
Slim and regal, Ellaria was everything Oberyn had ever wanted in a woman. What need did either have of the god's approbation in marriage, when their love burned so fierce without? In her green and gold silk gown, she slithered to his side with a fierce kiss.
"She trains," Ellaria told him. "With her 'son.'"
The scorn in the word confirmed her thoughts were the same as his.
After months of secretive whispers about the Red Keep, the queen confirmed before the new Parliament of Lords that she had adopted the crippled Stark as her son, and named him Brandon Stark Targaryen, Crown Prince of Westeros. At the same time, she'd announced the betrothal of the Stark boy to the failed pretender Baratheon's ugly whelp of a girl.
With northerners and Stormlanders, she'd essentially handed the kingdom to Dorne's enemies!
The sound of practice swords pulled them into a private courtyard resting below the royal quarters of the keep. The courtyard had once been lined in flagstones, but those were replaced by a close-shorn lawn of grass. On this lawn, Oberyn came up short when he saw the queen.
She was damned-near indecent, wearing a light leather vest over a blouse and a pair of loose cotton pantaloons. The boy she trained was dressed in similar pantaloons without the top, and a pale, lipid example of humanity he was. Even more shocking was that the Baratheon girl was dressed just like the queen, and appeared to be...training...just like…
Oberyn's thoughts slowed as the queen struck forward with what looked like a weighted stick, moving almost faster than Oberyn could follow. More astonishing was how very quickly the smaller, younger man responded. He brought his stick up almost as fast, then spun lightly away as if water-dancing. In the midst of his spin he lashed out at the queen, only to have his blow blocked.
"Good!" the queen called. "Shireen, your turn!"
The much smaller girl was neither as fast nor as strong, but even so she gave a surprisingly good showing with her slightly smaller blade.
"Very good," the queen said. "Unfortunately you won't have swords like mine, so some of these strikes will only work against unarmed opponents. Armor will present different challenges that we'll discuss later. However, neither of you will ever be the strongest or largest on the battlefield. This is even more true for you, Shireen. Speed, however, can overcome strength if used correctly. Isn't that correct, Uncle?"
Put on the spot, Oberyn fell back into what was comfortable. Bravado. "I've found it to be so, my niece," the man said. "This is water dancing you teach them?"
"Something similar, my own style," the queen said. She nodded to her wards. "That will be enough for today. Please clean up and then see Maester Marwyn and Maester Doonith for your lessons."
The two youths bowed and walked away, talking excitedly like old friends. When they were gone, the queen walked over to the rack of sparring sticks, grabbed one, and then tossed it to Oberyn.
"Oh, you wish to test yourself against a real warrior?"
The queen snorted. "You want to hit me right now, Uncle. I see you just found out about the betrothal. So, have at it. Get the anger out, and then we can talk."
"And will I lose my head if I land a blow?"
"And set all those bastard girls of yours against me?" The queen made a show of shuddering in dismay. "Never."
They sparred. Oberyn attacked hard and fast, putting muscle behind every blow that a typical woman should never have been able to stand against.
The queen parried the first few blows, but he could see from the trembling in her arms that he was the stronger. After that she began deflecting. She moved with skill, speed and confidence, and he had to admit that she was a superb fighter.
He was better. "I've heard so much of your prowess," he said after scoring another hit that raised a bruise on her exposed arm. "Niece, I am disappointed."
Rather than be offended, the queen laughed. "Uncle, I'm fighting you without my power. I didn't think it would be fair if I beat you that quickly."
Nearby, Ellaria stuttered indignantly. However, Oberyn felt relaxed and refreshed. He was surprised from the angle of the sun that they had been sparring for the better part of an hour. He felt no offense at her claim-rather, he felt intrigued. Raising his blade, he met her black-gold eyes with his own. "Show me."
She showed him. She blurred into motion, and a second later he was on his back. He reset, and she did so again, and again. The fourth time she held out a hand and it felt as if a great battering ram slammed into him. The sixth time his practice blade flew out of his hand. By the seventh, he understood and held up both hands in surrender.
"I yield," he said.
The queen nodded. "Let's get a drink. Ellaria, would you care to join us? I have some rum and blood orange juice. They mix very well."
Though not pleased to see her husband defeated, Ellaria was no fool. One did not refuse an "invitation" from the queen.
"The boy has your power," Ellaria said.
Rather than deny it, the queen smiled. "Of course. Why do you think I made him my heir? He has his own unique power as well. When he gains the throne, he'll have the breadth of vision to protect the realm, and the wisdom and morality to do so well. That's why he's my heir."
"And the girl?"
"Not quite as powerful, but more so than any one else beside Bran. And while Bran has the vision, Shireen is a remarkably wise person. As much as I've done for Westeros, they will exceed me." She led them into the quarters.
Oberyn found the absence of servants odd. Unlike any other noble or royal family he'd ever heard of, the queen preferred fewer servants rather than more. Her cleaning staff did not stay nearby, but rather came and cleaned in the mornings only. Her chamber maid served more as a page than one to help the queen dress for her daily affairs. So, it was only the three of them that entered her quarters.
The queen's one extravagance was a bucket of ice that held a bottle of red-orange liquid. She handed each of them a glass and poured rum and juice together before inviting them to sit around an unlit brazier. Though winter had fallen across the kingdom, it's reach barely extended to King's Landing. It was a comfortable day.
"So, you've been prowling around the keep for months now, Uncle. Say your piece. Your brother's support has ensured Dorne may always speak freely to me."
The drink tasted like heaven, but with a little hellish burn on the way down. He liked it. "We all know you are not my niece."
"True," the queen admitted. She leaned back in her chair, the exposed skin of her flat stomach and arms glistening. She crossed her legs and sat almost as a man might as she studied him intently. "But your brother knew that before he supported me, so I don't see why that would change things."
"You've put a northerner on the throne!" Ellaria burst. "And a Baratheon! It was a Baratheon that helped destroy my good niece Elia and her children!"
"Every person who had a hand in that debacle is dead," the queen said. "Clinging to it now brings nothing but pain. Westeros cannot grow if we can't overcome our ghosts."
She leaned forward, and suddenly Oberyn felt strangely aware of how the leather vest had leaned forward, revealing pale skin under. "Besides, Dorne has been richly rewarded for Prince Doran's support of my claim. You have full control of the Stepstones and Dorne has kept a tenth of all levy revenue as part of the cost of maintaining Port Royal and the fleet. House Martell and her allies have more money now than the Lannisters did at their height."
Oberyn wanted to argue, but she was largely just confirming what his brother had told him before sending him north. "True enough. But why adopt a child? You are young, and powerful. Why not take a man as husband and produce your own heir?"
"Two reasons," the queen said as she drained her glass and poured another. She glanced at Ellaria, and suddenly smiled as Oberyn's paramour drained her own for a second pour. With such examples, how could Oberyn do any different?
"First, Westeros has never had a queen. If I marry, every noble will expect me to defer to my husband as king. I'm not going to do so. Which means any child I delivered would be born out of wedlock."
"And your second reason?"
"Second? Why should I need the gods approval to love a man?"
Oberyn frowned as the queen seemed to echo his thoughts. He looked to Ellaria, who was staring with an odd expression at the queen, as if seeing something she hadn't realized was there before. Abruptly, his beloved smirked. No smile, no grin, just a smirk.
"Before we came to King's Landing, I spoke with Ser Deziel Dalt," Ellaria said.
Oberyn looked at her, then the queen. "Lemonwood? What does…?"
The queen met Ellaria's gaze very squarely, a touch of red in her cheeks. "He was very pretty," the queen agreed.
"Oberyn is mine," Ellaria said.
The queen nodded. "And you are his. I can see the bond between you. A love that burns stronger than any vow. You're all the more beautiful because of it."
The smirk turned finally to a smile-a hungry smile. Ellaria stood and walked across the flagstone until she knelt directly in front of the much taller, more powerfully built woman. And then, to Oberyn's shock, she kissed the queen even as she reached forward to undo the leather laces that held the larger woman's vest closed.
When the kiss parted, both women turned to look at Oberyn, who only then realized what was happening.
"You Dornish are just so damned pretty," the queen said.
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
The fleet was the greatest seen since the Valyrians destroyed the Rhoynish. Over two thousand ships gathered around the island of Lys.
Astaliskianatious Choroiustorious stood on the deck of his ship, Qarths' Revenge, and gloried in the power gathered around him. He saw flags from his own Qarth, Qarkash and Port Yhos. But the Qartheen were not alone in this great endeavor to restore the world as it should be.
There were ships from New Ghis, Mereen, Astapor, Yunkai, Tolos, Elyria and Volantis. Every city that suffered under the vast insult of the Westeros queen's assault on Slaver's Bay had responded in force. And now, hundreds more ships from Lys, Tyrosh and Myr joined them. The whole world, it seemed, had come together to tear down that bitch-whore who called herself queen of Westeros and re-establish slavery as the natural order.
An ancient, withered man joined Astaliskiantatious on the deck. Malaquo Maegyr was no warrior, but he was personally funding the hundred dromunds from Volantis, following that city's most violent and terrible slave revolt. He, too, seemed pleased with the number of men and ships gathered to throw the bitch-whore queen of Westeros down.
Of course, though they made common cause they had far different reasons. For Astaliskiantatious, he could never forgive the queen's theft of his gold, or the burning of the Warlock's Way. For Malaquo, though, his rage was born of the new "Rhaeniad" arm of the Red Temples that were making all slaves across Essos believe they had the right to be free. With the Queen's nominal conquest of Slaver's Bay, such nonsense had to be crushed harshly. This, both men agreed on.
"Word yet of the whore's fleet?" the old man asked.
"None yet," Astaliskiantatious admitted. The sun was setting; they would sail for the Stepstones and dawn, and after crushing the enemy fleet, they would burn King's Landing to ash. "They will not seek battle at night. Come, my friend. Let us seek the pleasures of Lys. I've heard much of their pillow slaves."
The old man waved the offer off. "At my age pillow slaves do little. But I will accompany you regardless. I grow tired of the...what is that sound?"
Over the constant sound of the waves and wind, Astaliskiantatious too heard what alerted Malaquo. A distant screech, unlike any bird or beast in the world save one.
"Dragons," he whispered. A surge of terror turned to excitement. At last, vengeance! "Dragons!" he shouted. "Dragons! Prepare the scorpions!"
Of course the queen would come with her dragons. Astaliskiantatious had no doubt they would lose ships. But they had a thousand to lose, while the bitch-whore queen only had three dragons! All it would take was three lucky shots, and Westeros' best weapons would be lost to the depths!
The call carried across the water, spreading rapidly across the fleet as men prepared the massive scorpions that the weapons wrights of Volantis had built for them. Each one shot a bolt of steel and wood the length of a man, and in testing had killed an elephant with one shot.
Looking up in the sky, he desperately searched for the enemy. What he saw was quickly falling into darkness and a roll of clouds. "Where are they?"
"She'll have to bring them down for them to fire the ships," Malaquo said with the calm of hard experience. "The moment they open their mouths to breathe their fire, they will die."
He was right, of course. Astaliskiantatious had to admit the older man's counsel was wise and just. But he still couldn't help but feel a surge of fear as he remembered how the queen and her dragon burned Warlock's Way to ash, leaving Qarth wide open to the Red Priests and their new Rhaeniad heresies.
Abruptly, a ship in the distance burst into flame. It did not look like the red-gold fire that burned Warlock's Way, though. This was a burst of green flame that rose over the doomed ship in an odd bloom, demonic in its color. Seconds later another ship erupted, and then a third.
Screams pulled his attention to the other side of Qarth's Revenge as still more ships erupted in that demonic green flame.
Malaquo cursed. "Blast! She uses wild fire! The savers told me her fortifications used alchemic wildfire and those blasted bombasts to destroy their first fleet! Break away! The fleet needs to set sail now! We're sitting targets here!"
All around them, ships began to burst into green flame. Astaliskiantatious shouted the order to hoist the sails and pull the anchor. Other captains did the same, but it was only when they tried to break free that Astaliskiantatious realized that the placement of the demonic green fire was not haphazard. No, burning ships surrounded them.
"Ram through! Oars!"
It was the last thing he shouted before he caught his first glimpse of a dragon. The great beast passed through the smoke of a burning ship, opened its mouth, and roared with fire.
~~Quintessence~~
~~Quintessence~~
Prince Doran surveyed the chaos as his men invaded the island of Lys. The invasion was as much to keep the slaves from slaughtering their former masters as anything else. The waters surrounding the island were so full with burning broken hulks that the bay was inaccessible and men had to be ferried ashore.
The queen's plan worked, of course. He'd come to accept her plans usually did. She and her heirs had all ridden dragons bearing little bombs of wildfire with strikers at the tip and fins at the base to ensure they flew well and straight. The strikers lit the Wild Fire, and even just a flagon's amount of Wildfire was enough to destroy a ship, if just not all at once. Each of them carried thirty of the bombs and used them with astonishing precision to destroy those ships armed with the massive scorpions. Only then, under the cover of fire and the night, did the dragons lay into the larger fleet with their own terrible fire. By the time Admiral Seaworth hit them with the Dornish-Westeros fleet, the man's massive war galleons waded through the enemy fleet with impunity.
Over a thousand enemy ships destroyed, and we only lost a hundred and twelve, Prince Doran thought with a shake of his head.
His brother sauntered onto the deck after a brief rest following the battle. Despite how lopsided it was, Prince Oberyn had found enemies to kill and looked refreshed for the challenge. "Where's our feisty little niece?" He asked.
Doran snorted. "Don't think I didn't hear what you were up to while in King's Landing with our niece."
Oberyn grinned. "She may not have a Dornish look, but she has the Dornish passion! Where is she now, brother?"
"On the island, negotiating the surrender of the Free Cities."
"To conquer, no doubt."
"Not so. The queen does not wish to conquer, only to ensure slavery is ended."
Oberyn shook his head. "She should seize it all! We've just destroyed every ship in the world!"
Doran snorted. "In this I agree with our niece. We could conquer the world, yes, but we could not hold it. Every month, word comes of more incursion along the Wall in the North. More soldiers are sent there to defend it. This way is better, and will allow our troops to be where they are needed. She negotiates trade deals for our merchants. She insists on common laws of the sea for all who sail. They will hate her for defeating them, but far less than if she had tried to conquer them. Braavos is there, and Pentos. Westeros is far from alone in this."
"Still, a wasted opportunity, I say," Oberyn said. "Well, I'm back to bed, then. Tell me if anything changes, brother."
Doran didn't bother watching his brother leave. Instead, he stared out over the wreckage of Essos's last gasp at relevance. "More has changed that even I can understand, brother," Doran said to himself. "Thank the gods I was here to see it."