Author's Note: Rating changed to M, for language. The Hound is a potty mouth. Thank you all for your continued support of this story.
VII
The words have scarcely left her lips when Daario lets out a wordless cry of elation and triumph, then catches her around the waist, lifting her high and spinning her around the room, his face alight with joy.
"Gently," Jorah cautions, no less delighted by the news, yet still alarmed by the other man's exuberant display.
Daario stops at once, setting her carefully on her feet, and drawing her into a quick hug before releasing her so Jorah can have his turn to enfold her in an embrace. Jorah's lips brush first the crown of her head, then her cheek, and finally her lips, all as gently as if she is as fragile as a soap bubble. Between them, they guide her back to her chair and help her into it, as though they fear for her health if she is allowed to stay standing too long. They hover on either side of her, laying their hands on her abdomen, their touch delicate and tentative, with wide smiles on their faces, and their eyes filled with awe.
"She's not going to break, silly boys," Lady Olenna remarks as she watches them, shaking her head in fond exasperation. Lady Ellaria seconds her with a chuckle and an emphatic nod. "You should nip that in the bud, my dear, or the next months will be very long for you, and very tiresome. My late husband would have made a proper nuisance of himself whenever I was carrying a child, had I been fool enough to let him get away with his fussing when he first started it. As if women hadn't been having babies for thousands of years without needing a man to play the part of a broody hen! If you don't put your foot down now, they'll have you wrapped in silk and goose down, and cozened like an invalid, until the babe is born."
The advice is kindly meant, but Daenerys knows that she cannot fault the men she loves for their concern for her, nor can she convince herself that the caution is unwarranted.
"The witch who killed my first husband never said that I would never conceive another child," she hears herself telling them, quietly but more calmly than she would have expected to be able to speak of a matter so painful, and so close to her heart. "She told me that I would never bear a living child."
Is this to be her punishment for leaving Westeros and its people to the Night King and his army?
Is she to be allowed to spend the next six months living in hope, feeling her babe grow inside womb, sharing her excitement with Jorah, Daario and her loved ones at the quickening and the first kick, imagining what he or she will look like, debating names with Jorah and Daario, and making plans for their future as a family and for the world she wants their child to grow up in, only to lose this precious life she carries, as so many of the people of Westeros lost their lives and the lives of the people they loved because of her, both in this life, and in the life that would have been, had Quaithe not warned her about what the future had in store for her?
She never had a chance to see Rhaego, or to hold him in her arms.
The struggle of birthing, and the foul-tasting concoction that Mirri Maz Duur forced down her throat when she was too weak to protest, left her scarcely away of what was happening to her, save that she suffered agonies worse by far than the beatings Viserys inflicted on her whenever she did something to wake the dragon, worse even than the terrible nights after her marriage, when Drogo ruthlessly used her for his pleasure, never dissuaded by her pain or her tears, before Doreah taught her other ways to please him.
By the time she regained consciousness, the women had taken Rhaego away, and all she knew of her son was the unsparing description Mirri Maz Duur gave her, the witch taking pleasure in telling her of her son's deformities, gloating that he was not to have the chance to grow up to be the Stallion Who Mounts the World. She never knew if the women burned Rhaego's body, or if they buried him in the sand as the Dothraki did their waste, deeming him too monstrous for a funeral pyre, and not wanting to risk that he would be reborn into the world. Jorah did not know, as he had not left her side for a moment, and by the time she was able to ask, the women were long gone, carried away by one or another of Drogo's blood riders, who wasted no time establishing themselves as Khals in their own right, rather than following the blood of their blood into the Night Lands.
Jorah's arms tighten around her, as though he hopes that his embrace can shield her from all horror and sorrow in the world, and the mirth fades from Daario's face, leaving him looking graver than she has ever seen him.
"The babe will live, and grow strong."
She turns at the sound of Quaithe's voice, and sees the woman who has become her advisor and friend regarding her, compassion in her eyes, though her expression is, as always, concealed by her elaborate mask.
"But the curse…"
"Had you travelled to Westeros, you would not have borne a child. Do you remember what you asked me before you made your choice?"
How could she forget?
Had Quaithe's answer been different, she would have had to travel to Westeros, even if she did not stay there after the Night King and his army were defeated. She would have had no choice but to bring her children and her armies to a land that she knew would never welcome them, not even after they risked their lives to save them, knowing that, even if she was able to improve their strategy thanks to all she knew of the battle to be fought at Winterfell, thousands upon thousands of her people would still die in the Great War, knowing that she might lose one or all of her children. She would have had no choice but to fight alongside Jon Snow, knowing that she could never trust him, lest the Night King's reach spread to Essos, and beyond.
"You told me that my dragons would protect the rest of the world. I thought that was why they laid the eggs."
"It is," Quaithe agrees placidly. "Your dragons will be as many and as strong as they need to be to play their part. But as long as there are dragons in the world, there must also be those who carry the blood of the dragon. You are the last true heir of the dragon riders of Old Valyria. The line cannot be allowed to die with you, and so it will continue through your child."
"Another dragon rider," Jorah murmurs.
Daario grins. "Seems only fitting that the little dragons will have a little rider of their own, doesn't it?"
If either of them worries about the prospect of their child growing up to ride a dragon, they give no sign of it.
Daenerys' memory of riding through the North with Jon, she on Drogon and he on Rhaegal, is tainted by what would have happened afterwards, but she can still remember the exhilaration she felt during their ride. Until she saw how her children responded to Jon, she never imagined sharing the experience of riding a dragon with another person, yet when she saw how he interacted with her sons when they checked on them after their arrival in Winterfell, she knew in that moment that if he could find the courage to try, Rhaegal would accept him as a rider.
With hindsight, she marvels at the thought that she could have come to trust Jon so much, in such a short space of time, that she was prepared to share her children, and most powerful weapons, with him.
It is not a mistake that she will make a second time.
She imagines what it will be like when her child is old enough, and the baby dragons have hatched and grown large enough to carry a rider, and the two of them can take to the skies, flying with their dragons as their ancestors did centuries ago, and as their descendants might centuries from now, sharing something truly precious.
The thought makes her smile.
When they return to the building that has become their temporary abode, it is a hive of activity, crowded with what seems like thousands of people, the sound of thousands of voices filling the space. Every bed in the long sleeping chamber appears to be occupied, and Davos hears the sound of voices drifting through from the dining area, letting him know that some of the new arrivals must be taking their meal.
Almost all of the people wear shabby, homespun garments and are barefoot, though a handful of them are better dressed and wear sandals. There is not one among them who is not dusty from travel. Some have leather and metal collars around their necks, and he can see that those who do not wear collars have patches of chafed and raw skin on their necks, indicating that until very recently, they too were collared. Even those garbed in well-made garments are collared, or show signs of having been collared until a matter of days ago. Each adult he can see has a small tattoo on his or her cheek, or on their brows, in a variety of patterns. Even some of the older children are tattooed.
A dozen or so men and women dressed in simple, but well-made tunics and gowns, circulate among the newcomers, equipped with quills and paper tablets, speaking to them and taking notes.
Ghost pads over to Jon when they enter, whining softly.
"Who are they?" Jon asks in a low voice, petting Ghost with a gentle hand.
"Slaves from Volantis, if I don't miss my guess." Davos inclines his head slightly in the direction of the nearest person, a man who looks to be about thirty or so, and whose right cheek is tattooed with an image of a wheel. "The slave masters in Volantis tattoo their slaves so they can't escape, and to show their role. King Stannis had a fool once; he was called Patchface, for the tattoos in motley all over his face. Nobody knew his real name. I doubt that he remembered it himself, after all he went through on his journey to Westeros. He was from Volantis. Lord Steffon bought him and freed him, and brought him back to Westeros to amuse Stannis."
It had not surprised him to learn that Stannis was serious even as a boy, so much so that his parents found him a fool in the hopes that he would be able to teach him how to laugh.
He feels a lump in his throat at the memory of how Patchface, though his wits were addled by the terrible shipwreck that claimed the lives of Lord Baratheon, his Lady, and the soldiers and sailors who had escorted them to and from Essos, was a true friend to Shireen. He was one of the few to visit her in her tower, when even the servants avoided her as much as they could hope to get away with, their fear of contagion stronger than their fear of any punishment they might earn for neglecting their lord's daughter. He enlivened the little girl's days with his strange songs, playing games with her, and listening with rapt attention when she read him stories from the books she so cherished. He may not have been able to amuse his Lord and Lady, and he was more likely to unnerve bannermen, ladies, knights and retainers that made up their small court than to make them laugh, but he was a faithful friend and companion to a little girl who badly needed him, and for that, Davos blessed him.
His death had left Shireen's life even lonelier than ever; aside from Davos himself, and the servant who reluctantly, and in exchange for higher wages, came to tend to her bleak chamber and bring her her meals, only Stannis visited her with any frequency, and it was never in Stannis' nature to show much warmth, even to his only child.
"What are slaves from Volantis doing here?" Lady Sansa asks, addressing her question to those members of their party who did not accompany Jon on his visit to the Great Pyramid.
"They came with the big men on the horses," a small voice pipes up.
Davos glances down to see Lilla standing by his side, her head scarcely reaching his hip. She slips her hand in his, grasping it tightly.
She and Jeyne were still sleeping when he set out for the Great Pyramid, or he would have had no hope of being able to get away without them.
Neither has wanted to let him out of their sight since he carried them out of the crypt at Winterfell, where they were among the too small number not slain by the Stark dead before those who survived the battle outside the walls of Winterfell were able to come to their aid, forcing their way through barricades meant to keep the invading army out, but which had ended up trapping the most helpless among them. In the end, they had had to burn their way through the barricades, shouting warnings to those on the other side to keep clear, and praying that they were able to hear them. The two little girls were his constant companions during the long months of their journey, and continued to cling to him after they arrived in Meereen, claiming beds on either side of his.
Though he knows that they needed sleep and food far more than they needed to spend hours on end waiting with him for an audience with Queen Daenerys, he still feels a pang of guilt when Lilla fixes him with a frown.
"You went away. I woke up and you were gone."
Lilla's cheeks, rounded with baby fat when they first met, are pale and thin now, making the burn scars on one cheek stand in even sharper contrast, but she speaks with the same determination as she did when she announced her intention to guard the crypts, wanting to follow in the footsteps of her soldier brothers. In place of the now filthy and ragged woolen gown, cloak and cap she has worn as long as he has known her, he notices that she is wearing a new dress, which looks to be made of undyed but smoothly-woven linen. It is a bit too long for her, and some of the fabric is folded and tucked under a dark green sash at the waist. She has small leather sandals on her feet. Her hair is slightly damp, and pulled back from her face with a thin strip of cloth the same colour as her sash.
"I came back, love. I'm always going to come back to you; I promise you that. How did you come by your new dress?" He looks around, noting that the other children are likewise outfitted in new dresses or tunics, all in simple but light fabrics better suited to the Meereenese climate than the heavy wool and furs of the North. Quite a few of the adults have also been furnished with a new garment.
Once more, he is impressed by the care that Queen Daenerys and the people of Meereen take of those in need.
His childhood would have been happier if Flea Bottom had had their like helping its people.
"Some women came to bring them, they had lots and lots of clothes, and they made lists of how many people there are so there'll be enough for everybody," Lilla explains, before pursing her lips in an adorably discontented pout. "They made me take a bath first!"
"Aye, I thought you smelled a mite sweeter," he agrees, chuckling at the scowl she gives him. After three moons of travel, with only the clothes on their backs and with no means of washing save snow and seawater, there is not a member of their party who wouldn't be the better for a tub of water, a bar of strong soap, and a change of clothes. For his part, he has never been a vain man, but the prospect of a bath is a deeply inviting one. He would also be very glad of an opportunity to shave, and to exchange his filthy garments for fresh ones. Those he is wearing are fit only for burning. "Where's Jeyne?"
"She's with Ser Sandor and the others, having noon meal."
No matter how much the Hound grumbles, and proclaims that he is no knight, all of the children insist on referring to him as 'Ser Sandor', something he very grudgingly tolerates. He may not have been knighted, and would undoubtedly have thrashed Davos soundly if he dared to offer to confer a knighthood on him, but there can be no question but that he deserves a knight's honours for overcoming his horror of fire to force his way past the burning barrier to reach the crypts, snatching up every child he could find and carrying them to safety.
He strokes Lilla's hair with his unmaimed hand, touched that her eagerness to see him has outweighed her hunger for food. "What do you mean by big men on horses?"
"She means the Dothraki," Brienne interjects. "They rode into the city a few hours past, with thousands of slaves from Volantis. Some of them were brought here. I think that there must be other places like this in other parts of the city, because there were a lot more of them than you see here. A few of them speak the Common Tongue; they tell me that they were freed, and brought here to Mhysa. That's their name for Queen Daenerys," she adds before any of them can ask.
"Not 'charity', after all," Sam Tarly mutters, though nobody is paying him any attention, focusing instead on the more pressing issues at hand.
The younger man has been quiet and subdued since leaving the Great Pyramid, speaking only to express his profuse apologies to Jon for his mistake regarding his status as the trueborn heir of House Targaryen, while Lady Sansa grumbled over Queen Daenerys allowing her advisor to embarrass Jon in front of her court. Davos had to bite his tongue to keep himself from pointing out that the embarrassment could have been avoided, had they listened to him and not sought to present Jon to the Queen as the true heir to the Iron Throne.
"Since when do the Dothraki free slaves instead of capturing them?"
"Since they began to follow Queen Daenerys."
Davos thinks of the Queen he met today. He has travelled enough to have heard plenty of stories of the Dothraki and their ways, and under other circumstances, he would never believe that they would ever follow a woman, let alone a slip of a girl like Daenerys Targaryen. He knows, however, that she must be strong to have achieved all she has in her short life thus far, strong enough to impress even the Dothraki.
It amazes him that she has found a way to harness the strength of the Dothraki to help those in need, rather than to seize tribute for herself, as the Khals he has heard of did.
"Will she help us? How many men can she send to Westeros? Will she send her dragons?" Brienne asks her questions in quick succession, not even pausing to take a breath in between.
Davos knows that she must see the answer in the expressions on their faces before any of them speak a word.
It falls to Lady Sansa to say it aloud. "She refuses to help us. She has more than a hundred thousand men, if she's telling the truth, but she won't send any of them to help us save the North."
"She won't help us?" Brienne looks crestfallen rather than sharing Lady Sansa's anger.
"She can't help us save the North, or any of the Seven Kingdoms, not even if she sends every man in her army back with us, and all of her dragons too," Jon corrects her. He looks as dejected as Davos has ever seen him, more so than he did when Melisandre brought him back to life, and he remembered dying at the hands of his sworn brothers, or even when he realised that his brother and sister were lost in the battle at Winterfell, and little over two hundred of the people he swore to rule and protect had survived. The last spark of hope, carefully nurtured since their flight from Winterfell, the hope that gave him the strength he needed to lead them on their long, perilous journey East, is snuffed out. "It's taken us too long to reach her, and it will take even longer to travel back. It's too late for her to be able to do anything for the Seven Kingdoms; they'll be lost before we can get back there."
"We should have realised it for ourselves, I suppose," Davos remarks, unable to keep the sharpness from his voice.
He should have realised that the plan was doomed to fail, as soon as Jon gathered the small group he counted as his closest advisors together to set out his plan to seek help from the Queen across the Narrow Sea.
He knew, better than most of their party, how long it would take them to travel from White Harbour to Meereen, and then to make the return journey, and his time as King Stannis' Hand taught him how long it could take to muster and provision an army. Worse still, with so few weapons proving to have any effect on the Night King or his ever-growing army, they would have needed to mine more dragonglass for weapons, assuming that they would have had a chance at reaching Dragonstone with winter upon them, and that the remaining deposits of dragonglass would be enough to arm Queen Daenerys' army.
He thinks that he should have known that there was no real prospect of her being able to help, and that he should have made his way to his keep at Cape Wrath, to his wife and their remaining sons.
He should have set sail for Essos with his family, and with the members of his small household, bringing them to Essos and safety and a chance at a new life, instead of allowing himself to share in Jon's belief that they still had a chance… a duty… to save all of Westeros.
He looks down at Lilla, and allows himself to imagine how Marya would have welcomed her and Jeyne. The Mother blessed them with seven strong sons, but Marya would have dearly loved to also have a couple of daughters to dote on. There is no doubt in his mind that she would have opened her heart to the little girls without hesitation, caring only that they were alone in the world, and sorely in need of a mother's love.
He was a fool, and it cost his family their lives, and himself the chance to hold them in his arms again.
He sees Jon flinch at his words, and knows that the younger man must also be reproaching himself for his short-sightedness, and thinking about what they might have done, who they might have saved, if they had not placed all of their trust in the vain hope that Queen Daenerys would be willing and able to come to their rescue.
A part of him feels that he should offer him a word or two of encouragement and reassurance, to tell a comforting lie about how Jon was right not to give up as long as he believed that there was a chance to save all of the people of Westeros, not just what few they might have been able to round up and ship to safety before winter had the realm so fully in its grasp as to make it nigh impossible to travel, but he can't bring himself to say it, and he doubts very much that Jon would believe him if he tried.
Lady Sansa shakes her head vehemently, as if rejecting their words will make them untrue, as if she hopes to convince herself that this is not happening. Her blue eyes shine with unshed tears as she looks from Jon to each of the others in turn, as though one of them must know a solution to their woes that they are keeping concealed.
"We can't give up. We just can't. The North is ours. We fought for it, and we won it back. We can't give up on it now! We have to save it! We have to save our people!"
"Sansa…" Jon sounds as weary as a man thrice his age. He is not an especially tall man but, weighed down by worry and grief, and thinner after months of hunger and hard travel, he appears smaller than he should, smaller than the brave young warrior of the Night's Watch that Davos met when he and Stannis travelled to the Wall.
It feels a lifetime ago.
"You're a Targaryen too, just as much as she is! If Prince Rhaegar had won at the Trident, he would have declared you legitimate. You would be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, not her, and it wouldn't matter what anybody had to say about his marriage to Aunt Lyanna. Her dragons should be yours. If you claim one of them as your mount, you could take it home and use it to defeat the Night King, once and for all."
"We are Queen Daenerys' guests, my lady," Brienne cuts in, looking aghast that the lady to whose service she is pledged, the lady she takes pride in being sworn shield to, should advocate such an action. "We have sheltered in her city, and eaten her food. It would be dishonorable for us to steal from her."
"We're not going to steal!" Jon snaps furiously. "How can you even think of it?"
"She's not the only ruler in Essos, and her army isn't the only army," Sansa continues desperately, undeterred by their reproaches. "Maybe another ruler will want an alliance with the Seven Kingdoms, and will see that they can benefit by helping us, and making you King. Even if they don't, there are sellswords we can hire!"
"Aye, and do you have a mountain of gold tucked away to pay them?" Jon demands. "Because they're bound to want extra if we're asking them to fight an army of the dead! What about ships to carry them? How many of them do you have? Or do you expect me to ask Queen Daenerys to empty her treasury to fund a lost cause, and throw in her navy to boot?"
"It's the least she can do if she's not going to send her army!"
Davos feels Lilla's hand slip into his, and he squeezes it reassuringly. Her pale little face is grave as she watches Sansa argue with Jon, unnerved to see two of those the surviving Northerners look to for leadership in conflict with one another, and he judges it best to take her away before she is frightened more than she already is.
"Let's see about getting you your noon meal," he suggests, bending down to scoop her up.
Once she is securely settled in his arms, he moves away from Jon, Sansa and their quarrel as quickly as he can, carrying her through to the dining area, where every table is full.
He notes that the former slaves from Volantis seem quite at ease, though he supposes that it is hardly surprising, considering that this is the first safe harbor for them after years, if not a lifetime, of bondage and cruelty.
The Hound is sitting at a table near to the serving trestles, with four children clustered around him. He greets Davos with a grunt, more interested in his meal than he is in the other man, but the children are more welcoming.
Jeyne gives him a wide, gap-toothed smile, waving to him with her spoon and spattering the table with drops of creamy liquid. Like Lilla, she wears a new dress, her sash red instead of green, and somebody has taken the time and the effort to comb out her tangled mop of blonde curls, securing it with a thin strip of red cloth.
"Ser Davos!"
Her greeting is echoed by two of the other children.
Arnolf is the elder of the boys who trails after the Hound. Still some months shy of turning ten, he was too young to be drafted to fight against the Night King, as his older sisters were. Though he has not said so, Davos suspects that the lad regrets that he did not insist on fighting, that he might have been in the field to shield his sister's backs. Unusually tall for a boy his age, he looks even thinner than the other children, his face gaunt and his long arms and legs like sticks. His cousin, Dolyse, known to all as Dolly, is four years his junior, and never strays far from his side. He is patient with her, and never unwilling to amuse her with a story or a game. He reminds Davos of his eldest son, Dale, who filled the role of father as well as brother for the younger ones when Davos was at sea.
The only child not to speak is the boy sitting next to the Hound, pressed close to his side as though he fears being torn away from his protector. He gives Davos a shy smile before ducking his head down, and it is not until the Hound gruffly prompts him to finish his meal that he picks up his spoon, sucking on it for a few moments before he scoops up another spoonful of soup.
Nobody knows the little lad's name, or how old he is, though Davos judges him to be about the same age as Dolly. Nobody knows which village he came from. If he had any family or friends or neighbours with him when he came to Winterfell, they perished in battle or in the crypts. There's not a soul left in the world who knew him before the Hound carried him out of the crypts, and he has not uttered a word since that night. Davos wonders if, like Patchface before him, the horrors he has witnessed have robbed him of the memory of his name.
The Hound steadfastly refuses any suggestion that they devise a new name for him.
"He's a boy, not some damned pet! He'll tell us his name when he's good and ready, not before."
One man made the mistake of referring to the boy as the Puppy in the Hound's hearing, and lost three teeth for it.
The children squeeze closer together to make room, and Davos sets Lilla down between Jeyne and Arnolf, taking a seat at the end of the bench for himself. One of the servers bustles forward bearing two bowls, and bread, setting them in front of the newcomers. Davos is surprised to see that the soup in his bowl is very like the thick, creamy fish soups he has eaten on past visits to the Iron Islands. He didn't think they grew turnips and leeks in Essos. Instead of flatbreads like the ones they were served for dinner the previous night, they are given round, brown rolls. Lilla tears hers into tiny chunks to float in her bowl of soup, waiting until each of them has soaked up enough liquid to be soggy before she fishes them out with her spoon.
"Do we have to go back on a big ship, Ser Davos?" Jeyne asks anxiously. "I don't want to go back."
"Neither do I," Arnolf is quick to second her.
"That's because you're not total fucking idiots." Even being constantly shadowed by three young children is not enough to prompt the Hound to moderate his language. Thankfully, the children all seem to accept that his swearing is a privilege afforded to him by his age and size, and have not begun to emulate him in that respect.
"Lady Sansa wants to go back," Lilla announces blithely. "And she wants to steal one of the Queen's dragons."
Davos winces, inwardly rebuking himself for not thinking to warn Lilla that she shouldn't repeat the conversation of their King and his sister to the other children, or anybody else for that matter.
Marya used to say that little pitchers have big ears, he remembers with a pang of grief.
"No surprise there," the Hound mutters. "The little bird still thinks that this story can have a happy ending. I did think she'd have more sense than to try to steal a dragon, though. Take it this means that the Dragon Queen won't be letting us borrow her army and a couple of dragons?"
"No."
"At least she has a brain in her head. More than I can say for some."
"She says that it's too late for her to help; by the time she could gather her army, arm them, and sail to Westeros, there'd be nobody left for us to save."
"I could have told you that. Three bloody moons it took us to get here! You saw how fast those dead shits can move when they want to. If they're not at King's Landing yet, they'll be there before the next moon, and then there'll have a million other poor fuckers for their army."
"Why did you come if you thought that there was no hope? Why didn't you say something?"
"Why wouldn't I come? Anywhere's a step up from Westeros. And if I'd said something, your King and the little bird would probably have got it into their fool heads to stay and try to fight, and got us all killed. Is the Dragon Queen planning to kick us out of her city?"
"No. She said that any of our people who want to stay will be welcome. We can stay here, in the barracks, until we find work, and a place to live. We're not likely to get a better offer elsewhere."
"The rest of you can do whatever you want, but the four of us are staying right here."
"Can we stay too, Ser Davos?" Jeyne looks close to tears at the thought of leaving their safe haven to return to the peril they so narrowly escaped. "I don't want to go back to the monsters!"
"You won't have to," Davos reassures her, his mind made up.
Jon and Lady Sansa and the others can do as they think best, but if they return to Westeros to fight the Night King, they will do it without him.
He will stay in Meereen with Lilla and Jeyne, far away from the horrors they left in Westeros. The children can grow sturdy on the plentiful food, and he will seize any opportunity Queen Daenerys offers to make a new life.
A hot bath and a fresh gown see Daenerys fit to continue to hear petitioners for the remainder of the afternoon, her duties proving to be a welcome distraction from thoughts of the Northerners, and the seven doomed kingdoms they left behind.
Her last petitioners are a contingent of the Dothraki, newly returned from Volantis, and eager to regale her with the story of how quickly the masters sought to placate them. The newly liberated slaves have been assigned to the various barracks spread throughout the city, and the gold, jewels and other treasures they lay at her feet will be much welcomed assistance to provide for them, until they can find employment.
The Dothraki leave in good spirits, gratified by her praise and already anticipating their next visit to Volantis, and Daenerys is relieved that her work for the day is done.
Missandei falls into step beside her as she makes her way from the audience chamber up to her private quarters on the topmost level, and once they enter, she gestures for Daenerys to take a seat on the padded stool in front of her mirror, beginning to unpin the elaborate coronet of braids.
"Would you like you change for dinner, Your Grace?"
Daenerys shakes her head, deeming it a needless burden on the laundresses for her to go through three gowns in one day. She closes her eyes and allows herself to relax as Missandei's gentle hands move through her hair, her touch soothing. Unthinking, her hand moves down to rest over her still-flat abdomen and, a few moments later, she feels Missandei's hand move to rest over hers, her fingers warm.
"Can you feel the babe move?"
"Not yet." It was well over four moons before she felt Rhaego's first flutter inside her. The sensation was so delicate, so sweet, that she knows that her son was perfectly formed within her, before Mirri Maz Duur's curse. "But soon, I hope."
Once her hair is loose, with only two small braids at her temple to keep her hair out of her eyes, Daenerys exchanges places with Missandei, styling her hair in return.
She feels like a fool when she remembers how she hoped that Sansa and Arya would like her, and that Jon's sisters would be willing to welcome her into their family, when she already had the truest friend and dearest sister she could ever hope to have in Missandei. And she let Missandei die for her. She should have surrendered to Cersei then and there, if it meant saving Missandei, but she was so sad and so angry over Rhaegal's death that she could think of nothing other than making those who took her son from her suffer, could not bear to allow them to win. Why did she not put her pride and her anger and her grief aside, and seize the chance of saving her dearest friend?
"Your Grace," Missandei's voice is gentle, but holds a definite hint of disapproval, as it always does when she thinks that Daenerys is chastising herself for mistakes that she would have made in the other life. She has an uncanny knack for sensing it, more so than even Jorah or Daario. "It did not happen. Try not to think of it. Think of the future. The future you will make for all of us." She turns on the stool, touching Daenerys' abdomen again. "The future you will make for the babe."
The babe who would never have been born, if not for the choice she made.
The babe on whose tiny shoulders she will have to lay the burden of keeping the people of the world safe from the Night King after she is gone.
The babe she already loves more than she has ever loved anybody, save Rhaego.
She gives Missandei a smile, grateful, as always, for her wisdom and her love. "You are right, my friend."
Missandei gives her a look, as if to say that this should come as no surprise to her.
Hand in hand, they make their way to the dining chamber.
When she first claimed the Great Pyramid as her residence, Daenerys was shocked to be told that the previous inhabitant had considered it to be his smallest dining chamber. The room is larger than the great room where Magister Illyrio hosted guests to his manse, with space enough for fifty diners. The next smallest dining chamber can comfortably seat two hundred. The largest could feast an army. A marble fountain, trickling clear water scented with summer flowers, is set at the centre of the room, and the tables are arranged around it. The tables are made from dark wood, the legs ornately carved and inlaid with gold leaf, the surfaces polished to a glossy shine. The padded benches are upholstered in embroidered silk, with plump bolsters and cushions to ensure the comfort of the diners. The marble and lacquered statues ranged around the room watch over the diners, and every wall is ornamented with beautiful frescoes.
Until the Sands, the Tyrells and the Greyjoys joined her in Meereen, Daenerys never used this room, deeming it absurd for the small number of people with whom she shared her meals to need such a large space, and taking meals in the Council chamber, or in the privacy of her quarters, instead. Now, she has enough people with whom she can share her meals that, while they do not fill the room, they do not make it look so empty as to be ridiculous.
The tables are laid with a variety of dishes; richly spiced Essosi dishes, as well as recipes from Dorne and the Reach, recreated by the talented cooks in her kitchens.
She notes that a platter piled high with assorted cakes sits between Loreza and Dorea's places.
Sarella greets her with a smile when she enters. "Congratulations, Your Grace. You're not to worry; I've seen my share of babes through the narrow path during my training, and I'd be happy to see yours safely into the world."
At this, Tyrion chokes on his wine, looking from one face to the next, and seeing that nobody shares his surprise. "Am I the last to know?"
"Yes," Dorea tells him. She glances at her mother and, seeing that she is conversing with Obara and Nymeria, she snakes out her hand to snatch one of the cakes, cramming it into her mouth before anybody can stop her. She is licking honey from sticky fingers when Ellaria realises what she is doing.
"I suppose you've earned them," she says after a few moments, though she gives Daario a quick scowl. He, of course, is entirely unrepentant.
Dorea and Loreza share grins, taking this as permission to ignore the other dishes on the table in favour of cake.
"Will there be a wedding?" Alla Tyrell, Lady Olenna's middle granddaughter, asks, eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of a royal wedding. If she is scandalised at the thought of an unwed Queen carrying a child, she gives no sign of it. Like her cousins, Megga and Elinor, she is very fair of face, with brown hair and eyes. All three seem like sweet girls, though Daenerys has not spent much time in their company outside of meals.
"I think that that is a matter for the Queen and these two gentlemen to discuss among themselves, don't you?"
After Lady Olenna speaks, nobody dares to allude to the subject of marriage, though it is clear from the expression on Tyrion's face that he badly wants to, and conversation turns to other matters, but Daenerys continues to dwell on it as she eats her meal.
She remembers Tyrion's advice to leave Daario behind, so that he would not be an impediment to her cementing an alliance with one of the Great Houses of Westeros through marriage, and remembers her desperate, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to secure peace in Meereen with a marriage to Hizdahr zo Loraq.
Though she has no need for a political marriage, and though the people of the cities she rules will far more readily accept a child born out of wedlock as her heir than the people of Westeros ever would, the prospect of a marriage built on mutual love and trust is not without appeal.
She loves them both, and she trusts them both.
Lady Olenna is right that the matter is one for the three of them to discuss among themselves, in private, so she forces herself to focus instead on her meal and the conversation around her.
Sarella is full of advice about which foods she would be better off eating, to ensure the babe's healthy growth, while her mother is adamant that Daenerys will naturally be drawn to whatever it is the babe needs her to eat and repulsed by anything harmful, and that she should allow herself to be guided by her cravings.
Almost everybody at the table stares at her in mingled shock, horror and awe when she tells them of her first pregnancy, and the ritual carried out at Vaes Dothrak, intended to ensure the birth of a strong son.
"Raw meat! For a woman with child! You were lucky that you weren't ill after eating that," Sarella scolds her.
"I could hardly refuse."
"I would have," Nymeria declares. "I could never want a boy badly enough to do that."
"Why would you ever want a boy anyway?" Tyene asks scornfully. "Father had eight daughters, and would not have exchanged any of us for a son."
Daenerys remembers the youngest of the Dosh Khaleen, taken as a girl of twelve, and beaten so badly that her ribs were broken when she presented her Khal with a daughter. Would Drogo have welcomed a sister for Rhaego, or would he have considered her to have failed him if she bore him anything other than boys?
"No horse's heart this time," Sarella says sternly, levelling a warning finger at Daenerys, as if she expects her to insist on taking part in the ritual. "If the Dothraki have a quarrel with this, they may take it up with me."
"I doubt they will be unwelcoming to a little khalakki," Jorah opines. "You have shown them that they can follow a khaleesi with pride."
"If I may," Tyrion speaks up. He looks a little green, and is undoubtedly eager to change the subject to something more agreeable to his digestion. "Has Your Grace decided on what is to be done to the people from the North?"
"You were there when I told them. They are welcome to stay here in Meereen, and they will be sheltered in the barracks until they can find work and lodgings of their own. If they prefer to move to Astapor or Yunkai, they will be given the same help there. If they wish to leave, they may do so. Their lives are theirs to live. I will do no less for them than I would do for any man, woman or child in my cities who was in need of help."
Tyrion takes a few moments to mull over her words, a frown creasing his brow. She does not know what it is he expects from her, but she can see that he expects more from her than she has said.
"With your permission, Your Grace, I should like to pay a visit to the barracks tomorrow, to speak to Jon Snow, Lady Sansa… to all of them. If I can speak to them, I can find out how we can best help them."
It is on the tip of her tongue to refuse.
She remembers Tyrion Lannister serving her willingly, if not always wisely, until they travelled to Winterfell, and remembers Missandei confiding in her about the conversation she overheard between him and Sansa Stark in the crypts. In her vision, her dearest friend was indignant on her behalf that he had not spoken a word in her defence when Sansa sneered at her for being the cause of the problems between them. Instead of defending her, instead of standing by her, he had allowed himself to be manipulated into doing Sansa's dirty work in spreading the tale of Jon's parentage, speaking of it to Varys rather than to her, the Queen he was supposed to serve.
Her instincts scream at her to do all she can to see to it that Tyrion and Sansa are kept apart, lest his loyalty to her be undermined once more, but she knows that this is foolish of her.
If Tyrion is no worthier of her trust in this life than he was in her vision, if he will choose to be led by his soft spot for Sansa Stark rather than the loyalty he professes to her, it is better that she should know sooner rather than later.
"You have my permission, my lord," she tells him. "We will go tomorrow, after we break our fast."
"We, Your Grace?"
"Yes. I will speak with Samwell Tarly." A few of the Sands scoff at the mention of his name, not ready to forgive him for the insult to their aunt and cousins. "I cannot forget that, without him, I would not have Ser Jorah here. That merits a reward, whatever other mistakes he has made."
If she told them that Samwell Tarly is not the only one she wants to speak to, that she wants to see all the survivors face to face, she does not doubt that Jorah, Daario and Missadei would all try to dissuade her, fearing that it will hurt her to be confronted with all they have suffered because of the choice she made, so she says nothing.
Instead, she finishes her meal, basking in the conversation and companionship of those around her, and laughing at the little girls' antics as they squabble over the last of one type of cake that they both favour above the others.
It has been over a year since the Sands and the Tyrells travelled to Meereen, and joined the Greyjoys in accepting her offer that they should live with her in the Great Pyramid until such time as suitable residences could be built for them, but the novelty of sharing meals with them, as well as with Jorah, Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, Quaithe and Tyrion, has not worn off.
It is the closest she has ever come to being part of a large, merry family, and she relishes every moment.