VIII
Their conveyance is of Tyrion's own design, modelled after the wheelhouses of Westeros. His stunted legs are not equal to travelling long distances on foot, and his Queen would never tolerate the idea of a member of her court being borne in a palanquin, deeming it an unwelcome relic of the days of slavery for the highborn to be carried on the shoulders of men treated as beasts of burden, so he designed this alternative.
It is modest in scale, its frame crafted of dark wood, sanded smooth and polished to a shine. Within, there are two well-padded benches, with plump bolsters at the back, set facing one another, each seating no more than three people, and that at a rather tight squeeze. The only ornamentation is the pair of three-headed dragons, painstakingly carved and inlaid with red, one on each side. He never asked for the dragons to be added, but the craftsmen employed to construct the wheelhouse must have assumed that a member of their Queen's court would have wanted her sigil to be emblazoned on it, in case she ever wanted to use it.
It is tiny and simple compared with the great, lumbering wheelhouse in which his sister travelled North, what seems like half a dozen lifetimes ago. Cersei insisted that her conveyance must be large enough to comfortably accommodate her, her children, her ladies, and the children's Septa, and so richly appointed that they could enjoy as many of the luxuries that they did in the Red Keep as possible. The couches set against the walls of the wheelhouse were so long, so wide, and so thickly padded that they could serve as beds, and they did so on more than one night, when their party sought shelter in village inns rather than at the castle of some Lord or another. His sister would never have deigned to spend the night in an inn, sleeping on a straw-stuffed mattress that might well be riddled with fleas, nor would she allow her children to do so, though Tommen and Myrcella would have deemed it an adventure.
He remembers the long journey from King's Landing to Winterfell only dimly, having spent most of it drunk, his first concern in every village and town in which they spent a night being to locate a brothel and an ale house, in that order.
Though Cersei could sit a horse as well as any knight in a joust, she declined to ride, citing the increasingly chilly weather as her excuse, even when the roads were narrow and uneven, and their party was obliged to travel at a crawl in order to accommodate her wheelhouse, which travelled even more slowly than the wagons that carried their belongings. Tyrion calculated that the presence of the wheelhouse had added a week to their journey. In truth, the prospects of riding next to Robert, as was her right as Queen, and being forced to endure his company and the bawdy tales and tired old jests with which he amused himself, or of riding behind him and swallowing the dust kicked up by his horse's hooves, were equally unwelcome. Instead, she remained secluded inside her wheelhouse as much as possible, complaining whenever it moved at anything more than a gentle trot.
With hindsight, Tyrion suspects that she intentionally made herself a difficult, burdensome travelling companion, in the hope that Robert would grow sick of it and, if he was not prepared to cancel the journey altogether and content himself with sending a raven to Ned Stark to summon him to serve as Hand, he would at least demand that she take herself, her children, and her blasted wheelhouse back to King's Landing, sparing her the embarrassment of joining Robert on what was, to him, a near-pilgrimage to the home of his lost, lamented love.
He wonders if it would give Cersei pleasure to learn that Lyanna Stark, the woman Robert loved and mourned until the day he died, the ghost that haunted her marriage from her wedding day until strong wine and a boar did her the kindness of rendering her a widow, willingly ran away with Rhaegar Targaryen. He suspects that, if nothing else, it would amuse her to learn that Robert's cherished Lyanna was duped into believing herself a wife when she was nothing more than Rhaegar's mistress, and that his trusted Ned hid his enemy's son in plain sight.
Who would have ever imagined that the honourable, honest Lord Stark had it in him to fool the entire realm?
It crosses his mind that his sister may now be dead, if the Army of the Dead has travelled from Winterfell to King's Landing in the past three moons.
His brother too.
Cersei may never have loved him, but Jaime did... or at least he had before Tyrion killed their father. He hoped that the act had not cost him the love of his brother, but could not bring himself to regret it, even if it had. A crossbow bolt was small enough repayment for a lifetime of scorn, denial of love, and the certainty that, if he had been able to devise a way of doing so without branding his late wife a whore, he would have denied that he had ever fathered Tyrion, unable to see anything but a dwarf when he looked upon him, no matter how hard he strove to impress him, no matter how many successes he achieved. Even saving King's Landing from Stannis was not enough to earn him a kind word. His father scorned him for expecting one.
"Jugglers and singers require applause. You are a Lannister."
Yet his father was not too much of a Lannister to accept Joffrey's acclaim as the savior of King's Landing, when he knew full well that his despised younger son was the only reason that there was anything left of King's Landing to save by the time he arrived, with the Lannister and Tyrell forces at his back. He even accepted his appointment as Hand of the King from horseback, the better to look down on everybody.
Of all of his family, only Jaime offered him any sincere praise or gratitude for his defence of the city.
He glances at Daenerys, seated opposite him, and wonders if she would have been willing to extend the hospitality of Meereen to Jaime, as she had to the Greyjoys, the Tyrells and the Sands.
The gods knew that Lady Olenna was no innocent, harmless old lady. She did not even try to pretend that she was. Her family had supported first Joffrey, then Tommen as King, and could well have faced Daenerys in battle had she come to seize the throne a couple of years earlier... though he supposed that it was equally likely that even Margaery's marriage would not have been enough to keep the Tyrells loyal to the Lannisters, not if they believed House Targaryen to be the most likely victor. They turned their cloaks once, when Renly was killed, and managed to do well out of it. They could just as easily have denounced Joffrey, or even sweet, gentle Tommen, as a bastard and a usurper in order to win Daenerys' favour, ensuring themselves a position of honour in her new court. Perhaps they might even have tried to marry young Loras off to her, in the hope that he might manage to gird his loins to get an heir on the Queen before he dashed into the bed of whichever pretty lad he fancied. He supposes that there are many worse marriages among royalty and nobility; at least neither was likely to begrudge the other their chosen lovers, provided an appearance of unity was maintained.
Both of the Greyjoys had caused their share of mayhem. Like all of the Ironborn, they had seized what they wanted, when they wanted it, uncaring of the destruction they left in their wake. Theon even turned against the Stark boys, children he had known from their infancy, driving them from their home as part of a mad, doomed attempt to annex the North for the Ironborn. He swore that he had not killed them, and Daenerys confirmed this to be true, but it was no kindness to have forced them to live their lives on the run, especially with winter fast approaching. If they managed to survive, it was no thanks to Theon.
Ellaria Sand, together with Oberyn's eldest three daughters, killed Prince Doran for choosing peace over vengeance, deeming him a coward for not waging a war against the Lannisters that he could not win. They murdered Myrcella, an innocent soul, as lovely in her nature as in her face, for no reason other than the Lannister blood in her veins and their certainty that there was no more painful blow that they could hope to deal Cersei, in payment for Oberyn's death, than to take her beloved daughter from her, denying her even the chance to see Myrcella one last time in this life. They had made no attempt to conceal their past deeds when they came to Meereen, and Daenerys' lack of surprise led Tyrion to suspect that, thanks to her vision, it was old news to her.
Nonetheless, they were all made welcome, housed in luxury as honoured guests of the Queen, and allowed the freedom to explore the Great Pyramid, the city, and the surrounding lands, as it pleased them.
Surely she might have done the same for Jaime, especially when she knew his reason for slaying her father, and knew that he never revealed what it was that Aerys had planned, keeping his vow to guard his king's secrets even when he was scorned as oathbreaker and kingslayer, and could have silenced many of his detractors by making the horror he had prevented known to the world.
Daenerys would surely have had to understand why Jaime did it, and allowed him safe passage to her city.
But Tyrion never asked, and so his brother was doomed.
He could not even hope that Jaime would have the sense to flee by ship, before it was too late, making his way across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. He fought better with one hand than many men did with two, and could have found employment as a sellsword and carved out a life for himself, but Cersei would never agree to release her grip on the Seven Kingdoms, not while there was breath in her body, and Jaime would never leave her side. He might love Tyrion, but he would always love Cersei more.
If Daenerys senses his scrutiny, she gives no sign of it. Her attention is focused on the streets of her city, and the people in it. Citizens call out to Mhysa as she passes, thousands of hands raised in greeting, and she returns their waves and smiles. He knows that, given the choice, she would walk, or ride on horseback, but Jorah and Daario both made such a fuss before they set off that she eventually consented to travel in the wheelhouse instead, though not without warning them that she would not do so for the entire duration of her pregnancy. Grey Worm did not ask before arranging a company of twenty Unsullied to march alongside the wheelhouse to protect her. Missandei would have accompanied them, had Daenerys not entrusted her with the task of receiving petitioners in her stead.
He wants to ask her of her plans, and knows that, as a member of her Council, he should broach the subject sooner rather than later. If she plans to marry one of her lovers, she will need to do so quickly, if there is to be any hope that anybody will believe that the child was conceived in her marriage bed. However, he holds his tongue, knowing without being told that she will not welcome such questions from him.
Shortly after they first met, before the Sons of the Harpy attacked her at the fighting pit, and she was forced to flee on Drogon's back, he thought that they were well on their way to establishing a good rapport, one built on mutual respect. It was a novel experience to be respected for his intellect by one who truly did not seem to care that he was a dwarf, and he was reasonably certain that Varys was right when he claimed that she was the best ruler among those ready to lay claim to the Iron Throne. For her part, she seemed impressed by him. Even when she returned, having managed to secure the allegiance of the entire Dothraki horde, and found that he had not done quite as good a job of running Meereen as he would have liked to, she still trusted him and heeded his advice.
He allowed himself to imagine that, when she took the Iron Throne, she would invite him to serve as her Hand, and there was even a part of him that regretted killing his father, as he would have loved to see the expression on Tywin Lannister's face when his despised dwarf son not only ousted him from power, but eclipsed his achievements. His father had served as Hand to a mad king, a vicious idiot king, and a sweet but weak boy king led by first his mother, then his wife, while Tyrion would be Hand to the first good ruler Westeros had had in generations, a queen who would make the Seven Kingdoms a better place for all who lived in them.
Then she had her vision, and everything changed.
She was never unkind, nor did she oust him from his seat on her Council, or his quarters in the Great Pyramid.
When he gave her advice, she listened, but not as she had before. She looked to others for advice before she looked to him, and seemed to hold their opinions in higher regard than she did his. Some of the other members of her Council were occasionally tasked with receiving petitioners in the Queen's name, as Missandei was today, but she had not once asked Tyrion to perform that duty, and he did not dare volunteer for the task, knowing what her answer would be.
Whatever she had seen in her vision, it had marred her trust in him.
Ser Jorah, Daario, Grey Worm and even gentle Missandei are cool towards him, even though more than a year had passed, so she must have confided in them, even if she did not see fit to tell him what he would have done to have fallen so far from her favour. Nor did she tell him if he had lost her trust forever, or if she kept him on as a test of sorts, waiting to see if he would once more prove worthy of the faith she had had in him.
He would ask what he would have done, but he is half-afraid of what he might hear.
It is cold comfort to know that Varys must have done worse; she had not even sent orders for him to return to Meereen when she had Yara ferry her allies across the sea, and if he has not had the sense to leave Westeros of his own accord, there is a very good chance that he is dead by now.
He is sorry for it. Varys saved his life, saw his worth, and served as the butt of some of his best jokes. It would be nice to still have a friend.
They reach the barracks in good time, arriving in the mid-morning.
Tyrion has never seen the inside of one of the barracks for himself until now. They are austere, but decently built. The temporary structures erected in haste when Daenerys first conquered the city, and wanted to ensure that the newly freed slaves would be fed and sheltered until they could find work as free citizens, and to endeavour to ensure that none of the freemen would feel compelled to return to slavery, seeing it as the only way that they might have full bellies and a safe place to sleep, have been replaced over the past couple of the years with permanent buildings. He knows that each can hold several thousand people, and that they have served as temporary homes to the slaves that the Dothraki have been bringing from Volantis as they make the transition between their former lives as slaves and their new lives as free citizens of whichever of Daenerys' cities they wish, but it is one thing to imagine a shelter for thousands, and quite another to see it with his own eyes.
Never has he been more thankful for his spacious chambers in the Great Pyramid than he is now, as he follows Daenerys into the barracks, and sees hundreds of rows of bunks and pallets, all of them occupied.
The room is long, longer by far than the throne room in the Red Keep, though not half as wide, and it is crowded with men, women and children. The shelter is overly warm from the press of bodies, and he finds the heat, together with the smell of unwashed flesh, almost overpowering. He would much prefer to be able to return to his spacious chambers, just a few levels below the top of the Great Pyramid, where the rooms are cool and shady, kept spotlessly clean by servants, and where he can sit on his balcony, whose potted trees and flowers make the air smell of summer, looking out over the city, a goblet of wine in hand.
If Daenerys is affected by the smell, she gives no indication of it, her face alight with a smile that makes her look so beautiful that Tyrion's heart aches at the sight of her as she moves among the people.
The newly freed slaves from Volantis are the first to swarm around her, little children jostling to be the ones to hold her hands and walk with her, while men and women call out blessings and thanks as she passes.
Even after over a year in Meereen, his Valyrian is poor, and his Ghiscari worse, so he scarcely understands a word she says to them, but he is able to catch the general gist of it; words of welcome, and a vow that they are safe now, and will be cared for. He was a slave for a matter of days, not long enough to truly understand what it is to be a slave, at least according to Missandei, but he likes to think that he understands enough of what it is to be a slave to understand why those liberated from Volantis, and escorted to Meereen to begin new lives under Daenerys' protection, look upon her as mother, queen and near-goddess combined, the savior that their red priestesses promised them, the living embodiment of the hope that has sustained them.
She spends some time talking to them, asking questions and listening to their responses with sincere concern, pausing at intervals to summon one of the scribes over, and giving them instructions.
None of the slaves from Volantis pay any attention to Tyrion, and nor does Daenerys.
He watches her for a few minutes, shifting restlessly from foot to foot as he waits for her to extricate herself from the Volantenes and turn her attention to the party from Westeros, but she does not seem to be in any hurry to do so, and he can't imagine that she would welcome it if he tried to interrupt. Eventually, he gives up on waiting for her and wanders further down the length of the room, his eyes peeled for a familiar face.
When he spots Podrick Payne, he makes a beeline for him, genuinely thrilled to see his one-time squire.
"Pod!"
The boy… no, he is a man now, a little taller than Tyrion remembers, and thinner, like all of the people from Westeros… flinches at the sound of his name, seeming to shrink in on himself. Instead of returning Tyrion's greeting, or even his smile, he remains silent and grave, not meeting Tyrion's eyes. He wraps his arms around himself and ducks his head, as if taking comfort from making himself as small and compact as possible.
"You can't have forgotten me, Pod." Tyrion's tone is as light and jovial as he can make it, but the lad reacts as if he was bellowing in a rage worthy of Robert, when he was in his cups and loudly lambasted poor Lancel, no matter how the lad strove to please him. He is about to reach out to grasp Pod's hand, but thinks better of the gesture. "You have no idea how pleased I am to see you here, alive and…" he trails off, unable to truthfully describe Pod as 'well'. "How did you come to be here?" He cannot imagine what could possibly have led to his one-time squire ending up a member of a party that consisted almost exclusively of Northerners, but he supposes that it must be quite a tale.
Not that Pod seems inclined to tell it.
"He doesn't speak."
At the sound of a soft, feminine voice, Tyrion turns to see Sansa approach. As soon as his attention is on Sansa, Pod seizes the opportunity to hasten away, not heeding his plea that he stay.
He sees that Sansa has exchanged the dark, woollen gown, reduced almost to rags, that she wore during the audience with Daenerys, for a simple gown of undyed linen, undoubtedly provided to her at the shelter. While he supposes that it must be an improvement over her old gown, it nonetheless feels wrong to see the daughter of a great House dressed so plainly. He remembers when Shae disguised herself as a handmaid. The gowns she wore as part of the role she needed to play were of finer quality than the one Sansa wears now. Her hair is unbound, drawn forward on one side to shadow her face. Tyrion's winces inwardly at the sight of her scarred cheek and neck, which look as if she was savaged by a beast. He remembers how close he was to weeping when he awoke after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, feeling his face swathed in bandages, and later, when he saw the scar that split his face for the first time. But nobody had ever been able to call him handsome before his maiming… at least nobody other than whores who considered a little flattery to be part of the package for which he was paying them a not inconsiderable sum… so a scar did not matter so much to him.
For Sansa, one of the beauties of Westeros, it must be so much worse.
"He hasn't spoken since the battle," she explains, her voice soft with sympathy. "He saw things there, terrible things. We all did." Saw, and fought, to judge by the look of her. He doesn't imagine that she got that scar hiding away from the battle. "He is squire to Brienne of Tarth. He was with her when she searched for me, and when she rescued me from…" she trails off, the memory, whatever it is, too painful to speak of. She recovers quickly, masking her emotions with an elegance and grace that Cersei could never emulate. "They stayed with me after that, and fought against the Army of the Dead when they reached Winterfell. He was very brave, my lord."
"I don't doubt that, my lady." The lad may have been shy, and far from practiced in the many duties of a squire. Tywin Lannister would not have wasted a well-trained squire on his younger son. What Pod lacked in skill, he more than made up for in courage, and a loyal heart. Tyrion had regretted leaving him behind, and more than once, had worried that Cersei might have vented her rage at his disappearance on his unfortunate squire. "And I'm sure that you were very brave too."
She does not smile at the compliment, nor does she tell him anything of her part in the battle, or how she acquired her scars. "I saw Lady Olenna Tyrell in the throne room yesterday," she says, coming straight to her point.
"Yes, Lady Olenna and her granddaughters are Queen Daenerys' guests, and Lady Olenna sits on the Queen's Council."
She is quiet for a moment as she digests this, and when she speaks, she looks at him as if he holds all hope in his hands. "I need to speak to her. Can you bring me to see her? She was always kind to me, and I know that she will want to help me now. I know that you will help me."
Tyrion glances behind him, and though he cannot see Daenerys, he can see the crowd that has gathered at the centre of the room, and knows that she must be at the heart of it. If she is engrossed in speaking with the people, finding out what it is they need, she will be here for some hours yet. Jorah and Daario will take turns strangling him if he takes the wheelhouse and leaves her to walk back to the Great Pyramid, but he reasons that it can do no real harm if he and Sansa use it, and he sends it back to the shelter to collect her. He would wager every coin in his purse that she will still be there, still talking to the people, not thinking to leave until long after the wheelhouse returns. The Unsullied will be there in any case, so it is not as if he is leaving her unprotected.
His decision made, he offers Sansa his arm, inclining his head in the slight, courtly bow he always offered her while they were married. This time, she takes his arm eagerly, and her whispered 'thank you' is sincere as she allows him to lead her outside.
She reproaches herself for not having better preparations in place to receive the people the Dothraki conduct from Volantis to Meereen by now. The shelters are adequate as a short-term solution, but no place for people to dwell indefinitely, least of all young children, and after the hardship she knows that they will have endured as slaves, what she is offering seems paltry. She imagines that some of them, those with the skills most prized by the masters, were better housed and better fed in Volantis than they are here, yet nobody has any complaints of the accommodation, food or clothes that are provided. For the most part, all they want from her is a chance to speak to her, to thank her, to touch her hand or her silver hair.
She has come here to speak to the people from Westeros, yet how could she brush aside people who have lived through such harshness, and to whom she has extended her protection?
She lets them say what they need to say, and then explains to them that the scribes who are circulating throughout the shelter are there to take note of anything that they might need, and that she will do everything in her power to ensure that they will be as comfortable as possible. They will also make lists of their names, and their skills, in order to help them find work. Tens of thousands of other former slaves from Volantis are now settled in Meereen, Astapor, Yunkai, and the farms that have been established on the lands that stretch between them.
Her final instruction is that they should choose some of their number to act as spokespeople, to bring their needs and complaints before her and then, once she has secured their agreement to do so, she turns her attention to the people of Westeros. The smell of stew and bread tells her that the noon meal is being prepared, and she realizes that close to two hours have passed since she arrived.
Samwell Tarly is the first person she asks to see, and when he comes before her, he is visibly trembling. A young woman and a small boy are just a few paces behind him. She cannot recall the woman's name, if she ever knew it in the other life, but she seemed to be Samwell's wife, and the child their son.
Jon never explained how a man of the Night's Watch had come to have a wife and son, something she knew to be forbidden from the books Jorah gave her when she was wed to Drogo, and of what little he told her of his father, who renounced his position as Lord of Bear Island in favour of his son in order to serve on the Wall.
"Please, Your Grace," he burbles before she can say a word to him. "I didn't mean to insult you, or your family, I swear it. I truly thought that Jon was your brother's trueborn son, or I would never have said that he was the heir to the Iron Throne. Please believe me! The diary was in the Citadel, you see, and I didn't realise what it meant until Bran told me that Jon's real mother was Lady Lyanna, and that your brother was his father. He thought that Jon's true name was Sand, but when he told me what he saw, I told him about the diary and that they were married, and then he looked at the past and saw the wedding for himself."
He speaks so quickly that she has no chance to interrupt, but she takes note of what he says of Bran Stark being the one to reveal Jon's parentage.
For a moment, she allows herself to think about what might have happened had Bran Stark not seen fit to share Jon's secret with Samwell rather than waiting to speak to Jon about it. Surely he should have done Jon the courtesy of telling him first. Had he waited to tell Jon, Samwell would have had no reason to connect the diary to Jon, and Bran would have assumed that Jon was a bastard. Would Sansa still have sought to press Jon's claim to the Iron Throne ahead of hers? Would Varys have betrayed her, seeing to it that all of Westeros learned that a Targaryen male walked among them, if he knew Jon to be a bastard?
There is no point in asking, not now, but she cannot help but wonder if it might all have been different.
"Jon never wanted the Iron Throne, Your Grace, he only sent word to the Lords to let them know that he was the heir because he hoped that it would lead them to join us in the battle against the Army of the Dead, but nobody came, and it was all for nothing." His eyes are gleaming with unshed tears, and she imagines that he is thinking of his father and his brother, little realizing that their lives were longer in this life than they were in the other.
"I am not angry with you, Samwell." At her words, he looks up to meet her gaze, sniffling as he makes a visible effort to control his nervousness. "And I have not come here to punish you for your mistake. I know that it was an honest one, and that you would never have claimed that Jon Snow was not heir to the Iron Throne if you did not believe it to be true. I came here to reward you. When Ser Jorah was stricken with greyscale, I ordered him to find a cure and return to me. It is only thanks to you that he was able to obey my command. It is thanks to you that I have my oldest friend back with me, a man that I dearly love." His eyes widen at this, but he does not dare to ask any questions about the nature of that love, or the place Jorah holds in her life. "You have done me a great service, and a great service merits a great reward, don't you agree?"
His only response is a squeak. She supposes that he fears to seem greedy if he agrees that he deserves a reward, yet does not want to refuse out of modesty, in case she takes him at his word and he misses out.
"I… I… thank you, Your Grace," he manages at last.
In the other life, the reward he sought was a pardon for his theft of books from the library at the Citadel, and of his family's ancestral sword. The request had amused her, until he told her the name of his House.
This time, she has a reward in mind.
"Lady Sarella Sand trained as a maester, disguised. She advises me as a member of my Council, but she has also undertaken the task of establishing a library in one of the pyramids." After the purge of the supporters of the Sons of the Harpy, more than one of the pyramids that once housed the wealthy of the city lay vacant. The one closest to the Great Pyramid was to be the first to be repurposed. "It will house books from all over Essos, and beyond. Lady Sarella brought some books from Westeros when she came to Meereen, and Ser Jorah gifted me with books on songs and stories from the Seven Kingdoms when I was a girl. I will seek books from Westeros in the Free Cities, and beyond. Westeros may be lost, but that does not mean that its history, its songs and its stories must be lost to the world. Lady Sarella will need men and women of learning to assist her in establishing the library, and in making copies of what books we can gather, so that the knowledge may be preserved and shared. In time, it is my hope to establish a centre of learning, like the Citadel in Oldtown."
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Your Grace," he tells her sincerely.
"I am glad that you think so, because I would like you to assist in this endeavor. You will be paid a good wage, and you and your family will have rooms in the library. You will want for nothing. Lady Sarella believes that your assistance will be valuable to her." An exaggeration. Sarella grudgingly conceded that Samwell was not a stupid man, and that he might prove useful once she trained him in his duties, but she was adamant that he had much to learn.
"Your Grace, I…" Samwell's cheeks are pink and he cannot find the words he wants to say.
The woman is quick to step forward, holding the little boy's hand in hers. "He accepts, Your Grace. Happily."
"I am glad to hear it. Come to the Great Pyramid at noon tomorrow. Lady Sarella will meet you, and show you to your new home."
"Thank you, Your Grace," the woman says, before grabbing Samwell by the arm and steering him away.
Daenerys watches them leave, glad that, in this life, she has rewarded the man who saved Jorah's life rather than having to tell him that his father and brother were killed on her order. She is also glad to know that one of the eleven children to survive will be comfortably housed and provided for. Before she leaves, she will have the scribes collect the details of the other child survivors, and any family or guardians they might have, so that they can be prioritized for more permanent housing.
She is debating whether to seek Jon out, or to leave instructions, through the scribes, about the next steps for his people, when she feels a small hand tug at her gown.
She expects to see one of the Volantene children, but the child's colouring is that of a Northerner. She feels a lump in her throat at the sight of the little girl, who can't be much older than she herself was when Ser Willem died, and she and Viserys were cast out of the house with the red door. The little girl is thinner than any child should be, and Daenerys can only pray that the scars on her face are old ones, not inflicted on her at Winterfell.
"Are you the Queen?"
"I am."
"The Queen with the dragons?" the little girl asks, as if there could be more than one Queen in Meereen.
"That's right."
The little girl shifts from foot to foot for a few moments, chewing her lower lip as if considering a matter of grave importance. "It's not nice to tell tales," she states, as though it is a universally known fact. "But it's not really telling tales if somebody is going to do something bad, and you can stop it. Is it?"
"I don't think so," Daenerys agrees gravely.
After another moment's consideration, the little girl crooks her finger, gesturing for Daenerys to bend down to her level. When she does, she whispers in her ear. Once she had said all she wants to say, the little girl draws away, an anxious expression on her face. "You won't say that I told, will you? I didn't want your dragons hurt."
"I won't tell anybody," Daenerys promises, reaching out to stroke the child's face with a gentle finger. "You did right to tell me. What is your name?"
"Lilla."
"Is your mother here? Your father? Have you any brothers or sisters with you?"
"My mother and father were killed when the Boltons came. I don't have any sisters, but all of my brothers were soldiers. I want to be a soldier too. I was in charge of protecting the crypts, but I didn't do a very good job. Nearly everybody in there died, when the dead people woke up."
Though she had no part in planning the strategy this time, Daenerys cannot help but be appalled that they ever thought that it was a good idea to send the women, children, and those too old or weak to fight to shelter among the Stark dead. How could she have been so stupid as to assume that the Starks interred the ashes of their dead, rather than their bodies? She had left Missandei in a trap, primed to be sprung by the Night King.
"I'm sure that you did the best job that anybody could do," she reassures Lilla, who looks unconvinced. "Who is looking after you?"
"Ser Davos. Well, we look after him too, Jeyne and me. Ser Sandor looks after the others who don't have family. He says that he is going to stay in Meereen with us, and so is Ser Davos, even if Lady Sansa wants to go back."
"Could you do something for me, Lilla? Could you ask Ser Davos to come to the Great Pyramid tomorrow at noon, when Samwell Tarly does? I would like to see Ser Davos, Ser Sandor, and all of you."
"I'll tell him," Lilla promises, surprising Daenerys with a quick hug. "Thank you for letting us stay here."
Daenerys feels as though her heart is breaking as she returns the hug. Every time that she thinks that she has made peace with her decision to stay in Essos, to prioritize the protection of her people over the protection of the people of Westeros, she finds herself questioning it and now, faced with one of just eleven children to survive, she wonders if there might have been a way to save them all, one that she didn't see because she didn't want to.
'If I look back, I am lost,' she reminds herself.
She made her choice, made the only choice that allowed her to save all of her people. All she can do now is to help the innocent survivors of Westeros start new lives.
When she releases Lilla, the little girl runs off, undoubtedly in search of Ser Davos.
"Find Jon Snow," she orders the closest scribe. "Tell him that I want to speak to him."
Sansa can still remember her amazement the first time she beheld the Red Keep.
She can count the number of times she left Winterfell during her childhood on the fingers of one hand. Aside from very rare visits to the castles closest to them, her world consisted only of the great castle, with its godswood, ancient towers and keeps, the winter town that she was sometimes allowed to visit on market day, always chaperoned by the ever-watchful Septa Mordane, and the surrounding lands and woods where she rode, always under the protective eyes of Father's men at arms, any one of whom would have laid down his life rather than see harm come to one of Ned Stark's children.
Her mother told her stories of her home at Riverrun, where the rooms were larger and airier than their dimly lit stone chambers at Winterfell, where they had cooks from as far away as the Crownlands to prepare rich, well-spiced dishes, never serving the same dish twice in a fortnight, and could eat cake every day instead of only at feasts, and where Lord Tully always hosted singers to entertain his household. Only once had a singer stayed at Winterfell during her childhood, and he stayed scarcely a month before moving on. Sansa suspected that her mother was almost as grieved as she was when the singer left, denying them the entertainment they had enjoyed for too short a time. She knew without being told that Casterly Rock and Highgarden were more splendid by far than Riverrun, and that the royal court was the grandest and most magnificent of all, a world away from the simple life they led at Winterfell. She was sure that there must be singers and fools and conjurers by the dozen in the Red Keep, and that life there would never be dull.
As her mother brushed her hair at night, she often told Sansa that, one day, a match would be made for her with one of the great Lords of the South, a man who would cherish her for her beauty and for being the most perfect Lady who could ever grace his castle, reassuring her that though she was born in the North, she had all the grace and courtesies of a Southron lady. She was not meant to marry a gruff Northern Lord, and to be forced to spend the rest of her days in a gloomy, chilly castle, but to be Lady of one of the great Southron Houses. She was impatient for the day when she could live like the princesses in her favourite stories, with a different gown for each day of the moon's turning, each crafted of silk and velvet and samite rather than the wool and fur of the North, with wonderful jewels at her throat and in her hair, even grander than the ones her mother occasionally allowed her to borrow as a special treat. Best of all, she would have a handsome Lord who would adore her as Aemon the Dragonknight did Princess Naerys, or as Florian did Jonquil.
The Red Keep, with all its splendour, luxury and pageantry, lived up to every dream she ever had, at least at first, before she learned what a dangerous place it was, a beautiful place made cold and cruel by the people within.
She was awed by the throne room in which Daenerys Targaryen received them when they sought an audience with her, but it does not compare to the private apartments to which Tyrion shows her and Brienne, who refused to allow her to go anywhere unescorted.
She was dismayed when Tyrion told her that Lady Olenna's apartments were on the topmost level of the pyramid, dreading the thought of another long climb, but she need not have worried. They did not need to climb the many flights of stairs this time. Instead, Tyrion had conducted her to an iron cage, attached to strange apparatus by chains as thick as a man's arm. Strong men were stationed near the cage, and moved towards the apparatus at their approach.
"It's quite safe, my lady," he told her gently. "They have something like this at the Wall, and it served them well for thousands of years. It's not used for the petitioners; it would be far too much work for those who man the winch, but the Queen, the court and her household use it."
She tries not to scowl at the memory of their long, exhausting climb, and is irritated that their guide did not think to mention that there was a much quicker and easier way for them to reach the throne room. Daenerys Targaryen could not have raised any objection to highborn guests, one of them her own nephew, making use of the cage rather than having to follow the smallfolk up the many flights of stairs.
Even in the cage, it takes quite some time to reach the top of the pyramid. As soon as they step out of the cage, Tyrion tugs sharply on a cord.
"It is attached to a bell," he explains when he sees her puzzlement. "We ring it let them know that the cage is empty, and they can draw it down for the next person."
Once she sees the topmost level, Sansa's breath catches in awe.
Even the corridor is beautiful, wider than the galleries at the Red Keep, with frescoes on the walls, intricately carved pillars, and lifelike statues of marble, precious metals, and polished black stone set at intervals. Windows have been cut into the thick sandstone walls, allowing light and air to stream in. The air is cooler up here than it is down on the streets of the city, and she finds the breeze refreshing. For a moment, she remembers the crisp, cold air of the North, and she has to bite her lip to keep from weeping over her lost home.
Tyrion leads her down the corridor, past doors guarded by soldiers in black leather tunics that she assumes lead to the Queen's private apartments.
"Do you have chambers here, my lord?" she asks politely, wanting to learn as much as she can about Daenerys Targaryen's court.
"Two levels down. Only the Queen, Lady Olenna and Lady Missandei have chambers on this level." There is a slight edge to his tone as he answers her query, one that Sansa cannot help but take note of. If the status of those residing in the pyramid is tied to the position of their chambers, then Olenna's chambers indicate that she stands even higher in favour than Tyrion does, something that he is clearly far from pleased about. She congratulates herself for thinking to approach the old lady rather than relying on Tyrion's intercession. She might have guessed that Lady Olenna would thrive in any court.
They come to a stop outside an ornately carved door of dark wood, inlaid with gold. Tyrion knocks once.
The door is opened by a girl of about Sansa's age, with chestnut curls and brown eyes that grow wide when she sees who the visitors are.
"Who has come to disturb us?" a voice that can only belong to Lady Olenna demands.
"It is Lord Tyrion, Grandmother. He has Brienne of Tarth and Sansa Stark with him." The girl steps back to allow them to enter.
Sansa dimly remembers her as one of the many young ladies who accompanied Margaery to the Red Keep when she came there as Joffrey's betrothed. Her 'flock of foolish hens', Lady Olenna had called them. Margaery described them in kinder terms, quipping that they were "roses from lower on the bush". Sansa never got to know any of them, not truly. She spent time with Margaery, who was among the very few to offer her any hint of friendship during those lonely days, something for which she would always remember the other woman with fondness, but she could scarcely tell the Tyrell cousins apart.
Had she been allowed to marry Loras and leave for Highgarden with him – and how different her life might have been if she had! – she imagines that she would have come to know them well, and perhaps even count them as friends.
They used to inspire both envy and pity in her; envy for the innocence they still possessed, and that had been robbed from her forever the moment Joffrey called for Father's head, and pity for their childish certainty that they would prosper at court, little realising how dangerous a place it was, or what viciousness Joffrey and Cersei concealed behind their gracious masks.
Now, she finds herself envying their brightly coloured silk gowns, their smooth, rosy faces, their glossy hair, and their lavish surroundings.
In the year before the battle at Winterfell, the keep more resembled a soldiers' barracks than a court worthy of the Lady of Winterfell, let alone the royal House of the North.
Jon wanted to have as many of the people of the North as possible to take shelter in Winterfell, reasoning that they would have little warning when the Army of the Dead breached the Wall, and that they could not afford to take the risk that, if their advance was a sudden one, there would not be enough time to bring everybody safely to Winterfell. As a result, they spent a year living in crowded conditions. Meals were served in shifts, both inside the hall and outside in the courtyard, and the fare was plain. There were more highborn staying under Winterfell's roof than at any time in Sansa's life, even when her father hosted King Robert and invited his bannermen to pay homage to his royal guest, and more they had suitable guest chambers for, obliging many of them to share. Sansa had shared the Lord's chamber, hers by right as Lady of Winterfell even if the Northern Lords chose to name Jon their King, and even her bed with Arya, while Brienne slept on a pallet near the door, at her own insistence. Every morning and afternoon, the courtyards and the fields outside the castle were a hive of activity as everybody between ten and sixty was required to drill with weapons, even those who were to take shelter in the crypts when the attack came. Sansa had no natural talent for warfare, and found herself envying Arya's skills for the first time in their lives. Her duties as Lady of Winterfell frequently left her too busy to spare any time for the yard, but on the occasions where she could not avoid it, she ended the training sessions bruised and blistered.
And all the while, the Tyrell ladies were living like princesses in Meereen.
It is difficult for Sansa to swallow her resentment and to force a pleasant smile to her face as she approaches Lady Olenna, dipping a slight curtsey in deference to her age.
"You look as though you have had a difficult time of it, child," Lady Olenna remarks, never one to mince words. Sansa supposes that she should have expected that, while another lady might have pretended not to notice Sansa's scars, or that her gown was better suited to one of the smallfolk than to the Lady of a great House, and the sister of two Kings, it was too much to expect that Lady Olenna would be tactful.
"Father used to say that men and women should be proud of their battle scars, not ashamed," a lilting voice pipes up. "It means that they fought, and lived to tell the tale."
The speaker is a girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen, the youngest person in the room and around the same age as Sansa was when she still thought the world a beautiful place, a place where a beautiful, highborn girl was certain to lead a joyous life, a life untouched by hardship or darkness. She is gowned as richly as any of the Tyrell girls, in a silk gown the colour of a setting sun, but the likeness ends there. Where the Tyrell girls have skin like cream, with roses in their cheeks, chestnut hair, and round, open faces, this girl has glossy, jet-black waves, dark, piercing eyes, and a complexion that Sansa has only seen on Dornishmen and foreigners.
"You know my granddaughters, of course." Much to Sansa's irritation, Lady Olenna seems to take it for granted that she will remember them well enough for there to be no need for her to name them. "Allow me to present the Lady Obella of House Sand. Lady Obella, this is Sansa Stark, and the magnificent creature with her is Brienne of Tarth, who could give any of your sisters a run for their money. Any two of them, I'd wager."
The girl inclines her head in a regal nod.
"House Sand?" Sansa repeats, before she can stop herself. The only people she knows of who use the name Sand are bastards born in Dorne. Had Sam Tarly not told them of Aunt Lyanna's marriage to Prince Rhaegar, Jon might have claimed that name when Bran first told him who his parents were. She remembers that one of the little girls sitting on the steps beneath Daenerys Targaryen's throne called herself a Sand, taking umbrage at the idea that Jon might share her name. This girl, this Obella, looks enough like the little girls for Sansa to be confident that she is their sister, but she has never before heard a bastard name spoken of as if it was the name of a noble House.
"Lady Ellaria Sand sits on the Queen's Council, and represents those who have travelled from Dorne, as I represent the people from the Reach. Her Grace has decreed that she, and all of the daughters of Prince Oberyn, should be accorded the status of ladies of a noble House of Meereen. She granted the same honour to House Tyrell when she invited us to be her guests."
"But you were already a noble House!" Sansa protests. The Tyrells were never Kings, as the Starks were, but they were still a noble House, with a history dating back to the Age of Heroes. They do not need Daenerys Targaryen's permission to claim their due as members of the old nobility.
"We were a noble House of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, but this is not Westeros. We are in Essos now," Lady Olenna says, as though Sansa should have thought of this for herself. She does not wait for Sansa to respond before turning her attention to Tyrion. "Do you intend to join us, Lord Tyrion? I should not have thought that tea and the chatter of ladies would be to your taste."
When Tyrion takes the opportunity to excuse himself, Lady Olenna indicates the gilded chairs and ornate sofa set around the high-backed chair on which she sits, her feet resting on a well-padded footstool.
"Do sit down. I am an old woman, and likely to strain my neck if I have to spend much longer craning it to look up at you both."
Brienne waits until Sansa has taken a seat on the chair at Lady Olenna's side before gingerly lowering herself into the chair on Sansa's other side. With their guests seated, the Tyrell girls claim places on the couch and the remaining chair.
Sansa takes the opportunity to take in her surroundings. The room is large, easily twice the size of Cersei's solar, and it is even more ornately decorated than the corridor. There is a seating area set around a polished marble firepit, which is laid in readiness for a fire but not lit. Low tables are set on either side of the firepit, just in front of the couch and the chairs. Doors set with glazed panes are open, allowing light and air into the room, and through them, Sansa can glimpse a balcony, with small trees and flowering bushes growing from great stone pots. A table crafted from dark wood, its surface polished to a high shine and its legs intricately carved, long enough to seat a dozen, is set at the far side of the room. There are beautifully silk hangings on the walls, depicting exotic scenes. Aside from the door through which they entered, there is another, which she assumes leads to a bedchamber.
She suspects that the Tyrell girls have been hard at work on their embroidery since their arrival, as she can see that cushions and cloth covers emblazoned with the gold rose of House Tyrell are set over the back of the couch.
Even as a young girl, imagining her future as Joffrey's Queen, she could have envisioned no grander surroundings.
"My brother wrote to you, my lady," she begins, trying to keep her voice mild and even. "Before the Army of the Dead attacked. He sought help from all of the noble Houses, even the Lannisters."
And instead of bringing the Tyrell forces to Winterfell, where their strength might have made the difference between defeat and victory, where they might have helped to save the North and all of the realm, Lady Olenna chose to gather up her remaining granddaughters and flee her homeland for the court of an exiled Targaryen.
"I can't imagine that he got much of a response from them. Most of them probably thought him mad, especially when he started to call himself Aegon Targaryen. What did Cersei have to say about it all?"
"She promised to help, if Jon bent the knee to her and swore to keep the Queen's peace."
"And you were still defeated? The Lannisters had close to twenty thousand men when we left. Did none of them survive the battle? As I heard it, virtually all of the survivors were of the North."
"Jon didn't agree to her terms!" Sansa is aghast at the idea that he might have.
"I see." Lady Olenna says no more on the matter, but Sansa feels uncomfortably conscious of her disapproval though she, of all people, should understand why the North could never accept Cersei as its Queen. She reaches out to pat Sansa's hand with soft, wrinkled fingers, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentle. "I never had a chance to apologise to you, my dear, for using you to get rid of that monstrous boy. I couldn't let my Margaery be his wife. The gods alone know what he would have done to her. I make no apologies for protecting her, but I am sorry that I put you at risk, and pleased to see that you survived the Lannisters."
"You killed Joffrey?" Littlefinger led her to believe that the scheme was his alone, the hapless Ser Dontos his sole accomplice, other than unnamed 'friends'. She supposes that she should not be surprised to learn that he lied.
"You will never know how much I regret that I never got the chance to tell Cersei that it was me. I could send a letter I suppose, but it wouldn't be the same as seeing the look on her face."
Sansa bites her lower lip as she tries to imagine what might have become of her had she not fled King's Landing with Littlefinger that night, had she not been used as the means by which poison was smuggled to the wedding feast. Littlefinger would not have had an opportunity to make her believe that marrying Ramsey was her best chance at gaining control of the North, and she would never have suffered at that monster's hands. But if Cersei believed that there was the slightest chance that she might have been involved in the assassination, she would not have been satisfied with anything less than her head on a spike. With Robb gone, Cersei might not have felt the need to keep her alive as a hostage, and while gentle Tommen would never want to see her harmed, Sansa could not imagine that he would have had it in him to go against his mother on her behalf. Even if her life was spared, she would be trapped in King's Landing now, doomed.
There is a knock at the door, and one of the Tyrell girls springs to her feet to open it, admitting three men in fine linen tunics, each carrying a tray laden with pots of fragrant tea, delicate cups, and an assortment of cakes and other delicacies. Sansa's mouth waters at the rich aroma of the cakes, and it is all she can do to wait until the servants have set down their burdens on the low tables before she helps herself, savouring the first sweet taste of cake she has had in what feels like years.
Lady Olenna smiles with relish as she accepts a plate with an assortment of cakes and creamy cheeses. "Nobody here tries to argue with me when I tell them that I want the cheese served with the cake."
Sansa manages a polite smile by way of response.
"Your journey here must have been terrible," Lady Olenna continues, between bites of food and sips of tea. "Ours was dreadful, even in one of the best ships in the Iron Fleet, and earlier in winter. I imagine that you must have been relieved to reach land, and when you were brought to the barracks. A wonderful initiative, aren't they? King's Landing would have been much the better if they had a proper place for those in need to be sheltered and fed proper meals. I wish that my Margaery could be here to see it. I know that she would approve."
She says it as though there could be no higher praise, and Sansa supposes that it is natural for Lady Olenna to see it that way. She never made any secret of the fact that Margaery was the best-loved of her grandchildren.
"Thousands upon thousands of former slaves have passed through those barracks. You will have met the latest to arrive from Volantis. They will shelter there until they find work. You could have your pick of the city guard, or the Second Sons, or you could sail with the Iron Fleet or ride with the Dothraki, if you prefer a bit of an adventure," she tells Brienne. "A good fighter can always find a place."
"I have sworn my sword to Lady Sansa," Brienne says stoutly. "I serve her."
"I see. And what of you, Sansa? Have you given any thought to the kind of work you would like to do?"
It is several moments before Sansa can speak, so shocked is she by the question.
Even when Daenerys Targaryen spoke of the survivors of the North finding work in her city, she had not let herself believe that it applied to her.
The Tyrell girls, and Obella Sand, are listening intently to the conversation, but they do not say a word.
"I could never… it's not fitting that I… there's no work that I can do."
"Oh, come now, child," Lady Olenna says briskly. "I know that Cersei always said that you were a stupid girl, but I never thought that you believed her. Surely you don't so underrate yourself that you think you cannot find a way to earn a living. There is plenty of work that you can do. You could easily find a position as a handmaid. You know the duties well enough from the other side, and there's more than one wealthy merchant whose wife would like the idea of being attended by a girl of noble blood. No doubt your Septa saw to it that you learned to dance and sing and play music. You could give lessons. You're good with your needle, are you not? There is always work for a seamstress. You could work in the barracks, in the kitchens. You'll have seen for yourself that they need many hands. Once they've fed you up a bit, you'll be strong enough for farming, if you'd like to work with the settlers from the Reach. You might prefer to be around people who speak the Common Tongue. It would do you good to be out in the fresh air. If nothing else, you can surely learn to scrub a floor!"
Sansa feels tears prick the back of her eyes as she pictures herself tending to a merchant's wife, when she should be the one attended by handmaids, or of spending her days stitching fine gowns that she will never have a chance to wear, or of working in fields, her skin red from the sun and her hands rough, or of scrubbing a floor on her hands and knees, as if she was no better than the humblest servant in a castle.
If it is a joke, it is cruel one, yet there is no trace of humour or malice on Lady Olenna's face, or on the faces of the other girls.
They all seem to take it for granted that she will have to work.
"You said that you represent the people from the Reach, and that Ellaria Sand represents the people from Dorne," she says, seizing on the idea as soon as it strikes her. "The people from the North will need a representative too."
"There are few enough of them that they will surely be able to speak for themselves, should they wish to approach the Queen on any matter. What need have they of a representative?"
"She has welcomed you to her court. You and all of the Sands."
"We are her allies, and the young ladies of House Sand are also the nieces of the Queen's good-sister, and cousins to her niece and nephew. Had Prince Rhaegar lived, they would have called him 'uncle'. Of course Her Grace made them welcome in her court, when they are kin to her by marriage."
Sansa bites her tongue so hard that, for an instant, she fears that she has drawn blood.
It is all she can do not to scream at Lady Olenna that, had Prince Rhaegar lived, he would have set aside Princess Elia, lawfully, and taken her Aunt Lyanna to be his Queen. She would be the one to call him 'uncle'.
Why should the Sands enjoy Daenerys Targaryen's favour when her aunt was the one Prince Rhaegar truly loved, and Jon the child that he would have wanted to rule after him?
She has as much right to her hospitality as the Sands have, if not more.
"Your apartment is beautiful, and the pyramid is so big, bigger than the Red Keep." She hates that her voice sounds so desperate, wants so badly to be strong and proud and brave, as a Stark should be, but it is all she can do not to break down in sobs, pleading with Lady Olenna to intercede with Daenerys Targaryen on her behalf. The pyramid is different to the castles of Westeros but so grand and lovely that Sansa is sure that she could be happy here.
A Queen should offer hospitality to highborn guests. Has nobody ever taught Daenerys Targaryen this?
"Her Grace is not shy."
"What do you mean?" It is not the answer Sansa is expecting.
"I mean what I say. She is not shy. If she wanted your company, she would invite you to live here, as she invited us. The gods know that there is space aplenty. I am sure that you don't expect me to demand that the Queen extend you her hospitality when I am a guest myself? My old Septa, the gods rest her soul, would take a rod to my backside if she saw me do something so ill-mannered."
Sansa feels her cheeks grow hot. Never in her life has she been accused of bad manners, and it is so unfair that Lady Olenna can't, or won't, see how wrong all of this is.
"I am Lady Stark of Winterfell." She has to say it aloud, to remind them, to remind herself, who she is. The blood of kings flows in her veins. Her family ruled the North for eight thousand years, before the dragons came and forced them to kneel. They won their crown back and they would have ruled it for another eight thousand years, or more, if not for the Night King. She was meant for greater things than the life of a servant or common labourer.
"No, child, you are not." Lady Olenna's voice is almost unbearably gentle. "You are no more Lady of Winterfell than I am Lady of Highgarden. We cannot claim those titles when Winterfell and Highgarden are no more, can we? You are just Sansa Stark now, and if you so choose, you can be a citizen under the rule of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. There are many worse fates, I can assure you. If you will take an old woman's advice, for what it is worth, you will seize this chance with both hands. You are young still, and can start afresh."
Despite her determination not to allow herself to weep in front of them, Sansa knows that she has lost that battle when the first tear trickles down her scarred cheek, dripping off the end of her chin.
Other tears follow, and sobs erupt from her, her shoulders heaving.
She cannot accept that this is the life she is meant to lead.
She will not accept it.
There is a way for her to have all she deserves. There must be. She will not settle for less.
Jon Snow does not argue when she tells him that he is to leave his weapons behind but it is plain that he is not pleased by the order. No doubt he considers it an affront to his honour that she should think that he would harm her, but she will never again be such a fool as to allow him to come within striking distance of her while he is armed. She watches him as he unbuckles his sword belt and passes it to one of the Northerners for safekeeping, and lets out a breath that she didn't know she was holding when he also removes a dagger from its sheath, and hands it over.
She has no idea if this is the same dagger that he used on her.
She never saw it.
She never anticipated the deathblow.
Four of the Unsullied fall into step with them as she leads the way out of the barracks, their bodies a shield between her and Jon. He follows her outside, where the wheelhouse is waiting for them. Before she can ask where Tyrion is, the driver explains, in Valyrian, that Tyrion travelled to the Great Pyramid in the company of a young before instructing him to return for her. She knows better than to ask for a description of the woman.
Who but Sansa Stark could lead Tyrion to leave her behind, without doing her the courtesy of letting her know that he was leaving, much less asking her permission to bring somebody into her home?
She reminds herself that it was her choice to allow a situation where Tyrion could come face to face with Sansa, and that it is far better for her to find out if she can trust him to be loyal to her in this life. She has done nothing to justify him turning on her, she knows, but she also knows that she did nothing to justify him and Varys deciding to turn on her in favour of Jon in the other life. She followed their advice, and paid far too heavy a price for it. But this is not Westeros, where she lost her friends and allies one by one, and was left with only Grey Worm, whose loyalty never wavered. This time, she has people who love her and have faith in her. If Tyrion decides to turn on her, for Sansa Stark or for any other reason, she knows that they will stand by her.
Their journey is a short one.
It is something of a tight squeeze, as the four Unsullied travel in the wheelhouse with them, two on either side of her, two on either side of Jon. They sit stiffly, far more accustomed to marching, and sometimes to riding on horseback, than they are with being drawn in a wheelhouse. They never take their eyes off Jon, and she knows that at the first hint of aggression on his part, they would not hesitate to restrain him, or kill him if that was her wish.
She does not tell Jon where they are going, curious to see how long it will take him to ask. He must assume that they are on their way to the Great Pyramid, for it is not until they pass it by that he speaks.
"Where are you taking me? Your Grace," he belatedly tacks on. At least he does not address her as 'Aunt'.
"I need to see something."
He opens his mouth, ready to ask her what she means by that, then closes it, evidently deciding to let her take the lead.
When they reach their destination, she lets Red Mouse help her out of the wheelhouse, and Jon follows. His eyes widen with awe as he takes in the structure before him.
"This was once the largest of the fighting pits in Meereen," she tells him as she leads the way towards it. "For thousands of years, men, women, children and animals were forced to fight and die to entertain the Masters. The Masters told them that it was an honour to fight, and promised them a chance at glory, even dangled the hope of freedom, if they won enough bouts, and made enough money for their owners."
Daario had tried to reconcile her to the necessity of reopening the fighting pits by speaking of his own experiences, indicating that he considered all he endured there to have been worth it, as it allowed him to learn the skills that had brought him into her life, but she knew now that it was a terrible mistake on her part to have allowed herself to be convinced to allow this savagery to persist in her city in the name of ensuring peace. There was nothing that she could have done that would win her the good will of the Masters, short of leaving Meereen and allowing them to re-enslave those she had freed, and allowing the fighting pits to be reopened had only allowed those who were struggling to support themselves to be enticed into risking their lives for the promise of coin. No son of a Master sought the so-called honour of fighting.
"And now?"
"Now it belongs to my children." They reach the tunnel leading to the arena, and she raises a hand, signalling for him to stop. "Wait here. I will go in first. Do not follow me until I give you the word."
Drogon is standing watch over the eggs today, crouching protectively over them, and occasionally burnishing them with a gentle lick of flame. Rhaegal must have been hunting; the well-charred carcass of what looks like a cow, the bones stripped almost entirely bare of meat, stands between him and Drogon. She had noticed before that they take turns in guarding the eggs, and also that the other two will share their kills with the one on duty.
Viserion is the first to approach her, lowering his massive head until it is level with hers, and then a little more, his nose nudging her abdomen with a gentleness that belies his size.
"You knew before I did, didn't you?" she accuses playfully. His huff of breath bathes her face in a wave of hot air, and sounds almost like a laugh. He nudges her shoulder next, just as gently, and lets out a low whine as he looks up at the sky, leaving her in no doubt about what he wants from her. "Later, sweet one," she promises. No doubt Sarella will want her to stop riding on dragonback when she comes close to her time, but as long as it is safe for the baby, she needs to fly as much as her dragons do. "There is somebody I want you to meet. All of you."
Drogon huffs in acknowledgement of her words, rearranging his body to better shield the eggs from view.
She moves over to Rhaegal, who lowers his head so she can pet his green scales, and kiss his snout. Rhaegal preens at her attention, almost purring in satisfaction. She leans against his side for a few moments, feeling the heat from his body warm her. Before their eggs hatched, she was the only one who could feel the warmth that emanated from them, while everybody else felt only cold stone. Now, while she found their bodies pleasantly warm, the few others who were allowed to get close enough to them to touch them found the heat all but unbearable. Even Loreza found them hot to the touch, though this did not discourage her from approaching them.
"It's alright," she whispers to Rhaegal. "Whatever you want, it's alright."
Rhaegal was happy to have a rider. She remembers feeling his joy as though it was her own the first time that Jon climbed onto his back, and he took to the skies with a rider, for the first time. She remembers when she decided that she could not stay at Winterfell any longer, knowing that if she agreed to Sansa Stark's suggestion that they rest before fighting Cersei, she would take advantage of the delay to convince the Northern Lords to refuse to fight. Jon declined to fly to Dragonstone with her, citing Rhaegal's need to recover, and for a terrible moment, she feared that Rhaegal would refuse to go with her and Drogon, that though she had hatched him from an egg and loved and cared for him since he was tiny enough to be cradled in her arms, his bond with his new rider would prove stronger than his bond with his mother. In the end, he chose her, but he would have lived had he stayed with Jon.
It will break her heart if he chooses Jon over her this time, but she cannot let Rhaegal see this.
If bonding with Jon will make him happiest, she cannot stand in his way.
She strokes Rhaegal's green scales again, then walks back to the tunnel, where Jon is waiting for her. His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs slightly open. She supposes that it is one thing to know that dragons exist, and another to see them in the flesh.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" She asked him that before. If he calls them 'beasts' this time, she may slap him.
He opens his mouth to speak, closes it with a snap, and opens and closes it twice more before he can manage to speak an audible word. "They must be bigger than Balerion the Dread!"
"Come with me," is all she says.
They have not taken half a dozen steps before Drogon shifts his position again, and the movement is enough to draw Jon's attention.
"Eggs? You have eggs as well as dragons?"
"Perhaps your sister would like you to steal them too. They are incredibly valuable. You could hire an army. Or do you think she will content herself with selling them so she can live like a rich woman for the rest of her days?"
Jon stops in his tracks. "Your Grace, I…"
"Do not insult me by pretending that your sister has not demanded that you steal one of my dragons."
"I wasn't going to…"
"To tell me that she is plotting to steal from me? I never imagined that you were."
"I wouldn't have stolen from you, Your Grace, but you must see that even one of your dragons could save Westeros. That's all that Sansa wants."
"You dare to defend her?" She shouldn't be surprised. In the other life, he did not say a word when Sansa openly disrespected the Queen to whom he willingly swore fealty, and who had come to Winterfell as an ally. When she tried to warn him that Sansa would use his parentage as a weapon against her and destroy everything she hoped to build, he dismissed her fears, refusing to believe that his sister would betray his trust. Even when Sansa proved herself willing to betray his trust to serve her own ends, he defended her. "Even when she is ready to put your life in jeopardy to get her what she wants? She's not trying to steal a dragon herself, is she? She will risk your life, but not her own." Jon flinches at this, but cannot deny the truth of her words. "Go on, then. Claim one of them, if you can. If one of my children will accept you, you may become his rider, with my blessing."
It is plain to see that Jon is wary, but he does not have it in him to refuse her challenge, not when he has the chance of securing ownership of a dragon that he could ride back to Westeros to battle the Army of the Dead.
She watches him move closer, one tentative step at a time, and berates herself for letting her temper get the better of her, hating the idea that he might succeed, that she might have to watch him ride away with one of her children.
He moves towards Drogon first, evidently deciding to try for the biggest, but he scuttles back as soon as Drogon lets out a mighty roar, warning the stranger not to come any nearer to the eggs. Viserion hisses at him, arching his back and making it very plain that Jon's presence is unwelcome.
Rhaegal is the quietest of the three, his eyes tracking Jon's every move. As soon as Jon moves towards him, however, he screeches loudly in protest, rearing up, his wings unfolding. He unleashes a jet of fire in Jon's direction, one that would have engulfed him if Jon had not hurled himself onto the sand, narrowly missing the flames. With a final screech, Rhaegal moves over to Drogon and the eggs, and Viserion is quick to join them.
"We should leave," she tells Jon. Despite everything, she does not want to see him burn, and she worries that she may have pushed her children too far, so much so that even her presence will not be enough to keep them from attacking Jon if he makes a wrong move.
Jon does not need to be told twice.
She does not speak again until they are outside the fighting pit. "I have tried to make sure that you and your people have all they need for a fresh start. You have shelter, food, clothing, and once you have recovered from your journey, you will have all of the help you need to find work and housing and to start new lives as citizens of Meereen. But in return, you will need to abide by our laws. Tell your sister that theft will not be tolerated, nor will conspiring to have others do her dirty work. If she cannot obey the law, she will have to leave."
"You can't throw out all of my people for one person's mistake!"
"I said nothing about your people leaving. Those who are willing to abide by the law are welcome to stay. I assume that you do not intend to demand that they should leave a safe haven for Sansa Stark's sake." She does not trouble to hide her disgust at the thought that he might expect the innocent people who look to him for protection and leadership to give up their chance at a new life in Meereen to share Sansa's exile.
Jon's face reddens, and his eyes are downcast. "I'll talk to Sansa," he vows, as if he expects this to do some good. "I'll see to it that she keeps your laws, that all of my people do. She's been through a lot, and that's why she wants to go back to save the North, so we can be safe there. It's hard for her to trust people, and she doesn't know you."
"Neither do you," she observes, more gently this time. She looks at him for a few moments before coming to a decision. "Come to the Great Pyramid tomorrow. Watch my audiences with the people, and my meetings with my Council. Learn how Meereen is governed, and how its people live. Before your people decide to make their lives here, they have a right to know what it will mean for them. They chose you to lead them. Be their eyes and ears."
"You'd let me do that?"
"Yes."
It is the fair thing to do, she knows. The people from the North have a right to know what kind of Queen will rule them should they choose to stay, and Jon is the person whose judgement they are most likely to trust. But she also knows that this is not the reason why she wants him there. She wants him there so he can see for himself that she is a just Queen, one who cares for her people, and will care for the people he has brought with him from Westeros.
In the other life, his people scorned her. Even when she abandoned her war against Cersei in order to bring her armies and her dragons North to save their lives, they acted as though having her as Queen would be a fate worse than death.
This time, she wants them to choose her.
Winters are milder in King's Landing than they are in most of the Seven Kingdoms, save Dorne.
The air grows crisp and cold in the last days of autumn, and in a bad winter, they might have snow for days at a time, but they never have the constant snowfalls that blanket the North. Snow in King's Landing might come up to the top of a man's boots, not to the top of a castle's walls, as it does in the North during the coldest part of winter. Winter days in King's Landing are almost as long as its summer days, while other kingdoms might have to count themselves fortunate to have a couple of hours of sunlight each day. It is rare for the winter weather to keep the people of King's Landing from going about their daily business.
Until now.
It should be close to noon, yet the sky is as dark as if it was the middle of the night.
Heavy clouds block out even the light of the stars, a fierce blizzard freezes the air, threatening to bury the Red Keep in snow, colossal waves crash against the sea wall, and the rumble of thunder is deafening.
The windows of Cersei's chambers are closed, blankets fastened over them to keep out any draughts, a log fire burns in the grate, and a full dozen braziers are lit, yet nothing drives the cold from the room.
It feels as though her blood must be freezing in her veins.
The cradle is set just in front of the fire, and its tiny occupant is swaddled in woollen blankets and tucked under a heavy coverlet lined with fur, yet she shivers, and her skin is pale and cold to the touch.
Cersei doesn't dare to take her in her arms. She has no heat in her body to share with her.
For three days this storm has raged, and far from showing signs of abating, it has only grown more terrible.
The Targaryen girl was born during a fierce summer storm that sank the remains of the royal fleet.
Two days ago, the Iron Fleet was smashed to pieces by the storm, when Euron Greyjoy sought to sail to calmer waters.
Cersei remembers Jon Snow's letter.
Our enemy brings the storm, it had said, and at the time, she did not know if he was half-mad or just a poor liar.
The door to her chamber is flung open, the noise waking the babe.
Cersei is ready to upbraid Jaime, but the harsh words die on her tongue when she sees his face.
He looks older than their father was when he died, his skin is ashen, and his expression is one of utter defeat. Even when they lost their children, he had not looked so stricken, as if all hope and light had fled the word.
"One of the scouts made it back, barely."
They sent out hundreds, after scattered ravens struggled to King's Landing from castles across the realm, bearing desperate pleas for aid in fighting against an army of monsters.
Cersei swallows a lump in her throat, and casts an anxious glance at the cradle before she can ask the question she must ask, however much she fears the answer.
"How many?"
"Millions."
TBC.