Author's Note: Timing-wise, the first two scenes of this chapter overlap with the previous chapter.
X
Sansa can only marvel at how readily her people seem to have taken to their new surroundings.
Meereen seems to her to be as different from the North and Winterfell as day from night, so foreign and strange that it is difficult to believe that the two places could exist in the same world.
How is it that women and children who had never set foot outside the North, or ever strayed more than a dozen leagues from the villages in which they were born until they were commanded to Winterfell for protection against the Army of the Dead, and men whose only experience of the world outside their homes was restricted to what they had seen while marching in Robb's army, or her father's if they were old enough to have fought in Robert's Rebellion, can be at ease in their new, strange surroundings?
More at ease than Sansa herself, if truth be told.
They had had the barracks to themselves that first night, and Sansa found that uncomfortable enough, the immense sleeping hall seeming to stretch for miles in the near darkness as she lay on her pallet, longing to be back in her feather bed at Winterfell, snug under woolen blankets and heavy furs, with Arya by her side and Brienne by their door. As exhausted as she was, the sounds of almost two hundred people snuffling and snoring kept her awake long after most of her people had fallen asleep, lulled by full bellies and the sense of safety that came with being on dry land, under a roof, and thousands of miles away from the monsters that had destroyed their home.
When the Dothraki horde returned with the slaves from Volantis, she gave orders that her people should take pallets and bunks in one corner of the room, and that they should take their meals at the same time, wanting the newcomers to see that they were a people united, and that they would defend their own against any attack.
She might as well have spared her efforts.
A few of the boldest of the children are running around the sleeping hall with a dozen or so of the slave children, tossing a leather ball, given to them by the attendants in charge of the shelter, as they weave their way through the sleeping hall, ducking nimbly around the pallets, or leaping over them altogether if their legs are long enough. Every time one of the children fails to catch the ball, the one who threw it to them points to an object in the room, and the other child gives the word for it, the Northern children in the Common Tongue, the others in Valyrian or whatever language they speak. They take turns repeating the word until the child who threw the ball can pronounce it perfectly. The odd forfeit has resulted in the Northern children picking up a few words already.
And it is not just the children.
Too many of the adults have already approached the scribes that Daenerys Targaryen sent, giving details of their background and any skills that they might possess, and she knows that at least some of them are already making plans for the jobs that they could do in Meereen. If the impression Lady Olenna's words gave her is accurate, there is work of all sorts available in Daenerys Targaryen's cities, and in the surrounding lands. She has certainly been quick to send her people to lure the Northerners into staying to enrich her kingdom with their labour, rather than helping them save their true home.
The Hound is watching the game, in which two of the children who have attached themselves to him are eager participants. The girl seems particularly excited, shrieking with laughter as she runs around. The third child, the smaller of the boys, stands by his side, sucking lightly on the fingers of one hand while the other is wrapped tightly around the hem of the Hound's shirt, seemingly content to watch rather than play.
"You should not allow them to spend so much time with these children," Sansa admonishes him. She takes care to keep her voice low, not wanting these strangers to know how much they discomfit her. "We know nothing about these children… these people… or where they have come from. We should keep apart. They might have…"
"Lice? Fleas? The bloody shits?" The Hound scoffs, and Sansa feels her cheeks burn at both his coarse words and the loud voice in which he utters them, certain that he must be drawing attention to them. "I'd say they're like to be in better shape than we are. They didn't spend three months in that stinking tub!"
Sansa can feel her cheeks burn at the thought of what she must have looked like when she reached Meereen… what she must have smelled like. She could not deny that three months without a clean gown or smallclothes, and nothing but seawater to wash in had left her in no better state than the poor of King's Landing. Worse, she did not have a chance to take a bath, or receive her new clothes, until after their audience with Daenerys Targaryen.
"It is not wise to let them get too close," she persists, forcing herself not to think of what Daenerys Targaryen and her court must have thought of her when she, Jon, and the others sought an audience at the Great Pyramid. She keeps her voice low, almost a whisper, though she has scant hope that he will emulate her discretion.
"Why the fuck not? How long has it been since any of them have had a chance to play like this?"
"They should not forget where they come from, and who their people are."
"You mean who their people were," he corrects her. "It looks to me that these are going to be their people now."
"No, they won't!" Sansa snaps back, more loudly than she intended. "They are of Westeros, and the North. That will never change."
"The North is gone, little bird, and if the rest of the Seven Kingdoms aren't lost by now, they will be before any of this lot have grown another inch. You can do what you want. Try to find a captain mad enough to bring you back to Westeros so the Night King can kill you and the crew, or to sail around the world to search for another frozen Hell so you can call yourself its Lady. I'm staying here, and it looks to me like the rest of them are going to do the same. Them that have more than half a brain in their head, at any rate. Could be worse. At least the weather is an improvement, and the food's decent. It sounds like there'll be work for anybody who wants it. Only an idiot wouldn't choose a new life here over going back there to die!"
The worst of it is that she knows in her heart that he is right.
The thought of never returning home is so painful that it threatens to choke her.
All of those years spent first as a captive in the Red Keep, tormented by Joffrey, brutally beaten every time Robb won a victory that made him fear that his hold on the Iron Throne was slipping away, and sold to Tyrion so the Lannisters might use her to claim the North, then in hiding in the Eyrie, with only the dream of home to sustain her. Then Ramsey, who sought to turn her home into her prison, thinking that the torture he inflicted on her would drive away all memory of being safe, warm and happy with her family, and make her think only of pain and degradation when she thought of Winterfell.
She had defeated them all.
She had taken back her home, and even Jon did not dispute her claim to it. He might not have refused the title of King, recognizing that it was more fitting by far that she, Ned Stark's trueborn daughter, should be proclaimed Queen, but at least he had respected her right to Winterfell.
Lady Olenna told her that she could not be Lady of Winterfell if Winterfell was no more, but Sansa refuses to believe it.
Even if her home is burned, even if its ashes are buried beneath a hundred feet of snow, it remains hers.
She is Lady of Winterfell, the last Stark in a line that stretches back for over eight thousand years.
She is descended from Kings.
She is sister to two Kings.
If they were still home, she would be proclaimed Jon's heiress, next in line to rule the North.
Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell. A title that exists only in her thoughts, but that must surely have been hers had the North endured.
In the stories she used to love as a child, fair princesses and maidens who were pure of heart might suffer at the hands of the wicked, might lose their homes and all that they held dear, might even be forced to live as smallfolk or servants for a time, as Sansa was once forced to pretend to be Littlefinger's bastard, but in the end, they were always rewarded for their virtue, for suffering yet never allowing their purity of heart or their sweetness of nature to be marred by it. Whatever they lost would be restored to them. Often, they gained even more than they ever lost. Their castles would be restored to them, but they would also have won the love of a handsome, gallant Lord or even a prince or King, who would cherish them as every lady dreams of being cherished, and ensure that they would never again know a moment of sorrow, fear or pain.
After all that she lost, all that she suffered, she thought that when they won Winterfell back, she would be safe, that she would have the happy ending she deserved.
Then they lost Winterfell, not to the Lannisters or the Boltons, but to a monstrous, merciless, unnatural force, undeterred by the winter snows, a force that killed Arya and Bran, leaving Sansa as the last true Stark, a force that drove them from their home, and their land, leaving them to seek refuge half a world away from all they knew.
"It's not right," she says, more to herself than to the Hound. "It's not fair."
He barks a laugh. "When was anything in this shit world ever fair?"
"Daenerys Targaryen should show hospitality to those of noble birth. I am a Stark of Winterfell…"
"You think that being Ned Stark's get is going to be a point in your favour?" His laughter is harsh. "Your father helped to put Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne, and he damn near wiped out her family. Even sent men to kill her when she was still puking breast milk and pissing her swaddling. If Cersei loved Robert half as much as your father did, every one of her brats would've had black hair! And you expect her to ask you to live under her roof?"
A true lady never raises her voice in anger, but Sansa is sorely tempted to ignore this lesson, drilled into her by Mother and by Septa Mordane.
Father was a good man, a just man, and a man of honour. He would never have raised his sword against House Targaryen if the cause was not a just one. He would never have helped to put King Robert on the Iron Throne if he did not believe that he would be a good King. How was he to know that his friend would turn fat and drunk and stupid, with none of the dignity or wisdom that a King should have? How was he to know that Cersei would betray her husband, giving him a monster like Joffrey in place of the noble, gentle prince of true Baratheon blood she should have borne him, the dark-haired prince, even handsomer than Lord Renly, who should have been Sansa's husband?
How dare Daenerys Targaryen think ill of Father when he always sought to do the honourable thing!
How dare she snub Sansa, denying her the hospitality and honourable treatment to which a noble lady is entitled, to punish her for a war that was fought before either of them were born!
"Jon is her nephew."
"And she welcomed him with open arms, did she?"
She ignores this. "Whether she likes it or not, Jon is her nephew, her only family, and I am Jon's family."
"I don't think she cares about that, little bird."
"She will have no choice but to care."
Jon returns to the barracks shortly before dinner and, to Sansa's frustration, every time she tries to draw him aside in order to quiz him about what happened between him and Daenerys Targaryen, he is with one or another of their people, deep in conversation. She knows without being told that he will not welcome any interruptions on her part.
Ghost emerges from the cool, shadowy corner he had claimed as a resting place as soon as Jon returns, and remains by his side as he speaks to their people.
Sansa feels the old sense of regret and jealousy as she watches Ghost nuzzle Jon's hand with his massive snout, imagining how much safer she would feel if she could still have Lady by her side.
She wishes that she could reach back through the veil of time, and shake some sense into the silly girl she was.
What would have happened, had she been able to see Joffrey for what he was when they first met, been able to see how unworthy he was of the love she offered him? If she told King Robert the truth, told him that the boy he called 'son' had attacked a defenseless butcher's boy, and that he would have killed Arya had Nymeria not stopped him, would he have taken their part? Would he have punished Joffrey for his wickedness, and refused to heed Cersei's demand that Lady be killed? Perhaps he would have been too weak to stand against the demands of his Queen, how ever wrong they were, too stupid and too lazy to behave as a King ought to. Perhaps he would think that an attack on the boy he believed to be his son must be punished, regardless of cause. Perhaps he would have let Lady be killed, no matter what Sansa said or did, but at least then she would have nothing for which to reproach herself.
She misses Lady more than ever in this place, so different from home.
There were six direwolf pups once, one for each of them.
Now Ghost is the last of his kind, as she and Jon are the last of the Starks.
If the future of their family must be in this place, Sansa means to see to it that they will have their due.
When a gong is rung to signal the first dinner shift, the one she decreed that her people should partake of, Sansa hastens to stand directly behind Jon in line, collecting her bowl of stew, mug of water and hunk of bread, following him to the table, and claiming the seat to his right.
Ghost, already familiar with the routine in the barracks, lies down at Jon's feet, waiting patiently until one of the servers comes over with an immense bowl of offal and chunks of bloody, fatty meat. A feast to a direwolf who has spent three months at sea, subsisting on scraps.
As usual, Ser Davos, Samwell Tarly, Brienne and Podrick join them at the table. The Hound sits at the next table over, with the five children he and Ser Davos are caring for.
Before Sansa can say a word, Samwell Tarly blurts out his news. "Queen Daenerys has offered me a job. She wants me to work with Lady Sarella Sand to build up the new library. It's going to be in one of the pyramids that used to belong to the Masters, and there's going to be lodgings for the library workers. I will have rooms above the library, and Gilly and Little Sam will live there with me."
"Why should she single you out for favour?" Sansa asks, trying to keep the envy from her voice. It is so unfair that Samwell Tarly and his Wildling lover are to be allowed to leave the barracks to live in privacy and comfort in a suite of rooms in a pyramid. If Daenerys Targaryen can do this for them, how can she refuse to offer hospitality to her?
"When I was at the Citadel, a knight came to the healing wing there, suffering from greyscale. When I found out that he was Lord Commander Mormont's son, I knew that I had to find a way to save him." This last part is addressed to Jon, who nods his approval and understanding. "Archmaester thought that the disease had progressed too far for there to be any hope, and was going to send him to Valyria, to join the stone men there. I found a book that described a possible cure. The Archmaesters had decided that it was too dangerous to use it, in case the healer also became infected, so it was forbidden, but I had to try. I came back alone, and when I told him what I wanted to do, he agreed to it. I think that he would have done anything if it meant that he had a chance to get better. That treatment…" He shudders visibly at what is clearly an unpleasant memory before continuing. "We were very lucky that nobody caught me! I treated him, and he was cured. The knight was Ser Jorah Mormont, and he serves Queen Daenerys. I think he's her Queensguard, or on her Council, or something like that."
Sansa remembers the first audience with Daenerys Targaryen, and how she spoke to Samwell Tarly. At the time, she was more concerned with impressing on the woman that Jon was the true King of the Seven Kingdoms, but now that she thinks of it, she remembers Daenerys Targaryen speaking of a reward.
"House Mormont is sworn to House Stark," she observes aloud. "If this Ser Jorah has her ear, he might be able to convince her to help us." She vaguely recalls hearing of a Lord Mormont who fled her father's justice, though she could not recall the man's given name. Whatever he had done, Father was very angry about it, and angrier still that the man fled rather than staying to face the King's justice, or taking the black to wash away the stain of his crime. She cannot imagine what he would say if he knew that one of his own bannermen had pledged himself to Daenerys Targaryen, when his own loyalty was to House Baratheon until the day he died. If this is the same man, he should be grateful to be offered an opportunity to make amends for his crimes by aiding House Stark in its time of need.
"I'd say that she already is, milady," Ser Davos observes, gesturing to the bowls of food in front of them. "Food, clothes, shelter, safety, a home in any of her cities, and any help we need to find work. It's more than I expected. Her Grace has also asked to see me and Clegane tomorrow," he adds, addressing Jon. "Young Lilla told me."
"Why?" Sansa demands. Is Daenerys Targaryen trying to taunt her by bringing so many to the Great Pyramid while she is ignored?
"I'll have to ask her why I see her. Maybe she has a soft spot for children. Maybe she wants me to take up smuggling again."
"Maybe she wants you to be her Master of Ships," Samwell Tarly suggests, only half in jest.
"Gods help her if she needs an old smuggler like me for the job!"
"She could do a lot worse," Jon tells him. The smile he gives him briefly lightens his solemn countenance. "Queen Daenerys has asked that I attend her tomorrow, to watch her audiences and the meeting with her Council."
Sansa feels her mouth curve upwards in a smile, and she inwardly chastises herself for her harsh thoughts about Daenerys Targaryen. It seems that the Queen can be reasonable after all. She waits for Jon to say more, but instead he turns his attention to the stew in front of him, spooning it eagerly into his mouth, before using his bread to soak up the last of the gravy. She pays scant attention to her own meal as she eats it, allowing her thoughts to drift to her visit with Lady Olenna, and the dainty cakes they were served with their tea. It seems a lifetime ago that such things were part of her daily life. For all their cruelty to her, the Lannisters never stooped to using food, or any other material comfort, to punish her. She always had many sumptuous dishes to choose from, even when the smallfolk of the city rioted for want of bread. She wore silk and satin and Myrish lace, finer than anything she had had at Winterfell, and lived in rooms fit for a princess. She never forgot that she was a prisoner, yet she could not help but be thankful not to be consigned to a dungeon, wearing rags and subsisting on scraps fit only for pigs.
Soon, she will once again live as a lady of noble… of royal birth ought to, and in time, the hardships she has endured will fade to an unpleasant but distant memory.
She regards Jon critically as he finishes his meal. His hair is too long, but at least he has had a chance to wash the grime and salt from it. His beard makes him look older than his years… but perhaps it is better that he looks older. He will impress nobody, least of all a Queen, if he looks like a beardless boy, still as green as summer grass. Like the other men, he has been given a linen shirt, a pair of light breeches, and sandals. Does she have time to embroider a direwolf over the breast of his shirt? Should she embroider a dragon instead? A dragon and a direwolf both, to remind Daenerys Targaryen that, though Jon is her nephew, he is still Sansa's family? Where might she find a needle and thread to do it? Should Jon bring Ghost, or would Daenerys Targaryen see his presence as a threat?
So deep in thought is she that she almost misses it when Jon rises to leave the table.
Scrambling to her feet, she follows him from the dining hall. She catches him by the arm, and looks around for a quiet corner in which they can speak privately. To her irritation, there seem to be people everywhere. She leads him over to the section of the sleeping chamber where the Northerners have their beds. As almost all of them are still at table, it is probably the quietest place in the barracks, at least for the next few minutes. She takes a step back from him, so she can take in his appearance.
"Maybe you should wear your cloak tomorrow," she muses aloud. He looked a true Lord in the cloak she made him at Castle Black, a cloak just like the one Father used to wear.
"Are you mad? I'll be baked alive if I wear that!"
"If I can find a needle, and some dark thread, I can make our clothes look more fit for our station." She twitches the skirt of her plain linen gown impatiently. The sooner she can exchange it for a one befitting her station, the better. "I don't want us to look like beggars in front of her court."
"You're not coming with me. She knows that you wanted me to steal a dragon."
"How can she possibly know that?" She cannot imagine who would betray her like that. Who among her people could be so heartless and disloyal as to give Daenerys Targaryen a reason to think ill of her when she is so close to earning her good will?
"I don't know who told her, and it doesn't matter. It's not as if we can pretend that it isn't true. What matters is that she knows, and she doesn't trust you. She brought me to see her dragons, and their eggs…"
"She has eggs too? How many?"
"Sansa!" Jon's voice is sharp as he speaks her name.
"You shouldn't have had to steal a dragon," she insists. "You are a Targaryen too."
"A Targaryen bastard."
"That doesn't matter. The dragonseeds were able to claim dragons during the Dance of Dragons. The dragons didn't care that they were bastards. And it's not as if you are an ordinary bastard. Your father married your mother before a heart tree, and if he had lived, he would have made sure to annul his first marriage properly so Aunt Lyanna could be his Queen, and you a prince. You have just as much of a right to claim a dragon as she does."
"And she gave me a chance to try. She told me that if one of her dragons accepted me as a rider, I could claim it. All three of them rejected me. The green one was ready to burn me to ash for coming near it, and all three of them would have turned their fire on me if I had tried to go near the eggs. It doesn't truly matter, does it? Maybe dragonfire would have been enough to destroy the Night King, if we had had it at Winterfell, but he's had three months to grow his army since then. Do you think that anybody is still alive in Westeros? Do you think that there is anybody left who is not part of his army? We tried to stop him, and we failed. We lost the North, and it's too late for us to help the other kingdoms."
"I only wanted to save our home," Sansa says, hating that her voice sounds so small and weak, like the foolish little girl she was before Joffrey called for Father's head. "I used to be so stupid. I thought that I hated Winterfell, and couldn't wait to go South. I thought that everything was so much better in the South, that they had finer clothes, grander castles, musicians at every court, gallant knights, and feasts every night. After I left, all I wanted was to go home, and then when we finally got there, we lost it again. I didn't want to believe that we had lost it forever. I thought that, if you could claim a dragon, there would still be hope that you could defeat the Night King and bring us all home. You need to make her understand that I would never have thought of stealing a dragon if it wasn't so important. You need to make her see that I am her ally, not her enemy. Her family, through you. You need to make her see that, so she doesn't try to make you leave me behind."
"Why would I have to leave you behind? Where am I going?"
She barely manages to suppress a sigh. She loves Jon for his honourable nature and his honesty, which sometimes remind her so much of Father that it seems that he is still alive in Jon, but she cannot help but be frustrated with his utter inability to play the game of thrones.
Tyrion or Littlefinger or Lady Olenna or even Cersei would see in an instant the opportunity that Jon is blind to.
"Daenerys Targaryen rules over this city, and two others. She rules over the Dothraki." Sansa never excelled at geography and, in any case, Maester Luwin's lessons focused on the geography of Westeros, not the other continents. She has no idea how much territory is encompassed by the three cities, and the surrounding lands, but she dimly recalls Maester Luwin describing the Dothraki territory as being larger than any of the Seven Kingdoms, even the North. Even if all of her cities and other territory combined are no bigger than one kingdom, she must still rule over vast lands, and millions of people.
"I know that."
"She is a Queen in her own right. She has forged a mighty kingdom, but she has no heir to inherit it, and no husband to give her one." Jon's expression remains frustratingly blank. How can he not grasp her meaning? "You are close in age to her, and you know that you are a comely man. If she takes you as her husband…"
"She's my aunt!"
"She's a Targaryen, she won't be troubled by that. You could be King. Our people chose you to rule them before, think how pleased they would be to have you rule them again!"
"Sansa…"
"And if she doesn't want a husband, you are still her closest kinsman. She might not want to marry." Sansa did not blame her if she was reluctant to take a husband. If she was Queen in her own right, she knew that she would not want a husband to take all that was hers from her. "If not, she can name you her heir, and then she won't have to worry about her Council pressing her to take a husband. She has asked you to attend meetings with her Council for a reason, don't you see? She wants to get your measure. You need to show her that you know how to rule."
"I don't want to rule. I'm clearly no good at it. I was Lord Commander, and half of my men banded against me and killed me. I was King in the North, and now there's nothing left of the North."
"That wasn't your fault," she tells him gently. While it is true that, during his brief time as King in the North, he made choices that she disagreed with, none of those choices were to blame for their fate. It was no fault of his that the Night King was too strong, or that those to whom they appealed for aid ignored him. "You always tried to do the right thing for your people, not yourself, and that makes you the best King I've ever known."
"That's a pretty low bar."
"Don't underrate yourself," she scolds him. "You can't expect her to see your worth if you refuse to see it yourself. It's not your fault that the Army of the Dead came through the Wall. You tried to stop them, and if you had not brought the Wildlings through, there would have been even more of the dead to fight. Maybe none of us would have been able to get away from Winterfell if there were more of them. If there was no Night King, you would be King now, and you would rule well."
"If there was no Night King, I would not have allowed the Free Folk past the Wall, and my brothers would not have killed me. I would still be a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to wear no crown."
Her bannermen would have declared her their Queen, had Jon remained Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
She knows that it should not matter to her any more, now that the North is forever lost to them, but it is still painful to remember how eagerly the Northern Lords clamoured for Jon to be King, ignoring her own, stronger claim, and how Jon did not think to refuse to accept the crown, deferring to her as the rightful Queen in the North.
"You need to make a favourable impression on her," she tells him, doing her best to banish thoughts of the Queen that she might have been, in a kinder, more just world, and focusing on the King that Jon can still be, one way or the other. "If she wants you to be her husband, or her heir, you need to say 'yes'. You may not want to be King, but you are good at it, and it will be so much easier for our people to feel at home here if they can look to you, a man they know and trust, to rule them. Would you deny them that?"
"She won't want to marry me, or to make me her heir." Jon sounds hopeful rather than dismayed at the thought of being passed over, denied his rights as nephew to the Queen.
"Perhaps not," she concedes, knowing that to push too hard might alarm him. "If she does, all I ask is that you not refuse her out of hand, that you think about all of the good that you could do before you give her an answer."
Jon's nod is slow, and reluctant, but Sansa is satisfied with it.
Like Father, Jon will always strive to do right by their people, and his family.
Like Father, Jon will not put his own desires ahead of the good of his pack.
Knowing all he can do for them as Daenerys Targaryen's King, or even as her heir, he will not shirk his duty. He will accept her offer, and if he is reluctant at first, he will soon come to see that it was the right choice to make.
And whether she takes Jon as her husband, or names him her heir, Daenerys Targaryen will have no choice but to accept that, as Jon's sister, Sansa too must be made welcome to live in the Great Pyramid, honoured as the princess she should always have been.
Tyrion is one of the first to arrive for breakfast in the morning.
One of the tables in the smallest dining chamber has food set out on it: a large bowl of chopped fruits, a platter piled with fried bread, flatbreads and soft rolls, and a tray set with an array of cold meats, cheeses, smoked fish, and hard-boiled eggs. Steam rises from a plate covered in fat sausages and slices of bacon that have been fried to a crisp, the aroma making his mouth water. Jugs of water, juice and a light, spiced ale are placed next to the food. No wine, alas. His Queen remains convinced that it is a bad idea to serve wine or strong spirits before the work of the day is completed, despite Tyrion's best efforts to persuade her that, while wine or, better still, Tyroshi pear brandy might dull the wits of another man, a couple of good drinks sharpen his mind.
He piles a plate with food, including a liberal helping of bacon, and fills his goblet with ale, before sitting down to eat.
Sarella greets him with a distracted nod, her attention focused on some papers in front of her rather than on her meal. Loreza and Dorea, squabbling over possession of a bowl of honey, do not seem to notice his arrival.
As Tyrion works his way through his breakfast, the others drift into the room, first Missandei and Grey Worm, then Lady Olenna and Ellaria Sand. He is nursing a second goblet of ale when Daenerys arrives, with Jorah and Daario shadowing her, as usual.
He waits until they have filled their plates and sat down before he speaks.
"Have you given any thought to marriage, Your Grace?" he asks tentatively, glancing briefly between Jorah and Daario, wondering which of them Daenerys is likely to choose as a husband, and how the other is likely to react to being passed over. "With the baby on the way, the sooner you take a husband, the better. You should speak to the Graces about a marriage ceremony, today if possible. I don't know how long it will take for them to make whatever preparations they will need to make before you can be married. If you want the people to believe that the baby was conceived in your marriage bed, you cannot afford to delay any longer."
Lady Olenna snorts derisively. "Anybody who would believe that she grew a baby in six months will believe that she did it in five."
"We will be married," Daenerys declares. "As soon as I find somebody who will marry us."
Tyrion watches her smile on each of her lovers in turn, knowing without being told that she has no intention of choosing one of them. He barely manages to suppress a groan of frustration. It would be bad enough for Daenerys to take a knight old enough to be her father, or a former pit fighter turned sellsword as her husband. He doesn't want to think about what will be said of her when it becomes known that she is to marry them both. He cannot help but be thankful that she gave up on the idea of claiming the Iron Throne, as he can imagine, all too easily, how the Lords of Westeros would have reacted if they were expected to bend the knee before these men. Even the Targaryen kings had not been able to get away with taking multiple wives, not since Maegor the Cruel. A Targaryen queen could not hope to get away with taking two husbands.
The subject seemingly closed, she moves on to the next matter at hand. "Jon Snow will be joining us in our meeting this morning, and attending court when I hear petitions," she announces.
"What time are they to arrive?"
"'They'?"
"Jon Snow and Lady Sansa."
"I have asked that Jon Snow join us," Daenerys tells him, an edge to her voice. "His people chose him to be their King. I am sure that he can speak for them without needing his sister to hold his hand."
"But…"
"If I wished to invite Sansa Stark, I would have done so. I trust that you will remember that the next time you think to take it upon yourself to invite her, or anybody else, into my home without my leave."
"Your Grace, Lady Sansa is a daughter of House Stark. My father recognized that she was the key to the North when he commanded that I marry her. If you want the people of the North to settle here, welcoming Lady Sansa as a member of your council, and earning her friendship, could go a long way towards helping them trust you. If they see that she accepts you as her Queen, they will follow her lead." If Ellaria Sand and her daughters can be made welcome and allowed to speak for the people who came with them from Dorne, after killing their Prince, after killing Myrcella, then surely Sansa can too. The gods know that there is no shortage of space in the Great Pyramid.
When Daenerys fixes her gaze on him, her expression is hard. "The people of the North may stay, or go, as they choose. They are free to decide. If I must scramble for Sansa Stark's approval to persuade them to respect that I am Queen here, it is better that they leave now." Tyrion opens his mouth to speak, but when he sees the fire burning in her eyes, the words die on his tongue. "I realize that you may feel an obligation towards Sansa Stark, as she was once your wife. If you think it your duty to care for her, I will gladly release you from my service, and you may find work to support her and make a home for you both. Is that what you want, Tyrion?"
Her omission of the title of 'Lord', his by courtesy as a member of the Queen's council, does not escape any of them, Tyrion least of all.
"No, Your Grace," he says quickly, inwardly wondering what work she could possibly expect him to find. He has no hope of making his living as a manual labourer, and Meereen is full of freedmen who are far more experienced than he when it comes to bookkeeping or scribing. He has no desire to earn his bread by capering in motley.
Daenerys' only response is a curt nod.
The meal finishes in silence, the cloud of the Queen's displeasure overshadowing what started out as a pleasant morning, and she is the first to leave the room, her lovers close on her heels.
The looks that Jorah and Daario cast in his direction as they leave make Tyrion shudder, knowing that both men would gladly slit his throat if they thought that it would please Daenerys.
Missandei and Grey Worm look even more disgusted with him, if such a thing is possible.
"There are times when I marvel that a man who is thought so clever can be so utterly stupid," Lady Olenna remarks. "I thought that my son was a fool, the gods rest him, but there are times when you manage to make the Lord Oaf of Highgarden look cleverer than a Citadel of Archmaesters."
"What do you mean?" It irritates him that he has to give her the satisfaction of hearing him ask the question, but he has no idea what she means, no idea why Daenerys has taken such offence to his speaking for Sansa. Daenerys knows what it is to be exiled from her home, to be sold in marriage, to suffer for the name she was born with. To his mind, she should feel empathy for Sansa, and want to do all in her power to help a girl who has known the same struggles, yet for some reason he cannot fathom, she wants nothing to do with her.
"Why am I in Meereen? Why are Lady Ellaria, and her daughters?"
"Because the Queen asked you to come here."
"And why did she do that?"
"You know why! Because she had a vision of what would happen if she went to Westeros, and knew that if you stayed there, you would die!"
"And what does that tell you?" When he does not answer, she lets out an impatient huff of breath, as if exasperated by his inability to read her thoughts. "It means that, whatever happened in that vision, whatever I did in that life our Queen experienced, it was enough to make her think of me as an ally worth saving. She didn't have to invite me to Meereen, or to send ships to bring as many of my people as she could to safety before those ice monsters could overrun the Reach. I had nothing to offer her when her mind was set against coming to Westeros, yet she cared enough to want to make sure that I, and what family is left to me, would be safe. I clearly made quite an impression on our Queen in the other life. Not that this is a surprise. As for you, you can at least be certain that whatever it was you did, you did nothing so terrible that she saw a need to banish you from her city."
Which is more than can be said for Varys, Tyrion thinks, though he does not give voice to the thought. Daenerys knew that Varys was returning to Westeros, and charged him with sending the Tyrells and the Sands to Meereen, but had not commanded him to return with them. What had Varys done that she would not try to save him?
"You can be certain that if our Queen was given any reason to think kindly of Sansa in the other life, she would be as hospitable to her as she has been to the rest of us. The gods alone know what folly that silly girl committed in the other life, but it was clearly enough that she forfeited the good will of our Queen, so much so that Her Grace would rather dismiss you from her council than hear you speak for Sansa."
Tyrion would like to believe that the threat is an empty one, that Daenerys values his counsel too highly to dismiss him, but he cannot make himself pretend that this is so. She trusts Missandei's counsel more than anybody else's, and Jorah, Daario and Grey Worm's almost as much. She trusts Sarella, Olenna, and Ellaria, particularly when it comes to matters relating to the people who fled Westeros with them. She even trusts Quaithe's words more than Tyrion's, and Quaithe rarely speaks! He once dreamed of being her Hand, but must now accept that she could easily, and willingly, do without his presence on her council.
"If you persist in this nonsense, if you continue to try to push her to welcome Sansa Stark into our midst, be in no doubt that she will cast you out," Olenna advises him. For a moment, her gaze softens. "I know that you tried to protect Sansa before. I respected you for it. I can only imagine how difficult it was for you, working to keep a monster like Joffrey on that ugly chair, and I do not doubt that you saw in Sansa a way to do something good, for a change. She was a sweet child then, and she deserved better than she received at your nephew's hands, but she is a child no longer. She must make her own way in the world. Your choice is a simple one, Tyrion. You can stay here, and help our Queen as best you can, or you can leave, find work, and earn money to support Sansa. You must choose whether you wish to be the Queen's advisor or Sansa's shining knight. You cannot be both."
Olenna does not wait for him to respond before sweeping out of the room, bound for the Council chambers.
Tyrion does not hesitate before following her.
He was fond of Sansa, once, and had hoped that she might grow fond of him in return, even if she could never give him the love a wife should have for husband. He likes to think that, if nothing else, she came to see him as somebody she could trust not to cause her harm, somebody she could confide in about her true feelings, knowing that he would not betray her secrets to Joffrey or to Cersei.
He gave her his protection, for what little it was worth.
But he will not give up all he has for her.
He knows that he is not a man who can be content with a life of honest labour, putting callouses on his hands to put bread on his table.
Casterly Rock is gone. Westeros is gone. His brother and sister are gone, or soon will be. He is all that is left of House Lannister, and perhaps it will be better if he takes no wife and fathers no children, and the name dies with him. He will never be a king in all but name, as Father was, but he can be part of building an empire. He still has a chance to do some good with his life.
He knows that he will never give that up, for Sansa or for anybody else.
As long as Daenerys is willing to have him on her Council, he will advise her. If a day ever comes when she asks him to retire… well, he dreams of owning a vineyard, and with the cuttings brought from Dorne and the Arbor, a day may yet come when he can make that dream a reality, and raise a toast his Queen with the Imp's Delight.
Olenna sweeps into the Council chamber ahead of him, but he is close on her heels, his stunted legs keeping pace with her aged ones well enough. He takes the place at the table that has become his by custom, uncomfortably conscious that it is further from the Queen's than he would like. He notes that an extra chair has been set at the table, towards the bottom, opposite his and several places away from the Queen's chair, intended for Jon Snow.
Daenerys greets him with a silent nod, but Tyrion is certain that he sees approval in her eyes, and comforts himself with the thought that, though she may be willing to accept his resignation, she is pleased not to have to.
He has scarcely settled into his chair when the door to the chamber opens to admit Jon Snow, flanked by two Unsullied.
"Your Grace," he greets Daenerys stiffly, his posture awkward. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Please sit, Jon Snow." She waits for him to take his place before giving the rest of them a slight smile. "Shall we begin?"
Council meetings are briefer on days when Daenerys is due to hold audiences, but they still manage to cover a number of issues over the course of the morning. Jon is asked some questions about how his people are faring, but the chief focus is on the progress being made cultivating land for farming. Tyrion, who knows little of such matters, leaves it to Olenna to take the lead. He remembers all too well the deprivation the plagued the city when it was under siege by the Masters, and knows how vital it is that the Bay of Dragons be able to sustain itself. Daenerys' crusade against slavery has made her many enemies, and little would please the rulers of the slave cities more than that the Bay of Dragons descend into poverty, starvation and chaos, proving, to their eyes, that prosperity and order are only possible if some are denied freedom and human dignity so that others may thrive.
He allows talk of soil, and crop types, and grass and the Dothraki sea, and canals and ditches for irrigation to wash over him as he studies Jon, comparing the man who now sits before him with his memories of the boy whose journey to the Wall he shared.
He remembers a boy who, try as he might, could not hide his dismay when he realized that the reality of the Night's Watch bore scant resemblance to the noble order he imagined from his father and uncle's tales, but whose pride would never have allowed him to leave the Wall, not only because he knew that Lady Stark would not welcome his return to Winterfell, but because he could not bear to disappoint Ned Stark. He remembers teasing him about grumpkins and snarks, little realizing that a deadly threat truly did lie in wait beyond the Wall.
Jon Snow is a man grown now, one who looks older than his years, weighed down by the heavy burdens he has had to shoulder since Tyrion met him. His Meereenese garments suit him well, though Tyrion imagines that it must feel strange to him to be wearing light linen instead of heavy layers of wool, leather and fur.
He sits stiffly in his chair, listening intently to the proceedings but saying little.
He smiles only once, when Daenerys tells him of her intention to order that those who have charge of the Northern children will be prioritized for housing.
"Until their new homes are built, they may stay in the Great Pyramid, or they can have lodging in the library, if they would rather stay there than in the barracks. I have asked that Ser Davos and Ser Sandor to attend an audience, to let them know of my plans, and my offer."
It is odd for Tyrion to hear the Hound referred to as Ser Sandor… he is reasonably certain that the man is not actually a knight, but far be it for him to correct his Queen… but odder still that she is prepared to welcome them to the Great Pyramid, when she is adamantly opposed to allowing Sansa to dwell there. He knows that she has a tender spot in her heart for children, but it still baffles him that she would rather house a handful of the smallfolk than to offer her hospitality to a highborn lady, whatever Sansa did or did not do in the other life.
He bites his tongue to keep himself from saying as much.
When their Council meeting ends, Daenerys reiterates her invitation for Jon to join them in the audience chamber, to attend her as she receives petitioners.
Tyrion catches up to Jon as they leave, tugging lightly at the sleeve of his shirt and motioning for him to sit with him. Chairs and small tables are set at the side of the great chamber, and while Daenerys ascends the flight of stone steps that lead to the wooden bench she uses instead of a throne, flanked by Jorah, Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Sarella, he takes a seat at one of them. As soon as he is seated, he reaches eagerly for the jug of wine set there. His Queen does not like that he drinks in the audience chamber, but she is prepared to tolerate it, as long as his consumption is moderate. It irritates him that she seeks to restrict his consumption when she has no such concerns about Lady Olenna's cakes and cheese. He pours himself a goblet, and takes a long drink before he offers it to Jon. It's a sour Dornish red, which would not be his first choice, but the tartness is not unpleasant. Who knows how much of it is left, or how long it will take before the new vineyards are productive? He should probably savor it while he can. He empties the goblet in a few mouthfuls, and refills it before thinking to offer it to Jon.
Jon nods acceptance, and cradles his goblet in his hands, sipping occasionally.
Daenerys gestures to the Unsullied standing sentry on either side of the entrance to admit the first petitioners.
A small group of men and women, simply-clad in the same type of clothing that is provided to those given shelter in the barracks, enters.
Missandei takes a step forward, her clear voice echoing softly in the high-ceilinged chamber. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Protector of her People and Mother of Dragons. Your Grace, this is the delegation representing the people newly arrived from Volantis."
Daenerys addresses them in flawless Valyrian, speaking words of welcome, and promising that they will be given all of the help they need to settle in Meereen, or in any of the territory under her rule, and start new lives. It is a speech Tyrion has heard her give before, and familiarity allows him to follow her words with ease.
The proceedings would be of scant interest to him, except that when he looks up from his goblet to get the measure of the small group, he sees a familiar face in their midst.
"You!" he blurts, before he can stop himself. The woman is clad in the same simple garments as the rest of them, rather than the red gown she wore the last time he saw her, but he recognizes her by her dark hair, fine features, and something indefinable in her bearing that sets her apart. "You're not a slave."
"Indeed," the woman inclines her head in his direction, switching from Valyrian to the Common Tongue. "I apologize for my deception, Your Grace, but I thought that coming to Meereen among those that your khalasar has freed would allow me to experience for myself the life that you are providing, that I may return to Volantis to tell all who remain in bondage there of the life that will be theirs when they cast down the Masters. You have already brought hope to millions."
Daenerys smiles, clearly touched by her words. "Who are you?"
"This is Kinvara," Tyrion speaks up. "She helped me keep the peace in Meereen in your absence."
"Then I owe you a debt."
"Lady Kinvara is High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis, the Flame of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, and First Servant of the Lord of Light," one of the men in the group announces, frowning reproachfully at Tyrion, as though he expects him to be able to remember the long list of titles.
Daenerys sits a little taller on her bench, her eyes bright with interest at this. "You are a priestess."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"How long will it take you to prepare to perform marriage rites?"
The clatter of a goblet striking the stone floor echoes through the audience chamber.
Tyrion cannot begin to understand why his Queen's question should put such a frightened expression on Jon Snow's face.
TBC.