Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story. Especially to all of you who've taken time to leave reviews, comments and feedback. It all means a lot, so thank you.
Author's Note: If I try to fully cover Dany in Mereen and all the twists and turns there, this story will go on forever. And, in the absence of source material (save the show), I don't think it's even possible. So, you'll have to excuse my heavily condensing events/characters just to make it easier to move this story on. Apologies for any mistakes made, they're all my own.
Chapter Twenty-One: Ninety Days.
Around the hips, under the left arm and over the right shoulder, Daenerys' handmaids wound the tokar she had so desperately wanted to ban. Violet silk, fringed with soft golden tassels carefully arranged to accentuate her hips and bust. Irri and Jhiqui stepped back to take in the effect. Her old Dothraki handmaidens knew how she felt about the garment of the slavers, but neither did they want to discourage this latest compromise. All the same, their smiles were forced and their expressions uncertain.
"It matches your eyes, Khaleesi," said Irri.
Jhiqui's head tilted to one side, a nervous soul searching for a compliment at risk of ruining the effect. After a pause that lasted a little too long, she plumped for: "The fabric is very beautiful, Khaleesi."
Daenerys sighed, raised her arms and let them fall limp at her sides again. A gesture heavy with resignation. "Admit it, it's awful."
"No, Khaleesi!" they chorused.
Besides being the garment of slavers, it felt awfully delicate. Like one false step and the whole ensemble would unravel, leaving her standing in the middle of the pyramid's throne room in nothing but her small clothes. She imagined herself standing there, at the top of the steps all regal and poised as she received her guests, only for the folds to slip and the whole thing pooling at her ankles before anyone even realised what was happening. The horror of it made her blush and giggle.
Meanwhile, the Green Grace watched from the far side of the room. She was a wise and lithe old lady of eighty years or more, but didn't look it. Only her eyes, Dany remembered, her green eyes were sad and full of ancient wisdom. It had been her who'd convinced her to don the tokar as a concession to her new people. After gesturing for Irri and Jhiqui to give them space, Daenerys approached the aged Ghiscari priestess.
"Well," she said, sweeping a forlorn left hand down her front. "Will this suffice? Am I wearing it right?"
"Like a true Lady of Old Ghis. No more a barbarian conqueror."
The ghost of Quaithe's voice echoed in Daenerys' head once more: 'remember who you are, Daenerys Targaryen. The dragons know, do you?' She was neither a true lady of old Ghis, nor a barbarian conqueror. She was Daenerys of House Targaryen, born at Dragonstone during the great storm. Is this what Quaithe meant? That she should not be forced and moulded into something else? But she had to, for the sake peace in Mereen.
"I have granted another audience to Hizdahr zo Loraq," she said, lowering her voice. It was the seventh such audience, another petition to reopen the fighting pits. "This time, I hear, he is bringing company."
"You know my counsel."
Yes, that she did. Marry Hizdahr, become more like them. Bow to the old regime and slowly bend them to her will. How long would that take? She was young, but youth was not eternal and Westeros was waiting. Would Westeros want a Ghiscari King, like Hizdahr zo Loraq? Somehow, she thought not. And she couldn't keep marrying all these men just to appease every wounded lordling whose lands they felt she had taken.
A knock at her door drew her from her thoughts. When she turned to answer, the door opened to reveal Irri, back from the outer chamber.
"Ser Barristan Selmy," she announced.
Without a second thought, she nodded her ascent to let the old knight in and gestured for everyone else to leave, including the Green Grace. Yes, Dany knew her counsel. She had no need to hear it again. The old man paused, double-taking as he took in her new look.
"It does become you, your grace," he said. "The colour, you know, it- "
"Brings out my eyes," she finished for him. "That's what Irri said, but I still feel sullied by it."
He blushed, backing down like a chided child. "Forgive me, I understand this is hard for you."
"Oh, Ser Barristan, I don't mean to rebuke," she sighed, reaching for his own to show there was no hard feelings. "But come, let us walk in the gardens where we can talk freely."
She took a stride too long, tripped and almost fell over the hem of her tokar. But with an alacrity that belied his age, Barristan caught her and set her right again. To her relief, the tokar stayed put and she wasn't left clutching his surcoat in her small clothes. He even had the grace to wave away her hasty and meek thanks. She remembered the day she took Mereen and the sight of the slavers fleeing. They had tripped over their tokars, too. And Drogon had unleased his flame on them. Sometimes, she wished she had allowed him to burn every last one of them.
Reducing herself to small, steady steps she had seen others use, she and ser Barristan made their way into the open air. All the while, she couldn't escape the feeling she was waddling like a duck – a last humiliation bestowed by the slaver's customs.
"If I marry Hizdahr," she began once they reached the open space. "It doesn't have to be entirely on his terms, does it?"
"Of course not. Even in the best of circumstances, you would be considered a push-over if you did."
Hizdahr could make all the compromises in the world, she thought, and she still would not want to marry him.
"I think I will sue for ninety days of peace, then," she said, coming to a rest beside a perimeter wall. Outside, the city still seethed beneath it's early morning torpor. The Sons of the Harpy would have been chased away by the rising sun, but they grew bolder by the day. It wouldn't be long before they started attacking in broad daylight too. "Ninety days is a good start to build the foundations of peace, is it not?"
She looked up at Ser Barristan who'd come to a rest beside her. He didn't look happy. "He will want something in return. And you know what that is."
"The fighting pits," she sighed, closing her eyes and willing it all away. When she opened them again she laughed. "You know what Daario said? That I should marry Hizdahr and we could have our own Red Wedding, like the one in which the Northmen of Westeros were wiped out."
"Only we would never disgrace ourselves with such mindless slaughter," Ser Barristan retorted.
The note of genuine rebuke in his voice shamed her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"
"It was a poor jest, your grace." When she maintained her sheepish silence, Barristan continued: "I didn't know Robb Stark. But I knew his father, Lord Eddard. I understand why you have no love for the man. Neither did I, after the Trident. But, believe it or not, he saved your life more than once. He could talk Robert down like no one else. That wine-seller, back in Vaes Dothrak, he resigned over that and risked his own neck in the process. It may not have been much, but he did what he could."
Whenever she imagined Lord Stark, he was a cold character made of flint – brittle and without feeling. She imagined his sons in much the same way, except smaller.
"Point taken," she said, quietly. "Telling off duly accepted."
She could see he was trying not to laugh, but he couldn't help it. He soon composed himself. "Now, let's say you marry this man. After ninety days, he could end the truce and you'd still be stuck with him. What then?"
"I don't know," she confessed. "He would have upheld his end of the bargain. But an annulment would be possible."
"Very well. But, if there is ninety days of peace, you know what else that means, don't you?" he asked.
Daenerys thought about it for a moment. "It means Hizdahr really is the one giving the Sons of the Harpy their orders."
"Precisely."
"But we make peace with our enemies, don't we?" she countered. The justification left a bitter taste in her mouth. "Oh, Ser Barristan, tell me other news? This wearies me and the day has only just begun."
The old man sagged, his gaze dropping away from her. "There have been a number of deaths reported in the city, your grace."
"The Sons of the Harpy," she said, bitterly.
"No," he replied. "Something altogether less discerning than them, I fear to report."
"Then what?"
"The pale mare, your grace. The bloody flux, as you might know it. It's ravaged the refugees at the gates of the city, then spread to the armies laying siege to Mereen. Now it's within the city walls, tearing through the slums where the populace is most densely packed. Even strong healthy men are falling prey to the pale mare."
Daenerys felt a chill that reached her very core. 'Soon comes the pale mare…' Quaithe's voice returned to her, cold and distant. "And after her the lion, kraken, little bird and sapphire maid. With them comes the white wolf." The white wolf. It sounded so sinister it made her shiver.
"What was that, your grace?" he asked, frowning at her.
Daenerys hadn't even realised she had spoken the final part of Quaithe's prophecy aloud. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind. "Nothing. It is nothing. I think I should like to go back inside now."
She turned, but too quickly. One foot trod on the hem of her tokar, the other got caught up in the trapped fabric and she hit the stone path with a sharp bump that made her yelp with pain. Even Ser Barristan hadn't been quick enough to catch her that time.
The skies turned black with smoke from the burning farmhouse. Animals burned alive in their sheds, their shrieks and cries filling the air. The people who owned the farm had fled in only the clothes they stood up in, waving their arms to clear the smoke, to gasp a desperate lungful of clean air. To little avail. They were brought before Robb kneeling, their eyes swollen and red, streaming with tears from the smoke. Tears of grief for the loss of their home and all their years of hard work.
Over the shoulders of the kneeling people, Robb could see the handiwork of the Knights of the Vale, still blazing against the darkening skies. As he walked the line, he picked out the women and children, gave orders for them to be taken to safety. When only the men were left, Robb commanded the owner to show himself. He was reluctant, at first, for obvious reasons. But, when he was revealed, he was a man of some forty years. His face weather-beaten from working outdoors since he was a child, his eyes dull and dazed at the violence visited upon his home, his wife and his children.
"Your grace, I beg you- "
"How long have you been supplying House Frey?" Robb cut over his pleas.
"Only since the massacre, your grace," he stammered, dull eyes tracking Robb's progress as he paced the line. "We had no choice, we were told the Young Wolf was dead and House Tully fallen. I swear I tell it true."
Behind the kneeling farmer, the roof of a burning barn crashed inwards with an almighty crack. Seconds later, the noise subsided and even the dying animals were no longer heard. It was the most terrible silence Robb had ever heard. Only the stench of searing flesh filled the air.
"You are, and have always been, a land tenant of House Tully," Robb reminded him. "You serve the Tullys, you are bound to and at the command of House Tully. You know the penalty for breaking faith with your liege lord and, instead, serving the enemy."
From the corner of his eye, Robb watched the others shift in the shadows. The soldiers who'd put the land to the torch had already advanced north, toward the Twins. Others remained, still bearing flaming torches, hot with the promise of more to come.
"Your grace, I was a true and loyal man for old Lord Hoster of sacred memory," the kneeling man blurted. "But – but- "
"But if it wasn't me standing here, it would be some ferret-faced cunt with the twin towers on their tunic burning your holdfast down," Robb finished the sentence for him.
The farmer didn't contradict him, but Robb was no fool. Before the silence drew on too long, two women stepped into the clearing. He already knew who they were; their entrance onto the scene had already been planned. The kneeling man's eyes snapped to Sansa as she placed herself between them.
"Mercy, your grace. As the granddaughter of Lord Hoster Tully, I beg for mercy for this man."
"As your loyal Queen, in respect of the long-lasting love and friendship between the North and the Riverlands, I beg for mercy for this man."
Margaery moved to stand by Robb's side, bestowing a smile upon the reprieved farmer. It was always going to happen like this: find the ones who'd turned their backs on House Tully, scare them witless, then make an example of them before setting them free. None of that made Robb feel any better about burning people's homes to the ground.
For effect, he took a moment to consider the words of his wife and sister.
"Your wife and children will be taken care of," he announced. "But you will go to other farms and holdfasts and warn them of the dangers of serving House Frey. If they do not mend their ways, show them the ruins of your farm and tell them, if we are forced into persuading them ourselves, we will scorch their earth, slaughter their livestock and sow their fields with salt."
The kneeling man broke down, choking sobs wracking his body. "Thank you, your grace. Thank you, my ladies."
"Rise."
At Robb's command, he got back on his feet, stiff and sore from kneeling. As he backed away, he bowed repeatedly to all of them. Once out of sight, Robb felt a hand landing softly on his shoulder. It was Jon, ashen faced and more sombre than ever. Not far away, the kneeling man's home continued to burn, his last harvest destroyed. But, at least it wouldn't be feeding any Frey army.
He turned away, silent and sickened by his own actions, and strode back into the camp in search of his own tent. Jon's voice trailed after him, but he paid his brother no mind. It didn't take long. A five-minute walk over a damp field, where Ser Garlan awaited him at the edge of the camp. A city of tents that had appeared there over-night.
"Siege engines from the Reach are being transported by river to the Twins," he said, throwing an arm around Robb's shoulder. "We know their range, if we can get the distancing just right, I think we can achieve your little dream."
Finally, a reason to smile. Meanwhile, Jon had followed him inside the camp with Margaery and the others close behind.
"What little dream is this?" he asked, falling into step with Robb.
Although it had been decided he would not personally regain control of the lands north of the Trident, it had been unanimously agreed they would liberate the Riverlands from House Frey and put the Tullys back in control. Ser Brynden had once more been left behind at Riverrun to hold the garrison and receive fealty of houses that had turned their cloaks for the Freys. In an ideal world, however, he would bombard the Freys to a standstill, until they had no other option but to surrender and release their prisoners. He would much rather have Edmure at Riverrun and Ser Brynden at his side.
Before that, however, there was one more structural alteration he wished to make.
"Before we leave the Riverlands, brother, I want to tear that fucking bridge down," he explained, letting Jon enter the tent first. "We're on the right side of the river, this time. Whoever my great Uncle puts in charge of the Twins can rebuild it, but they must have no affiliation to the Freys at all."
Jon laughed, clapping him on the back. "More gratifying than burning down farms and holdfasts."
Robb's smile died, the cold sense of shame closing over him once more. "I meant what I said, though. Any of our men, Reach, Riverlands or the Vale, caught raping have a choice: the gallows or the wall."
Jon knew him too well, he sensed the fig-leaf of respectability he was trying to hide his destruction behind. "You've done what you had to do. If you let them be, they will carry on supplying the Frey army. We need to cut off as many of their supplies as possible."
Inside the tent, a brazier burned. Robb gravitated toward it, warming his hands that had gone numb with cold. So far, only a handful of farms and holdfasts had been put to the torch. He prayed it would be no more. Of less concern to his conscience were the Freys he had hanged. Every one of them they found, they lynched from the nearest tree. The swaying, blackening corpses lined the roads from Riverrun to the Green Fork.
If his conscience did trouble him, he only had to look into the waters of the Green Fork to salve the wound. The waters of that river were still heavily populated by rotting corpses dressed in the tattered liveries of House Stark, House Umber, House Manderly… All victims of the Red Wedding, left to rot in the waters, feeding the fish and unmourned by anyone. For every one of them he found, he wished he could hang a hundred Freys.
"Yes," he said, at length. "War makes savages of us all, we must do what we can."
With a little help from Jeyne, Sansa piled the furs on the back of a cart manned by a young Knight from the Reach. Ever since leaving Riverrun, they had been working night and day to get the treated fur pelts fashioned into useable cloaks. "These are to be distributed to the foot soldiers."
"Right you are, milady."
It was a concern shared by her brothers and the Queen. That the soldiers from the south, unused to winter conditions, would all freeze to death before they even reached the Neck. It was a seemingly impossible task, to clothe them all. But they pulled together, with Margaery helping when she could, to do their best.
However, that morning, she chose to stretch her legs a little before knuckling down again. With the Hound at her side, they walked the banks of the Green Fork as the camp got ready to move on. The day was bright, with no snowfalls forthcoming. But she knew that wouldn't last long. Nor was it much help, given the thick covering that still lay over the ground.
As they walked, she turned to him and smiled, thumbing at her own cloak.
"This is your old Kingsguard cloak," she said. "Do you remember? You left it behind the day you left. I dyed it green; I hope you don't mind."
The briefest flicker of a smile crossed his lips. "I thought I recognised it. I didn't think you would have kept it."
He touched her shoulder, remembering a time many would have said had been more honourable for Sandor Clegane. But they both knew better. He was no knight. He was far too honourable to be a knight.
"You keep it," he said. "You'll need it when you cross the seas to Mereen."
They both paused, letting Jayne walk ahead. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. For the life of her, she could think of nothing particularly profound to say.
"I'll miss you," she said. "I wish you were coming with us."
Sandor chuckled, a rumble deep within his chest. "I don't think the dragon lady will take too kindly to a Clegane showing up in her city."
"But that was Gregor, not you," she protested. The look he gave her was one that said: 'would you trust this face?'. She made no reply to the insinuation. Besides, he never did like fire. She drew a deep breath and continued: "I like Brienne, I really do. But you … you've been there since the beginning. All through King's Landing, and Joffrey…"
She trailed off into silence. Somewhere nearby, she heard a 'clack-clack-clack' of wood on wood, coming from the riverbank to her left.
"Aye," said Sandor. "And I'll be here when you get back, little bird."
He glanced over her left shoulder, to where the noise was coming from. A shrill cry rent the air, causing them both to frown. Sandor stepped around her, going to investigate what was happening. However, Sansa could see already.
Arya was standing, wooden sword in hand, down by the riverside. Sweet Robin was screaming at her, more angry than hurt. Sansa raised a hand to Sandor's chest, stilling him. She had almost forgotten: she asked Arya to help Sweet Robin herself.
It wasn't going well. Sweet Robin wasn't even holding his sword properly and when Arya blocked his moves, he cried out even though she never actually touched him. Then, it happened. Arya, fed up with her petulant cousin, had called the whole thing off and turned her back for just a split second. Robin jumped her, whacking her across the back of the shoulders with his sword and again at the back of her legs. Arya cried out with pain, caught completely at unawares.
"Little cunt!" Sandor snorted.
"Robin!" Sansa yelled, her voice carrying over the water.
He looked at her in alarm, then gave a piercing shriek. "Alayne! She hit me, Alayne! She hit me!"
Had she not been so furious, she would have been stunned by his blatant lie. Hitching her skirts above her ankles, she strode over to him and wrenched the sword from his hands and froze. She wanted to strike him and had to fight her own instincts. Instead, she threw the wooden sword to Arya and grabbed Robin's wrists to immobilise him.
"Arya," she snapped, nodding to the boy struggling against her grip.
"She hit me!" he yelled. "She hit- "
The protest was cut off as Arya whacked him back, getting him across the back of his thighs. His scream almost deafened her. She let go, but only to grip his head and force him to look at her.
"Robin! You have got to toughen up. You have got to learn to fight. You are not a sickly baby anymore, you're the lord of the Vale. Do you hear me?"
The screaming died to a whimper, his nose ran liquid snot that dribbled over the fingers of her kid gloves. "She hit me, Alayne."
"You hit her! And if you hit her again, she'll hit you back again." She released him, pushing him toward Sandor Clegane. "Take him back to camp."
Breathless, she stood on the stony riverbank and picked up Arya's fallen sword. Her face had become hot and flushed and now the moment of anger passed, the cold was making itself felt again. Meanwhile, Arya remained on the spot, watching her as if they didn't really know each other after all. It was then that she remembered a day, a long time ago, when a little girl practised her swords with a young butcher's boy. She remembered the spoiled little lordling who had ruined their fun, and the man who'd run the butcher's boy down.
Arya's smile was pale. "Better late than never."
Sansa almost laughed. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. But what a shit!"
Sansa actually did laugh. "He is, but it's not his fault. He was brought up like that."
Arya's cloak was spread out one the stones and they made themselves as comfortable as possible on it. They were so close, they were touching. Both of them watching the river flow past. They were so close to the spot, all those years ago, that Joff's sword could well still be somewhere in that river. Sansa tried to remember the name of it: lion's claw, lion's paw – something like that.
"I understand what you're trying to do for him," Arya spoke softly. "But I don't think it'll work … Alayne."
They both dissolved into laughter. With memories of their unhappy past suddenly back in her mind, Sansa soon composed herself.
"What happened back there, with Mycah," she began. "I never meant for it to end that way."
Arya looked startled as she turned to look at her. "You remember his name."
Sansa nodded, missing the significance. "Yes, although I was drunk that day. Joffrey had given me strong wine, far more than we were ever allowed by father."
"So, you really couldn't remember anything?" Arya asked.
She shook her head. That day, when Mycah was killed, came to her in fits and starts. One minute they were walking, the next the wolf was attacking Joff. Everything in between was a blank.
"I really thought if I said I couldn't remember, I could get you out of trouble without making Joffrey appear foolish. These days, I think I'm better at compromising."
Arya was solemn. "It was Joffrey. It was always Joffrey. He gave the order."
"And now he's dead," she reminded her. The subject was closed; they had a future to consider as well as a past to bury. "Tell me true, does Robin show any promise?"
"None!" Arya pulled a face, before softening and continuing more gently. "I understand why you're doing this for him. You want him to be strong and brave; especially after Petyr and Aunt Lysa weakened him, using him as a puppet. But Sansa, he's weak. He never had a chance. He was never given a chance. And what you're doing for him now: it's too late."
"But he's lord of the Vale," she said, despairingly. "He's got to improve."
"He will never hold the Vale."
It was not what Sansa wanted to hear. "Then who?"
Arya looked at her, her grey eyes holding her hard and weighing her up. She looked Sansa up and down, without needing to really say anything. "I've seen the Knights of the Vale. They don't even bother with him. They go straight to you. When the great war comes, and the army of the dead – that Jon keeps talking about – do you think they'll give a damn about our cousin?"
A weight settled in Sansa's chest, heavy and cold. It felt like duty. "All the same, I would like you to keep trying with Robin. Teach him all you know and get help from Sandor. If only to keep him on our side until I return from Mereen."
To her relief, Arya nodded and grinned. "It'll take more than that weakling to defeat me, sister."
The camp was moving on, spreading north ready to begin an assault on the Twins. Sansa and Arya knew they had to run to keep up. Together, they rose from the stony riverbank and brushed themselves down. Before finding the road again, Arya's hand landed on Sansa's wrist, drawing her attention.
"I missed you," she said, hesitant as if speaking a foreign language. "And when you're in Mereen, I'll miss you again."
"And I, you," Sansa whispered, her emotions swelling.
No more needed saying. Not now. So Arya flung a fistful of mud at her, a gesture of warm sisterly affection in Arya's own style. She ran laughing into the wind; Sansa gave chase, breathless with laughter of her own.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.
Next week: an assault on the Twins and word of Robb's survival begins to spread through the North.
For anyone reading Before the Dawn: I might be scaling back on updates on that story. It's seen a pretty sharp decline in reader interest over the last few weeks, and rushing out updates isn't helping. It's probably going to become fortnightly, rather than weekly. Just to give myself a little breathing space. I'll see how I feel about it.