DAENERYS

Dany broke her fast under the bower of roses that grew out from the lord of Highgarden's bedchamber, watching her newly obtained armies patrolling the roseroad below. The Tyrells and Princess Arianne were yet to be found, but it was not for want of trying. And while her evasive enemies would never surrender to her, the same could not be said for their men. Fossoways, Oakhearts, Caswells, Rowans, had all flocked to her banners rather than see their seats suffer the fate of Highgarden.

From here she could see all their banners, over the gatehouse towers – but none reigned so high as House Targaryen's own three-headed dragon standard. Highgarden was hers, and no one would dispute that. She had taken Willas Tyrell's solar, and stripped it of its green-and-gold hangings and carpets, and had put up her own in its place. The small retinue she had brought from Dragonstone on Drogon's back were the only persons who occupied the castle's Great Tower. The servants of House Tyrell had been thrown in prison, or dismissed to faraway duties. They could not be blamed for their master's defiance, but neither were they entirely innocent of it.

A servant served her duck eggs and blood sausage, and a cup of hot wine with zest of lemon. It would be good for the child growing inside her. She ate entirely without relish; her thoughts were occupied by other things. The food had come from Highgarden's winter stockpile, where Lord Willas and his father had gathered hundreds and thousands of tonnes of fruit and grain and salted meat to last the winter, all of which they had denied to the starving denizens of King's Landing. Another thing to see him punished for. Dany had given orders for wagons to be dispatched to the capital at once, to alleviate the hunger. It would do nothing for the bloody flux, though, which, she was informed, was spreading. And that was all she knew of King's Landing, since the Lords Rosby and Celtigar neglected to tell her anything else. Traitors as well, she thought. Their time would come, too.

As she was eating, Ser Jorah Mormont emerged onto the balcony. "Your Grace might want to eat sparingly," he advised. "That is to say, cut your breakfast short, and dress for your duties. You have noble petitioners awaiting you below."

The queen barely looked up. "By which I assume you mean this Redwyne boy?"

"Horas Redwyne is the Lord of the Arbor," Mormont replied. "And he and his ships will prove a valuable ally once your throne is secured."

That was not true. She had no need of ships; her fleet in the Narrow Sea outnumbered any the Redwynes could muster. Nonetheless, certain courtesies had to be observed. "Tell him I will receive him in the great hall. And send in my maids."

Her nameless maids entered at Jorah's proposal. Irri and Jhiqui were even more afraid of flying than they were of sailing, so they had not come. This irritated Dany. They should have learned by now that cowardice is not something I expect in my servants. She was surely too lenient towards the Dothraki women. Yes, they were her reminders of Drogo, but she was much more than her first husband's heir, much more than just a khaleesi. She was queen, nay, Empress of New Valyria – and she must needs attire herself for that purpose. That meant a gown of heavy black samite, and a cape the colour of blood, held by a choker in the shape of a three-headed dragon. When she was dressed, they brought her a glass to see how she looked. And this, she assured herself, was the face of a conqueror.

And soon they would surely call her that – Daenerys the Conqueror. Her ancestor Aegon had taken Westeros more quickly than she had, but even he had not placated the Reach, Dorne and the Stormlands in two days. In the end, her hunch that all it would take was one decisive blow had been right. She had been admittedly lucky with the thick fog at the Mander crossing, and with the fact that the Tyrell army had been there at all, but her victory still stood. They had not even managed to deploy their scorpions and mangonels before Drogon descended upon the column, and lathered them all in black fire. Down she had come from the sky again and again, flying the same route until the mist cleared, and nary an arrow had struck them. She had landed, rallied the broken Reachmen to her inside an hour, and sent them in pursuit of the escaping force.

They had sent messengers back to the castle to warn of the danger, but in the end it had not mattered. When Dany descended upon Highgarden next evening, with four thousand Reachmen marching at her back, half the castle garrison had deserted. And those more steadfast defenders had held out for a time, launching great bolts at her and the dragon, but then, during a gap in the firing, she had descended upon the eastern battlements. From one bastion to another Drogon doused the whole thing in fire; along the walls hundreds of men flailed in black flame, and threw themselves over the ramparts in a vain attempt to reach the castle moat. Others drowned in smoke where they stood, or were reduced to ash in Drogon's crosswind. The battlement fortifications had been completely blown apart; the wooden hoardings and siege engines collapsed into maelstroms of fire, and the very stonework of the battlements melted and the stones burned black.

Her second pass brought her round to Highgarden's gatehouse tower, an impressively solid construction of pale stone, with a white rose embossed on every brick. When Drogon was finished, it was little more than rubble, crumbling on one side. Next were the archers in the green-slate-roofed towers that surrounded the Great Tower. Drogon's flames punched through them like a battering ram, sending heavy stone rubble tumbling down on the archers within. She would have done more, but white banners were by then flying all over the castle. And no sooner had she landed in the courtyard than fat Ser Garth Tyrell came running out in a fluster to present his official surrender. As her ancestor Aegon had, she allowed Highgarden's steward to keep his life. But she took everything else.

The Tyrells might be finished, but their bannermen still persisted. And right now Horas Redwyne was waiting for her. It would have been well within her authority to force him to wait and let his anxiety grow, but there were only so many hours in a day, and she had no time to waste on idle frivolities. So she made her way down the stairs behind her solar to the throne room. She did not wear her crown today. She did not need it; even if she went naked before her petitioners, her authority was undeniable. With that in mind, Dany saw no reason to make herself uncomfortable for the sake of ceremony.

In the antechamber behind the throne room she met Benerro and Ser Jorah, who had travelled with her from Dragonstone. She had left Marwyn the Mage behind with Selwyn Tarth, probably for the best, as Marwyn had reacted with distaste even to her burning of Harry Strickland. But that had been a necessity, one he was incapable of understanding.

That did not mean the Golden Company were not present here, though. Lysono Maar, who had been Strickland's spymaster, now commanded the ranks that had marched from the Kingswood to Highgarden to swear themselves to her. Also present were Kasporio the Cunning of the Second Sons and Denzo D'han of the Windblown, now commanding in the stead of their fled-or-dead masters, Brown Ben Plumm and the Tattered Prince. It might not have been wise to rally the sellswords around her, given the inconstancy they had displayed in the past, but she needed numbers to hold Highgarden, and truth be told, she trusted the sellswords more than the recalcitrant Reachmen.

"You may begin," the queen said. "First, I would ask for any news of the Tyrells."

The sellswords looked at one another, but none of them had anything to say. Finally Brown Ben spoke, "It would seem that they have evaded us for another day, Your Grace."

Dany nodded. She was not too surprised.

"I have men searching in the ashes of the battlefield for any signs that Willas and Garlan Tyrell might have been among those that perished," said Lysono Maar.

"If they burned, you may find nothing of them," said the queen. In truth, she was not sure whether she would sooner find out that they had burned, or that they had survived. If they were dead, her troubles were solved. But she would never know that they were solved. She would always wonder if the burned piles of ash they told her were the Tyrells were actually the Tyrells, or if they would return from the grave someday to haunt her. No. She would prefer to see Willas Tyrell brought before her, to see him transformed from man one second into dust in the next.

"Your Grace." It was Ser Jorah's turn to speak. "If I may offer a thought?"

"You may."

"Our focus should be on the future. The Tyrells are in the past. You have defeated them to such an extent that they may never return. But with them gone, someone else must be chosen to rule in the Reach. And in Dorne, and in the Stormlands. There is still the matter of the boy Edric Storm."

"The boy who continues to insult me every time he sits opposite me."

"I have spoken some more with him, Your Grace," said Jorah. "In his cell. He is… frightened, to tell you the truth. He saw what you did to Harry Strickland, on the beach at Dragonstone. I believe that now he will be more willing to hear what you have to say."

"Perhaps so. But if he does not, we may have to look to another solution. One in which Edric Storm does not play a part."

Ser Jorah gave her a sour look.

"…but you raise a fair point," she went on. "With the matter of Dorne and the Reach. Who do we have in Dorne?"

"The Daynes are fled, so not them," said Ser Jorah. "The Ullers – Ellaria Sand, Prince Oberyn's paramour, was of that house, so not them. Lady Jordayne is still with Princess Arianne. Same for the Fowlers and the Tolands. There is… Lord Yronwood has a long-standing rivalry with Prince Doran. He has sons who marched with Arianne Martell and Aegon, but he might be convinced."

"Yronwood, then." Dany could support that.

"We will have to dislodge Prince Doran first, of course," said the Tattered Prince. "If Your Grace wishes it, the Windblown could march into Dorne…"

The queen said, "When the time comes, I imagine we will all march together."

"The last Targaryen who invaded Dorne was Daeron the Young Dragon," said Ser Jorah Mormont. "As you may recall, that did not go so well for him. Nor for Baelor the Blessed, when he found himself held captive there, nor for Lyonel Tyrell, who met his end by red scorpions. I cannot recommend an invasion of Dorne, Your Grace."

"Daeron had no dragons," said Benerro. "Nor did any of these others you are mentioning, Ser Jorah. If our queen marches on Sunspear, she will prevail."

"Perhaps," Mormont replied. "But it will not be without a cost. If a time should come when Your Grace needs the Martells—"

"That will not come, I assure you," Dany said. "I have no intentions of reneging on the justice I promised to traitors. I will not change my mind about that. I never will." She could see that Jorah was not satisfied with that, so she decided to change the subject before he defied her again. "And what of the Reach?"

Jorah settled uncomfortably in his seat. "The Rowans have sworn their fealty to you, Your Grace," he said tiredly. "As have the Merryweathers. But there are still others: the Tarlys, the Oakhearts, the Hightowers—"

"And Horas Redwyne is awaiting an audience even now," said the queen. "I think it is time to see him. Ser Jorah, would you fetch Ser Horas for me?" She did not want to hear any more of Mormont's criticism than she had to.

He went out, and minutes later returned with the red-haired Redwyne twin trailing behind him. Ser Horas sketched a hasty bow in her direction. "Your Grace," he began. "I am at your service."

"And is House Redwyne?" asked Dany. "I assume you have come here to swear your fealty to me, Ser Horas. Yours, and your brother's."

"My brother is dead, Your Grace," said Ser Horas. "He died in the battle at Tumbleton, crossing the river." He attempted some sort of steely glare, but could not manage it and his eyes dropped away from her.

"He died fighting his rightful queen," said the red priest Benerro. "One might argue that it was divine justice done."

Dany raised her eyebrows to Ser Horas. "What say you on that matter, ser?"

Redwyne took a deep breath. "Hobber was… not wise. In anything, truly, but especially not in continuing to fight against you, Your Grace. Whether he was right or wrong, I cannot say. But he suffered dearly for it, as did my cousins and Princess Arianne."

The queen straightened up. "You know of their fate? They are dead?"

"Perhaps not dead, Your Grace, but I have heard nothing from them. It would seem a reasonable assumption."

I need more than a reasonable assumption. I need Willas Tyrell's head. Nonetheless: "Thank you for the news, Ser Horas. In that, you have proved your usefulness. And now to the matter of your fealty. Will your father not be gracing us with his presence here…?"

He looked puzzled. "My father took a wound in the Battle of Oldtown, Your Grace, fighting Euron Crow's Eye on the Whispering Sound. He has been confined to the Arbor for more than a year. In his absence, I speak with his voice."

"And what of your grandmother?" asked the queen. "Lady Olenna is a Tyrell, but before that she was a Redwyne."

"It is, Your Grace."

"And?"

Ser Horas attempted a blank look, but it was too late. She had caught him out and he knew it. "She was at the Arbor, Your Grace. For a time. After the Battle at Highgarden, after the wildfire killed Lord Mace, she stayed awhile. I believe she had intended to stay there until she…"

"Died." If only the gods were so good.

"Yes. But one day, she changed her mind. Maybe she knew that Your Grace was coming. But the next I knew she was sailing to Oldtown, and then on to Brightwater Keep, where she is now, if what I hear is true."

There was a pause. Ser Jorah said, "That corroborates with what we have heard."

"And not just her, Your Grace," said Ser Horas Redwyne. "Lady Tarly and her three daughters are there. The same for Lady Oakheart, and for young Lord Hightower. Ser Garlan sent him there before the battle."

"All my opponents," said Dany. "Well, then. It seems I have no choice but to fly to Brightwater Keep—"

"Your Grace—" began Jorah.

"—where I will do what I have to do."

"That may not be what you think, Your Grace," said Ser Horas. "I have… in truth, it was why I came… a letter from my grandmother." He reached into his cloak and drew it out. "I believe she seeks a parley, or negotiations of some sort." He passed the envelope to her.

Dany slit it open and read. "So it would seem," she said, placing the letter back down on the table. "I am not accustomed to answering the summons of those who serve me. But Lady Olenna is old and I will make an exception."

Ser Jorah looked horrified. "Your Grace is surely not considering—"

"I am not considering, you are right. I will go to Brightwater Keep and accept Lady Olenna's surrender in person, and that of the other rebel Reachlords, before they change their minds. And before you reproach me, Jorah, I am not such a fool as to go alone. I will take Drogon with me."

"If things go awry, Drogon may not save you."

"Who else will?" She softened her tone a little; this paranoia was not wholly his fault, she remembered. "I am going to Brightwater Keep. If they are true, they have nothing to fear, and neither do I. But if they prove disloyal, then they will burn. Ser, if I let my enemies continue to stand against me with impunity, what sort of a queen am I?"

"A merciful one," said Ser Jorah.

"But not a just one."

"Justice must be tempered with mercy, Your Grace."

"No, ser. Justice comes before mercy. It must." The queen looked away from him. She had decided. It was done. She turned and headed for the door.

"I cannot allow you to ride into danger alone," said Mormont.

"Then by all means, ser, come with me," Dany called back.

There was no time to waste. She called her servants back to her chambers and instructed them to bring her armour, dark metal inlaid with niello so as to form the scales of a dragon. Then Dany tied her hair back, and donned her magnificent red-and-black cloak, with the ruby pin at her throat. She did not wear a sword. But she did not need it.

Drogon was waiting for her on the landing, as were Benerro and the inevitable Ser Jorah. "Your Grace—," he began, but she waved him into silence and mounted the dragon's back. Mormont climbed up behind her. He wore heavy armour, but he and Dany were twenty times lighter than the basket that they had saddled him to on the flight from Dragonstone.

Now seated among Drogon's spines, she turned back to Benerro. "We will return by dusk," she said.

The red priest nodded. "I will have the castle ready for your return, Your Grace." Then he stepped back to give Drogon room. The great black wings flapped, and they rose into the air. Ser Jorah held tight to Dany's shoulders.

"Valahd," she said. All at once the green slate roofs and pale towers of Highgarden fell away beneath them, and they were gone into the clouds.

The flight to Brightwater Keep took them only about an hour, and they did not talk much on the way. She sensed that Ser Jorah wanted to say something, but for whatever reason he judged it best to hold his tongue, and Dany did not question that.

It was nearing dusk when they finally descended through the clouds again on their approach to Brightwater Keep. The castle sat beside the Mander river, surrounded by miles and miles of dark green grass. It was stoutly built, and the central keep was tall, but on the whole it was nowhere near so imposing as Highgarden was. Nor was it defended so well. Even from up here she could spy the defenders on the ramparts, but they had no scorpions, no catapults, nothing to bring down the dragon.

Drogon dived low, descending a thousand feet in a matter of seconds. When they pulled out of their dive he flew slower, and Dany sat quite comfortably and watched as the dim orange lights of Brightwater grew and grew. The black dragon stretched his wings wide.

"Your Grace." Ser Jorah tapped her shoulder. "I see white flags, there on the walls. They are surrendering."

"So they are." Dany was not sure why, but she felt curiously disappointed by that. So was Drogon. She ran her hand over the dragon's scaly neck and whispered, "Quiet now."

As they drew closer, she saw that they had cleared a section of the battlements on which she was to land, if the waving white flags there were any judge. Drogon turned a suspicious circle, seeking out any hidden dangers, then came down on the stone walk, with a crash that made the tower shake and tremble. Dany dismounted over the dragon's wing and Ser Jorah followed.

A ring had formed around them, about twenty paces back. After an age, one of the men stepped out. "Your Grace," he said, bowing a little. "I am Ser Moryn Tyrell, great-uncle to Lord Willas, late of the City Watch of Oldtown." He was an old man, passing seventy, of Barristan Selmy's era. "You may have met my brother, Ser Garth, whom they call the Gross."

"Aye," said Dany. "He surrended Highgarden to me. I presume you are here to do the same for Brightwater Keep?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Ser Moryn. "Though Lady Olenna would like to share some words with you first, if it please Your Grace. She is in her solar."

She thought Ser Jorah would say something so she moved in first. "I will see her."

Ser Moryn nodded. "This way, Your Grace." He led her up the stairs, and up another flight, and another. Drogon stayed snarling down below on the wallwalk. Eventually they reached a door, and beyond that a wood-panelled hall, freshly painted with some sweet varnish. Tapestries in forest green displaying bountiful produce hung from the ceilings. Ser Moryn stopped outside another door. "In here, Your Grace." He gestured for her to enter.

The solar was very still. Only one figure was resident, sitting at a sturdy oaken table by the hearth, with a stack of papers, two cups and a flagon of wine before her. Lady Olenna Redwyne Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, watched Dany all the way across the hall. "Your Grace," she said throatily. "Forgive an old woman her humble hospitality. The fire is enough for your taste, I trust?" She pointed to the ornate fireplace, where a pile of green logs were burning hot with heavy smoke. Fresh rushes and herbs carpeted the floor. They smelled very sweet.

Dany decided it would be best to remain pleasant, for now. "You are ready to surrender the castle?"

Lady Olenna nodded, then pointed to the papers. "I fear I am rather old-fashioned, still reliant on quill and ink in this day and age."

"What else would one sign their name in?"

"Fire and blood is becoming increasingly popular among the young. So I am told."

Lady Olenna had already signed. Dany took the quill that was offered, but as she finished signing her name, it split, and the ink spilled all over her fingers. "A pity," said Lady Olenna.

Some feeble attempt at a humiliation, no doubt. She rose to leave, but Lady Olenna said, "Not just yet. I would talk with you. Some advice from an old woman to a young one. Do not worry about your knight outside. My men will not put up a fight, though it pains their hearts." She pointed. "Do sit, child."

Again, the queen did not object. She is old, she is no threat. More than that, she is broken. It was plain to see in Lady Olenna's unfocused gaze. Is she going blind? wondered Dany.

"I am indeed losing my eyes," said Lady Olenna. "Before you ask. But I hope you will forgive me. I am, as you may have noticed, very old. You are sitting comfortably? Good. So am I." The old woman smiled. "Even though my eyes are worsening, I saw you coming down from Highgarden. I must say, child, you never cease to impress. Dragons and all. Yet somehow you still make it all seem rather graceful. Your mother was like that."

"My mother?"

"Yes. Queen Rhaella. And her mother, Queen Shaera. A rival of mine, arguably. She was supposed to marry my husband Luthor. But then she ran away and wed Prince Jaehaerys in her place. A happy marriage, I am told. Till it gave birth to your father."

"And my mother? What of her marriage?"

"I can only tell you what you have doubtless already been told, child. That marriage was not happy. Not in the slightest. And that was of pain to your father and your mother both, and to your grandmother too. The old are inevitably doomed to dote on the young. It is one of two things they are good at, along with expressing their own regrets."

Sometimes Lady Olenna reminded her of Galazza Galare, the Green Grace of the Temple of Meereen. Both had given Dany counsel at some point. And both had betrayed her.

"But we are not here to talk about the past, though there is so much of it," the old woman said. "I hear you burned my grandsons alive. Willas and Garlan both, was it?"

"I am not certain. They may both yet live."

"Or they may both be dead. And forgive my fatalism, but I am given to favour that option." She sighed. "My son Mace died in the wildfire when Randyll Tarly attacked Highgarden. And now they tell me my grandson Loras died the same way, at Casterly Rock. And now Willas and Garlan are gone too, burned." Her hands fell into her lap. "So. You and Cersei Lannister have burned the roses in their fields. You have all but incinerated House Tyrell root and stem. Even your ancestor Aegon never managed that. Your father would be very proud."

Dany sat up straighter. "You say you have no interest in the past, and yet you keep bringing things back to my father."

"With good reason. What I have seen in you is the same thing I saw in him. An aptitude for burning every bridge you come to. What friends remain to you in Westeros, Daenerys? Sellswords and cowering men, who will desert as soon as their courage returns to them or as soon as a better option presents itself.

"Tywin Lannister was the worst man I ever met. He murdered women and children in their hundreds at Castamere, and in their thousands thereafter. But I can say this for Tywin Lannister: when he murdered, he did it with reason – rarely good reason in an objective sense, but because there was no other way to get what he wanted. I cannot say the same for you. Death follows you everywhere you go, Daenerys Stormborn. It lives and breathes inside you. And I tell you now, I would follow Tywin Lannister into war again a hundred times before I followed you once more."

Dany paused for a long time. "You forget, Lady Olenna, that when you surrender to me, you surrender your good-daughter Lady Alerie, too. And your granddaughter Margaery may yet—"

The old woman sat forwards. "Don't you threaten me, child. I have faced more threats than you could possibly imagine. So many clever men, and so many clever plots. And I have beaten them all, outlived them all."

"Until now," the queen said.

Lady Olenna nodded. "Until now. Well, I suppose no flame burns forever." Then, ponderously, she picked up the wine flagon. "Will you have a cup?" She poured without waiting for Dany to reply.

"I will relent."

"Don't play games with me. 'She has poisoned it', you are thinking. And you are more right than you think, child." Lady Olenna reached into her sleeve, and drew forth a vial of clear liquid. She unstoppered the cap, and then poured the entire contents into one of the cups. And then she took that cup for herself. As Dany watched, the old woman tipped it back, and drank half of it down in one. "There you are, see. Now, by my estimation, I have twenty minutes left. That should suffice."

"For what?"

"Why, for my lesson. So: Daenerys. My lesson to you. Be afraid." The words alone meant nothing, but in light of the old woman's morbid actions, they had a prophetic quality. It is on our deathbeds that we speak the most truth.

Dany swallowed. "Of what?"

"Of what comes after. When you've conquered all of Westeros, when you've beaten down the Lannisters and the Northmen and brought them all to their knees, what will you do then? The armies of the Seven Kingdoms are in tatters. The cities are burned, the towns ransacked, the fields sown with salt and the orchards dying of plague. They tell me the flux has reached King's Landing – what is left of it – and Oldtown is sure to follow, from what I saw when I was there a moon ago. The castles are ruined, their larders are empty, and winter is coming. And in winter, the people will look upon you and not see their glorious conqueror, but the cause of their starvation. And they will rise. You'll never see them coming. They will pick up their pitchforks and their axes and their butcher's knives and they will march on you in your castles and your palaces and they will crowd outside your gates begging for bread. And one day, they will break. They'll storm the walls. They'll break your windows and kill your guards, and—"

"And they will be stopped."

Olenna smiled. "Yes, they will be stopped. You and your dragon will be waiting for them. You'll burn them to ashes, as you did to my grandsons on the road here. And you'll win. You'll be queen. For a time.

"Except not for long. They say 'when you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.' But there is something else about the game, a less glamorous truth. 'Yes, you win or you die. But even then, no one wins for long.' So. You'll burn the peasant armies. You'll put them back in line. But you'll burn their homes too, and their granaries, and their fields. And they'll rise again. Thinner and more hungry than before, but more numerous, and hungrier. Not just for food, but for blood. Because you'll no longer be just the tyrant who starved them. You'll be the tyrant who burned their fathers and mothers and sons and daughters. The tyrant who, when they came to your gates last time, turned them away with fire and blood. And this time they will not stop. You will kill them in their thousands. They will rise in their millions. They will not stop until you have killed every last one of them. And sooner or later, the time will come when your lords join them in their fight, when you become hated beyond your comprehension. And when that day comes… they'll never even find what's left of you.

"But I promised you advice. I promised to tell you how to avert them. Well." She smiled wolfishly, and pointed to the cup: the cup with half an inch of wine still left in it. "There you go. You taking a sip from that bitter cup is the only way your people will ever be spared." The smile grew.

Dany pushed back from the table. "I think I have all the advice I need. Farewell, Lady Olenna."

"Forgive me," said the old woman, rising slowly. "I have always had a secret passion for theatrics. Plays, performances, that sort of thing. I hope you will allow me to finish. One last story about your grandmother, perhaps? She and I were fine friends."

She should have gone, there and then. But Lady Olenna was the first person she had met who had broached this subject. So she sat.

"Queen Shaera and I had a talk, once, about the duties we took on when we married our husbands. Well, I talked. She listened, as patiently as you have. And I said, that in the light of my husband's incompetence, I saw the ruling of the Reach as my duty as much as it was his. To uphold the values of the land and protect her people. I would like to say that I have done my duty. In places I failed, but still… I protected my husband and his children, and his children's children… not always, but where I could. I fulfilled my vows. I certainly fulfilled my vow when I fed Joffrey Baratheon poison on his wedding day. Don't look so shocked. I thought he was dangerous, so I killed him, I confess.

"But even in all his madness, that boy was nowhere near as dangerous to me and my family as you have proved yourself to be. If I poisoned him, Daenerys, what do you think I could have done to you?"

Dany looked down at her almost with pity. "You have said some words, Lady Olenna. And they, like all your plots and your conspiracies, have come to naught. No one will remember you."

The old woman smiled, and madness creased her brow. It was a long, long while before she spoke. "People might not," she said. "But you will. I promise you, you will."

Dany turned and left her there, to await her end. Outside the door she turned to Ser Moryn. "See to it that no one disturbs Lady Olenna. She has asked for peace and quiet. Then to Ser Jorah: "The others?"

"Have gathered in the courtyard below, Your Grace." He hesitated. "Is it…?"

"Is it done?" asked the queen. "It is. The roses are pruned. Now it is just the Dornish we have left to deal with." His brow creased at that; he could not hide it. "But for now, to the yard, ser. It is time to receive our new allies."

As she descended the steps, she felt the child kicking gently inside her. They do not understand, Dany thought, and for a moment she thought of a purple eye, blinking innocently in the darkness of her womb. Jorah does not understand, and neither do any of the others. But you will.


Rambling Author's Note:

A fond farewell to Granny Tyrell.

This chapter shares a fair few similarities with its GOT episode, "The Queen's Justice" (7x03). Most notably, there is the Olenna confrontation which rounds this chapter out. I had originally planned for this one to be a bit longer, but it's such a good ending note that I felt anything else would do her character a disservice. And I wanted her to steal the chapter. I hope she did.

I will freely admit that Olenna in TCOS doesn't have the same kind of presence she does in GOT - the main reason for this, of course, being that my Olenna isn't played by the tremendous Dame Diana Rigg - but she has still gotten around quite a bit. Her journey hasn't been as dramatic as it was in the show, but the wisdom she's offered from the sidelines has been worthwhile.

Olenna was not necessarily in the plan for KNIGHTS. There is the final conversation she has with Willas at the midpoint of TSK, where she declares that she is headed off to Dorne to meet Prince Doran, and at the time that seemed like a fair ending for her character. It might have been more poetic even, to just announce in conversation that Olenna had quite simply passed away. She is certainly a great deal more subdued in this fic than she is in the show, so maybe that would suit. But the scene that comes at the very end of "The Queen's Justice" is too good not to replicate, in some capacity. And I have difficulty believing that Olenna Tyrell in any medium would be so mundane as to merely roll over and die.

KOTN's Olenna isn't necessarily devious. But I do think she shares that aspect of her TV character in that she is very forthright. And I do think her speech to Daenerys exemplifies her willingness to say what others will not.

You may choose to take the other view, that Olenna is overshadowed by Daenerys in this chapter. Certainly she is in stature, with the near-blind, ailing Olenna barely able to stand while Dany swoops in on her massive dragon and threatens to fry everything.

Dany in this chapter is probably at her most unlikable so far - I'm looking forward to your irate comments (which I really enjoy). And now, she's decided to turn her sights south, to your main man Prince Doran. I find it interesting that she uses the idea of her pregnancy to validate herself at the end of this chapter, perhaps proving that a queen's word is final - but, in the end, she also ends up repeating Olenna...

Some assumptions you may reasonably make:

Daenerys's capture of Brightwater Keep proceeds as planned - she's not going to be abruptly murdered off-screen
Daenerys now has the Tarlys, etc., as captives, and is turning her eyes to Dorne.

We'll be back with her VERY soon.