She was dressed exactly as was expected of her. She had prepared for days on end. And still she wasn't ready. How could she be? Today they were to inter her father and brother, the greatest men she would ever know, beneath the cold earth in tombs of stone.

Someone knocked at the door three times, but before she could answer, it opened and her mother entered. Like Shireen, she was dressed in all black. "Shireen," she said quietly, coming up behind her and looking at the pair of them in the mirror. In clothing they were identical, black lace, their hair hidden behind veils, shorn of all jewellery, and they shared the same facial features, unnaturally sharp bones and sharper points with no softness in them. But beyond that, there were few similarities.

Myrielle Baratheon, Caron by birth, was a strong woman, with a body to show it. Shireen was wrong in all the wrong places. Sixteen years old, and her breasts were so small as to be non-existent beneath any layers of fabric. Her shoulders were wide from years of archery alongside her brother, leaving her upper body unattractively broad. It had been weeks since she had eaten properly, so her skin was pallid and turning gaunt, so white around her eyes that her bright blue irises shone like sapphires in a snowy field. And of course, hidden beneath her left sleeve, the greyscale on her left inner forearm.

Her mother gently ran her palms down Shireen's sides and pushed down on her stomach. "I can still feel your ribs, Shireen, and your stomach is thin. Are you still not eating enough?"

"I… try," Shireen whispered back.

Myrielle leaned in and kissed her cheek softly. "You look like you barely slept. Did you take your potions?"

Shireen bit her lip before confessing. "No."

"Shireen-"

"It's my only chance, mother!"

"Shireen, seeing Lyonel or your father in your dreams won't bring them back."

"I know they won't come back, but I can see them!"

"It's a dream, Shireen!" Her mother spun her around and grabbed her face, her eyes flashing in anger. "It's not real. You can't live in your dreams!"

"I know, I've tried."

"Well stop, or gods forgive me, but I will force it down your throat!"

Shireen felt her lip twitch and start to wobble. "Oh Shireen," her mother whispered and pulled her in for a tight hug. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

She clutched at her mother's back, sagging and collapsing until her mother alone was holding her up. After sobbing her tears into her mother's mourning gown, Shireen finally stood on her own two feet.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Her mother brushed the last tears off Shireen's cheeks. "Don't be sorry. Let's just focus on getting through today. One step at a time, okay?" Shireen nodded. "Are you ready to sing?"

Shireen looked over at her desk where dozens of scrunched-up pieces of parchment lay, and one single piece lay flat. "I am," she said.

"Then let's go." Myrielle reached up and lowered the black lace veil over her face. Shireen mimicked the action and followed her outside.

It seemed that the entire island of Dragonstone had come to the hill. Half of Shireen's heart was enraged that this special place was being violated by so many people, and the other half wept that so many had arrived. Lords and ladies of the houses sworn to them stood closest to the summit of the hill, below them knights and the rich myrish exiles, below them the household and below them, the people.

The skies were dark and grey as the sky itself gathered its tears. The path leading up to the hill, freshly paved at her mother's order, was strewn with flowers. Carefully cut lilies, larkspurs and snapdragons. More were cast at their feet as they walked down the path lined with the mourning masses.

At last they reached the summit of the hill, where two great pits had been dug, and beside each one stood a stone sarcophagus. They were plain stone around each edge, but on top they were carved with intricate detail, perfect likenesses of the men who lay beneath them. The stone faces looked like they slept. Her father, stern, strong and proud, a crown upon his brow and a sword resting on his chest. Lyonel beautiful and determined, wore now crown and held no sword, instead a bow was clasped in his left hand and a quiver lay on his right hip. Shireen knew that beneath the stone, that same bow and quiver rested with her brother's corpse.

At the lip of the hill stood Septon Alwyn, Shireen's personal confessor and confidant. Shireen stood up on his left, Myrielle on his right, and delivered the oration. He read the funerary tracts of the Seven Pointed Star, reciting the canticles of rest, said to have been spoken first at the funeral of Hugor of the Hill, the first King of the Andals. He led the entire congregation in prayer and mourning. When he was finished with the orations, he stepped back and spoke holy words over the sarcophagi. At the last moment, before they were gone forever, Shireen and Myrielle stepped forward and raised their veils for but a moment, leaning down and kissing the stone faces before stepping back and lowering the veils again.

Seven men stood up to each sarcophagus. Lifting her father were her uncles, Bryce Caron and Roland Storm, the Hand of the King and the captain of Storm's End. Joining them were Ralph Buckler, Eldon Estermont and his son Aemon, Lord Tarleton Fossoway and of course, Ser Davos Seaworth, her father's most loyal follower.

Her brother's bearers were men of lesser note. Ser Aerion Bar-Emmon, Magister Traghar of the myrish exiles, father of Lyonel's mistress Amalia, who stood not far away. Lyonel had loved her, and so Shireen had insisted, against her mother's wishes, that she be at the top of the hill. Also the surviving captains of his archer regiments, Rennic and Albrech, Ser Davos' son Dale. Lord Harwood Fell, the sole man of lordly titles, was with them and her own sworn shield, Richard Horpe made the seven.

In one co-ordinated movement, the fourteen men lifted the two sarcophagi and lowered them into the earth. They then took spaces and began shoveling the earth over them. Shireen's mother stepped up beside her. "We'll come back for them," she whispered. "When we take King's Landing, we'll have them re-interred."

When the dirt was piled on top and patted down, her mother looked at her and Shireen nodded. She stepped up to the lip of the hill and trembled, looking out over the thousands of people arrayed before her. The air was chill, cutting through her veil and lashing at her face. Shireen took a breath and sang the Lament of Kings.

The words tore out of her throat in grief, sorrowful lyrics swirling down the hill and into the ears of all mourners. Those at the top of the hill could hear every word that Shireen had spent weeks compiling into a perfect melody. Those further down could not make out individual words, but even they felt the emotion of it in their hearts and souls. And all were brought to tears, be they lords or ladies, knights or serfs. When the last verse left her lips, she turned to Captains Rennic and Albrech, who both raised great gilded horns to their lips and blew, the sound echoing out over the fields and hills.

Along a cliff edge looking out towards King's Landing, two thousand archers raised their bows and loosed a single arc of flaming arrows that burned across the dark sky. When the arrows fell into the sea, the clouds above them opened and a gentle rain pattered down on the mourners.

It was over.

Slowly the crowd departed, from the serfs to the servants to the knights to the lords until only Shireen, Myrielle and their closest companions remained.

"I want to stay a little longer," she said.

"Of course," Myrielle said. "Just don't catch a chill."

She nodded and her mother departed. Shireen was sure she would come back later, so she could pay her own private respects, but for now, her mother left her to return to the castle, accompanied by most of the mourners.

Shireen knelt before the tombs. "Brother, father," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't bring you help in time, I'm sorry I couldn't provide you aid in the Reach. I'm so sorry that your cause is failing. We are losing, some say we have already lost, and I don't know what to do." Her veil pulled tightly against her face in the rushing wind, cold droplets of rain sticking to the lace. "You would know. You always knew. Our family has been a line of warriors, statesmen and kings. Now only I remain, and I don't know what to do." She closed her eyes as cold cut to her bones and asked directly what she'd been asking herself since the first night after finding Lyonel dead in Pyle Castle. "Why aren't you coming to me?" She said it so quietly that the wind snatched the words away before she could hear them herself. "I don't take Maester Cressen's potion, my dreams are open, you know that, so why don't you come? I need you to tell me what to do."

There was no answer, only the wind, the rain and the cold. Then the rain stopped. She looked up and saw ser Richard standing over her. He held out his cloak with one extended arm so the heavy cloth hung over her head, shielding her from the rain. "You'll catch a chill, my queen."

My queen. Shireen wondered if those words would ever feel natural to her. "No chill is colder than grief, I'll survive this."

"Nevertheless, I think we should return to the castle."

Shireen wanted to refuse, but knew she shouldn't. So she reached out and touched the graves once more before holding out her hand for Richard to help her to her feet and she followed the knight. Just down the path, Amalia was waiting for them. Her hands twisted infront of her and she looked more nervous than Shireen had ever seen her. "Your grace!" She said as Shireen and Richard approached.

Richard stood between them. "What do you want?"

"Please, ser Richard, I must speak with the queen, it's urgent."

"You may call on the queen back in the castle, she needs to get inside."

"But I can't ever see her inside the castle." Amalia looked past Richard. "Please my queen, I must speak with you, it's urgent, please don't keep away from me again."

Shireen shook her head. "I'm not avoiding you, Amalia, but ser Richard is right, I need to return to the castle."

"I'll come with you, then." She saw Richard's expression. "If you'll allow it."

Shireen nodded and the three of them walked back to the castle.

When the great doors closed behind them, Amalia threw back her hair, squeezing water out of it. "My queen, can we speak now?"

She shook her head. "No, not today."

"But-"

"I have just buried my father and brother! Give me one day to mourn at least!"

Amalia swallowed and nodded, leaving Shireen to return to her rooms, followed by Richard. The castle guards and staff averted their eyes as she passed and Shireen was glad for it.

Alone in her room, she breathed hard, leaning back against the door and rubbing the balls of her hands into her eyes. Was even this too much for her? Her father would be so disappointed in her if this was all it took to wear her down. She opened her eyes and looked across to her window sill, where, sat on a plush red cushion, her father's crown sat. She picked it up and looked at it. The resizing her been done expertly. She had tried to put it on before and it had caught on her nose, so her mother had sent it to be resized for her frame. It now fitted perfectly around her brow, but despite spending hours looking at it, she couldn't find any marks for where it had been made smaller. It was like it had been made for her, but it still felt wrong on her head. She sat down with the crown and stared out the window. Had her father felt like this? He had always been so certain, or seemed to be. Even when he was wallowing in self-pity in Storm's End, he had been certain of his failures. Had it all been an act or was he just made for ruling in a way she was not?

Shireen was eventually pulled from her thoughts by a knocking on the door. She quickly set the crown back on the cushion and opened the door to find her mother standing there. "Shireen, you need to come."

"Why?"

"There are matters we must discuss."

"I've just buried-" She began to recite.

"The world will not wait for you to mourn, Shireen. And you have put off ruling for long enough. Come with me."

Shireen bristled at the unsoftened words. "You can't command me, I am your queen."

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "I will obey you when you start commanding others, now come with me if you want to be queen of more than this rock."

Reluctantly, Shireen followed.

Myrielle led her to the chamber of the Painted Table, where uncle Bryce, Ser Davos, Maester Pylos, standing in for Cressen and Amalia were waiting. Amalia looked most uneasy, constantly glancing around as though she shouldn't be here. Why was she here anyway?

"What's going on?" Shireen asked.

Her mother pushed her into the room and closed the door behind her. They stood alongside the table, all on the side of the sunset sea. Outside the chamber, the narrow sea howled, the rain, once gentle, now lashing the castle walls. "Why are we here?" She asked. Still there was no answer. The five of them were pointedly looking straight ahead. "What is so urgent?" Nothing.

Then ser Davos coughed. She looked at him their eyes met briefly and he flashed his towards the king's seat, set on the map where Dragonstone would be. He nodded his head minutely.

Shireen understood and walked to the chair. No doubt her mother's doing. The chair was too big for her, but she sat in it anyway. The other five sat in one motion. "What's going on?" Shireen asked again.

This time, her mother answered. "There is dissent in our ranks, bred of our inactivity."

"Who is dissenting?"

"More every day, my queen," Bryce said, his Hand of the King badge on his chest. Hand of the Queen now, she supposed, although nothing official had been made of it yet, he had simply carried on the position he had held under her father.

Shireen nodded. "I don't blame them, with my father and brother gone-"

"No, you will not speak like that!" Her mother hissed.

"But it's true, isn't it?" She whispered, huddling back into the chair. "Or are you going to tell me that this dissent began when my father was still the king?"

Her mother opened her mouth, but didn't say anything.

"As I thought. They are dissenting from us because they were strong, and now I am a weak disappointment who cannot fulfill their dreams."

"Not with that attitude you can't." Bryce told her.

"What do you want me to do, Uncle!" Shireen snapped. "I am weak, a supporting pillar to better men. And now you come here and tell me that there is dissent. What am I supposed to do about that!"

She breathed heavily and looked each of them directly in the eye. Her mother and Bryce looked impressed, Amalia and Pylos looked concerned. Only Davos looked impassive and nodded at her. "Supporting pillars can't be weak, your grace," he said quietly.

"What did you say?"

Davos stood taller. "It is true, you were a supporting pillar, we all were, as was our duty to the King. But King Stannis relied on you to be his supporting pillar because he could rely on you to not crumble, whatever the challenge you faced. He told me so himself."

Shireen felt her breath hitch. "He said that?"

"It was after you broke him from his melancholy after the Battle of Blackwater."

She remembered the day she had violently attacked her own father, insulted and demeaned him. So shortly before his own death. She reached up and rubbed away the tears before they could crawl down her cheeks. "Then I will need you to be my strong pillars as well, I will need to rely on you more than my father ever did. Are you willing to serve me?" She saw the assent in their eyes before they gave it with their words.

Spreading her hands on the table, her fingers on the headlands around King's Landing, she asked, "what dissent are we facing?"

Uncle Bryce spoke first, quickly, as if he was worried she might tell him to stop again. "The Lannister and Tyrell armies are still pressing against us in the Stormlands, although they hold for now. Your father's invasion of the Reach may have allowed us to evacuate the families of many of your supporters there, but now their castles are on the verge of yielding or already have. They want their lands back, and if they don't feel that we can return them they will kneel to the Lannisters in the hope that they will."

"Are they saying that they will?"

"There are whispers. We control the ravens out of Storm's End, but a single rider can slip away with a message easily enough. Lord Tarleton is here to plead for action on their behalf, and I cannot delay him much longer."

Shireen swallowed. "Are the stormlords at least loyal?"

"More so than the reacher lords, but their lands are under threat, and I don't know that they will remain loyal when Lannisters and Tyrells are trampling their fields and taking their castles."

Shireen tried to think of a solution, but nothing came to mind. "You are the Hand of the King, why can you not placate him, uncle?"

He frowned. "I tried, but he wishes to speak with you."

"Why?"

"Because he remembers how you intervened on his family's behalf. He still believes in you, but he will not wait forever."

"Does he believe he has a chance of getting his lands back from the Lannisters?"

"I don't know, but if you do not offer him any chance at all, he may be willing to gamble everything on bending the knee to Joffrey."

And as long as I do nothing, no chance is all I offer him. "But I don't know what to tell him?"

"We can draft the words for you, and stand at your shoulder while you say them," her mother assured her.

Shireen nodded. She could do that, it would just be remembering words.

But earnest ser Davos spoke. "That would be a mistake, your grace."

Everyone looked at him. "These men and women swore oaths to your father, and now owe them to you. They are not sworn to House Caron, with respects my lord, queen-mother. What drew many of them to your father's side was that he spoke for himself. Many now believe the truth of Cersei Lannister's incest, but before then what they saw was that your father fought for himself, and truly represented House Baratheon, but to fight for Joffrey Baratheon in name was to fight for the Lannisters in truth. If you speak with these men with your mother and uncle casting their shadow over you, they will see no difference than in Tywin's sons speaking for Joffrey."

"I think ser Davos is right," Amalia said, making the room turn to her. "We myrmen deal in negotiations all the time. If you negotiate with silver, or especially with leather, you must negotiate yourself if you want people to trust you."

Maester Pylos also agreed. "King's who speak for themselves have power, those who allow or are seen to allow others to speak for them have none, and a king, or queen, with no power is one that cannot serve as an ally."

"They are not my daughter's allies, they are her subjects," her mother said.

Maester Pylos held up his hands placatingly. "I misspeak, your grace. But a queen who cannot speak for herself can not fulfill the obligations of lordship, and bereft of lordship you will find yourself soon bereft of subjects."

And so Shireen would have to speak alone, and somehow find the words. "I will request that Lord Tarleton join me for prayers tomorrow, and I will speak with him then."

"Request?" Her mother asked.

"Yes," Shireen said, sitting taller. "Request."

"You must command him to attend you."

"If he does not come, then I will command it, but I would request it first."

"Shireen-"

"I have spoken," she coughed, not used to raising her voice. "Your queen has spoken."

Her mother clearly still disapproved, but she bowed her head nonetheless.

Shireen turned to Amalia. "The myrmen, are they also dissenting?"

Amalia bit her lip, somehow doing it with poise. "Yes. They are unused to the conditions here. Many are doubting if your promises of land in the city will ever be fulfilled. Some speak of cutting their losses, making for Braavos, Volantis or beyond to Slaver's Bay. Some are even talking about joining the resettlement efforts in Pentos."

Shireen paled. She had heard much of the destruction of Pentos by the Dothraki. Some of the myrmen had even attempted to join in the efforts there and abandoned it for Dragonstone. If they were contemplating returning… "Is this what you wanted to speak with me about these past days?" The rain pattered onto the stone floor.

Amalia nodded, glancing at Myrielle. "Lady Amalia came to me when she could not come to you."

How had she let this get so out of hand. Lyonel would never have allowed this to stand. "What will be needed to placate them?"

"A step in the direction of the city, preferably several of them."

Shireen nodded, a showy victory, like Tarth. But Tarth was already taken, and the Lannister and Tyrell armies ringed their positions in the Stormlands, there were no hanging fruits to be plucked that she saw. She asked her uncle, who confirmed it. The rain moaned softly outside, the downpour easing.

"You said earlier that the Lannister armies were not currently attacking. Why?" Shireen asked.

"Joffrey and Margaery's wedding, no doubt. We can expect them to resume their attack when that is done, likely with Loren Lannister leading them."

Shireen clenched her fist. The man who had defeated her father, leading to his death. Worse, he was now the Lord of House Lannister following Tywin's death, with all the resources that entailed, and probably Hand of the King by now as well.

"When is the wedding?"

"Not three weeks away."

Shireen nodded. This is where she had to rely on her pillars. She knew how to supply a castle and an army, but she knew little of commands in battle or strategy in war. "In that case, uncle, you have one week to find me my next step for our armies."

Bryce's eyebrows raised in alarm. "One week?"

She nodded. "One week. If our enemy is not moving, then we must take the opportunity to move ourselves."