April-October, 303 AC


She could hear her people before she could see them.

Daenerys descended the broad marble stair, her ladies at her side and the clamor of voices in her ears. The hall was a press of Meereenese, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath the watchful eyes of her Unsullied. Grey Worm's eunuchs were always about her, these days. The Unsullied held the gates of the Great Pyramid, they patrolled its many levels, they guarded the doors of the throne room, ensuring all those who sought entry to her court were unarmed.

"All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Empress of Dragon's Bay, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons!"

Missandei's voice was sweet and strong, though less high of late. Little scribe, Dany called her, but the herald was newly fourteen, and overtopped her queen by several inches, a change that displeased Dany.

The queen settled into her ebony throne, the plump cushion soft beneath her bony rump. The back of the throne was inlaid with whorls of silver, forming dragons' wings that rose from her shoulders, as though she might take flight at any moment. Her court took their places around her. Her Dothraki ladies, Irri and Jhiqui, stood to her left on the dais, her consort, Prince Aegor, to her right. Ser Barristan Selmy and his knights stood arrayed in a crescent below the dais, their white armor gleaming, whilst the rest of her counselors fanned out to either side of them, jostling for the places nearest the queen.

It was no less than she expected, on this, the first day of fourth moon. Other court sessions were held at her convenience, the days varying based upon the urgent matters which required Dany's attention. Still, so that her people might be able to petition her at need, the queen marked the start of each new month by holding open court.

Today the first petitioner was a freedman, a journeyman in the carpenter's guild. Thrice he had applied for mastery. Each time he paid the guild's fees; each time he dedicated weeks of labor to carving a piece which demonstrated he possessed the requisite skills; each time, despite his skill, the guild denied him the title of master.

He was but one of dozens, Jhiqui had told her yesterday, fresh from a meeting of the freedmen's council. Though the craftsmen's guilds had long since opened their rolls to the freedmen at her command, few were attaining the title of journeyman, and even fewer that of master.

In every free city it was customary that only a guild might name its members, yet time and time again, Dany had been forced to intervene. First the guilds had tried to require that all journeymen and masters speak and write Ghiscari, a skill lacked by almost all those not freeborn. Next the guilds had tried to require that all applicants must memorize and recite the entirety of the guild laws. That requirement had seemed entirely reasonable, until Jhiqui informed her that even those who managed the cumbersome task were being failed.

A part of Daenerys wanted to slay the lot of them, as she'd slain the Great Masters. But how could she? The guilds were not killing freedmen in the street, nor denying them access to membership. True, there seemed to be difficulties with ensuring the freedmen received their wages in a timely manner. True, the freedmen might languish for days or weeks without employment, though freeborn members rarely did. And yet... the heads of the guilds followed her decrees and paid her taxes. They had changed the guild laws at her command, with deepest apologies, and lengthy explanations of the many good reasons for their existence. Even so, fair words might hide a foul heart; she could not make the mistake of trusting them.

"Have any freedmen been permitted to attain mastery?" Dany asked, when she was finished examining the three masterpieces which the carpenter had brought with him. Each was a small chest, ornately carved, one with a delicate, perfect interwoven pattern, one with olives and their vines, and one with a dragon in flight, so lifelike it took her breath away.

"Yes, Your Grace," the journeyman admitted. "A few dozen, perhaps?"

"Good," she said. "Henceforth, each test of mastery must include a freedman among the judges. As for these," she gestured to the chests. "Present yourself to my factors, and they shall pay you richly for your work."

The next petitioner was not so easily handled. A priest of the Great Shepherd had held a festival to honor the god of Lhazar. Upon the appointed day, he found his flock overwhelmed with worshippers of the Red God, who sang hymns to the Lord of Light to drown out his sermon. Further, they had attempted to steal his shepherd's crook, the sign of his office; he had only saved it thanks to the intervention of the Brazen Beasts.

"Moqorro," Dany called lightly, summoning the red priest from his place among her counselors. He seemed a giant compared to the rest, broad and tall as a mighty tower, with snow-white hair and beard like a lion's mane, and skin dark as pitch. "Did you know of this?"

"No, Your Grace," the priest said in his deep voice. "The laws of Meereen permit the worship of all gods, whether true or false. We of the Lord of Light are your true and humble servants, destined to fight for the cause of Azor Ahai reborn—"

"Your devotion is unquestionable," the queen said, impatient. Or so you claim. "As is the obedience of your believers. Let the priests of the red temple remind them that my laws are to be followed. If destiny wills that R'hllor prevail over all other gods, then men shall convert of their own volition, not by threat of force."

Moqorro bowed low. Green flames flickered in the dragon's maw that topped his iron staff, casting ghostly fires in his dark eyes. Is it the priest of the Great Shepherd who galls him, or does he chafe against my commands? Dany herself did not much care what gods her people worshipped, so long as they obeyed her laws and edicts, a tolerance Moqorro strenuously opposed. Though the red god's followers outnumbered all others by at least two to one, Moqorro was determined that one day all of Meereen would kneel before the Lord of Light, as they already knelt before Dany, his prophecied savior.

All through the long morning she heard more petitions, most of them dull, the same complaints in different guises. A stuttering freedman claimed he had been beaten by Brazen Beasts without cause; dismayed by the man's lumps and bruises, the queen ordered the surly Shavepate to look into the matter. A sickly freedwomen begged for new wells and drains in her part of the city; appalled by the cup of brown water the freedwoman had brought with her, the queen ordered Aegor to examine the costs of such work as quickly as possible.

It had taken months for her Hand to convince her to let him share some of her burdens. On the altar of the Seven Aegor had sworn to serve his queen faithfully, to obey her in all things. He might argue with Dany in private or in council, but her final word was law. Thus far, he had kept his word. When Aegor ran hither and yon about her business, he met with none of her council without first seeking her permission. When Aegor buried himself in records and scrolls, he only worked with scribes of her choosing. When Aegor turned her rulings in court into formal decrees, he stuck closely to her precise words.

The last had proved troublesome at first. Aegor poked his head into dusty old laws, investigated the underlying issues with the help of Haldon Halfmaester, even summoned back petitioners to repeat their concerns at length before finally issuing decrees which went beyond the edicts she'd made in court. When Missandei alerted her to the matter, there had been a massive argument that only ended when Dany commanded Aegor to fuck her roughly. He did, albeit halfheartedly, and there were no more difficulties with the decrees.

By midafternoon the host of petitioners was slowly dwindling, as was Dany's patience. Thankfully, there were two petitions that brought a smile to her face. The first was that of a wet nurse, who asked that more women be hired to tend the foundlings and orphans in the queen's nursery. To that Dany gladly agreed, and promised she would try to visit the children when her duties permitted.

The second petition was that of a young boy, perhaps ten. When his turn came he fell to his knees, begging that the queen accept his service. The boy wished to join the companies of freedmen, but they had turned him away on account of his youth. Rather than be discouraged, the boy had then tried to join the Unsullied, who accepted young boys, only to be turned away for being freeborn. Red-eyed, the boy begged for a chance to prove his worth.

Dany eyed the boy thoughtfully. He had dressed well for court, in a stozar of rich blue cashmere. Silk might serve the wealthy of Meereen for summer and autumn, but during the cool, wet winters, they favored heavier, warmer cloth. All agreed the best was that which came from the prized goats of the Lhazareen, taken from the soft wool of their necks and bellies, but it was a costly luxury. The Unsullied did not cut the boys they now accepted for training, but why should a boy who wore cashmere wish to join their lowly ranks?

The boy gladly answered when she asked. His eyes shone as he spoke of seeing dragons fly overhead, of seeing the Great Masters brought low, of seeing Meereen rise like the sun above lesser cities. All the boy wanted was to serve his queen, the Lord of Light's chosen. Moved by his plea, she commanded the boy to report to the Unsullied's barracks on the morrow to begin his training, ignoring how Grey Worm stiffened at her words.

Plenty of petitioners still packed the hall as the time drew near for the end of court. In a clear voice Missandei announced that only a few more petitions would be heard, those which were most urgent. As for the rest, she bade them return in a sennight. Dany's people milled about, talking amongst themselves as a few pushed their way to the front of the crowd.

One was an older man, with kindly eyes and a heavy cane clutched in his gnarled hands. Another tradesman, most likely, come to complain of trouble with a guild. Or so she thought, until he drew a blade from his cane and sprang at her dais.

Grey Worm was further away, yet he reached the man at the same time as Ser Barristan, who cut the assassin down in one stroke of his sword. Dany had barely had time be afraid before it was over, Grey Worm shouting orders for his Unsullied to clear the petitioners from the room while Ser Barristan and his knights formed a circle about her and her ladies.

"Your Grace, are you well?" Aegor asked.

He reached out, as though to clasp her shoulder; Dany jerked away before he could feel her racing pulse. "He did not even get near me," she said coldly. "I am no child, to flinch at every shadow."

"Daenerys—"

"Khaleesi—"

A look from their queen, and both Aegor and Irri fell silent. Good. She could not bear their comfort, she could allow no cracks in her queenly facade. What was one more attempt on her life, when there had already been so many?

The first attempts had come soon after the black wedding, the day when she had cast down the Great Masters once and for all. A Blue Grace accosted her in the street, offering to bless the queen before drawing a penknife from her robes. Ser Barristan had broken her wrist for that, and when questioned in private, she freely admitted her intent to gut the blood bride. Lesser masters dressed like beggars tried to lure Dany from her escorts; freeborn merchants tried to offer her wine they would not taste themselves. All of them were tried, found guilty, and gruesomely, publicly executed for attempted regicide.

Even once the freeborn cowered in fear, the attempts did not stop. Now they came from sellswords who tried to cut their way through her queensguard, from assassins who slipped poison into food meant for the queen's table. With each failed attempt Ser Barristan seemed to grow older and more weary, his years weighing heavily on him.

Worse, others were beginning to notice. Grey Worm in particular was proving quarrelsome of late. No longer did he show deference to Ser Barristan Selmy, but openly argued with the venerable knight over the proper measures to defend the queen.

To her confusion, all of the Unsullied seemed to grow bolder with every passing year. For long months they had argued over how to train new recruits, yet the moment she threatened to intervene, they had suddenly come to a compromise without her. Despite all the fighting, the captains continued to choose Grey Worm as their leader, an honor which seemed to have finally gone to his head.

"Ser Barristan has lost three kings," Grey Worm told her, two days after the attempt by the man with the cane. "Your Unsullied have lost none."

"That is not fair," Dany replied, stung on her old knight's behalf. Her father Aerys had sent him away, the Usurper had killed himself in a drunken stupor, and the bastard boy had not died until after he stripped Ser Barristan of his cloak. "He is my faithful knight; he saved me at Qarth."

"Knights are for battle, not bodyguards," Grey Worm insisted. "Ser Barristan knows how to fight the open enemy, not shadows in the dark. Gracious queen, let the Unsullied take charge of your safety, and we shall not fail you."

Dany was still thinking over Grey Worm's proposal the next morning as Ser Barristan escorted her to the dragonyard beneath the Great Pyramid. His white hair and wrinkles seemed even more prominent in the sunlight, an old grandfather beside the young knights he had trained for her.

Ser Tumco Lho, Ser Larraq the Lash, and Ser Avram the Red Lamb were all good men and true, but they were all near Dany's age, young and eager. They did not have Ser Barristan's wisdom, his wealth of experience in the ways of men. Nor could they best him in a spar, though Dany had watched them try a dozen times. No, only one man could best Ser Barristan, though she had not seen that fight.

Jaime Lannister remained her prisoner, a sullen and unwelcome guest. Once Aegor had visited the man every other day, seeking to draw out information whilst learning to fight with his left hand. After his true heritage came to light, Aegor had visited the Kingslayer less and less, turning instead to Olyvar. Another prisoner might turn to drink, or to reading scrolls, but her guards informed her that the Kingslayer spent every hour working at his swordsmanship, whether exercising on his terrace or sparring in the training hall.

For years Barristan had ignored the Kingslayer's taunting, but a month past, something had snapped. Barristan and Lannister had sparred viciously, half the Dornish looking on as they drove each other back and forth across the training hall. True, the Kingslayer was thirty years the younger, but Ser Barristan should have beaten him, just like he beat all his young knights. Instead, somehow, the Kingslayer had won, an outcome which pleased no one, except, for some inexplicable reason, Ser Olyvar Sand.

When they reached the dragonyard it was to find Ser Olyvar awaiting them, along with Prince Consort Aegor, Lady Sansa Stark, a dozen nervous Dornish and a single, angry dragon. Viserion hissed, smoke billowing from his nostrils as Olyvar checked the saddle secured to the cream dragon's back. It was a saddle built for two, with high cantles, thickly padded seats, and chains to secure the riders. Aegor had found the design in some old tome, she recalled as he took his place beside her.

Dany watched with envy as Olyvar mounted the dragon. Over his surcoat he wore a harness of steel and leather; to it he fastened the saddle chains, securing himself in place. Rather than glee or excitement, her nephew wore his usual look of grim determination, though he did laugh when Lady Sansa leaned close and said something, no doubt wishing him luck. Olyvar appeared less amused when Viserion blew a cloud of smoke at Lady Sansa, and gave the dragon a swat.

As if that were his cue, Viserion rose up on his legs, his wings beating at the air as he gave a warning screech. Olyvar held on tight, rather than yelping with terror as part of Dany hoped he might. With a crack like thunder, the dragon took flight, his shadow covering the dragonyard for an instant before dragon and rider were gone.

A week later, the memory of Viserion wheeling over the city still gnawed at her. Why should Olyvar ride dragonback when the Mother of Dragons must ride horseback? She could not forget the look of joy upon Olyvar's face when he landed, as though he was utterly free from care. He had run to embrace his lady wife, lifting her off her feet before just as quickly putting her down. Then Sansa curtsied, Olyvar bowed, and then both walked in opposite directions, stiff as stone, shortly before it started pouring rain.

Today the skies were clear once more, a weak winter sun shining down upon the apex of the pyramid. Under the Great Masters the apex boasted nothing but the old bronze harpy of Meereen, but no more. In its place stood a vast mound of earth, crowned with an olive tree thrice Dany's height.

In the Seven Kingdoms there might be snowstorms and bitter winds, but in Meereen winter was naught but frequent rain and cool evenings. So long as they dressed warmly, the queen and her ladies could enjoy sitting beneath the olive tree's shade, on the rare occasions when they persuaded Dany to rest from her many labors.

Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei were more than mere handmaidens, charged with dressing their queen each morning and preparing her for bed each night. No, they were ladies-in-waiting, members of her council, the few whose loyalty was beyond question. Or so she thought, until recently.

Irri's infatuation with Ko Rakharo still refused to ebb. When not mooning over him, she spent her days serving as the queen's representative to the Dothraki, both those amongst the freedmen and those of the khalasars near the Dragon's Bay. For some reason, Irri was dead set on forming a company of Dothraki archers, headed by Ko Aggo, the best shot among Dany's bloodriders.

Jhiqui was no better at focusing on her intended duties. Dany could not even reprimand her; the freedmen's council ran more smoothly than her own, though Jhiqui met with them half as often. Despite her work with the freedmen of Meereen, ever since the birth of Ko Jhogo and Morriqui's first child she spent half her time clamoring for a husband and children of her own. Khal Rhogoro did not help matters either; he'd apparently been quite taken by Jhiqui and was quite persistent in his pursuit of her.

At the moment, Irri and Jhiqui were thankfully not talking of their own romantic woes, but those of her nephew and his wife, whose queer manners amused them. Lady Sansa was a mare in heat, Irri declared, and Ser Olyvar a stallion who had caught her scent. Her courtesies served to kick him away, lest she raise her tail and start winking at him, whatever that meant.

"They will give in," said Jhiqui, shaking her head over the horsehead fiddle she was tuning.

"They will not," said Missandei. "I overheard Lady Jynessa's maid say the same, and Lady Sansa's maid scolded her for it. They sleep with a sword between them, she said, and startle like rabbits when they touch by accident."

Dany giggled, unable to help herself. "Do they really? That explains their odd behavior in the dragonyard."

Sweet Missandei gave a little giggle of her own. "Daario said, that if Ser Dullard had to pick between his wife and his dragon, he's the only man living who would pick his wife."

"Daario shouldn't be saying anything to you," Irri said, scowling.

The Stormcrows' return might have pleased Dany, but it pleased no one else. Ser Barristan had argued with her outright when she declared her intent to recall Daario Naharis and his men, leaving Brown Ben Plumm and his Second Sons to guard Astapor.

"Meereen's hinterlands must be guarded," she told the old knight firmly.

It was not her fault that the Golden Company meant to abandon their post. When the Golden Company declared their intention to accept a contract with the Lhazareen, Dany had laughed, utterly bewildered. Had not Illyrio Mopatis paid them to remain at her beck and call, awaiting the day she turned west to take the Iron Throne?

Much to her displeasure, their captain-general Harry Strickland informed her that his men grew tired of sitting on their rumps outside Meereen and patrolling the hinterlands, waiting for the far off day when they would finally sail for Westeros. Gold was all very well, but if he did not give them a chance to slake their bloodlust, mutiny would follow as surely as night followed day. In Lhazar they could test their mettle against the khals emerging from the Dothraki Sea, fleeing drought and brushfires.

"How can the Lhazareen afford the Golden Company?" She demanded of Aegor, irate at Strickland's betrayal.

To her annoyance, what followed was a lengthy recounting of the history of Lhazar and its trade. The Dothraki might call them Lamb Men, and mock them for their peaceful ways, but their cashmere was without equal, as was their skill at weaving and dyeing it with the herbs that grew in secret places amongst the foothills of the Painted Mountains.

"If anything," Aegor admitted sheepishly, "you might blame Lady Sansa. By her command the Dornish have been buying up every scrap of wool to be found in the city with Westerosi gold. Olyvar says—"

Dany could not quite remember what Olyvar had said. The peculiar friendship betwixt her husband and her nephew irritated her, though not as much as Daario Naharis irritated Aegor. She had barely seen the Tyroshi sellsword since his return; Ser Barristan refused to admit "that scoundrel" to his queen's presence except by her express command. Even then, Irri and Jhiqui hovered, acting as if Daario might devour their mistress whole if given the least opportunity.

Dany almost wished he would. Oh, Daario might no longer speak so boldly of his lust for her, but she could still see it in his eyes. He thirsted for her as he thirsted for battle, he desired to use her the same way Drogo had, not gently as Aegor did. Daario would not lesson her weary mind about history and law, he would lesson her eager flesh in the art of carnal pleasures. She could see it so clearly in her mind's eye, Daario placing her on Drogon's back and flying away with her into the wild, away from her court, away from her crown, with naught to do but love beneath the stars...

"All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Empress of Dragon's Bay, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons!"

Dany grimaced as she seated herself for the first court session of fifth moon. How was it possible for fourth moon to drag so miserably, yet be over already? Are there too many hours in the day, she wondered, or too few?

She should be with her council, talking of the elections in Volantis. Why await word from Dysaria, the widow of the waterfront? Three tigers Moqorro had seen, and three new triarchs there would be, all yowling to spill her blood and enslave her children. But no, she must keep up appearances, she must show the world that a dragon could not feel fear.

On and on the petitions went. All of them were troubles she had heard a thousand times before, all save the group of escaped slaves whose turn came near noon. In Lys they had been oarslaves, until they slew their captain and sailed for Meereen. On their knees they beseeched her help in overthrowing the masters and freeing the families they had left behind. For a moment she imagined herself upon Drogon's back, raining fire down upon Lys the Lovely, cleansing her of the rot which lay beneath her pretty face—

"Please, silver queen," one of them begged. "We have seen the white dragon fly overhead, let him spread his wings over the skies of Lys!"

Her hopes shriveled up inside her, and with a heavy heart she turned them away.

Her heart was no less heavy when she held council the next day. Was this to be her life? Endless day after endless day, each problem she solved bringing a dozen she could not? What was the point of securing her empire when she would never bear a child to inherit it? Perhaps Moqorro was right, perhaps she was meant for naught but war, a glorious battle against the slavers which would end with their death as well as her own. Let someone else pick up the pieces when she was gone, let someone else bring order out of chaos.

"For half a groat," she told Aegor, when the rest of her counselors were gone, "I would hop on Drogon's back and never return."

"Your people would miss you, Your Grace," he said, his smile strained. Aegor might not set fire to her blood as Daario did, but he was still beautiful, his silver hair catching the same light that set his indigo eyes ablaze and caressed his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. "Now, shall we discuss the festivities for your nameday?"

Her people seemed to enjoy the celebrations for their queen's nineteenth nameday, but she did not. It was almost a relief when Moqorro appeared halfway through the feast to seek a private word, though her relief was shortlived when he told her of his vision.

"A great green dragon roared over the Red Temple of Volantis," the red priest told her, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. "A one-eyed man rode upon his back, and laughed as dragonflame devoured the Lord of Light's holy servants."

A terrible memory seized her, of a tent upon the shore and a wicked smile. "What is a god, compared to a dragon?" Euron Greyjoy said as he knelt between her legs. "Gods may be forgotten, but monsters never are." Against her will Dany shuddered, shame and anger warring within her heart.

Moqorro's insistence that Azor Ahai defend the temple did not help. How was she to champion the Lord of Light without Drogon? Though the black dragon often wheeled overhead when Dany sat atop the Great Pyramid, he refused to come to her, to submit to her will as Viserion submitted to Olyvar's.

With so many pressing matters weighing on her, the queen found herself in dire need of some peace and quiet. As such, when the night came for her usual dinner with the Westerosi, she sent her regrets to Olyvar and his wife and sent everyone else away. Everyone, save her guards, who stood watch at the doors to her chambers, and Azzar, the servant who served her meal, his steps feather light as he came and went by the servants' steps hidden in the walls.

For the main dish Azzar brought her spiced rice and roasted pike. As usual, he tasted a bite of each, whilst Ser Barristan watched him carefully for any sign of poison. Her mouth was full of savory, lukewarm rice when Ser Tumco Lho interrupted her solitary dinner to inform her that Olyvar Sand begged leave to speak with her privily. Annoyed, the queen bade her knight refuse him.

"Your Grace," Ser Tumco said upon returning. "Ser Olyvar will not leave." Her knight's dark skin gleamed in the torchlight, his full lips pursed in disapproval. "He insists that there are matters of import which cannot wait any longer."

Can I not have one night to myself? Dany stabbed at her fish with unwonted venom, sending a chunk of flaky meat flying across the table. Azzar cleaned it up in silence while Dany considered what to do, wary of Ser Olyvar's sudden boldness.

"What would you advise?" She asked Ser Barristan, who stood at her shoulder.

The old knight frowned. Had his blue eyes always looked so faded? "It is for Your Grace to decide. A knight is taught to wait patiently, aye, but there is no place for hesitance on a field of battle. Best to plunge the knife in quickly, and be done with it."

Talk of knives did not help her nerves. At her behest Ser Tumco searched Ser Olyvar carefully before admitting him to her presence, relieving him of the knife he wore openly at his hip, and of a pair of throwing daggers hidden in his boots.

Even so, she looked upon her nephew with suspicion when he asked that they speak without Ser Barristan present. Olyvar was a tall man, after all, and solidly built, though he lacked the lean grace of Aegor or the bulging muscles of Strong Belwas. Still, he could snap her neck, if he so wished. Was this some ploy, to get the queen alone and do away with her?

"I do not think there is any danger," Ser Barristan reassured her quietly whilst her nephew waited, his face grim. "Your nephew is a knight, a man of honor, not a kingslayer."

"That's what everyone thought of Jaime Lannister, until he slew Aerys," Olyvar pointed out, much to her confusion. What sort of man warned her against himself? Jorah Mormont, Euron Greyjoy, Galazza Galare, all of them were eager to win her trust, to appear the loyalest of subjects until they twisted the knife in her back.

"Are you saying I cannot trust you?" she asked.

Olyvar blinked, as though she had said something absurd.

"I'm saying that knighthood does not make a man trustworthy. No one can guess at the secrets of a man's heart; though I might swear an oath to do you no harm, you might doubt whether I would keep it. However," he continued, almost impatient. "You cannot doubt that you have me in your power. If you died whilst in here alone with me, your queensguard would know I was to blame. Laying hands upon you would be signing my own death warrant, not to mention risking the lives of my lady wife and all my Dornishmen at the hands of a furious mob desperate to avenge their queen."

"Very well," Dany finally allowed, her heart racing in her chest. With a deep bow, Ser Barristan left them alone. Olyvar took the seat closest to where she sat at the head of the table, his brow furrowed.

Whilst Dany picked at her cold meal and Azzar poured wine, Ser Olyvar expanded upon a host of concerns. His people had not meant to remain in Meereen for so long; it was over two years since their arrival, and they wished to depart. Nor could Olyvar sit idly by while Westeros roiled in turmoil, wracked by war, famine, and corruption as the worst winter in living memory bore down upon the realm.

"Why not?" Dany asked, sipping at her wine. "Have you not told me that Princess Arianne has Dorne well in hand? Surely disorder elsewhere shall make it easier to conquer the realm come spring. The people will be glad to welcome their rightful queen."

Her nephew took the bait. "The rightful queen?" Ser Olyvar drew a deep breath, the amber in his purple eyes gleaming like fire at dusk.

"Are the burdens of Meereen not enough to bear? Tell me truly, do you yearn to spend your days subduing a realm that will see you as nothing more than a foreign witch, the last mad seed of Mad King Aerys? You cannot slay every lord as you slew the Great Masters, there are too many, and too many lesser lords eager to take their place. You have no allies in Westeros, save Dorne, you do not know her people or her customs or her gods."

Olyvar rose from his seat, looking down at her with eyes as bitter as his voice. "No. It is not for you to let the realm fall to pieces so that you may pick them up at your leisure. The crown is my burden to bear, as it has been since the day I was born."

Dany stood, heart pounding in her ears. "Is it, Olyvar?" Her anger flashed, as did her hand. Ser Olyvar took the slap without flinching. When she raised her hand a second time, he caught it before the blow could land.

"Do you feel better, Your Grace?" He asked. Despite the mark upon his cheek, he spoke to her with infuriating gentleness. "Or must you slap me again before we can discuss terms? I have sought for weeks to find what to offer you, yet I have come no closer to determining what you want."

"What I want?"

She could not breathe; the world swam dizzily. Did he think there was anything that would make her give up her birthright? But it was never my birthright, a part of her whispered. Viserys was to be king, not her. Her birthright was to be a brood mare for her cruel brother, or so she thought, until Viserys decided to trade her for a Dothraki host. What she wanted did not matter, had never mattered, Viserys had made that clear on the day he dragged her away from the house with the red door. Where else did she belong, if not in the Seven Kingdoms? Who was she, if not a Targaryen?

"Aunt?" She turned. Olyvar— no, Aegon—loomed over her. "What do you want of me? Gold for your coffers? All I ask is safe passage for me and my people. Safe passage, and that you leave the Seven Kingdoms in peace when I am king."

"And Viserion?" She asked in a choked voice.

To her confusion, Azzar stepped forward, and poured more wine into her cup. What was he doing? Her last cupbearer had been much better at her job; it was a shame she'd taken ill.

Olyvar grimaced. "I could not leave him behind even if I wanted to. He thinks that I'm his pet—"

"Azzar, you can clear the table later," Dany snapped, annoyed by the clatter of dishes as he clumsily removed the platter of roast pike. Azzar ducked his head, tried to bow, and succeeded in dumping the platter on the floor, the serving knife spinning to land by her feet.

"I'm so sorry, Your Grace," Azzar babbled, falling to his knees.

"I'm not going to have you beaten," Dany said, exasperated. "Just clean it up, then leave us."

"Yes, Your Grace," he said, almost tripping over his feet as he flung the fish back on the platter. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, picking up the serving knife. "The old blood of Volantis send their regards, Your Grace," he said, grabbing her by the hair and pressing the blade to her throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut; blood roared in her ears; she would have fallen, if not for Azzar's tight grip holding her fast.

"Let her go," said a voice that rang like iron.

"Why should I?" Azzar laughed, so softly. "You're unarmed. Once I'm done with her, it'll be your turn. Or I could just knock you on the head, leave you for her people to find."

"There is no way out," said the iron voice, drawing closer.

"Fool," Azzar snorted. "I'll go out the same way I came in, and the guards will let me pass—"

Frantic, Dany reached up with both hands, yanking with all her strength at the wrist of the hand that held the blade, pulling it away from her throat. She thrashed against his grip, she clawed with her nails until her fingers were slippery with blood, but it was only when she slammed her head against his chin that Azzar finally flung her to the ground with a roar of pain.

Her entire body screamed with agony as she hit the stone floor. Stars danced before her eyes; somewhere far away she heard the sound of a struggle, then a gasp of pain, then a dull thump as a body fell to the ground.

"That's not the serving knife," Dany groaned when Olyvar crouched beside her, one hand still clutching a small blade splattered with the same blood that stained his sleeve and his tunic.

"No," Olyvar agreed, offering her a damp cloth to wash the blood from her hands. "It isn't. I suppose we should be grateful that my sister enjoys the sport of hiding knives; your knights only found half of mine when they searched me."

Unbidden, her eyes fell on the dead body lying not a dozen feet away, the man that her nephew had slain. He should not have had a blade in my presence, a part of her whispered. He saved my life, another part replied.

"I don't want you to give me gold," Dany said, her mouth dry. "I want you to give me vengeance."


"All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Empress of Dragon's Bay, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons!"

The first day of sixth moon meant another day holding open court. The most noteworthy petitioners were the envoys from Volantis, their only message the expected declaration of war. The Volantenes did not expect her to reply by gifting them a chest containing what remained of Azzar when the red priests were done with his corpse. Her Meereenese cheered as the Volantenes gagged and retched; when one of them fainted, the clamor was almost deafening.

Dany could only hope that the slaves of Volantis received her gifts with equal pleasure. Admiral Groleo's fleet set sail a few weeks later, packed to the brim with weapons meant for the widow of the waterfront and her fellow conspirators. Nor was steel her only gift. Three companies of freedmen had leapt at the chance to bathe their knives with the blood of slavers, a desire which Dany was pleased to permit. And then, of course, there was the small matter of the dragon.

In the Seven Kingdoms knights went on quests to prove their worth; it was only fitting that Ser Olyvar do the same. He had not balked when she set him the task of using Viserion to seek out and destroy Euron Greyjoy. He was, however, not particularly thrilled to learn that he must sail to Volantis in order to do so. True, it saved tedious months of flying hither and yon following rumors, but it also meant tedious months of sitting in Volantis, waiting to see whether the half-mad pirate and his stolen green dragon would appear before or after the slave revolt broke out.

Unfortunately, being rid of Olyvar for a brief while also meant losing Irri. The Dothraki lady had demanded to accompany him, along with her company of Dothraki archers. The queen only grudgingly gave her permission after Irri pointed out that someone should be entrusted with keeping an eye on Ser Olyvar and his squire. Of course, such precautions were not truly necessary, not when his wife and the rest of his people remained in Meereen, but still, better safe than sorry.

Sixth moon brought other changes, besides the departure of the fleet. Aegor took over Irri's duties whilst she was away, as Dany did not know or trust any of Irri's assistants enough to let them take her place. Not that the additional duties bothered him, Aegor assured her, he had plenty of extra time on his hands with Olyvar gone. She hoped he enjoyed his work; of late she could have sworn his eyes were turning as dull as the piles of scrolls he was always surrounded by.

If only Ser Barristan handled change so well. Although the old knight remained her chief protector, Grey Worm and his Unsullied were now under his command, with wide discretion to determine how to best guard their queen. Every door and window was watched; no longer were servants permitted to enter any room in which the queen was present; her cupbearers were drawn at random from amongst the Unsullied. Rather than using men as tasters, each dish was tasted by rats, whose small bodies showed signs of poison more quickly.

"I have asked the maesters to tell us all they know of poisons," Grey Worm told her. "They say some are meant to work slowly over time, to feign natural illness. A single bite or sip each day would do nothing to the taster, but would kill Your Grace in a matter of weeks. A rat, though, would die in a few days, and thus reveal the poison before it was too late."

Ser Barristan did not like the use of rats at the queen's table, no more than he liked the Unsullied clearing a twenty foot perimeter about the queen whenever she left the Great Pyramid, rather than ten as had been his wont. Even so, it was hard to argue with Grey Worm's results. After two months without an attempt on her life, even the damp air she breathed seemed sweeter.

Of course, such happiness could not last. Seventh moon brought new problems, chief among them the freedmen's council. Although many of the freedmen wished to return to the homes from whence they had been stolen, few possessed the means to do so. With all the new ships being built for the queen's fleet, could she not spare a few to carry freedmen back to their homes?

"How many times must I tell them no?" Dany complained to Missandei one day as they rode to meet with Ossalen and his scribes in their halls of learning. "Can Jhiqui not make them understand that the ships might be needed to defend Meereen?"

Her pestering had grown so wearisome that the queen had finally given her blessing for Jhiqui to wed Khal Rhogoro. Jhiqui's delight had been well worth it, though she was loathe to lose her for several months whilst she rode to Yunkai, wed her khal, and hopefully got with child before returning.

"The freedmen believe Meeren is safe," Missandei replied, golden eyes shining. "The queen has brought us peace, and now her people will help free Volantis as they freed Astapor. Marselen would wish to go home to Naath, if he had not gone to Volantis." Missandei's face fell. "Mossador often spoke of going home, before they killed him. It would have been sweet, to see the butterflies again."

Less sweet was the sight that awaited them as they passed the Plaza of Trade. Someone had splattered dark red paint across the front of one of the guild halls, and used it to paint Ghiscari glyphs.

"Not paint, Your Grace," Missandei said, frowning. "Blood for the blood bride, it says."

"Pig's blood," Ser Barristan assured them, dispatching several Unsullied to where a crowd had gathered near the glyphs. "Ser Avram shall remain here whilst we continue on, Your Grace. Your scribes await you; there is nothing to fear from a bit of writing on a wall."

Perhaps not, but there was plenty else to fear. What was happening in Volantis? Moqorro watched for her fleet in his flames, but even he could not guarantee their safe arrival, nor foresee whether the green dragon and the white would dance over the walls of old Volantis. She could not bear to think of her children dying; poor Rhaegal was not to blame for Greyjoy's foul sorcery.

Unfortunately, once Jhiqui left for Yunkai there was no one but Missandei to distract the queen from her worries. Sometimes she sang, or read poetry aloud, or joined the queen for a gallop around the city, but even those lovely days were often cut short by the demands of running the lands which had once belonged to the House of Pahl.

Unlike Irri and Jhiqui, who left the wealth of House Galare to the care of seneschals, Missandei oversaw her holdings personally. It was rather amusing, watching Missandei tidy her clothing and her hair before setting off, as though she was a young woman off to meet with her lover, not a lady off to meet with her servants.

With Missandei busy, Dany found herself left with little recourse but to spend more time amongst the Dornish. Lady Sansa was a gracious host, though sometimes she would fall silent, staring unseeing at whatever book was on her lap until one of her ladies drew her attention. Other days she was like a whirlwind, smiling and laughing and stitching away at a furious pace.

"Your Grace is fortunate to have Prince Aegor," Sansa said one day, completely unprompted. "Why do you not spend more time in his company?"

"Prince Aegor is busy with his duties as Hand."

Now that Dany thought of it, she had barely seen Aegor in days. With Jhiqui gone he was handling the freedmen's council in her stead, as well as his own duties. He fell into their bed long after she went to sleep, and usually rose before she did. And Aegor was short-tempered of late, always gritting his teeth and pressing a hand to his head or his stomach when he thought she was not looking.

Disquieted, Dany looked at the sketch which Sansa had been working on, idly scratching the ears of the ginger cat sitting on the lady's lap. "Is that supposed to be a dragon? It looks more like a snake."

Sansa gave the queen a nervous smile, turning the sketch at a different angle. "I was trying to draw a new coat of arms for Olyvar." Rather than three heads, the dragon had only one, its body lithe and sinuous like the ten-headed serpent her nephew used as his sigil.

"A new sigil for a new king?"

Sansa flushed a deep pink, the color contrasting poorly with her auburn hair. "He will be your ally, Your Grace. What would your freedmen do without Your Grace to guard them against their enemies? They worship you, as the people of Westeros never will."

"Will they worship Olyvar?" Dany asked, curious. She could not imagine it, but then, his Dornish were as fervent in their loyalty to her nephew as the freedmen were to Dany.

"Oh, yes," Sansa nodded, eyes bright. "Already there are songs and mummer's shows of his fight against the Mountain; the smallfolk of King's Landing and Sunspear nearly screamed themselves hoarse when we rode through the streets. They will love Olyvar, they will."

"But will they love Aegon?" To her satisfaction, Sansa's face fell. "Ser Olyvar swore the common folk still curse Aerys for his madness and slander Rhaegar for loving Lyanna."

"He is not his father, no more than you are," the girl replied, her voice cold. "As for Lyanna, she was a child—"

There came a hard knock at the door. "Come," said Dany.

She was glad that Sansa had fallen silent before she could repeat Olyvar's indignant lecture of Rhaegar's many faults. Really, how many times must her nephew claim a tale of tragic love was nothing more than that of a selfish man using a young girl for his own ends? Had not Ser Jorah Mormont told her how valiant and noble her brother was? Had not Ser Barristan said he would have made the finest of kings?

Another knock at the door; she must not have spoken loudly enough. "Come!" Dany called.

"Your Grace," Septa Lemore gasped as she burst into the room, her white robes in disarray. One hand clutched her side; her cheeks were bright red, her face dappled by sweat. "Prince Aegor has collapsed."

Long hours passed. Dany paced her chambers; the Stark girl watched the streets from the cold terrace. The halls of learning were halfway across the city; Aegor visited them almost every day, in order to conduct the queen's business. He had been meeting with Ossalen to discuss a new edict when he took ill; thankfully, Haldon Halfmaester had been with him.

"I see him, Your Grace!" Sansa cried as dusk began to fall.

"On horseback?" Dany asked, her heart tight within her chest.

"No, Your Grace. On a stretcher."

When the Unsullied finally carried her husband up to her chambers, Dany recoiled from the sight of him. That sallow man with the hollow cheeks could not be her Aegor. Her Aegor was handsome and strong, capable of taking any task in hand, not this shrunken ghost, who whimpered when a cool cloth was laid on his brow.

"Exhaustion, Your Grace," Haldon Halfmaester grimly pronounced when he had finished settling the sick man into the queen's bed. "I warned him a thousand times that it would come to this."

"Warned him?" Dany did not understand.

"I told the prince consort he must let others handle some of his duties," Haldon said, turning his eyes on her. "Prince Aegor said one else could be trusted with his work."

If he had stabbed her through the heart, it would have hurt less. "Will he recover?"

The Halfmaester shrugged. "Mayhaps. A diet of goat's milk and red meat should restore his strength. There are costly draughts which may help, though the ingredients are rare."

"You shall have them," Dany swore. She would not lose Aegor, she could not. "What else? I shall do anything to save my husband's life."

Anything turned out to mean relieving Aegor of his duties, all of them. Whilst her husband spent the rest of eighth moon drinking draughts of vinegar and priceless spices and powders, the queen divided his work amongst her people. Jhiqui's assistants took over working with the freedmen's council, Irri's assistants did the same for the work with the Dothraki, and with Missandei's help Dany chose a dozen scribes to take up Aegor's work combing through laws.

Ninth moon came, but word from Volantis did not. Dany might have held court in her sleep, she was so used to the petitions which came before her. Still, she tried to give her people justice; Missandei rightly noted it was not their fault that others had suffered the same troubles before. The scribe was her constant companion of late, having shared many of her duties with Ossalen and the council of scribes lest she suffer Aegor's fate. Missandei might be wise, but she was still only a girl of fourteen, vulnerable and innocent.

The little scribe was not her only companion. Daario Naharis often joined the queen when she rode through the city, no doubt hoping to supplant Aegor in her affections. Once Dany might have fallen for the sellsword's rogueish smiles and wicked japes that made Missandei blush, but no more. No, the queen let the sellsword sharpen his wit on Missandei, who gave as good as she got.

Whilst they bantered, the queen took in her city, the familiar streets, the vendors hawking their wares in a dozen tongues, the songs and smell of smoke that rose from the red temple. Was it almost four years since she had smashed the city's gates? She had never lived anywhere for so long, not since she was a child, as ignorant and sweet as the orphans who dwelt in the small pyramid which served as the queen's nursery.

The nursery was her favorite place in Meereen, besides the garden atop her pyramid. There were always children playing in the nursery's little plaza, whether they raced each other beneath the sun or made mud pies in the pouring rain. Though the highest ranking Unsullied continued to adopt children from the nursery, heirs for the holdings she had given them, there were always new children in need of care, their parents struck down by illness or injury.

Would Viserys have been so cruel, had he grown up in a place like this? Dany wondered one warm day as she watched a child play, his light eyes and silver-gold hair marking him as a child of Lys. Some of the other children shared his look, as did one of the wet nurses, a plump girl with dimples and a sweet smile.

Peace she had promised her people, and peace she had given them. Why had she spent so long trembling in fear? Her counselors heeded her every word, her Brazen Beasts enforced her laws, her Queensguard and her Unsullied protected her person. Her people had food to eat, and soon, they would have fresh water, once the masons began work on new wells and drains. Why should she care if vandals continued to deface walls with pig's blood? That was nothing, nothing at all; Ser Barristan would have told her if there was any reason to be concerned.

No, she need not worry for Meereen. She did worry for Aegor, still wan despite weeks of resting in their chambers, just as she worried over the lack of word from Volantis. She trusted Irri, of course, just as she trusted Jhiqui and Missandei, but what of Olyvar? Could she trust him to do what must be done?

A cry rang out as a dark shadow passed overhead; the children gasped with awe. Dany's heart leapt; she had not seen Drogon so close in weeks. Oh, if only he would let her claim him! Her black dragon grew larger by the day, king of the skies as much as she was queen of the city. What feats could they achieve together?

I would not flinch, Dany thought as she rode back to the Great Pyramid. Rhaegar had not hesitated at the Trident, though it cost his life, and she was his sister, his heir like Olyvar never could be. Drogon was far larger than Viserion; if she rode him she could be the one who brought fire and blood to the slavers of Volantis, just as she had brought them the Great Masters of Meereen and Good Masters of Astapor. She could almost see the flames rising over the great black walls of old Volantis, she could almost smell the blood and hear the screams—

"This way, Your Grace!" Ser Barristan shouted, slapping her silver's rump.

She had not imagined the screams. They were real, coming from the street which led to the Plaza of the Bakers. While Grey Worm and his Unsullied headed toward the clamor, her knights drew close about her and Missandei. Down narrow side streets they galloped, through an alley, out onto the Plaza of Purification, and into the stables beneath her pyramid. Her guards bustled the queen inside, Missandei following at her heels.

As it turned out, her guards had leapt into action over nothing. A riding accident and broken leg, Ser Barristan told her later, though he looked rather uneasy. The sight of the woman's gruesome injuries had set the crowd to screaming, that was all.

Thankfully, there were no more such surprises over the next few weeks. Dany spent her time overseeing the new assistants who had taken up Aegor's work, whilst her husband continued to recover in their chambers. By the end of the month he began swimming in the terrace pool for as long as the halfmaester would permit, a good sign. She could only hope tenth month proceeded so smoothly.

"All rise for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Empress of Dragon's Bay, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons!"

The herald's voice was clear and strong as he dismissed the remaining petitioners, but Dany still missed Missandei. Why her scribe suddenly saw the need to inspect her holdings in the hinterlands the queen could not say, but if any of her people deserved her trust, it was her scribe.

Or so Dany thought until she returned to her chambers. She had thought to find Aegor; instead she found Grey Worm and ten Unsullied standing guard over a disheveled Missandei and a bloodied Daario Naharis.

The whole tale poured out in a torrent of words. Upon returning to the city Daario had lamented how far he had fallen in the eyes of his sweet queen, and begged Missandei to help him win her favor. Irri had told her to refuse, and she had.

But then Irri was gone, and the girl saw no harm in a few words with the sellsword whenever they happened to meet near the halls of learning or in the Plaza of Purification. He brought her flowers from the hinterlands, he brought her sweets from the market and shells from Naath, even though she refused to push his case with the queen. Eventually they spoke less and less of the queen, instead talking of songs and stories and Naath.

"I wouldn't betray you," the little scribe pleaded, tears shining in her golden eyes. "Never, Your Grace, never. But after you refused the freedmen their ships, Daario said that with my gold he could hire a ship to take me to Naath, with him as my guard." She sniffled, tears dripping down her nose. "I just wanted to lay Mossador's bones to rest in a butterfly garden, and see if our grandmother yet lived."

"Is this true?" Dany demanded, the smirk on Daario's face making her blood boil.

"All true, gracious queen," the sellsword admitted, bold as brass. "Though the ship was bound for Tyrosh, not Naath."

The look on Missandei's face would have shattered a man's heart. "What?"

"My Stormcrows grow weary for lack of battle," Daario shrugged. "In Tyrosh there is war and plunder. The archon offers thrice what you pay us to any company willing to slay his enemies and rape their women."

"The only war in Tyrosh is that against their slaves." Gods, how could she have been so blind? "A thousand times you swore yourself to my cause, to breaking chains, not forging them."

"So I did," Daario purred through his whiskers. "Men tell beautiful girls what they want to hear. Did no one ever warn you?"

"Missandei is a child," she snapped. Lyanna was a child. "Why bring her into it? Why not leave my service openly?"

Daario stared at her as if she had lost her wits. "You might have let us go, but risk your wrath, or pay for our own passage to Tyrosh when we might have it for free? And a pretty bedwarmer besides, though no doubt I would have to share her."

Dany was too angry to speak, too angry hear Grey Worm's explanation of how the Unsullied had become wary of the bond betwixt the sellsword and the herald, or how they had caught them before they could take ship.

"Leave me," she told them. They must not be here, they must not see the cracks in her queenly facade.

As soon as they were gone, it shattered. Sobs wracked her body as Dany flung herself upon her bed, the sight of Missandei's despair burned into her eyes. Was that how Lyanna had looked, when she realized how Rhaegar had lied to her, how he had used her? Did she feel as helpless as Dany felt when Viserys sold her to Drogo, not knowing the power the khal would give her?

On and on she wept, her eyes burning, her shoulders shaking. She could not stop, not even when she heard the terrace door creak open, not even when she heard Aegor call her name, not even when he took her in arms still wet from swimming and held her to his chest. In the morning she would be strong, in the morning she would be a dragon, not a little girl still dreaming of a red door she would never see again.


Happy new year! Starting off with a bang; can't wait to see what y'all think of the mess in Meereen.

Seriously, this chapter almost broke me, please comment. I'm gonna be so fucking relieved when I'm done with Essos and Dany; it's so much harder than all the other locations/POVs.

Next up

134: Irri and the slave revolt/dragon throwdown in Volantis

135: Cersei IV and uh oh, those nasty Tyrells are at it again

136: Sansa V and ~angst~ as she tries to stay busy while waiting for news from Volantis

2022 year in review: I wrote 335,301 words. What the fuck?!

NOTES

1) Medieval guilds were vaguely similar to how unions work today. The bullshit qualification tests for the freedmen are inspired by Jim Crow laws used to oppress Black people in the US.

2) ASoiaF does not have the incredible fiber/cloth that is cashmere. However, in canon, the Lhazareen are known for their flocks of sheep and goats. As I wanted to expand on their economy/culture beyond "pacifist shepherds who are great at being slaves," I gave them a specialization/technology that made sense for their limited canon background.

3) Irri made an extremely dirty joke that Dany completely missed. When a mare in heat raises her tail, the "winking" is, uhm. Not done using her eyes. On the one hand, saying a girl is "raising her tail" or "winking" at someone makes sense as a Dothraki idiom. On the other hand, WHOA that is a graphic mental image. Also, Irri is 1,000% correct, Sansa is using rigid manners to try and stifle her hormones.

4) Aegor suffered from severe burnout. Yes, it can cause physical symptoms. Almost like the strain of achieving perfection fucks people up. Here's a fun article on the history of exhaustion and various cures used throughout the ages.