Late August, 300 AC

Her chambers smelt of burning leaves.

Daenerys Targaryen watched from her bench as the flames ate at the sheer white linen. Her tokars had been made of expensive cloth, of silks and linens and damasks too precious to be discarded. All would be turned into gowns and robes, all save the one she had saved for her brazier.

It had taken a long time for the linen to catch fire. Wisps of grey smoke rose from the garment as the coals consumed it, the edges shimmering orange and red. The Mother of Dragons must don the tokar or be forever hated, the Green Grace, Galazza Galare, had warned her. Meereen's queen must be a lady of Old Ghis.

Daenerys had yielded, despite her unease. The tokar was the badge of the master, as vile as any whip or chain. But the old woman had urged the Great Masters to accept Daenerys; the Green Grace had been a voice for peace, acceptance, and obedience to lawful authority. The old woman's very eyes seemed to speak of her faithfulness, their green depths soft and full of wisdom.

Quaithe's voice echoed in her head, the words smooth as silk. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal. The pale mare had come from Astapor; too late had she learned that the Greyjoy sigil was a kraken. The masked woman had spoken truly of them, but what of the others?

Quaithe had not warned her of the Green Grace's treachery. Even as she counseled Dany to mercy, the Sons of the Harpy had slaughtered Daenerys' children, and the Harpy herself sipped wine in Dany's chambers. Galazza Galare had moved Daenerys like a puppet on strings. How easily she persuaded Daenerys of the need for peace with the Great Masters, those ancient families who had built their pyramids atop of the bones of slaves. In her ignorance Dany had not questioned the need to befriend them. She did not want the butchery of Astapor; she refused to torture entire pyramids in search of the Sons of the Harpy.

The last straw had been the weavers, three freedwomen who did naught but create beautiful things. The Sons of the Harpy had raped them in their home, broken their loom, and slit their throats. Galazza Galare praised Dany's mercy toward the children she kept hostage, and urged her to make peace through marriage. For the sake of her people Dany had agreed to wed Hizdahr zo Loraq, on the condition that he give her ninety days and ninety nights without a single corpse. He had obliged; when the Westerosi captain arrived it had been over a moon's turn of peace within her city.

Only after Euron Greyjoy told her of his dreams did she remember that the weavers had once been the property of Grazdan zo Galare, a cousin of the Green Grace. Daenerys had hoped to slay the Green Grace with the flames of a green dragon, but...

The fire hissed, the smoke making Dany's eyes water. She could do nothing about the captain's treason. Quaithe had promised three betrayals, once for gold and once for blood and once for love. She had thought Mirri Maz Duur was for blood, Ser Jorah Mormont for love. Yet why would Galazza Galare betray her for gold? Surely the old priestess had betrayed Dany for blood, for the hundred and sixty three Great Masters nailed up on posts. Was Euron Greyjoy the third betrayal? How many more treasons must she fear?

With Rhaegal stolen, Daenerys had been forced to wait to deal with the Harpy and her sons. The city thought him still imprisoned beneath the Great Pyramid; her Unsullied breathed not a word of what happened upon the shore. Drogon was lost; Viserion half wild. How could she be a mother of dragons when her children did not obey her?

Dragons were the least of her problems. The blockade by sea was ended, but no sooner was Greyjoy gone than the Yunkish besieged her city by land, along with two sellsword companies, the Long Lances and the Company of the Cat. The Wise Masters had some eight thousand slave soldiers, so few her Unsullied might have smashed them easily, but the Wise Masters did not come alone. New Ghis had sent four iron legions, twenty thousand men at least. Soon after the Ghiscari arrived came word from Tolos and Mantarys, cities that lay to the west of Slaver's Bay. Both declared war on Meereen and vowed to see her children returned to their chains, and Dany with them.

"Khaleesi? Your council awaits."

Daenerys smiled as Irri and Jhiqui approached, their dark eyes fixed on the smoldering tokar. Gone were their trousers and painted vests. Now they wore the garb of highranking Dothraki women, folded silk tunics that fell to the knee over matching closefitted pants. Irri's was a rich green damask covered in golden vines; Jhiqui's was the deep blue of a river, pale waves flowing over the cloth. Since that terrible day upon the shore they were handmaids no longer. She had forgotten they were the daughters of a khal, and clever beneath their giggles and repetitions of "it is known." In the Seven Kingdoms queens were attended by highborn ladies; Irri and Jhiqui had more than earned such rank by birth and deed.

Irri brought Dany her crown. It was a heavy thing, wrought in the shape of the three-headed dragon of her House. Its coils were gold, its wings silver, its three heads ivory, onyx, and jade. She would have a headache before the day was over, she knew.

Her Dothraki ladies spoke to each other quietly as they followed Daenerys to her council chambers, Ser Barristan Selmy of her Queensguard trailing after them. In the days following Greyjoy's betrayal she had confined herself to her bed, refusing to admit any of her counselors, even Ser Barristan. As Daenerys nursed her broken ankle and dreamed of vengeance against the ironborn captain, it was Irri and Jhiqui who raised her spirits.

Dany could not burn her foes from dragonback, but there were other ways to make the slavers regret besieging Meereen. It had been Irri's notion to send two of her bloodriders out, one to Khal Moro and the other to Khal Jommo. The khals had attended her wedding as Drogo's guests, what felt like a thousand years ago. Moro she knew little; he was a stern man of forty or so. She remembered his son, Rhogoro, slightly better. He had watched her wedding with a frown of disapproval, several young girls who looked like his sisters clustered around him like burs on a dog. Jommo had also been present at Vaes Dothrak when the dosh khaleen hailed Rhaego as the stallion that would mount the world. He had laughed when Drogo mocked Viserys, and looked at Dany with approval when she calmly watched her brother die.

Drogo and Rhaego were dead now too, but Daenerys remained, and the Yunkish had left their city undefended. All their slaves were camped outside Meereen; only freemen and masters remained to hold the Yellow City. It did not matter if the khals loved her, so long as her bloodriders could persuade them that the riches of Yunkai were theirs for the taking.

Jhiqui's idea was of equal use. Her lush bosom and swaying hips concealed years of hidden resentment worthy of a muscled warrior. Yet she had been nervous when she explained her plan, watching Dany as though she might strike the handmaid.

"You have forgotten the Yunkish freedmen, khaleesi," Jhiqui explained, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "They are no warriors, but... a slave must know her master, if she is to survive. She must know what pleases him, what makes him angry. She must know his habits and his men as well as she knows her own name."

Irri stared at Dany as her sister spoke, an odd, sad expression on her face.

"Meereen is filled with freedmen from Yunkai. They know which pavilions belong to which master, they know when and where he prefers to sleep each night. A few dozen slaves could steal into their camp and slit their throats before the sun rises. The bedslaves will flee; the sellswords will take the masters' gold and consider their work finished."

And so while her bloodriders went forth to seek Khal Moro and Khal Jommo, Irri and Jhiqui went among the leaders of the Yunkish freedmen, little Missandei at their side to translate and take notes on scrolls of parchment. Soon they had a list of Yunkai'i masters, and a list of their former slaves.

While her Dothraki ladies spoke with the freedmen, finding those quick and subtle and willing to risk their lives, Daenerys had a less pleasant role to play. She continued to share confidences with the Green Grace, her stomach roiling beneath her smile as Galazza Galare praised Hizdahr zo Loraq's success at providing peace within the city, seething with fury at the old woman's cunning.

"We have lost so much, Your Radiance," the Green Grace sighed one afternoon. Irri and Jhiqui thought the freedmen would be ready soon; it was all that kept Daenerys from having the lying old woman flung from the top of the Great Pyramid. "Your coming is as a breath of fresh air, but it is hard for old women like me to see our lives change so quickly. This marriage with Hizdahr shall be a new beginning for Meereen."

"So it shall. I wonder..." Daenerys sipped her wine thoughtfully, waiting for the old priestess to grow curious. A dragon could be as patient as a harpy. At last the Green Grace spoke.

"Your Radiance?"

"In the Seven Kingdoms, it is a custom for gifts to be given before weddings. Royal weddings are of even greater import; lords great and small are permitted to request a boon from their sovereign. I am inclined to honor this custom, but in a different manner. You speak of suffering, yet I am ignorant of what has been lost. Could such losses even be counted?"

The Green Grace inclined her head, her lips pursed in thought. "Perhaps. What did Your Radiance have in mind?"

"I wish the Meereenese to see me as I am. Let them document all that they owned before my conquest— every slave down to the last kitchen boy, every acre of land no matter how small; all gold and gems and other goods. Then let them account for what they have lost since my arrival. I have scribes of my own who can review such records. Upon my wedding day, I shall see that each pyramid receives what is owed. A gesture of good faith, for these new beginnings."

"The Shavepate will not like it," Galazza Galare said flatly. Some of the Great Masters had shaved their heads to show their loyalty to Daenerys; their leader was one of her counselors. "Skahaz mo Kandaq thirsts for blood as a man in the desert thirsts for water."

"Yet I am to wed Hizdahr, if he can deliver the peace he has promised. The children—" here Dany gestured to her cupbearers, the sons and daughters of the pyramids "—have remained unharmed despite the Shavepate's counsel. I cannot abandon a man who was among the first to champion me, not when there are yet more than thirty days left before my wedding. You yourself cautioned me against spilling the blood of the Great Masters."

The Green Grace adjusted her veil. "This is true, Your Radiance. It was a kindness when you returned the bones to the pyramids, but families still weep for their fathers and brothers."

And did they ever weep for the fathers and brothers they enslaved? Dany sipped at her wine to cover her rage, her other hand holding her tokar.

"Of course. Perhaps... you have told me of Hizdahr zo Loraq's noble lineage. Are there records of the lineage of each pyramid?"

She was not surprised when the priestess nodded. The blood of Old Ghis were as proud as they were false. They did no great deeds themselves, only boasted of heroes whose bones had turned to dust before Valyria fell.

"Let such scrolls also be delivered to my scribes, along with a list of those slain since my conquest."

The Green Grace set her empty cup on the table between them, plucking a fig from the platter of food. The old woman nibbled it delicately, pink juice running down her hand. One of the cupbearers brought her a bowl of clear water and a small cloth to clean her fingers when she was done. Dany was still eating her own fig, though it had lost its savor.

"Such a task..." the priestess sighed, her ancient face tired. "There are one thousand Great Masters. The purest, most ancient blood of Old Ghis. And the lesser masters... another seven thousand, at least."

This Dany knew already, having questioned the Shavepate at length. Of the six hundred thousand who lived in the city of Meereen, only one in six were freeborn. Of those hundred thousand, more than seven in ten were free artisans and laborers, overseers and traders. Two in ten were slavers of lesser blood, most of whom boasted under a hundred slaves to their name. The final tenth were the Great Masters, the few dozen families who traced their ancestors back to Old Ghis. Those who wed outside the sacred thousand were cast off, considered to belong with their new kin. Children were not born until after an elder died, and then only two or perhaps three; too many heirs would divide a pyramid's wealth and reduce its influence.

"I cannot make amends unless I know to whom they are due," Daenerys answered. "I trust you to spread the word through the city. However..." she sighed, letting her shoulders slump just a little bit, to make the old woman think her weak. "If it can be done quietly, so much the better. Hizdahr's success will mean little if there is rioting in the streets. The freedmen already dislike talk of this marriage."

The Green Grace had swallowed the bait. Two days after they spoke the Yunkish army outside the walls suddenly collapsed, masters dead and slaves fled, but the masters within Meereen remained greedy as ever. By the next turn of the moon, the sixth of the year, her scribes were hard at work checking the Great Masters' scrolls against the city's census and tax records. Missandei had helped choose a council of scribes to oversee the work, led by an old freedman named Ossalen who shared Missandei's golden eyes and dusky skin, though his hair was grey flecked with white.

Ossalen was waiting in the council chambers when Irri announced Daenerys, a pile of scrolls stacked before him. Missandei sat beside him, translating Ossalen's words to Mollono Yos Dob, the plump commander of the Stalwart Shields. Beside him sat the leaders of the other two companies of freedmen, Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers and Marselen of the Mother's Men. Grey Worm was there for the Unsullied, Skahaz mo Kandaq for the Shavepates, the Ghiscari nobles and freedmen who supported Daenerys. The old Pentoshi Groleo came as Dany's admiral; Rakharo stood for her Dothraki with the other two bloodriders still away.

Brown Ben Plumm, captain of the Second Sons, smiled, his weathered face wrinkled as ever. "A fine afternoon, Your Grace," he said as Daenerys settled into her chair at the head of the table.

"Is it?" She asked lightly, ignoring the three empty seats in the middle of the table.

"The lion comes today," a deep voice murmured. Daenerys turned to look at the speaker.

Galazza Galare had misled her in many ways. While the masters of Meereen worshipped the cruel gods of Old Ghis, the priestess failed to inform Daenerys that most of the slaves and the freemen worshipped the Lord of Light, R'hllor. The Temple of the Graces was a huge structure capped with golden domes; the red temple was much smaller and more humble, carved from red stone. The high priest, Torreo, was a cautious, sickly old man with the pale eyes and fair skin of Lys.

Moqorro had skin dark as a starless night, his eyes dark pools of onyx. Where Torreo was stooped, Moqorro was tall; where Torreo's presence was as dull as dirt, Moqorro seemed to fill the air with crackling power. Vivid flame tattoos of red and orange and yellow adorned his cheeks and brow; in his hand he bore an iron staff capped with a dragon's head.

"A lion?" Daenerys asked. The red priest inclined his head gravely. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them.

Moqorro had arrived soon after the collapse of the Yunkish host, sent by the Red Temple of Volantis. Daenerys Stormborn , he called her. Daughter of Fire, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains and Chosen of R'hllor.

Daenerys shivered at the memory. They had spoken for some time, the priest's voice rumbling like the coming of thunder. He told her of ancient prophecy, of a hero born amongst salt and smoke, of darkness and terror and cleansing fire that would bring the dawn.

She had known the red priests believed in two gods locked in eternal struggle, R'hllor, Lord of Light, and the Great Other, Lord of Darkness. She had not known that the red priests believed R'hllor was the patron of slaves, the spark who kept the embers of their spirit burning despite their chains. The Great Other was a demon, the soul of night and terror and masters.

Quaithe had warned her against a dark flame, yet Moqorro became her steadfast ally. He preached every dusk before the nightfires to growing crowds of freedmen, promising an approaching day of judgment and coming of a new age. The Great Masters grew ever more nervous as the day of Daenerys' wedding neared. Reznak mo Reznak urged her to restrain the red priest's ravings; Galazza Galare delicately suggested that Moqorro must be missed in Volantis.

Daenerys ignored both of them. Moqorro saw things in his flames, things far more useful than any of Quaithe's warnings. He had seen Ghiscari legionnaires in the guise of slaves creep toward her city walls; not two days later Daario Naharis and his Stormcrows had caught them. He had seen Reznak mo Reznak meeting in secret with the Green Grace; he had seen a fleet of ships with golden banners approach Meereen, heavily laden with sellswords, horses, and elephants.

"I had hoped the Golden Company would not come," she told the red priest. "Ben Plumm says they are ten thousand, fierce and disciplined." They laughed at my brother, she did not say. Viserys asked for their swords and they gave him their contempt instead.

"They are led by a dragon."

"A dragon?" Dany asked, confused. "I am the last blood of the dragon."

The red priest shook his head. "I have seen others, Daenerys Stormborn. Dragons old and young, true and false, bright and dark. Seven there are, not one, but only one is Azor Ahai."

Visions in the flames are one thing, prophecies another. Daenerys pushed the memory away as the door to the council chambers swung open to admit the last three councilors. The first was a portly man with thinning hair, his surcoat golden silk without any device. The second was taller, cleanshaven with dyed blue hair and vivid red eyebrows. The third... Daenerys' belly clenched as she looked at the youth. He was lean and lithe, with a face to make maidens swoon. The gaze of his indigo eyes burned her skin. She had not wanted a new betrothed, but at least he was more fiery than Hizdahr.

Daenerys had not wanted to believe Moqorro the day the men arrived from the Golden Company. She and Viserys were alone in the world for so long; how could there be any other dragons? The youth admitted to her audience chamber did not look the part, not at first. His hair was a vivid blue, as was that of the older man named Griff.

"My true name is Jon Connington," the sellsword told her after her court was cleared but for her guards and her Dothraki ladies. "Your brother Rhaegar was my dearest friend—" he paused, his voice choked by grief. "We were squires together, when we were young. I loved no one better than my prince. I would have done anything to save him."

Daenerys gazed for a long while at the Westerosi, doing her best to ignore the handsome youth at his side. She did not know if this man was who he claimed, but there was someone who might. While Strong Belwas remained to guard her, she sent Irri to fetch Ser Barristan.

"Do you know this man?" Daenerys asked when her faithful knight appeared. He stared at Griff, his old eyes sharp. He examined the man's face, the curve of his cleanshaven jaw and the blue of his eyes. At last Ser Barristan turned to her, bewildered.

"I do, Your Grace. Ser Jon Connington, once Lord of Griffin's Roost, and Hand of the King to your father Aerys." Her queensguard frowned. "They said you drank yourself to death in Lys, some ten years past."

"Twelve," Connington corrected him as the youth stared at Dany. "A necessary deceit. Some things are more precious than honor." He glanced at Daenerys, then back at the youth, his mouth slightly ajar as he prepared to speak.

"Forgive me," the youth said, catching Griff unawares. "You are even more beautiful than I had heard; I am glad to find you in time to be of service."

Dany laughed despite herself. The youth could not be more than two years her senior.

"I thank you, but I fear it will take more than a pair of swords, however valiantly they are wielded."

"It is well, then, that I have brought ten thousand swords. The Golden Company is at your disposal, fair queen, as am I."

The youth drew his steel. It was a hand-and-a-half longsword, the blade dark grey with ripples of black that drank the light. The pommel was a dragon's head, an enormous ruby shining between its jaws.

"Blackfyre," Ser Barristan breathed as the youth laid it at Dany's feet.

"Who are you to wield such a blade?" Dany demanded. She had only seen illuminations of Aegon the Conqueror's Valyrian steel blade in books.

The youth looked up at her, eyes shining purple in the light, his brows and lashes silver-blond. "Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, by Princess Elia of Dorne."

He had switched from High Valyrian to the Common Tongue; while the rest of her councilors watched bemused only Ser Barristan exclaimed in shock.

"The Usurper's men killed Prince Aegon," Dany said, hope warring with suspicion in her chest.

"That was not me. That was some tanner's son from Pisswater Bend whose mother died birthing him. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. He had other sons but had never tasted Arbor gold. Varys gave the Pisswater boy to my lady mother and carried me away, just as Ser Willem Darry spirited you and your brother away."

"Lord Varys?" Ser Barristan asked, frowning.

Dany shared his unease. The eunuch had served the Usurper for years; why would he save Rhaegar's son? It was his whispers that led to the wineseller trying to poison her and the babe in her belly. Suddenly she heard Ser Jorah Mormont's gruff voice. Varys warned me there would be attempts. He wanted you watched, yes, but not harmed.

"Let us forget the eunuch," Dany said. "What do you want of me?"

Aegon remained on his knees, but he looked up at her with a steady boldness Viserys never possessed. "I would wed you, sweet queen. We are the last of our House; only together may we retake the throne of our fathers. With my men and your dragons, none shall be able to stop us."

"My dragons need time to grow," she replied. The dragon has three heads . There are two men in the world who I can trust. Was Aegon one of them? Would this youth be able to tame Viserion? "You must prove yourself, nephew. Lift the siege that plagues my city, and I will take you for my husband."

Aegon grinned as he rose to his feet, but Jon Connington frowned. "We have heard in the city that Your Grace weds in a sennight. What of your other suitor?"

Daenerys' heart pounded, a smile rising to her lips. If they lift the siege, I am free to act. I will not have to wait, to let the Green Grace scold me, to let Hizdahr fuck me when I wish him dead.

As Dany looked over her council she smiled again. How much could change in only two moon's turns. The Great Masters would never plague her again.

"Your Grace," Aegon Targaryen said, bowing gracefully before he took his seat beside Jon Connington and Harry Strickland. Her skin prickled; warmth pooled in her chest. Daenerys ignored her body's misbehavior as she called her council to order.

They began with the enemies of Meereen. By the time the Golden Company arrived, the bloody flux had run wild through the besiegers' camps. Jhiqui's freedmen had slain many of the Ghiscari captains and a few generals; those who remained thought the Golden Company had been hired by New Ghis or Yunkai. Harry Strickland had landed his knights and squires and horses and elephants without any trouble; it was only when they charged the camp before dawn that the slavers realized they were foes.

Dany had watched from the walls, her skin tingling with anticipation. Golden banners streamed across the field, shining in the light of the rising sun. Hooves pounded like thunder, raising clouds of choking red dust. Elephants trumpeted their fury as the Ghiscari legions scrambled to their posts, locking their shields and lowering their spears.

The Three Thousand Unsullied of Qohor had withstood the charge of twenty thousand Dothraki, standing firm against eighteen charges. But the Golden Company were knights, not Dothraki. Rather than charge into the thicket of spears, the knights split their force.

Even as the Golden Company flanked the legionnaires, Grey Worm led her Unsullied forth from the gates of Meereen, along with the three companies of freedmen. At first the legions stood firm, and for some hours Dany worried that they might withstand her host. But Unsullied were trained the same way as the iron legions, and they knew their weaknesses. Blood flowed and men screamed and died, but in the end, every legionnaire lay dead upon the field, the siege destroyed, and she was able to take her vengeance on the Harpy. Dany's heart sang as she remembered the day of her second wedding, and she forced herself to pay attention to the council meeting.

"Elyria remains neutral, and Tolos sends envoys to sue for peace. They are too small to risk losing more men beneath the walls of Meereen, not with these rumors of a slave uprising. New Ghis, however..." the Shavepate grimaced, his oily skin glistening. His eyes were almost invisible between the bags under his eyes and his heavy brow; the nostrils of his enormous nose flared with displeasure. "There will be more legions on their way soon. Volantis, Lys, and Qohor stir with unrest; there is talk of Lyseni sellsails and Qohorik sellswords."

"What of Volantis?" Daenerys asked.

Aegon shifted in his seat, doubtless eager to speak. Three huge square-cut rubies shone at his throat, set in a chain of black iron. I am Rhaegar's sister, but he is Rhaegar's son, and he knows it. Her nephew had the better claim to the Iron Throne, and she trusted her new betrothed little more than his predecessor. At least he was comelier than Hizdahr, and brought better gifts.

"The triarchs fight amongst themselves, while the horselords descend upon Selhorys," Moqorro rumbled. The rest of her councilors eyed him warily.

"Khal Pono," Aegon said confidently. "He has thirty thousand in his khalasar; news reached Volantis before we sailed. The triarchs intended to buy him off." He grinned. "Khal Pono must not have liked their gifts. How thoughtful of him to keep the Volantenes busy."

Dany resisted the urge to glare at her nephew. Pono was once a ko in Drogo's khalasar. He had always spoken her gently, yet when Drogo lay dying and she needed him Pono had named himself khal and left with ten thousand riders at his back, as well as the best of the herds.

She turned to Moqorro. "How fare the children?"

Despite the Harpy's treachery, Daenerys could not bear to hurt the children who served as her cupbearers and pages. Qezza with her pretty voice, plump shy Mezzara, Dhazzar the dancer, she had given all of them to the Red Temple.

"They ask for their parents," said Moqorro. "Qezza is learning hymns. Her voice gives glory to the Lord of Light."

"Good." Dany supposed it was to be expected; children could not help the treachery of their sires. Aegon shifted in his seat, frowning.

"I still think—"

"The matter is closed," Dany said firmly in the Common Tongue. Most of her advisors did not speak it, but they still looked askance at the blue-haired youth. They knew Aegon as Young Griff, a rich merchant's son from Pentos. Ser Barristan and Jon Connington agreed it was too perilous to let his true name be known, lest assassins be sent to end the Targaryen line.

"But the laws—"

She raised a hand, silencing his protest. "Ser Barristan, clear my council. I need a private word with Young Griff."

When they were alone but for Ser Barristan standing guard outside the door, Daenerys turned on her nephew.

"I told you no," she glared.

"The rule of law is the bedrock of a kingdom," Aegon recited, doubtless quoting some Westerosi text. "Even the worst man deserves a trial; the evidence against him made public so that the people know his crimes. You must be seen to give justice, not punish at whim."

"At whim?" She wanted to slap him. "For hundreds of years they slaved, kidnapping and raping and murdering as they pleased. I spared the children, but there is no doubt of their parents' guilt. The freedmen needed no evidence, they cheered my justice. You yourself told me that you dreamt of the Green Grace's treachery!"

"But did all the graces know of her betrayal? In Westeros—"

His insolence angered her. "We are not in Westeros. We are in Meereen, the city I conquered. When we wed you shall be my consort, not my king."

"And when we return to claim the Iron Throne?" He challenged, eyes flashing.

"That day is not today. You will not undermine me before my council. Am I understood?"

"Then speak with me in private," Aegon demanded, stepping close to her. He was much taller than Dany; her chest rose and fell as she looked up at him. For a moment she thought he might lean down to kiss her— a knock came at the door, and they broke apart.

"Fine," she snarled, her cheeks warm.

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan's white armor shone in the torchlight, his back tall and proud despite his years. He glanced at his queen and her betrothed, brow furrowed. "A ship has arrived from Illyrio Mopatis."

Dany frowned. Once the magister had sold her to Khal Drogo for a fortune in horses and slaves. Yet he had given her her dragon eggs, had sent Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas and the three ships that bore her from Qarth to Slaver's Bay, had sent her the Golden Company and the boy who led them—

"What sort of ship?" She asked when Aegon had stomped out of the chamber, annoyed at being dismissed.

"A trading galley, like the ones he sent to Qarth, Your Grace. Her hold is filled with chests of gold and precious gems, Illyrio's messenger says. A Westerosi knight, or so he told the Unsullied. Marselen and his Mother's Men detained the knight when he asked to be brought into your presence. Will you see him, or shall I tell him to return upon the morrow?"

"I will see him this evening, but first... I would visit the plaza."

The Plaza of Purification was an enormous public square that lay before the Great Pyramid. Once she had nailed up one hundred sixty three Great Masters, justice for the slave children who had pointed her way to Meereen. Those corpses had long since been pecked clean by carrion crows, their bones returned to the pyramids. It was a kindness to return their dead, and they paid me back with treachery and slaughter.

If she had not known better, Dany would have believed the Green Grace when she feigned quiet pleasure at the lifting of the siege. "An auspicious beginning to your union with Hizdahr zo Loraq," the priestess had said as they prepared the final arrangements for her wedding. All the nobility of Meereen wished to witness their union; the Great Masters were eager for the promised boons.

Daenerys had hoped they would attend her in the plaza, but unfortunately Meereenese custom decreed that wedding guests await the bride in the Temple of Graces. Little though she liked it, the Green Grace refused to yield on matters of custom, especially since Daenerys had already refused to have her naked body inspected by Hizdahr's female relatives.

The sky was a clear blue on the day of Daenerys' second wedding. Ten men bore the open palanquin that carried Dany and Hizdahr through the dusty streets to the Temple of the Graces. While the Golden Company and her erstwhile kinsman patrolled outside the city, Unsullied lined their route. Most of her freedmen were very angry at the thought of being ruled by Hizdahr, and even Jhiqui had been unable to assuage the fears of their leaders. The Brazen Beasts were angry too; Skahaz could barely keep civil when he spoke to her.

The Green Grace misliked having so many soldiers present, but even she could not disregard the danger that some freedman might attack Hizdahr to prevent the wedding. More Unsullied guarded the Temple of Graces, their pointed caps oddly reminiscent of its golden domes.

Galazza Galare awaited them outside the temple doors, surrounded by her sisters in white and pink and red, blue and gold and purple. There were less of them than there had once been; the bloody flux had spread from outside Meeren's walls. Half the nobility of Meereen covered the steps, leaving a path through their midst; the other half, the elderly and the children, awaited within the temple's largest hall where the ceremony would be held.

Hizdahr helped Dany down from the palanquin, his gentle hands only adding to the simmering fury that hid beneath her smile. How dare he treat her gently, he who had conspired to force her into marriage? He led her to the Graces, the crowd falling silent as they drew near.

"Who comes before the gods of Old Ghis to be wed?" The Green Grace asked, her voice loud and clear.

"I, Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of that Noble Name, eldest son and heir of Zahar zo Loraq, of the blood of Mazdhan the Magnificent, Hazrak the Handsome, and Zharaq the Liberator."

"I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men." She raised her voice louder. "Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, Maegor the Cruel, and Maekar the Unforgiving."

Neither the Green Grace nor Hizdahr so much as twitched. Still they underestimate me. She should be glad, but it was as fuel for the fire burning within her chest. She glanced about her; Grey Worm stood with his Unsullied, his face utterly calm as the Graces brought forth an ivory chair and a golden bowl. Dany did not move. Hizdahr would not be washing her feet this day, no more than he would bed her this night.

A few minutes passed before the Graces began to look at each other, confused.

"Sit, my queen," Hizdahr said, smiling as he reached to take her hand.

Dany stepped back, her mended ankle flaring with pain. The moment of agony strengthened her resolve; she pretended to stumble. Ser Barristan was at her side in an instant, offering her his arm. His longsword hung at his hip; no guests were armed, but for her Queensguard and her Unsullied.

"My queen?" Hizdahr's placid eyes flicked to her knight. "Are you well?"

"How could I not be well? This is a day of joy. You have kept your promises; the Sons of the Harpy no longer prowl the streets. How thoughtful of you, to bring them to our wedding. I only wish the Harpy herself might grace us with her presence."

She turned to the Green Grace, marking the sudden stiffness of the old woman's shoulders, the ancient eyes darting this way and that beneath her veil.

"Your Radiance—"

"Dracarys," Dany sang out.

Once the word had turned Drogon's flames on the Good Masters of Astapor. Now it turned her Unsullied's swords on the Great Masters, the eunuchs drawing their blades as one. The Graces ran for the doors of their temple, nobility swarming behind them like ants. But Grey Worm was no fool. His men reached the doors first, slamming them shut before more than a few could enter the sanctuary.

Hizdahr reached for her, his face a mask of terror. "Please, sweet queen, mercy-" Ser Barristan drew his sword; Hizdahr fell to his knees, sobbing with fear. A ring of Unsullied surrounded them; she could hear women screaming and the dull boom of a battering ram at the temple's side door.

It was over as quickly as it began. Only a few masters dared defy the Unsullied, and they died quickly, their life's blood dripping down the temple steps. The rest submitted like the cowards they were, kneeling before the Unsullied who placed shackles about their soft hands and pampered feet.

"I offered mercy," Dany cried when all was quiet but for the clinking of chains. Several of the men spat at her; the Green Grace's eyes blazed with hate. She would have spit if she could, but the Unsullied had gagged her to stop her cursing.

"I offered mercy," Dany repeated. "I let you keep your pyramids, and tried to forget the blood mixed into their bricks. I let you keep your gold, and tried to forget you earned it by breaking men beneath the lash. I let you keep your lives, and tried to forget how many you killed over centuries of slaving. And you took my mercy for weakness, and murdered my children, thinking me helpless to resist."

She balled her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms. "I am a dragon; I fear neither the harpy nor her sons. Your power is ended; you wealth shall be divided—"

"Kill us and be done with it, godless cunt!"

Dany turned her gaze on the broad shouldered man who had spoken. His tokar was pale purple, a color favored by those of House Loraq.

"No." She smiled sweetly. "Death is too quick for all that you have done."

Ser Barristan's armor nearly blinded her when they reached the plaza, the sun blazing off the steel. Ants crawled on the tops of every pyramid but her own; in the distance she heard the crack of a whip. No longer would the blood of Old Ghis recline on their shaded terraces, drinking wine and fucking bedslaves. Now they toiled in the hot sun, dismantling their own pyramids brick by brick. The oldest had already died, succumbing to exhaustion and overwork. All but one, of course.

The Green Grace stood in the center of the plaza, chained to a stake placed on a high platform. Unsullied paced below the platform, guarding the prisoner day and night. Her tokar hung loosely on her sunburnt body, the vivid green cloth faded from exposure. At some point in the day her bowels had loosened; the backs of her legs were streaked with her own filth. Her white hair fluttered in the wind; open wounds and scabs adorned her limbs and face. The platform was just low enough for enterprising freedmen to cast stones at her, though her Unsullied prevented them from throwing any large enough to kill. Her soldiers climbed a ladder to make the old woman drink water; when she refused to eat they forced nourishing broths down her throat.

"Surely it is time for her to die," Ser Barristan said, clearly uncomfortable.

"Perhaps," Dany granted. Her rage was a fickle thing. Sometimes the old woman's suffering made her want to weep. Then she remembered the weavers, raped and murdered for daring to work as freewomen, and she hardened her heart. Galazza Galare would suffer as long as the gods willed it. Finally Dany turned away, and let her queensguard escort her back into the Great Pyramid.


NOTES

1) I didn't realize how much would end up crammed into this chapter until it was too late. Oops. This took a week of drafting and rewrites; thanks very much to Muffins, PA2, AyeJay, and SioKerrigan for helping me wrangle this 6.9k nightmare. Hopefully Arya I will be much quicker and easier. The logistics of Meereen and Slaver's Bay make no goddamn sense.

2) The revelation about the weavers made me SO ANGRY. It's true to canon; the Green Grace's cousin wants to be compensated for his former slaves; instead Dany makes him buy them a loom. A few chapters later, the Green Grace innocently asks Dany about the latest harpy murders- those three weavers. Dany hasn't put the pieces together yet; when she does, she would be PISSED.

3) Dany is starting to recognize Irri and Jhiqui as people instead of background characters. Somewhat. Kinda.

4) In canon, the original plan was for Faegon to meet Dany in Volantis. That didn't happen, and Tyrion's advice led to Faegon deciding to head west without her. Here, he dreamed she was in trouble, and like most overconfident young men decided he could totally save his bride to be. However, since he was given a VERY thorough education, he's got an awareness of law and ruling that Dany was never given by either Viserys or her own experiences. It's an awkward situation; he's 2 years older and has the better claim, but she's a khal's widow who has stomped three cities. And has DRAGONS.

5) Giving Faegon Blackfyre is a hilarious inside joke between Myles Toyne and Illyrio Mopatis. JonCon is not aware.

6) My brain decided that linen must burn REALISTICALLY. Brief research revealed that linen is apparently quite hard to set on fire, and it smells like burning leaves.