Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daenerys didn’t remember a time when Daena hadn’t been there. But she did remember a time when she couldn’t remember men commenting on the wizened but still sharply muscled Valyrian woman. As she grew older, she became aware of the mutters of men. They said that Daena was a blood mage, and a sorceress, and they said that she was older than she looked, and they muttered, too, at the way that when they sparred with her, they could see the continuous traces of scars on her body, and how they usually lost to her.

Daenerys knew her as mommy. Her mother had insisted on that, since her youngest age, when she explained to her and Viserys that Daena was like a second mother to them. Men muttered about that, too, but they held their tongues around Queen Rhaella, and her withering look, and Daena, well, mommy had a quick and sharp Valyrian steel sword.

One time Viserys had declared, after playing with his friends—the young Lordlings of Pentos—that a child could not have two mothers. Daena had smiled, that night, and said, “then, young Prince, I will be your father.”

She had taught Viserys how to fight, and been the one who had disciplined him when he was a fool, especially when he treated Esther like a servant.

Esther, the woman with the brown skin and the curly hair, and the sharp dark eyes—Esther was not Pentoshi, or Rhoynish, or Dothraki or anything else. She had come from the place that Daena had been. Daena sometimes said she was Pentoshi, but nobody believed that. Esther was definitely not Pentoshi. She was Something Else, but like Daena she prayed to a single God like the Lord of Light, but not the Lord of Light.

Esther was the one who kept the ledgers. One night, Daenerys had crept close to her mother’s door, when she was about twelve years ago, and had overheard them talking. Esther had said that her family had served Daena for two and a quarter centuries.

Daenerys had took it to mean that her family had served Daena’s family for two and a quarter centuries.

Sometimes these days, though, Daenerys thought about it, and wondered if maybe Daena was a Blood Mage.

Esther, Daenerys learned as she grew up, did a lot more than keep the ledgers. Daena’s gold had created a big iron-works south of the city, and Esther was usually in charge of supervising all the new things it made. It was said to be the finest iron works in all of Essos. Daena called her a ‘ Damn fine Engineer’. They made shovels and hoes and scythes and ploughs and iron wagons and armour and swords for the whole of Essos.

She had learned politics from a young age, and warfare, too. Sitting with her mothers, she’d first had read to her, as a four year old girl, a colourful book with a big rabbit shaped like a man, named Hare Clausewitz, who had taught her all about war as Politics-by-Other-Means. You must never forget this part, because war is just a continuation of policy.

The Ironworks made them all very rich, and they lived in one of the largest mansions in Pentos. At the first, the Braavosi had been concerned that they would make Pentos strong again, but instead, Mother and Daena and Esther had raised wages for their workers, and opened a textile mill with the profits, which made the most, cheapest textiles in all of Essos; and they had enough money that they had started paying the bonds on debt-bondsmen, so they could come to work at the factories. So, they had their own political party, the Readjuster Party, because it wanted to readjust the debt of the bondsmen, so they could pay it off and be free.

The Slaveowner’s faction, still bitter at Braavos, had responded by raising a mob and assaulting their palace, and the Textile works. Daenerys remembered that day, just a few years ago, very clearly, when Mother had fled with her and Viserys to the Ironworks in a state of desperate agitation, and flung herself into Daena’s arms. But then their enemies had met another one of Esther and Daena’s creations, the cannon they called Street-Sweeper. Street-sweeper was an 18pdr, she had learned later, and that was quite a lot when fired double-shotted with cannister. Then Daena and Esther had led out two hundred men from the works, armed with muskets, and four hundred with pikes.

The next day, the surviving Magisters surrendered, and Daena caused the Prince of Pentos to make Esther a Magister.

With the Readjusters in power, they had just gone and outright abolished Debt-peonage. Daenerys had started working as a scribe for Esther in the government, and gain day to day experience with the needs of the people, while Daena rode through the streets, with Viserys at her side, like a squire. She learned a lot about the nature of men and women in those days, dealing with the disputes of the people of the city.

She learned how one could fly without a dragon, the happiest day of her life. Daena had taken her up—Mother Rhaella had insisted that she go separately from Viserys—successively in a flight right after her brother, in a hot air balloon, which had been the wonder of the whole city, painted in colourful dancing dragons and making the people cheer and scream and declare it a feast-day.

And from the way her mother had kissed Daena sweetly on the cheek, and leaned into those care-worn but fiercely strong arms, she had learned enough to draw some conclusions about her mother’s relationship with Daena, some very clear conclusions, in fact. So, while drinking some of the tea from Yi-Ti that her mothers and Esther were so fond of, their own great luxury, she asked, idly, “Lady Esther, answer me honestly. Are my mothers lovers, in the sexual way?”

Esther had snorted softly, and with her eyes bright, nodded. “Queen Rhaella would rather have you and Viserys not learn it so explicitly, but I knew you’d figure it out eventually. You’re a bright girl, Your Highness. Daena has always been inclined more or less exclusively toward women. She had dalliances with men when she was younger—I’ve read the diaries of some of my ancestresses, they were in for a wild time—but she’s always preferred women. She is married to your mother, in fact if not in law. We just don’t speak about it here, because people wouldn’t really understand it, not in the way they would in the place that Daena and I came from, where they could be married in law as well as fact .”

She’d expected the answer in some ways, but the full explanation seemed to add as many questions as it clarified some matters. “But my mother, well, what my father?”

Esther had eyed her over her cup, clearly judging how much to tell the young Princess. “I don’t think your mother exclusively, or even half-way, prefers women. Doubtless she loved your father once upon a time. But your father is dead, and she chose to bond with Daena after Daena saved her life, on Dragonstone, and we built the boats, from the washed-up hulks of the royal fleet, that carried you all away to Pentos with her remaining loyalists.”

Daenerys thought she understood that well enough, and it made sense, and she was happy for her mother that her mother had someone who she was happy with, that way. Then she decided to dribble out another bit of the information she’d pieced together from overhead conversations in the night. “Lady Esther, is Daena a Princess?”

Esther laughed. “Yes, Your Highness. Daena Duleep-Singh, the Granddaughter of the Lion of the Punjab. You know her religion—that was the religion of the family that raised her.”

Daenerys decided not to ask about whether or not Daena was a Blood Mage, and whether or not she was really so old that Esther’s ancestors had sworn loyalty to her. That would probably go too far. So she asked another question. There had been several assassination attempts against them in the past year, and there were rumours that the Usurper-King was preparing a fleet to cross the Narrow Sea, to root them out. “Why don’t we just go to the land where you and Daena are from, Lady Esther? It seems much nicer. Mother and Mommy would be married and, erm, wife and wife.”

“There’s no place for someone like Daena there anymore.” Esther looked distant. “There’s no place for a woman who is kind to her workers, and for a woman who likes her privacy. They finally chased her out of the ends of the Earth, and now, at last, back to whence she came. And I came with her because … Couldn’t imagine doing anything else.” She smiled brightly. “Really, helping raise Your Highness is worth it, by itself.”

“And helping the people of the city, isn’t that also it? I see how happy you are doing this, Lady Esther.”

The dusky woman’s look was distant, for a moment. “Essos needs a lot of help,” she allowed at last.

“It does.” Dothraki, slavery, grasping, endlessly warring cities. Daenerys had heard about all the problems. “But how will we do anything about them, when the usurper comes?”

Esther smiled a small little smile, and reached out to pat her shoulder. “The usurper will have a hot welcome, Your Highness. Don’t worry about that. Now, help me prepare for the afternoon petitions.”

“One more thing, Lady Esther.”

“Yes?”

She grinned. “Is it true, the word on the street, that you will make women equal to men?”

Esther patted the revolver on her hip. “Oh no, a gentleman named Sam Colt did that some centuries ago. We just cried the town with the news. ”

Chapter Text

There was white marble and fine tapestries, woven carpets, and paintings on the walls from Daena’s world that locals would not appreciate, but the House Targaryen now did. It was a panoply of war and grandeur as fine as any in the history of Westeros and Essos. Old battle-flags, adorned with a skull and crossbones, hung ominously in a place of glory, still rent with shrapnel and stained with blood, red and black and white, and a dozen more too, covered in glory and shame, wars and battles won and lost.

Her dragon had lived a violent life.

When she had come with her small group of retainers to Dragonstone--Esther and the Cossack and Uzbek women—none had known what to do with her. Aerys was dead, and the situation was hopeless. Then, Daena had saved her life with blood-magic, and told the truth of who she was. With little babe Daenerys at her breast and Viserys in the castle, Rhaella had no choice. She could trust what Daena had revealed, as mad as it was, or die.

The fleet had been wrecked the same night, but there then had stood Esther Hoffmeyer, as cool as a knight striding the field in main battle. She had directed the salvage of the flotsam from the beaches, and used it to build a smart group of small sailing ships—schooners and sloops. They had escaped on the handily sailed vessels with all of their remaining servants and armed retainers and loyal Knights.

Pentos had been their destination, officially because it was weak and easily influenced, with only Rhaella knowing the truth. In the years that had followed, the plan had been trued, though. And somewhere along the way, Rhaella had overcome her fear, the old stories of Queen Rhaena, the teachings of Septas … She was a Queen and would know no man’s touch but a King’s. Daena would be her love. The comfortable familiarity of another Valyrian was what she really desired.

Daena was certainly another Valyrian.

To put it mildly.

She led her guest out onto one of the balconies overlooking the harbour. It was a fine summer day yet, and there was tea service waiting, which was all the rage these days in Pentos. The tea itself was presented with preserves, and bread, the preserves being for both the bread and the tea. “Lord Marilo Aponta, is it not?” Rhaella’s voice lilted. Finally, here, she was a diplomat as Aerys had not let her be.

“It is, Your Grace,” the Braavosi emissary made a courtly bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I am always honoured to host guests, Lord Marilo. However, I am surprised you have not visited the Magisters. Illyrio and Esther would be quite pleased to host you as well.” All three of the women loathed Illyrio, but he had turned his coat soonest, and so they worked with him to administer the city, and for some reason he was reliable as a supporter. They also worried that was a show, but could not find a reason for it other than a conviction of a practical advantage in supporting their reforms and investments.

“The famous Esther Hoffmeyer indeed keeps a fine table, and it would be a marvel to see the latest contrivance she has invented with her free apprentices. But we know enough to understand that she is but Lady Daena’s Lieutenant, and the Readjusters are really in power here, not the Magisters, and that means House Targaryen.”

“You may believe that, M’lord, but it is wrong on two points. Esther Hoffmeyer makes all the decisions for the administration and reconstruction of the city on a daily basis, and she does not need to consult with either myself or Lady Daena. Please, do sit. But I am just a rich exile.”

“Very rich, Your Grace.” He smiled pleasantly, and took the tea that the servants offered, the breeze pleasant and warm over both of them. “I have heard it said that one of your little boats that saved Your Grace from Dragonstone, was laden with fifty tons of gold.”

“Well, many men speak many rumours of those times,” Rhaella shrugged, her smile saying nothing. The pain of days past had long faded, except the creaking in her joints.

“It has multiplied many times since then,” he countered.

“The Gods have been kind to the city, now that it truly abandoned slavery.”

He hmmed. “That is a good thing, and make no mistake, all Braavos is with you, Your Grace, for what you have done in Pentos. We have no objection to the administration of the Readjuster Party, just some concerns. Why, there is a treaty of ancient provenance between Braavos and Pentos, which strictly forbids Pentos to maintain more than a City Watch, and twenty ships of war with their sailors, oarsmen and Marines.”

“I still see only a City Watch in the rolls of armed men of the city. Remember that the expenditures are reviewed publicly. We do not have secrets to hide.”

The Braavosi’s smile was insincere. “Your Grace, you must surely be aware that I have witnessed troops drilling in the streets, not a City Watch. They bear alchemical shard-throwers, some wonder of the foreign land the Magister Hoffmeyer hails from.”

“They are the Party Militia of the Readjusters. How, after all these long years, could free men trust the City Watch to maintain their liberty from the oppression and debt-peonage of their former slaveowners? They do not answer to the Government, but to the Party.”

“And the Government and the Heads of the Party are all close friends.”

Rhaella loved the freedom and the confidence to be so gently impassive. “We are. But the forms are observed. And the Party is not a dictatorship. Braavos is famous for supporting freedom throughout the world. You have nothing to fear from the common men of Pentos drilling with arms to keep their former masters from reimposing bondage upon them. That force is focused entirely on internal affairs, and it does not act as the personal force of Lady Daena.”

But he was not stymied, exactly. “And the fleet, Your Grace?”

“I count twenty ships in the Naval Arsenal, M’lord.”

“Twelve of the largest galleys even built, bearing heavy cannon on the bows, and four fast-sailing oared scouts, and another four hybrids, perhaps the largest ships ever built…”

Rhaella grinned a little. She liked showing up men, even on military affairs; she would never fight, but she understood what Daena and Esther talked about now, with enough effort. She needed to, to make sure Viserys was ready to someday be a King, and Daenerys, if it came to it, a Queen. “Galley-Frigates, Lord Marilo. And the main battery is six eighteen pounders as chasers, and thirty thirty-two pound carronades. Four galley-frigates, four Xebecs, and twelve Capitana galleys. Twenty ships, Lord Marilo.”

“They are very large ships, Your Grace. Ships meant for foreign service.”

“The Narrow Sea is treacherous, and large ships stand storms better,” she countered, enjoying the floral note of rose preserves in her tea. Some of the servants set up a sun shade, as the hour got close toward noon.

“The King in Landing does not see your fleet and your Party Militia in that way, Your Grace.”

“Let him come, then!” She snapped, a snarling bit of dragon-temper finding purchase on a very mild mannered soul. “Let them all come! I am here to be a mother to my surviving children. But I am a Westerosi and neither me nor my friends would tolerate the slavery of this place, freedom in name only for all these people. The casual outrages made my loyal Knights furious, and made my friends sick, and instead of playing the same game, when we built our factories, we resolved that the people of this city should be free. Our actions are solely in the interest of preserving freedom here. If the Usurper comes and overthrows that, he will be a great hypocrite among Westerosi, for the slaving class would soon reassert itself.” She lamented that she let herself get a bit carried away, but it needed to be said.

“Will the people of the city fight under the command of foreigners, though? Truly? When the King in Landing brings forth three hundred ships to destroy you?”

“Lady Daena is not a foreigner to Pentos. Her mother was born and raised to womanhood in this city. She speaks the Pentoshi dialect in an old way, and the people of the city know that while her father was of rank, her mother was a tavern dancer. She has no fear of that being common knowledge and all due pride in having arranged the liberation of her kith and kin.”

“They might fight for her in other places too, then, Your Grace.” His eyes narrowed a bit. “See that the Party Militia remains a Party Militia. See to it that you do not let your son quaint the thirst for glory and lust for revenge of a young man. The Iron Throne has paid its debts. We will not tolerate a stroke against it. But, nor do we take any pleasure in the overthrow of Pentos to Westerosi adventurism. As long as you observe the forms of the treaty, maintain the power of the Freedmen in the City, and keep to a comfortable exile, Braavos will not permit merchants to take contract for the transport of Westerosi troops across the Narrow Sea.”

“If that is what you came to say, why do not tell it to the Magisters yourself?”

“I will, but despite your protestations, I came to see your mettle first, Your Grace, for you are the one really in charge.”

Rhaella hid her smile. It tickled her pink that they thought she was in charge, instead of Daena.

Of course, it really is Esther. She’s the smartest. For a moment, Rhaella thought of a future, that she yet might live to see, where Viserys sat the Iron Throne, and Esther was his Lady Hand.

Her family really did deserve it, after standing at Daena’s right side for two and a quarter centuries, since that fateful day in the wild story she had been long ago told, of the German Jew crossdressing to serve as a Hussar in the fallen Kaiser’s Army, and the White Officers ready to shoot her on the fields of bloody Ukraine, until Daena’s Women’s Death Hussars had arrived, and she had gone against her Cossack officers, and spared Margrete Hoffmeyer’s life.

Let them all come, indeed. You have no idea what you face.

Chapter Text

Jon I

“I am worried, you know, that those lunatics from the east who carried the Mad King’s wife and whelps away to Pentos were responsible for Jon’s death,” Robert confided to Ned, while long in his cups in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The visit had already been something of a disaster, with young Lord Bran’s fall from the tower.

The Jon named after this Jon, Lord Jon Arryn the late Hand of the King, listened quietly from one of the tables further back. Bastard sons did not sit with the Lord and the King.

“They won’t have much longer to scheme if that’s so, Your Grace,” Ned answered, “considering that I will be taking you south on our galleys. And Jon was an old man.” Ned’s words were a bit pained, with Bran in a coma and likely not to wake. The accident had cast a pall over what Robert had wanted to see as one more going forth to battle for the old friends, one more adventure, one more challenge in war.

“It’s true.” The King was long in his cups, but his eyes were brighter, the closer to the day they came. He had not, after all, had cause to call his banners in a very long time.

And Jon Snow had a decision to make. He clung to every word, because tonight he had to decide if he would go to the Wall, and become a Brother of the Black Watch—or ask for his father’s leave to accompany the men who would go to sea on the Manderley galley squadron to join the King’s Fleet for the assault on Pentos.

“We’ll deal with the threat the Young Pretender serves in battle, and finish this once and for all,” Ned mused. “It’s the best way, Your Grace.”

“Don’t I know it! A final fight with the damned dragons. Shame it’s not on land, though we did have quite the time of it in the Greyjoy rebellion, didn’t we?!”

Jon saw Theon stiffen and flinch a bit at the comment. It had been the last time his father had gone south, when had went to fight the Greyjoy, and come back with Theon. But Theon had never cared for him, and Jon returned the favour.

“A siege of an old Valyrian colony will be bloody work, Your Grace.”

“Ah, there you go again, Ned, worry, worry, worry. With luck, we will defeat them at sea and some new Magisters will hand the whelps over to us. If not, Varys is making arrangements to make sure Pentos falls, one way or another. Damned spider though he be, he will get the job done, when it comes to Essos. And if we do have to storm the walls, well,” he clapped the Lord of Winterfell’s shoulder. “That will be a thing to remember!”

“I don’t like that our allies might be slavers.”

“You know those loathsome cities, Ned. They’re all the same, and no matter what we do, slavers would come back to power there sooner or later. And, Pentos is forbidden by treaty from holding slaves. It’s no matter which pack of squirrely Essosi rats are in charge.” It was true, the scheme to attack Pentos, deal with Viserys, and put a friendly government to power in the city had made the King more alive than he had been in years, Ned had remarked in an unguarded moment, and he seemed every inch the great boar of a man, living and proud and still in his prime despite his great girth.

It would be an adventure to end all adventures. Perhaps in death, if that was what the Gods willed, but … Either way. There was an enticing mystery in the east. Jon couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he wanted to see one of those cities that he had heard many stories of, from travelling merchants and bards growing up in distant Winterfell. Robb was excited, and they’d be together, and away from Catelyn, as much as he felt a bit guilty about being happy at the prospect.

It was then that Jon realised he’d already made up his mind. Of course he’d go. Going to the Night’s Watch, making that choice which fix his entire future, that was still intimidating. The relief of being away from Lady Catelyn’s hatred had been part of it, but he would be away from her hatred on campaign, too. There was no place for him at Court in King’s Landing, there was no place for him at Winterfell, but there was a war, and noble bastards could certainly fight at sea.

Afterward, might not he have no choice except the Watch? Yes, it was so. But the watch guarded the people of Westeros from all that was North of the Wall. If he had been prepared to go now, he could just as well go when he returned from Campaign. And then, he would face the Brothers of the Watch not as a fresh-faced lad who had never seen war, but as a man who had fought abroad and risked his life for the King.

And he would at least have the memory of Pentos and the Sea, a great adventure before a long duty of a life-long Watch.

Yes, it wasn’t really a choice at all.

That night, his father came to him. “Have you made your choice?”

“I will join the fleet going to Pentos,” he answered. “I am grown enough to fight. And if I go to the watch when I return…”

“It won’t be as a boy at the wall,” Ned finished for him. His father looked relieved. That settled it, then. He would accompany his father, and Robb, and Theon to White Harbour, with the King and his retinue. Lord Eddard and the Manderleys in turn would have the honour of conveying the King back to Dragonstone by sea. There they would meet the rest of the fleet, and Robert and Eddard as Hand would go together to fight one last time, while Cersei and Prince Joffrey and Sansa and Arya all carried on back to King’s Landing. Lord Stannis had already begun mustering the fleet. They had come from as far as the Iron Islands. They would all be there.

The day after, they left a-horse toward the southeast, first down the King’s Road, and then the roads that reached the White Knife. At the White Knife, they boarded light frigatas of the Manderley fleet which had been sent up river to receive them, and Lord Manderley’s personal pleasure barge, which was provided for the King and his family, towed up-river by the others. It was Jon’s chance to start getting used to the sea.

The Oarsmen were the lowest of the lowest. Not even a Bastard would serve the oars; only a criminal. They were usually men of petty crime, given a sentence of three years at the oars. But they were not slaves and their manacles were removed before battle, as their sentence was usually commuted if they fought well, and picked up boarding pikes to join the soldiers, and it was considered wrong to let them drown at their oars without a fighting chance should the ship be lost, for they were, convicts or no, free men and not slaves.

Then there were the sailors, experienced men of the coast. There were plenty of ships that plied the open water between the North and Braavos, bearing pitch and tar and lumber for the great Braavosi merchant fleets. Lord Manderley remarked, when they arrived at White Harbor, that it was in fact the greatest export of the whole of the North, and his father did not disagree. The Lords of the coast provided sailors to work the masts and steering oars of galleys, instead of providing footmen for the Stark levies, levying them for a few years at a time for their customary professions. Unlike footmen in a levy, they were paid the same as at their customary work.

Finally, in a galley’s crew, there were the soldiers. This would be Jon’s duty, and for that matter even Robb and Theon’s, too. Though many a ship bore a fancy ram, only the finest sailors in the world used the ram as their primary weapon of decision. A great fleet like this would win the day by boarding.

He listened closely to Theon speak to Robb of it, the bastard in the shadows. Theon had seen it, before being taken to fosterage, though he had not fought. He knew the daring and desperation of fighting man to man on a blood-slicked pitching deck.

No wonder the Ironborn worship of a God of the Drowned, if they fight as this in full armour!

They arrived after some weeks of travelling by road and on the river. White Harbour was a clean and orderly city, with broad stone streets. The fleet lay at the docks below the town, under the Seal Rock. Between the galleys and the frigatas for scouting, Lord Manderley had more than forty ships. No other Lord on the east coast had more than two or three for the suppression of piracy, but the Manderleys had been the sea-guards of the North for countless centuries, and their life-blood was trade. Against a foreign fleet, they needed the strength to keep trading with Braavos.

Ned spoke to Lord Manderley about Jon. The stout Lord stroked his beard and looked thoughtfully at him, and he stood straight, prideful with the attention. “Well, lad, your father says you’ve had a full Nobleman’s education at War.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Each ship has a Commander and a Master. The Master sails, the Commander fights, boy. Under the Commander is a Serjeant of Archers, a Serjeant of Engines, and a Serjeant of Marines. The Stoutheart needs a Serjeant of Marines. That means leading the spear- and axe-men across, lad. It is rough work, but if you take an enemy ship, you might find yourself with a name.”

It chilled Jon more than a bit. He would easily be the commander of thirty men, and fifty if she were a large ship. True responsibility. But if he wanted to prove himself, there was no better chance, and he couldn’t resist that itch to do just that. “I would be honoured, my Lord.”

Chapter Text

“They’re coming for us, Esther.” She held a half-crumpled decryption of the message from over the Narrow Sea, as she stood in the office of the redoubtable Magister, feeling the past fifteen years had been a little like a mirage. She knew how much work that Daena and Esther had put into the preparations in Pentos. It still felt terrifying. In her brain, she saw how few they were, and how many the enemy was. Of course, even Rhaella understood well that there was another element to the plan. Her element. Even the very news she bore in her hand was evidence of this.

Esther rose. “Please, Your Grace. Sit. And have some tea. I know it’s a very tense moment, but – for all the bluster and fop of some military men, which really matters is coolness in the face of danger.”

“Of course.” She moved to sit, and took the offered tea. The two Uzbeks in the Magister’s office showed keen interest. They were not automatons, or simpleton, but women who like Esther had been serving Daena and the House Targaryen for generations. Two slept in her bedchambers every night, and she had come to think of them like Whitecloaks, but with whom she could keep a more intimate confidence. The Whitecloaks, after all, had ignored it when her husband beat her. Daena had left a standing order to the Uzbek Guard to immediately kill any man who laid a hand on her without permission. The lead of her detachment, a woman named Asliyat, had one explained that over many years generations of women had customarily served Daena, they had offered settled and moved away, but the steady pay and respect had called many daughters to follow their mother’s traditional service; indeed, there was a clubhouse and a quiet little association in the northern part of the Kingdom of Sarawak, where new guards were recruited from the descendants of the old, the land they had found themselves in when the game of war had flung them like wild geese to the four winds. They really had the blood of a dozen nations now, but they would always call themselves the Uzbek Guard.

And while they were no Knights, they were skilled killers, without a blink of hesitation and without a pang of regret. Now, they crowded close, with professional interest.

Esther let her settle in, sat back down, and warmed up her own tea, and then smiled vaguely. “We have also heard some reports from merchants, of large squadrons moving from the south and the west. This letter confirms the actual orders?”

“Yes. It says: ‘The Usurper has commanded the mustering of squadrons from the Iron Islands, Fair Isle, Lannisport, the Shields, Oldtown and the Arbor; from Gulltown, the Sistermen, and White Harbour. The Royal Fleet is to come, and all of his brother Lord Stannis’ ships from the islands and fortresses of the Bay. All Driftmark will be there. The Usurper comes with his new Hand, The Stark, and they will muster at Crackclaw, and then operate under instructions to Master the Narrow Sea and Command the Bay of Pentos, that troops may be put in the city to remove the Mad King’s whelp and wife from power.’”

Esther raised her tea-glass to her lips, held in a silver frame, and nodded. “Sounds about right for the orders I’d expect. So, the hour is at hand. Who is the man with whom you are in communication?”

“Laemon Tekarerys, the Shautbenakht of Lord Velaryon’s fleet.” She had learned the word of Daena’s to mean the same thing as Vertaxatrys, The Watch-by-Night of a Fleet, the man who was in charge when the Admiral was asleep, to prevent night ambushes at anchor. It was a Valyrian concept, shared by the people Daena had been raised among or fought among, but unknown by the Westerosi until the title had been brought to them.

The Uzbek Guards looked like wolves to the hunt when she said that.

Esther’s eyes twinkled. “He is a good dragon man?”

“He is a good dragon man,” Rhaella answered, and the look, the question, it brought a smile to her face after all.

“Has a signal been established?”

“Hoist our colours from the mainmast, after we go into battle under the Pentoshi standard on the mizzen.” The Roundel.

“A watchword?”

“The Rightful, The Royal; just as Daena suggested.”

“And where will the Velaryon be?”

“The left--The Usurper does not trust them.” That was universal—the Van of a galley fleet deployed on the right, then the Main Body formed the Centre, and the Rear formed the reserves. Customarily, it was the trailing part of the Main Body in line ahead that formed the left in Line Abreast, and so they would come into action later than the Right if they deployed from Line Ahead to Line Abreast with little warning, and the Right had to be trusted to fight on its own for a while. Robert was not such a fool to let the Velaryons have the Van, even though by long custom they should have had it.

“That means we will have to attack the enemy Right, and put strength to strength,” Esther made a little note.

“Not to go straight for our friends? I should not want them to be unsupported, lest they decide the risk too great.”

“Rather, to avoid the accidental wounding of their ships,” Esther countered smoothly, “and to give us the opportunity to encircle the Usurper’s fleet.”

“Even with the Island men going over to their Rightful King, Esther, we will be fighting at four to one.” She was looking for reassurance, and she knew it.

With that certain style and timing of her’s, Daena stepped into the room, one of the Uzbeks at her side. She was streaked in sweat, with hair all of ashen silver-grey, and eyes of violet-lilac so intense, and a muscled fit body that made her look a very fit forty, and only showed a sallow, ashen kind of age in unfavourable light; and even that, of course, was no hint of how old she really was. Farstryder was buckled at her side.

“Even, Rhaella, at four to one in ships; they are zero and we are four hundred, in cannon.” Her hands rested on the hilt of her sword, and she leaned with a casual kind of diffidence, and Rhaella imagined her grandmother must have looked like this, too.

She smiled, and tried to be serious, and not let the thrill of seeing her pose like that carry away the seriousness of the moment. “I saw the windrows of corpses laid out in the streets when the slaveholders came against us, Daena, and I know your words are not idle boasts. But once they close, it’s a boarding fight, and you won’t reload the cannon at sea so quickly.”

Daena nodded, and stepped forward, to stand at her side, and put a hand on her neck—massage it gently. “It is so. But we will order the port closed tonight, and every galley will be seized. We will put the six biggest merchant galleys into the yard at once, to be armed with cannon. The Braavosi fleet limits cannot stand in war, and the information in your message is a declaration of War, plainly put. The others will be given rocket-arrow projectors, and prepared for bodies of militia. The Cogs will be towed by them forward; lashed with chains and anchored, with our musketeers given station on them. And every small boat in the whole city will be given a charge of powder on a pole.”

“A spar torpedo,” Esther nodded to Daena. “We have made the preparations for this day. The final element now is propaganda. The printing press will, from today until the arrival of the enemy, do nothing but produce Broadsheets explaining to the people how the Usurper will restore to them their Masters and their chains. No one measure would suffice against those numbers, Your Grace, it is true; but a dozen strokes will fell a great tree.”

“You’re worried about something else, love, are not you?” Daena now asked, her voice gentle. It was just the two of them and Esther, and the Uzbeks; it was private, surely she could be honest? She was not a Queen Regnant, she was a mother.

“Of course it is,” Rhaella finally admitted, and softly laughed. “Gods, of course it is. Esther, Daena, I do not doubt you. Your preparations are thorough and your courage unimpeachable. We had agreed years ago that doing this work in Pentos would sooner or later lure the Usurper to attack us.” She took in her breath and reached back, and grabbed Daena’s hand and squeezed, hard. “If the Driftmark men, the Dragonstone men… All the men of the bay… If they are to say their watch-words and turn their cloaks, they shall not do it for you. They do not know who you are, and even they would fear you if they did. They will do it for my son, their King and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. He must be there, Daena, with you, on one of the Galley-Frigates, on the quarterdeck.”

Daena squeezed her hand back. She closed her eyes, and looked distant. She had a fine singing voice; it was one of the reasons Rhaella had fallen so hard for her. “King Christian stood by the Lofty Mast,” she lilted. She smiled. “He will have both sword and pistol, and when the day is won, my Rhaella, he will have a song, too. I will write it for him. I swear to God, I have done everything I can to prepare him for this day.”

Rhaella held her hand, and closed her eyes, and took Daena’s reassurance for as surely as it was given. Daena had survived things no-one should; the three ugly scars in her torso, the ‘burst of rounds’, proof of that. She would be her son’s right hand. Esther’s blood was fine at fighting. If anyone could make the plan work, she could.

But she remembered Rhaegar at the Great Ford.

The past fifteen years in Pentos had, in a way, been splendid.

Only two of her children were alive to have appreciated it.

But if Viserys were to be their Rightful and Royal, he must be seen in command of the fleet. Some things never changed.

Chapter Text

Brothers were complicated.

Viserys leered a little at her, not in a really awful way, but in a boy-looking-at-girl kind of way with a layering of the same boy watching a girl do something he thought he was better at. There was sexual tension. Of course there was.

Brothers were complicated.

She remembered the first time Viserys had brought up their marrying, and gotten too close in so doing. She had run to tell the nearest trustworthy adult, badly upset. Esther, fortunately, had been exactly the right person to tell. She had marched off with Daenerys, left her in the care of Nagurash, the Chief of the Uzbek Guards, and spent about fifteen minutes alone with Daena in her office.

Then they had both come out, looking very purposeful. Daena had dropped to her knees in front of Daenerys, and said – “Your body is your own. Your honour is your own. A man can force you, but he cannot claim you. You remain free and with your honour as long as you believe in it. Your brother has no right to your hand in marriage. If you do not want him, he must find someone else. Despite the Doom, there are many Valyrians in the world, if that is his taste. It is true that we marry brothers to sisters, but also aunts to nephews, and cousins to cousins, and nieces to uncles; and sometimes the lower nobility, like the Velaryons, and other times, of course, your ancestors simply married outside of the family. You can choose your spouse. Yes, he must be of your rank, for the sake of the Dynasty. And yes, we may plainly and bluntly present to you a marriage match, and warn you of severe consequences if you do not take it. But in the end, your choice is your’s, and it is always your’s. And we will support you in this. I assure you, I have fought many wars for far worse reasons over my life than a girl’s freedom. If he ever touches you in a way that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell him so. If he persists, slap him. He is your King, but you are also a woman. And, let me assure you, I have been raising him to respect women. He is rough around the edges, filled with the resentments of exile, but I like to think I have done some good.”

So, Daenerys had followed her advice. First, she’d told Viserys to stop. Then, she had slapped him.

Her mother had told her that he had then had a very long talk about women with Lady Daena at their next sparring session. Daenerys supposed there were few people more experienced in the subject than Lady Daena.

Viserys had never touched her again.

But sometimes it seemed like he could get in a bit of a snit over it. Watching her out-shoot him in their drills was one of those times. Viserys was an excellent swordsman under Daena’s tutelage and she could not hope to match Daena, who boasted a strength even few men could compete with. She’d learned the Shashka from Nagurash instead, to have a bladed weapon of some kind. But Viserys just didn’t have the same patience with a pistol.

Daenerys’ hand was very, very steady on the Colt Army. It was Nagurash herself who was watching them today, her eyes so sharp, marking their shots on a record for Daena and Esther, and commenting and critiquing their performance.

And Daenerys remembered the lesson: Once you learn how to manage the recoil, with proper posture, the size of the gun and the size of your body did not matter. The smallest woman could, with a calm aim, drop the largest armoured man.

And there was no question she was better at it than Viserys.

He looked more than a bit frustrated as another shot went low, acrid powder smoke curling around in the garden. He was doing worse than usual.

A voice spoke from behind them. “Your Grace knows the battle is soon.”

He turned before Daenerys did, though they both recognised the voice. “Lady Daena. I have heard the Usurper’s fleet was sighted entering the gulf, yes.”

Daenerys lowered her own pistol and turned to watch. Daena was carrying her string-and-board instrument; she was in a singing mood. She moved to one of the stone benches and sat, watching them, intently, cradling in her hands that guitar she could make sing so well.

“Safe your guns,” Nagurash reminded them.

Daena plucked a chord while they did so, and then Viserys turned back. “And your response is a song?” He did not smirk; he had grown up with Daena there. He respected her.

“What’s a war without a song, Your Grace?” She plucked again. “Here, I translated this one from the original language for you. Sage advice in it, Your Grace!”

“When cannons are roaring...”

“…And bullets are flying...”

“He that would honour win…”

“Must not fear dying!”

Each stanza painted a picture of bloody chaos, bells ringing the alarm, and armed burghers in response making haste to the walls, women carrying stones in their skirts for men to hurl on attackers, of pike advancing in open field and traps and explosives detonating with fearful force. Neither sibling was completely unfamiliar to it. Holding power in Pentos had been messy business for their Mothers. They had seen the dressed stone splashed with blood and the dead in their awful poses.

When she finished, Daena set the guitar aside, and reached out, drawing Viserys in, and opening her blouse. Daenerys, who had always wondered, just a little, at the story of this woman, could see it painted on her body, as Viserys also stared.

Those three massive and neat circular scars in a neat line down her chest did not seem like anything anyone anywhere could survive. “What side are these on, Your Grace?”

Viserys cleared his throat. “The front.”

“Damned right they are. I got these near a little village named Molodechno, fighting men as fearless as Northerners, and as disciplined as the Unsullied. I was young and stupid, and in command of an understrength company of seventy women. Our job was to shame the men of a crumbling nation into actually fighting by spearheading the attack. We carried the enemy’s first line of defences, and then the second. I took these from a rapid-firing gun on the third line. On that day a very brave woman named Valentina Igorovna Syromakha was the second in command of my company. She had an insight that I might somehow live, and while she organised the retreat of the company, had me dragged back. I spent six months insensate. The government I had launched that attack for, a pure adventurer’s folly to volunteer, had fallen in the meantime. Three more years of war followed. But the friends I made lasted forever. Your Grace, I am going to be at your side like Valentina was at mine. Are you afraid?”

“No!”

“Those who fear die many times …” She shook her head, and smiled wanly, and looked to Daenerys. “Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“Good.” The smile grew trenchant and grim. “It’s very good, because we have a complication. The enemy fleet is arriving, but it turns out that the Usurper is rather more treacherous than anyone anticipated, or rather, he has a clever spy-master. A Dothraki khalasar is on its way to the city as well. One of the biggest there’s ever been, they say. They’ll ravage all of the land around Pentos, put all the farms to torch, and destroy the outlying population … The fleeing has already begun, such rumours travel faster than the despatches.”

Viserys’ breath hitched. “But.. Lady Daena, why? The Dothraki can’t break Pentos’ walls.”

“To force us to send our troops out,” Daenerys whispered to her breath, violet eyes wide. “They know Mother and Lady Daena and Lady Esther are kinder than that.”

Daena nodded. “To force us to send our militia out to face the Dothraki outside of the city. Now, that alone won’t make Pentos fall. But it means the risk of a revolt in the city has gone up. Nagurash.”

She came to attention. “Your Highness.”

“Your are the most experienced Guard. You will stay here with Princess Daenerys and Queen Rhaella. Break out the Earth guns. Saving ammunition won’t help us if we’re all dead. The time to use it is now. Your order is simple – Her Majesty and Her Highness must be kept safe at all costs. Do whatever you think best.”

“Inshallah, it will be done.”

God Willing, it will be done. Daenerys knew what it meant. To Common or Valyrian, it didn’t seem like much of a statement. But Nagurash had said it in a voice which sounded like she would condemn a thousand men to death without blinking. If Nagurash’s God did not want her to succeed, He would explain it to her by letting her die; otherwise, she would do simply anything to keep them alive. To keep her alive. The woman, with flecks of grey deep into her, looked down and smiled, and put a hand on her shoulder.

It was a more important reassurance than words.

Daena clapped her hand to Viserys’. “I will help Your Grace prepare to embark the Redoubtable. Fortunately, the enemy tarried long enough that the converted galleases will join the purpose-built ships, and most of the preparations for arming the merchants are ready. We expect they will anchor in the lee of South Spit to dress their formations before entering the harbour. When they do, we will give them a hot welcome.”

Daenerys watched them go together, talking about the plan for the battle. Dothraki in the hinterlands. A revolt in the streets. The Usurper’s fleet at sea. Her eyes flicked to Nagurash. “I should like to keep drilling, if you have the time with your other duties.”

Nagurash regarded her, the smile having slowed faded. “We will have the time. But not with the Colts. You are a good shot—we can spare enough ammunition to show you how to handle them. I am going to teach you how to use one of the Earth guns. Come with me, Your Highness.”

Chapter Text

A ship was hardly a good place for a Direwolf, but a ship was hardly a good place for a man, too. The weeks that had passed since they had quit the land off the Wolf’s Den had seen bad weather, bad food, and bad water. They had imposed upon the hospitality of the Sisters, and worked ‘round the Fingers, trying to stay as far off that miserable shore as they could. But the winds blew down from the Mountains of the Moon, and sailing around the Vale was, despite the ironbound coast, not that dangerous; the lee shore of the Stormlands, deceptively smooth on the map, was much worse, the experienced sailors had told him.

A summer thunderstorm had come up when they were off Gulltown. They had lost two ships, dashed onto the coast, when the lightning slammed down into the sea, the clouds appeared out of a clear sky, and the white squall had thrown the great galley to her beam-ends. Furiously the oarsmen fought to keep their bow on to the waves, through a mile of breaking, surging white waves. They had been driven backwards by the fury of the storm, but the oarsmen had kept their bow to it—Jon now understood that bows-on, a ship could survive nearly anything, but she’d die in a heartbeat if she was put broadside-on—and a summer’s White Squall passed quickly.

“An autumn storm can last for days,” Jeddard, the Lead Wheelsman, said to him afterwards, as they soaked hardtack in bitter beer and ate jerkied auroch, ground in a powder and mixed with into a butter stew. He was one of the few who were kind to Jon. “That’s when a warship dies, when her oarsmen tire. Merchants haven’t the same number of men, and die faster in the gale.”

“What about the ships we lost today?”

“They weren’t ready. And sometimes the Gods mark a day as your’s for dying.” A shrug. They were hard men. The sea made hard men.

The men resented him. Jon quickly came to realise that though he was a bastard, to these men, he was still privileged. His direwolf was fed more meat than a man. He was a teenager who had been put in charge of three file-closers and forty-five men. They all knew he was The Stark’s bastard son.

He ate the same food they did, and refused to take any special privileges, but having brought Ghost along, he could hardly stop feeding him. Robb had brought Grey Wind, too.

When they had arrived Dragonstone, the Volcano rising up out of the sea on the western end, descending in a sloping fashion through countless forests and open moors of sheep-rearing rounds in a long saddle to terminate in the east sea cliffs, he wondered at the stories of the dragons that had once nested there. They seemed half a myth, and nothing at all compared to the immense fleet which had gathered in the roadsted, which numbered two hundred of galleys and dromon, including the heavy Iron Fleet ships, fifty Ironborn Longships of the levies, fifty cogs carrying supplies and siege engines to pit against the walls of Pentos, and several dozen small frigatas for scouting and carrying of dispatches.

The sheer scale of a great fleet dwarfed all other assemblages he had ever witnessed. “There must be as many men here as the population of Gulltown!” Jeddard declared. “Lords of the Realm, Knights and Marines; Sailors and oarsmen, and merchants under contract for the victuals. A whole city at sea.”

They struck their sails and worked in to the roadsted under oars. Since they bore the King and Lord Stark, the squadron passed through the roadsted to enter the harbour of Derlyn. Old ruined piles of strange stone-like buildings, mouldering and forgotten, lined the waterfront. Each one surmounted a neat rectangular pier of the same material, not the wood of White Harbour. “Those buildings are fantastic.”

“Old Valyrian warehouses. They exist through half of Essos, but here’s the only place they are in our lands. Bunch of fuckin’ Dragons here.” When they had tied up, he pointed to the sullen people of the island. Though many were dark haired or blonde haired or brown haired like Andals or the folk of the North, at least half had the distinctive silver-blonde of Valyrians, which Jon had only seen before in a few travelling entertainers from Essos. Some had purple eyes. They seemed a sullen and downcast folk.

When he was allowed to visit his father that night, he asked about it. “The men of the island are against us?”

“They are, Jon,” Ned nodded grimly. “Many serve in the fleet, but they’re not trustworthy. We have to worry about them in the Royal Fleet, and in the galleys from the islands. Men from these parts do not resent the dragons, but regard them as their rightful Lords. Once these islands all spoke Valyrian as their tongue, and worshipped the Gods of Old Valyria, but since the days of King Jaehaerys they were taught Common and the Southron Gods, by Septons and other such men. Be wary of them.”

“Why were they not allowed to keep their tongue and customs?”

“The Old Kings wanted people to forget they were foreigners ruling over a conquered nation. To have such men of rank in the administration of the realm, who conducted themselves in the language and mannerism of foreigners, would have reminded people of the Conquest in a way Jaehaerys was too wise to allow.”

Whether it was for the hostility of the people, or the desire to cross the sea as long as good weather held, or simply the King’s impatience and eagerness to be in combat, they put to sea again very soon after arriving at Derlyn. The King now took command from a great Dromon of two hundred and fifty oarsmen, with eight ballistae on the deck. He insisted she be named the Dragon-slayer, and she had been Lord Tywin’s gift for the campaign. With the fleet arranged in a line-ahead sailing formation by squadron and contingent, they headed to the Gulf of Pentos, where they would muster, where the frigatas would gather up the stragglers and scout the enemy preparations, and where the final arrangements for the advance of the fleet against Pentos would be made.

They reached the Gulf of Pentos without much incident, though their squadron made landfall to the south and had to work north along the coast. The oarsmen were tired and eager to rest when they mustered with the fleet under anchor in waters protected by a broad and low sand-spit that the maps in Westeros did not show, but experienced pilots knew. A War Council with the King and Lords and Admirals was mustered aboard the Dragon-slayer, and the first and the last sight of Essos that day was the tall thick-bladed beach grass growing over the sand, rising toward the gentle rolling hills inland, a peaceful scene with the reputation of Essos entirely lacking. It seemed merely like a beautiful strand, without an inkling that they were there for War.

Still, Jon drilled his men, as much as he could on the galley. He inspected their weapons. He discussed plans for boarding with his file-closers. There was very little else, except to eat and talk, for him to do. The men played dice. Lanterns were hung out and set as the last light faded from the sky, and each ship was like a set of dragonflies in the night, with a masthead light and one at the sternpost.

The first night passed without incident, and they spent a whole day laying at anchor as they waited for the frigatas to return and as the Captains and Lords discussed their plan. Late that evening, they heard a roaring noise like distant thunder to the north and west, beyond the spit and the line of sandbars on the coast. The echoes resounded across the water for perhaps an hour, the repetitive booming roaring out in thunder-cracks in clear air. Men muttered and talked among themselves about it, and the ship’s Master ordered the anchors double-set in case a white squall came up.

No storm came, but the four frigatas that had been sent to scout in that direction did not return, neither that evening nor the second day. They settled down for a third night at the anchorage. Men were grumbling. They wanted to get to grips with the enemy, and hopefully plunder Pentos.

That night, the usual routine of posting guards and watches, setting the lanterns, and bedding down, was all accomplished as evening bled away into the darkness. The water was starting to stink, and the officers mixed their measures with wine to drink. Jon resolved to ask permission to go ashore with a small party the next day; he wanted to get fresh water for Ghost, and stretch their legs.

Three glasses into the middle watch, trumpets and drums began to sound in alarm. Ghost gave Jon a moment’s warning before they did, a whine and a whimper that had him starting to wake up. He rolled up from his bedroll, strapped on his sword, threw on a leather jerkin that would pass for armour at sea (unlike an Ironborn man, he intended to swim for it if knocked overboard!), and strode up onto the deck.

The drum had become to roll. “Quarters, lads! All Marines, turn-to on the deck ready to repel boarders!” He dropped back below, clearing his men out from where they slept, dodging the oarsmen, and clambering from the low and narrow ‘tween-decks. The sailors were moving from bank of oars to bank of oars, unlocking the manacles on the oarsmen. “A pardon if you fight well,” the Master’s Mate repeated as he walked the rows. “I heard Lord Manderley’s promise with my own ears. A pardon if you fight well!”

Jeddard was personally at the helm, but there was no order to raise anchor, not yet. Instead the Captain and Master were looking to starboard, in closer toward the spit and the coast. Jon bowed. “I’ve turned the men out.”

“Good, good. It’s not a general night attack. They are not such fools. It’s a cutting out expedition,” the Captain peered, hard. “Against the Ironborn squadrons, I think. Small boats. Brave men.”

There was an abrupt crackle in unison. There was a peculiar kind of flat noise in it, and to Jon, it sounded a bit like the noise of the thunder the day before. Red flashes peppered the night. An occasional soft boom cut the darkness from the deck of the Ironborn ships. Jon fancied he could hear the screams of men, but the distance was great, and the sound faint. The lapping of the waves around their own hull was louder. But the dull clash of metal … That, he could make out.

Other ships in the Ironborn squadron began to raise their anchors, and the oarsmen began to beat in time, getting underway. As they started to manoeuvre toward the scene of the battle, however, one after another two massive explosions split the night. In the pale moonlight they could see rising columns of water, and the faint image of two buckled hulls.

The enemy took note of the explosions, too. A strange red light appeared out of the sea, men around him muttering in fear when they spotted it, crying and pointing, and rose high into the sky. As it reached the top of an arc, Jon could hear a sharp scream from that direction. When it reached the top of the arc, it detonated with a sharp report and a flash of red light, spreading red sparks across the sky which faded slowly. In their light, they could make out a giant rigged ship with three masts, bigger than a Swan Ship, masts higher. She had a long bank of sweeps, and was standing off from the Westerosi fleet, at a distance of perhaps half a league. Six Ironborn galleys were making for her, with a gaggle of small boats towed on lines behind each one.

The three-headed dragon flaunted from their sterns, red on black, in the style of a rectangular standard.

The great ship, conversely, bore the standard of Pentos, but flying from the mainmast separately was a square version of the Targaryen banner, surmounted by a crown. The personal standard of Viserys the Third, Pretender to the Throne of Westeros.

Jon’s breath hitched. The strange fire light in the sky had been a signal for the raiders to retreat, but it had also clearly been something else.

A challenge.

Chapter Text

When she had received that a Valyrian Bloodmage and Stormsinger had saved her life, Rhaella had at first been afraid. She expected payment would be demanded. She expected that people would think her daughter a child of sorcery.

Then Daena had explained who she was, and she had been really afraid.

But for the first time there was another Valyrian who was kind to her. As with much of her family, Rhaella was naturally endogamous, but Aerys’ savage abuse had left her ofttimes thinking it a true curse from the Seven. There was no Exceptionalism here.

She liked to think she would have figured out how to love Daena even if they were unrelated. But whatever the truth, she liked what they had. She loved Daena, and she trusted Daena, and watching her go to war with her son… She could at least be philosophical about it: Viserys was in none finer hands. It had taken a while to accept that idea, too, to un-learn the notion that a man’s escort would be better, but the ruthless intensity that Daena brought to fighting mattered in a matter—the life of a King—where honour was immaterial.

She said her good-byes to her son, and encouraged him, and knew that he already put on that particular cloak, the aura of a Manly Bearing, and would not show any hint of fear of his own to his mother, lest he upset her.

Then she turned to wait for Daena. She stretched up on her toes, and kissed Daena in the courtyard. “The Warrior guide your arm.”

Daena blinked back, and whirled her into a hug. “I will gladly take his guidance.”

“Remember your own watchwords too. Victory by Arms and Charity. I will not forget them.”

“Thank you.” Her cheek twitched, just a bit. “I am more worried about you. I have to think the Usurper’s men have been in touch with the former Masters.”

“Nagurash will take good care of us,” Rhaella shook her head. “Don’t even worry about that for a single second. That’s just what he wants. For you to be distracted—just like Rhaegar was.” She was convinced that was why her eldest son had fallen, and she liked it that way. “Focus on the victory.”

“I should have left Esther to command the fleet.”

“Someone with great coolness is needed against Dothraki. It was the right call.”

“Very well, Your Grace.” Daena’s eyes twinkled, and she laughed. “God Willing, I’ll see you when it’s over.” She tipped a salute, blew a kiss, and turned to catch up with Viserys.

Rhaella, her knees and hips sore—but she was not exactly young—turned back, and started to climb the Sea Tower in the palace in which they lived. The only thing that would hurt worse than watching this was not watching it. Daenerys was already there. She would pray the Seven-Pointed Star, and watch, and wait, and hope.

She reached the top of the tower, and knew that behind her, the Nagurash’s women would be securing it. If they didn’t seize any cannon, it would take a revolt in the city days to break through. If they didn’t seize any cannon.

“Daughter.”

“Mother,” Daenerys turned to her and offered a smile. She was so calm, for the circumstances. “The Van has already weighed anchor, I imagine the Main Body will follow as soon as Lady Daena and brother are aboard?”

“Yes. They won’t tarry. Daena intends to harass the enemy tonight, so that can bait them into attacking tomorrow, so there’s no more waiting.”

Daenerys nodded. “I would have liked to accompany either one of the forces.”

“Absolutely not. I trust Daena and Esther, but you are too young.”

“They’ve been training me, and I’m a better shot than Viserys.”

“Still. This is war, Dothraki on one side and the Usurper on the other. And our troops here are not what we might like them to be. They are a well equipped militia, a motivated one, but a militia nonetheless. And the Navy is terrifically outnumbered, for all its power.” Two pairs of violet eyes regarded each other. Daenerys turned back to the sea, signalling her assent quietly.

They had tea brought, and watched the fleet. Priests stood on the docks, swinging censers and invoking many Gods to bless the fleet. Men going aboard bowed and kissed the feet of idols. The Pentoshi flags were hoisted, and then from the flagship, Viserys’ Royal Standard, too. Nothing was being hidden, nothing was being held back.

Daenerys quietly rose to her feet, and after a moment, Rhaella followed, tea forgotten. They watched the flag go up from the mainmast. When it snapped up into place, the breeze caught it. A small knot of courtiers gathered—Westerosi exiles, watching the Dragon roundel being raised for the first time in a long time. Rhaella felt the flaunting, fluttering flag was better suited to it than the old style of vertical standard, more alive, more a thing of air, like Rhaella imagined a dragon of old.

One by one, the great ships were stirring from their slips. Anchors aweigh, oars up while the small boats hauled them around to face the mouth of the harbour. The tars lined the rails and stood on the yards as they swung away from port, and wives and sweethearts cheered from the land. One of their great accomplishments had been making the people of Pentos not fear this moment.

They had completed the work on the emergency galleasses. The six biggest merchant galleys in Pentos had been converted, with stout wooden roundhouses forward, and a high fighting castle aft. They behaved sluggishly under their mix of square and lateen sails, and more sluggishly still under oars, but each one had three smaller merchant galleys, un-converted, helping tow them out to keep up with the rest of the fleet, and they bore a heavy poundage of cannon.

The galley-frigates were not fast under oars, either, unlike the shallow-draft lateen rigged Xebecs that led the fleet under oars until they caught the wind. But they would quickly catch up as their full ship rigs caught the wind. Behind them in turn, their three squadrons, four each, of big galleys led out a cohort of quickly armed local merchant galleys. The regular fighting galleys bore heavy cannon forward. Yet more towed cogs behind them, to be anchored in the roadsted, chained together, as a sort of mobile fortress on the sea. Every ship in Pentos had its place and purpose.

Daenerys was watching the tower in the Prince’s Palace, the tallest in the city. These days, it had a mast at the top, like a reproduction of a mast of a ship. There, signal-flags fluttered, and were hauled down, in acknowledgement of an order from the flagship as they stood out. “They have organisation on their side, mother. The Usurper doesn’t have a book of signals.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Daenerys reached out and took her hand. Rhaella held it, held it close, and still they leaned on the rail, in the deceptively pleasant salt air. They watched the fleet standing out, first the voices of the sailors singing their chanteys, then the hulls, then the sails themselves, making for the south. It took several hours, and by the time they were gone, the sun was starting to fade into the Narrow Sea to the west.

“Daughter, we should take our dinner.”

“I do not think I am very hungry, mother.”

“It sets a good example for those who look up to us,” Rhaella explained. She admitted no sign of fear or concern, not now, though she did pray again.

And her daughter’s admission was her only indication of concern.

So they went down from upper levels of the tower, to the third story and the fourth, servants helping them with their clothes, while food was sent for. The courtiers were sent down from the tower, and given a feast, but told that the Queen Dowager and her daughter would dine alone, so they could immediately return to their prayers for the victory of the young King and the fleet at sea.

Of course, what really drove the decision was the risk of treason. Daena and Esther came from a place that had taught them paranoia, Daena especially. She saw spies everywhere. Rhaella had decided it was for the best. There were spies everywhere. Even the Loyalists at their court might be suborned, might think they would never win, might think the Usurper was offering a better deal.

Only the Uzbeks were with them, when Daenerys spoke from the other end of the table, candlelight flickering over her daughter’s face.

“Since she might die tonight, or tomorrow, and because I am becoming a woman grown, won’t you finally tell me who Daena is? You have my word I can keep the most dire of secrets.”

Rhaella thought about it. In truth, there had never been a fear of Daenerys or Viserys telling, in the sense of telling others and causing problems. They were Royal children, raised that way; they knew how to keep their confidence. Rather, it was about their own reactions to something as fantastical as it was terrifying. But Daenerys had proved herself the steadier, calmer, and more fearless of the two.

“You must swear an oath before the Gods that you will accept what I say as the truth, never question it, and never fear it.”

Daenerys didn’t even bat an eye at it. “On the Seven and the Seven-Pointed Star, by Father, Mother, Warrior, Maiden, Smith, Crone and Stranger, I do so swear.”

“Oh child…” Rhaella sighed and shook her head. “I rather wish you had hesitated.”

“If you don’t want me to know, Mother, don’t tell me. But…”

“No. She is a second mother to you,” Rhaella raised her hand. “She’s raised you since you were a baby. You are right. You deserve to know who she really is. In fact, she has several names – Daena Duleep-Singh, that’s one; but sometimes she calls herself Darya, because that is a similar name in the culture of the Russians, the ones she fought for when she was young. Duleep-Singh is, of course, the surname of her adoptive family, the Princess Catherine Hilda and her … Partner.”

“Like you and Daena, she was raised by two women?”

“She was, a very long time ago. Daughter, she has used her magic to prolong her life a very long time. She does not have much longer in this world, for her. She is already more than two hundred and fifty, and it is likely that I and she will die at the same time.”

Daenerys’ lips formed an O for a moment, but her eyes widened in recognition. “So Lady Esther didn’t slip, when she said her family had served Daena for centuries.”

“No. Lady Esther’s ancestor, Lady Margrete, made a pact with Daena and subsequently there’s always been a woman of her family at Daena’s side after that, as a Lieutenant, a Hand, if you will. Daena, in return, helped the Hoffmeyers to become some of the richest people on her world. Yes, her world. Daenerys, Daena was sent to another planet, another realm in the stars, when she was a mere child, by powerful and bloody magic of which I fear to even speak. She is King Maegor’s daughter. She helps us for the truest and most natural reason of all: She is our kin. She is as my wife, and that ... That is how I am happy here, with Daena and my two wonderful children." The tears finally came.

Chapter Text

She had commanded fleets before, but the circumstances had been very different. The first time was when, through abandonments and defections, she had ended up in command of the White Flotilla comprised of the former warships of the Centrocaspian Dictatorship (1). After defeating the surprise attack on Bandar Anzali (2), she had restored the fleet to action. Then, for six months, she had used gunboats and floatplanes to delay the inevitable, and secured the sea evacuation of the Ural Cossack Host, who otherwise would have been perished miserably in the desert. But the end had been preordained. She had scuttled the fleet in Anzali and fled through Persia with Valentina and Margrete and a windblown mass of refugees, and disappeared from war for a time, after a brief and pointless sojourn in Fiume.

The second time had been when Rajah Anthony Brooke (3) had let her command the small Royal Sarawakan Navy against Indonesia during the most critical moment of the Konfrontasi (4). Neither armed merchant cruisers on the Caspian launching biplanes off their deck, nor old Japanese destroyers in the South China Sea, were exactly the best experience for this moment.

But they were something. In the long dissolute ageing of a rich witch whose time was passing her by, in a world slowly tumbling into a surveillance state and a climate problem liable to kill it, Daena had taken the time to read pretty much every book on sea combat that existed, as well as those for land; all the fine novels from the age of sail had passed through her hands. She lived a hundred lives in her imagination, having figured out the dross of learning the hard and slow way that a Cavalier’s (5) life was not all she had thought it was, and sometimes wondered why she bothered to maintain the blood magic that kept alive, pretending to be her own daughter again and again. Perhaps the loyalty to the Hoffmeyers and her concern for the cause of Sikhs in the world had sustained her. Perhaps it had been fear. And perhaps it had been her grandmother’s nagging.

And some of the principles were useful and timeless. Signals, for example. A standard signal book had been provided to the entire Pentoshi fleet, with a set of signal flags. The Westerosi would have nothing like it.

It wasn’t like she was lacking in an equivalent to the biplanes that had given her the edge against the Reds on the Caspian, either. Slowly, with bones that creaked even when the power of her foremothers kept her skin hale, she turned back and watched the first of the scouting balloons go up, heated by whale oil lamps and strongly tethered to the deck of one of the merchant galleys. They had flag hoists along the side of the balloon. Myrish lenses cut to the spec of binoculars had cost money, but limited to a fleet of twenty ships, they had had money to spend.

Viserys was nominally in command, but he knew that he was, in fact, learning from Daena. And even if Daena herself had some trepidation, she was certainly the best placed to teach him. He was like a son, even if he would never want to hear that, but he did look up to her, and that was enough.

Once the balloons were at altitude, it didn’t take long for the signal flags to begin conveying useful information. Numbers, bearings, composition, enemy banners. They had come forward to assault Pentos harbour after the Cutting-Out Expedition the night before, as she had hoped.

The big galley-frigates had a few modern touches beyond their carronades. With coppered hulls, they were as fast as they could be; the Pentoshi Assembly had insisted on oars because it couldn’t imagine a warship without them, and they would be useful for some aspects of that, but really, the full ship rig of the most modern 19^th century type, the chart-house that she now stepped over to with the King—and a few of the officers who had come up through the ranks. Like most, they were members of the Readjusters, Daena would not trust others for officer rank.

One of the most useful things they had done was thoroughly chart the coast near Pentos, with proper, modern charting techniques, at least within the limitations of the sun and star sightings that could be used to establish position on this world. It was on these charts that her Flag Leftenants plotted out the information recorded from the flags hoisted on the balloons. “I can well recall the first time, that I ever put to sea…” She rhymed softly, another Al Stewart song for the ages, and so true here, too (6).

“As expected, the Island ships and the Royal fleet occupy the left, under Stannis Baratheon, with Lord Velaryon as his ranking subordinate.”

“Do we know if the Velaryons will truly betray us now?”

“I do not, Your Grace. I hope they will follow their men over and join us. We will see. But if we gain even half that force under the Shautbenakht, it shall be sufficient.” She cleared her throat gently. “At this point, the one advantage Robert has is that his right is anchored against the shore. So his strongest force is protected from encirclement, nominally; but the tiding is rising and here, here, and here we’ve plotted channels deep enough for the galleys with the tide.”

Now, she began to place wooden tokens on the board. “I propose that we send our galley force through the channels to attack the right flank. To block them and hold them in place, the galleasses will anchor right ahead of the enemy fleet. With the Xebecs leading, we will be like Alexander…”

“Alexandros Magnos, the King you told me of?” He was abruptly attentive. “You mean his attack pattern, don’t you, Lady Daena? The slash.”

“Yes, that one, Your Grace. In particular, at Arbela, Alexander turned toward the enemy’s left, and after clearing their cavalry, then pivoted back in toward the centre at a refused angle with his strike force en echelon. The Persians fled, but had they remained, he would have completed the encirclement of the Persian right from the rear, and put them in a cauldron against Parmenion’s phalanxes.”

“I know that galley battles are as land battles afloat,” Viserys answered, thinking intensely about the presentation her gloved hands had just set up on the chart. “But you leave our heavy ships as the arm of decision.”

“I do.”

“Alexander used his cavalry.”

She nodded. “We will advance slowly at first, under oars, but there is a northwest wind. When we have lured the enemy to reinforce the left, we will set sail, and that will give us the speed to dash to the southeast into the heart of the Usurper’s main body.”

“All right. Another question. Alexander nearly lost his camp in that battle. How do we keep the Usurper from getting through to attack the balloon ships?”

“We have an advantage Alexander did not, Your Grace; any squadron of galleys attempting to advance on that line will be caught between two fires, the refused broadsides of both our galley-frigates and the galleasses.”

Viserys chuckled. “I’m looking forward to seeing this.”

“Soon, Your Grace. Probably another three hours and we’ll be in contact. Fire and Blood.”

“Fire and Blood…” He had seen the raid of the night before, when they had worked themselves clear under sail alone. He knew the sound of gunfire and men risking their lives for him.

Today he would see what it really meant.

Even Daena underestimated the length of time it would take to come to grips. It had been a while, after all. It was another three and a half hours of working into position, the fleets converging at a combined speed of six knots. Five and a half hours after dawn, they still had plenty of time for a battle. She looked at her watch again and then glanced out at the looming fleet, beginning to surround them in a crescent.

The Usurper’s Admirals had begun to shift ships to their right, seeing the war galleys leading the armed merchant galleys through the channels in the sand banks toward shore. The first weakening of the centre had begun. Another group of merchant galleys, these unarmed, bent to their oars, towing the galleasses to keep them up to speed. The Xebecs were ranging ahead of her own group of four galley-frigates, both under oars. Though not a shot had yet been fired, the manoeuvring meant that the battle was in a true sense already underway. It was time to call the men to quarters.

“Signal the fleet to beat to quarters,” she ordered. The drums rolled. The sun was getting quite hot with midday. The squadron commanders properly needed no such signal, and some might have already given it themselves, but she intended to make it abundantly clear that action was now expected. Belowdecks, the sweeps worked to a rhythm, sung out in the city’s low Valyrian.

The sand went on to the deck. The whistles blew. Every man had his station, and they had trained and drilled. In a medieval state the most expensive of all things was a Navy; limiting Pentos to twenty ships had been a blessing. She had been able to drain and drill and keep professionals in her crews, and train and drill again and again.

But they had not lived at sea like the Royal Navy had once, for years on end. They had not fought more than petty actions against pirates. Now they would find their first test would also be their greatest. The fleet necessary to conquer Pentos was also half the fleet that the Iron Throne could easily muster.

The galley-frigates were working toward the south-southwest, slowly opening the gap with the galleasses. Satisfied with the situation, Daena returned to the chart-house, and took a cup of tea, before going to the starboard rail. There, two young officers were working on a contraption of Valyrian steel gears, bronze tubes, and finely polished lenses. It was old when the Freehold still lived, and it was something that she recognised from the 20 ^th century on Earth; it was a coincidence rangefinder (7). The man in Volantis who had sold it to her agents had not recognised its significance, but the price had still been handsome.

One of them finished his calculation, and turned. “The flagship of the Lord of Tarth lays at ninety chains, Lady Admiral!”

“Very good, Leftenant; we will have the range at forty-five chains, and we will fire at forty.”

Viserys approached her from the side. “Lady Daena, shall we hoist the signal for this squadron to make sail?”

“Wait half a glass—and then hoist, but do not execute,” she agreed. “Give the order yourself, Your Grace.”

He had cleared wanted just that, and dashed off to order the junior officers. Viserys still troubled her sometimes, but he had started to learn, he could be trusted with such matters.

She returned to the charthouse, and gulped down the last of the tea, and put the mug gently in the rack, and checked her pistols. Then she went below. One of her Guards was there, to help her into her ballistic vest. Viserys was already wearing his.

As she returned to the deck, a billow of white smoke came from the east. The sound of the crash of the cannon resounded a few seconds later. The heavy war galleys, loosely patterned on a French galley flagship of the 17 ^th century, mounted two 32pdr long-guns for ranging—and two 68pdr carronades as close-range smashers before the boarding action. The former were firing now, and it seemed like a shudder ran through the air as they took their mark in the enemy squadron detached against them.

Those were not broadsides, though. The distant firing, nearly on the other side of the formation, was just a foretaste of what was about to come. The minutes counted down.

“Forty-five chains, Lady Admiral!”

She didn’t look up from her binoculars. “Signals: Target squadron starboard, engage line to beam. Would Your Grace like to give the order to run out the guns?”

Her carronades had simple sights. They were cast to the longer, heavier mark of an East India Company carronade, suitable for this kind of action as the main armament of a ship. Good enough. Now the row of gun-ports was opened, pitch-blackened oak revealing the leering teeth of the Xebecs and Galley frigates.

Daena wandered over to the starboard mizzen shrouds, and stood up in them. One image she had remembered from her childhood was the figure of Admiral Farragut, hanging in Hartford ’s mizzen-shrouds, during the forcing of Mobile Bay. She couldn’t resist hanging from them, standing up on the ship’s railing, as they now grew close to the enemy—eight hundred metres distant. This was long range for carronades, but it was not their main target, either.

“Signal the galleasses to cast off and anchor!”

Shortly, the six clumsy converted merchants would put down their anchors, and the merchant galleys which towed them, would beat a quick retreat. They were already at stations. But they had a surprise more than their guns; they had springs. Simple arrangements of capstans, cables and ropes with metal eyebolts, they allowed a --

“Forty chains Lady Admiral, on the mark!”

“Ship the oars!” No use in getting good men killed by striking their own oars in mid sweep when they fired the broadside, and they’d be about to haul down (8) the order to set sail, anyway. She turned, and glanced politely to the young King.

“One red rocket!” He ordered. When it arced up off the deck, it was no normal order, but the signal for the squadron to engage. His sword in hand, he bellowed a word that a Targaryen had, in more than a century and a half, not had cause to utter. “Dracarys!”

“Dracarys!”

The gunners were taught to fire aimed shots in response to the order, timing their fire to the roll of the ship. It was no massed salvo, nor a ripple from bow to stern, but it was all the more terrible for it. One after another each gunner fired his best shot. Rolling in the gentle swell as their speed fell away, suddenly then from their broadside erupted in short succession the hammering power of smoke and flame. They were not the only one, either, for within that first half second, the order spread down the squadron, and the galley-frigates and Xebecs, both broadside armed, joined in firing on the targets their Captains had chosen amongst Tarth’s galleys.

Masts, stripped of their sails and rigged as bare poles in action, melted away like the wind, splintered into the sea. Pieces of oars flung high into the sky. What happened belowdecks to the men who had worked them was immeasurably worse, for the inboard ends were turned into shrapnel in the oar deck. Dozens of men were instantly given fatal bludgeoning wounds. The masses of soldiers on the deck had vanished in this queer way, there one moment, gone the next, almost too fast to process—but Daena knew well what shot and the attendant flying shrapnel would have done, levelling the packed decks into a charnel house of blood and gore. Most dramatically, the small forecastle was ripped to shreds, pieces of wood flying up in the air and falling back down; and the galley then began to settle by the bow.

Nor was it the only victim. Eight ships had opened fire, three more armed as their flag was, and the four Xebecs, each with a broadside of eight carronades of equal poundage. There was some overlap of Captains having chosen the same target, despite her order of ‘engage line to beam’, directing Captains to choose, based on their position in line ahead, a target one further to starboard. But the overlap, while sparing some, was more terrible for others. Sinking wrecked hulks with bodies hanging from shattered gunnels, gutted from stem to stern, floated in a swirling mass of wreckage and sinking ships colliding with each other—off to starboard.

To larboard, the main body was just where she wanted them, bearing down on the galleasses that swung on their anchors, oarsmen reinforcing the gun crews. “Sails!”

“Execute the signal!” Viserys ordered. The flags fluttered down from the halyard, and the men who some minutes before had worked the oars, now joined with others, running up the rigging in masses to begin to set all sails. They wallowed in the swell, not moving, crews slowly reloading the guns to starboard with only enough men to set sail and slowly load a single broadside. The enemy was still coming on, barely processing what they had just seen. Daena was deep into their OODA loop (9), and she knew it.

The wind picked them up, and as the spankers were hoisted on their mizzens and the lateens of the Xebecs went up, the wind began to pull their sterns around, filling the mains’ls with a wind that had left the Mountains of the Moon the day before, to cross the Narrow Sea, and fill their sails … And repay the Usurper the first full measure.

“Helm—two points to larboard!” Daena dropped down and crossed over to the opposite beam. She clapped Viserys on the shoulder as the deck heeled down under them under the pressure of the wind, pushing the closed larboard oar-pintles underwater and giving them a quickly growing speed. Banners flaunting, they bore down on the enemy main body.

Viserys, though, was focused on what he saw across the water. The galleasses had begun to fire, and their spitting columns of flame turned the front line of the Usurper’s fleet into matchsticks on the water.

Matchsticks, and blood.

Chapter Text

The roaring noise from the night before had its origin made abundantly clear, now. Men muttered that the enemy had some kind of strange infernal engine; but it was like no Wildfyre projector that any had seen. The rippling smoke and flame from the far side of the massive ships and the tongues from the bows of the galleys on their right had carried, with the northwest wind, an acrid stench of sulphur across the battlefield. He was fairly sure that the enemy could see better than they could, for the sight of those strange wonders, the balloons floating in the sky. One man had known what they were, for a merchant from Yi-Ti had once demonstrated them, carrying little lanterns, in Lys when he had been there; but these carried men.

Of their target, nothing, obscured by the smoke blowing toward them. The heights of the hulls of the main body of Dromon in the centre, conversely, concealed them also from the seeing the fight to the right. They could only see the flashes of light, that now carried through the clouds of smoke; and it obscured, too, the furious roar from the enemy’s galleys forward, with those roundhouses on their foredecks that had erupted in fire, and hence had not been seen through the clouds of smoke. But there, too, dim shapes in the acrid stench, and tongues of flame, told that the ships had destroyed themselves, but were fighting with their front rank. The advance had seemed to stall, the ships were starting to slow down around them, to keep from crowding forward. None knew why.

But they could see the Dragon flag, flaunting over the mast of the lead of those great and strange ships, which now bore down on them with sails to rival a Swan Ship of the Summer Islanders. It was coming for them. Viserys, then, was as his brave as his elder brother. With eight ships—great ones so huge and high, but only eight nonetheless—he pressed toward a hundred. This was what the King wanted, Jon decided. A close in fight against Viserys, to finish him and the Targaryen once and for all.

The manoeuvre had given them an opening, too. Robert sent the Iron Fleet forward, to avenge their embarrassment the night before. Plunder was in the offering, because the enemy’s manoeuvres had opened a gap which would let them advance and seize the merchant galleys and the ships that seemed to hold in place the balloons in the sky. A detachment of at least twenty-five of the Iron Fleet was sent out, down this open channel.

“In their haste to get to grips with His Grace,” his galley’s Captain remarked, “the enemy has opened a path for the Ironborn, and this is what those bastards love best. His Grace uses them well.”

“I pray it--” Jon began to answer, just for his words to be cut off by what he saw, his eyes jerking forward. They could see the group of Iron Fleet ships pulling ahead. On that bearing, they had before not been able to directly see the roundhouse-ships, but now they had radically altered their bearing in just a few minutes, and without making way.

Along their starboard sides, now, a ripple of tongues of flame and eruptions of smoke tore down their sides. The terrific roar followed only a moment later, and they could at last see the effects of the tongues of flame and the roaring noise so great. The Ironborn flagship, pulling forward, saw her masts go down. Lord Baelon and his sworn men and the helmsmen disappeared from the quarterdeck as the railing was torn and rent in a dozen places, pieces of wood flying up into the air. The packed Reavers on the deck toppled in masses and men were carried over the side. Jon could clearly make out a torso without limbs or head, spinning through the air, identifiable by the mail the man’s corpse still wore.

And then the ships, moving under sail toward them, opened fire on the same group with a thunder from the infernal engines they mounted to port. Converging fire. One, two, three, four, five were struck in turn, some of them already taken under fire from the other side.

“Gods.”

Their Captain’s face had gone stone cold and ashen. Men muttered on the deck. One of Jon’s marines, trembling in fear, dropped to the deck to vomit.

Jon felt a strange calm and a lack of fear. “It is some wonder of old Valyria,” he muttered. And then, louder: “Courage! Courage! This is the work of men. There are men on those decks! Courage lads! If we can get to grips with them, we can take them!”

The Captain jerked with a sudden emotion. He looked to the galley’s Master and his face filled with a terrible brave expression of a man who faced with the ultimate test, had chosen boldness. Jon was glad to serve under him, fearing more than anything the cowardice of fleeing. The orders went flying “HARD A LARBOARD! Beat the ram! Beat the ram! Right there, lad, we’ll get in close as fast as we can and board them. For King Robert and the Prize!”

Jon drew his sword. “Courage, men! Marines, to me! For King Robert and the Prize!”

They began to swing out to larboard, to interpose themselves advancing monsters. This was the sure test of a man’s courage and coolness in battle. They had to close the range against the enemy.

The tongues of flame rippled again, from both directions. The terrible hammering had all but ruined the Iron Fleet detachment which only minutes before Lord Baelon had led forward so swiftly and with such power. The ships ahead of them, the roundhouse ships, seemed to continue firing at their leisure, hammering the hulks with smaller engines, too.

Jon did not know why the lead rank of galleys had not taken advantage of the distraction of their foes, wondering, where is your courage? The advance has halted, but we must be closing with them as fast as we can! But now as their gallant sortie began, he watched, aghast, realising that the front rank had ceased advancing because it was a ruined mass of waterlogged wrecks, which the ships behind them had been slowed trying to avoid. He counted at least twenty ruined hulks, draped in fallen ropes and shattered timbers.

Their abrupt move to meet the charging sailing ships head-on had brought with them brave and stern men, Arbor men used to the sea, used to fighting pirates, who knew that courage and boldness might yet win the day. Without orders, they quickly peeled off from the centre a squadron of twenty galleys, of men who saw their courage and plainly saw what must be done. Jon was relieved when the rest of Lord Manderley’s squadron also followed. The North will not let the King down.

Another rippling of fire ripped in ragged, jagged tongues of flame and roars of thunder down the port flank of the sailing ships, and then another, and another, as they continued to press forward. The enemy did not, in fact, engage them yet. Those three thundering salvos combined with the guns of the roundhouse ships to complete the utter ruination of the Iron Fleet detachment against which they had been directed. Not a single Reaver gained the deck of an enemy.

And then the roundhouse ships swung, without oars out, without sails hoisted. Jon could see the anchor cables rigged down to the water, dripping as they were hauled upon. Jeddard still cursed at the helm behind him, and called on the Gods. It looked unnatural as the ships swung about on their beams without apparent cause, and …

Lazily presented one beam toward the Royal squadron. Where his father and the King were—and Robb.

Thunder once more rent the smokey miasma which had replaced a bright and clear summer’s day.

The King was under fire.

The roundhouse ships kept turning.

They were swinging about, lining up to present their opposite broadside, which had doubtless had the time to prepare their infernal engines since finishing the extirpation of Lord Baelon’s squadron.

Lining up, toward them.

The sailing ships were not slowing down. They bore on hard toward them. Now they were close enough that Jon could see the men on the deck, working around low-slung carriages.

“Get forward, Jon,” the Captain ordered, “and ready your boarding parties.” If he regretted their impetuous charge, he said nothing, and his face showed none of it. It was hardened and steeled to the hour of decision.

“Muster on the telaro,” Jon ordered to one of his file-closers, going forward to the platform on the bow meant to assist boardings, scrambling over the deck running between the banks of oarsmen, their backs covered in sweat as they worked at their fastest tempo, the drum rolling out the time, unshackled, knowing they were fighting for their pardons.

The terrible engines were roaring to starboard. Now, Jon had something to do, and now, he only faintly caught through the corner of his eye the terrible execution they wrought upon neighbouring ships in the Manderley formation. White breaking foam curled along their beam and the great sailing ships, tossing up a wake, loomed closer and closer.

Then the roaring thunder erupted from the broadside of the enemy flagship. There was a different timbre to it this time, deeper throated. Jon actually saw a ball flying across his field of vision, but even where it did not hurt men on the deck of the galley immediately to their starboard, it felled them. Masses and masses of men, turned red into a mangled ruin, dropping with a terrible hiss of a thousand hornets in the air, whilst the balls bounced along the deck, shattered oars flying. He saw a man sectioned in two as neat as could be, his top half still living and screaming as it was blown clear of the galley.

He saw one figure, long braided silver-white hair of a Valyrian whipping the wind, lashed into the standing rigging athwarts the third mast, looking right at him. The men on the deck bent to those little carriages, working furiously in teams of eight or ten.

“Grapples at the ready!” Sword back in its sheath, just a dagger in his teeth. They were so close. One galley lay to larboard, it was coming in closer. The figure in the shrouds turned away. They were still too far away to hear a shout carried by the wind, amid the din of battle. But the ship altered course… Toward them, toward their compatriot.

He heard one of the Master’s Mates curse. “Damn my eyes, her hull is metalled to the waterline!”

Jon saw the dull green of tarnished copper plate through the swashing sea. It was too late for regrets. The enemy flagship did not slow. Under sail, she rammed the galley to their larboard. The light timbers of the galley were dashed under her, he watched the great ship’s bow rise up, and then crush the galley down below, swamping and submerging her, heaving in the water, waves lapping up from her side, pushing out as the great ship settled back down into the sea, and the galley to their side was cracked, shattered in twain.

It slowed them though, their sails luffed and they reared back, and there they stayed. Orders were being screamed on the deck, in foreign tongues but so authoritative Jon could not doubt they were commands.

The waves of the collision had pushed them away from her hull. Oarsmen still straining, the Captain made a last try for it, aiming the telaro toward her amidship, where the bulwarks were lowest, the best chance.

The telaro touched her side. “Grapples!” He grabbed one, spun it and threw it as hard as he could. It caught. “Up and over! King Robert and the Prize!”

His boots caught onto the rolling deck of the ship’s hull, curved inwards toward the guns. He began to climb.

Then he heard a word, a word he had only ever hear a Maester say before, in some musty old tome of the Targaryen. It seemed like fire in his heart, a strange kind of power and attraction even in the midst of desperate battle.

“DRACARYS!”

The concussive blast knocked him back onto the telaro. A rippling thunder tore from bow to stern on the ship. Hot hissing wasps swept all around him. He was stunned, life was slow, he couldn’t hear anymore, not even the sound of the roaring cannon got through his ears. He felt something wet in his ears, he couldn’t fathom what it was. His fall seemed to last forever. He felt something as he fell back, it creased through his hair, he could feel a wetness there too. Then he hit the telaro hard enough to take the breath from his lungs.

On the grace of the Gods had kept him from falling down into the water. The deck surged and reeled below him. He could not hear. It was perfect silence. The side of the enemy ship swayed and rocked away, and he cursed, just for the wind and sea to carry it close again. Jon staggered to his feet. He made a wild, desperate, foolish lunge toward the grapple, and caught it.

“With me! With me! Still our chance! King Robert and the Prize!” He screamed, and screamed again as loud as he could, hearing his own voice and nothing else. Desperate, with each step up the deck an excruciating agony, the world swaying and swashing around him, he gained the enemy’s bulwarks. There were men pointing little reeking tubes, they erupted with fire just as the infernal engines.

He went for his sword, and charged them.

The figure with the Valyrian hair had swung out of the shrouds, and drawn a blade of Valyrian steel; his eyes widened when he saw it, and that it was wielded by a woman, too.

She spoke in Common, and suddenly sound returned to his deafened ears in a rush. “Ser,” she addressed him: “Your effort is most noble, but none are left alive to follow you. With the honour of a man who gained the deck, your sword, Ser.”

Jon’s face fell. To either side, in the corner of his eyes, he could plainly see only the enemy, going about their duties, or the Marines, those shrieking, reeking tubes at the ready, at least twenty pointed at him. No comrades. No men to command.

He turned slowly to look behind, at the galley from whence he had just come. Windrows of mangled corpses lay piled from stem to stern.

He was alone.

Wordlessly, Jon let his sword clatter to the deck.

Chapter Text

He saw next the Mad King’s son, coming up the deck, to speak with the woman who had demanded his surrender. They spoke in Valyrian, which he could not understand. Once, Prince Viserys pointed at Jon, questioningly.

That was necessarily a moment of anxiety, but the woman spoke briefly and Prince Viserys seemed satisfied by the answer. Then the woman turned back to him.

“His Grace congratulates you for your gallant conduct in the face of our fire. Is there anything we may do to make your captivity hospitable, Ser?”

There was one thing on Jon’s mind above all others, of course. He couldn’t help observe that they did not realise he was a bastard, could not realise it, and treated him like a Southern Knight. Still, it was his only chance…

“I’ve a pet direwolf on the wreck. May I see if he is alive?” Really, perhaps still numb with what had just happened, Jon was astounded at how calm his own voice was. But the courtly and politely disposition of the woman put him at ease.

The woman’s eyes gleamed with surprise for a moment. “A pet direwolf… My. You are a Northern Man?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“I could not imagine any other.” She leaned over to speak with the Prince, leaving no doubt that she was his principle advisor. They spoken in an easy manner, like close relatives, long experienced with each other, and it was clear she might as well be his Hand, as ridiculous as that was. Then she glanced up. “It is customary in the lands I have come from to grant an honourable officer parole under terms. Therefore, I will extend this custom to you. I expect your word of honour before the Old Gods and your solemn oath that you will return to this ship and to captivity, with your pet direwolf, on the conclusion of this battle, and you will make no attempt to fight His Grace’s men.”

He stared, and shook his head softly. Now they’ll find out. Still, for the chance to even just see if Ghost were still alive—he thought he was, he just had a sense—he raised his hand and swore. “I, Jon Snow… Do so solemnly swear before the Gods of mine ancestors, not to attempt to escape from captivity, while being allowed to search for my direwolf Ghost, on the open sea, and to return to this ship and captivity when I have found him.”

She showed no sign of concern that he was a bastard.

“To whom do I swear it?”

“Daena Duleep-Singh, the Princess of the Punjab,” she answered. “Lady Admiral of Pentos.”

He bowed. “Your Highness.”

“Go,” she replied. “We’ll put out the jolly boat for you.”

For a moment, as he waited, Jon did not understand why they were hove-to, taking the time to let him off in the jolly boat with a group of oarsmen and a coxswain. But then he saw a man who he clearly recognised as a ship’s carpenter come up and speak with Daena, and he understood that they had hove-to so the hull could be sounded after the collision. The Lady Admiral was clearly intently observing the progress of action of the squadron, which was now hotly engaged with the enemy centre, and did not seem to take the delay to the flagship as a problem, but rather had busily sent a series of signals to a vessel off to starboard, where Jon could not see any other Pentoshi ships, but he assumed there must be one.

As he was put over the side in the jolly boat, the Pentoshi flagship was quickly getting underway again, setting all sails. Pointing and gesturing with a strange black double-lensed pair of Myrish glasses, she conferred with the Mad King’s son, and it appeared they were settling on the exact position to steer for, that their tardy arrival behind the rest of the squadron should be executed with the maximum effect.

The men in the boat regarded it, justly, as a petty chore for a Lordling, at the behest of their Admiral. They showed him no kindnesses, but they rowed out to the drifting hulk. They had been spared any further danger, and given an opportunity for plunder, as it was clear from the moment they boarded the galley, they became to search through the corpses of men Jon had known and led, looking for the leaders, the officers who might give them a point of coin from their pockets in death, and the paychest and the personal effects in the small cabin.

Jon felt sick of it, especially when he had a moment to think of it, finding Ghost belowdecks, alive. He bandaged a single wound the Direwolf had taken, all careful and slow, was relieved it was superficial. But the relief at Ghost’s survival felt oddly awful, in the midst of the damage.

In fact, there were unwounded survivors. Jeddard and a group of four other men, mostly those who had been aft and protected by the steering gear. They naturally clustered together, when Jon brought Ghost up from below. The men from the jolly boat were wary of Ghost. But he did, at least, have a word now from what he had overhead on the flagship.

Cannon. The firing of Cannon. They were thundering, those iron tubes, off to the east. Lady Daena had brought her ship down to drive off an attempt to encircle her main battle-line, turning an accident into an advantage.

Jon didn’t have very long to think about what had just happened. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, the Pentoshi worked up their courage and came over. Clearly fancying a prize, one of them who spoke broken Common, ordered the group, Jon included, to start heaving bodies over the side. This grim and macabre work went on for at least two hours as the sun began to flee from the sky, the sound of firing never stopping. The Pentoshi sailors ate some food they had found, and waved their guns and ordered the Westerosi men to keep working, whenever it seemed they were slowing. There were a lot of bodies to throw over the side.

In the midst of the work, he didn’t realise that they’d been surrounded by another fleet. Their fleet. He glanced up abruptly, to observe the shadow that had fallen, the moment when they grew close enough that the splashing of oars cut through the sound of the cannonade. They were ships of the Royal Fleet, and that meant…

They were flying Targaryen banners. To the opposite beam, he saw Lord Velaryon’s flagship, too, and a Targaryen standard fluttered with the Velaryon banners. Men with Valyrian features were giving the orders on both ships. They came close enough, and hailed the galley.

These men spoke Valyrian, and so the conversation was incomprehensible to Jon, but he didn’t really need to know what they said. They had turned their cloaks.

And he would find out soon enough; the coxswain came up. “The Shautbenakht expects you aboard.”

He was transferred by small boat, but the coxswain was true to the Lady Admiral’s promise, and Ghost was conveyed along. This caused some measure of both fright and interest on the deck of the heavy war galley they reached, which had once been the flagship of the Royal Fleet, the Fury. She was an old monster of a three-banked war galley, with fifty men to a file, three hundred oars and eight hundred oarsmen in all. She was covered in scorpions on the fighting deck, rigged with three utterly massively lateen sails, and rebuilt several times to keep her fit.

Shautbenakht Tekarerys was on the deck. He wore a clasped Dragon badge. And he recognised Jon—no doubt Ghost helped. “You’re Ned Stark’s bastard boy, are you not?”

“I am.”

“The Pentoshi men said you were praised for your courage by the King’s Admiral, and given parole. Is it true?”

“It is true.”

“You may call me ‘m’lord’, the title was promised,” he sniffed, but accepted Jon’s word, and turned to the larboard. They were underway, again.

“Yes, M’lord. What of Lord Stannis?”

A single imperious gesture down the deck showed a position amidships, where a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard knelt over a motionless figure under a cloak. Ser Davos, mounting a last watch, Jon thought.

“He was the gaoler of our islands, and we do not mourn him, but the Usurper did almost as much wrong to his brother as he did to his Lord and King. Still, it had to be done. He would have it no other way.”

Of that, Jon had no doubt.

With exhausted oarsmen, it took the Targaryen galleys—how else could he think of them, now?--the advantage of that steady northwest wind to catch up with the main body of the Pentoshi fleet. In the fading light, he could see that the remnants of the Royal fleet had retreated to the southeast, and he had, in that moment, the terrible knowledge that he could not know if his father and Robb were alive, or dead, and what their fates had been, brave or terrible.

But he was still so shocked from the moment of the cannonade, that he could not muster any anger.

The last rays of the sun were vanishing below the horizon when the Fury hove-to alongside Daena’s flagship. Once again, he travelled over, with Ghost but in a separate boat from the Shautbenakht, who had gone ahead by at least a quarter of an hour.

The Lady Admiral watched him come aboard with Ghost, her eyes sharp and quick. The Quarterdeck was heavily set with gently swinging lanterns, and the squadron had anchored. The galleys had combined with them, and all around were masses of wrecked, waterlogged hulks.

“So, it is a Dire Wolf.”

“His name is Ghost, Your Highness.”

Ghost curled back his lips and snarled softly at Daena, who nodded, as if she had expected that. “Keep him close at your side, I imagine only you can control him.”

He could only watch helpless, then, as the King and the Lady Admiral and the Shautbenakht watched the preparations he could now observe, off the port bow of the great ship. They were loading sealed jars, like might carry oil or wine, aboard a selection of six captured galleys, as well as masses of cordage, hemp coated in tar and sails and other very flammable things stripped from the tangled wreckage of the waterlogged hulks, too light to sink. The work continued into the night, and the Lady Admiral drank heavily from a hot mug, but did not retire. She plainly did not think the battle finished.

Though offered some hardtack and broth from the stew, he could not bring himself to eat. His hands still stank of the dead. And he was watching this ominous business: Within an hour, it was quite clear that they were preparing Fire Ships to burn out the remnants of the Westerosi Fleet from their anchorage.

My father could be there. Robb could be there. Gods, that might be Wildfyre. He turned to the Princess Daena, filled with the reckless courage he had always known. “Your Highness means to put fire-ships down onto the anchorage of what remains of our fleet!”

“Yes,” Daena answered without even turning back to face him. “The northwest wind is still blowing, and they will be caught against the same sand-spit that sheltered you just a few days before. If they cut their cables, they will be driven back onto the shore, and if they try to work out to sea against the wind, well, their oarsmen are exhausted, and we will be waiting for them with the dawning.”

“But Gods, why! You have behaved honourably to me; why present His Grace’s claim with such a massacre as his first triumph?!”

A dozen eyes were on him in a heartbeat—including Viserys’.

“Admiral,” Viserys at last allowed in Common, curtly, “you have been the one to give this bastard such tolerance. You answer him.”

Daena smiled, and cleared her throat. “Of course, Your Grace. Jon Snow, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered, realising just how far he had just gone. He might well be minutes from death and worse, Ghost too. The nervous whine from the Direwolf’s throat told him that his anxiety was well understood by his companion.

But the Lady Admiral just straightened her back sharply, her black boots smacking the deck, and recited with ramrod precision: “Without a pursuit no victory can have a great effect, and only pursuit of the beaten enemy gives the fruits of victory. Generally speaking, the chief aim of battle is to obtain the certainty of driving the enemy from the field of battle. The plan of battle must be directed towards this end. For it is easy to change an indecisive victory into a decisive one through energetic pursuit of the enemy.” She cleared her throat, and continued, softer. “Thus it is necessary for us, in this war, to inflict a succession of hammer-blows upon the Usurper’s regime from which it cannot recover, and seize into our power, or kill, every Lord and man of consequence in that fleet. You may think it dishonourable, but so was what the Usurper’s man did to Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys, and Princess Elia. Against such men, there is a kind of pleasure in a Battle of Annihilation which I gladly take; you would be well-advised, Jon Snow, to take the lesson and learn it well, for the Usurper came against me, and now, I will come against them.”

Chapter Text

“Daena has gotten my family into so much stupid shit.” Fortunately, she could say that about the Alte Makhsheyfe without anyone knowing; she said it in Yiddish. Of course, calling Daena that was double-layered. A complaint, and a gesture of thanks. A term another Jew would see as an insult.

Really, when said about Daena, it was a compliment, just backhanded and with loving familiarity. People would think she was an ancient bitch, except she had none of those qualities, neither looking ancient nor acting like a bitch; in fact, she was literally just a two hundred and fifty year old witch.

Objectively, they owed everything to Daena. Also objectively, the stupid woman (Doctorate in Engineering from Tohoku Imperial University in Japan notwithstanding, Daena was kind of an idiot sometimes) would be dead a hundred times over without one of her foremothers at her side advising sense and sensibility.

Which was not to say it was in Hoffmeyer blood to be cautious.

The Grand Dame of the family, Margrete Hoffmeyer herself, was by any definition of the 22^nd Century back on Earth, a Self-Hating Jew. Born in the Posen Ghetto in Wilhelmine Germany in 1895—one of the few ghettoes that existed inside of Germany at the time—the clever and brilliant young woman had chafed at the idea of being an Orthodox Jewish bride, who secretly read the gentile papers, who wanted to be a “German of Mosaic Faith”, not a Jew, who rejected the cause of the people of her birth, and espoused the bourgeoisie conservatism of Wilhelmine Germany's aspirant middle class--despite never being part of it.

So she’d done what any sane and rational person would have in the circumstances.

Not.

She’d run away from home at the age of sixteen, taught herself to drive and maintain cars and become a mechanic and driver for an independent aristocratic woman, and then when the First World War had broken out, she’d decided to demonstrate she had the same patriotic courage as any man. Margrete had dressed as a man, volunteered for a Hussar regiment, been promoted for courage and, according to Daena, gotten a reputation for giving out Abdullah cigarettes to her comrades in exchange for keeping her secret, and after having fought heroically at Tannenberg and the First Masurian Lakes, been wounded in action during the Battle of the Vistula River, found out, and dismissed from the German Army.

Any sane person would have considered their duty done at that point. Margrete had volunteered again, served in an infantry unit, gotten promoted to Unteroffizier on merit (again), and been wounded a second time at Verdun in 1916.

So after being found out—again--she had ….

Enlisted a third time under a third fake name and ended up being selected as an elite Stormtrooper and helped lead the assault on the Kemmelberg. With all the officers wounded, she had taken command of the desperate and dangerous position required from which to lob gas grenades into the French trenches, clearing the way for the assault of the Alpenkorps which had overwhelmed the allied lines on the Kemmelberg in April of 1918, during Operation Georgette.

Wounded in the arm, the same old song and dance. She had ended the war again in the cavalry, in a Hussar regiment trying to keep Ukraine under the control of the German-aligned Hetmanate, providing wheat for the desperately starving homeland. With units disintegrating around her and the Kaiser she had fought for gone, she had attached herself to a half dozen causes, before being found out as a Jew.

It was a great sense of justice which had driven Daena to decide to intervene when the officers of a fellow White unit were about to shoot her foremother. And by instinct, Margrete was a conservative monarchist anyway. She just wasn’t the kind that a White Russian Officer cared for. She had become the third Head of the Dragon, with Valentina Igorovna, Daena’s foremost lieutenant in the Death Battalion, who had saved the Dragon’s life one time already. Valentina had been naturally suspicious of her, in a war against the "Bolshevik Atheist Jewry", so-called.

Margrete, given a chance to prove herself, had always dispelled suspicions. When Daena had charged the Bolsheviks three times at Tsaritsyn with her Women’s Death Hussars whilst trying to secure the crossing of the Volga, Margrete had been there to drag her away when the Dragon had taken her own third wound.

When they had fought as mercenaries for Chinese Warlords, Margrete had been there.

When they had started investing King Maegor’s gold in American business—Margrete was there.

When Daena had gotten herself mixed up in Japan’s imperialist ambitions in East Asia, Margrete had been there to pull her away from the entire lunatic extravagance. Granted, she was a fallible human being; her only child, her daughter Elise, had been born in Harbin in 1931, the illegitimate daughter of a Manchurian Prince. For better or for worse, the follies in Asia had kept them away from the nightmare in Europe.

Margrete had been the one to conceive of putting Rajah Anthony on his throne and buying the bankrupt North Borneo Company, and turning it into a vehicle for indigenous governance, with the added benefit of giving them a secure place to live.

By the time Margrete Hoffmeyer had died in 1992 at the age of 97, she had a great-granddaughter and was quietly, through a few trusts and cut-outs, the second richest woman in the world save Daena herself, the two fortunes linked to an interlocking web of privately held companies to avoid scrutiny by securities commissions, which methodically paid their full taxes on time and played the long game.

Always girls. Hoffmeyers always gave birth to girls, and only girls. Usually, considering that no-one could really be trusted with the secrets of the more reclusive Duleep-Singh Targarioni, there was no marriage, just another illegitimate daughter.

The blood ran clever and smart, and of course they had figured it out. In those days in the 1920s, Margrete had asked that her and all of her daughters subsequently be cursed to only have female children. She knew a son might want a family in the conventional way, might be respected in the conventional way, might be able to have a normal life. A daughter would always be on the margins of industry and finance, at least to her view. A daughter would always need Daena.

In return, she extracted a blood oath of eternal loyalty from the witch who had been born under a foreign star.

It was not a bad life, for any of them. Exceedingly rich and powerful, the interlocutors to the rest of the world, the ones who covered for Daena to become her own daughter legally every few decades, they had lives of power and privilege and their pick of men, even if relationships were wanting. Most generations were a single daughter, sometimes two. Esther had an elder sister.

They were Jews. For a line of women founded by someone who had run away from her past--perhaps that was remarkable. But the change had come long before Margrete had even died. Something had changed in her after the holocaust. Her granddaughter learned Yiddish from her.

But Margrete herself never learned Hebrew. That was for other curious generations. Margrete had moved on with her life, bequeathed wealth and power to her descendants, adapted to a life shuttling between America and Britain and Jesselton in Sabah. She no longer called herself a Mosaic German, though. In those days, a woman who should have twice won the Iron Cross called herself a Polish Jew.

In the century after her death, her descendants had carried on her legacy, but it had slowly become almost impossible, even in third world countries, for Daena to hide herself. Global surveillance was more and more ubiquitous. Economic pressure from climate change had stressed their investments to the limit. And the political thoughts and systems of the world were simply natural hostile to the likes of them, fossils that had truly lived too long.

And that damned ghost of Daena’s grandmother was whispering things in her ear.

They’d left her sister Alice the companies, the mansions, the bank accounts. She had agreed to give them anything they asked for; it was trifles by the standards of the 22^nd century. Esther, quite voluntarily, would be the one to keep the sacred oath. She wanted the adventure. She wanted the chance to modernise a world which did not seem doomed to a hot and slow death, to do technology right, with all the knowledge and mistakes of the past as lessons learned. She had the same stupid sense of adventure, she supposed, which was why Margrete had volunteered for front-combat service four times in the First World War.

So she had endured bad food and shitting in buckets and people trying to stab her, and saved a Queen, built a fleet from the ruins of a fleet, seized a city, became a Magister, started an industrial revolution without steam, built a modern Navy, and helped raise two marvelous young children—and gotten old enough that she’d started to worry about who the hell she’d be able to have her own with.

And all of that of course had led up to the total fucking absurdity of commanding a Party Militia (how 20^th century of you, you Alte Makhsheyfe) of three thousand pike, seven thousand bayonets and a thousand sabres, with thirty-two 12pdr Napoleons for their artillery… And marching it out of Pentos for the purpose of fighting a Dothraki khalasar.

Of more than forty thousand men.

Well.

So they had marched out two days prior, into the fertile hinterlands of Pentos, just south of Andalos proper. A land where the people blended the features of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the Valyrians. A land where slavery was unknown only thanks to Braavos, and where the alternative had been, until late, more or less sharecropping.

A land where the opposition to having a woman Magister lead the Army had long since vanished. Esther’s only hesitation was that she thought perhaps Daena should have done this, and she should have commanded the fleet; but at the end of the day, if she failed to stop the Dothraki, then Pentos would hold behind its walls. The same was not true if the Usurper’s fleet got through.

They had marched out until their cavalry scouts had come into contact with the enemy, and falling back smartly from patrols of Dothraki. The cavalry were armed with cap-and-ball revolvers, and had plenty of firepower for those encounters. When Esther had first considered the threat of the Dothraki on arriving in Pentos, she had thought of them like Mongols, and had been quite afraid, thinking they would rely on rapid-fire compound recurve bows. In fact, they usually closed the range and used melee weapons, like Comanche before the introduction of repeating firearms.

So she’d marched up to offer battle, formed her troops into four mutually supporting squares with two cannon at each corner and the cavalry in squadrons in the middle, arranged en echelon so they wouldn’t hit each other with friendly fire.

And the Dothraki, incredibly to her, had actually decided to oblige them.

They hold all the infantry of Essos in contempt, except for the Unsullied.

In fairness, the Dothraki had a terrifying reputation, and Esther was more than a little afraid her troops might break at the first onset, when a proper consideration of the situation would have been that they could have easily held.

Thus, like any perfectly sensible Hoffmeyer in the circumstances, she had conspiciously exposed herself in the foremost square, right on the line, right as the Dothraki advanced to contact. The pair of Zeiss binoculars that she had in hand had been in the family at least since 1920.

It was obvious the Dothraki held them in contempt. This was a strong Khalasar, with a good and charismatic leader. They did not expect Pentoshi militia to hold.

Esther stuffed the binoculars back into their leather case, and drew her sword. The language came easy to her, she had spoken Valyrian since birth. “All right, lads! Remember the Three Thousand of Qohor!”

The screamers came on, screaming. Everything they did was psychologically calculated to terrorise their enemy into breaking. In their own way, the Dothraki understood perfectly well Clausewitz's maxim about pursuits leading to decisive victories.

“Your womenfolk, your children, your hearths are behind you. The graves of your ancestors are in this soil! Stand firm!”

“Canister shot, at the ready!” The same range the muskets could even begin to engage at was also the range at which they could use canister from the 12pdrs.

“Hold, hold lads!” The officers, swords drawn, stood steady in the ranks. They had trained to do this. They had absolutely not done it before.

“First range stick! Front Rank, Present-Arms!”

They had dug in ranging sticks. The Dothraki had not understood what their pickets were doing. The furthest ranging sticks were at three hundred yards. The drums rolled as the trumpets called. The Dothraki were managing about twenty-five miles on the hour, or thirty-six feet per second; twelve years per second. A good charge.

Three hundred yards.

“Front rank—volley fire at three hundred yards--Dracarys!”

The rippling of the muskets was overshadowed a moment later by the booming of the four cannon in that square which could converge on the enemy’s charge. Two more or less directly at it, and two nearly from enfilade as the gunners had dragged them around to bear on their prolongues at the corners of the square.

There were no explosions in the enemy ranks or any other theatrics. All the smoke and flame was at the guns themselves. Instead, the singing lead in the air from canister ball and musketry dropped men without apparent cause, zipping through the air with terrible speed, the only sign to the living Dothraki of the death of their clansmen being the snapping hiss of the bullets in the air.

Orders snapped through the air, Esther trying to will her offices to be calm examples.

“Battery reload – double canister!”

“Second rank—at two hundred and fifty yards—DRACARYS!”

“First and second rank, reload with buck and ball!”

“Third and fourth ranks, present arms!”

“Third rank – at one hundred and fifty yards – DRACARYS!”

“Fourth rank – at one hundred yards – DRACARYS!”

In twenty seconds, the Dothraki had covered two hundred and forty yards. The scene was now totally obscured with the acrid smelling powder smoke. Perhaps it was shock, they were too surprised to be afraid, but the Dothraki were coming on. Esther turned her horse, sword raised high, understanding now why only six hundred Unsullied had survived at Qohor. These lunatic screamers didn’t stop. “Now boys, now boys is your time! Haven’t you the courage of a bunch of eunuchs!? Steady lads!”

“First and second ranks – volley fire – DRACARYS!”

“Battery A, Dracarys!”

Buck and ball. Three buckshot balls and one full musket ball, packed together in a paper cartridge with their powder load. The effect of two ranks firing at once, with buck and ball, at this close range, was unfathomable.

And then the cannons fired double-canister.

A few of the horses hung up on the thin single rank of grounded pikes, almost superfluous. Most of the screamers left were falling back.

They weren’t screaming anymore.

They were, however, still in range. “Third and fourth rank—volley fire! DRACARYS!”

Dracarys, properly speaking, didn’t mean ‘fire’ in Valyrian. It was very specifically a command to a dragon to bring forth dragonfire, but most Valyrians didn’t have dragons. This meant for the average speaker of Valyrian, Dracarys was something like the Russian and Ukrainian Davai, a general expression of ‘come on’ or ‘let’s do it’ or something like that, and using it as the command to open fire was exactly what east Slavs did too; it could just as well be used to order Archers to ‘loose’. But everyone in Essos knew the legendary connotations. It meant, handed a musket or the lanyard of a cannon, each one of these men had his personal Dragonfire, at his fingertips, ready to unleash.

And they had that psychological confidence going for them, as they stood their ground before the tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers, and laid down fires upon them until they had broken.

The field was so silent now, as the other squares finished their own firing. The enemy had retreated beyond easy range, and Esther saw profit in demonstrating to the Dothraki that her cannon could easily range beyond three hundred yards.

In the midst of that silence there were only the screams of dying and wounded men in an alien tongue, and the equally pathetic screams of dying and wounded horses. Even for the victors, it was not a kind silence. The battle might not be over and it was unnerving. She spun around, slapping her reins, got her mare to rear. “Urrah! No more tribute, lads! NO MORE TRIBUTE!”

The officers began to repeat the cry. “NO MORE TRIBUTE!”

It echoed and rolled and roared across the field, until thousands of voices were chanting in unison. The thunder of their voices, the drummers quickly smacking a beat to follow the words—some of the Dothraki knew Valyrian. They could damn well understood what it meant.

Esther wanted them to.

This phase of the battle had literally lasted for less than two minutes. The movies didn’t do it justice; a charge against an infantry square was decided in seconds. It wouldn’t make for an interesting scene on film to show it realistically. All four squares had been in action for less than ten minutes, and in all they had killed or wounded three or four thousand men or horses. They had surely taken casualties, but Esther couldn’t see any.

The Dothraki were now re-grouping, at a respectful distance. The man on the other side is no idiot. He will not try again. He, too, remembers Qohor. Now that he knows we won’t break, he’ll try something else.

As the afternoon wore on, he had a few bands demonstrate against her formations, but she refused to release her horse to drive them off, settling for ranging volleys when they got to three hundred yards. They took a few casualties, but hardly any.

Esther called her officers together. It was easy enough to summon men from the other squares, with the Dothraki staying at a respectable range. They rotated half the men off the lines, and let them eat and drink in relays.

“At night, I expect he is going to try to outflank us, and move toward the city. See that they have not cut their braids yet. They do not regard this battle over, nor do they regard themselves beaten. The Khal over there is a cunning man who intends to not need to fight for his khalasar, and to retain control over his men and to complete whatever mission he has been put up to. He is doubtless rallying them, and telling them we cannot stand like stones here forever. He has the advantage of strategic mobility. He can lose against us, like Grant in my stories against Lee, and then just move around us closer toward his objective. The Dothraki will not launch night attacks. We will fall back at the quick march, with our cavalry screening us, when the darkness falls, and meet him again closer to the city. Come.”

“Aye, Lady Magister! For Pentos and Victory!”

The only question, and the direst worry of all in her mind, was what was happening in Pentos, and if Rhaella and Daenerys – and Daena and Viserys – were safe. All day, in the background, a nagging little reminder had been provided to her of the broader strategic picture.

In a medieval world without noise pollution to obscure it, the dreadful distant thunder of a cannonade had been coming from the sea, easily audible despite being two dozen miles away, all day long.

Chapter Text

She awoke from her sleep with a terrible sense of dread. Her husband had savagely beaten and raped her at his leisure. She had nearly been killed by the Usurper and his adherents. She wasn’t sure what was happening around her, not this time. The risk of revolt was whispering ominously in the night.

Consciousness resolved into a gunshot, then another. The dull crack of blackpowder in the darkness, and then again, and again.

Then, another sound. Sharper, and again again again again again again. Then, the short sharp succession repeated and repeated. Some blackpowder shots still fired in the night, but now the rapid-fire hammer dominated.

Rhaella managed to put her mind together, reach for her night-stand. She pushed up to her feet, and had put on sandals and tossed a duster—Daena’s favourite kind of coat—over her body before the door exploded open. She raised the gun, feeling like it was slow motion.

“Bismillah, Your Grace, if we don’t go now, we won’t go at all.” It was Nagurash.

“Where do we go?”

Nagurash, a smoking gun slung over her shoulder, gestured to the tower window. She was carrying a cord of rope. When Rhaella approached, the Guard Commander looped a harness around her, pulling them together close, almost embarrassingly intimate if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“Daenerys?”

“Go,” Nagurash answered stiffly, and pulled her through the window as Rhaella’s heart fell. With metal clips and links, they worked down the side of the tower in flat seconds. Nagurash had clearly done it before.

The city had started to burn. Crowds were in the streets. She could hear fighting in their district.

There were five of them down there, with a few, maybe eight, of the stunned Westerosi exiles who had made up their little court in exile. A small pile of bodies, of local men, lay clustered about twenty yards distant in the street. Nagurash hit the ground, unclipped them, and then handed Rhaella’s pistol back into her hands. Rhaella took it absentmindedly. Daenerys was not there.

“Move,” Nagurash ordered, and repeated it until it cut through the fog in her mind. “Move.” She made a single gesture to the waterfront, though Rhaella thought it was almost random, though not toward the gates of the manor. They started off at a dog-trot through the streets, not too fast, but the Uzbeks forced them to keep moving, refusing to slow down for anything.

Men with spears came around a corner. Red dots appeared on the chests of three, and two rounds tore into each man. All three went down.

The precision and rapidity took Rhaella’s breath away precisely because she knew about guns. These, then, were the guns from Earth, made there, to the latest science. They could be nothing else. When Rhaella paused, Nagurash dragged her on. They kept jogging through the streets.

Another group of armed men appeared. They were bunched together, and one of the Uzbeks fired the lower barrel on her rifle—it was a grenade that exploded in the midst of the men, driving them back, as a few rounds, now fired slowly and sure, took down others.

Another street. Keep running. Some of the Westerosi women were getting exhausted; the men at least were fit enough to keep up. The Uzbeks grabbed them and dragged them onwards, unblinking. They gave nobody a chance to rest. They just kept moving. They fired without warning and without challenge, at anyone moving toward them armed.

Finally, the roving bands fell away. The guns didn’t fire. They kept moving, now fast and quiet, through the tumult of people out in the street at night, not sure who to support, not sure who to fight. The silent streets of the ambush were gone.

The sound of fighting could still be heard in the distance. The flickering of lights from the fires that had been set, faint bands of smoke obscuring the stars above. They were close to the docks, now.

The group finally slowed down. Canteens were passed around. Rhaella, who usually woke up with her throat dry these days, drank greedily from the same one which had just been passed by Nagurash’s lips. When it came to saving her own life, she had no complaints about the performance of the Guardswomen that Daena had left with her, but…

“Daenerys. In the name of your God that you oathswore, Daenerys, Nagurash. Where is she?”

“Mormont took her. He was the traitor,” she said, her eyes dull and heavy in the dark, breathing still sharp. “Forgive me. They got Fatima and Aditya, and Savaira. Mormont was the traitor. He let them in. And he took Princess Daenerys. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I couldn’t stop him.”

“Mormont! Fuck the damned North and curses on the Old Gods and curses on his backwards island and his demanding harpy of a wife!” They had never figured out why Mormont was exiled (1), but he had always presented himself as a loyal dragon man. They had all been suspicious, but they needed all the supporters they could get, and the repeated investigations and inquiries led nowhere. Unlike in the southern lands, Rhaella had no spies in the North. The North had always been a realm apart.

Of course it was Mormont. She cursed herself, in fact. This was not on Nagurash; if she had not refused to turn out Mormont, then three loyal women would not be dead, and Daenerys would be here. They likely wouldn’t have even penetrated the Manor. But she had needed all the supporters that she could, to put Viserys on the throne.

Damn the throne.

They’ll ransom her. She composed herself. Viserys needs you.

And they’ll ransom her. When his wife left him, Rhaella should have turned him out, she should have really turned him out then. Such a man just wasn’t trustworthy.

But they’d needed all the support they could get, and he was the only Northern Lord to join them in exile in Pentos… Fuck the North.

“Your Grace,” Nagurash’s voice was cold and calm. “We need to keep moving.”

Rhaella forced herself to nod. She thought her feet were worn raw. The sandals were never meant for such running over cobblestones.

“Where are we going?”

Nagurash grabbed her and tugged, but she spoke as they jogged. “There were ammunition ships, loading with powder and shot at the docks, to replenish the fleet. They will not have betrayed us, the Navy is reliable. We will get through to them, and make for the fleet with them.”

They encountered one group of horsemen riding hard in the streets, perhaps running messages. Not in uniform, the Uzbeks immediately dropped them. It was a merciless set of running battles and ambushes in the night. They moved fast, they didn’t stop, they engaged to kill without warning each time. Muzzle flash was often the only mark of the position of their outer guard.

Down at the docks, seven ships had been loading with powder and shot for the fleet, big merchant galleys.

But an armed body of men was between them and the docks, in a short of stand-off with a group of marines protecting the piers. It was obvious that their enemies would rather capture such a cargo intact, and perhaps had the understanding that former bondsmen might rather fire the ships rather than surrender, with truly catastrophic consequences for the whole city.

Rhaella checked her revolver in the second sudden pause. “How do we get through them?”

Nagurash surveyed the scene, she treated every moment like it was dire and precious, and spoke calmly: “Full auto, and grenades, and bayonets.”

With a curt order, her group of six affixed bayonets to their rifles. They were shorter than the muskets, and it felt terribly dangerous. Three of the men had swords. Rhaella had her pistol. Grenades were distributed. They loaded their guns, the rounds for these ones came in detachable boxes, and there were switches and other technology as subtle as a watch on them.

They made signals with their hands. Thirty seconds to get ready? Nagurash probably thought it was too long already.

A downward gesture with two fingers was what signalled the attack, no more. They dashed forward, as close as they could, until the alarm was raised. Then red dots marked their targets. Single rounds rattled off. Men fell.

Grenades were fired—explosions swept the line. They toggled selector switches and opened fire, still aimed, but now spurts and puffs of fire, rapid like the tearing of a cloth, the ripping quite flashes of white light in the darkness marking the gunfire. Massed men when down in numbers as the explosions cleared the way for their charge. A dozen grenades were hurled in the space of seconds, and more explosions followed. Rhaella aimed at what she thought might be a Lord of rank, and fired three rounds. She was pulled on by Nagurash and didn’t see whether or not just had even hit the man, but first time in her life, she had tried to kill a man.

Three dozen men were already down if any were down at all, but it still seemed like it might come to sword and bayonet. There were enough of the enemy militia that there was no clear path through them to the docks.

Then continuous firing split the night. No three or six round burst, it was a gun, no doubt, but like a line of fine needlework, it just kept going and going into a continuous pattern. It was coming from the roof of one of the warehouses on the docks, and she could see the flashes for a split second before Nagurash pulled her through, stumbling before they straightened over the row of bodies it had left behind, as neat as a stone fence.

“Tayyebeh got through,” Nagurash smiled, and now helped Rhaella, almost daintily, to the lines of marines who welcomed them and formed a cordon around them.

Just like that, they were safe.

But her children were not, and still, Rhaella feared.

Chapter Text

It was everything she had feared. Daena didn’t do things like this anymore because she was mostly a failure. She had failed to liberate Albania—shit, d’Annunzio had turned on her and she’d been arrested by the Italian authorities!--she’d failed to break through the final German line during the Second Brusilov Offensive, she’d failed to save the Tsar’s daughters, the White Movement had failed, the Basmachi movement had failed, Manchuria had failed. Sarawak hadn’t, at least, but it was cold comfort. That was more Margrete’s doing than her’s.

They’d barely lost a man, but some of the losses hurt really bad. The Uzbek Guards, for one. Daena had dragged them with her, with no real prospect of going home. They were all rich, but they had now spent years here, without really being able to settle down. And even being rich here—there was a doctor, and Daena could also treat people with magic, sure, but—it was still a severe decline in living standards, in some ways. Immense familial loyalty had driven them to agree.

And here… Everything they’d done was nearly a ruin, with Pentos in the hands of the Old Money again. The look on Esther’s face was absolutely ashen.

But it surely was ashen for another reason, the same reason that Daena was tightly hugging Rhaella and letting her cry, as she had recounted the story of what had happened, twice.

Nagurash stood there, her face etched in stone.

Viserys stood by stiffly, keeping anyone else from approaching and seeing this intimate moment. He had come into his own, but family was family. Daena knew he was hurting, too, that this happened.

“It’s my fault. I should have taken you aboard the fleet.” The words slipped from her lips, but still felt very hollow.

“That is absurd. We had no idea the flagship would take only two dead, and be the worst hurt of all of the sailing ships, and we’d have less than a hundred slain in the entire fight at sea,” Rhaella sniffled. “The rational thing to do was exactly what you did. I should have never accepted Mormont as a courier. That is my fault, I don’t have the experience I need with Westeros, Aerys always kept me locked up, and…” She was crying again. Daena squeezed her closer, ever so close, ever so soft, and kissed her cheeks again.

“The Dothraki outmanoeuvred me. It’s my fault,” Esther gritted her teeth. “They got around me to the city. And I didn’t realise they’d retreat so quickly. The new Magisters must have bribed them with something extravagant.”

“Perhaps the eggs Mopatis gave us,” Rhaella composed herself, a bit. “I wonder if he was slain.”

“Like as not tried to turn his cloak again,” Daena muttered. “Look, Esther, you have the least guilt in all of this. You have a combined arms army, not Mongol raiding force. You simply can’t outmarch them, it was not possible to do better. Your deployments made perfect sense, to save the people in the countryside from rapine and plunder.”

She could feel Rhaella tense even at the words she had spoken. Daena did not wish to make it worse, but… “We have spent her entire life giving Daenerys resilience in the mind and elastic confidence and supportive love.”

Rhaella wiped at her eyes, and composed herself. “And even if I harden my heart, Daena…”

“Yes, the situation is a fucking catastrophe, and…”

“No it’s not.” Esther’s voice, so cool and level, cut through her incipient depression. Even in her own self-blame, she had not fallen into pity and she had not abandoned a level-headed assessment of the situation. Three words, but then Rhaella was looking at her, and Viserys, and Nagurash. "That's just your guilt talking, over Daenerys."

“You have not brought me this far to fall into despair, you – you Alte Makhsheyfe! You came here to save the last breath of your family and let it flower anew. Well, let me tell you this. The Usurper is dead, and his Hand in our right hand. We have an Army which can whip half the world, and a Navy which can whip the other half.” She turned to Viserys. “Do you remember what the Captain from Castile said after La Noche Triste? Didn’t Daena herself tell you that story, Your Grace?”

Viserys’ expression brightened into a grin. “Let’s go, we lack nothing.”

“Precisely, Your Grace. Daena, we must counterattack immediately and retake Pentos, at all costs, to secure the armouries and the cannon foundries and shipbuilding works. We need them. We have plenty of men, the Marines of the Islands and the Royal fleet are for us, they can be trained with Muskets.”

Daena cleared her throat. “It is true, Esther, and you speak wisdom and courage in this hour of our sorrow. La Noche Triste, indeed. We are still as finely placed as Cortés. You are right. We must counterattack immediately, but, the men of the islands will demand we sail immediately for their homes to provide them with garrisons against the Crown. Tywin Lannister will take the cause of his grandson with the enthusiasm of a man whose back is to the wall. He must know he can expect no mercy from a Targaryen restoration. I certainly wouldn’t give it to him; I could barely dignify him with a firing squad. We also got Barristan Selmy.”

Rhaella stiffened again, and then shook herself loose from Daena. “At least there will be a reckoning. Men against the wall during a counterrevolution, I trust you all perfectly well with that. So we will retake Pentos. How?”

“We haven’t siege guns with the main force, but we can assault the docks with great strength, and bring the militia into the city that way,”

“Our chances of victory go up the sooner we strike, yes?” Rhaella’s violet eyes were so fierce. Daena respected her so much …

“God, yes.”

“Then we do it now.” She turned to Esther. “How do we assuage the men of the Isles that their homes will be safe?”

“Send some of the ships. Send some of the militia. They will not fight on land in Westeros for us, it’s not what they signed up for, but we can convince them to garrison islands. And they can teach the men there to handle guns and pikes in proper order, so we may raise a real Army for the liberation of Westeros,” Esther said.

“What about the prisoners? Who will guard them? We cannot split our forces further.”

“Westeros would never tolerate our doing what Henry did after Agincourt; in most ways chivalry is more hypocritical here than in Europe,” Daena began to pace, “but unfortunately the reverse is true, when it comes to pardons. And we are women. Tywin may get away with butchering prisoners for the sake of tactical advantage, but there would be a black mark on all of us that would be transferred to Viserys as well, because of the standards that were held against Queen Rhaenyra.”

“Hold trials for the ones who broke their oaths. Now, today,” Esther counselled. “Tell the others there shall be generous pardons, if they gain Pentos for us. Send them in the first wave, and my trained troops will reinforce those who are most successful in the streets. Parade the Usurper’s body before them, with His Grace, to leave no doubt that King Viserys is in command, and Robert Baratheon is dead.”

Rhaella turned, and fixed Daena with a stare that revealed a soul of steel. “And my daughter?”

Daena reached down, took the gold locket that lay at her throat, the one that had a picture of the Martyred Romanovs, and kissed it. “Nagurash and I will bring her back.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the Guards commander said, relaxing. “I will ride with you to Hell.”

That may be our destination. “That is all I can ask.”

Rhaella’s face was so cold. “There are thirty thousand Dothraki out there, Daena. Mormont is in the midst of thirty thousand Dothraki.”

“There will be twelve remounts for each rider at my side. We’ll easily outpace the Khalasar, and we’ll outpace any pursuit, too, at least by a force that we cannot defeat. We’ll bring the machine-gun for any detachment which can catch up to us. We have enough belts left for this job.”

Rhaella stepped up, and embraced her firmly, and Daena’s heart ached and hurt like hell. I am sorry I couldn’t stop this from happening, again.

“Bring her back, Daena.”

“I will. I will.”

Viserys stepped nearer to the two of them. “I understand you are together,” he said at barely more than a whisper, “but Lady Daena, who are you?"

“A sorceress.”

“I knew that part.”

Rhaella smiled very gently to her son. Esther had, in her frustration, let enough out that there was no choice, and she had already told Daenerys. “Lady Daena is, as Lady Esther is so fond of saying, an Old Witch. She is King Maegor’s daughter by Tyanna of Pentos. She has extended her life by the power of a Valyrian Blood Mage, and decided to write the evening song of her life, by returning to, quite frankly, save the House.”

Viserys’ expression was frozen for a moment, and then he turned, eyes flickering with an intensity near to madness, and kissed Daena’s cheeks. “Kinswoman. I suspected, in fact," he smirked, a little. "But I thought you were Shiera Seastar. Do you have any counsel for me before you go?”

Daena simply raised a finger and pointed at Esther. “If you listen to that woman’s wisdom, you will be the greatest King that Westeros has ever known. If you ignore it, you can still get yourself killed.”

Viserys froze for a second, then nodded once, and stepped back. “You have all been as mothers to me. I will not stop listening now. I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Daena felt her voice rather hoarse. “Now, before I go, we should dispose of the prisoners, as one strong and united front.”

It did not take long for the men of rank to be brought forward. Fighting from exposed positions on the quarterdecks of their galleys, few had fared well against the play of canister shot at close range. It had fallen on Lord Eddard Stark to surrender the survivors of the fleet, after they had been driven ashore when Daena had sent the fire-ships against them.

Jon was there, too. When he had seen his father, he had insisted.

The women composed themselves as a united front behind Viserys, with the drums rolling low and ominous, and the troops drawn up in ranks, and Lord Velaryon brought to attend as well.

Lord Eddard, haggard and stunned, cast a baleful eye at the Lord of the Tides. “Treason, Lord Monford, does prosper you.”

Lord Monford’s words were as sweet as curdled milk, but just. “It is not treason to turn a usurper and traitors over to a man’s Gods-given Sovereign, for his just punishment.”

Daena couldn’t help but smile. She leaned closer to Viserys. “Your Grace could make him the Duke of Albemarle, if only anyone else understood the jape.”

Esther drew her sword, and spoke in Common. “Kneel, Lord Stark, before the King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Viserys, First of His Name.”

Eddard’s eyes flickered toward Esther, and Daena did marvel at the dignified contempt that he mustered. “I shall not, Miss. Though you have give him a signal victory with your eastern alchemy, and taken from me my dear friends and my liege-lord, I swore before the Gods that the House Targaryen lost the right to rule Westeros due to the outrages, and crimes, and savageries that were committed during the reign of this man’s father.”

“You have heard the man, he will not kneel.” Even by Westerosi standards, this was clear-cut. “Let him be put to death.” Viserys drew his sword, and the files of musketeers on each side presented arms, just in case the dignity of the moment was offended.

“If you will put me to death with your own blade, you are at least a better man than your father,” Eddard addressed Viserys.

Viserys’ face twisted into a rictus of anger, and Daena did her best to hide a grimace. That was calculated to provoke him, in The Stark’s own way. Damn.

“I should put your entire benighted family to the sword, Stark,” Viserys answered through gritted teeth. “We have this one here, who also took up arms against my royal person.”

The Stark’s expression froze into a moment of absolute agony. Rhaella started frowning, staring at him, hard. He continued to speak, but it was like he was spitting nails when he did. “I would make my honour a lie, Prince Viserys, if I did not give you warning, and let you choose your own conduct before the Gods with full knowledge of what it will bring. Gods, forgive me, Jon…”

“Father!?”

“You would make yourself a kinslayer if you took my son’s life,” Eddard told Viserys, as plain and honest as any Northern voice could be. “He is not mine by blood, but my sister’s.”

Rhaella clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled a shriek.

Jon stood planted against his fetters, with a look of horror painted on his face.

Oh dear, the voice of Visenya Targaryen’s ghost whispered in the back of Daena’s head. She sounded much too amused.

Fuck you, Grandmother.

Chapter Text

Rhaella was no lackwit. When Eddard Stark, paragon of virtue of the North and whatever other blistering arrogant epithets they’d come for him, outright said, that Jon Snow was his sister’s son, not his own, it made it equally clear who his father was. From the moment she’d laid eyes on him—granted only a few minutes before—Rhaella had been possessed of a strange feeling. Now it was confirmed.

Perhaps she had been around Daena and Esther too much. Esther would be by Westerosi custom, a bastard; she had her mother’s name because of the law in Sarawak, and the long-established Hoffmeyer custom of passing it from mother to daughter. Her mother had not been married when she was born. But Esther found no problem with this, and was assumed to be a lady of rank by all who met her, and her intelligence and capability were infectious.

Daena? She insisted she was not a bastard, that she had, in fact, been born after Maegor and Tyanna were wed. The strange prophecy that had led to her abandonment on Earth did not specify it one way or another, and Rhaella thought that it could easily still apply, for Maegor’s lust for an heir had been such that he would not have hesitated to put a bastard daughter on the throne if that was all the Gods had given him. But Daena insisted she was a true-born Targaryen, and Rhaella had put those thoughts aside. By saving her life and the lives of her children, by being the love that had soothed her heart after so many years of Aerys—what else could she do? Besides, Daena had been adopted by Princess Catherine Duleep-Singh, she was rightful royalty one way or another, whether it was as Maegor’s trueborn daughter, or as the adopted great-granddaughter of the Lion of the Punjab. And she was blood enough to sing storms.

So, at some point in the past years, Rhaella had found she’d simply stopped caring about the influence of bastardy. Perhaps they’d been a bad influence on her, and perhaps a good one. But in this moment, looking at Jon, she could only think of one thing: They have not killed my eldest son’s legacy.

She stepped out of line with the others, and went up to Jon, and embraced him, to his surprise and rigid shock. “My grandson.”

Viserys had begun to open his mouth, when he saw her walking, she’d seen it from the corner of her eye; he closed it again. Good lad.

“Unlock his fetters. He is not our prisoner, but our kinsman.” And then Rhaella made an ostentatious show of kissing Jon’s cheeks.

Daena gestured to one of the guards. He stepped forward and Jon was released—for the second time of his captivity—instantly. He looked around in confusion, and fear, and anxiety.

“Father, is it really so? You are not my father?”

“I have always seen myself so, Jon, for you are the last legacy of my beloved sister Lyanna. But Prince Rhaegar was your father. It is true.” He looked levelly forward, and seemed much more at peace with himself. “Do you have my eldest son, Robb?”

“No; he made good his escape with four ships,” Daena answered. “There is no advantage in hiding that from you, Lord Stark.”

“Then I am ready to die.”

“NO,” Jon cried—and flung himself down to his knees in front of Viserys. “Your Grace, if your lady mother would have me as one of your family or not, I beg your Grace, spare my father.”

Daena took a step back, and whispered to Viserys.

Rhaella couldn’t help but give him a bitter glare. “I am astonished that you spared my grandson’s life, when your friend and liege lord could not even spare my granddaughter’s. If Aegon had to die, on account of being a rightful King, though he was only an infant—and we both know that was not true—what of she?”

To his credit, Ned’s expression was awful at the remark, and Rhaella had to compose herself, and admit that it was likely sincere; he was ashamed. But nonetheless, Ned faced Viserys full on. “If you are to put me to death, is there more need for talk? Put me to death. I did revolt against your father, and I am in your power. But spare Jon the sight.”

Rhaella knew that Viserys was likely furious, and that was when he was at his most unstable. But Daena was very good at choosing words to calm him, and he spoke with a measured deliberation that was worthy of a King. “A life for a life, Lord Stark. You spared the bastard son of my brother, when your fellow conspirators in rebellion and treason showed no such compunction, even for little girls. You may take the Black, on the condition that you will give your word to me that you will escort every other man we permit to take the Black to the Wall, on your own, without any of our men to guard you. You will be provided ships to sail for Eastwatch, and it will be on your honour and reputation, that you shall convey them all into the Black Brotherhood, and not permit even a single man to make for another port, by any means in your power.”

Jon released his breath in a shuddering sigh.

“You have my word, Your Grace.” With those words, Ned Stark abandoned forever the role that he had never wanted, but taken out of duty.

Rhaella felt only the smallest twinge of bitterness. She had wanted him dead, just like the Usurper. The sun was in her eyes, and this sad little scene was cast in shadow below it. She retreated to the pavilion, alongside her living son, and exchanged a glance with him.

“Rise, Jon Snow,” Viserys commanded.

Jon staggered to his feet, overcome with emotion. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“My beloved mother’s wish is that you should be as our family,” Viserys continued at length, in a relaxed drawl to his Common. “Desirous to be reminded in you of my elder brother, the Prince Rhaegar. I therefore extend to you the hospitality of my court, and give you to the charge of Lady Daena.”

“Your Grace.” His eyes flickered over to Daena, who was at least a known quantity to him already.

Rhaella stepped back closer to Viserys. “Now, my King, we must dispose of the others.”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed. “Lord Commander Selmy, I believe the Usurper styled you?”

“He did, Your Grace.”

“How can you call yourself a Knight, when you served a usurper?”

“I served Your Grace’s father faithfully until his death.” Ser Barristan held his head high. “I served King Robert faithfully until his death.”

“And now you will serve me faithfully until my death?” Viserys laughed. “You should have been a Barrister in Braavos, I say, with that fine hair splitting. Ser.”

Barristan closed his eyes. He was not immune to shame. But Rhaella could only think of all the times that he and the other Kingsguard had stood by, the times Aerys had…

Daena gently held her up, saying and doing nothing more. But she was tense, tense in a way she got when she had made up her mind, and Rhaella, too, stiffened.

“Ser Barristan, do you still keep the saddle well?”

“I should say I do, M’lady,” he answered, allowing himself a small frown.

“The usurper’s traitor in our Court-in-Exile took Princess Daenerys with him. You will never return home, Lord Commander. I can promise you that right now. But if you want to write the last page of your story in honour, I need riders at my side.”

Rhaella glared at her. “How can you be such a fool as to trust him?” She hissed in English, which did make a good secret language for the family. Too many men knew Valyrian.

“He is a legend. When he rides by my side, men will take that as his endorsement of King Viserys’ cause, but he will be far away from any land in which he can cause trouble. We cause him to do one last reliable service, whether or not he wants to.”

Barristan’s back straightened. Viserys was faintly irritated, but he raised his own hand. “On your word that you would give your life to recover my sister from the hands of Mormont and the Dothraki, you will be given a stay of sentence, for as long as you remain in Essos.”

“I am an old man. I have nothing to return to even if I was pardoned,” Barristan replied. “You have my word, Your Grace. I will return Princess Daenerys to your court.”

Rhaella imagined, from his look, he did not know exactly what to make of Daena, but Rhaella understood the problem the more she forced herself to think logically about it. Daena would trust the Uzbeks to keep up with her, but the Uzbek Guard was needed to actually guard her, and Viserys, and Esther. She would bring Nagurash, of course, and likely Tayyebeh and Sadijha, perhaps six at most. But she could not bring all of them, particularly not with three of the women already dead in Pentos. So it made sense, and …

No, no, it’s better. Asking for Barristan is just an excuse. An excuse to make the next request. It’s a hook. What young boy wouldn’t want to follow Ser Barristan the Bold?

In fact, cutting through his overwhelmed and stunned expression, Daena was looking at Jon. “I understand you were noble raised. Can you ride?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Ride with me, then.”

“To rescue a Princess from the Dothraki?”

Daena’s eyes jerked to the east. “That’s where I’m going, yes.” She was unusually laconic, in the circumstances.

You mad genius. Rhaella felt a little like she was going to fall in love with Daena all over again. Instead of letting him putter around, agonising over the self-discoveries just inflicted on him, Daena would take control of the situation, reach out to him in the way a young man would be open to. A hard ride on the open plains.

I will have faith that she will keep him safe, the Warrior will protect her as he has so many times before; and she will extend that protection to him, and bring him back as a part of our family.

“We will be leaving tomorrow,” Daena continued. “Your direwolf should be able to keep the pace, he is no normal wolf. He may come.”

Jon swallowed, and his dark eyes met her’s. Already, he had seen more of Daena than Barristan. There was real respect there. “I will ride with you, my Lady.”

“Good. Now I believe it is time for His Grace’s procession, and we should all be prepared to show our respect. We have Lord Stark’s oath. Give him what he needs to prepare a prison fleet for Eastwatch. And we will accompany His Grace.”

His Grace’s procession. The procession of the Usurper’s body, before the men of the fleet, to encourage their defection. It would be a long, tense afternoon.

But the thought made Rhaella smile, just a little. For you, Rhaegar.

Chapter Text

He had witnessed the procession with the King’s body. Viserys had gone before him, to the crews of the surrendered ships, mustered before. Robert’s burned, mangled, bedraggled and rotting corpse was carried behind on a cart. “The Usurper is dead! His Grace Viserys Third of His Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, has avenged his ancestors and ended the sore and evil oppression of all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. The Usurper is dead!”

For all the King’s ghastly condition, it was impossible to doubt that it was him. The great War Hammer at his side, the armour, his visage and Baratheon hair could be recognised, with some difficulty. A drum paraded low and solemn, as Viserys made his procession, with his Guards around, and Princess Rhaella, and Lady Daena, and Lady Esther, all behind.

Heralds went among the men of the fleet, granting pardons first to all of the convict oarsmen, and second, promising reliable pay and ‘rations generous’ to any man who served.

There were few men who did not kneel, and take the King’s coin.

Those who refused were not immediately condemned to the Night’s Watch. The Ladies well-understood that their position looked tenuous, and more men might well defect after they had retaken Pentos. So they were merciful, and kept them confined for now, while detachments under Lord Velaryon set sail for the Blackwater, to bring musketeers to garrison the Valyrian Islands in the bay.

That night, one of the brown skinned women with sharp eyes, who surrounded the Ladies and King Viserys, escorted him as he went to say goodbye to his father. His father. His Father. HIS FATHER.

He was in a tent, surrounded by the encampment of a regiment of Pentoshi militia, not shackled any longer, but clearly not free, until the hour to depart and fulfill his oath by sailing for Eastwatch, was at hand.

Jon was trembling. “Father…” He still didn’t want to believe anything he’d heard. It was crazier than the cannons and muskets were.

“Jon.” Ned had been sitting silently, doing nothing, with the look on his face as grim as a Stark could ever muster. “You will always be my son. I had to raise you, I couldn’t do anything less for Lya.”

“So it’s all true?”

“It’s all true. Sometimes… Sometimes you find yourself lying for honour. Better Lord Stark lie, than let his sister’s honour be shamed further. Better Lord Stark lie, than let his friend be a fool.” He meant, of course, King Robert.

Jon nodded woodenly.

“In countenance and blood, you are a Stark,” Ned continued. “But it seems Queen Rhaella and her foreign advisors may prevail upon Viserys to legitimise you, if her indulgent behaviour that I saw at Viserys’ audience is a sign. Jon, I will be fine. I will be with Benjen. We will serve our watch together. My only regret is that I could not do more, and I thrust this responsibility onto Robb at such a young age.”

Jon shivered. “Father, I will not take any such false honour from them. I am Jon Snow. You raised me. I am your son.”

“You are my son. But I will tell you to do only three things: Never, Jon, Never, raise your hands in war against any Stark. Keep your oaths. Do not forsake our old Northern Gods, wherever you go.”

Jon stood, feeling all grim and cold, now. The truth really hit home. “You have my word, father.”

“Thank you. You will leave tomorrow?”

“Yes, to ride after the missing Princess.”

“That will be a hard ride. I don’t know the mettle of this woman who stood at Viserys’ side, and I fear her a reckless madwoman. I do know Ser Barristan’s mettle. If anything goes wrong, stay close to him. I cannot say you will survive such a journey, but at his side, it will at least bring you honour.”

“I will, Father.”

“Then, all I can say is, if by some chance, you see Robb before I do, tell him that I have every confidence in him.”

“I will.” There was nothing more to say. They were Starks. They would not stay up into the late hours, talking. He bid his father goodbye, and stepped out, to go to a different tent, to sleep as a free man, when his father was a prisoner. To suffer strange dreams, of the idea of being a Targaryen.

Really, it was a hellish night.

Exhaustion or not, the next morning, the Lady Daena greeted him with a strong, bitter black beverage. It was made drinkable and pleasant by mixing in preserves. They had a stew with preserved meat and pickled vegetables and hardtack boiled until it was soft, and soft baked beans on the side. The group slowly gathered. Daena and six of her women. Ser Barristan. Mathis Rowan, who had quickly turned his cloak when fighting with the contingent of ships from the Reach, and had probably always been a Dragon Man; two Velaryon knights whose names he did not know, but had been recommended by Lord Velaryon as his best horsemen. Twelve.

She drew them together. “Twelve horses per rider. You cannot run a loose lead further than that without it being awkward. We change mounts once a day, and shift packs. One for a rider, two pack horses on each lead at a time, leading nine running light.”

Next, the Valyrian woman laid out the contents of a saddle bag. “This is what we have got for food. Biltong, Jerky, Pemmican, and dried fish. Hardtack. Flour, sugar, salt; for fry-bread and salting and thickening stews. Tallow for cooking. Dried berries. Nuts. These are flints, see?” She demonstrated one for setting a fire. “We won’t want for fire, except when we must go without one at all, because we are near the enemy.”

“No pork, my Lady,” Jon observed quietly as he looked over the foods.

“It is against our religion,” Nagurash answered for Daena.

“Well, your’s, anyway,” the Valyrian woman laughed softly. But it just brought a comfortably bemused smile from the leader of the ‘Uzbeks’. Foreign Gods they may worship, but neither seemed very particular about it.

“We’ve got pots for boiling the water, to make it safe to drink; but tea to do that, too, and strong liquor for those who will imbibe it,” Daena marked the lines. “Here’s the medical kits. If anyone is wounded I will treat them. We have light pack tents, two smaller ones for the women, one large for the men.”

As the sun slowly rose, Daena had each item brought out, and then, some of the soldiers and servants to begin to pack it, as she went on to cover the next in turn, throwing the ground near the sea into stark relief as the light poured in over the hills to the east. “Oilskin dusters. Riding boots—go on, try some on until you find a good pair if you’re not satisfied with what you have—spurs, we have got plenty of, and proper riding gloves. Here are the saddles and tack. Familiar enough?”

He nodded, and then Daena moved on and picked up one of the muskets, but it was far stranger than the others Jon had seen. She grabbed a turned down metal handle on the side, and pulled it up with a smooth metallic racking noise to reveal a chamber within. “Chassepot cavalry carbine.” She shook her head. “You won’t understand that. We’ll make it simpler.” She reached into a pouch at her side, as Nagurash peeled off and jogged out into the grass. Jon watched her drive in a stake.

“These are paper cartridges, loaded with a powder made in three parts: Charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre. That’s it. That’s it.” The other Westerosi clustered close.

“It’s Valyrian steel. The tube, I mean, my Lady.”

“It is,” Daena agreed, “nothing else can reliably handle the pressure, nor, look here, down the barrel—the spiral pattern, you see?” She slipped one of the paper cartridges into it. “We paid a pretty penny for the help from Qohor to make these, but I know the old patterns myself, for Valyrian steel.” Nagurash had returned to their side, and Daena flipped the gun up to her shoulder, adjusted a metal ladder on the top, and plain as could be….

With a crack, a rush of black acrid smoke, blew the top of the stake clean off at what had to be twice accurate bow range. She snapped the bolt back, revealing burning cinders of felt and paper, gave it a good blow, slipped another cartridge in, and threw the bolt closed once more, and then raised it back to her shoulder, and fired again. “You mix the ingredients with a mortar and pestle, soak them in wine, dry them and filter them through cheesecloth. We have lead cast forms for the bullets, and felt or even hide can be used to wrap the cartridges. So we can make our own ammunition, if we’re gone long enough for that to matter. And…” She took a brass tube, and started to fix it to the gun. “A Myrish eye adjusted to sight along the barrel will let you take a man at twenty-five chains without trouble. I am going to teach you how to be very, very good with one of these guns, and the same with these at my side,” she patted one of the short ones, with the cylinder, at her hip. “We have a few more that fire faster, but they use special ammunition we haven’t a hope of replenishing. Nagurash and the Guards will handle those.”

She handed it next to Barristan, and let him feel the weight in his hands. “No armour is of value, nor a sword for close fighting, against the Dothraki,” she observed. “And if we’re to survive, we can’t be picky it. You’re a Whitecloak, you must understand this. The Princess comes back alive, and nothing is unfair to that end.”

He nodded, just once. “The Princess comes back alive, and nothing is unfair to that end.”

“All right.” Her smile to Jon was kind of reassuring. “Let’s finishing packing, and mount up. Time is precious, now.” She snapped her duster on, and turned to choose her horse.

Ser Barristan offered him a kindly smile. “I’ll tell you some stories while we ride.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Stories about Rhaegar.”

Jon really had no idea what to think about that.

Chapter Text

Daena gone after Daenerys, and this young Jon Snow too. Jon Snow. Not quite a Northern name. He had clearly been named in honour of Jon Arryn by his ‘father’. As gentle and kind as she was – Rhaella felt a flash in her dragon blood, of white hot anger, both at and for Rhaegar. Rhaegar, Rhaegar, Rhaegar. Why do you have to do the things you did? The past and present tense blended together.

A part of her was so confident—of course Daena would bring them both back fine. She was indomitable like that. And she had sorcery at her side, true sorcery, spells of the days of the Freehold. Daena was right, it was the perfect way to bond to Jon, if Rhaella wanted a memory of Rhaegar to remain, he was their only option.

But she was gone, and their fleet was prepared for the desperate exertion. I might die before I see Daena again. Or she could. It was all unknowable. She was lonely. She wanted her daughter back at her side. And she very studiously didn’t let herself think about what might have been done to her.

Of course, she had some faith in Daenerys’ mental resiliency, and the upbringing which had given to her was just as much the responsibility of the woman into whom she now entrusted the future of the dynasty, standing at her side.

The brown skinned woman with curly dark hair and eyes with a hint of the east in them would never be mistaken for a Valyrian, and probably not even for a Salty Dornishwoman. She had given up so much to come here; a world where people lived in homes of glass and had wonders, the whole Citadel library, communications with friends half the world away, at their fingertips. Rhaella thought half the stories might be exaggerations, if she didn’t trust her lover and her friend to speak with honesty.

“This is going to be bloody,” Esther muttered. They were standing in to the harbour on a starboard tack, all ships, including the galleys, under sail.

Their only method of attack was to stand in with the entire fleet and the Marines and Militia ready for a storming. The harbour districts were undefended, necessarily, but there was a Sea Wall behind them. Massed cannon fire would have to create the breaches for the gates to be seized after the men went ashore. At least once they were in the harbour, the galleys could land directly along the port.

The siege artillery train had still be in the city, and had been captured by the slaving elite. That was the greatest risk. Twenty-four heavy 68pdrs, meant to batter down every castle in Westeros if necessary; they were so heavy they had been planning on importing elephants and mahouts to haul them, two elephants per gun.

The first sound of a cannon from shore showed that the enemy had emplaced them to defend the harbour. Rhaella closed her eyes. She didn’t startle, or show fear, but the terrible moment of uncertainty, knowing a single round of shot could wipe them all out—she could just close her eyes, pray to the warrior, and wait.

They were firing in a slow disorder. The shots were poorly aimed, and though they had the labour to drag all the guns in place, it was easily taking five minutes or more between rounds. Subtly, Esther relaxed. “They have the guns, but they weren’t able to secure the loyalty of the crews, so they’re nearly useless.” A tremendous roar and smoke, and each hit that scored was terrible for its force and power, but there were few that did. Esther turned to the Flag Leftenant and made a series of orders that intentionally put the heavy sailing ships with their thick hulls between the galleys and the battery. It exposed them to the indifferent fire, but Rhaella knew why she did it; one such ball could disable even their large cannon-armed galleys with a lucky hit. Under sail with thick oak hulls, the galley-frigates were another matter entirely.

She went to Viserys’ side. He stood with a hand on the hilt of his sword, tense and expectant, and she was certainly he wished to go ashore with the landing parties. “My King, this is a Pentoshi battle, not your’s.”

“This city has been my home for fifteen years, Mother. I must go ashore.”

“Remain as supreme commander, with the fleet. Lady Esther is the Magister, she will lead the troops ashore.”

The Galley-frigates had gained the range, and now opened a thunderous cannonade on the positions of the batteries. Orders echoed out to reef sail, men from the larboard broadsides going up into the rigging as the starboard guns reloaded their carronades.

He was a man grown, and she could not do more than counsel him, and now he had been given a taste of fire and sword—and blood. Rhaella could not control him. She pulled her shawl closer, and stepped to the starboard bulwark. There Esther stood, with her binoculars to her eyes. They were firing half-broadsides from each ship to keep up a steady rate of fire on the enemy batteries, suppressing the guns even if it did not knock them out.

She was about to open her mouth and speak about the relative advantages and risks of Viserys going ashore when there was a shout for Esther from the forecastle.

“Magister, the docks, they’re in flames!” A boom reached them a moment later. Esther pivoted without even removing the binoculars from her eyes.

“Good Lord, they’ve fired the docks with powder.” Flames shot up and began to leap from dock to dock. The older ones, of Valyrian stone, would be immune, but those were few. Most were on wood pilings, and they fired very well, indeed, great wooden halls that were being consumed with flame in minutes.

“They know we will give them no mercy if we retake the city. We cannot bring wooden ships alongside now.”

“But storm we must,” Esther answered. “We either have the factories in Pentos, or we have nothing.”

The staff was clustering around them now, expressions of fear and uncertainty. “How will the landings go forward, Lady Magister?”

“We will put down small boats,” she answered, her words starting slowly and building force. “We will go in between the flames and the docks as we must. We will hit the Valyrian docks with as many galleys as can fit, and use gangplanks to feed men, ship to ship.”

“They will have picked men covering the only remaining approaches, Lady Magister.”

“They will, and it will be bloody fighting, but we are the ones with the muskets, and we will have cannon support from the fleet. And I will lead you in person. Prepare the boats! Are there anymore questions? NO THERE AREN’T! Come on! Urrah! Rig the davits and launch the boats to larboard!”

The small bundle of energy that defined Esther’s existence turned, and let a servant buckle a sword onto her belt, before bowing as Viserys approached her. “Your Grace, stay here. The Forlorn Hope is not the place for a King, who holds the fate of his people in his hands.”

“And a Magister?”

“I’m just a public servant,” Esther half-cackled. “And if I don’t lead them, who will?”

Viserys relented. “Gods protect you, Lady Esther.”

Rhaella felt herself sag in relief. Viserys, always conscious of his status as the only man of the family, was resistant to physical displays of affection, and had the dignity of a King to uphold, but in the circumstances, he came, and put a hand to her shoulder. “Though men do not like admitting it, there is no finer,” he remarked.

“You were taught to fight by them, you know the truth,” Rhaella smiled faintly. The enemy cannon had ceased to fire, and they were, on the ships, again safe.

“I was, and sometimes I still marvel at it.”

They watched as the boats were lowered, the Marines loaded, and Esther took position in the bow of the Captain’s gig. Wearing a helmet and one of the heavy long coats Daena usually favoured, she looked grimly resolute. The slavers had had four days in the city to kill and terrorise, but they were not being cowed… The Readjusters were coming back, with fire and sword. Under the smoke roiling across the harbour, they unshipped their oars, and made for the burning docks, as the signal flags kept hoisting up and hauling down, and groups of galleys now worked their way through smoke and cinder toward the docks of cement that stubbornly refused to burn.

Viserys stepped into the leadership role, giving the orders for the oars to be unshipped, so that they could work forward into a new position from which to fire on the gates. It was then that Rhaella had a thought. She was no soldier herself, but …

“My King,” she addressed her son so formally. Sometimes it hurt, just a bit, these ceremonies which hid their normal emotion. “Lady Esther will surely take the docks. But if you send another party ashore to seize the siege-guns, they can be turned against Pentos’ own sea-walls, and give Lady Esther a breach.”

His eyes lit. “Cannoneers from the battery.” He quickly had summoned by flag a squadron of Velaryon Dromon that was laying back in the rear of the fleet; they came up within about thirty minutes, as the crackling of musketry by the docks echoed through the uncertain smoke and fire, and Rhaella strained for a view of their flags pressing forward. The fires and smoke had by now rendered it impossible to send messages by signal flag.

Firmly anchoring the ships on springs in the harbour, they now selected the gunners of one section of the battery from each ship, and shifted them to the Dromon, which then made off to starboard. It was only at the last moment that Rhaella realised that Viserys had gone with the Velaryon dromon. Oh Viserys, why do you do the things that you do!

In that way, her sons were very much alike.

With boarding pikes and a few muskets, the Velaryon knights here led; but as Rhaella thought, with the guns silenced, they found that the gunners the slaving classes had provided had all been slain or fled, when they had proved unequal to the contest of engaging the trained and drilled broadsides of the Galley-frigates and Xebecs. The men Viserys had brought were soon employed in turning the guns, an enormous effort with the heavy 68pdrs, and then preparing the powder and shot they found on hand. They had no knowledge of spiking guns, and at point-blank range to the seawalls, even the first balls had a fearsome impact on the nearest gatehouse. When it was clear the guns were under their control, and she could see her son standing with his heralds, she felt a deep relief; but now, they had to make use of the prize, and in the smoke and the flame, that would be difficult.

Runners were sent down the docks, trying to alert Lady Esther, but they were struck down by arrows, so Rhaella went to larboard with a speaking trumpet. Most of the galleys which had defected were justly hanging back, their services unneeded in this fearsome battle except as troop transports. “A Dragon for each man, and a knighthood for your Captain, if you reach Lady Esther with the news that we have seized the sixty-eights, and are firing on the East Sea Gate.”

They went forward with a great cheer, the cannons still firing as the light faded to the night. The fighting had gone on much longer than they had hoped, with the first attempt to seize the city by coup de main failing before it had even begun.

Defenders on the walls were now shooting arrows and throwing rocks over the side, but the 18pdr guns on pivot on the Galley-frigates could bear to cover the 68pdrs on the shore even when their broadsides were engaged closer to the city centre. The high burning fires, the docks like torches, burning until the pilings collapsed and they began to fall into the harbour, and even then, the wooden superstructure above the water still burning, lit the harbour well enough that the intensity of the battle did not even slack in the least with the darkness.

Though exhausted, it would be utterly impossible to rest. The tension of the moment gave Rhaella all the dreadful courage and energy she needed, unable to tear her eyes away from the battle until, through the cannonade, they could hear trumpets and fifes blowing a march, and drums rolling. Marching down the harbour, a column of musketeers and pikemen, in good order, advancing toward the gatehouse whose shattered brick spoke testament to four hours of firing by 68pdr. Rocks and arrows from the walls made men drop out of line, but they dressed ranks and marched on.

As the cannonade fell away with the approach of their own troops, defenders rushed up with muskets they had seized to occupy the breach.

She could see clearly, Esther at the head of the column with the men bearing the regimental flags and the drummers and trumpeters. The woman drew her sword, and pointed toward the half-collapsed gate. “From Column, at the double!”

Without deploying into firing lines, but with their bayonets already fixed, the musketeers charged for the breach in column. The first and second ragged volleys from the defenders staggered them, but the mass of the charge carried them up onto the scree blasted off the gatehouse, and through the red glare of the fires, down, staggering and tripping and fighting with butt and bayonet, through the gates hammered off their hinges. A great groan went up from the walls, and a great cheer from the men in the column, who rushed on ahead with redoubled vigour. Her son, standing by the cannon, struck a grand pose in armour, gesturing toward the columns in the moment they gained the city. Across the water, she could not hear what he said, but as the enemy fled the walls, Rhaella was satisfied that he lived. She grabbed the shrouds and leaned against them, the exhaustion hitting all at once.

Daena was not there, but she had Esther. There was no time to wait. Waiting meant time for a government to coalesce around Prince Joffrey; his grandfather would certainly have a hand in that, for the Lannisters could expect only death after what they had done to her grandchildren. She could not wait for her lover to return. She would have to trust Esther, trust Viserys—trust herself.

“I want one of the Xebecs detached to carry messages of the victories,” she instructed.

“Its destination, Your Grace?”

“Sunspear.”

Chapter Text

They rode along through the grass plains east of Pentos, the sun beating down from above, and the braided silver fetters might as well as been cold iron for the ugly feeling they left in her soul. A Dragon is not a slave. The horse rocked below her, she clutched the reins within her limited range of motion, and the sun beat down in a monotonous feeling of heat in the air, a late summer’s heat, that did not slack for as long as the sun was high. A headscarf had been wrapped around her head by a kind, or pitying, Dothraki serving girl; it kept her protected from direct sunlight, even as the beating rays heated it against her hair. She had all the time in the world to think, and desperately wished that she didn’t. Days had passed, and she had forced herself to productively think through her situation. She didn’t like the conclusions she had reached; but she hadn’t talked herself out of them, either.

The world was full of choices that were often cruel. When Daenerys had been young, she had never wanted to face these choices. She had wanted the safety of her mothers. They would make the hard choices for her. She would change the world, she would be the one who didn’t need to make choices like that. They wouldn’t be trapped, trying to decide how aggressively to pursue the bond-holders (1) Pentos, against trying to conciliate them and work to let the city live in peace and harmony, their economic efforts ‘a rising tide that lifts all boats’.

Clearly it had failed, even as her mothers’ own efforts failing just proved even they could make the wrong decisions, sometimes. But they’d taught her about making decisions. Sometimes you made the wrong one, and had to deal with the consequences.

Sometimes, you were given a set of equally unpalatable decisions, and you had to make the best of a situation. The lessons she remembered had come through strongest, there.

And she’d remembered other lessons, too. Ones her mum had hesitated about, but Esther and Daena had insisted upon. “Nobody can take your honour, or your dignity, or your courage. What a man does to you in a moment, an hour, an evening, can never define your accomplishments. With dignity and coolness you may overcome, and your brother is not permitted to think less of you.”

There were many lessons about men she had learned. And they bubbled over, so that as she rode with Khal Drogo and Lord Jorah Mormont in the midst of the great Khalasar, she had to decide on a course of action.

The dragon-eggs had bought Jorah safety; of course they had. They were valuable beyond price, and the Dothraki, in their own way, kept deals that they made. She trembled with rage, though, that he had claimed them; just as he’d tried to claim her.

She saw no way out of this except for one. A cruel choice, a dark choice. A choice. A choice that was freedom, not good freedom, not kind freedom, and not a chance to live happily ever after. But a chance to defy the plan the traitor had put in place, and to confound him.

Daenerys waited until they halted to camp for the night, having begun to descend a long, steep valley with grassy curved slopes, where multicoloured hues in the dirt poked through on the steepest parts. It was a creek that cut quick through the soft loam, the good soil which, eroded here, was carried downriver into the tributaries of the Rhoyne… To a great fertile inland expanse left a ruin first by Valyrian, then by Dothraki, a ruin for so long that men could scarce remember the days when it had been grand.

When they came to a stop, and the Khal’s tent was set out for him, and the cooking fires started, Jorah as the Khal’s guest was given a place at his fire. He helped Daenerys down, with a courtliness which in the circumstances made her sick.

“My Princess,” he said softly, “we will not be with these savages for long. We will find our way south, and in Myr, we may be wed, and all can be set right.”

He has made a fait accompli by raw force, now he wants to legitimise it, and force it on my mothers, do. He doesn’t understand them, or me.

Instead of sitting on one of the blankets before the fire, she responded to his words by lunging, a twisting motion to the right, and wrenching loose of his hands for just a moment—that she could face the Khal. She was committed, with all the horrifying implications that extended from it, and the rush of exhilaration too, that was really doing it, she was really in control of her own destiny.

Trading the frying pan for the fire, perhaps, but it was her choice. And boldness had, in the end, not served Lady Daena wrong. Daenerys would take the same chances.

“Khal Drogo. I am Princess Daenerys Targaryen, younger sister of the rightful King of Westeros, Viserys, Third of His Name. This man is a foul traitor to his –” The massive hand of a Northern Lord was clapped over her mouth as the second one descended on her shoulder. Crickets were chirping in the fields, and as Jorah’s sickening and oppressive weight loomed over her and the smoke from the fire curled across her face, Dothraki were turning alertly, and looking with interest. The Khal was regarding the commotion most intently, indeed. One of his bloodriders was translating from Valyrian to Dothraki. Daenerys understood a few words—Daena, who acquired languages as easy as breathing, had started to teach her—enough to recognise it and be sure.

Good, they cannot ignore it.

With a single command, two of the Khal’s bloodriders approached, and pulled Jorah back from her. Now, a translation began, directed at her.

“The Khal bids you to speak, Princess Targaryen.”

“This man, Jorah Mormont, is a traitor to my Lord Brother’s cause. Though you are our enemies, you are honourable enemies, who fought according to the custom of your people. But, you have gained the dragon eggs only by his gross treason. He is not trustworthy. He took me from my family, and raped me. He is a mere petty Lord of the North, an exile, and he has tried to dishonour me. I would counsel you to put him to death, before he betrays you as well.”

Jorah understood enough Valyrian that his eyes widened in rage, and he began to struggle fiercely, but the two Dothraki holding him would not let go of him, and Daenerys paid him no heed, facing Khal Drogo with courage and coolness, ignoring the commotion to her left.

Sitting cross-legged, the Khal slapped at his knees and laughed. He leaned over and spoke softly.

“The Khal is amused by your courage. But if you are an enemy, then you are in the camp of the enemy, and you can be taken as our prize, our slave. Many men died facing the reeking tubes of the Lady-General’s soldiers. Their families want revenge.”

This was the part that scared her. Scared her inside, as deeply as she could be scared. But she took a breath, held it in, and refused to tremble or shiver. “It is Jorah Mormont who led your men to their deaths, for he and those he serves did not tell you the true power of the alchemists who forged weapons for Lady Esther. They lied to you, and lured you on, with promises that the gates to the city would be open,” she guessed, but she saw from their expressions that she had guessed right, “while knowing all along that you would meet an enemy as solid and unyielding as the Unsullied, and yet with the reach of the finest Summer Islands bow. You gave your word to Jorah on the basis of falsehood.”

“GODS,” he was shouting, “don’t you understand, YOU WILL NEVER GET OUT OF HERE! I was your only chance out!”

She glanced to the side, finally, and said in Common: “You gave me no choice.”

“You are a lovely girl who could be my wife..”

“I have chosen anyway,” Daenerys answered with a curt coldness that cut him off instantly. Then she raised her head high and faced the Khal again. “Take your revenge upon Jorah.”

The Khal stroked at his moustache. He thought about Daenerys’ words. He seemed a thinking man, and surely, as sure as the stars were rising afore them, off toward the Rhoyne—surely that was a good sign.

“The Khal says that is not enough, Thousands of our Khalasar fell. But, he will heed your counsel, thinking you are wise and show no fear. He also seen you ride better in manacles than most do without. He has a proposal for you.”

“A… A proposal?” Daenerys’ eyes widened, now, and she was acutely aware of how young she was – barely more than fifteen.

“The Khal will not attack the home city of his Khaleesi. If you give him your hand in marriage, he will declare peace between this Khalasar, and your city and its King and its Woman-Generals, for as long as he lives. Then, we will no longer be at war, when you have not yet been taken captive, so you will not be his slave.”

Had she been afraid of this? Of this, specifically? Had that been what had left her queasy about this plan? Perhaps it had been, but in that moment it felt new, anyway. She froze, and now her heart beat hard.

She licked dry lips, and had to think fast, she knew she had to think fast. I can’t escape this. One way or another, I can’t escape this. But I can use it to our advantage. “I am a Princess of Westeros, and a descendant of one of the Forty Families of Valyria. You cannot have me so cheaply. You will give the dragon eggs into my care. You will put Jorah to death, as befits a traitor to a dragonriding house. And if my brother asks for your aid, you will give it to him at fair price, as word given on your herds. And if there is a bastard born of my womb from what this beast has done to me, you will kill it, if I wish.”

She held her head high, and met the Khal’s eyes.

“The Khal Agrees. How should the Andal be put to death?”

You are the author of all my misfortunes, Jorah Mormont, and those of all I love, too.

“Burn him, and not fast.” She turned, then, and spoke in Common.

“Jorah Mormont, know that the Khal will take me to wife, and you will not have me. I will choose my husband, and since you have left me no other choice in this world, I choose that it will not be you. As for you, you will die by fire, and the Khal has promised me that if you got a bastard on me, it will be put to death.”

His screams were cold comfort, but comfort they were, and she took what she could.

Chapter Text

The plan had never been for them to be alone, but sooner or later there were always things that meant they could be separate. Her mother had sometimes complained about Daena getting snitty about something, or melancholy about something else, and going off to the Great Camp in the Adirondacks for a few months to swim or ski or possibly just sit next to a fireplace in her pyjamas and play videogames like a teenager, leaving her to run the business Empire on her own. But it was infrequent, and who could complain too much about the moodiness of a two hundred and fifty year old witch?

No, this was rather worse. It was like 1945 for her foremother, trying to salvage the entire plan and save Daena’s life in the middle of the total collapse of Manchukuo during the Manchurian Strategic Offensive Operation. That had been bad. She had made lemonade from the result nonetheless, down in the Sarawak that Esther still missed as a home. Daena was off saving Daenerys— Lord above I hope she actually does— and that was Her Thing. Esther’s job was to not worry about it, and to focus on Pentos, and now, the military operations to put Viserys on the throne.

Viserys was, of course, ebullient. The exiles and courtiers crowded around, praising his actions in the battle. Esther worried more than a little that it might go to his head. Of course, those old washed up men dreamed that King Viserys would soon restore to them their titles and lands, and reward them with more yet, out of the bones of their enemies.

But he had not dissented with her recommendations, not yet.

Of course that produced its own moral challenges. Her family history was Wilhelmine Germany, old war stories, Dragon mania in the Cold War; idiosyncratic aristocratic politics and anti-communism blended with a strong sense of social virtues and Sikh and Jewish religion teaching. But for all that, Esther was in some respects a normal resident of the 22 ^nd Century. One did not going around executing one’s political enemies, or defeated enemies in battle. Men who surrendered had to be tried and imprisoned, even if they had tried to overthrow the government.

What she was about to do was mildly horrifying. Still, it was her’s to oversee. She was the Magister. She had this scaffold erected. She signed the orders. This was not the 22 ^nd century. This life had already hardened her and she supposed this was the last act in that story. The person who went to bed that night would not be the same girl she had been fifteen years ago. She would not be fit for polite company in New York, Paris or London. She would be like one of those wraiths from the old stories, her ancestresses who had been more than Daena’s businesswomen. They had known gunsmoke, and steel.

She knew gunsmoke and still, but –

She stood here on the viewing stand with Rhaella. Maybe the decision to kill them this way specifically was playing a bit of a joke on Daena whilst she was away. Her gut curdled a little, at the idea that she was making humour; Esther wished it wasn’t true, but maybe she was really already that hard.

Or maybe it had just been practical, simple, and brutally effective, and a bit easier on both the condemned and the executioners than the axe.

The order was given. The blade sang in the clear air. A wet snap of a spinal cord being neatly severed and the thick plop of a severed head into the basket was obscured by the roar of approval from the crowd. One of the guards promptly hoisted the severed dripping head into the air, the eyes still twitching for a moment—Esther knew the man was still alive, and would be for just a few more seconds.

Mme. Guillotine was still a better death than the axe-man taking four or five strokes to do the job.

In the end even the Royalists had used it, after all.

They hauled the body away, and dragged the next of the condemned up onto the scaffold. Then another, and then another, and then another. The blood dripped red over the cobbles. The crowd jeered the condemned as they were proud up, and cheered with a nearly limitless bloodlust over these grandees of the prior slavocracy, who now met their end in steel and blood. She had made a speech about justify and freedom, before the executions had begun, and they had hailed her, but they wanted revenge, and in the circumstances of the insurrection, Esther had understood there was no choice but to give it to them.

Standing at her side, Rhaella watched the final appointments of their enemies with the coolly furious composure of a woman who blamed these men for the kidnapping of her daughter. Esther could not blame her in the slightest measure.

They were both terribly worried about Daenerys, but spending the time on worrying about it would just get all of them killed and their cause undone. They had to trust Daena.

The executions continued toward evening, before they finally wound up. They had executed nearly fifty men in one day. They were Pentoshi, and condemned under Pentoshi law, so it had been Esther’s duty as Magister. But even when the blood and gore and vengeance finished, the grim business of the day was not yet complete.

Returning to their palace that felt so empty without Daena—playing the Sitar, perhaps—without Nagurash, without bright-eyed Daenerys asking questions… There was Viserys, yes, and the courtiers, but they hardly counted for a sense of family. And moreover, there was the brooding presence of Lord Stark, preparing to leave with his little fleet of overcrowded galleys, under a rigid oath of honour, to sail to the North to become Black Watch men.

Esther shoved her hands into her greatcoat. She didn’t know exactly what to say to Lord Stark. Daena had always been understandable, and the Essosi too; they were sophisticated people, city people. Esther understood their motivations. They’d be hustling to build up a small business in Queens in New York, amidst the rising waves on the decaying carcasses of half-submerged buildings in the harbour belts, the city that wouldn’t quit until it drowned; or they’d be selling passage overseas, from an overheated Souk in Mogadishu, ruthlessly making a deal on their cellphone even in the 50C weather. She could deliver on clean water and new sewers and punishing someone for building a substandard apartment block—those were all concerns in Pentos just like the world she’d come from. She was a damned fine Magister.

Lord Stark’s world? It was further from the Pentoshi than her’s was! She cleared her throat, uncomfortably. “I trust you to quit the land tonight. The tide is good, the weather is good, all provisions are loaded aboard, and volunteer pilots have been recruited. They will return in one ship—the stoutest. The others may stay as gifts to the Night’s Watch, to maintain at Eastwatch.”

He coughed softly, and looked at her with those piercing eyes, which made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. “Of course, Magister. You have my word as a Stark. I go to be with my brother, after all these years, the Black Watch will have one more sword… Speaking of that.” He stepped toward her, with an urgent expression on his face.

“I’ve heard it said that if Viserys takes King’s Landing you may be made Lady Hand.” His words nearly held a snort. “You will not find our land an easy one to hold with your foreign ways, though I understand you are respected here, and brave, as women go. Well, I have a request of you. Ice is not the sword of a Black Brother. Ice is the sword of the Lord Stark. Raise Robb up before Viserys, if you are the victors, give him his family sword, declare him Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. We Starks have served Dragons well before. Don’t … Do not be vindictive toward my family. The decision was mine alone.”

“If Robb Stark bends the knee before King Viserys, you have my word, as an officer and a Magister, that I will give the sword Ice, you have my word,” Esther answered diplomatically. She knew keeping the sword as a prize would not well received in the Westerosi knightly culture. It clearly meant a great deal to Ned Stark, who nodded in thanks. “I will write, if Jon returns safely, so that you know,” she added, and that too made Ned Stark nod in relief.

“These men here will see you to your ships. May your Gods smooth your passage to Eastwatch.”

He was led away, a broken and distant expression the last they saw of him in Pentos, and Esther stepped quickly away with Rhaella, who remarked in exasperation, “He has, in fact, far less practical knowledge of this world than you do, Esther.”

Esther stopped short, laughing. “How did you know so well what I was thinking?”

“I could see that expression on your face, the unease of facing him, like he was a man apart. Well, he is a man apart; he is a fool. But even his other Northerners do not think quite that way. Your practical ways can suffice to govern Westeros, though certainly, there are things you must learn.” Rhaella led them to the tea room, which had at least been restored. They both needed it, a light tisane, of cinnamon and apple before bed, and half a cup of watered wine. The oil in the lamps again burned clear.

“By all means, go on.”

“You see problems as things to be solved. I believe this is the mindset of a Technocrat, as Daena said. You make a very good Magister. A city such as Pentos needs Technocrats. And you are cynical about human nature, unlike many others with your mindset. That will be important so you don’t end up with a dagger in the back.” Rhaella smiled faintly, bitterly. “I have some experience with treason, at this point in my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Daena will bring her home,” Rhaella answered automatically. “But, we must address your weak points. You are a woman and a foreigner and your instincts are to get things done and be honest, not to play favourites. You need someone who is dangerous, and respected as dangerous, and can play games himself, as your husband.”

“As my husband?” Esther stared.

“Esther – Esther Hoffmeyer – you need one.” Rhaella put a hand on her thigh, resting on the fabric of her dress, and gestured slightly with her tea cup. “This is what I must put plainly to you. I am a courtly lady of Westeros—you must have a husband. First of all, you are in your late thirties and childless. I know that is not uncommon on Earth, but it is exceptional here. You will run out of chances for children soon. And I know you do want children. But what matters less than the fact that the only thing worse than a Lady Hand in the eyes of Westeros will be a spinster Lady Hand.”

Esther grimaced and looked wry. “Well, Rhaella, I… Yeah, you’re right about that. And I do want children. But, uh, the pickings are rather slim.”

Rhaella was grinning a little, now. “About that. As I said, you need someone who complements your weaknesses. You also need someone who is from a respectable family, and Westerosi, and …”

“Westerosi men would try to subordinate me. There are some things that cannot be excused. Also, Rhaella, I won’t be able to give a husband a son. You know my family history…”

She held up her hand. “I do, and I’ve been thinking about it. Actually, it was quite obvious. You need a Westerosi husband, I’m afraid that’s simply mandatory; he must also be a Sevener, since you are not. He must be dangerous, threatening, capable of being underhanded, and also of winning any duel that comes to a head over your policies… And he must not mind only having daughters; but he also must be someone you won’t empty a mag at.”

Esther, despite the fact that she was discussing an arranged marriage for herself, with a Queen, couldn’t help it at that. Rhaella had disarmed the moment completely. She burst out laughing. “All right. Tell me who this superman you have in mind is? A Westerosi who won’t treat me like a kept bitch— and all those other things?”

“Well, he’ll have to be Dornish of course. So, we need to arrange your marriage to Oberyn Martell. He is unmarried. And all of his bastards have been girls, so your union producing only girls would attract no comment whatsoever. And I specifically requested he come to Pentos, as an escort for young Princess Arianne.” She was grinning with delight, the same kind of grin she might have had at getting Daena to checkmate.

Esther stared. “Oberyn Martell. Isn’t he… Infamous?”

“Oh yes. But you are Lady Hand. He stands at your side, and reminds them why working with your practicality and your honeyed words are better than demanding a duel. I am not saying he is the perfect choice; but if you must be in an arranged marriage, I can think of no other that has a chance of both working for its intended purpose, and making you genuinely happy; and I was realistic. You would not tolerate a man who would speak down to you. So while it is not optimal politically, your husband must be Dornish … And I want you to be happy, Esther, for I have a great, great deal of experience with what an unhappy marriage is. When he comes, we should raise the matter at the same time as the greater union.”

Arianne and Viserys. That, Esther was already well appraised of. She nodded slowly. Smiled, a little. “Thank you for putting so much effort into trying to wed practicality and sympathy for me—pun intended, my friend. I … Will need to speak to Prince Oberyn in person, alone, to set the ground rules for both of us. He can either agree or not. That is all I can promise.”

“Good enough, for a start.” Her smile was so reassuring, even under sad and worried eyes.

Chapter Text

They were making a brutal pace, they couldn’t do anything else. They were trotting the entire way, for at least four hours after breakfast each day. They’d get the fire going and heat up a fry-up breakfast of cured dried meat that the Uzbeks called Pastirma, and eat ashcakes that had cooked overnight in the coals of the fire, dipped in oil and nuts, and drink Lady Daena’s thick black tea, boiled out from knife-shavings off the side of a brick pressed with the strange letters of far Yi-Ti. The Uzbek women, keeping their robes close around their bodies, would cluster with Daena, squatting next to the fire and drinking from the little cups. Jon found he could only stomach it with a plentiful cut off a block of jaggery, some kind of brick of sweets that dissolved into the cruel bitter brew and made it tasty. Daena seemed to enjoy it with much less.

Then the Uzbek guards would pray, and they would break camp, and ride hard, keeping up that merciless trot for at least four hours. Daena rode like the Uzbeks and Ser Barristan, who had apparently seen them before, remarked that they rode like the Dothraki, but better still. They had comfortable light saddles with stirrups and they rode with loose reins slapping against their flanks, braced in time with their horses. Jon watched them as intently as they could, and as his thighs chapped the soreness taught him to observe their movements and adapt them, until he started to grow used to spending this long trotting in the saddle.

Then they stop for a cold lunch of pemmican and water. Daena mirthlessly remarked that the Pastirma would eventually go bad, and then they’d just have Pemmican and jerky and biltong, so they had not brought much and would run out in a few days; but for all that, Jon didn’t find the pemmican that bad at all, in fact, he was developing a liking for it, and if it would last them however long it took them to ride down the khalasar, so be it. After an hour of rest, they would shift their saddles to remounts to rest the morning’s horses, and then set out again.

They rode through slow-descending river valleys, eroded in the loess through the eastern and southern flanks of Andalos. Here, the rolling hills were cut through by rivers and streams whose valleys were vast enough that it seemed they should be rivers, all descending to Mother Rhoyne. Descending into them and back out was a terrible chore that slowed them down, so Daena stayed high on the ridges, where they could cross the gullies before they became deep. The windswept grass seemed to go on forever and forever. From time to time, covered in eroded dirt and growing grass, and occasionally a few cottonwood trees, there were the ruins of a village, and Daena remarked, “here, in times before the Century of Blood, there was a town.”

To the northwest, they sometimes caught sight of stands of oaks which grew in the sturdier soil of Andalos, and they were a welcome sight.

A khalasar, unlike a raiding party, could not move in stealth. It had carts and other accompaniments, and if a Khal could drive it hard to make ten leagues in a single day, it would be a shock. Daena, on the other hand, was confident they would make twenty every day they rode, and Jon thought it true. They would catch up, there was no question of that.

A khalasar could not hide the wake of its passage, either. Shit, animal and human, marked the line behind them. The fresher it got, the closer they got to their foe. The Lady Daena, while she feared little else, did seem paranoid of disease, and kept them upwind and well clear of that trail, but close enough to it for them to follow. Jon didn’t complain.

“She is a veteran of chases and hunts on terrain like this before,” Barristan remarked on the third day. “She knows how to choose the path to keep us following the khalasar, while staying out of sight and keeping the horses rested. I would almost say she has ridden with a khalasar before, but they would not tolerate a woman as a warrior, and you can see from her eyes she has never been a slave, lad.” The pursuit was wearing on him, he was an old man, but the opportunity for redemption was a fearsome motivation indeed, as the sun above beat down and baked their heads and burned the skin of their faces, so that he found the wrapped shawls of the women and Daena’s felt hat very wise indeed.

“Then where did she learn it, Ser?”

“Where these women who ride with her are from, I must imagine it. They seem like a kin to the Dothraki, but also the peoples of the furthest East; I must wonder if they are Jogos Nhai, even if so their culture is queer and different from what the Maesters say.”

“I wonder. There are fearsome things in the east.” Jon thought of their reeking tubes of death, the rifles.

They were learning how to use them. Four hours before lunch, four hours after lunch, twenty leagues of riding a day. They’d slow at that point and look for a source of water. Then they’d rein up and stop for the night, and pitch their tents and set their camp, after getting the fire started. Daena seemed very skilled at this, she had some metal contraption with a flint in it, and it got the fire burning every time on the first attempt. Soon it would be hot for a rich biltong stew. They had not hunted yet, though Jon was assured they could if they had to.

Water would be collected, from near where they’d halted, and set to boil for tea, while in other jugs, Lady Daena mixed crushed white tablets to give them something to drink quickly. It had a queer taste, but she assured them the sole function of the powder was to kill the diseases in water before they drank it. For the rest, it would be boiled on the fire for the morning, to save the white powder. First, they’d brew tea. It revived them, and then the biltong stew would be put to cooking, and hardtack softened in it.

When they had eaten and had their evening tea, then, feeling refreshed, Daena would rise to her feet. “Come, Jon.” Nagurash in her corner, Ser Barristan in his, she’d take Nagurash’s sword, rather than draw her own of Valyrian steel—obviously to avoid damaging the blade of his own sword.

They’d square off on a bit of flat grassland. He was a young and strong man, and while Robb had been the better with the lance, Jon had been the better with the sword.

He was still sorely tried against Daena. Even when she used Nagurash’s much lighter and curved shashka, the queer sword of her people that was carried upside down and could be drawn straight into the attack in a single motion. Exquisitely dangerous to a surprised enemy, it was a stronger blade than a sabre and surely quite threatening to a Dothraki with an Arakh, but without the weight of his own longsword. Nonetheless, it could stand the clash of steel, and Lady Daena was very clever with it, coming against him to both thrust and slash. Sometimes she cupped her hand around the curved pummel, clenched as a fist over it, and gave herself another few inches of reach against him. She was tireless, and unflagging, and more often than not, as blades struck and clashed against the light armour of boiled leather that had been all they were allowed to bring, he could find no purchase against her, and she disarmed him.

Of course, neither of them was really going at it with full force, in that armour even without Valyrian steel they might do serious injury, otherwise. But it was still practice, good practice, in posture and footwork and tactics. Daena would draw circles and describe the angles and geometry of sword-fighting, until Jon found himself more interested by mathematics than he had ever been in a Maester’s lesson.

Then, if Daena thought the khalasar was far enough away, they’d do a little bit of shooting for practice. The concept of windage made him more interested in geometry still. It all kept his mind busy, and far away from ruminating on the fact that Rhaegar Targaryen was his father.

They slept in a simple set of oiled tents of canvas, which were very good at keeping the rain out. They packed the horses the next morning, pack horses and the two sets of horses they’d be riding off that day, unstaking them from their iron tie-downs, getting ready to ride, eating breakfast, starting the entire process over again, and once again, riding hard in the hours before noon, the sun still coming up, the dew still on the grass, the heat still tolerable even in a long summer. Then cold lunch, then four exhausting hours under the blazing heat.

“One of their camps ahead, Maharani!” One of the Uzbeks called back, with that peculiar form of address some but not all used for Daena. “Many big fires!”

Daena brought her binoculars up, looking to the east from their position along the saddle of a ridge. She frowned, almost imperceptibly. “Ho-up! Let’s go take a look at this one!” She instructed, with something in the set of her jaw. No longer trotting, they descended toward it at a careful walk of their horses on the terrain. The lack of roads or trails on the open steppe was the reason they did not bother trying to ride into the evening, it was better to do two short but fast trots in good light than to risk horses in the evening hours.

As they approached the camp, they could see the usual fire-pits, but toward the centre, near where a large but still conventional fire-pit would be, there was something else. Several large logs, from big cottonwoods, were burned but not completely, and a mass of mostly burned wood from mesquite bushes that grew in thick tangles of wood-like vines and brambles near the water had been used to help fuel the fire and make it very hot. It stunk, too, of burnt dung that had also been used for fuel, someone had clearly made to stoke hot this fire.

There was a body fastened to the central post by strong chains that had not failed in the flames. The remnants of flesh on the blackened skill seemed frozen in an awful rictus of screaming agony toward the sky. The horses whinnied and refused to approach; Daena gestured for Jon and Ser Barristan to dismount, as the other riders fanned out.

She approached the fire with a wooden face schooled against the involuntary nausea of a human so close to burnt human flesh, and squatted down carefully, to keep only her heels on the ground, like she treated the residue of the flames as an untouchable thing. Humming softly, she drew a small Valyrian steel dagger from her belt, and began to work around the feet of the hideously burned corpse.

“He died alive, and screaming, didn’t he?” Jon asked.

“He did,” was all the gruff answer Ser Barristan would allow.

“Well well well,” Daena shook her head a moment later. “I think Daenerys is the truest Dragon of us all.”

For some reason, Barristan stiffened a little.

But the moment past, Daena rose with the sole of a shoe impaled on her dagger, protected as it had been from the flames. “Leather and hobnails, Ser Barristan. A Westerosi-style boot. And see this man is tall and… Why, yes,” She tossed the sole off her dagger and pointed with the tip.

They followed her gaze to see where the sword had been burned with its owner, a true gesture of contempt from the Dothraki. It was indeed a Westerosi blade.

“Jorah Mormont,” Ser Barristan declared, and it was clear from his voice that he held no doubt in his mind.

Jon had told Daena about Mormont’s slaving, a plain fact that if only the women had known in Pentos would have gotten him instantly condemned to death. He couldn’t help but grin, just a little. “The Princess Daenerys executed his sentence for slaving, then. My father would be amused, that he fled from the justice of the North, only to find justice at the hands of a girl.”

Daena laughed. “It is amusing, Jon, you are right, you're bloody well right about that.” She spun around. “It’s also a complication. It means the young Princess … Has made her own deal with the Khal.”

“Then what will we do?”

Daena looked off into the darkness to the east, silhouetted by the setting sun to their west amongst the hills. “Catch up to them, and ask them what it is. Come on, let’s take to our horses. I want to put some distance under us yet, so we don’t have to take supper next to this reeking corpse!”

Chapter Text

The most awful part of all was when his bedraggled little squadron of windblown survivors from the battle had settled in to the Royal Dockyard at King’s Landing. Sansa, betrothed to Prince Joffrey, had been there. She came to him frantically.

“Where is father? Where is father!?”

“He did not escape.”

Her sobs had rent at his soul, and he could not offer her any comfort, and Joffrey did not seem able, either, with this frozen but untroubled neutral expression on his face of arrogance, Queen Cersei speaking softly at his side.

“I give you the honour, Lord Stark, of being the first man to kneel.”

Still in shock, and exhausted and hungry, he had knelt. What was a man supposed to do? He had brought news that the King was dead. He and his father had known this. Prince Joffrey was the King, now, though his mother would be Regent at least for a few months.

And then Tywin had, with perfectly affected courtliness, directed that he be taken to a fine suite in the palace, and allowed to rest.

Now he faced his due. A private audience with Tywin, who bore a chain of hands already, which so recently had only just passed from Lord Jon Arryn to his father. His father who was surely dead, or in the hands of the enemy.

Nothing to be done for it now. Jon was nowhere to be found, either, and three-fourths of the northern ships were destroyed, but the losses in the other fleets were worse or, of course, had turned traitor entirely. Damn the islanders. A part of him felt like they might have been able to salvage the situation if only it had not been for the treason. Another part remembered the thunderous roar of those shrieking iron tubes spitting fire upon them, and laughed at himself.

Tywin had him brought to the Tower of the Hand, and had a private table set with a fine roast and wine. “I congratulate you on your heroism, Lord Stark. You accomplished the difficult and distasteful task of securing the escape of a critical part of the Royal fleet, with diligence, in the face of severe risk and in the execution of orders you must have found distasteful. I am very sorry about your father. He was an honourable man who always did the right thing, and in days past I remember his probity. His loss for the realm is nearly as sore as that of His Grace.”

Robb knew that any courtly words from Tywin Lannister’s mouth were a pro forma, he had not been raised to be a fool. “Thank you, my Lord. I do not know if my father lives or not, but I know he did not escape. Viserys and those she-devils have him, if he is still alive.”

Tywin chuckled, but it sounded grim. “Japes do you no good in combat. Those women have a savage cunning. My late wife thought quite highly of Rhaella Targaryen. There have been many rumours repeated already in the capital, tell me what is true.”

“They had iron tubes that shot flashes of flame and smoke with a great roaring thunder, my Lord. Their ammunition was cast balls of iron or lead. The could either, I think, loose one of them at a time, or a great many small ones… Or a few linked by chains. We have examples of the shot from all, though not how it was projected from the tubes,” he tried to explain, tried to frame his thoughts. “They rarely bothered to board our ships, until the men were an utter ruin. Their firepower shattered the galleys, the cogs in the rearmost line stood it better, but still not well. The heavy shot would pass through one side of the ship and out the other, and some men would live and some would be killed outright by the spray of splinters from the wood.

“For all that, I feel that we were making headway against them, and had a chance when it came to a boarding. But, the Master of Ships and all the ships of Crackclaw and The Driftmark and the other Isles went over to Viserys’ cause, and hoisted Dragon banners, my Lord. At that point, our cause was doomed.

“Still, squadrons of ships pressed with great daring to board. I fear my bastard brother was slain in one such action, despite his great manly courage. The men on the decks of the enemy ships were armed with small tubes in the same fashion, firing lead balls. It was almost impossible to board such huge and high ships. They did great execution against men on the deck, with others were positioned in the rigging where they could sweep us. And the rigging. Gods, my Lord. It was such a sight. The biggest of their ships bore five sails on the mainmast. Even the very largest Swan Ship bears only two. When they had the northwest wind, they set all canvas and made way at a speed twice that of a galley beating to ram. Their hulls were deep, and metalled up to the waterline, I think with copper. It was thin, but none of my men had ever seen the like of that before.”

“The Pentoshi were forbidden from building more than twenty ships by treaty,” Tywin looked at him with a dead stare. “The Braavosi could not foresee, but that their term in the treaty to limit the Pentoshi fleet served only to make them fools, for it gave Pentos plenty of money with which to build the twenty finest warships the world has ever seen. Metal hulls and reeking tubes of alchemy, and ships finer than Swan Ships. Lord Stark, it does all sound absurd. On the other hand…”

“my Lord?” Thinking about it, it did all sound absurd. Robb didn’t believe in lying, though the irony meant that he sounded like a liar for speaking the truth.

“You may go down into the depths of the Keep, and see the skulls of the Targaryen dragons. They are like fables to men, now. Some hardly believe they existed, and some imagine them to be greater beasts than they were. In the end, they were nothing, but every Targaryen King after their extinction was said to lust after the dream of regaining their fire and puissance. Thus were the Pyromancers given such power, in the days of Aegon the Fourth.”

“Aegon the Unworthy. His mad dragon-on-wheels.”

“Yes, that was mad, but it seems Prince Viserys’ dragon ships are not. You took no prisoners, and you have no idea of whence they came?”

“I do not, my Lord,” Robb shook his head, feeling regret. “If I knew anything else about them, I would share it.”

“Well, you speak with the same voice as your men on how the battle developed. And it seems the King’s plot on land failed as well.”

“The King’s… Plot?”

“He was in communication with a Dothraki Khal, and men of certain politics in the city. There was fighting in the city, but some fast galliots have brought messages which say the Lady Magister has regained control of the situation. We have shot our best bolt at them, they will repay the favour. Though it is women who really rule there, they have made the right decisions every time so far regardless of the weakness of their sex. They won’t pass this up.”

Robb grimaced. His father, he was sure, could not have been told of those plans. It would not be right of a Stark to condemn Pentos to sack by the Dothraki, not for anything. They were men of honour. Gods, no wonder they fought with such pitiless fury against us. “Indeed they won’t,” Robb shook himself. Tywin was right about that. “They pursued us with a speed and ruthlessness I never had imagined. They did not rest, they kept pushing their fleet against our’s after the main battle was concluded, and inflicted blow after blow until they pinned my Lord Father’s ships against the shore.”

“They will attempt to effect a landing, now, Lord Stark. Ravens have been sent to Sunspear. No reply has been received. The Dornish will rise for Viserys. The Arryn, the Stark, the Tully, the Lannister, the Baratheon. We all share in what the Targaryen will account treason. The failure of this expedition condemns the realm to a terrible war. If we do not hang united, we will hang separately.”

Robb looked to Tywin. Her father had said that he should never trust the wily Lannister, but Tywin was speaking plain common sense. Still, there was another thing which struck him in those words. “You speak like it is my desire, and not my Lord Father’s.”

“It is. Young man, I counsel you as a peer. You are The Stark now. You must take that responsibility, and we must work together as allies for the common cause of our shared survival. Beside that, of course, we shall soon be kin. Your sister is betrothed to my grandson, His Grace the King. You must take the leadership of the North, call your levies, and bring men south. As it was in the days of the Young Wolf, if winter is soon to come, it will be better for the sons of the North to be in the southern lands. It will be better for them to hold their swords about the Crown, here, than to be a burden for the North to feed.”

Robb regarded Tywin warily. Yes, all that he said sounded true, and was plainly grounded in history. Yet… “My ships would not survive the journey North against those great warships of the enemy, if they were brought to battle. Better to keep them here to guard the mouth of the Blackwater, where they may still be of use. How then should I go north?”

“Call your levies by Raven, Lord Stark.”

“In the North, men expect to see their Lords. Fewer will come than if I called the Stark banners in person,” Robb replied. He did not want to say ‘my banners’, not yet. That would mean accepting his father was gone.

“Be that as it may, Lord Stark, I need your experience here. You are the only man of quality who has fought the enemy fleet and survived to tell the tale. You will know how to fight them best of any of us. The Crown needs a Master of Ships. We do not have the time to send for Lord Redwyne or any of the western Lords who have experience with fighting at sea. The enemy secured the defection of the Lords of the Islands, and cannot betray them, which means they must quickly send a fleet to the Driftmark.”

Master of Ships. He wanted to refuse, but Robb couldn’t find a way out of the situation they were in except to take it. He had made many observations during the battle. He felt that if he did not do it, the North would not be safe. Sansa would not be safe. When he answered, though, he felt no choice but to acknowledge the facts of the situation. He would accept the position of Master of Ships. He was a Stark, he could not turn it down. And, he would speak as Tywin’s equal. “Would you have me try to land first, Lord Lannister, and humiliate Viserys by seizing the Keep of the traitor, the foremost of his supporters?” Truth be told, there was a real risk, and he was mulling it over despite his bold words.

“I will give you good Lannisport men, who fight in regular order with bow and pike, if you would attempt it, Lord Stark. But be wary. In the face of that power, it would be better for you to withdraw and preserve the fleet for the defence of the Blackwater.” Tywin said nothing about the change in address.

“I will, Lord Lannister. I will not soon forget the thunder of that battle.”

“I imagine not.” Lord Lannister whetted his tongue with a small measure of wine. Like Robb, he had drank little during the conversation. “There is another matter. You must consider a marriage.”

Robb froze.

“I would have you betrothed to the King’s younger sister, Princess Myrcella, just as your sister is to be the Queen.” Tywin allowed a small smile. “A quick and early betrothal is best. She will flower in a few years only, and we must stand united if we are to survive.”

Robb had the distinct feeling he was being manoeuvred into a position he did not want.

Chapter Text

Daena saddled up early in the morning with her Uzbeks. The Khalasar would be travelling further north, toward the fords on the headwaters of the Rhoyne. Their little group broke away, and rode due east instead, toward the fated forks of the Rhoyne. With loose-tied reins bouncing as they rode, they descended further and further into the rich river valley, passing through clefts in the low cliffs of limestone and dolomite.

Now they travelled in lands which had once been dense packed farms of rice and corn. These days it had all gone fallow, it had turned back into rushes and reeds and thick-wooded bottomlands. Sycamore, pin and bur oaks, cherry, silver maple, cottonwood and black walnut trees grew high in this rich alluvial soil and their progress became slow.

Each noon, when they stopped to change horses, Daena would take her sightings against the sun. She showed Jon how to do it, over a few days, and explained with sticks drawing tracks in the ground, how geometry could let a man know exactly where he was, and thereby win a battle, on both land or sea.

They burst out of the woods onto the sandy shore of the Rhoyne, on waters well-freighted with history. “The ruins of Nymeria’s palace!” Ser Barristan exclaimed, reining in and looking out across the water. There, indeed, it stood. Collapsed domes and fallen towers of green and pink marble stood, with trees growing up through them everywhere, and vines hanging heavy on the ashlars, the water washing through the ruins where the course of the river had shifted, and in a thousand years time eaten through most of the city, and soon enough doubtless to eat through the palace, too. Even for the old and experienced veteran Knight, it was a sight of wonder, something out of tall tales to a man of Westeros, a fabulous ruin of a storied past.

“It’s here that our ancestors committed grievous crimes,” Daena remarked.

Jon looked at her in surprise. “The War against the Rhoynish?”

“I am no friend of the old Freehold’s policies and politics,” the woman answered, her expression distant. She might be in her forties, but Jon saw her eyes ancient, the set of her face hollowing, in that moment. “It was a war that should not have been fought. Remember that the blood of the Rhoyne also flows through your veins. And mine. We Valyrians are a kin to the Rhoynish, our looks apart are a result of the Dragon Blood, otherwise we might have been cousins. And I was raised by folk closing in appearance and customs and temper to the Rhoynish or Dornish than to Westerosi or Valyrians, though there was some of Valyria, too, in the England of my childhood.”

“England?”

“England. The principle country of the British. Once, it ruled a quarter of a world. But their Empire was short-lived, and melted away like a mirage in the sands.”

“There must be much of the world of which the Maesters know little…”

“There is much you do not know, Jon,” she smiled. “That’s one way to say it, yes. A moment, please.” She stepped away, down to the riverbank, and knelt there, and spent a while staring into the water, and fiddling with something. When she returned, she had a bandage on one wrist, and Jon couldn’t for the life of him remember it being there before.

“How shall we cross? It’s said to be bad water,” Barristan remarked.

“We’ll make a commotion, attract a boat, and haggle with the crew,” Daena answered with a smile. “Nagurash, give us a volley. Choose a tree for aimed fire, we haven’t the ammunition to waste, use it for practice also.”

“Of course, Maharani!” She went and placed a target, a little red dot of felt, hammered into the trunk of a sizeable Maple with a single nail.

Jon and Ser Barristan took their turns with the Uzbeks, and steady firing was maintained for half an hour with the Chassepots. Jon felt he had become proficient with them, though the women were better, and it was clear with firearms that strength held no particular advantage. It was no wonder that Daena and her guardswomen were soldiers by nature, possessing such arms they were no less deadly than men in a fight. The steady, slick work of the bolt between loading each cartridge of felt and paper, lead and powder, was starting to become second nature for Jon, but the Uzbeks remained better shots.

The racket had the desired effect. A trading galley had turned toward them, and was making slow headway up-river. It knew nothing that might make it think the noise and the smoke was a threat. Once they had a sight of the party on shore, Nagurash ordered them to cease firing to save ammunition. Daena had gotten a fire going, and made a smoke signal that traders generally understood on the rivers of Essos; the galley made for them more decisively, after that.

“Come, we’ll make food while we wait for them,” Daena grinned. She was relaxed, and confident, and her confidence remained contagious. They broke out the biltong and boiled it with hardtack.

An hour later, the galley put down an anchor alongside of them. Daena rose to meet them. She stood on the bank, splashing down her leather boots into the water. “Ho up there, galley! We want the east bank of the Dagger Lake, for all of us and our horses!”

A dark skinned man with oily ringlets of hair and a fine white cape over purple robes looked down, sandaled feet on the bulwarks, hand on the lines. “Why should I help you, Valyrian? Why did you ride this way, and not make for the regular ferries?”

“Haven’t you heard of a Khalasar to the North?” Daena planted her hands on her hips, her unbuttoned duster hanging loose at her sides and her braid falling down her back.

“Everyone has. But why would I give a Valyrian passage, and risk the pirates of the Dagger Lake for it too?”

“Are you Rhoynar, then? A returned Orphan?”

The man squinted at her, and behind him, a few of his crew were fingering crossbows. “Some of us.”

“Then I’ll give you a blessing. My mother was Pentoshi, and knew the water.” The mood changed.

Ser Barristan pressed closer to Jon, a frown on his face. “She means she’s a water witch. I had not expected that of one who’s so obviously Valyrian, but there is much about Lady Daena who does not make sense.”

“A witch…”

“We would be fools and soon enough dead men if we made hay of it,” Barristan warned.

“Prove it,” the ship's Captain said, tensely. "You look a dragon."

"I will prove it. In Pentos the blood of the Dragon and Mother Rhoyne has long lingered."

"Few enough in Pentos remember their kin..."

"My mother was without peer," Daena answered, and then muttered something under her breath and peered down hard at the water, taking off a glove and spinning the fingers of her right hand. As she did, the water twirled slowly up from the surface of the river, forming a swirling cone, like a reverse tornado. Jon gritted his teeth. She had treated him like a son; she had the favour of Viserys and Rhaella. But such magic was an ill thing, close to the wild.

He looked to Nagurash. She was devout to her one God, how did she and the other Uzbeks take this? The woman looked to her, drawing her coat and the scarf loosely hung at her neck closer, and looked back to him. She shrugged indolently. “Young Lord, God has granted her the power to communicate directly with Creation. God allows what He pleases.”

They had rationalised it, and he had better, too.

The display had convinced the Orphans on the galley of their bona fides, that much was clear. The galley nosed bow-in after Daena boarded and spoke with the Captain, and in another hour, they had loaded their horses and gear aboard. Daena had gone below to the galley’s cabins as they’d started the work, and only returned when they made to push off from the bank.

Daena had answered most of his questions honestly before, and despite Barristan’s counsel, Jon could not help himself. When she returned to the deck, he stepped to her side. “A noblewoman of Westeros would not be a Witch, if she valued her reputation. Men think ill of magic.”

“It is my birthright. I cannot escape it. And, it has kept me alive in many a fight against long odds.”

“You would use it in war? Many would say it’s dishonourable.” In truth, though she had explained the black-powder to him, he now again wondered if it was sorcery.

“I deliver victories wherever I can take them. When you are fighting usurpers, terrorists, anarchists, murderers, the rapists and torturers of children, you use every weapon at your hand, steel and shot… And spell. My mother and my grandmother made this lesson plain to me, and I’m not ashamed of it. If we still come to blows with the entire Khalasar, we will lucky if even magic helps us enough to carry the day long enough for the Princess’ escape. And, Jon, I gave my word that I would bring her back. I know no shame in the face of that oath. Nor should you. We will do whatever we need to, including betraying our word to any on this mission to whom we give it for the sake of getting closer to Daenerys and being in a position to save her. If magic helps, we will use it. Is that understood? Your name and your reputation will be made by the sole question of whether or not we return Daenerys to her mother’s side.”

“My Father would have said otherwise.”

“Your Father is at the Watch, and it is Esther Hoffmeyer who will have the history books written, lad. Honour does matter, it does. But having given your word, to save an innocent girl betrayed in dark treason, it is the execution of the mission that is all that matters. I have sworn an oath of death before.”

“You are also a witch. I am a Bastard, Lady Daena, and my honour is already suspect, merely by my birth.”

Daena sneered. “And the rightful Queen of the Punjab. The Gurus commanded witches to only use their magic for Good. I have no doubt that while there are many things which I must give an account for in my life on the day I finally die, my conduct with the esoteric arts will not be one of them. Your Bastardry does not matter to Waheguru, and it does not matter to me. And it does not matter to Rhaella. Royal Decree will make you a Prince of the Blood, I dare to wager, if you bring Daenerys back alive. My family held rank among the Sikhs as commanders of the Khalsa Army, I would make sure that you could aspire to much… And let’s be plain. You may not see yourself that way, you may not superficially look it, but I have gotten a measure of your conduct, and I remember it was special from the moment I saw you gain the deck of our flagship in a moment of reckless courage in service of your adoptive father and your oaths. You have the blood of the dragon.”

“What does it mean, the blood of the dragon?” He spun to face her close. Nagurash looked over to them, but said nothing. She clearly had instructions from Daena. But Jon didn’t care much one way or another. “My father told me the plain truth when I was growing up, of the Mad King… And I don’t know what to think! I’m afraid that I might have that madness in me, too.”

He felt Daena gently clap a hand to his shoulder, and press closer. Her voice was lyrical and soft. “The Blood of the Dragon means that a long time ago, our ancestors made a mystical connection to living beings of magic, through a way not even anyone of the old Freehold knew. They took some of the dragon into themselves. When they did, the creative potential, the bravery and the brilliance of the flame, entered them. We are their kin. All Valyrians, from the most humble Lysene tavern girl to the Queen Mother, have that dragon-blood, just in varying degrees; violet eyes and silver hair are outward marks, but they are vastly more common than the inner nature which gave the Dragonlords the ability to match with Dragons, to bond with them. The outer markings are not even necessary. Have enough of that dragon-stuff in you, and you are a Dragon-rider. Have even more, and be female, and you have the potential to be a Storm Singer, as the priestesses of the old Valyrian religion were. It’s said they became linked to the reproduction of the dragons themselves. Does it cause madness? Brilliance and madness are two sides of the same coin, Jon. Many Targaryen have been heroes, brave, kind, honourable. I like to think I am at least honourable, and brave, even if most would say I am no hero. You are brave and honourable. I am telling you only that the oath to rescue the Princess comes before all other things. Ask Ser Barristan. A Whitecloak must save his charges, even if it involves subterfuge or murder in the night. And that is why he stiffened when he saw me use magic, but said nothing to me himself. A Whitecloak would ally with a witch, if it would bring his charge home. And Ser Barristan knows this is his last duty, his last entry to the Book of the Guard, and his only chance to redeem his name. Take up the name Targaryen, or not; this is your chance to make your name, but you will decide its future. Your father was Rhaegar, not Aerys. You bear no dishonour in remembering that he was a brave Knight, and a good man. And if he had not been betrayed, he would have forced a Regency onto his own Lord Father.”

A pause, a breath. “Robert and Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister knew this well. They betrayed him. You were told the winner’s version of history before the job of winning was done. There is an old story of a Kingdom attacked by a stronger rival. They were a great Kingdom of seventy cities. But every single city they held was conquered, except two. By a clever stratagem, born of raw desperation, the defenders of one of those two cities tied burning blankets to the backs of cattle, and stampeded them out from the gates in the night toward the enemy camp, while banging drums and blowing horns. They counterattacked, and from those two cities, retook their whole Kingdom. Thus, as I counselled the Queen Mother with the ancient proverb of that land, after the name of that city: Remember that you are in Ju. Did General Tian Dan do wrong with his stratagem? Or did he follow his greater duty, saving his homeland, whatever the cost? – Well, Jon, that is what we did in Pentos. We remembered the story of Ju. They had killed Rhaegar, after they betrayed his confidence, but they had not finished the job.”

“Why?”

Daena’s eyes were soft, but distant. “Old story. Robert coveted the throne. Fear of the dragon had faded away into contempt for our familial customs. The Andals wanted to be done with their rulers who had never quite stopped being foreign. Rhaegar had to trust them, and a Prince in the position of putting his faith into such powerful men is in dire straits indeed. I ask you a simple question—as a Northman, shouldn’t you be prepared to avenge your father?”

“Yes,” Jon agreed, he couldn’t not, Gods, he couldn’t not. But the thought and all that Daena had said, just left the feeling of curdled milk in his stomach. Am I a dragon?

If Rhaegar was your father, what kind of man would you be if you did not avenge him?

The galley rocked under his feet in the gentle downstream current, and the Rhoyne gave him no answers. And as for what the Mother said to those whose blood mixed its children and its conquerors, of that, Daena gave no hint, either.

Chapter Text

Arianne did not consider this journey a virtue. Married to King Viserys, she might very well be passed over for Sunspear. He was younger than she was, and she’d thought him a callow boy—at least until the day that the ship arrived from Pentos, saying the Usurper was dead and the Westerosi Navy had been nearly annihilated. Now she had to at least give him the credit of being a great Admiral, and a fighting man. But it had also guaranteed that the marriage would go forward, and so victory would bring her only the cold and drizzly halls of King’s Landing.

Still, to see the hated Usurper, the Lion and the Stag and the Wolf all humbled, to see her aunt and cousins avenged… Yes, duty was worth it.

The message which had greeted her father Loyal Prince, you are requested to repair your fleet to Pentos, with the promised Princess for His Grace the King, and Prince Oberyn to escort her…

Doran had not expected that last term, but he had recognised Queen Rhaella’s handwriting. They had all recognised the savage boast of the captured banners which were thrown down at his feet. Dozens of them. A more real proof that the victory was a true one, than anything else that could be claimed, save for the reinforcement given by the mysterious silence from King’s Landing.

The Princely fleet was not large, but twenty galleys had been mustered and sailed north, under Prince Oberyn’s command. They had finally made the Bay of Pentos, and on arriving at the city, had seen the extensive high wooden docks along the waterfront, some of them being visibly worked upon, with skeletal cranes high and so unlike those of Oldtown that she had seen before. Her uncle and his mistress were already on the deck. He was looking at the Pentoshi fleet, and she joined him.

Dozens of ships rode at anchor, clearly captured from Westeros. They flew the Dragon banner, and with good reason, that Pentos would not claim overnight to have an immense Navy with which it might challenge Braavos. The ships beyond them, however, were about twenty in number, the same as their own squadron. They were also as huge and high as Swan Ships, or moreso, and they swung at anchor with rows of ports pierced in their hulls.

“Those are the ships that wrecked the Royal fleet,” Oberyn remarked.

“How do you know, Uncle?”

“I have never seen their like before, their stays are tauter than those of Swan Ships, and those carriages on the deck carry tubes of black steel. And when I see black steel, I think of some old Valyrian sorcery.”

And then the Dornish standard rose from one of the towers along the waterfront, and from the coast, came a booming report, a thundercrack in clear air—followed immediately by a billowing horizontal column of smoke. Then another, and another, and another, again and again. Sailors ran to the rails of the anchored ships, cheering them and throwing their caps in the air, as others raced up the rigging and the masts and lined the spars.

Nineteen, nineteen explosions.

Trumpets greeted them at the dock, where two light frigatas helped push the Dornish flagship in. A coterie of officers were drawn up, and saluted them with drawn swords as they climbed up to the wooden deck of the pier.

At their head was a woman of medium height, and dusky brown skin trending to sallow, almondine eyes, pleasant wavy hair pulled back into an unruly braid, in a fantastic costume of trimmed jacket over smart trousers with an almost Qartheen cut, coloured Black and Red, with silver braid. The others deferred to her. The woman turned to her and Oberyn, and bowed politely from the waist. As she did, the necklace she wore drooped, and Arianne’s eyes widened in shock.

“Highnesses. My name is Esther Hoffmeyer, Lady Hand of His Grace King Viserys Third of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men. I am here to escort you to the King’s suites personally, to meet His Grace and the Queen Mother.”

Arianne’s eyes shone with delight. Oberyn nearly laughed at her, and she had to restrain herself from losing all decorum and swatting at him. He was paying close attention to Esther, anyway, and she to him.

“His Grace appears to have a great deal of sense about the place of women,” Oberyn offered with a grin.

Esther outright laughed. “His Grace is a Dragon. His Grace’s Mother, is also a Dragon. They do not see the world as other races do.”

“No,” Arianne tossed her head. “His Grace appears to see the world as a Dornishman would. You…”

“I have had the honour to command the Army of Pentos, and hold the title of Magister.”

“You are the woman Magister! Oh! But you will come to Westeros with the King?”

“I like challenges,” Esther Hoffmeyer answered, and turned to lead them toward a carriage and horses. “I will see King’s Landing with aqueducts and baths to every quarter, before my hair is grey.”

Oberyn chuckled, and they both watched the foreign woman turn to her page, who handed the reins to her horse and helped clasp a cape around her shoulders, and then easily take the saddle. Arianne eschewed the carriage and drew up her skirts to ride astride, taken by the moment and defiant. She was a Dornishwoman and His Grace best not expect past modesty from her, even if being a Queen meant it was required in the future—damn it all.

There were guards who fell in around her now, two of them, who were women themselves. They would not have been out of sorts as Dornishwomen, and they bore curved-blade swords and the strange tube weapons of the ships, reproduced in miniature. Arianne could tell that much.

“The men of Westeros,” Oberyn remarked easily to the woman, “Those who live north the Red Mountains, I mean, they will do anything to foil your Government.”

“No doubt,” Esther laughed. “But I have been taught the art of war by those long accustomed to it. They may come on, and I will see them off—just like the Khalasar which tried to lay waste to Pentos, while the Usurper’s fleet attacked.”

Lying about such a thing would be pointless. And anyway, Arianne had been raised a student of faces and moods, these officers around this woman were confident in her leadership. She was blooded.

And her uncle definitely was curious.

Esther flipped the cape back over her shoulder, held by a firm clasp, pulled on riding gloves and threw a hand up in the air, gave the order, and on they rode. The streets were clean, but some buildings, damaged in fighting, had been recently pulled down. In the foundations of a few, work on new structures was already coming well along.

He made a woman Lady Hand. Arianne was still seized on it. There had never been a Lady Hand before, and only two Mistresses of Whispers, both infamous in their time, Tyanna of the Tower and Mysaria, the White Worm. Arianne guided her horse closer to this woman whose position was one not even a Dornishwoman would have thought possible. “Tell me, I don’t have a word for the weapons your guards carry.”

“Rifles,” Esther pronounced deliberately. Then she patted a strange-shaped leather case at her belt. “This is a pistol.”

“Oh,” Arianne muttered dully. Suddenly she realised there were quite a lot more of these weapons around her than even her own powers of observation had told her. Oberyn laughed, and she shot her Uncle a look.

“I imagine,” he explained, “That it never made sense that a woman as dangerous as the Lady Hand should go unarmed with the best weapon at her disposal.”

Esther smiled, and laughed obligingly. “We’re all armed these days, even Her Grace the Queen Mother. And these guns work on the principle of a simple combination of charcoal, sulphur and saltpetre. Of course, the devil is in the details of how it’s prepared, but…”

“Gods,” Arianne looked poleaxed. “But that means they could be made in … In quantity, and provided with shot anywhere.”

“And they can, and they will be,” Esther agreed, and let them think through the implications, as she led the two into the palace, cleaned up since the fighting.

Several more of the women, like those who rode at Esther’s side, were drawn up with a group of two unmistakeable Valyrians. Queen Rhaella and her son, His Grace the King.

Arianne’s future husband. She paid close attention, for her entire future depended upon it.

He was lanky, with his long hair kept back by a circlet, with a thin face. His eyes were confident, and she could see in his posture the natural arrogance that came so effortlessly to the House of the Dragon. But it was not without intelligence. And she could see, too, the real respect that flickered in this violet eyes when they focused on Esther. He had personal experience, then, with what she could do.

The two Martells, with their courtiers, guards and Arianne’s Ladies-in-Waiting, made a show of dismounting, approaching, … And kneeling. Even Ellaria, staying to the back of the party, but very much present. Her presence was not commented upon.

“Your Grace, the Spears of Dorne are your’s,” Arianne spoke. “On behest of my father, I present to you the loyalty of Dorne, Dorne, the always loyal, the loyal by choice, and the loyal by our shared revenge.”

Viserys smiled, genuinely. “Rise, Princess Arianne, Prince Oberyn. Our shared revenge, indeed. You have heard the news, but now, see it.” He drew his sword, and pointed toward the middle section of the palace’s tower. A metal cage there held a massive rotting body, still in armour. “Behold, the Usurper. As he wounded your family, and as he dispossessed me, so he meets his recompense.”

Oberyn was grinning. “I’m pleased I was able to come in time to see this with my own eyes.” Sheer black hate flashed through his expression for a moment. “Now perhaps she can rest in peace. No.”

“No,” Viserys agreed, and looked to Esther, who had dismounted, and now bowed from the waist.

“Indeed not. Not until the Lion is extirpated,” Esther’s dark eyes encompassed King, Prince, and Princess.

And then Rhaella stepped forward, as well. Her cool composure increased, not minimised, the intensity of her next words. “Indeed, it has been naught since the Conquest that House Targaryen has dispossessed a High Lord for Treason. Too long. We will attainder the whole of the Lannister, and extirpate them from Westeros forever.” Then she smiled. “But, enough of that. We have weddings to discuss, as well as revenge.”

They were led into the palace. Arianne took care to emphasize her good carriage and keep her bosom high. She wanted Viserys interested in her, if she was going to do this. And Valyrians… Had a reputation.

Esther was clearly thinking along similar lines, as she promptly launched into a digression noting how the Martells were now kinsmen to the House Targaryen, since the days of Daeron the Good. Arianne was pretty sure she got the desired look.

But even then, she just couldn’t help herself. Something Rhaella had said was bothering her. “Weddings, Your Grace?”

“Indeed, Princess Arianne. You certainly know that you are to be wed to His Grace.” Rhaella smiled. “However, the woman who the King’s Grace has elevated to the position of Lady Hand is lamentably unwed, and of an age where that is, to we Westerosi, nearly as shocking as the title she holds.” She turned to Oberyn then, and the Sand Snake was damn near pinned to the wall by the Targaryen Grand Dame’s look.

“Prince Oberyn, his Grace the King desires that you should wed his Lady Hand to complete the Alliance. Lady Esther has need of a Sword.”

Arianne couldn’t help herself. Her grin was manic! Oh, Uncle, look! It is not just me, who has been sold off for a marriage alliance!

Chapter Text

“I have never yet agreed to be married,” Oberyn declared contemptuously, “and see no reason to begin now, Your Grace.”

Esther stiffened. I knew this was going to be a disaster.

“Your mother had other plans once,” Rhaella answered, peering sharply at him. “Let her speak for herself.” The look she gave Esther was sharp, and conveyed everything: You must win him yourself, she took from it.

Perhaps not a disaster. Perhaps that’s exactly what she needed. Esther covered her mouth and gently coughed. “Thank you, Your Grace. Perhaps it would be best for His Grace the King to take tea with Princess Arianne?”

“I agree,” Rhaella addressed her son. “Your Grace should become acquainted with the Princess of Dorne. Let tea service be called for.”

Viserys looked between them for a moment, and then grinned. “You do not understand, Prince Oberyn,” he addressed the Dornish rogue.

Esther gently raised her hand. “Your Grace intends to greatly honour me, but it is unnecessary. I will address my prospective husband directly.” She nodded toward the courtiers outside, and rose—and extended her hand to his. “And his mistress. Please, Prince Oberyn, humour me one glass on a balcony with yourself and …”

“Ellaria. Ellaria Sand,” Oberyn answered, and took her hand. She gave him a bit of a yank to tug him up, and then turned to the King and made a little bow. “Thank you for the introduction, Your Grace.”

She managed to get a chuckle from Oberyn, a slight one, which was encouraging. She led him past the guards, though he shook loose from her hand before they arrived before Ellaria. But Esther turned to face her. “Ellaria Sand. A pleasure.”

“A pleasure, hmm?” Ellaria peered sharply at her. She could tell something was up.

“A pleasure,” Esther repeated, and then in a moment’s impulse, reached down, and took Ellaria’s hand in her own, and raised it up to her lips and kissed it. Daena would have done it, after all. “Please follow me.”

Ellaria laughed. Oberyn put an arm around her waist, and they followed her. The balcony overlooked the sea and was private, so much the better. Esther felt like she was trying to sell herself, and she desperately wanted this to be private: She waved off the Uzbeks with a hand-sign that meant she absolutely, genuinely did not want a guard. Then she closed the fine sandalwood door to the balcony herself, and turned back to Oberyn and Ellaria, resting an arm on the balcony rail.

“Thank you for giving me the chance.”

“You have to understand,” Oberyn began, his voice so gentle it made Esther want to sigh. “It’s not you. I’ve been looking at you since we were all on the pier.”

Ellaria rolled her eyes good naturedly. “He assuredly has been.”

“Indeed.” Oberyn folded his hands and started to pace. Those viper eyes never left her, though, and she repaid the favour. And he knew it. “Rather, it’s that nobody tells me what to do. I don’t wish any formal bonds. I have eight bastard daughters already…”

Esther cut him off. “Yes, the Sand Snakes. And that’s why you are the only man for me, Prince Oberyn. Women of my line don’t marry. We pass our name matrilineally, because centuries ago we made a pact with a witch. It came with a price. Women of my family give birth only to girls.” She took a measured step closer. Neither blinked. “You’re very good at getting girls on women, I have no doubt of that. You also won’t mind that you’ll never have a son by me. It’s one of the reasons we’re not popular for settling down with.”

“Hmm. More’s the loss to those fools.”

Now, she was getting some real respect. Oberyn was taking her in again. “I won’t leave Ellaria for you. In fact, I won’t leave anyone for you.”

Another woman might have taken that as rejection. Esther could understand the tone in his voice. It was the first bit of grudging attraction to the idea. So, she ignored him, turned to the side, and looked straightaway at Ellaria. “You may take Oberyn to bed whenever the two of you please it. I will sleep in my own study on those nights. Though he is a man I would gladly bed every night—anything else would be a base lie—I will settle for a practical alliance. I need daughters, two would be ideal. I am rather an old maid by the standards of Westeros. Though to be clear, I mean that in the sense of marriage. I have not been a virgin in twenty years.”

“You hardly seem it,” Ellaria smiled. “I have no objection. I let Oberyn sleep with whomever he pleases, man or woman. But that’s precisely the point, Lady Esther. Nobody controls Prince Oberyn.”

If the words were meant to shock her, Esther just shrugged. Rhaella had warned her as much, and Esther simply had never grown up even imagining that she might care about such things. She giggled, just a little. “You may come closer than most, however.” Then she started to turn back to Oberyn…

He was behind her, and grabbing her firmly. For a moment, she spasmed with fear and her hand lunged for her pistol. Then, realising who it was, she forced herself to relax.

“Little raven, why?”

Letting herself go limp, she twisted to the left and tumbled out of his hands, then purposefully forcing her off-hand to make for the revolver. She hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs, but with the gun steady, iron clapped solidly into her hand, levelled at Oberyn’s hand.

Oberyn laughed brightly, hands on his hips.

She laughed hard enough to nearly choke through her heaving breaths, and reversed the gun and holstered it once more. Ellaria had a salacious grin watching the display.

“Most women and more than a few men swoon in my arms you know,” Oberyn reached down, and she accepted his help gladly. He pulled her up, and daintily positioned her to let her lean against the wall of the palace.

“Married or not, I’ll never swoon for anyone. I’m my own person. And I’ll fuck you according to our mutual consent. My virtue is mine to save or ruin as I please. However. The reality is that I’m going to become the Lady Hand of Westeros. I’ll fight, yes, and I’ll lead Armies, yes. They expect that of a Hand. It will be scandalous. There will be challenges to my policies: Challenges that Lords expect to be settled by the sword. There will be assassination attempts. And all the contempt I will face, I would face threefold without a strong and, lo!, feared man, at my side. Prince Oberyn, those fuckers think you’re the black heart of sin. They’re also afraid of you. This marriage alliance is founded on the very astute assumption by the Queen Mother that I need a man at my side so unpredictable, so violent, so good at fighting, that men fear my husband much more than they fear the little foreign woman who will remake the realms. For I will,” eyes to eyes, again, “remake the realms.”

He was laughing. “You want to give me the opportunity to humbug every Lord in Westeros.”

“Mmn. Yes, actually.” Then, she pulled herself off from the wall, her breath back in her lungs, and took two steps toward him. Looked up. “Don’t marry me because you have to. Marry me because you love the thought of sticking our marriage in the face of every Lord in Westeros.”

His laugh was as uninhibited as his eyes were dangerous. “I will say this, Lady Esther. You bring a finer dowry to me than any other has dared. But all this chatter about sleeping alone in your study? Ha. No.”

For just a moment, Esther was worried that all her effort at a very unusual courtship was going to falter. Then Oberyn kept talking.

“I want to take both you and Ellaria. Together. Right now, little raven." His voice dropped, and left her shivering with desire. "Right now. Being your husband is a game I’ll play for shared amusement with one of my lovers. So first, be my lover.”

Esther was blankly working her way through the fact she'd already been given a pet name, apparently, as the haze of sexual desire surged in her, when she felt a soft hand on the small of her back, and glanced behind her to see Ellaria looking altogether too welcoming. She looked back, and, well; she was a sexually confident, mature woman raised to believe her body was her own choice, honestly in a way both different yet more extreme than what was taught to a typical modern woman back home.

And to put it plainly, Oberyn was really, really hot.

So was Ellaria.

Esther flashed a grin. “Sure.”

They co-authored their marriage contract. Post-coitally, in bed. Ellaria wrote it up for them.

And when they announced it the next morning, Rhaella seemed genuinely pleased that her plan had worked out. I bet tempting Oberyn Martell into a marriage just tickles you pink.

Fortunately, I guess it does me, too.

Chapter Text

Daena knew there was a certain risk to taking the ship. It would guarantee that they would get ahead of the Khalasar, and thus be able to demonstrate their talent and skill in full and get a handle on the situation. The problem would be surviving to get there. The Dagger Lake did, in fact, have a plentiful quantity of pirates, and a merchant galley was the perfect target for them, even if it appeared to be transporting only horses.

The Uzbeks had taken turns with Jon and Ser Barristan to maintain the watch on the deck, and reinforce the crew. They had gotten halfway across the Lake before the problems started, the first sighting of other ships, and they, coming for them quick.

Her bones creaked, and reminded her that she was 260 years old. Soon, the change would be coming over her, the moment when a Valyrian sorceress began to lose control of her ability to laugh at death. For ten thousand years, the Freehold had existed, and it was mostly because of women like her, who had traded their fertility for great strength in the magical arts and long life by which to maintain the continuity of their lineages. Otherwise, a civilisation lasting for ten thousand years would have been impossible. But living forever was just as impossible. She would never know why her grandmother had not taken this course, and over time, she feared that what Visenya did not speak to her about was a lethal falling out between her father’s mother and her Pentoshi mother. A ghost could not speak of their death.

Perhaps it was for the best. She knew now that her father had put her mother to death, and her mother had chosen to carry the secret of her to the grave, rather than parley with Maegor for her life on the fact of her existence. Perhaps she had felt guilty: Daena did not wish to believe it, but she suspected that the stories were true, and many of her half-siblings were dead at the hands of her mother.

Maybe it was best to think of the mothers that had raised her, and put such thoughts where they belonged, with the long-dead. But no, it would never really work like that. She had lived in Pentos enough to get the sense of the life a bastard girl would have had there growing up, she had made herself into a champion of the lower classes to whence her mother had once belonged. In the evening song of her life, the shadow of Tyanna hung long across her daughter.

One day soon, the last living human to have fought in the First World War would be no more. The legacy of the Uzbek Guards and the White Officers’ Benevolent Association would drift away. The ghosts of the Fin de siècle would rest. But as the old Roman saying gave it best, ‘Sometimes the knowledge that all is lost, gives one the courage to fight on and win.’ The knowledge that the power of her magic was draining away had given her the daring to risk the prophecy, and push herself to the limit for the sake for her house.

Death was coming. Embrace it. She had taken the risk of unveiling her magic to Ser Barristan and Jon for precisely that reason, and it had paid off. If necessary, then, she would try to use her mother’s water-magic on the river in the fight, too.

The fast pirate galleys were getting close, and Nagurash consciously walked up into her field of vision, and saluted. It forced her out of her reverie. “I’m going to bring the machine-gun into the rigging, Maharani. There’s no point in saving ammunition, if we’re going to be dead. Inshallah, it will be enough.”

“Tayyebeh will serve the gun?”

“You are our best shot, Maharani, with the most skill,” Nagurash smiled in bemusement. The ride had given her the chance to recover some from the shame of having let Daenerys be taken. “I can protect Jon and make sure the crew turns back when we start to win.”

Daena laughed. She paid the Uzbeks enough that they should be frank with her, and she was glad for it! “All right then. I’ll take the mast.” She turned, and half a minute later had fronted the rigging and gained the top. On a merchant galley of this size, it was just a small crows-nest, and she had to lash the machine-gun into position and with Tayyebeh as her loader, they could barely fit. But she settled into the rhythm of the galley, they were not on the open ocean, the swell was small, and she could lay the gun easily. They were making to run, but the pirates would overhaul them. There were three pirates coming for them.

She waited until they got within a hundred yards, and the pirates began to test them with arrows, and promises of mercy if they hove-to. No doubt the pirates had no intention of killing them if they could at all avoid it, but in Essos, Daena fancied that meant slavery, not mere robbery. She racked back the bolt to charge the gun in battery. Around her, the sun of Essos hung in the air over the great lake, which she thought at least ninety miles long and twenty-five wide, here in its northern widest point. This would be its own demonstration of power, but she had to conserve ammunition.

The clusters of men ready to board in the bows of each galley made the perfect target.

She clutched the firing handles and squeezed off a disciplined six-round burst into the men on the bows of the nearest galley. Three toppled. She corrected her aim, and then tore through twenty-five rounds in the space of a couple seconds.

For a moment, Daena could see the men on the quarterdecks of the pirate galleys staring with confusion and then fear and horror. She could also see the men writhing on the deck, not much different than they had when she had cut into the Soviet landing craft at Bandar Anzali with the twin Lewis guns on her flying machine. The lake was as sunny and blue as the Caspian.

Then Nagurash stepped up to the helmsman. “Bring us about!” she ordered in clear Valyrian. “They won’t be shocked forever!”

Tayyebeh helped her fit the next belt, and Daena pulled the bolt back into battery once more. The crew of the next galley was starting to figure out what dire danger their boarding party was in, still clustered on the bow near the telaro. As their merchant’s helm was put over and they started to turn broadside, she had a good shot down the full length of the pirate, and stitched them from bow to stern. When the helmsman collapsed, this galley made an easy target for Nagurash to direct their own ship against.

Daena checked fire, and shifted to the third ship. It was coming about of its own volition, for now the crew realised the threat. Too late.

With the galleys savaged, their stout merchant drew close to the second first, which had lost its helmsman. Daena checked fire. She had used enough ammunition to change the situation; it was time to consider magic. She helped with the loading, and then handed the machine-gun off to Tayyebeh. “Don’t use more than this belt, we need to save enough for the Dothraki.”

Already with five hundred rounds, two belts, they had devastated the pirates.

She reached out, then, and grabbing the yards, slid down them like a born sailor, keeping her balance as she reached the deck, though the impact of her booted feet with the wooden planks again reminded her of the age her blood magic concealed.

True magic of this world was subtle, and her water magic was always weaker than her blood magic and storm-singing. It came from the less dominant side of her nature; but, it was the combination in a single living woman that had made Tyanna, and thus her daughter, so powerful. Pentos would always have the witches with the greatest potential.

Steadying on the deck, she reached out, and began to churn the water around the ships, bringing forth bubbles. This was an innocuous thing, but as the water bubbled and frothed, the efficiency of the oars would fall sharply off.

They easily crossed the distance to the first of the galleys, and this time Jon’s skill in gaining the deck was put to use for her. Though the boarding party was small, it was armed with rifles and revolvers as well as swords. A half dozen revolvers at point-blank range wielded against men who only had edged weapons was a ferocious exchange, but she had already softened them up, and there was another element. From her perch on the forecastle, Daena could see it: The galley-slaves were lunging against their chains, shifting their oars and trying to strike at the feet of the remaining soldiers on the deck.

Ser Barristan saw it, too. He was a man of Westeros and no friend of slavery. Though he wasn’t, and at his age never would be, the same kind of shot as the Uzbeks or even Jon, he quickly made use of himself, and began to strike off the chains. When one chain went, an entire bench of oarsmen were freed. Quickly a great number surged up the deck. They had gone from the perfect prey into taking their first prize, and the image of the rising of the galley slaves created an imminent and immediate threat on the other galleys, as shouts of “freedom!” carried across the water.

Strategically, Daena moved and shifted the bubbles, keeping their own oars in clear water and the enemy’s in back-water. There was no question of sparing even a single pirate, they were all shot or put to the sword, they did not have enough people under arms to spare any guarding prisoners, and Daena saw no moral question in the execution of pirates and slavers. By the second galley, the crew of the merchant actually joined in, sensing that victory was neigh.

Jon, she saw in snippets and glimpses, fought with both his revolver and his sword, putting his lessons to practice. At some level, he had begun to internalise the idea that above all other things, he must return the Princess safely. He understood these were honourless curs and to fire at one rather than meet steel with steel was perfectly honourable, for the first honour was in following one’s duty.

I can’t make a man of you, but you can yet make a man of yourself.

The sun hung low in the sky, they’d wasted an entire day, and in the end, the four ships were rafted together, free-floating on the Dagger Lake. Though the waters were not always calm, they were frustratingly calm today, and a great many of the bodies, rafted together in clumps and clusters, still drifted alongside them. Daena went to distribute potions and medicine to the wounded oarsmen, but she demurred from using her blood to heal them. That self-wounding she could not do lightly. I wonder if whatever afterlife I find myself in, I will see Renée.

She walked along quietly to face the assembled, freed slaves. They were a ragged, brutalised bunch of men, savagely treated, whipped and beaten. Many were near to death, but risen they had. Being a galley-slave was truly a pitiless existence. They had had no reason not to fight. But without an outside source of help, chained at the oars, they’d have never stood a chance.

The cheers the liberated met her with, the eyes they looked on her with, while the rumours of her status as a Water Witch already spread, reminded her of how much was now at stake, even as they invigorated her and made her feel young again. And Nagurash did not forget her duty, and did not let Daena forget her’s, either.

She approached to Daena’s side. “Maharani, you cannot abandon them. They would suffer fates worse than death if they were abandoned with their galleys on the lakes. The other pirates would hunt them and torture them all to death as a lesson for their own galley-slaves.”

People in Pentos had underestimated how much the Uzbek Guard were not some ostentatious display, but rather a collection of educated professionals. Many men had died as a consequence of making that error. Daena expected many still would. Nagurash had passed out of the Sarawakan Army Academy. She was absolutely right, there could simply not be any disputing it.

“Yet our overall operational duty, if you will, is to save the Princess. How would you square the circle?”

“We’ve already lost a day in this fight, Maharani. Let us ascend the Qhoyne. We cannot get ahead of the Khalasar on land. But it will not be easy for them to cross that river. Call us a wind against the current.”

“I don’t know what singing a storm will do above the Rhoyne, Nagurash. The two magical lineages in my veins are bitterly opposed.”

“Were. Is it not Lady Esther’s duty to instead reinforce the alliance you now have?” Her dark eyes flickered to the north. “And, I don’t think we can do it any other way.”

Daena smiled, and then laughed, half snorting. “All right. I’ll try. Bring me guitar, and tea for the whole night long, and water to quench my throat. I will sing us up the Qhoyne, God help me!”

Jon looked to her.

She faced him. “We’ll head them off on the Qhoyne.”

“By magic?”

In her eyes she could see a hundred battles and a thousand nights by the campfire. “...I’ll sing you songs like you’ve never imagined.”

Chapter Text

The run up the Qhoyne under sail was something that Jon would never forget. The warnings of rain and thunder were ignored. Daena, with her picks and her stringed instrument, sang in soft mournful melodies and in sharp staccato bursts that sounded like the roar of the guns. She sang in Valyrian, in Westerosi, and in a dozen languages Jon could not even speak.

Their ships were too light for this, the white squall of inland summer waters that came quickly and without warning, no warning, except for the song that in wonder Jon could only admit was the source of the storm. But their prize crews were led by the Uzbeks, and if the Captain of the Greenblood merchant evidenced fear at seeing the legendary and long-lost Valyrian storm magic, Nagurash at his side was there to stiffen his spine, drawing her headscarf up against the wind and demanding he keep every yard of canvas set.

The wind grew strong, and the rain ran down his cheeks. The sail flew up, and the wind kept a following course, driving them toward the mouth of the Qhoyne. The storm seemed to destabilise or to fall away between each song, Daena tapping a boot against the deck to keep time with her strings. She sang about Lady Luck and battles long by, the wind streaming her silver-blonde hair behind her like a defiantly planted banner.

Oarsmen eased off the oars, and then unshipped the oars from the tholepins. This storm, unlike a normal summer’s White Squall, did not let up.

As the night went on and they pushed toward the mouth of the Qhoyne in darkness, the crews crew more nervous that they should run ashore in the night. Jon quenched his own fear and walked the decks. “Courage, men, courage. Gods of the Rhoyne and old Valyria with us, too. We will make the mouth of the Qhoyne!”

The music grew more invigorating, as if Daena had realised the morale problem herself. Ser Barristan quickly saw the need: He joined Jon in walking the deck, encouraging the sailors to keep their cool, and keep every stitch of canvas set.

Dawn came from their east, off to the starboard. It flooded through storm-clouds.

“A red sky at dawn!”

“We already ride the storm, we have no fear!” Jon countered that nameless voice in the ranks.

The sun kept rising, and it cut through enough of the fog and the mist that suddenly, the lookouts posted forward could see their objective. Daena had seen them through to the Mouth of the Qhoyne. Men clustered forward to see for themselves. Others turned in fear or wonder toward the singing figure at the stern.

Daena, without missing a beat, started to break into a song that Jon realised at once she must be composing herself as she sang it.

“Long is the Way to the Unknown

Long are the rivers in the East;

Far lies the land that the Khal

And his Men Seek.

Many dangers are ahead

Some of us may never return

But better a slave in Ghis

Than die chained a’ bed

Winds Four Quarters

You gave us the Qhoyne by Morn

Fill up our sails for the East

Gentle our course

Darkling Daughter, Qhoyne

Fill up our sails and courage

Long your way to the East

Show us the way to Qohor

For fame and renown

That’s where the winds guide

Take us to the portage –

And beyond!”

The rain seemed to ease, but the wind still blew up strong. Whistling across their decks, their helmsman steadied them to the midline channel of the Qhoyne. Jon shook out the water from his trail coat, grease-slicked canvas shedding to the deck below, and went to get some food. There was little to choose from. Then he went to Barristan’s side. He gave the old Knight some of the jerky and pemmican. The wind was too much for cooking fires, so they only had the little metal lamp boiling vessels of the Uzbeks, to make sweet tea as black as death and strong enough to tan leather.

“Neither of us has slept the whole night, Ser. We should take turns at watch with the Uzbeks.”

“I could scarcely sleep before that singing,” Barristan confessed. He raised the hot cup to his lips. “Strange how this devil’s brew grows on you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Jon admitted with a little smile. They were the only two Westerosi men here, in this moment.

“Does it still make you feel ill, lad?” Barristan meant the magic, in the moment he could mean nothing else.

“No.” He said the word, but it felt true. Jon decided he’d made up his mind. “Lady Daena has asked me to judge her on her conduct. She frees slaves, she guides ships true on their course, she serves her oaths loyally and strives to keep her promises. A man would accuse her of evil only because of her sorcery, and envy for it, not her conduct.”

Barristan nodded. “It still chills my blood,” he confessed. “I remember first as a boy being told ill stories of powerful sorceresses. Lady Daena has the blood of old Valyrian, and though the dynasty does as well, and you do as well, lad… Nonetheless, since Queen Visenya, men have spoken ill of Valyrian women who know these powers. But, you have the right of it. If we bring Princess Daenerys back to court, men will forget we did it with the help of a witch. If we fail, our names will live in ignominy no matter whose help we had.”

They were both silent for a moment. Finally, Jon ventured –- “and if we do not return, but Princess Daenerys does?”

“That might be the finest outcome of all. For me,” Barristan answered, and chuckled grimly. “This ride has given me plenty of opportunities to think about how I talked myself into compromising my honour. I doubt the voyage will be any kinder to my conscience, though Seven willing, it will be short. For you? Don’t let it be so. I remember Rhaegar. You are his boy. You may not really know it yet, but you are his boy. Her Grace wants you back as badly as she wishes to see Daenerys return.”

Jon looked upriver. It provided no distraction. “I don’t know if I should thank you or not, Ser Barristan.”

“Then just take my counsel: In the North, you will be a Bastard. In King Viserys’ court, you will be a Prince.”

Jon didn’t find the words to put him at ease, but nor could he forget them.

Ser Barristan continued with another thought, after a moment. “I reach the fullness of age, and in these events, can’t help but think I and all men of Westeros are raised to underestimate women. Neither your father nor Aerys could save the Targaryen realms. Not all the Knights of the Kingsguard could turn back Robert and Eddard. These women have. Though this sorcery is a womanish thing, it is used in honour. And the Uzbeks are the finest soldiers I’ve known… I’ll tell you, I think back on a woman I once loved, and wonder if perhaps she had been given the freedom to accept what had happened to her, she might not be living today. And if all matters of shame and honour among men, when it comes to women, are worth nothing compared to the value her smile would be, even on aged lips.”

“I was raised to know a man’s place and a woman’s place, and it was easy for me,” Jon responded. “But my youngest sister—forgive me, but I must call her sister—well, she won’t be content with it, not once in her whole life. Once, I might have thought she’d grow out of it, but now I see something of Daena in my memories of her eyes. I’ll never doubt a woman’s wisdom, or even prowess in a fight, again. I saw Daena standing, as cool as can be, putting an end to King and Pirate alike.”

Ser Barristan bowed his head to the water. Jon didn’t know how sincerely either of them felt their words. It felt too easy to turn back to the easy assumptions of youth. So he turned back to the face of his uncertainty, and walked aft, to listen, and try better to understand the words of Daena’s songs. She looked up to greet him, and flashed him a manic smile for a moment. He couldn’t help but grin; she had been awake for twenty-four hours now and singing for twelve. Her energy was infectious even to a boy raised to fear woman’s magic. Her easy confidence in the saddle, disarming even when he had been raised to hold a woman warrior with contempt.

Jon thought, as the hours went by, that this display of stamina was as worthy as any desperate ride or fight. She sang, and sang, and sang.

They slept their watches, and she sang them on. Through a second night, now in the Qhoyne, their bow-waves pushed the pine cones aside, and they made time under the light of the moon to keep them in channel.

Forty-eight hours awake, thirty-six hours singing. That was when Daena finally collapsed, and the winds faded from their sails, and rested men set their oars to the tholepins, while the Uzbeks wrapped her in blankets and bore her to the cabin below. Thirty-six hours. She had sung until her cracked throat bled, despite the breaks for tea and water.

Now the oars dipped the water of the Darkling Daughter. They bent their backs to it. Their progress slowed, but did not falter. And Jon trusted Daena’s guards with her below, so he want back to the galley’s captain, on the quarterdeck, his feet echoing hollowing over the steps up. Blue sky at dawn, and the sun was out, straining through light clouds to warm the day. It would be fiercely hot soon, as it was deep inland on a summer’s day without storm clouds.

“How long until the first ford?”

“Perhaps today,” the Orphan man answered. “We will make an effort. The oarsmen are rested.” He shook his head again, clearly thinking of Daena. “All our galleys can pass it; this time of year, it is four feet of water, and we are running light. If we were running downstream from Qohor under load, we would tow a barge with half the cargo to keep our drought shallow. It’s a rock ledge, and the Khalasars always using it for passing south of Qohor. I’ve heard men of Qohor speaking of building a fort there, to block their crossing, but it would mean war with every Khal on the Great Grass Sea.”

Jon nodded. It seemed there was no way to be done with the reign of terror of the tribes in Essos. He wondered, though, if they might yet aspire to more. Soon enough he’d know. Or, this little band would all be dead.

There was no use waiting. He took tea and ate hot stew and bread, for the first time in three days, and before long thirsted more for water than beer under the heat of the sun. Nagurash compelled the crew under strict instructions to boil it and cool it before it was drunk.

It was under the blazing summer heat of the afternoon sun that Jon saw them first. Dothraki outriders on the bluffs above the river. They looked intently at the ships heading up-river. The Dothraki might consider attacking them at the Ford, but if they were in the midst of fording, the galleys might also be a mortal threat to a khalasar. The men turned, and galloped on ahead.

The galleys were making enough time that Jon could make out the first hand-off, hear the distant whoops on the bluff and the cries of the men, as they called out the warning to the next group further up-river. This group then took off at a dead run to the north, while the first group walked down the horses. The second group soon passed out of sight. They’d have warning, then, but it had been inevitable.

At that point, off to the east bank, they then spotted a troupe of Dothraki riding down the bluffs at a good canter, their arakhs glinting in the sun, their quivers jangling at their backs, pelt and fur cloaks that protected their bodies from the sun flying, the beautiful silver and gold and gem inlays in their reins and bridles gleaming by the afternoon light, braids flying behind their heads as they nosed down. By Dothraki standards these were rich men of many horses, in a successful khalasar, showing their wealth on what mattered to them—their horses. Picked outriders, men who had claimed much loot, and could be trusted to guard their line of advance. “They’ve started to deploy outriders to the east, so they must be in the middle of the crossing,” Jon reported to Ser Barristan when he came up-deck.

Barristan nodded, and they both watched as the men on the east bank signalled to those resting their horses on the west bank from the relay, by fire-arrow and horn. The fire-arrows were also a threat to them, plainly made. We have men ready to burn you at the crossing.

On they pushed. The sun began to set to the west, and the evening shadows spread from the bluffs across the river. It began to quickly cool, but the smoke ahead of camp-fires being set on the east bank left no doubt they were close.

The sun was still with them when they hove into sight of the Khalasar, making its crossing of the river. The Khal’s people were indeed vulnerable, for even in summer, the Qhoyne was not a small river, and it was a deep ford. The men had to lead strings of horses, struggling through shoulder high water. Many of the carts and wagons had to be floated across by ropes. Unscrupulous merchants in a group of four small galleys were there, selling them goods, trading, and helping them with the crossing. These men, on seeing sails coming up river, beat a hasty retreat and the crossing came to an end. Though the cities feared acting against the khalasars, they would certainly deny trade permits to men known to help the khalasars cross the rivers, so the captains of those galleys did not wish to be recognised or known to anyone but the Dothraki themselves.

Enough light lent itself to seeing the pickets up on the eastern bluff, in strength. The cook-fires filling the east bank, where they would make camp for the night. The lodges rising like a dense forest, running for four miles along the river. There were more pickets north and south of the long sinuous string of lodges set down amongst the trees and high reeds and sedge-grass. Every minute as they watched, another lodge was going up and then being set with the tanned and stretched skins which completed the wooden frame.

Quickly, clusters of riders began to form up on both banks, making keening whoops and shouts. Some of them demonstrated flaming arrows to show they did not fear the galleys and that they were not immune to threat from the Khalasar. The Captain would have nothing of risk.

“Up oars! Set anchor!” Their forward progress halted, and the anchors were put out, and they drifted back with the current until they bit and held. “We will not go closer, or we will burn,” he called to Barristan and Jon, flatly.

“It’s much harder to set something alight with flaming arrows than he thinks, especially a ship in the water with sand spread on the deck,” Barristan shook his head. “But he is a merchant and he fears, and I cannot blame him that. It is a fearsome sight. Let’s go fetch Lady Daena, if she can be roused.”

Of course, they should not have thought it necessary. Just as they went aft, Daena appeared with Nagurash, dressed boiled leather half-armour over plain trousers and, this time, a short buckskin jacket only over it all, her hair tied in a rider’s braid. “Bring five horses up-deck!”

“Lady Daena?” Barristan looked to her.

“We are in plain view of the entire Khalasar,” she said, still plainly exhausted, but fired by an inner light of emotional energy. “We will be accounted but weak if we don’t ride. We’re going to drive the horses into the water and swim them ashore, and we will face the Khal a-horse.” Then she turned to Jon. “Follow my example. Swimming horses a-shore is a tricky business, and we all must be at our best for it.” Nagurash brought her a candle, and she took to carefully dripping wax across the front of the chambers on her revolver; this would keep the powder dry in the crossing so they could be used on the shore, if needs-be. Jon followed suit.

The horses were brought alongside the bulwarks, and wooden pins removed to allow them to be pulled out. Then, with the first two, Jon and Daena, she showed him, gently leading the horse up, and then scaring it to take the plunge, long-reined, so that they could jump in afterwards, splashing the water behind the horses and making them drive toward shore, and then swimming alongside until they could catch their feet. Their swords were soaked in the scabbard, and the weight made this painful and sometimes dangerous, but they had to be armed to be warriors, and they could oil them later.

There was a semicircle of warriors waiting for them, with hands on their arakhs. Daena made a show of leaping up into the saddle from the water when they still had two feet. She spurred her horse forward, and when she hit dry land, leapt up to stand on top of the saddle, water still pouring from her boots. “hej! I’ve come to treat with your Khal,” she said first in Valyrian, and then repeated with difficulty in Dothraki.

Jon reined up at her side, impressed that in those weeks alone she’d taught herself some rudiments of the Dothraki tongue. Nagurash and Tayyebeh followed.

“Why? You have horses; we have enough horses. You have women;” one man leered at her, “we have enough women. You have swords, we have enough arakhs.” He spoke Valyrian, and established that they could communicate.

“The other merchant galleys fled, but mine can finish helping the Khalasar cross the Qhoyne,” she answered. “Otherwise, you will not be able to finish the crossing with my ships here.”

“We will burn your ships, woman.”

“Or the rain will come.” She jumped up and landed in a crouch on the saddle, and then settled down to sit. “Come on, that is what I will give you to meet the Khal. Nothing more. These women are my blood-riders, not my slaves. These men are the swords around the crown of the west.”

“And where did you come from?”

“Pentos.”

He looked wary for a moment, and then shrugged. “The Khal will judge your message. Ride with us, if you can keep up, Outlander!”

It was when they turned and formed up for the grand lodge at the heart of the camp, and started their pounding course through this mobile town, that Jon at last saw her shining long silver-blonde hair, dressed in what the Dothraki called Queenly clothes, astride a beautiful silver.

Chapter Text

He’d fucked her, of course he had. She was his wife, he was her husband. That was what husbands did to wives. Her say in the matter had been when she agreed to this way out of Jorah’s custody, and this revenge against Jorah. That had been all the consent she was going to get in Dothraki hands (and she preferred not to think about the fact that it might not have been a choice at all. In fact, it was better to think that the quick dignified offer and cool presence had impressed the Khal enough to get her out of a worse situation).

Drogo, in truth, was kinder than he could have been. She was miserably depressed by the way the Dothraki took their women, took her, but she had started to introduce some games and fun into it; it wasn’t like she hadn’t read Esther’s books. Slowly, she had felt the situation improve. And Drogo was hard to cope with, but not hopeless. He did ask. He was aware of the concept that sometimes a woman might not be interested for a night or two, and this was acceptable; after all, Daenerys was a wife, not a concubine.

She had been given servants, slaves. Irri and Jhiqui were the daughters of Khals themselves. Their khalasars had been unlucky in the endless game of the plains. It seemed a game she had committed herself to play, but to her credit, Drogo dreamed bigger dreams than just to forever play at war between khalasars.

She had no idea who had survived the battles around Pentos, or if they even held the city. She did not know her mother’s fate, or Daena’s, or Viserys’, in truth. At length, considering their agreement, Drogo had admitted that Esther Hoffmeyer had clearly survived the battlefield, as she had commanded the troops which had given the khalasar a repulse. That meant the victory she had already known about was not a hollow one. If Esther was the last left and she had really lost the rest of her family—the thought made her stomach churn—Esther would still come for her. She would negotiate with Drogo, and put her on the Iron Throne. There was something about the woman, her methodical nature, her queer prayers to a God of clear air whose name she could not speak. Kind, approachable Esther, always with time for a lesson, from love to physics.

Soul of iron.

Daenerys had never understood the time Daena had laughed, and remarked of the short brown-skinned woman when speaking to her mother, “of course, Rhaella, we know that Esther was stamped out at an old Prussian forge.”

Esther had smirked: “The forge-master might have shrieked to see me, but I won't deny the charge.”

But at night in her tent, she had gotten the ineffable sense that those words had meant something terrible, and if all she had left was that terror, it would still deliver her.

Perhaps the surprising thing was that she had underestimated Daena. She’d wanted to believe Daena was alive, and her mother, and her brother, of course she had. But at the time she’d had no proof, and Jorah’s words, meant to leave her feeling helpless, had dug into her and she could not quite shake them

Then, the crossing of the Qhoyne. The arrival of the galleys had produced a great commotion in the camp, and Drogo had ordered them to halt the crossing the. They were already on the far bank, but she could only watch with the others as the men mustered, and the ships that had been helping them fled, and these ships approached. Fire-arrows were laid on, and the women argued about taking down their lodges, to avoid the risk of having them set alight.

In the end, it had come to truce talks. Young warriors, riding fast through the camp, brought the word that women had come, with two men, and the women were two as Qartheen and Ghiscari, or of the furthest southlands of the Jade Sea, and one whose hair shone of silver and blonde, the same temper as the Khaleesi’s.

Of course, Daenerys knew who it was at once, and her heart leaping for joy, she also leapt to the saddle on her silver, to come to her husband’s side. She had been learning the language quickly, that was one talent she’d developed and that she had for the situation. “My Lord Husband, that is Lady Daena, who commanded the fleet against the Pretender King in the west. One of the women who saved me, the bosom companion of the Lady General whom you fought.”

He looked at her sharply. “Daenerys, would she not think me still an enemy? Why would she ride into my camp so confidently, if she had come to rescue you?”

“That woman knows no fear. But she is not without sense either,” Daenerys couldn’t help but smile. “She must have somehow been appraised.”

“You are my wife…” Drogo began, frowning.

“I am.” Daenerys waited a beat. “She is my second mother. Her people do not know fear. She was raised in a warrior religion, which causes her to never cut her hair, to carry a wooden comb to keep it clean; to always wear a steel bracelet, to always bear a dagger regardless of circumstance, and to keep herself modest. The women and men have always both fought; in the most famous battle of modern times, twenty-one of them faced twelve thousand warriors, they fought an entire day and killed four hundred enemies, until twenty were slain. The last had been sending mirror-signals until the end and at that time, requested permission to join the battle—as the last man alive. Granted permission, he turned toward the enemy and killed forty men before they burned him out, and he died crying ‘One will be blessed eternally who says that God is the ultimate truth!’”

Daenerys couldn’t help but grin, just a little, as she looked at the growing commotion in the midst of the lodges in the fading light to the south. “So, my husband, while I don’t think she’s come to try and kill you, let me ride out and tell her we already have a truce.”

Drogo frowned at her for a moment, as if he might refuse, but then shrugged. She grinned, and mouthed a kiss to him, before riding away. Yes, I know best. It was a moment of rallying confidence. She swung out with silver, and at least could make out the group, her heart wanting to leap for joy at seeing them alive: She saw Daena and Nagurash and Tayyebeh and recognised all of them. Drogo had bid several of his bloodriders to fall in with her, and they followed close.

“Those women,” she pointed to Nagurash and Tayyebeh, “are as Lady Daena’s bloodriders. Know that well,” she explained for their benefit. Then, she called out. “Daena! Your God has never abandoned you, I think! You have come!”

“I have come,” the elder Valyrian woman responded, and her voice cracked with emotion. “God, but I have come. Too late, too late.”

“I draw breath,” Daenerys answered, and kneeing her Silver, came closer, trembling with delight.

Nagurash pressed close, bowing in the saddle. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

“You were undone by base treachery – and I saw the blood spilled,” Daenerys reached out and took her hands. “I… Oh God. I acted as I must.”

“Mormont, you mean,” Daena barely more than murmured.

“Yes. I bargained with the Khal. I am his Khaleesi, now.” She held her head high. “I followed your advice, Lady Daena. I chose this, so that I could destroy Mormont. It was my choice, and it lets me keep my pride.”

Daena closed her eyes, and her hand jerked up to her neck so fast that some of the blood riders made for their Arakhs, before Daenerys waved a placating hand at them. Daena reached up, and grabbed the locket around her neck, and squeezed hard. “At least you are alive. I can work with that.”

There were tears glistening in her lilac eyes. “I swore to your mother that I would not rest until I brought you back.”

It was then that Daenerys started to cry as well. “I don’t doubt you did. Oh Gods… But, I gained us peace with the Khal, Lady Daena. Khal Drogo … my husband… Will not act against Pentos again.”

“I don’t doubt that you did, but…” Her skin pale and ashen, Daena slowly sighed. “Nonetheless, I swore my oath. The Pretender is dead, your brother is well served by Esther. I will stay at your side.”

“Khal Drogo might not permit it.”

“Then I’ll shadow his khalasar across the entire Great Grass Sea.” She rode up alongside Daenerys, and they embraced in the saddle. “I’m sorry,” Daena whispered again.

“I am too, but I did what had to be done. And it is better to choose. Wasn’t there that man that manipulated you, too, once, took advantage of your trust? The Prince of Montenevoso?”

“He took me to bed, and then in the end betrayed my expedition to Tirana,” Daena agreed, her words coming as across a great distance. “Ironically, for all his faults, d’Annunzio would approve of what you did. You seized the nettle tightly, and gained vengeance on he who had wounded you.”

The Khal approached. “Peace, peace,” Nagurash called in Dothraki as they rode closer around the small knot.

“As I said, my Lord Husband, Lady Daena raised me as my second mother,” Daenerys switched to Dothraki and let her voice carry, “and I greet as such. We are peace.” She switched to Valyrian: “Lady Daena, you must treat with the Khal now.”

“Of course. Not much different than a Basmachi warlord, or a Mongol prince in Mengjiang. I know this game.” Daena gently let loose from Daenerys, and turned to face Drogo. It gave Daenerys a moment of freedom to look around more clearly.

He was handsome, pale as a Northman—or a Valyrian. That distant look, serious and practical but a little lost in another world, made her think just a bit of Rhaegar. He certainly had the right face for it, but of course, he was a Northman, he had to be. Her mother had taught her the signs of the old Houses, how they should look when they bred true and when they crossed out in alliances with the other houses of Westeros. Esther still sniffed and called it magic.

But she wasn’t thinking of magic right then, she was thinking of a handsome man of her own age. A Northman who despite the absence of the usual tell-tales seemed hauntingly like a Targaryen. And for some reason, he had followed Daena, come with her and her Uzbeks, and kept up despite the merciless pace that Daenerys knew they would have led, bitter with guilt.

And then the old knight at his side broke it all, from her attempt to convince herself that she was silly right up to her new marriage. “Your Highness,” he said with gentle dignity. “I am Barristan Selmy. And this is Jon Snow…”

“...Natural Son of your brother, Prince Rhaegar.”

Oh, God.

Chapter Text

They walked along past the shot-towers along the waterfront, which were busy producing the shot for the muskets and cannon of the fleet. They walked past galleys being loaded at many piers, being stuffed with victuals for the campaign, with guns and arms, with shot and powder. Special horse transport galleys with long wooden ramps hammered to the sides of the piers, and the shy horses being gingerly led down them and secured belowdecks. This was the scene of a port city bent to war. Smoke wafted from the hearths on the galleys of the fighting sail that was anchored further out in the harbour, and drifted down from the hearts of the people of Pentos, and wreathed the docks in a haze that mellowed the burning sun of late summer. Men muttered that a fall—and a winter—would soon come.

She walked with a guest in the city, an emissary, because of course as long as she lived she would work to secure the future of her son, her lover, her friends, her daughter. Her war was with words.

“Lord Marilo, you may see that we have triumphed over all comers. The Usurper is no more. His fleet is smashed, his body rots on an Essosi shore.” Rhaella stepped lightly, dressed as a Westerosi woman, though the cut was daring. The haze of late summer, when the air was so hot and so muggy here, but you had the idea, you just knew it, that it would turn faster than you could blink, and the trees would shed their leaves, falling down living for only one moment what a bird or a dragon knew for every day of life. But for the moment, the weather held, and it was beautiful, if almost intolerable.

And the Braavosi emissary was here, to see what had been wrought. “Magister Hofffmeyer certainly vindicated all her supporters, and humbugged her detractors. The young King, I hear, fought most valiantly as well.”

“His Grace did,” she agreed, a smile involuntarily coming to her face. Despite the omnipresent worry over Daenerys, she couldn’t help it. “The fleet is preparing to quit Pentos, today. They wait for the Tide, but for no man.”

“Whence does it sail?”

“That is a State Secret, Lord Marilo.” Her smile didn’t flicker. “But I believe it will strike where it suits Lady Hoffmeyer.”

“Doubtless she will move as swift as the wind, and strike with thunderbolts where she pleases. She may yet really be a Goddess of War, Your Grace.” He chuckled. “However, laws intrude upon the affairs of Generals. I see four ships on the ways, ships as great and terrible as the ones that smote King Robert’s fleet. The Treaty is plain. Pentos may maintain only twenty ships.”

Rhaella’s smile turned bland. “But, Lord Marilo, those are ships for the Iron Throne, being built under commission. They will hoist the triple Dragon, when they taste the great salt sea.”

“As all the prizes have hoisted the banner, also.”

“Pentos has no need of galleys, Lord Marilo. Indeed, one might say that no-one has need of galleys anymore, and certainly not any long-ships. They are as kindling for the flame, waiting to be tindered.”

“I won’t lie, and dispute the point,” he sniffed, gesturing out to the ships. “So the Sea Lord of Braavos has a simple offer. Build us frigates.”

“I fear, Lord Marilo, that you will have to speak to the Magister about that yourself. I am not a Magister of Pentos. But don’t worry,” Rhaella continued calmly, though her inner smile was brilliant. “She will be coming down shortly, and you can speak with her before she gains her ship.”

“Of course, Your Grace. But you would be well-advised to counsel her and His Grace the King that … Braavos is perfectly prepared to negotiate on the matter of the Iron Throne, and indeed on the matter of Pentos’ fleet limitations as well. But there can be no negotiation on the Balance of Power.”

Rhaella adjusted the headscarf that protected her from the sun. “As I said, Lord Marilo, tell her yourself. But yes, as for my son His Grace the King, I have, of course, explained all such matters to him before. He knows. It would not do for us to unite the whole of the world in fear and envy. But, you will not negotiate on the recognition of His Grace. Tell His Grace the truth about your need for a balance of power in the Narrow Sea. But do not presume that we need recognition from you or formal support. That comes from the mouth of the gun for us dragons, now.”

They did not have to wait much longer. The clopping of shod hooves over cobblestones came from up the street, cresting a low rise. Riders, in White Cloaks, and riders in silvered mail, small and lithe, and riders in all the colours of the Dornish sands, escorting them all together: King Viserys, riding with his wife Queen Arianne at his left side, and Esther Hoffmeyer at his right, with Prince Oberyn a pace behind. It was Rhaella who would stay to tend the city, and wait for news from her beloved Daena, news of Daenerys. It was time to take the war to Westeros.

Her son looked finer than he ever had. Rhaella could only indulge, let her heart surge with pride. Victories, a wife, self-confidence. These things had built his three mothers’ firm efforts at education into something she was sure could be great. He was certainly a handsome Prince by any measure, for it was confidence that made a man wonderful, and now as he reined up beside her and the Braavosi envoy, this he had at last gained.

Truth be told, Arianne is a good part of that. We planned his marriage wisely.

“Magister! The Braavosi emissary would speak with you.”

They reined in alongside, and Esther dismounted. “Lord Marilo, my pleasure.” She handed her reins to her husband, who had dismounted behind her, and adjusted her cloak and scarf, hand resting on the hilt of her sabre. “As you must know, I am leaving for war. I had given Her Grace powers as my emissary, but it seems another matter has come up?”

This put Marilo on the spot, but only because Rhaella had forced him to be on the spot. Still, he could not afford to not tell Esther, plainly, considering the circumstances. “I would speak about the balance of power in the Narrow Sea, M’lady.”

“Then let us walk where the salt is fresh in the air,” Esther gestured toward one of the piers. “Since we are talking about naval matters, let us look closely at these ships.”

Rhaella turned away. She addressed Viserys and Arianne. “I will see you to your ship, my son,” she said in intimate informality. They walked together down the pier in a different direction. “The men grumble that you bring your wife with you,” Rhaella offered, though she held none of that grumbling in her own voice.

“How else am I to be with child by the King?” Arianne asked wryly, “magic?” She stayed close at his side, defiantly dressed, her in Pentos, in the very traditional style of a Rhoynish woman, like the similar sari and dupatta that Daena sometimes wore. It was not as if she had cause to fear. Though she was not a warrior as Dornishwomen went, a pistol was holstered at her waist.

“Precisely,” Viserys laughed and shook his head. “I’m sure if Lady Daena could do that, I’d be quite useless already.”

Rhaella both wanted to roll her eyes at her son and laugh. Possibly true. “If she could, you and Daenerys would have more siblings, but you would still be King, my dear son. Now…” She paused at the gangplank to the one galley-frigate which was at the dock, “Well, let us go speak inside.” The roundhouse of the frigate, the one single large cabin under the poop, held what would be the King’s cabin in the back, and a meeting and messing room for the King’s party. Directly below it was the space in the quarterdeck for Margrete and the officers of the Royal court. Whitecloaks and Uzbeks took up position to guard them.

“The latest news from Lord Velaryon was that Crackclaw had gone over for Your Grace, and his squadron was mustered at Derlyn harbour on Dragonstone and preparing to make for the Driftmark. Successfully concentrating your loyalists while keeping them from being overwhelmed will be the hardest matter for yourself and Lady Esther,” she traced lines across the map of the bay which was drawn there, far finer than even the one on the Painted Table at Dragonstone castle. “Effecting a union with the Dornish Armies will be harder still. Still, Dragonstone is a hospitable castle, and you can establish a court there, and say you have returned to Westeros. It is all that our ancestors had when they began their conquest, after all.”

Viserys studied the map with his new wife, intently. They were both educated in these matters, tracing the harbours and bays on the southern coast of Crackclaw, and the islands which marked the Blackwater. She had tea brought for them all.

A little while later, Esther arrived with Prince Oberyn. “Your Graces,” she bowed slightly, and stepped close to Viserys’ side.

“My Hand. Have you enjoyed playing Magister one more time?”

“I was as much your Hand as Magister, Your Grace,” she answered mildly. “Braavos sees your claim to Westeros and our current regime in Pentos as inseparable. They are not wrong, though we could do wrong by thinking we have some right to make the Pentoshi bleed too much for your aims in Westeros. I agreed to build them ships; they are also against slavery as we are. Better a Braavosi alliance than an alliance with any other.” She cleared her throat, and accepted the tea that Rhaella offered her with her own hands—a sign of just how close the Queen Dowager considered herself to Daena’s best friend. “It’s a matter of scale, really, and Braavos doesn’t appreciate that yet,” Esther continued. “They can build galley-frigates, certainly, but Westeros has the timber, the pitch, the iron and the sulphur and saltpetre, the hemp and copper and above all else, the men; the fluyts we are building now will end up ten times more useful than warships, and they will carry all the goods we need for warships, and even when the Braavosi have frigates and cannon, we will simply have ten frigates for their every one.”

“Being able to survive storms and sail against contrary winds will turn the seas around Westeros into the finest highway in the world,” Viserys remarked.

Yes, he did learn his lessons… Still I worry. Rhaella watched them and sipped her tea.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Esther gave a firm nod. “Then the matter at hand, if I may.”

“Of course.”

Esther tapped King’s Landing. “After looking at all the possible strategies, Oberyn and I are in agreement. There is one that makes the most sense. There is one capital for Westeros. The Usurper’s son must keep it, to be treated as a relevant force in the realms. The Lannisters must march far overland to defend it. And, most importantly, with Crackclaw and the islands of the bay so close, it will be easy for us to resupply. And if we don’t move directly against the capital, then those same places, which have been so loyal to Your Grace, will be vulnerable to being isolated and destroyed by the enemy. Our fleet on the offensive will be easily supplied by them in the Blackwater, and also by Pentos. The Dornish present no easy victims to a strike south by the enemy, and our fluyts will soon be carrying powder and shot, guns and arms to them in quantity. Men from Pentos will provide training in regular drill according to the Manual of Arms, much more gladly than they will fight in mainland Westeros for the sake of Your Grace’s restoration. So, since the Pentoshi forces are best used to maintain our sea lines of communication, the best strategy is to clearly keep the capital in contention until we can rally the loyalists into a significant Army in the Crownlands, and then close the noose. Thus, we will not even attempt a regular siege, or an assault as such. We will land an army on the south bank of the Blackwater, and build a fortified camp for it, we will establish batteries up-river to keep grain barges from the Gods’ Eye and the Reach from arriving in Landing, and batteries at the harbour mouth to keep blockade runners from resupplying the city, and we’ll put our long-range sixty-eights along the riverfront and pound the river-walls to rubble from the south bank.” Esther’s grin was nearly ethereal, and pleasantly dangerous. “I call it the Boğazkesen Plan.”

Rhaella couldn’t help herself as she leaned in close. “Mehmet the Conqueror’s fortress.” The Dornish exchanged glances, but Viserys nodded, the memory doubtless dredging up from all the stories told.

“It will hurt the city,” he noted.

“The buildings will fall like matchsticks, but we’ll rebuild in stone, Your Grace,” Esther answered.

Now, Rhaella was confident. Her one fear had been if Esther had not been ruthless enough. Daena was, Daena was, there was no doubt about that. Her companion had always been a bit softer.

The marriage to Oberyn was clearly helping already.

Chapter Text

What could he say? Maybe it was best that the negotiations with the Khal had reached a somewhat inevitable conclusion.

One that had them riding further east.

There had been no way to prevail on the Khal to change his mind. His khalasar would ride where he willed it would ride. Khal Drogo was a particular man, and he wanted to establish his dominance over the situation. What he did consent to was for Daena to accompany the Khal with her men and the Uzbek Guards, guaranteed full protection by his power. Even that had not stopped many of the men from eyeing them, but their quiet and murderous posture, their modesty and their strange weapons, had kept them at bay for now.

Jon was an 'Andal' to the Dothraki, though he felt nothing of the sort. Half First Men and half Valyrian, he had never felt further from the mainstream culture of the Southrons, it might as well be a world as distant to him as the Dothraki themselves. But he understood that he'd best stay clear from trumpeting his ancestry. The more faceless as one of Daena's riders that he was, the better.

The Uzbeks did not seem bothered by the declaration that they'd be riding east. Daena dealt with it calmly. Both Jon and Ser Barristan were dispirited, however, at the situation that left Daenerys wedded to the Khal and left them with no honourable way to leave. They had not yet brought her home, they could not abandon the mission. If Daena said they rode east with the khalasar, they rode east with the khalasar.

But Jon still remembered that haunting first look at Daenerys. She was spectacular. An ethereal woman with a quiet and intense sense of purpose and rightness boiling out of her expressions. So surprisingly small, with a spirit that made her seem immense. Daena had a certain haughty confidence of a Valyrian; she was strong, as Queen Visenya had once been. Daenerys was otherworldly, both in beauty and the intensity of her spirit. Jon knew which one attracted him, this young princess, who...

Who had undeniably always been far above him. Above him before he knew who he was, above him after he knew who he was, and above him now that she was wedded to a Khal. Above him from the moment she was born, no matter what Daena or even Queen Rhaella said about his being a Targaryen.

The wind whistling through the grass bit, with dust as the harsh reminder of its passing, blown up from a creek dried out by the long, long summer. Come a new fall, perhaps it would flow again; for now, a brown sea of grass stood before them, and across it rode Daenerys at the side of the Khal, on her magnificent silver.

Unobtainable. But he desired her, anyway. He had to hope that the feeling would fade, with enough hard riding. The wind laughed and made jape at the idea. You came here for her, and you think your heart can forget her?

The way she had looked at him, thoughtfully, so thoughtfully, when he had been introduced as Rhaegar's natural son, still lingered, open to almost endless misinterpretation and wishful thinking. She had traded her own body for an alliance with the Khal, and gained King Viserys' cause an immense Army in Essos. Of course she was not so smitten with romance as to desire him. His heart played a fool's game.

But they were close enough to see her ride at the Khal's side, and who knew when, or if, that would change.

He turned back, attracted by a rustle, and saw Daena making progress on her bay mare, after speaking to Ser Barristan. Leather pants creaked against her saddle, and her duster whipped a bit in the wind as she briefly trotted up to his side.

"M'lady," he offered.

"Jon," she answered, her face weather-beaten but still pretty, her eyes seeming so much older than her skin. "You know that we are heading, generally, toward Qohor?"

"I do," The City of Sorcerers. "A city of dark magic and sacrifice, Your Highness."

"Mm-hmm. A most substantial kind of sacrifice, sometimes, casting their own children to the flames, and yet, it was the Unsullied who saved them from conquest by the Dothraki. Nonetheless," she hooded her eyes and peered east, as if she could see more than rolling steppe, backlit by a western evening sun, "still they sacrifice. The appeal of blood magic is great."

Thankful for the chance to avoid thinking about Daenerys, he nodded along, and dared speak the truth. He'd ridden at Daena's side long enough to not doubt her declaration that she wished to only hear the truth. "Truth be told, we North-men fear it with great justice, I believe." Was it a bit of a challenge, considering Daena? Surely. But Ned Stark had not raised a coward.

"Hmm. It is true. There is much evil in magic. But the Gurus of the Supreme God whom I follow made clear that all deeds are judged by their intention and outcome. The mechanism, in the end, is just the shadow that the heart uses to cast intention onto this world of our's, which in the end is mere illusion, while the deeds held in the heart, last forever. It's not the blood that's evil... It's the taking of another human life, another bright soul, for the sake of something that matters only in this illusory world."

In a way, it was the worst kind of nattering philosophy of some Septa, and Daena sounded very sincere about it too. On the other hand, she was rather obviously not a Septa. "And what of war, then? You have certainly taken many lives."

"The intention, and the outcome," she shrugged in the saddle. "I have, indeed, killed many men. I trust the Almighty will see that I did so with the clear conscience of right action. There is just war for a reason." She took a breath. "What do you think about Qohor? Would fighting it be a just war? Because of the sacrifice?"

"Many more children can die in a sack, Your Highness."

"--And that's how philosophers find work," Daena laughed softly, under her breath. "Quite true, Jon. But it's no simple game of numbers, is it? Intent matters. For example..." She looked off into the distance.

"It would never be moral to let a khalasar sack a city."

Jon found out what she meant by that soon enough. They took dinner with the Khal, and his chiefs and lieutenants, the Blood Riders of the khalasar. With Daenerys. He kept himself toward the back of Daena's band, behind Ser Barristan, but close enough to hear everything.

The fires were high, and roasted meat served with heavy spices in its own juices, with onions and plains tubers foraged by the slaves, and fried bread made simply on hot stones from trade corn. Fermented mare's milk and arrak were the options for alcohol. Girls danced and, before the light went down too far, men made demonstrations of skill dancing on top of the backs of their horses.

Then, and only then, the serious talk began.

"You are skilled in the ways of war known by the men of cities, Daena Dalip-Singh. My khalasar is restless. We were not defeated, but we did not plunder, either. Now we have an alliance. I think it would be wise to put it to good use."

"The Khal of a mighty khalasar as this one is has every right to make requests of me, as a friend and ally. Of course, even great strength, when applied judiciously, is yet greater," Daena replied, sitting with her legs folded on a rug spread upon the grass, shared with her Uzbeks and not at all inebriated with just the mild kumis, as the Uzbeks called it, drunk from a wooden cup. "Best, O Khal, if you ask of our alliance, to choose a very great target for it indeed."

The Khal stroked at his mustache. "One could say you are as bold as a young warrior, Daena Dalip-Singh. Do you know that I speak of Qohor?"

"I surmised, O Khal," she answered levelly. Jon sucked in his breath, and held his tongue. She had either anticipated, or been appraised of, the night's conversation.

"This city is one of few that have stood against the khalasars of our people. How would you take it?"

"I would use our reeking iron tubes that we do not have here, O Khal, the great ones on carts." She shifted her coat, and handed her cup around for another cup of kumis, dipping her finger into it briefly before she drank of it. Jon imagined it might be some way to check for poison.

"When they had no walls," she continued, "or rather when a breach had been laid in them, then man can fight man as it is meant to be and as you desire. Of course, the Unsullied would come out to destroy my cannon, but when they did so, I would turn the cannon on them, break their formations so that the men of your khalasar could ride them down. Still, I don't have the cannon, and it would take me months and months to send for them. You'd eat all the grass in the land around the city and your horses would begin to starve before they arrived. So, I do not advise it." She held up her hand. "Peace, peace. I am not timidly switching from boasts to fear. I do have a plan to offer you something better."

He chuckled, and glanced fondly to Daenerys, before fixing his attention on the older Valyrian. "Of course, I would hear it."

"Volantis," Daena said, but one word, word enough nonetheless to make every man and the women too mutter, glancing around and exchanging expressions of incredulity.

Jon saw that Ser Barristan was calm, and imagined that the conversation between Daena and the old knight he had seen the end of earlier in the day had something to do with that. The Uzbeks, of course, were also perfectly calm. They surely knew their mistress' plan.

"O Khal, I jape with thee not. Of course, it will be a work of daring, but I will see you within the Walls of Volantis."

Daenerys looked consternated, but leaned in close and whispered to Drogo. The two both focused on Daena. "You do not seem given to idle boast, Daena Dalip-Singh. Explain yourself."

"First," Daena raised a hand peaceably, "I do not mean within the Black Walls, O Khal. That is a fool's errand. They are made of materal that will not break before the work of a mortal hand. But, they are in truth also only a small part of the city. Oh yes, the jewels and precious metal in them are great, but ... All the trade goods in the outer city are also greater plunder than any khalasar will know before or since."

The frank expression of limits then had him. What seemed like an idle fantasy before now started to take the contours of a reasoned plan. Drogo listened.

"I will need assistance. I need to get into Qohor to find some artefacts, hidden by the wizards of the city, to have a chance of coordinating the support and the plan I will need to gain Volantis. I will need to be trusted absolutely in acquiring them and have the full support of your whole khalasar to secure my object in Qohor and then we must make our way south, but you must trust me to send ahead a group of your khalasar's number, any I request, to arrive in the city before the rest of us."

"Who." He stared sharply, growing frustrated. "Give me a list, woman, and I will make the arrangements."

Daena dipped her head lightly, maintaining her smile. "Before I do, let me prove to you that I am serious with the Qohor venture. If I fail you know I am a liar or braggart, and if it does not work, you shall at least have the plunder I will return from Qohor, a great raid indeed. Then I will make my requests, O Khal. If they are then granted, you have my word, that you will stand within the gates of Volantis, and ride your stallion across sweet water on the Great Bridge."

The muttering grew muted. The Khal's court wondered how he would respond. Daenerys seemed to hold a baited breath, and then made her decision, leaning in to speak softly and quickly. She looked for a moment like she was the one truly in charge, and she seemed to have the same effect on the Khal as she did on Jon.

"My wife says you have taken cities before. Bring out of the sorcerers' den what you will, show it to me, prove to me your knowledge of secret war, and we will talk about your requests for Volantis. I shall judge then if we will go to Qohor or Volantis. Let my men see first how you make sport of the sorcerers, Daena Dalip-Singh. Then we will talk more."

Daena leapt to her feet from the ground in a mere heartbeat, holding the splashing glass of kumis high in the cinders of bright firelight. Her lilac eyes gleamed. "'He either fears his fate too much, Or his desserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all!' You will see, Khal, that Volantis is worth your while."

Chapter Text

It was incredible to see these islands, whose strange foreign people had changed the fate of Westeros forever. It was incredible precisely because of how much there wasn't. They were densely settled islands, but still mostly of herding villages and fishing towns. Their people were strong in the blood of the Freehold, Driftmark at least perhaps half the population had the silver-blonde-white hair of the Targaryen and Velaryon, and all were tall with fine, alabaster skin.

They were the descendants of six hundred years of Valyrian settlement, or more; the Valyrians, as his Maester had explained, had come here long before the Doom, to hold these islands as a trading colony. The immense power of the Valyrian Freehold, he insisted, had feared overstretch by conquering mainland Westeros, but had aimed to control the trade and thereby the generation of wealth.

Such thoughts were the bloodless thoughts well suited to the cool arrogant dragonlords, who though they were known for their rages, were just as equally known for their distant civility compared to Westerosi Lordly men. One would say it unmanly, but their customs of war left one dead nonetheless. He was acutely aware of it, he couldn't forget it. The dreams sometimes woke him from his sleep. He could hear the roaring noise of cannon great echoing in his sleep, the screams of men. It had been nothing like the war he had expected, though at least they had enough intelligence that he knew what they were called now. He still did not know his father nor his half-brother's final fate. Perhaps he never would.

But ale in the morning steadied him down, with a trencher with fresh slaughtered roast to follow. So close to the capital, they had plentiful provisions. And this island was his chance of revenge, against those men who had betrayed the Royal fleet.

Still, Pentos had made him cautious. He had brought the fleet around to the ruins of old Spicetown, which had a good harbour, with the breakwaters fallen into ruin since Corlys Velaryon's time, but with the fine natural harbour still protected from breaking waves through the Gullet. Navigating carefully among the rotting remnants of pilings and the mouldering graves of a burned out city, he had marched his troops ashore, including the good Lannisport regiments that Tywin had promised him--two of them.

Robb rather wished there were more.

They marched two days overland, from the site of ruined Spicetown toward The Driftmark and the prodiguous town of Hull, still filled with shipyards and fishermen, the Custom's House for the Blackwater and trading houses. It would never rival the infamous wealth of Spicetown, but it was prosperous enough a place to aim his army for plunder, with a population of about ten thousand, the Maesters thought.

But most of the villages they marched past were empty, filled with only a few elderly people who came forth to protest their innocence in treason against the crown. His men plundered the villages and moved on--and the pickets he posted at night were shot down by arbalastiers. His army was being followed, tracked, and monitored. We come as no surprise to the enemy. The only reason he knew was that Grey Wind had taken one of the men hunting them, fair play, the circumstances considered.

The earthworks around the landward approaches to Hull were still a surprise when they reached them, though. He reined in his horse and turned to Ser Stafford Lannister, coming up close at his side. "They're ready for us, and well before we came ashore at Spicetown, too, to make such work of their fortifications." The Dragon banner hung over the earthworks, in the same queer way, from a vertical hoist, that the fleet had shown it during the battle of Pentos. Robb wondered if it had been the way that the Valyrian Freehold had shown its banners.

Ser Stafford made a small grimace. "The only thing I can say to it is that the fools must have let the whole population of the island in. They will not have enough food."

"Yes, that." Robb frowned. He'd rather not starve people; they were only earthworks, not true walls, and if he could just find a way to storm them...

Captain Vylarr joined them, the Essosi commander of the Redcloaks who had been sent along for his knowledge of siege warfare. He took a Myrish glass and surveyed the lines. "They have a thousand men, perhaps, but they need three thousand to properly hold those lines, Your Lordships. The earthworks are raised to about ten feet, I'd think. They make them look more impressive with the abbattis along them."

Ser Stafford squinted. "Do you think they are covered with pits of swine feathers?"

"Most certainly. They are well laid out," Vylarr chuckled softly. "They will make an execution against us, if we storm them. But the men will go forward. The sack after a storming is the best kind, for the men. Their blood will be up, and theyll get what they want."

He had been given lands and loyalty to the house of the Lannisters, but was no noble, no Lord, a foreigner, and completely dependent on them. Yet these were their troops as well, two regiments of their good Lannisport infantry. Robb had to assume that he was confident in the ability to storm the fortifications for a reason. However... They clearly knew weeks ago that we would attack. A ship must have reached the island nearly at the same time that I reached King's Landing with my fleet, or even sooner.

I don't think that ship carried only the news. Robb raised his hand. "Ser, Captain, I should expect that the enemy is clever. Let us parley, even if it means nothing it will let us get a closer look . Iwant to see if they have what the Braavosi say are called cannon in those earthworks."

"You are the commander," Ser Stafford shrugged. "But they'll be continuing their preparations while we parley, M'Lord. Nonetheless, let us give them the opportunity to surrender. Then they will have the wages of a refusal made clear to them. Still, M'Lord, muster the troops out in view of their earthworks, first. The militia of the town should know the strength of the Army which opposes them."

Robb gave the orders, and began to form his battles, though the men knew from his orders that they would not make an assault. He didn't want anyone rushing forward or getting excited in the midst of a truce flag. But as he turned the men out, he could also see the militia of Hull turning out on their earthern ramparts--and there seemed a lot more of them at first glance than his officers' estimates would have given. He rode back along the lines.

"Captain, I think you have underestimated the enemy garrison," he said as he reined in, and the sun began to cut through the coastal island's morning fog. "There are at least two thousand men on the walls, armed mostly with spears."

"There are, M'lord. They must have armed near to every man within their earthworks. They cannot be soldiers of quality." He peered through the Myrish lens again, and then offered it over to Robb. "See there, M'lord. Polearms, yes, but not quite spears. There's a glint to the side as well. An axe blade. Yi-Ti favours such arms. They can bring down a horse with a swing in skilled hands, and in unskilled hands, it keeps Men-at-Arms from easily slipping their swords past the spearpoint."

Robb could clearly see it, and supposed it clever, but he quickly turned his attention to the lines of the earthworks. Along them, he could see faint but regular dips in the surface and the position of the abbattis that lined up.

"I think they have cannon," he sighed, and handed back the Myrish glass. "Send forward the herald for a truce!"

The herald went forward, and for some time there was some silence from the enemy ranks, but at length a truce party appeared at the earthworks, and stepped over them, on foot. Robb rode forward with Ser Stafford.

Unsurprisingly the members of the party were mostly silver-haired Valyrians. In their midst however was one small brown-skinned figure, wearing a uniform of black with red pinstripes, and a scarf over her hair, a short sword buckled at her side, black cape clasped with a silver braided rope. For all some of the men were probably Velaryons, she stood in a pair of enviously good leather boots on the grass on the far side of the earthworks, and was very clearly in charge. While Robb had to shield his hand against the sun, she wore a pair of very dark lenses over her eyes in a frame set to her nose and ears.

"I come at the behest of your King, Joffrey Baratheon the First of His Name," Robb began, addressing the men deliberately. "I serve His Grace as his Master of Ships and Lord Admiral of the Blackwater. You fly a banner of treason over your town, and you have clearly retained foreign mercenaries," he gestured then to the woman sharply.

One of the Velaryon knights at once cut him off. "M'Lord, Captain Tekalova is the commander of the garrison. She speaks Valyrian only and I will translate for her."

"Ask her to whom she serves, then." Robb now stared hard, trying to understand the foreigner. The glasses made it impossible to see her eyes, to tell if she was in the slightest intimidated by the force he had brought to bear. He had six thousand men here to take Hull and The Driftmark.

There was a brief exchange in Valyrian; Robb's Maester seemed to understand half of it, grimacing as he listened.

"She says that her commander has ordered her to hold Driftmark," the knight translated. "And, God Willing, she will do it."

"And you would put your faith in this foreigner?" Robb asked again. "What is your name, Ser?"

"We put our faith in the ten thousand steel shovels she brought with her," the man answered laconically, refusing to give his name. "Captain Tekalova told you what her orders are, M'lord. And the banner makes it plain enough who we all serve."

"If you do not yield the town without a fight, you will be plundered according to the customs of War," Robb warned.

The woman spoke, the translation clear and deliberate. "Of course you will do this," the Velaryon knight spoke for her, "if God Wills it, My Lord Stark."

"I cannot offer you anything except starvation and all the cruel fates of a siege if you do not yield."

"God Willing, I will hold the city until relieved. You serve a usurping dynasty, and the King beyond the water is coming to succor his loyalists. I am ordered to serve his cause, and all the necessary preparations have been made. Attack at will. We offer you Fire and Blood."

Captain Tekalova made a snapped gesture with her hand across her throat.

"This parley is at an end."

Robb nodded once. "You all understand the consequences! Your islands will pay for your love of the Dragon!"

"The Dragon is in all of us, Lord Stark!" The Velaryon knight cried back as they turned away, his own words, not the foreign Captain's. "Come back soon, and see it!"

They quickly rode back to their own lines. The men were drawn up, and the baggage train was dragging the catapults forward. They at least had good roads on Driftmark, a legacy of its status as the westernmost Valyrian colony.

He looked back and saw Captain Tekalova, standing on the earthworks, watching him with her own Myrish glass. Robb felt all of a sudden very vulnerable and naked, like the gunfire could begin in a heartbeat and though it was she who stood who in full view of an army without a care in the world nor a significant escort, it was he who was in mortal danger. Behind her, on that high wooden pole, the banner of the Targaryen fluttered in the morning breeze and the eastern sun put the earthworks into sharp relief.

"Let the men break their fast, and start erecting the catapults at outer positions," he ordered at last, and swung off his horse. He took his food with his men, eating the same rations, and watched the wagons being pulled up, and the frames of the catapults start to be unloaded by the drovers and the artillerists. At his insistence they chose a position as far from the earthworks as they could, while still usefully ranging on them. He did not trust those earthworks. The men of the Army relaxed, though, and broke their fast. Captain Tekalova, at some point, quietly retired behind the earthworks.

About three hours later, as the sun reached high in the sky, a bugle split the sky from the enemy lines. A drum beat followed it, rolling snappy and confident. Men looked up from their camps and positions along the line. Robb leapt up for his horse.

As rigid as lockstep, in uniforms of red and black, with tall bearskin hats, a tiny column of forty men was ascending and crossing through a gap in the abbattis in the earthworks. Two drummers were with them, beating the drums in rhythm with their step. A single man bore another of the rectangular, horizontally hung banners, smaller and meant for carrying, the Targaryen roundel proud upon it. Every man's crisp black boots rose and fell in unison. Captain Tekalova stood at one side.

The men bore the tiny hand-tubes, the hand-cannon to match the great ones on the ships, that had done so great of execution against anyone boarding those huge and high castles upon the sea. They had bright gleaming long swordlike blades affixed to their dreadful black barrels, now, though.

Then a fife joined in.

The column shifted and presented forward in two ranks of twenty, before them, each man moving in lockstep. Robb had never seen this before, not this perfect, not even from the pikemen of Lannisport though they were close. He imagined that he was indeed seeing before his eyes exactly the manoeuvres of arms of the Lockstep Legions of Old Ghis.

"Form the men up in their battles! Quickly now!" Forty men... There was a confidence that was unnerving. Forty men had marched out of their earthworks against six thousand. Oh yes, men did this. They sallied during a siege. Robb understood well what it was. Rarely though forty against six thousand in broad daylight, clustered as tight as a fist in a single little knot across the field.

An order barked across the air, and they halted in place, marching in time despite not moving. Captain Tekalova raised her sword and cried an order. The men in the front rank wheeled. The men in the rear took two steps back, shifting to the right as they did. Another order from a serjeant on the left. The men at the front knelt. Then crying a second order both ranks levelled their guns.

"Dracarys!"

Rows of fire rippled from the first rank. Though they were a good three hundred yards distant at the place they'd halted, the fire tore through wooden pavises and struck down at least half a dozen men massing in the battles.

The men of the first rank immediately grounded their hand-cannon and began to work rods along them.

"Dracarys!" The standing second row fired. More of his men fell.

There was commotion on the walls. Now, for the first time, it was confirmed that the enemy had cannon. He grimaced. There they stood, on wooden carriages with big wheels here, two of them, hooked to a cart that the horse teams were hitched on. They swung around and the artillerists dismounted in seconds, racing to release the cannons from their hitches and set them down.

The men of the first rank had reloaded their hand-cannon. "Dracarys!"

Men rushed around the cannon, adjusting the dreadful black barrels, glinting in the noontide sun. Long strings were run out from the cannon, and flamboyantly dressed artillerists, with feathers in their black felt hats, reached out for them as men bearing brass instruments set them along the barrels, and lenses glinted in the sun.

"Dracarys!" Another row of the little band of infantry had reloaded, presented, aimed and fired. More of his men fell as they formed into their battles.

"They're covering the position of those cannon," Robb realised now, and cursed himself. There was one obvious target. He had threatened the enemy and gotten them to reveal that they indeed had cannon, but he was about to pay for it. "Pull back the catapults! Halt the work! Pull them back!" The enemy artillerists were so methodical about their work that he had no doubt they could range on his catapults.

It was too late. It had taken them less than a minute. He could hear the distant call. "Dracarys!"

The first gun spoke. The artillerist at the rope pirouetted away like a dancer in a mummer's troupe, but the tearing thunder-crack was no harlot's dance. A massive column of smoke leapt from the reeking mouth of the tube, a small one, vertical, from the back. The canon leapt back on its carriage.

A round ball smashed through the ox team struggling to drag one of the catapult wagons around. The butchery, of animals rather than men, was just as gory and sudden as any he had seen on the ships. Then the second gun fired. A ball skipped across the earth and slammed into one of the unfinished catapults, sending massive splinters of wood flying. Several of his artillerists were cut down in mid stride.

With a sharp set of commands, the little troop of soldiers bearing hand-cannon began to fall back. They did so methodically, one rank would fire from kneeling, and then rise, retreat twenty paces, and kneel again to reload, having passed the rear of the ranks. This rank would then fire, and then rise from kneeling and retreat in the exact same manner. By the time they had leap-frogged past the men behind them, another row of twenty hand-cannon was presented toward his men.

But they were vulnerable, if he could get to them quickly. "First Battle of horse," Robb ordered. "Stand ready!" His men were drawn up, he could not let the destruction of his catapults, now being hammered in steady execution by the cannon, go to waste.

Men in the saddle cheered and settled their lances. Running down less than fifty men, out in the open and exposed for their charge on even ground, would be an easy job. Most of his army was unmounted, but he had enough cavalry for this job. As they prepared for the charge, he swung up into the saddle.

A bugle signaled the charge.

Strong teams of men had swung out ropes on the tongues of the cannon. As Robb led his men forward against the exposed company, he realised from the corner of his eye that despite his caution he had underestimated the cannon.

The little company of enemy infantry did not run. They pivoted to face his charge as neat as a man flexing his fingers. They presented cold steel and reeking iron.

The cannon spoke on his left flank.

No massive single balls, this. A hail of small shot tore through his Battle like two thousand slingers had just unleashed on him. His horse went down as the lead of the Battle disintegrated into a mass of gore and blood, before they had even worked up the momentum of a charge.

There was no stopping, no small kindnesses as he fell, only the shriek of that freighted foreign word carrying audibly through smoke and flame: "Dracarys!"

Some of his sworn shields raced forward to pull him clear from the body of his charger. Robb stared dumbly at the enemy lines as he was dragged back from a charge that had failed in the first minute, trying to put every bit of knowledge of war he had to the task of figuring out how he could break through, and coming up short. Ahead, the little company had withdrawn behind the abbattis.

It was an ignominious start to his command.

Chapter Text

If it seemed like the entire situation was tinged with danger and he knew from the beginning that Daena was up to something, well, there as no real question about that, what really mattered was if the Witch-Princess had a genuinely realistic plan to take Qohor or not. She seemed to have at least quieted Ser Barristan down with their talking, and Jon wondered if he'd be privy to the plan.

Ghost had given him a considerable amount of respect among the Dothraki. The Dothraki assumed he had tamed the Direwolf, when nothing could be further from the truth. Nonethless, it left him with a decent reputation considering he'd otherwise be a callow 'Andal'.

Dothraki hunted, of course. It was an important part of their culture and society. But on the plains, to get enough food for the immense khalasars, they'd often use coordinated efforts of groups of men on horse to drive large groups of animals at once off 'jumps' or cliffs which could kill dozens or hundreds at a time, and then slaughter and butcher them and sun-dry the meat, exposed on rocks in summer, or smoke it in fall, to last for weeks or longer still.

There was less of this kind of cautious hunting, where Daena had led him that morning, with scent carefully masked in waxes with boiled beech leaf, watching the horizon. Ghost there at their side, the horses on picket secured behind a reverse slope.

There was a great deal of waiting in that kind of hunting, waiting driven by the subtle curve and undulation of the terrain which was not obvious when one thought about flat open plains, the banded contours of high grasses, occasional exposed direct, and the trees and shrubs visible down in the depressions were thin streams cut through loess, growing ever larger as they descended in crazy courses, curling back on themselves a dozen dozen times to finally reach yet larger rivers, beech and dogwood growing hard-by their banks to mark them as narrow ribbons through the grass. It was perfectly quiet, and it was the perfect time to question Daena more thoroughly, as they nursed still hot tea, and took turns scanning with binoculars.

"Can you hunt with a bow, too?" He asked, idly, trying to find a way to talk about what he really wanted to say. A gesture was made toward her rifle, blued gunmetal settled close and comfortable at her side.

"Yes -- I learned to hunt with bows, in fact. It was more appropriate for women in my childhood. There was a certain fashion among aristocratic girls to learn archery at the time," she answered, her eyes not flicking away from the binoculars.

"Strange to think that wherever you came from cared one wit for if you were a man or a woman, from how you act, M'lady."

"I grew up in an odd time. Women struggled for their rights--mostly peacefully--my adoptive mothers, my aunts were heavily involved in this. They were well-to-do in a certain sense, but also foreigners in the land in which they were born. Their skin marked them such, and there was no escaping it, just as a man in the North who took a Summer Islander to wife would have children who were marked different. But in the North they'd be a curiosity -- for my mother Princess Catherine and her sisters, there were other undertones as well. I've always, as a consequence, been both a wanderer and not much inclined to be conventional--and in my time, there was just enough space for an unconventional woman to prosper, if she grasped the nettle tightly."

She squinted through the binoculars. "Hmm, some gazelle. We'll watch and wait if they come into range." Daena offered Jon the binoculars.

He took them, thinking about that. "Our society would never tolerate such a movement. Well, I suppose you imposed it in Pentos." He looked out, and saw the gazelle right enough. When he did it was a reminder of just how used to the strange and wonderful tools he had become. "But only Queen Alysanne thought in such ways in Westeros, and men still spoke of her, when I was young, as the archtypical shrew."

Daena had been changing his language, and forcing him to be more introspective. To think about things like that. To use the more complex and subtle High Valyrian language in ways that men at Winterfell would mock as effete. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, you can't right well defend yourself from that one, anyway, except that you are a hard rider in the saddle and good with rifle and sword.

"Things can change faster than you realise. It just requires a big enough impetus," Daena sounded awfully distant, a bit moody as she sometimes got. She'd play her guitar back in camp usually when she was like this, but here they were soft and quiet, waiting for the shot. "I've watched an entire world order disappear overnight -- four or five times."

Jon shivered. "I was born in a land where dynasties rule for thousands of years, M'lady. I can't imagine it."

"I couldn't imagine it when I was young either, but then it happened, and ... Life and life only becomes important. Each time, each age, has its own tricks, its own customs. You either reach an accommodation with them, or you don't. In the end, I got tired of my accommodations, and I left."

"You seem an embodiment of how that country came to treat women, though."

"Yes," Daena smiled, and reached out for the binoculars. He handed them over gladly, and she took another look out, her lips curling to a true grin. "Well, some things are worth bringing with me. Do you think we have the range?"

"I believe we do, M'lady." He reached for his rifle and advanced the hammer to half cock, sighting down the gun. Daena let her binoculars slip down around her neck and did the same. The wind was with them, masking their scent.

Now they were both perfectly still, watching the gazelle and waiting for them to come closer. They used hand-signals to indicate when they were moving their guns to full cock, adjusting the sights, and preparing to fire. Daena whispered, very softly -- "Dracarys," and as ever the word was an electric thrill.

He adjusted for the wind and the fall of the bullet with a last shiver of his arm. Two chassepots snapped from the grass. Two animals toppled. The rest of the herd fled in startled and started a panicked flight. Hours of waiting and minutes of tense preparation came down to barely more than a second of action. Such was the hunt, when one hunted with rifles from ambush. As soon as he fired, he whistled to Ghost.

Ghost leapt up and charged toward the herd, startled and channeled by the terrain. He claimed one of the younger gazelle in a pounding chase, his blood hot and eager, for a Direwolf was an immense and hungry beast.

"For the horses," Daena instructed, and then went back to them, removing their hobbles, and riding out for their kill, having to stop well clear and hobble the horses again for the scent of blood, though the Dothraki horses did not startle so easily at it. But the two of them would need to butcher their kills first, and then seize the meat in heavy leather bags with salt, to start curing. They'd give it to the women of the khalasar to lay out in the sun to dry, hence.

It was more time in which to talk. Neither blinked in the slightest at slaughtering a kill, and both were carrying good steel knives for the job. Ghost came trotting over to eat of the leavings, presenting his own kill clamped firmly in massive jaws first for Jon's approval; Jon patted him and fed him some of the entrails from the other kills before he turned back to Daena, and resumed the conversation from before their shots, the sun beating down on their tanned, sun-worn skin, though neither was the worse for it.

"So what is the plan with Princess Daenerys? We're not going to just follow her and the Khal forever?"

"No, we're not," Daena glanced up at him. "Thinking through it all? We're going to Qohor for a reason. I've got a plan."

"The marriage alliance seems like a good one," Jon offered.

"It isn't bad, and I will certainly use it; but Daenerys is still by rights a child, at least the way I look at it; she was taking here by kidnapping and she was raped by that churlish fool. She came up with her plan in a moment of that emotion Targaryens know well, a bit of dragon-mania mixed with despair. It worked, because she is a smart young woman. She will not tolerate riding these plains forever. She is meant to do more than that."

"Isn't that a kind of betrayal of the Khal when he bargained in good faith?" Jon felt many treasonous emotions playing the devil's advocate like that, and they started every time he thought about Daenerys. Daena's words cut him to the bone, but they didn't deter him. "He was not the monster, and Her Grace the Queen Mother will see that we have obligations?" We?

"With a girl--" Daena heaved a breath and shook her head. "Daenerys must be free, Jon. But I will pay the Khal a fair recompense. He may not get exactly what he wants, but most men forgotten in the sky-herds, or as I'd put on, the other side of the Acheron and Lethe--most of the dead, you know--would reap greatly of the living for to have the fame I'll give him. You'll see. In fact, you're going to be a fundamental part of the plan. But first we've got to get into Qohor."

"And our objective in the city?"

"Three things, Jon. Glass, Steel, and Blood." She inflected each word to leave no doubt that they all had a hidden meaning.

Glass, Steel, and Blood. "Daenerys must be free," he said softly, trying the words on his tongue. They sounded rather nice.

Three days hence, they assembled their little band. Few men would follow Daena into the city. She had recruited only twenty, even with the Khal's approval. Ser Barristan was there, of course, and Jon. So were the Uzbeks, though she had commanded Nagurash to stay with Daenerys.

"Now I will need twenty slave-women to accompany your riders," Daena instructed, "and eight carts."

"Slave-women are a man's possessions," Khal Drogo shrugged. "I cannot compel them, except my Bloodriders. And though I give you permission to make this raid, I will not command my Bloodriders give over to you their slaves, Outlander."

"Nonetheless, no purchase, no pay. We need to be a trading expedition for this raid to work, and not so clearly a small war-party. I need women. And indeed, I will free them, for I need their unwavering commitment. But if we succeed, I will give each man a gift beyond value in exchange for his slave. If we fail, we will all be dead. As I said! No purchase, no pay. Who would gamble on our venture?"

Few men did, but the Khal's host was large. And Nagurash had marked for Daena, Jon had overhead them the day before, which men were kinder to their slaves than most. A Dothraki man would lose face to free a slave-woman, but in this circumstance, as a wager on a wild venture of a raid against a city, he could escape the brush of shame. In this way, Daena extracted some volunteers, and Daenerys flung herself into the effort, too, pointing out the clever girls and turning her tongue on their masters. If she didn't know what was happening herself for the sake of their collective security, she certainly fell into a quick and ready habit of supporting Daena. There was real trust there, the kind of trust he had never known with his adoptive mother.

She hated me because of my 'father's' lies -- or worse, because she knew the truth. Hates me still, I must imagine.

Finally being content with eighteen, Daena stepped to his side. "All right. Let's go--we have enough. Jon, Ser Barristan, we'll ride for Qohor as traders." She had fashioned some simple dun brown garments with her Uzbeks, and they collectively began to don them over their scabbards and holsters and regular riding garb, and handed a few more around to the other men and women and Jon and Ser Barristan. "Here, this is called a barnous. Wear one to conceal your guns and arms, for as long as it will require. I will explain to you all the plan the night before we arrive in Qohor."

As they took the hooded cloaks, and figured out the rope-ties, she swung herself easily into the saddle, shoving an extra pistol into a saddle holster at her right. "All right then!" her words carried in Dothraki, for she'd certainly learned the language faster than Jon. "We have all I care to take, and we ride for Qohor! You men brave and daring know you can find wealth there, but more, that you can find fame! You will wet your swords against sorcerers, and not find your steel unavailing! That is what I promise you, who follow me. This will be a raid that men speak of, long after we ride the sky trails. Ho-up, and forward!"

Cracking whips of woman drovers driving ahead the carts sent them on their way, a dusty brown melange. Plenty of traders were allowed to cross the plains by a Khal. It was just one more caravan.

As they rode away, Jon couldn't help himself. He turned back, and saw her watching them all go. She looked as splendid as she had the first time he had seen her, confident but lonely on her silver, impossibly beautiful. She was not ruined or spoiled. Her spirit shone too brightly for that.

And he could swear Daenerys was staring at him.

Chapter Text

"We'll scrape her and we'll scrub her, with holystone and sand, for there blow some cold north gales on down Massey's stony shore!"

The crew was driving the holystones down the deck with sticks, singing as they worked. Every single thing aboard her was tilted; on an old ship, a cog, a galley, Rhaella would have been outright terrified that the ship was heeling at an angle, and expected her to soon founder, or lose her gear. But the Loyalist on the beam-reach was taut and perfect in every respect, the wind filling her canvas, taking advantage of a cold north wind blowing down to the sea from north to south, running with her portside heeled, bulwarks close to the water, but not a threat to be seen from it, under control with her sails all trimmed to take advantage of the wind to their fullest. Somewhere to the south of them around the Isle of Tarth it would collide with the southeasterly winds that blew up through the Stepstones to drench the Stormlands with rain, creating the terrible gales of those shores, but they had worked well north on the east side of the Narrow Sea, tacking back and forth, before turning to the west and sailing on the beam-reach.

She stood on the poop, the roundhouse below her, and looked back to the heavy hemp towing hawser that stretched to one of the rebuilt merchant galleys they'd transformed into a 'war emergency' galleass. The ship had all her lateen sails rigged, but the Loyalist was dragging her bodily through the water. The purpose-built galleasses were sailing on their own, but the ships of the line or simply liners were assisting the lesser ships. Two sailors manned the wheel beside her.

Esther was standing with her officers, sighting the sun with their sextants. As they finished the sighting, they went into the small chart-house behind the wheel, and began the calculations to determine what their run had been, 'noon to noon'.

The battle for Pentos had been an impressive demonstration of the ability of a sailing ship to fight oared vessels with almost total impunity. Though they had not had much time to produce new heavy ships before beginning this offensive, Esther had designed the galley-frigates from the start with the expectation that sooner or later she'd convince the Pentoshi Assembly that they would be fine fighting ships without an oared deck. The battle had convinced them. Twenty-two 12pdr cannon of battery were now mounted on the upper deck, the same as the ones used ashore for the Army. Below them she bore twenty-four 32pdr carronades. The six 18pdr chasers were retained, and on the poop were eight light 18pdr carronades, of the short handy kind used to repel boarders. In all there were thirty-four warships and thirty-six transports and stores ships in the fleet, a mix under the Pentoshi and Targaryen standards, and this Loyalist as her son's flagship.

The fleet faded in the mind's eye, though she could hear a pump shanty taking over for the song of the holystoners. She watched her son and her good-daughter. As she'd planned, they seemed happy with each other, as Arianne was both old and capable enough to stand up to Viserys, and yet enticing enough to make it so he didn't care that he was stood up to. They both took the sea voyage with confidence and Rhaella could not ask for more.

She would have rather had Daena with her, of course. It was a long time since she had seen Dragonstone, and she both looked forward to the moment that the isle was in sight, and yet also rather loathed the thought of it. Pentos had been a happy exile, and return meant all the memories of her brother, who once she had loved so much, only to discover there was no end of his cruelty. What wickedness drives us, even toward our own family.

They stood and watched the crew working, and Rhaella allowed herself to for a moment think she might have just done it. If Daena brings Daenerys back, then this will all be worth it still. She pulled her shawl tighter. The oppressive echo of if hung silent in her mind, the more ominous for its silence.

Sea-spray still lapped at the port bulwarks, and Esther and the officers stepped out of the chart-house. Oberyn had just come up deck. "Oberyn! Forty-four leagues noon-to-noon!" Esther shouted excitedly. "That, when we're towing those pigs!"

"Ah, m'dear! You are so happy with your number games," Oberyn laughed, and approached where Esther now stood close to Rhaella, dipping her head respectfully to the Queen.

"They're very important at sea, dear," Esther countered a bit stuffily. "You have no idea how hard it was for me to establish base-lines. Anyway, speaking of measurements, the anemometer is falling off and the barometer going up, so I think this north wind is failing us."

"Will it hurt, Lady Hand?" Rhaella glanced to the west, to cliffs influencing their voyage but which they could not see. Esther had charted a course well clear of that ironbound coast.

"Fall is coming on, some wise men say," Esther answered with a shrug. "So the northwind often blows cold and hard out of Arctic waters--but it does also even in summer, so I know not how steady it should be. I expect it to pick up again soon, though, regardless of whether or not we are in late summer. Until then? We'll set the studs'ls and fire rockets to signal the galleys to ship their oars and make some time, pull ahead even, to dress ranks in the fleet and let us run as fast as we may when we again have the wind." She turned to the Captain. "Captain Rhyllo, set the topmast and topgallant studs'ls first, and we'll let the wind fall off completely before we set the lowers."

"Of course, M'lady." He saluted and turned away, and she addressed her Flag Leftenant next. "Hoist signals to the fleet: 'Make sail for light airs', and wait my order to execute."

Aboard the Loyalist, a drum-beat began, signalling the men to stand to their masts. Masses of barefooted sailors came dashing down the holystoned decks.

Oberyn chuckled as he stood next to Rhaella, watching his wife in her greatcoat giving orders. "She is so methodical." He clicked his tongue, at least. "Here, at least. It's a bit different belowdecks."

"I can hear you some nights," Rhaella managed in her best droll voice, which brought even Oberyn up short. "I trust that Ellaria is well?"

"Oh, perfectly fine. She's playing cards with the off-duty officers." That was, of course, the Oberyn difference. Another man might have been jealous that his mistress was playing cards with a group of (mostly-admittedly certainly not all) men, Oberyn simply didn't care. "I came up to see to Esther. She works too hard at her numbers. And in general."

Rhaella managed a smile, then. "She tells me it's an old family tradition."

"I've heard as much myself. I must make sure that she enjoys life, particularly when she's about to give me so much fun." He smirked.

"As terrifying as this is, Prince Oberyn, I do believe she actually enjoys being... Methodical." Her eyes twinkled.

"Perish the thought."

"Nonetheless, she'll yet surprise both of us. I am pleased you are happy. Soon enough the Crown will have need of your sword."

"Soon enough, both Esther and plain Revenge will have need of my sword; the Crown also, true, true, Your Grace." He looked off to the south and west. "But I would use it for any one of the three."

She looked down at her good-daughter and her son. They, in turn, were taking their ease observing the sailors turn out, young men dashing up the 90-ft tops'l yards in their dungarees and monkey jackets to set out the top studs'ls. The evolution took only minutes, as Esther and Rhyllo looked on with real pride and then Esther snapped her hand down. "Execute the fleet signals!"

The signals, flying from the mizzen yard, went fluttering down, and now the rest of the fleet was quickly moving to obey and follow suit in setting studs'ls. A flurry of following orders soon ensued, and though their progress slowed, it did not end. They were still bound west northwest, sailing out of sight of land.

One bells was struck for the afternoon watch, 12:30 on the clock. Esther had clambered up to the poop-royal and was staring aft through her binoculars, satisfying herself that the galleys that had been lagging behind were shipping their oars, aiming for the flagship as they fired a blue rocket every five minutes. The first sharp report of the rockets bursting into a streaking trail of blue stars still brought her eyes skyward, but 12:30 on the clock meant luncheon.

She went right aft, and Viserys and Arianne soon joined her in the topgallant roundhouse, the highest and aftermost cabin, built only on the Loyalist for the King, and surmounted by the poop-royal. Though the winds had blown cold across the deck, and they all, especially the Dornish, had taken up the warmest and heaviest of greatcoats when on the open sea in the face of those airs. Now, though, they had hot bread and tea.

Fine china was set into special racks in the table, so that it remained upright and didn't fall off as the Loyalist heeled on the beam-reach. Servants of table poured tea and presented sliced bread with preserves for His Grace's leisure, and her own and Queen Arianne's. Esther entered on Oberyn's arm, and bowed, doffing her hat. For all she willingly spoke of the common origins of her family, they had been nobility by Daena's right for a hundred and fifty years, and her manners in truth had always been very refined. "My apologies, Your Graces, for being late to table, but I was ensuring the evolution of the fleet."

"It is of nothing," Viserys waved a silk napkin. "Your duties first, Lady Hand. Now we will have the roast brought out."

Nothing was wasted at sea, of course. When they had taken the choice cuts, the bones and grist would go into the sailors' stew to help make it rich and hearty. The stewards brought it up, and the servants of table cut it, working around the cannon that were artfully half-hidden and incorporated into the furniture of the King's suite. Even here, warfare came first, all the King's finery would be struck below and the furniture dismantled when the beat to quarters began, and two 18pdr carronades worked from inside the topgallant roundhouse. And the idea of comfort there was limited; to avoid encumbering the rig, the topgallant roundhouse was so short that a tall man could not stand upright in it.

The servants of table retreated as the roast was served, with cups of ground mustard and jars of pickled vegetables, to prevent the scurvy Daena and Esther had taught them all to dread. She watched the two couples she had created, and thought of her daughter and lover both so far away, cast to the wild winds of the plains of Essos, while she had taken the sea-road back to her family's wet and smokey demesne.

Esther cupped her tea in both hands, and smiled over the cup at the King. "Your Grace shall soon see his own shores. We will land in the lee of the Hook before we make for Dragonstone. Not merely to confuse the enemy about our destination and intents, but also so that the news of Your Grace's arrival in his lands begins to spread far and wide, so that good Dragon-men will know to rise."

He looked over his hand, carefully. "You don't expect that news to give me a great Army, though? Our lands there are small and hemmed in by the Baratheon."

"I do not, Sire. When you have the opportunity to raise the Lords of Crackclaw, now that will give you some real reinforcement to the Army we have brought over the sea. But more it is that they will wonder if you intend to march overland in the south, and Lords throughout the realms will start wondering to whom their loyalty is really pledged. Is that boy on the Iron Throne, who they have not yet appeared before, to bend the knee, really preferable to Your Grace, who is proved and tempered in combat? Men will think these things, even if they do not yet say them aloud."

"How many, at first?"

"Five thousand, Sire, ten at most. But once we start to win, more. The Sword gave the realm to the Baratheon, it will take it away from them." Esther leaned into Oberyn's side, and smiled. "You make a handsome King, Your Grace, and your tale is a courtly one that will excite their chivalry, as befits their rightful and royal Prince, the King from across the sea. The news will spread. They will come."

Chapter Text

Sorcery was founded in blood. All knew this to be true. Few wished to fully embrace the implications, since all of the most powerful magic was sorcery; storm singing was infamous for its power without blood, but it was founded in the blood, and could do only one thing. When she had been a young girl, her Grandmother appeared to her with the lessons of Old Valyria. Visenya was already dead, of course; Daena barely remembered her alive. But she had passed into death so subtly from Daena's point of view that it was many visits before she had realised this.

The old Queen had done much for her, and taught her how to extend her life. But she had never been able to overcome Daena's inclinations. In the end, the ghostly visage accepted that there would not be great-grandchildren. The line ended with Daena, though first it would have centuries of quiet, hidden glory. And in that time, ghostly words had taught her how to preserve her life, how to sing storms and work with blood.

Now the fate of the house was on her. Whatever glories in business and a dozen small wars, the little pinprick of grandeur that leaving behind a free Sarawak had done for the record she had written in the stars, she stood now facing a much larger challenge. I have got two wonderful young dragons here, and the Valyrian people are a ruin.

And in Qohor, the magic of Valyria lingered the strongest.

It was magic that she needed, now, and the fell kind, which had let the Freehold rule an Empire for thousands of years. She did not know what had brought it forth. It was a kind of magic older than sorcery, linked to the fundamental nature of the world.

Her mother had discovered her talents. It couldn't be helped. Her birth mother had left enough hints, and Princess Catherine had seen the experiments, sooner or later, under Visenya's guidance. So the story of the Guru with the Sorceresses had been told young, and repeated often. You must judge each act with magic carefully by your religion, or you will be damned. It is not merely the consequences but the ingredients that matter. The 'stuff' of the spell.

She had figured out early on that the safest thing to do was to spill her own blood. And so the succession of lovers and loyalists had found themselves with a chronically weak and pale young Queen-by-right, a Princess with scars on her wrists. Esther might well be the last in a long line of loyal friends and right hands who knew how to keep her fast in the middle of spending her own blood, frugally but spending it nonetheless, for the sake of her magic.

But in magic, like all things, there were subtle things that held greater value. She was not here to gain overawing power. She was here to get two things, really; a reputation, that was obvious, and --

Communications.

She'd briefed the Uzbeks. Tayyebeh, Sadijha, six others. Nagurash remained with Daenerys. The Khal's men did not, at least, think they were bad riders; women were allowed to be good at riding, in their culture, for everyone had to be good at it. One could not help but observe what one saw all day, for one's entire life. But with carts accompanying them, it was a lazy walk by Dothraki standards.

Behind her own preservation, she stayed closed to Jon. He was part of the dynasty, even if he didn't want to appreciate it yet, or perhaps hadn't fully grasped the implications of how seriously they intended to make it so.

In short, she needed to keep two people alive, not one.

They entered the line of people waiting for the gates at about mid-morning, and thenceforth the Dothraki amused themselves with games of skill on horseback; at length some of the Uzbeks joined in, attracting attention from the walls, since Dothraki women usually did not, at least before outsiders. Nor, though, did Dothraki women wear the headscarves and the billowing barnous that she shared with her outriders. The less sexualised she was before the Dothraki and, really, anyone here, the better, and she was trying not to be an obvious warrior, so she wore the same dress as the others, over trousers and a brocaded blouse with silver buttons. The Dothraki slave-women watched the Uzbeks from the carts. Their lives were a world away, but they saw women of a similar temper, who were daring bloodriders instead of slaves. I see eyes that have a sudden understanding, and good. I would not want the honours of my Uzbek Guard to fade with me.

Well, perhaps not so sudden. They had received their own briefings.

At length their little troupe came to the front of the line, still around noon. It stretched long, all with people hoping to make it through the gates before they were closed each evening, after the farmers came back from their fields and when the night threatened with the risk of raids.

The Captain of the Gate held none of the amusement of his fellows. "Dothraki are not welcome here!"

"I am no Dothraki," Daena answered, shifting her headscarf. "I am from Volantis. The Khal of that khalasar some days ride to the south sent along these men with me as escorts for my safety, as the Dothraki vouchsafe travellers, as I came from Vaes Dothrak first, as all travellers on the Great Grass Sea must. He wanted them also to sell some slaves while they were here; so, that is all the enter the city for, to bring these girls to market."

He looked with distaste down their ranks and back, and Daena felt the distaste curl in her stomach. She had been raised to think of liberty as second nature since she barely think; it was one of the great virtues of Old Britain, sunk so far, but once so fantastic in its day, the ruler and oppressor of nations, but also the Navy which had commanded the end of the slave trade the whole world over.

Jon and Daenerys might yet live to see Viserys' fleet do the same. Lilac eyes snapped to the young man at her side. He was just as wary.

"Twenty Dothraki, though. They'll cause plenty of trouble, Miss."

"They're here to trade girls--and they have plenty--for coin and fine jewels to wear, for these are men with long braids," she shrugged. "Does not Qohor want trade?" Then her voice pitched lower. "Hey, Captain; I will send one of the girls along to you tonight. It is not like the Dothraki sell virgins, I will be honest; but that means no loss to you."

He smirked. "I'd sooner you send yourself, Volantene."

She saw Jon stiffen with range at her side. That's rather sweet, really, but I must be cool. Her skin had gone cold and clammy and chill, and her thoughts seemed to slow down to a methodical beat, almost like that first night, long ago, when someone had thought to have their way with her -- Aleister Crowley, when she cared about Kanchenjunga, and he cared about her magic, and she, hot and young, had not realised how easily an artist would speak of her muse.

It was the coolness that kept her from killing him outright. "Two of the girls at once," she just said with a laugh. "Come, it's no bribe if you take no property."

At last, he laughed. "Three. But no more. I can't fit 'em in my bed."

"Three." This most venial kind of casual corruption. "Your barracks is at your post?"

"I'll keep them until I am done with them," he answered instead with a grin. "That is all you need to know."

Not a total idiot, then. "But of course. I'll bring them up."

"I'll choose them," he answered, and turned down the line.

She quickly dismounted to follow, pacing the man at his side as they went to the slave-girls, and switched to Dothraki. "This man is taking three of you. It will be as I said; I must ask one more night of humiliation from you, but in exchange it will be the last night." As she walked, she tapped each one of them on the hand, like marking property; but instead, at each in turn, she made contact with a scar. A fresh one.

All sorcery is founded in blood.

The Guard Captain made his selections, like a man choosing fruit at market. Daena stepped away, her skin still pale and clammy, and switched languages again to Westerosi. "There is no need for us to witness their humiliation, and add to it," she said to Jon.

"I can't believe you kept your cool."

"We Valyrians have hot blood, but I learned from my grandmother to let my skin turn pale with rage," she answered, her voice feeling distant. "I am doing much good, and I keep that in mind while I ... Drink this poison."

Now, at last, they were waved through, the high walls and the complicated defences of the gatehouse looming over them as the wagons began to creak forward, now lightened of three slaves but not of the trade goods that many a merchant would consider far more important than some 'used' Dothraki slavegirl. The twitch of a muscle, only, showed what Daena thought about that. These double walls and this massive gatehouse, the finest of Valyrian military engineering from their time, responded with silent laughter, corruption that always attended every moment where the ends justified the means. They walked their horses, of course, the Guard would not permit anything else, though the Dothraki were sullen at it, and at the three slaves being taken away. They thought it a bad deal.

They slipped inside without further concern from the Guardsmen. But she paid close attention to the real security of this city, which was not the corrupt men who searched wagons and made sure departing merchants had paid their tax. "Those are the Unsullied," she explained. "The eunuch slave-guards trained in Astapor who worship the Mistress of the Knife."

"The Mistress of the Knife?" Jon squirmed a bit, and she supposed she couldn't blame him for that.

"Yes, a Goddess of... What they are now."

As they led their horses back out of the gatehouse and into the light, Jon for a moment had a pensive expression looking back at them. "It seems strange to worship that which took your manhood."

"Oh, a man took their manhood, not the Mistress of the Knife. She is the only cold comfort they have, the one who separated the living from the dead on that day." She steered them close to one of the fountains, with shade trees around it, that cooled their skin and misted the dust from the steppe in her hair. A bath before I light this plan off. It's always better to die clean, if dying one must.

"You know much about the Gods of Essos, though you worship only one," he unsubtly changed the subject.

"I had an experienced teacher in the subject. And, my religion does not demand that others follow it. There are many ways to seek Waheguru. But righteousness is universal. Your uncle, your father I mean, was a righteous man. Not a wise one, but a righteous one."

"You say that -- when you call him a treason for overthrowing the King."

"Correct. Because some things are universal, Jon, like our hatred of slavery. This is wrong, and we are doing it by thin necessity and the promise of a better life for all involved. It wasn't acting against Aerys that was the problem. It was the fact that Robert Baratheon decided to seize the throne for himself. There was a perfectly good Prince available to take the throne, the next King by rights. If Aerys had been overthrown in favour of his son, the higher purpose of loyalty would have been satisfied, and the realms kept safe. It wouldn't have been the first time that good men did such a thing in a Kingdom. We've entered a similar point of danger. In these exceptional circumstances, we hazard our souls... And what we make of the situation will determine a lot. This was the wisdom that, to put it plainly, your father lacked."

Jon laughed harshly. "Which one, really? It seems to speak to both. Both my fathers were undone by thinking they knew the only way."

"--It does." Daena allowed, and smiled. "You're learning, and that one is a very good lesson indeed. Rhaegar was a good man and a shining exemplar of many fine virtues. But he fixated on a prophesy... And in fulfilling it, he took the ends to justify the means without really looking for another way. Just openly taking two wives, for one. He wouldn't be the first member of the dynasty to have done it."

"I pray to the Old Gods my father at least did not rape my mother; but I don't see how he could have taken her to wife. The last Targaryen King to have multiple wives was King Maegor."

Daena shot him a look, before she cooled her temper. "There's two sides to every story," she allowed. "Even Maegor's."

"Then what's the other side to his?”

"He was following a methodical plan by Queen Visenya to break the power of the Faith of the Seven and the Maesters in the realm and entrench a Valyrian dragon-clan at the highest position in the realm ... To crush the power of the Lords and create a modern central state where men of quality would be appointed by the King to administer the lands for fairness and justice on the basis of salary. Indeed, his policies are closer to those of Aegon the Fifth than to Jaehaerys the Conciliator or whatever they bloody well call him. Maegor was just getting very ill because -- because his life had hung by a thread, and there are consequences for that. In the end, with Visenya dead he lost faith and trust in all around him, and murder begat murder, and though he had the power of the sword that Aegon the Fifth lacked, death claimed him before he could break the institutional power of Sept, Lords and Citadel."

Jon looked around briefly, like he were uncomfortable of the subject. "You make an impassioned defence of him."

"There are a very few men who deserve no defenders at all. I am Maegor's one; and I have my reasons for it." She grew silent, and then tugged the reins of her horse. "Come, Jon, we will find an inn with stableage for the horses and carts and slaves, and then go looking for some wizards -- assuming they don't find us first."

Chapter Text

Robert Baratheon's idiotic expedition to Pentos had gone about as well as he would have expected. There was a certain level of fool in anyone who thought that an expedition across the Narrow Sea was going to work. The Blackfyre had failed at it time and time again. Westerosi expeditions to Essos had often been attempted, but never really came to any result.

Oh yes, in theory you could manage to overthrow a goverment, replace it with one you liked more, and leave again. So he could see how all the men at court had managed to convince themselves that this had a chance in the Seven Hells of working. They had also been wrong, he had said as much, nobody had listened, and he had been vindicated.

Admittedly, he hadn't expected it to fail quite so dramatically.

Joffrey was completely useless as a monarch, of course, though his father probably liked that altogether a great deal. His one chance, of course, was to listen to Tywin, and take advantage of the fact that the enemy was inevitably being as stupid as Robert had been, and actually counterattack. If he had comfortably suborned the Pentoshi government and given it to one of his retainers to run for his personal leisure, he wouldn't be leaving again! The fools.

After all, his father was full of himself, but he was not Joffrey and he was not useless, and the band of hands around his neck was now a sign of his power, ready to be used for the sake of luring the enemy into a trap. Or that was something of what Tyrion gathered, as he waddled down and into the archery yard. His father and his elder brother in white stood, with queer clubs of steel and wood at their sides, speaking with representatives from the Pyromancer's guild and with a few armsmen and armourers around them.

"Ah, there you." Tywin turned to him, his father, facing him, the monstrous son. For a moment they just stared at each other. As always, Joffrey oscillated between unkind and blitheringly ignorant of the situation with a quizzical expression on his face. Then his father began to speak again, and the moment passed.

"We have obtained from some of the nobles of Pentos, who came to us seeking shelter, some examples of the arms the witches of Pentos used to defeat the Royal Armada. Not just that, but I commissioned the Pyromancer's guild and some Blacksmiths of the city to prepare the best copies we could make. We're here today to see them. You are a Lannister, and you must understand how the world is changing if you're to be useful to the House."

Tyrion waddled up. "That's a little grandiloquent for you, father. You are the first to call shit for what it is when it is spoken by wide-eyed dreamers."

"As I ever will." Tywin answered coldly, and raised the wide end of the contraption to his shoulder, bracing it firmly. A little hammer on a clockwork mechanism sat on the right side further from the face. He sighted down the barrel of gleaming black-blued metal. For a moment Tyrion had a certain chill. This did not seem like a normal fragile and outright dangerous to the user contraption. Sighted like a crossbow, but there were apertures on the top.

The hammer snapped, sparks flashed and the barrel roared forth smoke and flame. Shaking on its harness, an old cuirass hung from a target stake at once had an ugly big hole in it, a hundred paces distant. To a man behind the armour, it would have been instantly fatal, or near enough to not matter.

"Oh," Tyrion sighed, though his eyes were still wide.

"Oh, indeed," Tywin sneered. "You may wish to pay attention to this instead of whoring and drinking, since you consider yourself intelligent. These muskets loose twice as fast as a windlass crossbow, or better, will penetrate armour at thrice the range, will not fail nearly so quickly in poor weather or muddy trenches, is more accurate, and needs even less time to train than an arbalastier. That is really how those witches win their battles."

Tyrion cast a bleary eye downrange. "And what magic do they use to empower this fire?"

"None, M'lord," one of the Pyromancers offered.

"None," Tyrion repeated. He looked to his father. "None. It is all an artifice of man, then, witches behind it or not?"

"It is." Tywin nodded to the chief Pyromancer. "Lord Hallyne can explain."

"M'lord Tyrion," he oozed with pride "It is but a remarkably simple recipe. It is two parts sulphur, three parts charcoal, and fifteen parts saltpetre, all mixed with water and ground to a very fine powder as a slurry and thoroughly mixed. Then it is washed with wine and strained with cheesecloth to form corns."

"And in Pentos they train uneducated former slaves to make it, pay them good wages, and obtain massive quantities," Tywin added. "The exiles claim they use a process called Putrefaction to obtain the saltpetre. They know it not, and besides say that it takes eighteen months for a putrefaction bed to be harvested. We haven't the time for it."

Tyrion cast a baleful look at the piece. "Is it even necessary? They surely couldn't have brought many muskets, father."

"Just a hundred, give or take," Tywin agreed. "That said, we have already made our own. We have found that the normal iron of the realms is not of sufficient quality for proper hand-held muskets, but we have a simple expedient." He nodded to one of Hallyne's men, and the Pyromancer brought forth a larger, heavier version of the musket, a bit longer with a larger diameter iron cylinder, as Tyrion could see it now, but with the same diameter hole down the middle. This piece was something that could be carried, but it did not rest easily on the shoulder, and for this a forked stake was attached to the wooden furniture of the musket which the Pyromancer settled into the ground to rest the weight of the musket upon.

Then it fired like the one his father had demonstrated. Fired. He liked the word. Much more fitting than loosed, for this reeking tube. 

"We can't produce nearly so many as I should like," Tywin continued conversationally. "However, produce them we shall, in quantity, here and at Lannisport and in Casterly Rock besides. And there are other weapons, as well. Jaime, if you would?"

Jaime took a mechanism with a spinning wheel, and struck it with a line of sparks. Against this he set to light a ceramic ball, sealed with wax around the fuse. Hurling this with the fuse lit, he was rewarded with a sharp report and a crashing emission of smoke and crack of flame.

"And of course what they used to ruin the ships is a version of the musket yet still many times larger. I am told that they are cast primarily of bronze, but can also be made of iron," Tywin looked sharply, now, to Tyrion. "These are not inexpensive weapons. And the shell for the cannon can explode like that grenade. More powder. More saltpetre. You are here for a reason. I expect you to do your duty to the House. The existing Royal Government does not have sufficient resources to obtain the saltpetre. I have established a new Crown Office for you to serve as the head of a Royal Gunpowder Administration. You will give Warrants to Dig to men who will bring us from the night-soil and the caves of the whole realm every smidge of saltpetre they can find. Do you understand me?"

Tyrion stared. "You are going to have me issuing warrants to men who will tear through every barn in the realm, father? I shall become the most hated--"

"You are a Lannister and an Officer of the King. If anyone causes trouble for you, your Brother will lead men to enforce the King's writ. This is War against a foreign enemy, war to the knife, war against the son of the late King who will show us no pity. I am giving you a thankless task in the realms, but one without which this house will certainly fall. Be proud of the trust placed in you and do not betray it. Upon your Warrants to Dig rest all efforts of the Pyromancer's Guild to obtain enough powder by which we will defend the realms."

Tyrion drew himself up to his insubstantial height. Well, when you put it that way. A little tempted to let you hang, but certainly not myself. "I will not let you down, father." He looked around the field. "I also see none of the larger muskets."

"Cannon." Tywin had a certain death's head smile that was not kind. "You will be the Master-General of Artillery for the Realm as well. Put that head of your's to work. You will motivate the smiths and the bell-founders of the city. You will cast me cannon."

Tyrion thought on his feet. It was not a small feat. It would also make him hated by the Septons as well as the Lords and every freeholder in the realms who could afford his own barnyard! He would be ending the production of all religious bronze for an indefinite time until they could get ahold of the situation, he would have to, and... "Father, I do not have a plan. The larger ones can't be as the small. They don't scale so simply, and bronze is not iron. I must have skilled men understand precisely how they are made. I will need one of the cannon, not just muskets, or I will go through fifty failed castings before I get you one that works, if that."

"I anticipated the request," his father's voice came back stern and cool, unflappably composed. "You will get you your cannon, son, as a pattern for the new Royal Artillery. That has been arranged."

It was set with such a calm voice, but Tyrion knew such arrangements were his father's schemes; his father made clear what must be done without ever actually saying it, that was the best way. He had a fairly good idea, too. "Robb Stark, in the Islands. He is there for more than merely to slow down the enemy. He is bait. Our men are not there to retake Driftmark, they are there to bring us cannon."

"Of course loyal retainers all do their duty," his father answered, saying nothing, confirming nothing. But Tyrion did not believe he was referring to Robb Stark or merely to defending the islands as a command of Joffrey as King when his father spoke that way. It was always his father's way. Tywin never did anything that he would take responsibility for, unless taking responsibility for it was an advantage to the House Lannister. But while Tyrion had many other disabilities in life, he was no fool. His father had sent men, and their duty was not to support Robb Stark, but to get the House what it needed from the enemy.

Tyrion made a small gesture, and bowed. "I will do my duty, father."

"You will attend court, then, to receive the King's Commission tomorrow, though I expect you to be drawing up the plans for your Warrants to Dig tonight, not sleeping with your whore." His father got a grimace from him, of course. Then he continued. "The city must be prepared to stand a siege, so powder must be manufactured here and in Lannister lands, and somewhere in-between to be held by Royal Writ and able to resupply Armies operating along the eastern coast. The possession of powder and artillery will make a family as our's that knows wealth, as powerful as the Dragonlords were when they held Dragons. Their newfound strength is transitory, if we but use the wisdom we already have."

They obviously knew how to manage Pentos, Tyrion thought darkly. "I will remember your words, father. But first, an indulgence, if I may."

Tywin stared, but it didn't deter him. "Go on."

"Is there a musket that I may use? They are clearly becoming quite important."

After a wooden moment, Tywin presented him one that could fit in his hands, with two barrels nonetheless, though the grip was a different style. "This is called a pistol. Go ahead and try the target. It's loaded, though it doesn't have the same power."

Tyrion braced it firmly in both hands and pulled the hammer back on the right side until it clicked into place, a reassuring feeling. He sighted down the barrel and lined up the two notches, quickly deducing how they functioned. Whomever came up with this is a genuinely clever person, he thought.

And then he pulled the trigger.

The recoil was surprisingly managable, and the first shot close enough to the target to give him some hope of figuring out how to shoot it well. Actually, it seemed like a very handy weapon for him, really.

"If you can use it, then a woman can use it, which nicely explains the witches," Tywin laid one last cut upon him, and turned around to leave with Jaime and Lord Hallyne. "Do your duty, my son."

Chapter Text

Having women as guards for women had a certain long tradition in Westeros, ever since Queen Alysanne had appointed Jonquil Darke as her sworn shield. But for all that, it was very rare. The Uzbek Guards had been something else to most of the Westerosi exiles, as weird as the customs of the Bone Mountains. For all that, they were nothing alike. The Uzbek Guards were modest professionals, capable of leading troops in their own right.

Over time, Daenerys had learned that there was actually a country called Uzbekistan, and an Uzbek people, though none of them had been born there. The name originated when, in a past war, Daena had been commanding a regiment, the Death Hussars, which had suffered severe losses on a scale, in a war unimagined by their own world. To replace the losses she had conducted a mass recruitment of women shamed and dishonoured or who simply didn't fit in and needed a home, or who were one more mouth to feed than their families could afford at home, in the aftermath of a terrible round of fighting in the cities of Tashkent and Samarqand and Bukhara, and they were gearing up for another.

In the end, these women had followed her away from their homes, first across the trackless Karakorum Desert and then across the sea. They had settled in the lands Daena had owned, and formed an obscure and secretive community. In exchange for maintaining their secrecy, they were educated, provided for from cradle to grave and paid lavishly. Over time many other ethnicities had married into them, and they had mixed and mingled through the generations until they represented twenty nations worth of people in their blood, but the name 'Uzbek Guard' remained.

Daena had still not explained what she had offered to them to get them to follow her here, but follow her, they had, a squadron's worth of horsewomen. Most held the same religion, which was similar to Daena's, but different. Both worshipped One God, a God of Clear Air who gave His followers books....

Daena said He was the same God for them both, and the majority religion of the Uzbeks merely represented a different book, given for a different time and place. Nagurash actually agreed with her. "The Maharani knows that there is No God but God."

Nagurash had remained behind, the seniormost of the Uzbeks with gray flecking her dark hair, where it crept out from her headscarf in coiled ringlets. The others had gone on with Daena--and with Jon and with Barristan and with her husband's bloodriders.

My husband.

The attendants around her, she wished to trust--Irri and Jhiqui and Doreah--but they were slaves, and Daena's lessons bore home sharply. To trust them was to betray them, for to give them trust was to put them in an impossible situation. Give them nothing that conflicted between her own real needs and interests and those of her husband, their Master in fact.

Still, while Nagurash could be alone in the Khaleesi's Lodge with her, she could not escape the handmaids. They watched, curiously, as Nagurash spread her prayer rug--facing to the west, for the shortest way to her Holy City was surely through the portal.

To King's Landing, in fact. There was some irony in it. 

"Allahuma salli Allah sayyidina Muhammadin, we Allah ali Muhammadin, wa Sahbdihi wa sallim," she began her prayer. This was a tongue that Daenerys had not learned.

"Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim..."

The careful ritual of rakat, Daenerys knew that much, the name for bowing and prostration in cycles, some spoken and some silent, consumed the attention of her handmaidens, for whom it must have seeemed impossibly alien. Then Nagurash rose and folded the rug as neat as she could, and moved to sit at Daenerys' sit, though with her legs folded on the ground and not on the low traveling divan that the Khaleesi had. The handmaids would serve her, too; there was a hierarchy here, and one of the strange women bloodriders of Daenerys' kinswoman ranked higher than they did.

But Daena had not taught Daenerys to see it that way. And Nagurash didn't see it that way, either. "I see that you're curious," she said, addressing the girls. "Ask me your questions about my faith, I will answer them." There was a small smile on her face.

It reminded Daenerys of the small congregation that Daena had formed in Pentos, of Sikhs. Obviously a certain number of people in that city, especially freed slaves, had no interest in its Gods. The one monotheistic religion of their land, native to Essos, the worship of R’hllor, was esoteric and demanding. A number of Pentoshi, especially those trusted in the regime--the ones who had gone from indentured to Officers of State--had seen her conduct, had sought out her faith and converted to it. It now occurred to her that the same had likely occurred among those who had learned to fight or learned trades from the Uzbek Guards.

Nagurash had a conversation with them; Jhiqui seemed the most curious, but Nagurash remained circumspect. She likely does not intend to deny the existence of the Gods of the Dothraki publicly.

I also deny their existence, privately.

The conversation had led to tea, though, and everyone being relaxed as it was shaved from the brick, boiled, and served around blazing hot, mixed with a small measure of sugar, a fancy for the Khaleesi's lodge. It was then and only then, with other things on their minds, that Nagurash switched to the tongue of her world that Daenerys and Viserys and Rhaella had all learned. English was necessary for technical matters, so it had become more common in Pentos.

Punjabi was strictly a private language for the Targaryen and their closest guards and retainers to be absolutely secure in. "Your Highness, no woman is a slave except by main force, and your blood can never be impure. You are loved. The Maharani swore to return you to the Queen, at all hazard. She has a plan."

"Should she execute it? I have made a deal with the Khan." The chance was an abrupt improvisation; but it removed the only hint that they might be speaking of the same man. The vowel was pronounced differentialy, anyway... "I had little choice, but I made a deal and went to his bed willingly, Nagurash."

"Your Highness, force majeure is not willingly. Do not fool yourself. You made an agreement under duress to prevent yourself from being raped and enslaved outright. A woman should not be subjected to this. Particularly not a woman raised as a daughter by The Maharani. You will be freed."

"That will mean war with the Khan. I know you brought the best guns and arms with you, but is khalasar is larger than all the militias in Pentos. And what is this plan...?"

"Don't ask about it, but prepare yourself for it. Your part in it is convincing the Khan to go along with what we ask of him. We will separate you from him by his own will, at first, because he will be given the chance to believe that it is part of a plan which will great him the greatest victory of any Khan in the history of the Dothraki. So, in fact, while I appeal to you, do not gain a sentiment in your heart for him, and hold that while you married to him and you cannot be dishonoured, a marriage can also be easily ended--yet for all that, I must ask you to pretend to like him a while longer, and keep convincing him that you are a partner in his schemes and aggrandisement."

"I can do this. It's my natural temptation. I apparently give good advice, and I can see a situation clearly," Daenerys answered. "Well, surely you know my mettle?"

"What you have been through is hard, Your Highness. I am here to support."

"I understand, but I would rather you had gone with Daena to the City of Sorcerers. She must be kept safe."

"The Maharani, or Jon Snow?"

"Both," Daenerys answered, and then flushed more than a little. Well, Nagurash is very experienced in the ways of the world. "I will be careful and keep my eyes away from him."

"Best if you wore a veil," Nagurash grinned and stuck her tongue out. Daenerys giggled manically. It was good cover. It made their conversation seem some private and trivial thing, to the handmaids.

"--Thank you, Nagurash. But I do fear for them, in Qohor, truthfully. The plan has no choice if they do not make themselves look very impressive before the whole khalasar."

"I know the sorcerers of Qohor have power, Your Highness, but al-Basir sees us still here. We have our own means of resistance. And you have not yet seen The Maharani's mettle tested."

Night crept in around the Lodge, casting shadows against the skin walls and the ash-poles. Irri and Jhiqui were working on a fire in the brazier at the centre. Doreah came over to rub oil into her hair, the usual nighttime custom, and Daenerys gave her permission. She would not learn to speak Punjabi simply by being closer to them, though it felt more dangerous.

"I will trust your faith," Daenerys sighed softly, and refilled her small cup of tea. She felt like her stomach was an empty pit, but feared the opposite. "What if I have his child, Nagurash?"

The Guard Captain's eyes were dark and expressionless, like cut flint. "Then he is the father of a Prince of the House Targaryen. And you will raise the child as you see fit, and not on these plains."

It was now obvious how this was going to play out. She didn't know the details, but she wouldn't need to, and she didn't want to. "Volantis is a lure to separate me from the Khan."

Nagurash said nothing, but that was an answer of itself.

"I will be the Khan's woman, as I must until the hour I am not," Daenerys tossed back the last of her tea. She had always preferred things hot, hotter than most, even than the rest of her family. "I will be good and wait. But you remind me that I've put myself in a trap of my own devising, and I chafe at that."

"You chafe at that because you a dragon and a dragon is not a slave," Nagurash murmured. "Nor as these women, even though they are called that. Nor is any soul before God. Force majeure, Your Highness. Drink the poison, wait patiently until the day when all is in place, and we have the local strength to reverse the situation in such a way as to obtain the maximum advantage. I will be accompanying you, when we go to Volantis. And it will be for us to obtain the maximum advantage. Your scheme will not go to waste. The Khan will be working for us, and that he doesn't realise it, so much the better."

The thought immediately flashed through Daenerys' head: Daena is planning something really crazy.

She had garnered from her mother that this was not an uncommon occurrence. They were all here, after all. But why are you so confident against the sorcerers of Qohor?

The first patient wisdom was no doubt to just not ask until Daena returned. I know my mother put so much effort in raising me to be a Sevener for the realms; but I think I would sooner trust Daena's God of the Clear Air. She had a feeling that the religions Daena and her Uzbeks had slowly, tentatively begun to spread, the Sikh and the Muslim, might yet be far more important than the mere act of saving the House of the Dragon.

Or we are a tool in the divine plan, and it is all forewritten.

Daenerys suspected both Daena and Nagurash might approve of that attitude, most of all. She bid goodnight to Nagurash, and focused on the almost impossible task of not focusing on what she had given up. 

Chapter Text

Any good Northern man would be horrified at the idea of searching Qohor for sorcerers. But any good Northern man would also be horrified at the idea of being in the company of a Witch. This Jon had already done, and so he was going to face the sorcerers of Qohor.

Now, many people sought those who practiced magic under the Black Goat. Few appreciated what that magic really was, or what it could do. Jon saw many a man and woman in those quarters, desperate or sick, venturing to hope that the price they paid in retreating to a sorcerer's tower was less than the benefit they'd gain.

And these men must have some idea they were different from the usual desperate crew. They were watched, as they made their way down narrow streets. The Dothraki and one of the Guardswomen, acting like a merchant trader, had gone their separate ways already, and left their group seeming thing and small, in a city filled with quiet malice.

The signs of the wizards were marked with Valyrian first, and then progressively more arcane sigils, complicated swirls that formed shapes that seemed to have meaning, but corresponded to no language which Jon knew. Daena saw his interest--and perhaps she had planned it this way. "They are," she explained, her voice carrying, "markers to indicate what a wizard knows, they get progressively more arcane, but they're related to the formulae of the Rhoynar, the Valyrians, the Qartheen, Asshai. Each level reveals more detail on what a particular sorcerer knows, but the Valyrian is merely an advertisement for what they make money off of; the rest is staking a claim to a particular talent, a particular power."

A man emerged from one of the towers, like he had already been preparing to confront them. He folded his arms, calm, as he stop on his doorstep. "You know much, foreigner."

Daena stopped, and smiled. "I will not lie. I do, and I have come for a particular purpose."

"Most who come here are supplicants to magic, not foreign wizards. You are not welcome with our secrets."

"I have come here as a supplicant, I need something from you."

He leaned in. "I am Tythos Ventarys, a free wizard of Qohor. What do you think that you need from need, Dragon?"

She drew back, presenting affront to him. "Surely you do not make all your customers speak loudly in the street?"

"I could see you coming," he answered, and gestured inside. "I will hear you out, but leave your guards outside."

Daena turned to the Guardswomen. "Remain," she said, and started in -- with Jon staying at her side, of course.

"I said, leave your guards outside."

"He is my kinsman." Daena stood as still as a statue.

"Then, as you wish." Tythos shrugged, and turned aside, leading them up in the tower, until at last they arrived in a room, the fourth storey of the simple stone building, that was filled with draped black silk and bric-a-brac of indeterminate origin, a few skulls hinting at darker arts than a mere collection for amusement, and a simple stone bowl of pumice sat into the middle of the room.

Daena, without much regard for all that, sat cross-legged at one side, and Jon followed suit.

They regarded each other across the bowl for a while, until Tythos shook his head. "I saw you coming. I saw your aim. I know you want the glass candles. We will perform a spell for you, but we will not give you such artefacts."

"They sit fallow, unusable, unlit," Daena replied, her eyes glinting. "What does an old relic matter, when it cannot be used?"

"All things of such provenance have power, M'lady, even if it is more subtle than it once was."

"Do you grind it up into a spell, then?"

"Such a gem beyond price? Surely not!"

"Then they have no value." She held up a hand to forestall his protests. "But I have heard that you are a specialist in far-seeing devices. Have you ever heard of a telecaster?"

The word itself sounded so emphatic. Tythos narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, M'lady, what you know of telecasters."

"Why should I do such a thing, when I am told that glass candles are too valuable to part with, even when they are dead?" She shrugged.

"Do you have part of a telecaster!?"

Daena raised a finger. "Perhaps you misinterpret my meaning. I certainly have none to give you here, but I am saying that a telecaster can still work where glass candles -- made in the Fourteen Fires -- have gone quiet with the selfsame destruction of the Old Valyrian Freehold. A working telecaster would certainly be far more valuable than a glass candle, would it not?"

"You said you had none here... Stop playing games with me, woman."

"I want glass candles. In exchange, I'll transcribe for you a guide on how a telecaster can be made."

He laughed. "Such arts were known to the ancients, but it would be impossible now. Such a book is as useless as a glass candle. Fool. You're wasting my time." But there was a look of terrible avarice in his eyes. In fact, Jon knew well enough that such a book would make a man wealthy beyond imagining, even if its contents were indecipherable gibberish.

"You will show me the book, then."

Daena didn't blink. "You will show me the candles. I will summon for it to be brought up from my baggage."

"You trust others to guard such wealth?"

"If you don't trust your guards, hmm." Daena looked vaguely askance. "What is the point?"

"What is the point, indeed." He rubbed his hands. "Most fellow sorcerers do not bother with such attendants, my dear Lady. Why do you?"

"We all have our reasons. I will summon one of my guards with the iron-bound box. You will fetch the glass candles."

"...Agreed," he allowed at last, greed perhaps getting the better of him. Daena carefully rose and stepped to the window fronting the street, closed by wooden shutters. She knew exactly which one it was despite the circuitous path of the stairs up through the haphazard building.

"Sadijha, bring the iron-bound book!" In the meantime, Tythos had gone down to fetch the glass candles he claimed to have, and unbolted the door for her guard.

One of the Guardswomen tossed a back over her shoulder, and started up into the tower, following with a bowed head and closely drawn headscarf behind the sorcerer, like, closed in on herself, she was the most uninteresting person in the world to a sorcerer, and herself fearful of the magic aorund her.

They arrived at the top room of the tower. Sadijha knelt, and presented an iron-bound book onto the floor below Tythos. Tythos grudgingly produced a parcel of black velvet corded in silk, and started to loosen the silken cords.

At least, he pulled back the velvet and revealed four dark shards of red crystal, formed into ornate curved shapes, like frozen flames of red candles.

Daena opened the book, presenting the handwritten High Valyrian text of the first page, and carefully flipped through it to show Tythos that the book was intact. The man half-shivered as he watched the demonstration.

She closed the book. "I expect all four in payment for it, of course."

"I.."

"This is not a negotiation, Tythos." Her contralto suddenly sounded like coiled iron. "Choose."

"...It is a worthy offer. We will write an agreement?"

"We will write," she agreed, and she watched him in a measured fashion bring out writing instruments, a ledger. Jon signed as the witness after they had recorded the agreement in the book and on a piece of parchment for Daena's copy as well.

Then, and only then, Daena reached out to take the glass candles. She took the first, and pressed the tip to her palm, wincing slightly and muttering a word in Valyrian; it grew bright and lit up. She moved onto the next, ignoring the spreading expression of shock on Tythos' face as with each in turn, she pressed out a drop of blood onto the shard--and then brought it to life, despite the doom, despite the dying of the glass candles.

"you.... You can light them." He stuttered, whilst Daena calmly wrapped them back up--and handed them to Sadijha. She commanded something in that foreign tongue Daena sometimes used with the Guards, and the woman answered in the affirmative, before Daena rose, and signalled for Jon to rise also.

"The death of dragon magic has been greatly exaggerated," she answered, and followed her guard and Jon down the stairs. The turn of phrase shut down all response from Tythos.

They reached the street and stepped out into the quiet of the wizards' alley. Daena smiled vaguely, as if she were thinking of something very far away. "Let's step lively now. The interesting part begins."

Jon tensed, and did exactly as she said. Daena would not say such things idly.

They made it to the end of the alley when a file of Unsullied appeared from behind the buildings, moving briskly to close off their line of escape. A Magistrate, a Marshal and two Priests of the Black Goat were with them. Daena held up her hand, directing her little company to halt. "Gentlemen, there must be some misunderstanding. I have a signed and witnessed proof of sale from what I bought in your fine city, and I am returning to my lodging. That is all there is to it."

"Daena of Pentos, we do not suffer our secrets to leave this city," one of the priests answered. "Whoever you are, the blood of the Dragon is the oppressor of our faith, and it is not welcome here. Nor was the wizard Tythos permitted to sell artefacts of such value to an Outlander. Surrender yourself to us, and the glass candles of the city, and we will permit your companions to depart the city."

Daena adopted a perfectly bemused smile. "No."

"Then you will all go."

At those words, Daena's smile, if anything, got bigger. "Now, Tayyebeh, exactly as you were ordered!"

The tallest of the Uzbeks reached out and grabbed Jon. Shocked, he felt himself stumble away from Daena as they turned back into the alley of the wizards. Daena did not join them. She whipped out the revolver at her belt, cocked it, and blasted the Priest who had spoken straight into whatever afterlife his Black Goat gave to him. The bark of the gun brought wizards to peer through windoors and out doorsteps to see what had happened. The priest fell with an ugly hole in both sides of his head, one bigger and messier than the other from the soft lead bullet.

Jon could just see out of the corner of his eye as Daena turned and fired again, again, again. Each time she needed only one bullet to drop a man at close range. Nor did she hesitate to gun down the Magistrate even while he tried to flee. Ugly work to shoot a man in the back, but it didn't do her any good. The Unsullied dashed forward, and one of them drove a spear into her; at the last second, she stepped to the side, but he saw the well of blood and watched her fall.

"Daena! God, Tayyebeh, by your God, GO BACK! Why are you fleeing from your oathsworn commander!?"

"You know nothing, Jon Snow," she gritted her teeth in exasperation. "Run until I tell you to stop!"

The Guards had been so steadfastly loyal that though he thought it a betrayal of the woman who had already taught him so much, he dashed on with Tayyebeh. They ran until, coming down a side-street, Tythos stepped in front of them, standing with a tall man, a half a head on Ser Barristan, who had milky white eyes and a shaved head, white robes and a black wood staff. He blocked their way, and as he did, he was muttering in some alien tongue.

An inky blackness was forming out of the stones of the street, gaining life as a set of tentacles.

"The blood of the Dragon that you abandoned was your only stay; you will return the glass candles to me, you foolish cowards."

"Allah is my only stay," Tayyebeh answered, diffidently adjusting her headscarf and slipping a hand under her barnous. Her dark eyes fixed on the growing horror leering up around them, which seemed to be taking a solid form with a mass of eyes and teeth at the centre of the tentacles.

Jon drew his sword, but he didn't feel like it would be much good, and the calmness of the Uzbeks almost astouded him.

Tayyebeh, facing down the monster, drew a simple iron dagger, flecked with rust and inscribed with verse in the flowing script of her people. "Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim. Be gone, devil." She lunged forward and struck the milky-eyed man with the blade. His flash seemed to actually sizzle, and he crumpled to the ground.

The monstrous tentacles grabbed onto Tayyebeh and dragged her into the maw, her skin hissing with burns where they touched her. Jon was horrified, and wondered if his grip on his sword in that moment could even cut paper.

But Tayyebeh's voice snapped firm and unyielding, and the dagger fell again, finding purchase in the inky blackness, leaving blood that seemed of quicksilver to drain forth from unholy wounds. "God! There is no god worthy of worship but Him, the Ever-Living, All-Sustaining! Neither drowsiness nor sleep overtakes Him! To Him belongs whatever is in the heavens and whatever is on the earths! Who could possibly intercede with Him without His permission!? He knows what is ahead of them and what is behind them, but no one can grasp any of His knowledge--except what He wills!" She twisted and dug the blade with each ferocious utterance of unshakable faith. "His throne is the heavens and the firmament, and of their preservation He does not tire! For He is the All-Highest, the Greatest!"

The demonic entity vanished in a terrible flash of spraying silver blood as Tayyebeh dropped to the ground. Jon understood what was necessary; he needed no direction to join her sisters in the Guard in rushing up and seizing Tythos before he could flee; together they dragged him against the wall.

"As you betrayed my mistress, receive your justice, idolator," Tayyebeh glared, drawing her sword as she sheathed the dagger--and pressing it without hesitation into his forcibly bared neck.

Jon watched the man die, up close and personal. It was unsettling. By the same touch, he was an idolator himself. But of Tythos' duplicity there was no doubt, and nor was there any question that the simply inscribed iron dagger and the invocation made by Tayyebeh had been effective against as fiersome and terrible of a thing as he had ever seen in his life.

When he fell to the ground dead, she wiped the blade on his robes. Her eyes betrayed no more sympathy than some old peasant housewife, strangling chickens for the supper pot.

"This way," she said shortly, and they left Tythos there, dead, or close enough to it. Qohor was a ciy of Valyrian origins, and if they had come to flee the Dragonlords, they had not come to flee sewers. Though she was magically burned, Tayyebeh led them down. Only when they were 'safely' in the awful smells of the city's dark underbelly did pulses begin to slow.

Jon stepped forward to stand in the wounded woman's face. He was trembling; so was she, but from the shock of her injuries. "Forgive me for calling you a coward. I don't know what's going on, but if you hadn't faced down that demon with only a dagger and faith, I'd surely be dead."

She slapped him with a gloved hand, and he winced, but he deserved it. "It is never 'only' when it is Faith," she shrugged, and leaned against Sadijha for support. "Now, the Maharani has a plan, and you will listen. Oh, she most certainly has a plan! And it had better succeed, for just as she needs us if she is to survive, I'll certainly die of a fever walking through this with burns if I don't get her back alive!"

Chapter Text

The logic of sacrifice and magic was impeccable. Fortunately, it could be controlled, managed, contained. Others worked their magic with the sacrifices of others. Daena, a Sikh, sworn to uphold righteousness, worked her magic with the sacrifices of herself. Her body was criss-crossed with cuts for a reason.

In this case, the blood dripping from her side was power. She had sacrificed it willingly, because she refused to harm the Unsullied. Their masters and those who profited from their slavery, at least one small group of them, was dead. The Unsullied remained, now taking her back to the cells in manacles. Daena fully expected these were not the common criminal cells, but the cells of sacrifice. In fact, she was counting on it. And walking alone, there were no others who could hear what she said, who could change the deployment orders for the Guards, just in case.

Nor did she ask the Unsullied to speak. But she poured the magic oozing from her side into the tone and temper of her voice, and she spoke to them, in the Low Valyrian that they'd understand. "We are sisters of the knife," she said, "brothers of it too. You lost your manhood, my service to the sword carried me beyond motherhood. We are in that sense kin. You are the warriors with the spears in your hands upon which the whole fate of this city depends. Each day that the people of Qohor awake, you have provided to them. You alone."

"Brothers, consider that you are the freest people here. You are the only ones by which this city lives and dies. Your failure in battle will cause it to perish, your triumph will preserve it. Your slavery in fact continues only because it was trained into you to want it, and because Astapor maintains the book of service, to kill your relatives if you revolt. But you are now also professionals of the spear. you could well write your own stories, to exceed the distant memories of the Lockstep Legions."

"Dovaogedys, my religion does not permit slavery. It is a religion of warriors, man and woman. We are equal before the Divine, singular God, who does not need idols and sacrifice. The Supreme Teacher needs nothing, and expects only prayer and study -- charity and courage. The Black Goat of Qohor sent an idol to this city to be sacrificed to. The Supreme Teacher gave to sages moral teaching. Who is the God, and who is the devil?"

"You should save your voice, Pentoshi," the file-closer finally ventured. "You haven't the strength."

"I know they are going to sacrifice me to the Black Goat, and so I prefer to spend my strength preaching righteousness and virtue. I want to tell you that life is possible without bias to the fact one is a freed slave, or of a low caste or an unknown status or lineage. My family were rulers, only because we were strong with the sword: We were commanders of the Army of the righteous, and we held that title only for as long as we commanded that Army, the khalsa, which would welcome you into it. You are peerless warriors. They have taken from you family and lineage, but they cannot take from you the power of reason, that power I will use until the moment of my death. You can make the choice to resist, though it is terrible to conceive of being thrust into the unknown like then, when since you were young you knew only obedience. But in fact that is obedience to the higher principle, of Wisdom, the Light of the Supreme Teacher, compassion and honest dealing with all. A eunuch can be a soldier, and you know this. A eunuch can be a saint, also. And by fighting for righteousness, you can be both. You may all die, just as I may die tomorrow morn. But in fighting for righteousness, for equality, for liberation, you are in a moment the supreme individual. You still very much have that power, and you cannot lose it until the moment you die."

She looked around at their faces, but she was tired, and though she spoke so confidently of wasting her strength, in fact she wanted to conserve it. The Unsullied knew that she had spared some of them. Though she could not have defeated all of them, she was captured with two rounds in her revolver. They had taken a dagger from her. Having seen her so coolly kill four men, they must have known she would have gotten three or four of them, if she had wanted to. Instead she had pressed herself to the first thrust of the spear.

"The world is at war at every level, from the marching of great armies to the man who beats his wife, because of human greed, lust, wroth and lack of compassion," she continued. "I am not promising you an easy way out of it. The human who wishes to follow the path of love should be prepared to make great sacrifices--but it is love which can drive those sacrifices. Love for the Supreme Teacher, love for humanity. The power of exercising a choice, and refusing to walk the road that was laid out for you by the masters of Astapor."

"If you die in the service of liberty, of following Gods who do not ask sacrifice of their followers, your deaths may be horrible. You may be broken on the wheel and cut apart, or buried into the sand to be eaten by fire ants, or drowned a thousand times before your final death, or burned in halves and allowed to die of fever. All these deaths have been inflicted on the righteous. But you will reside in the Town without Worry, and at that place there is no pain or worry--there is no fear of tax of goods there. Neither awe nor terror nor dread are known. Nor is melancholy of the spirit felt. And we can realise this place by rejecting sacrifice and ritual, rejecting idols, and instead embracing as our worship, compassionate and respectful conduct to all humans... And I will prove it to you."

"Since the book of service records the families of those brought into the Unsullied, so that they may be killed in slavery if you revolt, you must always obey the whip. I will take the whip from your masters tomorrow morning, and I will demonstrate the power of righteousness by shattering the idol of the Black Goat. If I do these things, I will die righteously, fighting the whole city without fear. But if I do these things and you join me, we can end sacrifice, slavery and oppression in this city and many cities together. And you can keep it as secret as you please, for as long as the whip is in my hand, you can pretend that you obey me by that fact alone, and I will bear the shame of being seen as a slaver, so that you can be free and so that righteous men will have a chance to live in Qohor, and idols that demand sacrifice are thrown down. Say nothing to me. Implicate yourselves not. Only when my proofs have been demonstrated tomorrow, make your decision, make your move, and fight for righteousness."

She smiled grimly. "And if you choose not to act, I promise you, as good soldiers, the most impressive show of your art that you have ever seen. But we will not fight you, Dovaogedys. If you wish to kill us all, you may. We will not raise our hands. Just as I did not today."

"Victory through arms and charity!" She shook her fist into the air.

"You need your strength," the file-closer repeated. He led his detachment into the guardhouse, now--and with a barked order, one of the Unsullied brought her a clay cup of vinegar and water, and another offered her a cup of farro mixed with chopped jerky and olive oil. She drank and ate quickly--suspecting that they had not been told by their masters to do this.

Indeed, a harsh voice reached her just a few minutes after she arrived. "Come on, you maggots! Why didn't you bring her into the cells?"

"Master, we were not ordered to," the file-closer replied mildly. "All the free men who accompanied the unit were killed by the prisoner."

The look of disbelief and consternation on the face of the priest who entered the guardhouse made Daena grin in amusement. "They are all dead?" He repeated.

"Yes, Master."

"What happened?"

"I killed them," Daena interjected, "in service of the truth. And in that service, I will go on killing."

The priest stared at her. "Dragon-blooded. You will do no such thing. We will give you to the Black Goat, tomorrow."

"You have nothing to give," Daena rose. "My soul is going to be judged by the one, only, almighty God. I have lived too long, already. Much to long, to be bothered by your false god or the sacrificial altar before a mere graven image."

She was beaten, but they took care not to bruise her face, and then at last she was thrown into the cells. Though manacled, she managed to reinforce the bandage with a few ripped off strips of her blouse as she waited.

It was late in the evening when food was brought, by a young woman in a dress of black dyed silk, covered in heavy silver jewelry, with kohl-lined eyes. She carried a golden platter, filled with fine fruits, boiled eggs, nuts and cheeses, with a carafe of wine.

"You should eat, M'lady, this is the same repaste at the High Priest's table."

"Your High Priest has commanded that I die tomorrow," Daena answered, hanging onto the thread of the magic that dripped from the wound in her side. "Why should I care much for his table?"

"Most people prefer to die comfortably, without hunger pangs. A last meal is traditional in all cultures, M'lady."

"I have already eaten, dear. I dine on the love of the Almighty God, and I have already had my fill. The Supreme Teacher has given me sup of the wisdom of righteousness. I do not need the High Priest's repast."

It was soon clear the girl was there under orders to get her to eat. Daena, holding closely onto that thread of power, fully expected that the food was drugged, to make sure that she was pliable and passive for the sacrificial offering on the 'morrow.

So instead, Daena refused to eat, and preached from Guru Granth Sahib at the girl instead. My mother, so long ago, raised me well. I have lived so long. These young men who lost everything in the early days of our religion, and died harder than an offering to the Black Goat dies, that is a hundred times more what I would lose tomorrow if I fail. I have already lived too long, on my mother's magic. It is only moments like this which make me worthy of that long life.

She looked down at her manacles. And it is not like you could fail completely now. Sadijha has the glass candles. The plan will go ahead. They just need to get Jon out. And whether or not this works tomorrow, I will be giving them a hell of a distraction.

Daena twisted her torso hard enough to reopen the wound. The pain helped keep her awake. She would not risk being drugged in her sleep.

The girl gave up. She left, and Daena could hear the heated conversation between her and the priests. Then, the priests came, and attached chains to her manacles and led her out to the great columnaded open courtyard before the main temple.

They forced her to walk around it three times, as people were filling in. Then she was lead into the temple, and prodded by men with staffs to descend in a bath, where two slave girls awkwardly stripped off the rest of her ripped and tattered old clothes, washed the blood from her side, and dressed her in robes, letting her long ashen grey-silver hair fall down her back. Daena said nothing, and focused on the threads of power that dripped as red blood from her still leaking wound.

Next, she was pulled up the steps leading through 'the Heart of the Black Goat'. The huge idol had a passage where the heart would be. The priests and sacrificial offerings were led up the steps behind the passage, and then 'through the heart of the Goat', where they would be presented to the people in front of the altar, held in the Goat's upper hoof-hands, on which the sacrificial victim would then be gutted and their blood run down into a massive drinking cup that the Goat-idol held.

Now a great crowd of many of the folk in the city had assembled, coming to pray for luck, for help, coming to add their prayers to the offering, to participate collectively in the ritual of the offering, to gain credit from what their religious tithe had bought them, the sacrifice. Many more had come than usual today, because word had spread that Queenly blood was being sacrificed, and so the sacrifice would be special, and of great power. The square, enclosed in columns, gleamed with the heads of tens of thousands of people in the morning sun. The wind was still.

All the better, so that they can hear my voice.

As she was led up through the heart of the Black Goat, Daena felt an oppressive power close in around her. She mustered that thread of her own blood, dripping and drying behind her in places of freedom, free blood that had been freely shed in the service of righteousness, and whispered a prayer: "Under orders of the Immortal Being, The Panth was started. All the Sikhs are ordained to accept the Granth as their Guru; accept Guru Granth Sahib as living Guru for all ages to come. Whosoever is desirous of seeking communion with God, let him search through the hymns of Guru Granth Sahib. The Khalsa shall rule, and its opponents will be no more. Those separated will unite, and all the devotees shall be saved."

The priest drew the sacrificial knife, standing before her.

"Khalsa is of God," Daena whispered as the knife rose.

And then her voice transformed into the all-carrying pitch of a Storm Singer calling to the sky, and everyone in the square heard exactly what she said. "And to God belongs the Victory!" She snapped her magic through the manacles, her hands rose, her wrists brought the iron to tension, and the iron stretched and sheared and broke leaving clean cold-tempered metal.

Her now free hands came together to grab the priest's wrist, twisting and pressing as his expression turned from shock to comprehension that he faced no normal resistance. The pop that ended his strength against her released the dagger into her hands, and she struck him across the chest with it, and kicked him into the crowd below, giving him neither the privilege of falling through the Heart of the Goat, nor the sacrilege of the Black Goat's bowl.

Among the sick and the lame who pushed themselves to the front of the crowd at the offerings, or were brought by their relatives, was a woman with burns carefully bandaged on her upper body, dressed in the humble robes of a commoner of the city. She rose up from among the sick and the lame, and the blade in her hand descended, and drove through the priest's neck where he fell, finishing him.

A moment later, it was flying through the air, up to Daena, and Daena's shout was answered below. It was a sentiment on which they both could agree.

"To God belongs the Victory!"

Daena caught the kirpan of Ranjit Singh in her hand, already wet with blood, and turned toward the idol, as a cacophonous roar and shriek of ten thousand sounds of rage and ten thousand sounds of horror erupted from every corner of the temple, and guns began to snarl and crack in their midst.

"Savaa laakh se ek laraon!" If one hundred and twenty-five thousand come to fight me, I will win over them.

The Black Goat of Qohor was her prey.

Chapter Text

Jon had to admit that when he first heard the plan, he thought they were insane. But he remembered that Barristan the Bold was there, with the Dothraki, in their group, ready to enter the temple grounds with disguised weapons. And he knew that the Uzbeks were very well armed. During the night at their lodgings, they had, in advance of this betrayal and because it was a real plan, broken into their 'trade goods' and reassembled their rifles and stored them in these sewers. They all had revolvers as backup pieces. The machine-gun was there.

Now they waited for the signal. Tayyebeh had gone ahead, using her wounds from the battle with that shadowy horror to the advantage of her cause and her service to her Maharani. It curled Jon's stomach that he had doubted her even for the slightest moment.

Sadijha was in command here, and she fingered her rifle and muttered prayers softly, waiting. The machine gun crew had stepped into a neighboring building, six storeys of wood and stone. The inhabitants had remained quiet, whether or not they were detained or killed, Jon did not know.

A red light arced into the sky with a crack. A flare. "Flare!" He forced the word aloud.

"Forward!" Sadijha grabbed the rifle off her sling and they charged out of the stables they had packed into, when they had emerged from the sewers. The Uzbeks stayed low, their barnouses churning around them in a continuous flow of motion.

The Temple Guards were no Unsullied. Of course they weren't. The Unsullied were both too valuable to be wasted on the temple precincts, and not sacrosanct believers either. That meant the Guards, in their plan, were so much chaff for the harvest.

Sadijha dropped the first one with a shot from the hip with her rifle, on the run.

Jon paused for just long enough to take another with a shot snapped from the shoulder, the acrid bellowing smoke of the breechloader whispering at his cheek from the good-enough but not quite perfect seal. He took off at a run, his legs pumping hard to catch back up with the Uzbeks, loading a cartridge from his bandoliers, on the run.

They pounded past the fallen guards, either dead or thrashing as they bled out to the paving stones. The inner precincts of the temple were in a general panic. The columnaded outer wall had a portico with a line of balconies above it, for the wealthy to attend the sacrificial ceremonies, above the crowds. The Uzbeks had obviously cased it, because they knew precisely what to do. They were only a single squad, but they split up and fired into the crowds trying to descend and flee from above, or in the case of young noblemen, go to defend the sanctity of the temple with their swords.

The result of both was the same -- people toppled, men, the young, elderly, women. Shot dead on the stairs. The elite of the city. As the guns spoke and they fell, the crowds began to pile up in chaos. People tried to run backwards against the crowds. No more firing was necessary. The mobs formed of those trapped on the balconies began to press against themselves in a blind panic, stampeding their own people, preventing anyone from squeezing down the steps at all, and in one case even breaking through the railing with dozens falling into the crowd below as screams joined the cacophony of gunfire.

It was ugly work. They are sacrificing human beings here, Jon reminded himself. It was surprising how easy those words made the killing go down.

"To God belongs the Victory!" Sadijha flung the first grenade into the crowd, on a good underhanded arc. This was one of Daena's special weapons, and the sharp report and cloud of shrapnel that brought down a dozen or more had an immediate effect of compounding the chaos.

He saw Ser Barristan, fighting with the Dothraki. They were standing their ground in a knot, reaping anyone who got close to them with their arakhs, following the old Knight's lead in trying to fight their way to the front of the temple, toward the hideous idol of the Black Goat, toward Daena.

She stood on the sacrificial platform, with kirpan in one hand, and a priestly sacrificial knife in the other. Those two humble weapons had been enough for her to kill two men with already, because the priests could clearly move at most two at a time through the Heart of the Goat, and they were not fighting men. The body of one was toppled into the sacrificial pool, and the Goat's eyes seemed to glow.

Sadijha turned to her sisters. "Come, and come quickly! We are the Army of God! Kill the Idolators!

A group of priests had arrived, with men who had bows, and they were mustering near the Black Goat. This was a target well back into the sacred precincts within the Temple Wall, and easily seen from the high buildings of the rich built around the great temple. This was a target worthy of the machine-gun.

As Jon shoved another paper cartridge into the smoking barrel of rifle, slamming the bolt home as much to protect himself from a cartridge cooking off as to be ready to shoot, he heard the unmistakable sound from the battle on the lake. The sound like tearing cloth overlaid with a thousand angry bees. The mass of priests and archers started to topple, clerical robes and civilian dress flecked with blood as disciplined bursts tore through four or five at once.

Now the crowds pressed so close around them that they had to use their bayonets to fend off running people. There was no other choice. Jon and the Uzbeks pushed toward the mass of Dothraki, fighting with their arakhs. This was in the opposite direction of those fleeing, and their rifles and grenades -- Sadijha's had been only the first -- were necessary to keep the crowd off of them, even an unarmed mass of civilians in a perfect panic, so great was the crush. Bodies littered the square, the shot, stabbed, and bombed outnumbered by the trampled.

One of the Uzbeks dropped to her knee and her rifle flashed toward the idol. A priest with a long curved sword glinting in the sun fell away to the right, toppling to the ground thirty feet below--shot dead a heartbeat from striking a terrible blow on Daena.

A file of the Temple Guards had formed up with their spears to make a stand between the inner sanctum and the outer courtyard. Again, ignorant of the reality of what they faced, they presented a perfect target for the machine-gun. The awful contraption spoke its bloody staccato of rapid fire, and the men fell in line, neat as dropped stones.

The crowd abruptly thinned out around them.

Tayyebeh fell in with them through the gaps now forming.

"How did you survive the press!?" Jon exclaimed.

"After I gave the Maharani her knife, I ran, and threw myself against a column, and hugged it as close as I could," she answered diffidently, though the pain was visible in her eyes from her untreated wounds. Then her voice carried to all of their little band. "Come! Cover-and-spring for the Maharani, now!"

Jon understood this most basic and yet effective of tactics. He fell in naturally with the second line. Sadijha led the women forward. Tayyebeh stood at his side, revolver in her hands. The covering group opened fire.

Jon saw that there were two more priests going for the Heart of the Goat, to reach Daena. From this angle, he could fire on them. Already dropped to one knee, he leveled his rifle and fired. One man fell. Taking no time to reload properly, he tried a trick, popping a cartridge straight from the bandolier on his right shoulder, into the gun. It worked, and with a resounding sense of satisfaction, he worked the bolt without the gun leaving his shoulder, and fired again. The second priest toppled onto the stairs into the great idol. Blood trickled down the steps. Then it was his turn to rush forward, and Tayyebeh with him, while the little knot of rifle-women under Sadijha covered them.

A thunder was in the heavens, and the sky began to darken. Jon shivered, and felt time grow slow, but he reloaded his gun. He had killed many already today, and in this company of lionesses, fear no longer touched him.

"Sadijha, give me the Willy Pete!"

The woman had made her second dash. She was close to the inner sanctum. Showing not doubt or hesitation, she unhooked the last grenade from her belt, different from the others. She pitched it sharply up toward Daena on the platform. Swaying in the breeze, the Valyrian sorceress - and Khalsa warrior - grabbed the grenade, armed it, and placed it into the Heart of the Goat. A thunder came to the sky, and she turned, swaying drunkenly, and stabbed at her own arms with the kirpan, letting blood flow, and clenching it between her teeth.

Jon dashed forward, spanned the wall in a single leap, holding his arms out. "Leap, Lady Daena!"

She jumped, and if he was good for anything in the world, big, young and strong, it was to catch her, her muscles already shaking from the terrible exertion inflicted upon them. and drag her clear, pulling the kirpan from between her teeth.

Ser Barristan was at his side in a moment, helping him with her, as the rifles of the Uzbeks swept the remaining resistance in the temple square. A searing explosion of sparking fire appeared from inside the Black Goat, some accursed keening scream coming from the heavens as it did, fire leaping from every point the embers touched, like some awful dry white wildfyre.

"Your sword," he offered Daena, when with Jon he had helped her to her feet, having dragged her across the low parapet marking the inner sanctum. He presented the black blade in his hands to her, and swung his own from his back.

She grinned through deathless pale lips. "Well fought, Ser Barristan." Above them, hideous black flames rose up from the idol, billowing with strange churning clouds that seemed to form the faces of skulls twisted into a rictus of agonising screams, the same screams that continued even as the wild crowds in the temple courtyard had thinned out.

Tayyebeh drew herself up alongside them -- and spat into the inner sanctum of the temple, in absolute contempt of the Power there. "There is no God but God. The Praiseworthy, the Great! To You belongs the Victory, and only You do we fear!"

"To God belongs the Victory," Daena repeated, though her voice was now soft.

The ground shook faintly below their feet, the paving stones vibrating under Jon's boots. "Perhaps we should be going."

"No..." She held up her hand to forestall him, and nearly fell from the loss of blood. He caught her, and listened. No, indeed. It was not some power of the idol. He could feel the rhythmic footfalls.

Jon stiffened, and looked up to see the first columns of Unsullied, arriving and forming up before the main entrance to the temple courtyard.

Fortunately, his wit did not fail him. "Do we have a plan for that?"

He was very relieved when Daena grinned. "As a matter of fact, I do. And some enslaved women paid a very dear price for it. Tayyebeh?"

"Maharani?"

"...Which one of the girls?"

"The one called Elys," Tayyebeh pointed into the midst of the Dothraki men, where the slave girls had been both protected, and bait to make them seem like normal families of supplicants. "And Sadijha carries the whip, Maharani."

"Elys, girl, come here."

"Mistress?" The brown-robed young woman looked up through bloodshot eyes. The first Unsullied, with a few of their commanders, began to file into the temple compounding, and they faced each other across a hundred yards. They were faceless, expressionless, unitary, uniform, but Jon knew there were men somewhere there. What did they think of all of this? What had Daena done?

Daena extended a hand toward Sadijha, and the woman produced from her pack the ceremonial whip of command, the Harpy's Fingers.

The men leading the Unsullied suddenly realised where the Commander of the City Watch was, or rather where he wasn't--among the living--as the truth dawned on Jon, too.

Daena took the Harpy's Fingers--and pressed it into Elys' hand instead. The girl nearly dropped it, looking to Daena with wide eyes.

"General Elys, your Maharani directs you to order your regiment to kill the Masters and free every slave in the city."

The voice of a slave who had been used as a thing by men squeaked in a soprano that filled with sudden hope and rage: "Kill the Masters and free every slave in the city! I command you!"

Daena drew her sword, though the act nearly made her fall over, and she poured her magic into her voice one more time for this day of days.

"To God belongs the Victory!"

Chapter Text

The Dragon's banner floated lazily over Hull, in a late summer breeze. The smoke wafted back and forth, and slowly drifted out to sea. The principal town of The Driftmark sat there in the afternoon heat and the only thing he had done to it was to waft the smell of shit down to it from his army, instead of highland flowers from the central hills.

As long as the enemy had artillery, he could not begin to reduce the town. He could only blockade it, with the Royal fleet off shore, and his troops on land, and wait for starvation to wreak a terrible toil on the intractable inhabitants. They had chosen it, but Robb still felt a pang of sympathy for the babes who were dying, and would die when he finally took the town.

This was no glorious warfare. He had lost a thousand men to disease in close quarters around Hull, while pushing forward his own lines of contravallation. Constant harassment from the inland population of the island had continued despite the reavers he sent out that had denuded their sheep herds to inflict starvation on them in return, so he had also compelled his men to begin lines of circumvallation to protect the camps from raids.

His one success so far had been cutting the route between Hull and Driftmark Castle. He had advanced his lines in a space where the enemy cannon dare not be closely employed, lest they be cut off from the rest of the town, and where they could not use the cobbled streets to deploy centrally to any point on their earthworks. All of these tactics of defence and assault, he had learned the hard way, in the school the slim foreign woman was teaching him, in the blood of his own men.

He had tried his hardest, but these were lessons far afield from the warfare that Robb had learned at his father's knee. Only a close night assault on the road from the town to the castle had at last worked. Unfortunately it meant that he had to build a second set of contravallations to commence the siege of Driftmark castle, and the two strongpoints were close enough together that flag signals and smoke signals and a bright reflected light from a mirror of polished brass could be used to pass messages, by some agreed code. He had tried to set up more catapults in range of Driftmark castle, but the defenders of Hull had placed their cannon on ramps to fire further and driven them back once more.

Nor had the enemy been quiet. They had shipyards close at hand, with much strong cordage, iron and wood. They had built their own catapults, and used them to throw bombs of powder, iron scrap and rock at his positions to spare the cannon ammunition. They had begun manufacturing crossbows for the defenders, more showing up by the day to augment the musketry of the foreign woman's little band. She favoured defending her lines with a great of shot rather than letting his men ever reach spear-range, and she used every way she could to get it, even when the siege must doubtless make her run out of supplies sooner or later -- though the messages from King's Landing suggested that she might be scavenging the ingredients for her powder from the cellars of the city.

Whatever her real resources were, he did not expect that he could break Hull until it ran out of food, or it ran out of powder. Thus he continued to press against Driftmark Castle, and force their cannon to fire at range, hopefully using up the powder more quickly. The lines of circumvallation engulfed both and his camp situationed between and to the north of the points, patrolled by his remaining cavalry, with the reserves able to quickly man them. But his Army dwindled, and support from the capital was slight. Tywin suggested he could bring his Northerners over with the fleet when they arrived, from Duskendale, and overwhelm the enemy's defences with numbers.

That will be a bloody shambles, Robb thought, but at least then he would finally have the counsel of men that he knew and trusted. They might find a way, where he could not when by himself and surrounded only by Lions, whose real objectives he knew not to trust.

He wondered if his enemy felt the same kind of uncertainties that he did. The foreign woman, Captain Tekalova, did she fear if her troops could hold out with the townspeople until relieved? Or was she utterly confident of it?

The warning of a trumpet from his pickets brought his attention. The enemy's cannon and muskets were silent for the moment, the occasional twang of crossbows from either side. The smoke from the last firing was at last fading away. He turned inland.

A messenger was coming, up from the direction of the ruined city of Spicetown, where what remained of the old stone wharves but more importantly the protected harbour were being used to offload the supplies for his Army, Hull being held by the enemy. He was escorted, with a troop sufficient to deter the enemy bushwackers. Robb lost many men without 'losing' them, on tasks like that, not dead or wounded but simply needed for things which were not taking the city.

They thundered to a stop, and the messenger dismounted and bowed from the waist, and then presented the message up to Robb on his steed. "M'Lord. Dispatches from King's Landing and the Hand, marked urgent. They just arrived on a fast frigata."

Robb grimaced, and broke Tywin's seal on the first.

Lord Stark, Greeting.

The Young Pretender has landed at Massey's Hook, and the Massey and Bar Emmon have declared for his cause. It is said they have twenty great ships of war, and many transports besides, under orders to Master Blackwater Bay. You must take all necessary and appropriate measures to prevent the descent of his fleet of war upon the Blackwater.

Lord Lannister,

Being The Hand of the King to His Grace Joffrey, First of His Name.

Robb lowered the message and looked back toward Hull. Since there was no stock of trained Ravens for Driftmark available to him, just to his enemy, this message had gone quickly to King's Landing, but slowly to him. He had to assume that the enemy fleet was already operating at will in the Bay.

They could arrive that night, or the next day. Only the frigatas of his fleet would tell him, and if the wind was with the enemy's fast-flying high rigged ships, none of them would reach his main body anchored at Spice Town to let them know, none would survive the attempt.

Tywin asks me to do the impossible. But if I just say that outright as I might at a council of War with my father's men, I will not like the consequences. One could not have an honest tongue here.

That meant his only option was a storm. But best yet, a storm where his 'advisors' did not come back. He looked again to Hull. People on the walls were certainly watching. He could use that to his advantage.

"Send out a flag of truce!"

The order rippled down the line, the men eager to see what would come of it.

At length, a small party appeared from the walls -- Captain Tekalova herself, with two officers of the garrison, flag-bearers with the Dragon banner and the flag of truce, and a drummer beating a slow and steady hold pattern. They descended the battered parapets, wound their way through the caltrops and swine feathers with great care, and approached the party which Robb had led out from his own lines.

"Lord Stark," she acknowledged, speaking some Common haltingly now. She exchanged a bow, and he did the same.

"Captain Tekalova. You have executed the orders that you were given by your liege Lady with implacable courage," Robb answered, trying to be flattering. "You do honour and credit to the customs of your nation. However, your defence of Hull is at an end, as it must end. We have received reinforcements, and we will attack with them at the time of our choosing. You have seen the messenger come, and you know it must be true. However, because you chose to resist against the forces which I had present at the time I previously demanded your surrender, and not my reinforcements, I extend to you the privilege of surrendering the town inviolate, without a sack, and giving to your troops the honours of War."

"You may bring more men against me, Lord Stark," she said through her translator after listening, for a moment, both to his words and the translation. "And indeed you are most kind," the Velaryon knight continued for the Captain. "You show a rare kindness toward your enemy and willingness to show weakness in twice extending a mercy which is usually offered but once."

Her words skipped a beat, and it was Captain Tekalova herself who spoke directly in Common those words that remained.

"However, I am an officer of the Uzbek Guard."

She drew her sword.

Several of Robb's men reached for their own, but he held the shoulder of one, and watched, as she carved a line down the muddy and torn soil, and turned back to her own parapets, and raised the sword to the sky and shook off the dirt.

"My children! The Stark has promised you the Honours of War if you surrender now, saying that you have fought well.You may all walk across this line, if you wish. However, I am an officer of the Uzbek Guards. I will defend Hull alone, if you take the Stark's offer."

She turned back slowly to him, as a building cheer rippled down the lengths of the defences and back into the town itself. Captain Tekalova bowed again. She said nothing, and retreated with her truce party to the walls.

He waited until they were behind the parapets.

No men came to surrender.

Robb hadn't expected them to. He cleared his throat, feeling so dry as he swallowed.

"Prepare the men for a night assault."

The purpose of launching a night assault, of course, was that the enemy could not tell that they had not been reinforced. It was the only way to give Robb a chance to let panic creep into the enemy lines, to let a fierce enough attack at the right point convince the people of Hull that he really had great numbers of reinforcements, to let doubt and demoralisation creep in, to let fear bring an end of their valiant defence--and of them.

Orders were passed to oil armour, and bind it with cloth, to keep it from clanking. Men painted themselves with mud and dirty after the sun went down. Their banners were hidden. Men prepared like they would for Secret War.

"Nonetheless, we will lead the assault personally," Robb repeated. "I must give the men every chance of victory that I may. Ser Stafford, Captain Vylarr, this is our last chance to execute the Hand of the King's Will. You have seen Lord Lannister's message. I am not a man who fails. We will lead the troops forward personally, may the Gods help us."

His throat was dry at that sacrilege, his heart pounded, considering the falseness he bore in it, the falseness that made him think he was acting like a Southron Lord. He wanted to return from the assault and leave this men behind -- assuming it failed. He reminded himself that he was, in fact, trying to succeed. Succeeding would be best.

Ser Stafford bowed, and opened his palms. "M'lord is of course correct. The Lion stands with the Wolf. We will lead the storming parties." He was put out as well as any man; a Knight could not fail to follow his commander, on a mission such as this, and remain a Knight afterwards in the eyes of his fellow men.

The men had faced this opponent and her reeking iron tubes for weeks now. They knew what was coming, and it was not with enthusiasm that they formed up in the lines and prepared for this night assault. Robb knew that he must do something to make it a serious assault, instead of an absurd farce brought on by poor morale in his men.

Now, he dashed up to the parapet ahead of his men, and pushed over the top, making sure that Ser Stafford and Captain Vylarr followed him. Then he drew his sword. Fighting men in the trenches did not want long speeches like bards put into the mouths of commanders. They preferred more laconic plain speaking.

So the words came to him in a moment of inspiration.

He turned back toward his men, holding his arms wide and his sword out tall. "I DO NOT ASK YOU TO ATTACK --"

"--I ORDER YOU TO DIE!"

Then he turned toward the enemy lines and dashed forward, at the head of the assault.

The compact mass of the Battles followed him, surging up and forward and keeping down their cries until they reached the abbattis and the swine feather pits, throwing down wooden bridges over the later, hacking into the former with axes, throwing ropes over them and pull them aside. They threw down heavy bundles of fir and spruce boughs across where their scouts had noted the fields of caltrops. Other men surged across.

A single sharp brassy trumpet split the night along the enemy lines.

Robb's heart surged that perhaps, just perhaps, they had not been spotted up until that moment when they began to cut into and move aside the abbattis. His men were surging forward once more, the cannon and muskets silent against them.

Then the ground before them erupted like a battery of a dozen cannon had been lined wheel to wheel in front of them. Robb was blown to his knees and the entire world around him grew slow and confused. He saw in a daze at the rocks scattered around like the Gods had dropped them from the sky. A leg absent a body flopped against him. Shattered halves of men were heaped in windrows to either side of him.

He felt something wet under his helmet, and reached up, just to realise that he was bleeding from his ears.

Charges, charges of powder, charges in mines, facing us, packed with rocks. Held in reserve for a general assault. For this.

He pushed himself to his feet, the roar of men, the scream of men all around again like his ears had snapped back to life, to function once more. Crossbow bolts from the defenders were flying through the air around him. Drums were rolling on both sides. Officers screamed orders, and he was one, and he needed to lead.

Robb pushed forward, saying something, but not really processing what it was.

The line of musket-wielding soldiers had appeared atop the enemy parapets. They were firing, now, far faster than they ever had before. Ramming their guns, presenting them, and discharging into the mass of his soldiers without precise aiming, over and over, in a steady drumbeat of volleys. He could tell they were ahead of him only by the sputtering flame that flashed from their muskets.

But he was very close. He waved men on, screaming with a voice he could not hear. The terrible boom when the enemy cannon fired was low, muffled and dead. Moon and city became visible again, through masses of darkness that represented his soldiers, felled by the shot from the guns that was made up of hundreds of musket balls. They had fired double-shotted or even more, for a massive cannon-ball bounced through his field of vision, knocking men down and maiming them horribly, but slow enough to be seen, or perceived through flames. Flames?

His voice came to him. "Reserves! Reserves! Send for the reserves! Bring them up!"

Robb pushed forward, crashed through the ditch at the foot of the parapet. A group of Knights pressed around him with swords, following him forward. The ditch was wet and reeked, rancid and thick in the air.

His men literally advanced through shit to gain the parapet for him. A fresh Battle was pushing through, where they had cleared the way, littered the ground with corpses, pushed aside the abbattis, bridged the swine feathers, covered the caltrops, either with contrivances or with bodies it was the same.

They were amongst the enemy now, pushing forward against half-pikes made from simple hammered pieces of iron and hardened wood. He faced down young men with fear in their faces, and tore into them with his sword, using his armour to slip and weave, battering aside pike-heads to strike at their bearers.

Cannon were roaring around him, and men behind him were falling, still being slaughtered before they could get to grips with their foe. But now, instead of rolling the guns back into position, the defenders were letting them fall back by their own recoil.

The musketeers had fallen back, but their fire was renewed from innumerable holes in the buildings, firing ports cut into walls. The crossbows joined them. This fire covered the pike-men in falling back. Had it been a minute? Had it been ten? He couldn't tell, but his men held the enemy works. "Up and over lads!"

He could his own voice, just for it to sway back out of focus. He was leading the men, but not really sure how or why. They had to press on, they had to press on.

The retreating defenders of Hull paused, and with a single snapped order in Valyrian, turned and hurled bombs toward them, grenades. The shrapnel from them was not effective against armour, and Robb pressed ahead through the explosions. Still there were more, and these were tightly wrapped bundles of rags and tar. Burning they flew through the sky, and landed across the parapet, and down the other side. In several places, the trench filled with shit whooshed alive with flame.

Blue flame, fortunately, tinged with orange and smelling horribly; not green. The other thing had smelled was whale oil.

They had not seen the enemy preparing the trench, he had no idea how it was done, but now his men struggled through a burning soup of whale oil and shit as grenades of tar and cloth and saltpetre fell into it, hurled by men on buildings and engines of war, churning up an oppressive cloud of stinking smoke it drove back even brave men from making the leap in the chaos and confusion of the night assault.

He had pushed forward into the city streets, when the first terrible blow to his helmet dropped him to his feet. Around him, his men cried in rage and confusion. As he struggled back up, another terrible blow slammed into his torso.

Hull still had elements of a Valyrian city. One of them was that even the poor people had roofs of tile, instead of thatch. Above him he saw the colourful skirts of some young maiden. She was silhouetted in the stinking flames, with a solid flat stone in her hands. She threw it down at him, and he nearly lost consciousness, he lost his sword as he was battered back to the pavement.

All around him, his men who had surged into the streets were encountering women, women on the rooftops, women throwing the roofing slate down onto the heads of him and his men. It was not the fires or the musketry or the cannon or the mines which brought an end to his offensive. Inside of the defences, at the moment when in a typical siege, the men would set to enjoying the desserts of their storming, they now faced something new.

They had beaten back the men of Hull, but the women were on the roofs, throwing down the roofing tiles on their heads. He staggered to his feet, feeling more detached from his own attack than ever, stumbling around as he looked for his sword, grabbed it, pulled it up and was not even sure it was his.

When they tried to rush the buildings, they found the doors barred, and crossbows and muskets giving them hell from firing slits.

The attack stalled.

A grenade exploded at his feet.

He staggered, and then there was another woman on the roof. They didn't have enough archers or arbalastiers with the assault Battles, they didn't have the weapons to fire back...

She threw the roofing slate at him, and caught him on the neck.

It was the women with the roofing tiles, who broke his assault.

When he came too, it was late afternoon. He smelled of shit and flame, but he was back in his camp.

"We brought you back, M'lord," one of the soldiers standing guard said. They obviously hoped for a reward, but they would get it. They had earned it, even simply dragging his unconscious body from that Hell.

"You will have honours for it, and a Knighthood as a Southern man, each and everyone one," Robb promised, though the sun hurt his eyes badly, and his head still swam. "Ser Steffon?"

The soldier shook his head.

"Captain Valyrr?"

Again he shook it. "None have seen them. M'lord."

"Is there a Maester?" Robb finally asked, admitting his weakness.

"He has been called -- but there are many Lords and men of rank wounded on the field, M'Lord."

One of the soldiers gave him water cut with vinegar. It might as well have been a drink of the Gods. At length, he dragged himself to his feet. The Targaryen banner still floated over Hull.

"We fall back."

"My Lord?"

"The Pretender's fleet is coming. We fall back. Fast and far. Take the fleet to Duskendale. We will harass their supply through the Bay. That is what will slow them down. Facing them in open battle is madness. We fall back." Knights and men of rank were reaching him, and he repeated the orders, with more and more authority. It felt right. It was humiliating, but it might just work. As much as his lack of supply had damned him, he could repay the favour. They had powerful ships, he had many ships.

Captain Tekalova had taught him one more lesson. Perhaps it was the most useful.

I obeyed Tywin, now I must fall back, before he can order me to send the fleet against them like I just sent my men.

It was no comfort to the windrows of corpses marking each position in their advance to the parapet, and the many more the enemy were now burning beyond.

Robb had left half his Army behind at Hull, from disease and War.

Chapter Text

Anyone there, if she had asked them--and of course she couldn't, not really--would have told her they had confidence in Daena. But that confidence would have been skin deep, a thing to say to please the Khaleesi. Most men certainly thought her expedition foolhardy madness. Perhaps Drogo did, himself, and merely wished to be rid of her kinswoman. Daenerys had hoped not, but between Daena's intents and Drogo's will, Daenerys simply had no power at all.

Whatever Drogo's will in the matter was, it had not led to Daena's death. This much quickly became clear when, with clashing cymbals and banging drums and a auroch-horn trumpet sounding, a small column approached a-horse. Sadijha led Daena's horse. There was Jon, too, and Daenerys' heart skipped a beat. He was leading a bandaged Tayyebeh, one of those guards who had been her protectors since she was the smallest of girls, tall and dark of hair.

Daena seemed to lean in the saddle, but she reached out with a rigidly oustretched gloved hand, her arm cowled in a full cloak, and took back the reins. On her own, she approached the Khal.

"O Khal, I present to you the riches of my raid on Qohor," she declared, and gestured but once.

Daenerys could study her more clearly, then, and see how awful she looked. But the command was given. Each rider approached in turn, and dumped out the contents of a sack on their back and saddle-bags onto the ground before the Khal. This attracted Drogo's attention and everyone else's as well, and how could it not!? Even Daenerys was distracted for a moment by the gold and gems that spilled forth, the silver cups and the smashed gold votive offerings, their ritual power taken by ceremonial desecration.

The wagons came with yet more, fine silk and tapestries and larger items. The array of loot was spectacular, almost dizzying; it had in fact been a long time since the Dothraki had looted a city of any consequence. Their wealth had become increasingly based on collecting tithes from the merchant caravans that passed through their land and then stealing it from each other in the endless wars of the khalasars. This was something else entirely.

Daenerys had seen riches before, though. She overcame the impulse to gawk, and turned her attention to her muna. Like some old Imperial statue, as rigid as the stone, she stood more than sat in the saddle. No sword drawn in some grand display, with a plundered cloak the only mark of her status, and her boots dirty with the dust of the road, her sword once again buckled at her side, and a rifle slung behind her back. As with the haughty dragonlords of old legend and song, she admitted no care for the treasures she threw down at the Khal's feet.

Then, the last of the wagons arrived. This one held a tarpulin over it, and several of the Dothraki who had gone with her were grinning as they cut it loose. The horses were unhitched, and with a tremendous heave-ho, eight men toppled the wagon before the Khal.

People gasped, others looked on in confusion, the Khal's eyes widened and he looked up toward Daena. "What is the meaning of this?"

"O Khal, I present to you the Black Goat of Qohor!" She answered with a voice clarion and sure. "Behold his works--and most of all his fate."

Laughter was followed by cheers. Drogo began to laugh, harder and harder, and bade his bloodriders close. "That is the temper of the blood I married; that is why I trusted the madwoman. The ash of their Gods will but nourish our horses. The Great Stallion has not taken down the walls of Qohor, but He has humbled their God more surely than if we had split them stone to stone. Look at this, and from a mere raid, too!"

"Take the second Valyrian as your bride, too, though she is older;" one of his bloodriders suggested outright.

Now Daena laughed, soft and polite, though Daenerys who knew her well could more sense than hear the edge in her voice. "I am nearly a crone, past my years. None would find fruit there."

"I envy the land where you left sons," the Khal allowed with a shrug, paying her a high compliment to be sure. "What did you leave in Qohor?"

"A government of freed slaves, O Khal."

He frowned, both despising that and wondering at the hitch in it. "And the Beardless ones? The Unsullied?"

Then, Daena pointed yonder, back in the direction they had come, more dusting rising. "My troops are coming shortly, O Khal, though we will have to discuss the plans I have for Volantis, since they cannot keep up with your khalasar."

"Your ... troops."

"My troops. I killed their commanders, and took them to my side. I left most behind in the city, to keep order and protect it, but these are prepared to march with me." She swung down from the saddle, then, a painful and tired gesture, and Daenerys could see that she was favouring her right side. But nonetheless, she bowed very politely. "Let us sit and take tea, O Khal. I want to discuss Volantis with you."

Drogo's eyes went from Daena to Daenerys and back, and then idly toward the piles of plunder on the ground before him, his face wary with the political calculations, the uncertainty of whether or not this won him enormous face or cost it to him with his reliance on women. The desire for plunder warred with these considerations, and Daenerys now appreciated this, and how precariously it left them all hanging. But Drogo also clearly knew that the answer would not be found here and now. "Go and rest, woman, and take your kinswoman at your side. I will distribute the spoils to my people, and then summon you both to my lodge when the day is right for us to discuss this next great feat of your scheme. But now, my people will celebrate the spoils of a great raid!"

"As the Khal commands."

Inside the privacy of her lodge, Daenerys had her slaves--she was forcing herself to use that word, and remind herself of the bile she should feel for it--remove Daena's clothes, and then the bandage, to reveal the severe wound she still bore under flickering lantern-light. Nagurash stood guard outside.

"You paid terribly for Qohor, Mother," Daenerys blinked, feeling ill, not wanting to telegraph how much it affected her. She spoke in Punjabi here, with the usual substitution of Khan for Khal.

"No, I paid terribly for the chance to liberate men from slavery -- and that was worth it," Daena answered. Sadijha knelt at her side with salves and fresh bandages, and then gave her commander pills, that she drank with water.

"My magic will help," Daena added. "I have healed myself from worse wounds with it before. What comes next demands a more active role from you and Jon, anyway."

"From Jon -- And I?" Daenerys felt caught out by the statement, even in the comfortable anonymity of Punjabi. Her adoptive mother was planning something yet more than she had realised.

"I have the cachet to sell the Khan on my plan, now. You will go ahead of us, pretending that you have run away from your husband; and that the Khan and I are fighting together to retrieve you, to uphold his honour and our alliance. But it will be planned with the Khan; your job will be to make the arrangements, to throw open the gates so that we can sack the outer city of Volantis."

Daenerys grimaced. "Are you serious about it? About sacking Volantis?"

"God, no. But I won't get you out of the khalasar alive otherwise. Qohor was about getting the glass candles I need to communicate with you reliably --and about winning over the Unsullied of the city, so that you could have an escort, docile in appearance, but messengers in fact of the promise of liberation. I am trying to get myself out of this alive as well, which means a storming attempt in which we do throw open the gates of Volantis. But we will not allow the Khan to sack the city; if I give the city to anyone, I will give it to its own slaves. Once I thought that absurd, but I succeeded in Qohor, and if the attempt is mad, best for me to die in the attempt. Regardless, you and Jon will be able to escape by ship to Pentos, or even Westeros, and I will have gotten you clear away. Once you are out of the Khan's power, you will not fall back within it, though I intend to use this alliance you negotiated to the hilt, if I may."

Her breaths were steady now, the wound once again bandaged, and lilac eyes refusing to stop looking at Daenerys' own. "Jon will pretend to be the man who stole you away from the Khan. You will rush to old Volantis for shelter within her walls. I will assuage any paranoia the Khan has by assuring him that Jon cannot follow you into the Black Walls -- and anyway, we can kill him afterwards. But it will never come to pass. He is after all no mere bastard. He is going safe home to Rhaella, just like you are."

"And you," Daenerys shook at Daena's shoulder. "I don't want to see tears in my mother's eyes when I come home. She truly loves you."

"And I intend to reach Westeros. But you cannot ask the woman who has regarded you as her daughter to seriously plan on living when you are dead: Daenerys, you and Jon must come first. It must be so. You are our future, and I am very much the past."

Daenerys closed her eyes. Of course it was true, it was elementary. She could see a terrible challenge unfolding in front of her. You want me to run away while pretending to run away.

Muna, you must understand me too well. She looked silently at Daena, two sets of Valyrian eyes. After what you have done in Qohor, how am I supposed to just board a ship in Volantis, and go home?

There had been enough talking for now, though. The less, the better. She switched into Valyrian. "Get better, Muna." Then she kissed Daena's cheek. "The distribution of your spoils by the Khal will take long into the evening. He will summon us tomorrow. Until then, I am going to help you to rest."

A wry smile with shadows flickering across it was Daena's answer, all full of duty. The sun was reduced to a dim glare by the skin walls of the lodge, and the lantern smoke lied and said it was evening. "Tayyebeh needs me, Dany."

"Then I will bring Tayyebeh here," the young Princess smiled. "And you will both be healed, she by you, and you by not getting up."

The laugh was well worth it.

Daenerys felt like something strange had happened, like the real moment in all of this trauma when she had passed to adulthood had been when Nagurash had spoken to her, when Daena had left for Qohor. She did not fear these adult things, not anymore. Outside the Dothraki sang songs of their feats in Qohor, and Daenerys could hear them, and begin to think those dangerous thoughts, that if Daena could shake cities alone, surely they could shake them together.

Tayyebeh was brought in, and helped to lay gently next to the Maharani. Daena propped herself up with Daenerys' help, and spent a time quietly working over her, before nodding in satisfaction and laying back down. It was surely not the first time that Daena had done something, likely magic, to help her guards survive wounds; it was a role inversion, an act of service born of timeless compassion.

If Daena has ever been led astray, it is because she loved too greatly, Daenerys decided then. She wanted to do something for them in turn. Though she was not the same kind of singer that Daena was, she sat cross-legged at Daena's side, facing both the wounded women, and began to softly sing the lullabies that Rhaella and Daena had sung to her, when she was little. That, at least, she could do.

The tears in her Muna's eyes were the difference between her and the men celebrating outside the lodge.

Chapter Text

The Earthworks from the battle were still visible. They would be for years. The corpses had scarcely finished being burned. Their banner flaunted over Hull; now their fleet rode at anchor in the harbour. The great two-deckers that lay in the harbour attracted the attention of the entire town, but they turned out to see something greater--the return of their Liege, the Lord of the Tides--and the return of their King to his homeland.

"Viserys, Viserys! Hail to the Rightful and Royal!"

"Fire and Blood! You trusted us fairly, Sire, and we stood their siege for thee! Long Live the King!"

Shouts from shore came with drums and the tolling of bells, as the long-boats hove in from the ships through the swell, and approached the stone wharves with their high wooden warehouse-cranes alongside the sides, meant for the offloading of cogs and cargo galleys. Until sounded, Esther did not trust them for working the two-deckers in.

They arrived in the first boat with Viserys, with Arianne, with her own husband Prince Oberyn, with Queen Rhaella -- with two boats of escorts with them, the appointed Whitecloaks and the Uzbek Guards detachment. Every single Targaryen and Velaryon banner they had was flying -- spirits were high, for of course they were; they had just withstood a siege, and the arrival of the fleet promised food for the devastated island. The combination of both was plenty to make it a festive occasion.

Guards formed up first on the wharf. Then the King ascended -- people knelt, people tried on their knees to get past the guards to grab at his cloak. Esther bounded up behind him. She knew, and feared, that this might go to his head. "You are loved here in the islands, but the challenges will be on the mainland, Your Grace," his Hand offered softly.

Then Captain Aiman Tekalova approached. She drew herself up and rigidly saluted, and then bowed. "Your Grace, I present to you the Town of Hull and Driftmark Fortress, held against all attackers." The surviving gunners and musketeers of the advance force were drawn up in review.

Esther fell in line with Viserys as he walked like he were a little bit entranced in a dream. Lord Velaryon quickly caught up with them. Aiman stepped alongside. She laid out in brisk terms the positions and the battles which were fought along them, ranging from the details of where they had lost men to the noteworthy points of a victory -- calling particular attention to the women of the town who had struck down many Knights in the streets at this place and that place with the roofing tiles, but also giving due credit to the geometric precision with which the defensive works had been laid out, to guarantee that every line of approach crossed beaten ground.

"Popular War, Your Grace," the Captain observed--and she didn't mean the War was popular. "The whole of the island was of one mind, to support Your Grace as their natural Sovereign. When the men tired, the women took up the slack."

People's War, Esther thought, But only on the islands. Then she stepped up to the King's side, where they stood now along the earthworks.

"Sire, you can see here the maxim that the shovel displaces the sword well. There were only fifty of our men in the city, and a hundred townsfolk with prior war experience, mostly in the old Royal fleets. That was nonetheless sufficient to create a core from which the entire town was held. There were but thirty-five men at arms in the Driftmark castle -- and again it held, even when the long central lines of the works were penetrated by the enemy. The successful maintenance of communications and the careful preparation of the earthworks and associated passive defences -- abbattis, caltrops, swine feathers -- held up the enemy for weeks at minimum cost, weakening their main forces so then when an attempt to storm was finally made, the defence-in-depth could steal their momentum and grind them down until they broke." She gestured with a hickory swagger stick that Oberyn handed her, pointing out each position as she illustrated the story with her gestures.

Viserys turned to Captain Tekalova. "You commanded a fine defence; as Lady Daena would say, in the finest traditions of her Uzbek Guards. You should be proud of yourself as an officer for -- I believe," he glanced to Esther for a moment, "A professional action, well-executed."

She nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace. The credit should go to my teachers, who likely never imagined this circumstance, but prepared me well enough for the circumstances."

"Ah, they are so modest," Viserys shook his head looking at Esther.

"Like Your Grace said, professional," she just smiled faintly. Certainly, Captain Tekalova's instructors at Sandhust had never imagined this, but the fundamental principles of military science in the 22nd century were applicable even here. Esther knew well enough; she was applying the same lessons to her own planning.

"Unfortunately, it turns out Robb Stark may be more intelligent than his father," Esther continued quietly, handing the stick back to Oberyn with a wink, and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her duster and looking out over the pockmarked lines of the siege. Esther had the privilege of putting her hands in her pockets around the King. "He retired to Duskendale with the Usurper's fleet, from whence it can harass our Sea Lines of Communication." The Royal party had caught up behind them.

"Duskendale, of course, has cause these days to hate us," Rhaella reminded her son, though she scarcely had to. He was grimacing. "Even in ruins, the fortifications of Duskendale are considerable, and our intelligence says the Young Wolf's reinforcements are marching south. He will be in position to take personal command of a large army, there."

Viserys looked to the west, as if he could pierce the low hills in the centre of Driftmark, and see Duskendale himself. "Do we change our plans?"

"I do not advise it, Your Grace," Esther sighed. "I want to see the enemy begin to develop their plan. We still go ahead and cut the throat. But, I am comfortable with following the principle we did here in Driftmark, and sending a small force to Crackclaw Point, to raise the loyal houses there. After all, two of us can play this game -- we can use the levies in Crackclaw to harass the Northmen in the line of march for a fortnight before they approach Duskendale. Arryn troops must also go the same way as well."

Viserys allowed himself a moment to consider it. "At what place will you have me, Lady Hand?"

"I should not want you to command the levies. It will make them a natural target, and they are not veteran troops. The centre of power is the capital: You should command the Army that puts it siege, Sire." Which was a polite way for Esther to say that she absolutely didn't want to deal with the liabilities of seeing Viserys out in the open field with some thousands of 'Good Dragon Men' from Crackclaw of indifferent experience and training. Such was a good way to bring his reign to a sharp end.

"Don't worry, they will call Renly and the Tyrell banners against us from the south, and Tywin Lanniser will send for his Westerlands hosts, or already has. You will see plenty of action. We all will."

They did not tarry long at Driftmark. They could not, by good common sense. Delays inevitably handed advantage to the enemy when they were not calculated for good sense. Napoleon and his infamous pursuits demonstrated this many times over. Daena had done the same to the Royal fleet, harassing it until every ship should could seize had been captured or sunk, and only a fraction escaped with the Young Wolf.

Delays gave your enemy time to think, and Tywin Lannister was actually smart enough to think, unlike most of the others they faced. So the fleet deposited a sufficient garrison to properly hold the island, and put off Lord Velaryon to see to the recovery of his land with a promise that he would raise reinforcements for the siege of King's Landing and have the glory of the final surrender, for reinforcements would surely be needful.

With a steady north wind, they sailed a broad reach from Driftmark to the Blackwater in a single run noon to noon. Esther remembered the last time she had seen this city, with Daena. Then, they had snuck away disguised as Essosi merchants through the confusion and chaos of the Lannister sack, to reach the Targaryen loyalists at Dragonstone. Now she returned with many sail of war well armed with cannon.

Both were adventures, romantic and scarcely believable to my childhood. Now the stories of Wars of Earth seem at once more and less real. This is my story, on this world, and I am writing it today.

Running on the broad reach, the two-deckers had plenty of power to sail against the current into the mouth of the Blackwater. "King Viserys stands by the lofty mast!" Esther exclaimed with a grin as she came up to greet him, when the whistles called for stations, and the drums began to beat to quarters. Esther would use her strongest ships to cover the arrival of the others.

Viserys, who had not seen this place since he was a very young boy, looked on quietly at the Red Keep as it became to loom above them, Aegon's High Hill dominating the small bay formed at the mouth of the river. Arianne, standing beside him, quietly squeezed his hand. Neither of them were concerned about the battle to come. Both were doubtless thinking of the tale of grotesque bloodshed which had marked the near destruction of the dynasty in that benighted Keep.

"We will build a happier palace," Viserys said to his wife at last. "Perhaps on the ruins of the old Dragonpit."

Esther pulled out her pocket-watch and marked the time as the ship's divison reported readiness to the Flag Captain. Then she looked up. "I will need room for water towers, Your Grace, to keep the pressure up in the pipes from the aqueducts we'll build."

"No doubt you can fit both onto the Hill, Lady Hoffmeyer."

Oh, No Doubt, Esther thought wryly for a moment, and hoped that she really would see a future in which the engineering challenges of this society were the biggest ones for her administration.

The docks were crowded in between the walls and the river, an entire little port town of wharves and warehouses and cranes and dockyards, slips and primitive drydocks, stone and wood. A curtain wall protected them from attack from the inland direction to the west; no other protection was needed since Aegon's High Hill screened them to the east, and the river to the south.

Esther put down her watch and raised her binoculars. She grimaced. There were people standing and gawking at the massive ships of war that had arrived against them. It meant Tywin, who surely knew well the capabilities of her ships by now, cared nothing to pull people back from the docks. Well, why would he. It is not his city. Fewer mouths to feed in a siege.

None of which changed the strategic requirements which dictated what she do, nor the tactical requirement to suppress any risk to her fleet. Her officers marked the distance with her rangefinders, and the order was given first to reef sail, and then to anchor.

And then to run out the starboard guns.

Finally: "Rig the springs!" The same contrivances which had allowed them to turn their galleasses at anchor against the Royal fleet off Pentos would let them aim and pull the beam around against the current here in the Blackwater.

About ten minutes of disciplined activity later, the ships hung with their bow anchors holding against the river's current, sails reefed, guns run out facing the docks of the city. "Your targets are the anchored ships. You will, when ordered, maintain steady and disciplined aimed fire until we have confirmed all enemy ships, boats and barges have been sunk, or else the sun has set."

It was several more minutes to pass the orders by flag, but though the enemy had manned the walls, there was no sign of other preparations. Esther then sent out a boat to the wharves, to command all the foreigners cast off and make sail, but this was fired upon by archers and engines of war from the walls, and driven back, and not a single one of the foreign trading ships at the docks cast off.

"Do we try again?" the King asked, when the little affair at last revealed some kind of resistance from the garrison.

"There is no point, Tywin has doubtless forbidden them from leaving," Esther answered. "He would want us to hurt our image with the foreign courts, by destroying the ships of their merchants in the siege."

Oberyn stepped closer to her side. "We're not going to wait for them, are we?"

"Lord, no," Esther shook her head. "We'll pay reparations to the courts of their sovereigns and Republics if we must. But I won't spare even a minute for whatever Tywin has planned." She gently tapped Oberyn's shoulder and grinned -- Seriously, you don't think I'd do that?

Maybe she had been soft once, but she wasn't soft now.

She turned toward Viserys, placed her right hand on the hilt of her sword, and bowed, floridly. "Your Grace, the fleet is in readiness, the orders have been flown, and it is your's to command, that we execute the plan of battle."

Viserys sighed, with perhaps the faintest sense of exasperation. Esther knew that he knew she was playing it up, but still by rights it was his command to give.

He raised his hand. "Dracarys!"

As his hand fell, the Flag Leftenant hauled down the hoist from the mizzen yards. The last set of flags in the battle instructions being hauled down was the signal to execute. In response, the other ships of the fleet raised a single flag indicating that they were in action.

Two hundred yards from the wharves and four or five hundred from the walls, the line of wooden walls swayed in the current of the Blackwater. For a moment all hung in silence. Then the Flag Captain gave the order. The forwardmost gun on the upper deck fired with a dull crack and a ripple of light, a massive column of smoke from the ship's side. Esther watched the fall of shot, aimed at a fat merchant galley along one of the grain wharves.

The next crew adjusted their shot from the first. About thirty seconds later, they fired.

Down the line a ripple of curiously tentative fire swept. Each gunner laid his gun with great care, using the geometric angles atop the barrel, timing the final pull of the lanyard to the sway of his ship. The fleet quickly settled into a tempo of about one shot per second, and shot became to fall into their targets, smashing timbers and striking through masts and rigging, throwing up columns of stinking black river water thick with the effluent of the city. The first time a ball went long, it smashed into one of the crowds of smallfolks along the docks. The screams and massed panicked flight put an end to their brief dalliance with war tourism, and a dozen innocents were condemned to death for the crime of being more curious than afraid of this strange new kind of war.

The strange slow motion nature of the firing grew more ominous now as it lasted for glass after glass, a monotonous roar that sustained itself for the whole of the late afternoon. Ships began to sink, capsizing at dock or settling into the muddy water to their castles.

Behind them on the south-east bank, the fleet began to land the Army.

This was not the intensity of pitched battle--it was the methodical destruction of the siege.

Chapter Text

Exhausted, thin, pale, triumphant. Her hair corded into an old rider's braid, draped in a fine silk cape taken from Qohor, one of the few items of plunder that she bothered with. This was Daena, sitting on a spread blanket before the Khal and Khaleesi, with the Uzbeks--except Tayyebeh, still recovering--the bloodriders, Jon and Ser Barristan all around. Daenerys' servants brought her a small cup of tea right after the Khal, and she drank of it, blazing hot so that the steam rose into the darkening air, two days after the great feat, now well recovered.

Behind her, Daenerys sat composed, close enough to the Khal that Jon thought he could look without making it obvious. She was reserved, reserved toward the Khal. But there was something lighter in her expression, the rigid composure had relaxed in that time. Jon hoped that she had not resigned herself. He was optimistic that it was something better. The timing was no coincidence, surely.

He swore that for just a flash, she'd directed a bemused smile in his direction.

Gods, you're going mad.

Daena cleared her throat and began to speak. "O Khal, I have delivered to you the riches of Qohor, the ashes of a God, the honour of nations, the respect of your men for your sagacious wisdom in approving the feat. You know that I asked you this, promising you a greater triumph: Volantis. I said I would prove had my own wisdom and skill to take Volantis, if you gave me this opportunity with Qohor, and so you did, and so I did. Now you sit here in firm command of your khalasar, holding the respect and fear of the nations. And I am here, no wandering lunatic of a far foreign land, but a practiced killer of men and taker of cities, proved by deeds and not stories." She gulped her tea in one convulsive motion, handed her tea-cup to one of the servants, and it was refilled. "Now I will explain how."

"Do so, woman," Khal Drogo's eyes narrowed. "You triumphed against sorcery by alchemy, and yes, skill; you will need more than that against Volantis."

"I will," Daena agreed, "but only so much more," she held two fingers close together. "The plan is the same. You see, Khal, you Dothraki are free men. With the horse, the bow, the sword, you are free on the plains. It is the fate of others to be slaves, be it to the city-men or to your own horsemen. But in the breast of every slave beats a heart which resents and hates the free. And much of the population of Volantis is enslaved. I turned the Unsullied against their Masters in Qohor, and I will do one better in Volantis. I will turn the whole population against the Old Blood within the Black Walls. When they rise up, the chaos in the city will throw open the gates for the entrance of your khalasar. I will have a thousand ears and eyes inside the city, inside the Black Walls themselves; but to do so, I must get someone inside those walls, someone who the Masters of Volantis think is completely reliable to their cause, and irrevocably turned against you."

What followed took Jon's breath away. He certainly wouldn't have dared to say such a thing. "I mean to say, there is one person here who can gain such a position. Your wife, O Khal. The plan is simple. This lad here, Jon Snow, will pretend to steal her away, a Knight of the Andals, to win her 'freedom' from a marriage she does not want, to bring her to the shelter and safety of Volantis. He will ride with some of my women he suborned, the old Knight as his counselor, and some of her handmaids, to Volantis and seek their safety, and since she is the pure blood of the old Freehold, and they are secure behind their walls, they will agree. Many men wish to wed her; I know, I saw the proposals they made in days past, when she was just a girl in Pentos. Of course, O Khal, this is a humiliation to you, but it is a glorious humiliation. You will summon your entire khalasar. You will command me as your ally to follow you, with the Unsullied whose whip I have seized from the Priests of Qohor, who by their training must obey me. Together we have combined arms, as no khalasar has had before. And too, I have made friends with the Rhoynar of the river, as thin as their blood is, they would love revenge for old crimes against the Blood of Valyria, and you can deny the pirates and the fleet of Volantis safe anchorage. We will form an Army of revenge for your honour, and you will declare that plundering Volantis is the only suitable recompense for your wife, stolen away and given shelter in the city."

Drogo and his bloodriders were staring in shock. He opened up his mouth to speak, but she raised her hand, whippet quick. "I beg your pardon, O Khal, but do not reject me so lightly. Daenerys is loyal to you as her husband. Jon is loyal to me. It is a ruse. Her honour and chastity as your wife will not be violated. And what greater epic is it that could exist? The greatest epic hymn in the land of my childhood tells the story of Helen of Sparta, the beautiful wife of King Menelaus, whose face launched a thousand ships, and launched ten years of war and the terrible Siege of Troy. Must I sing it to you, O Khal? If you wish to execute me for the presumption, I must insist: First I will sing to you the song of the Siege of Troy. You can put me to death for my impertinence, if you wish, when I am done. It has been sung for three thousand and five hundred years, and I could do worse than to recite it before I die."

Men who had their hands on the hilts of their arakhs halted. Drogo stared at her, his eyes wide. "Gods, woman, do you dare!" He exclaimed. "You propose to make me endure the humiliation of my wife--stolen! Daenerys is calm and not given to fancies. You certainly know her mettle. And we are allies. -- and these are my bloodriders. Otherwise I should kill you on the spot for the humiliation."

"O Khal," Daena countered levelly, "we have both spread our blankets upon, and built our council fire over, the ash of the Black Goat of Qohor. I can deliver you the city. We can write an epic that will be sung for four thousand years. But it requires you to feign humiliation, yes, it is true. But I have proved it; I have done it. If you follow my plan, I will deliver the city of Volantis to you."

Drogo glared, and then laughed and slapped at his thighs. Daenerys and Daena both seemed to relax. His grin was dangerous. "You are mad, but your madness may give me Volantis. My Bloodriders are here as my witness, that my humiliation serves the cause of much loot for them, slaves and glory. They will know the true story, they will keep the khalasar together. Swear it, my kin."

They swore before the Great Stallion. Then Drogo turned to him. "Jon Snow. You will swear an oath upon the Gods of your Ancestors, that you will not take advantage of my wife, and you will kill any man who does. I will then give the Khaleesi to your care.

Oh shit. But he had no choice. Even hesitation might lead to his execution, right there and then, if the plan didn't go forward. And it would possibly endanger Daenerys. And why was he thinking about hesitating, anyway?

Because you want to take advantage of his wife?

Fuck no. I don't want to take advantage of anyone. He shot to his feet. "O Khal, on the Gods of Weirwood and grove, of stone and river, on the Gods of the North and all of the Old Ways of Westeros, I give you my oath, I will not take advantage of your wife, the Khaleesi Daenerys Targaryen, and I will come between her and any man who wishes her, with my own blood free to spill. I would swear on a heart-tree, if I had one, O Khal."

"There is no grove of your Gods here, Jon Snow, but cut your hand on your blade like a man, and call your Gods to hear it."

Jon slipped his sword just far enough from the scabbard to strike his palm, and stood firm and erect from the pain, letting the blade slide back in as he raised his bloody palm up for the Khal to see. "I do so swear on my own life's blood, that my Gods may enforce it."

The last of the light had fled, the chatter and the songs of night came over the camp of the khalasar; the crickets in the dry grass of late summer, and the cracking of the fire over which the smoke hung low.

Daenerys spoke, then. "I will prepare my servants for the journey, my husband. To make it convincing, we will have to ride very hard and very fast down unexpected routes."

"You will not bring your servants with you," Drogo answered flatly. "They are slaves, and gifts to you. They will remain here, loyal to me, and will take care of Lady Daena. She is clearly not well--an old she-wolf who raised you, my dear wife, and still clever and skilled, but I must see her properly cared for, that she may play her part in the taking of Volantis."

There was a momentary pause. Daenerys affected a pout, though Jon could not believe she was so shallow as to assume it for vapid reasons. "I will have no one to serve me, my husband."

"I am sure Lady Daena's women can serve ably," he dismissed the concern, and Jon understood that this was a form of insurance. He knew that his wife cared about her maidservants. And he wanted a pointed reminder to them all that he was taking measures against treachery. The Khal was no fool--and just maybe, Jon was thinking he might yet grow into not being one, himself.

"No doubt they can," Daenerys allowed at last, her voice like a soft exhalation.

"You want slaves from Volantis?" Daena's voice was oh so quiet.

"Would I not? I understand your game with Qohor, but Volantis is the prize," the Khal answered dismissively. "When will they leave?"

"Tonight, before word spreads," Daena seemed calm, after that exchange, and Jon for the life of him could not imagine why she was calm after being told that the people of Volantis would be sold into slavery--or rather, traded in war to new masters.

But calm she was, like everything had been clarified for her.

Jon stepped forward. "Your Grace, we should make preparations at once."

Daenerys rose, and inclined her head. "We should, Jon Snow."

Jon couldn't help it. When they left t he khalasar behind, riding hard in the earliest morning light with three remounts on a string behind each one of their horses, he laughed. He laughed bright and free while his hair trailed and the wind lashed at his growing beard. This was wild! This was madness!

Nagurash rode along at Daenerys' side, and Ser Barristan at his. Two other Uzbeks were with them. Six riders, two dozen horses, out alone on the broad great grass sea. They pounded over trade routes worn by wagons and by pack-trains, and headed to the southeast. The sun coming up from the east illuminated a great brown ocean of late summer grass with the same perfect horizon as it might show over the sea, the hills resolving like distant waves on the ocean.

Daenerys turned back to him in the saddle with a bemused expression. She held her grip on her horse with thighs that were toned by months of riding, rubbing against simple dun trousers, against the saddle, against the horse. Her platinum silver blonde hair was pulled firmly back under a hood, but violet eyes shone in its shadow as her cloak billowed.

"You're laughing, Jon. Nephew. "

Jon's laugh was cut off. "Well, it is what Her Grace your mother thinks I am."

"You're Rhaegar's, that's what matters to her," Daenerys turned back forward.

Jon couldn't help it; he spurred his horse up to close the pace alongside her. There was plenty of room for them to ride four abreast, here. "She said so, herself."

"Of course she did. I know my mothers."

"Daena is a mother to you?"

"You know she is a Queen by her own right, yes? Or would be, if her family still held the throne. Of course my mother relied on her help to raise us. I can't imagine life without either of them. Family matters. I can't imagine living without my mothers. I don't know how you can live, knowing your entire family is a lie."

"By that same dint, I'm still a Stark of sorts. Lady Lyanna was my mother, after all."

"Yes," Daenerys agreed, though there was a little bit of a sigh in it. "I wish your siblings were also here with us. Then it would be truly happy. The niece and nephew I never got to meet..." Her expression resolved into a smile, and it lit up his heart. "But I'm glad to take as my kin, the nephew I never knew I had."

"You do seem very pleased today, Your Highness."

"Call me Dany," the lithe little Princess answered instantly. "And of course I'm pleased. I'm not in a marriage against my will anymore."

Jon blinked. The brief moment of feeling like he actually knew something had quickly faded.

Daenerys grinned. "Well, of course. Your job, Jon, is to steal me away from the Khal."

Jon laughed again, in good nature at his moment.

Nagurash tipped him a salute. Even Ser Barristan was grinning.

"You see, I'm never going back. Come Hell or High Water, I believe is how Lady Esther would put it."

"Then what's going to happen in Volantis?" He rode so close that their legs nearly touched, moving through the undulations of their horses in the quick paced gate.

At that, Daenerys' smile faded, some. "I don't know yet. We're going to have to figure it out when we get there. But it won't involve letting the Dothraki sack the city. It won't involve anyone staying a slave. You could see it in mother Daena's eyes. When Drogo said that..." A sigh.

"When Drogo said that," Daenerys repeated, and now finished the sentence, "Daena marked him for death. And she is right about herself. You know it, I know it. She's an experienced killer of men."

"Do you regret it? But, Dany -- you didn't have a choice."

"These things always get complex," Daenerys answered, her voice sounding distant. "And I don't think there's anyone I can talk about it with. Maybe, ironically, your Mother. But she's cold and in the ground."

Jon decided it was best to remain silent, for a while. They maintained an easy canter, a hard pace for a horse to maintain for very long, but comfortable for them, a good gate for this kind of long ride. They made their own wind from their fleetness over the ground as they rustled the grass below them, though a natural breeze came up as the sun rose, and illuminated the plains from horizon to horizon, letting them find their course along the natural contours between the undulating hills.

U nprompted, Daenerys spoke again. "Jon, think about how we make sure Daena and Jhiqui and Irri and Doreah stay safe. And the rest of the Uzbeks. Especially Tayyebeh. I assume Daena has a plan to bring her troops over at some point in the siege. We're going to need to make it work."

"Will our plan do much good when we can't tell it to them?"

"Jon -- Daena will light the glass candles."

Jon thought back to Tythos' tower, and shuddered. "That is -- the Qohor sorcerer we negotiated with, he said it was impossible."

"Well," Daenerys laughed, and it was almost hysterical. "Daena isn't a very typical sorceress. And she's kin. I expect to see the glass candle glow, tonight. You'll see!"

He looked to the firm expression of determination on her face, and wondered just what he had gotten himself into. There was a serenity and a clarity of purpose in Daenerys that seemed to blossom the further that they rode. It was unlike anything that he had known.

"Nagurash?" Daenerys turned away from him, and a lock of hair slipped out of her cloak, and whipped against the side of the hood.

"Your Highness?"

"Is this what it means, to be a free woman? I am certainly no longer a girl."

"Your Highness -- I do not know how you feel, but I do know that when you have a horse and a gun, you are free for as long as you live."

Daenerys laughed. "That's a loaded thing to say. You might not live very long."

"A minute can be eternity, if you like; it depends on how you live it, Your Highness."

Daenerys turned back to look at him. "Well. It sounds like I have a lot of living to do."

Chapter Text

Esther's galleys patrolled up-river on the Blackwater, preventing grain ships from using it at all, and preventing any Army from crossing for as long as it was navigable. The gun-line of Great Ships with their two tiers of cannons was anchored on springs in the river, and the din of the cannonade never really faded.

A prodiguous and meticulous camp had grown up on the southern bank. It was guarded by a series of 'Star Forts', beautiful in truth. Four of them, two along the river and two inland, defined the outer positions. They were built of earth and timber, with sections of the earthen parapets rammed to make up for the want of stone and brick. Wrecked ships from the bombardment of the docks had been dragged off to provide the wood. Behind them was the earthen wall surrounding the camp. The star forts held the guns, twenty-four each, and commanded the approaches with intersecting fire; they could be reached by zig-zag trenches set out from the earthen wall. The camp's earthen wall was surmounted by wooden pallisades and guarded with wooden watch-towers at regular intervals; in front of the wall were a series of trenches, filled with caltrops and swine feathers, and with abbattis at intervals between them.

The defences of the camp might have warranted comment in old Valyrian tomes on warfare for the level of skilfull effort that had seen their quick erection. The Star Forts were exceptional; their geometric beauty could only be truly appreciated from the air.

Fortunately enough for Rhaella, that's where she was. She couldn't resist, of course. Once, your ancestors flew, and Daena will make it possible for the children to do the same. Oh, painfully slow and awkward and nothing like a dragon, but she did have a plan, she who had come from a world where men flew higher and further and faster than even a dragon could. At this point, Rhaella had no doubt the plan would work, and they could command the air once again, and choose where they went and travel against the wind.

For now, unsure if she herself would live to see that future, Rhaella was perfectly content with the experience of looking down from a hot-air balloon. Oh, there was a war, and a siege; and it was a terrible spectacle to be sure, but this was the secret dream of her life since childhood: To see the world from above, as one did from dragon-back. To see King's Landing from dragon-back.

And now she had, but she was besieging it. The city looked intact, of course, except for the long line of slumping walls along the river and the shattered harbor, the wharves and docks and cranes topped in between the water and the walls. They were using cannon to batter the walls, not mortars to fire into the city. The enemy food supply was pinched, but had not collapsed. It was deceptively calm and bloodless.

Then she turned, binoculars in hand, to a scene yet more bloodless to the west and south, but yet more ominous. Renly Baratheon had arrived with his Army, too late to attack before Esther had completed her defensive works. He was now camped facing their own camp, at a respectable distance after a desultory cannonade had driven off his probing attacks on the first day.

He had besieged the besiegers, but he couldn't get across the Blackwater to reinforce the city, and Esther was subtle enough to appreciate that the complete loss of shipping was strangling a city the size of King's Landing as surely as a siege would, if more slowly. She also didn't fear Renly's army; the Dornish had been arriving numbers, and men from Crackclaw ferried over the bay.

In fact, Rhaella surmised that Esther's opinion was that Renly had put himself in a very dangerous place. But they had no intention of pressing the point. He might be able to flatter himself that he was besieging their camp, but staying far enough away to avoid the defensive cannon, it was just a loose blockade, and the camp lived or died on supply by the sea and the river, not the land. As an extension of the fleet, only a fleet could destroy it.

Rhaella rested her hand on the rail of the wicker basket, and softly shook her head one more time. Once they had collapsed enough of the walls, the Army could cross the river in strength. An attack by Renly would just put them in the favourable position of a defence behind well-prepared entrenchments.

"Your Grace, the burner tank is nearly empty."

"Thank you," Rhaella answered, and turned back to the city for one last look. Not much longer. Now if I receive good word from Essos soon, I shall start believing in a future worth living. "You may descend."

Slowly the ground drew closer, and the world closed back in upon her. The lines were trailed, the ground-handlers worked them down, the burner was shut off. The ready gloved hands of officers helped her out of the basket and clear of where the balloon would fall, and stepped across ground scattered with straw to make her way back toward the headquarters.

There they commanded the Army, and the realm, and tried their best to live pleasant lives in a two-story wooden complex, supported by some piled stone columns and much heaped earth. All the administrative errata had to take place there, or else in tents; the only other permanent structures were the powder store, the hospitals, and a large single structure divided into rooms for the more senior officers.

With a greatcoat tossed over her dress, Rhaella slipped through the guards to the acknowledgement of salutes. The observation officer from the balloon trailed behind her.

The command bunker was set below the headquarters, lit by oil lamps in mass, and polished brass to increase the reflected light. Esther was there working. She turned and bowed politely. "Your Grace," the acknowledgement was given to the dowager Queen, but her interested was in the officer who had accompanied Rhaella up -- they quickly worked together on the model of the wall of King's Landing to assess how much new damage there had been since the day before.

Then Ellaria Sand arrived, moving quickly, but with her robes composed, a headscarf very nearly hiding the look of urgency on her face. Esther finished what she was doing before turning; the two women exchanged a whisper, and Esther nodded once, was still for just a moment, and then looked square-away at Rhaella.

"Can you come with me, Your Grace?"

"Of course, Lady Hand;" Rhaella hadn't much more than managed to hand off the coat to someone. Summer seemed like it was hanging on the edge of ending, the rains of a fall had begun to come, or perhaps it was just a lie before another long summer, but the ground was plenty hot still, unlike the sky above. The Dornish were still wearing relaxed Dornish styles, and Esther in the tunic and trousers of a military uniform without even much adornment was shockingly unpretentious.

Esther started off at once, and Rhaella had to hasten to keep up with her. Once they were out of earshot of the command post, she asked in English -- "News from Ellaria summons me?"

"It's something I've been keeping in my private quarters," Esther answered. "And if I don't trust my husband to at least not steal my things, I shouldn't have married him to begin with -- and of course I trust Ellaria." Then she pushed past the Dornish guards at the door, leading Rhaella in and dashing back through the apartments straight to a chest by her bed.

Rhaella could well see why; there was a shaft of green light glowing from within, casting an erie glow that competed with the sunlight which crept in through the oiled paper of the window.

It was one of the enchanted locks that Daena made, and Esther cut her hand open on her combat dagger to press blood against it, just a pinprick. A soft gasp from behind them revealed that Ellaria had followed them in--Rhaella shot a look to Esther, but she just nodded her acquiesence, and the Queen Dowager chose to ignore it.

The lock clicked softly open, and Esther let the dagger clatter to the carpeted earthen floor, and she pulled up a glass candle. A glass candle that was glowing, a dim glow, unhealthy perhaps, but alive.

There was of course one word that Esther said, a proper name, and it was the only thing Rhaella would have spoken, too, if she had held it.

"Daena?"

The ghostly whisper did not seem well, and Rhaella clapped a hand over her lips, but there was a shining confidence in it which immediately lifted her spirits. "Esther. So good to hear you again."

Esther settled onto her knees, looking to the candle with Rhaella and Ellaria both over her, and caring not a wit for that. "Where are you?"

"In the Great Grass Sea, riding south toward the east bank of the Rhoyne, in the company of a great khalasar."

This time, Esther and Rhaella did exchange a worried look. "Are you quite all right?"

All three were left on tenterhooks as Daena laid out, in short, precise brush-strokes, all that had happened in the past months. She spared little but did not torture her lover so long; Rhaella knew Daena knew her. There was one thing more important than all the others.

"Daenerys is well away with young Jon, and riding hard for the south, per the scheme."

"You do not dream small dreams, my love," Rhaella admitted plainly, uncaring of the Dornish courtesan's presence, or her surprise. There was too much going on to worry. "You ... Can we send a ship to take Daenerys and Jon away, as soon as they arrive?"

"You can," Daena agreed simply.

But Esther shot a look from the glass candle to Rhaella and back. "We can, but Daena, what will the Khal do, then?"

"Kill me and the rest of the party with me. It is a price I am prepared to pay: I said I would bring Daenerys back safe, and it accomplishes the goal. We will give as good as we get: The Unsullied will gut his khalasar."

"No." Esther's voice was flat. "Perhaps, Old Witch, you could justify leaving me alone, and perhaps, you could justify leaving Rhaella without the woman she loves for the sake of her daughter. But not when you have an Army of thousands. You're going to be a grandmother to my children, before it comes to that."

"Esther," Daena's voice was gentle. "Your line is safe. Mine lives through Rhaella only; this is her daughter, and her grandson. She must make the choice, and she alone. Though I do think my plan can work, it is not a small thing to overthrow Volantis, the Queen of the Colonies."

Rhaella listened with dreadful apprehension. Of course, as a lover, she wanted to command Daena to continue with her scheme. As a mother, she was quite prepared to ask the old witch, who had lived a very impossibly full and unnaturally long life, to face the full fury of the Khal. After all, she might just win anyway. She has a habit of that.

But in truth, these feelings were not what mattered. There was one thing that mattered. The words tumbled from her lips, and Rhaella wasn't quite sure if she'd really put them all together right, but the women clearly understood. "this is not a matter for any of us -- it is my decision, but it is not a matter for me, it's -- Daenerys, you understand? You said you got a glass candle for her as well, my dearest Daena?"

"I did, Rhaella." No further appeals, just quiet truths, as Rhaella liked it.

"Thank you. Help me to use this one that Esther has, so that I may speak to Daenerys myself. She has been through so much, and survived it. I will decide this course of action having spoken to her about Volantis, and done my best to divine her thoughts as her mother, and I will not have it any other way."

"Rhaella," she thought she could hear Daena's laugh, as the woman spoke to her. "You will forever be the best of us."

"Oh Daena. You were the one who taught me that a free soul is worth a thousand others."

Chapter Text

Oh, there was a beauty to this.

The great steppe stretched out for day after day, week upon week. They had many horses and at each meal they switched to a remount, to keep driving forward down the best routes through the Great Grass Sea, navigating a sea of grass under a sea of stars, on roads known only by the sight of landmarks around them. There were few with them who could ride the route, and the only check on it was keeping the sun to their left in the morning and the right in the evening. Somewhere to the east the valleys along the Rhoyne lay thick with rich bottom mud which had a thousand years before grown the rice of millions; now from here to the Narrow Sea there was nothing but ruins and grass.

It seemed sometimes like you could ride forever like this. Yet, for all that, Daenerys could tell the landscape was changing. The grass became lusher to the south, and the rain fell more frequently. The cliffs were more eroded, rounded, and instead of having to spend hours following high cliffs above small streams that had eroded deep into the loess, they could walk the horses straight down gentler slops of curved hills to broad, lazy valleys which made for good camp sites, where the hardwood, leafy trees in the bottomlands grew up thick around the banks of the streams, the only trees in this whole land, where it was said further east, beyond the Rhoyne's kindly reach, not even the trees remained.

Daenerys had heard those stories from the women who attended her, the slaves of the Dothraki, the ones who had by some brutal process of luck, survived to exist to serve her. Now the tales they had told coursed through her mind as she rode south, hour after hour in the saddle, sometimes aching, sometimes comfortable, but never able to walk straight at the end of a hard day. Their stories mingled with the rough advice of the Uzbeks. Civilisations had lived and died here since days were young, and of late, the Dothraki had killed most of them, like cruel dice playing out the hand of fate across a table long after the players had left, one consequence after another spreading out from the opening hand, the Doom of Valyria.

They timed their journeys now for the valleys, descending through the grass to where it mingled with scrub, and finally became trees. Their open view for miles around disappeared; the valley might as well be the whole world. A family might live and be happy in one for years, and not worry about the world around them --

Until one day outriders from a khalasar came, and plucked them off the face of the earth.

They dismounted and prepared for another camp, the sun coming down. The Uzbeks tied their horses to let them drink in the river, and then washed in the water upstream so they could make prayer; Jon stood guard on his horse as their little band got the yurts set up, and then dismounted and came to her side.

He had grown as comfortable in the saddle as the rest of them. A proper set of horses for his tall and strong frame, and day after day in the saddle had done that. Daenerys could see some of what she imagined brooding gentle Rhaegar to be in him; but he needed to be a lean rider now, and he was. The rifle jangling by his side and the brimmed hat on his head looked like a natural fit.

He was solicitious, and perhaps too much so. Daenerys did not need the kindness -- but she somewhat appreciated it, not because she needed it, but because it amused her and she appreciated the wit. The way he quickly came to her side to help with the yurt -- Dany had insisted on learning how to put one up, because it seemed silly to stand around baking in the sun while waiting for others to get it done -- was, on its own, endearing.

"Are you holding up well, Your Highness?" He asked as he leaned in to helping spread the hides.

"Call me Dany," she laughed, reminding him. And then put a hand on his, impulsively, and looked up. "No, I mean it. Call it Dany, kinsman. And to answer your question, I'll be fine as soon as they brew the tea."

"Of course, Your Highness!" One of the Uzbeks shouted from where she was getting the campfire going. Fortunately everyone here took tea very seriously.

Jon snorted despite himself, and smiled. Dany supposed it was to hide what might have been a flush. "Still getting used to the idea of being kin that matters, -- Dany."

"Well, we're different than the Westerosi now. We grew up in Pentos, we were influenced by Daena ... You've had those experiences in the North, but you can let them go. You're part of the family."

"Thank you." The smile was unforced, now, and the first yurt went up, the sun casting the shape of a drum from the shadow out and over the horses and the meandering creek. The echoes of the Uzbeks' prayers faded away.

Jon's smile briefly turned. "What do you think about their religion?" He asked.

"It is similar to Daena's, but different in several critical respects -- they have a history of both fighting and of living in the same country," Daenerys shrugged. "I judge the women of the Guards very highly, Jon, so I think well of Islam; Daena is a Sikh. Both are religions of books. The Uzbeks have the Quran, the Sikhs have the Guru Granth Sahib. Both teach good morals, in a society of virtue. I know they abhor the kind of dark magic that it's sometimes said the followers of R'hllor practice. And to me it seems the worship of the One God of the Clear Air has cleansed all fear from them."

"But Daena does practice magic." Jon bit at his lip. She got the distinct sense he'd rather be talking about something else.

"She does, and we both know it's under strict rules."

"I know." He held the tent open for her, and looked down, and their eyes met. "But it's more than just belief. In Qohor I saw Tayyebeh fight an inky black living cloud. She bore a blade inscribed with their declaration, There is no God but God, and when she struck the beast while chanting, she destroyed it utterly."

Daenerys listened. Then, she smiled as sweetly as she could. "Jon... Get to the point."

"In the north we worship many Gods and abhor witches," he sighed. "It's just been a big change, and I was wondering how you dealt with it."

"Oh, I think there's only one God, but I imagine most prayers get to him, even the ones addressed to an idol, if they're sincere," she answered. "Or a heart-tree, I suppose. So you have nothing to fear. Follow the customs you were raised in. Be good. Let the rest take care of itself. Is that really what you were thinking of?"

He looked down at her and back to himself. "I don't--yes--no. I should let you have your tea."

Daenerys swallowed. Perhaps a woman's intuition was just better, but she suddenly had her own idea of what was up with Jon.

Her.

This is mutual, isn't it? The ache of the last months, still such a blur, left her unsure of how she felt. She took a tin cup of that tea, as sweet and black as treacle, and ducked into the tent. Now they drank so much of it that it didn't keep her awake at night and... Oh... Oh.

As promised, the glass candle had come alive.

Trembling just a little, they had worked through the details of talking between the candles. And just as quick as that, she could coordinate her strategy with Daena, and -- and, right here, right now, Daenerys was speaking to her mother again for the first time since it had all begun. In truth, the quick coordination that had occurred from the glass candles had filled her soul with trepidation. What will she think of what has happened to me? That I am running? Would she want me to be a good Princess and stay with the alliance?

Nonsense. These self-doubts might belong to anyone, but then how did one even begin to start to have this conversation with one's mother? Daenerys was well aware that she occupied a completely different space than she had before. A space now separated them, and yet in some ways also brought them together, not as mother to daughter but as two women. Perhaps that was mother to daughter, in the fullness of adulthood, appreciating the lessons learned, and the cruelty, too, which men wrought on each other but especially on women.

You are not weak, and your mother may yet be the strongest person alive, she thought, remembering the whispered and never-quite-explicitly-said stories about her father. The way nobody wanted to talk about him. The way Daena would embrace her muna when they did have to speak about him. The way that they carefully steered Viserys from thinking about his father to thinking about other, better examples of men in the dynasty.

"Muna." Saying the word almost ached. "I'm alive. I'm well."

"You're well." Rhaella's voice nearly broke. "Daughter, there's so much I've heard and there's more that I fear... You are safely away from the Dothraki?"

"Yes. I was a Khal's wife, muna, it was ... Not beneath my station. It was not the worst thing that came happen." The slave whores in the free cities, the slave concubines among the Dothraki, that was the worst thing that could happen. "But he thinks I am still his. And he will turn on Daena and her troops if this changes."

"Dany," her mother's voice was so gently. "Daena has seen more than two hundred and fifty years of life. She has made it abundantly clear to me that getting you safely away is her first priority. So don't treat the Khal's position on having her like a hostage as meaningful."

Daenerys blinked for a moment. Muna wants you safe, but this is absurd. Tell her so. "No, mother. We will all stand or fall together. Are you really prepared not to see her come back? When she means so much to you?"

"I--No," Rhaella admitted.

An admission, perhaps, but one that made her daughter smile. "Just because she's a second mother instead of a father doesn't change how much she means to all of us. I lost my father to madness before I was born, I'm not going to lose my second mother for convenience. The plan she has laid is a good one. I can follow it."

"Dany..."

"Muna, I am going to follow the plan. You cannot even tell Daena not to follow it; she is not here, she can't stop me from playing my part. And Jon is here. It is not like I am a dragon alone. I have family here. We'll see this through, together."

There was a moment of silence, nowhere near a minute, but it stretched on uncomfortably until it seemed so. "What will you do with Volantis?" Rhaella asked her daughter.

"Liberate it," Daenerys answered, with conviction enough to shake her own self. "Isn't liberation the attainment of religion?"

"Have you decided to follow Daena as a Sikh?" She could hear the hesitation between resignation and worry in her mother's voice, but she couldn't help it.

"Perhaps I should, but regardless of what religion I follow, the moral education you both gave me -- the liberation of Pentos -- and what I have seen here. I want to fight this. I choose to fight this. I set out doing this to escape. But each day I ride across this wasteland -- and now that you suggest, no fault of your own, Muna, no fault of your own, now that you suggest leaving these slaves behind to a dubious fate... I can't. I won't." She raised her hand, as if they could hold each other through the clear air. "Will you support me in whatever I do?"

"Without hesitation." No, it wasn't all resignation and fear. There was also pride in those words.

Daenerys smiled. "Wouldn't it be beautiful to have a lover I chose?"

"It was a very hard road for me, daughter."

"I know, but you succeeded. And Muna, perhaps it is an ambitious promise, but I want to see the two of you reunited. And that road goes through Volantis."

Later that night, with her guards around her and the night closed in around the yurt, Daenerys cried. She cried for the innocence lost, but she cried, too, for her mother feeling trapped between herself and Daena. She cried for the slavers in the khalasar, and she cried for what she was about to do. As righteous of a cause as it was, Qohor had left her no doubts about how bloody it could be.

In truth, Qohor would have nothing on the kind of Hell they'd have to unleash in Volantis.

The sound of the bugs in the mud along the creek finally banished the tempestuous thoughts from her head, and she slept. Jon was in the next yurt over.

Chapter Text

Watching the progress of the siege was fascinating, in a certain apocalyptic way. Tyrion could stand on the top of the Tower of the Hand and look out and see it all. Earthworks had steadily advanced on the south bank. Inside of them had grown up an entire second town of wood and sod and rock turned up from the excavations. The defences became stronger in some way every single day. The smoke of the cooking fires waved back over to King's Landing--which had fewer of those as food got scarce. It obscured the sight of Renly's Army, presently doing nothing.

The enemy could battery down the walls from across the river and from the ships--eventually. It would take forever and they clearly knew it, as ultimately they had used their galleys to land troops on the north bank west of the city. Tyrion had ordered a sally against them, five days before. He had not expected much, and especially so when Joffrey allowed Cersei to convince him not to go at the head of the troops--not like Joffrey's leadership would have helped, of course, but at least the men would have been motivated to perform their duties zealously by the presence of their King.

Possibly.

Instead, it had required less than thirty minutes of desultory firing by a few hundred of the Young Pretender's men with muskets and a couple small cannon unloaded from the boats to make the entire mass of his troops come staggering back into the walls of the city in disorganized and demoralized disorder. Oh well.

That had been the point, in fact. Tyrion had wanted to encourage them to commit to the north shore. And commit they had.

There were now ten thousand troops on the north bank if there were any at all, and they were throwing out lines of contravallation and circumvallation that would steadily engulf the city, defended by a battery of a dozen cannon that hammered any attempt to hinder them from the walls, while another flying battery of six guns defended them from cavalry probes by the Crownland Lords' men.

While this might seem like an impending disaster that would soon spread doom over the city, another opportunity had presented itself. To further their stranglehold on King's Landing, the enemy was busily involved in building a bridge of boats across the river. This was of course eminently useful, and in the place of Viserys' woman Marshal, he would have done the same thing. Say what you well, she clearly wasn't stupid.

But it also gave him a target worthy of his attentions.

Tyrion had been busy. He was well aware that the name of Lord Tyrion was now hated through the realms, as it was his name on the warrants from the King commanding that the barns of peasants be torn down and every cellar flung open. Many of the men in his pay doubtless had plundered food and valuables when they thought they could get away with it, but it was his duty to see to it that, no matter rich or poor, his men brought back the saltpetre.

He'd certainly been effective about it. The Powder Mills had been established at Lake Town, far enough up the river to be defended from the enemy's galleys, but still within the course of navigation for the Blackwater. Large stockpiles continued to arrive at King's Landing for the defence of the city, but more still was concentrated where his father's troops could obtain it.

And where he could prepare his idea for a special weapon.

As long as father returns with the Army before they have made an effective breach.

Tyrion had no doubt that they were prepared to storm the city.

"The High Septon came to me again, complaining about the bells." An all-to-familiar woman's voice, always attended with envy and hate, came from behind him.

"If we had left them, they will just be used to welcome the Young Pretender when he enters the city," Tyrion answered derisively, and looked back to Cersei, looking down at him.

Her eyes flickered. 'Do you think their victory so certain?"

"It would be, if we did not melt down the bells for cannon! Let the High Septon complain. He does not have cannon. They do." He gestured across the river, and then pointed with a squat little finger toward the growing slumped ruin of the wall along the river, and the massive pile of rubble which was the better part of what remained of the wharf district beyond the ruined river walls. "The same power which flattens walls can also defend a city with flattened walls." The dull crump of the heavy cannon and the thud of impact emphasized the point. "What the High Septon says matters nothing so much. But the foundry will cast three more cannon today. The people can do without their bells. They are already doing without food."

Cersei leaned against the parapet and looked out at the siege-works herself. Tyrion's sister was still beautiful in every respect, and of course as the Queen Dowager, she was still grasping in every respect, too. Joffrey was interested in all the wrong things about being a King; Cersei was interested in all the right things, but had never learned how to separate her wit from her fancies. I'd say it's because she's a woman, but that pack out there clearly hasn't been much hurt by the lack of a prick, he thought, and the thought did make him quail more than a little. From his boyhood, he had appreciated women for many things, but not ever for the kind of cold-hearted learned precision that the advance of this siege represented. Every detail had been accounted for, down to the sanitation of the camp. He doubted they'd even lost five hundred men, so far.

They were women of the kind that Cersei had once aspired to be, women of dreams of the kind he had once mocked.

And now he was the one standing between those women and Cersei's children, and he was not at all sanguine about it.

Cersei fretted with the hem of her shawl. "How are you going to stop them?" She asked, abruptly.

"I'm not. I'm going to slow them down. That's why we've pulled down buldings and piled earth behind the walls, and that's why I'm in charge, to give father enough time to come back." He patiently explained it all. Perhaps for the second time; he was sure Cersei had been there when they covered all of this in the Small Council meetings he chaired.

Maybe that was why she was glaring. "I do not think you will," Cersei answered, her jaw stubbornly set. "Perhaps father, if he can concentrate our good Lannisport pike with the Northmen."

"Concentration of force is absolutely vital," Tyrion agreed, "all the Valyrian sages who wrote about war knew it, and it was one of the ways they were not stupid. But as long as the enemy controls the river, they will have the interior lines. But, we can turn their advantage into a vulnerability if we can attack their bridge of boats. "

'How will you?"

Tyrion sighed. She would not be dissuaded. "Very well then. We will go visit the Pyromancers, and I will show you."

What had the world come to? Gunpowder and women, apparently. And there was no clear way to tell which was worse.

H e wondered if Cersei was as angry at being denied the same opportunities the women across the river had been as he was at having gone along with letting his father make him into the most hated man in the realm.

Chapter Text

Riding forever might have been worth it, with Daenerys at his side. They would ride during the day, and camp each night, and the great grass sea would be their home. It was a rugged idyll of emptiness, lush and sparse all at once.

But the woman who had now spent more time with than he had ever dared hope, was not the kind to tolerate this life forever. Daenerys was a woman of refinement, who liked both baths and learning, who had grown up in Pentos. She was a Valyrian Prince, not a Khaleesi, not in truth.

Nor was the steppe empty. The khalasar still presumably hot on their heels was proof enough of that. In fact, there was no peaceful world, Jon supposed, except perhaps the world of the melacholy dead. And he did not relish to travel it, even and especially with Daenerys. There was no shelter, save victory.

The ruination which the khalasars had visited on western Essos was clear in how long the grasslands of the great grass sea extended toward Volantis; here was a great city, and yet they could approach within only a week's ride of the city--granted, they were riding hard with many remounts--before encountering any sign of civilisation, and that was Selhorys, to the southwest of them along the Selhoru river that they now shadowed somewhere off to their west, climbing in and out of the gullies that the creeks cut in the loess to reach it, and camping in them at night. Thus, even near the border of Volantene territory, what surrounded them was not even the slightest hint of civilization but instead the beautiful grasslands, the cottonwoods of the bottomlands rising and falling as they changed elevation and worked their way through the rolling hills of rich soil, covered in grass, which off into the distance looked like waves rising and falling in the ocean--the reason for the name of this vast expanse. When they slept in the secluded and isolated low places, their nights were still alive with insects along the creeks living against the walls of their tents, their noise lulling them to sleep, snug up inside with their braziers while evening late summer storms lashed the tents. Not a jot of humanity existed in this place, save their own party.

Cooking food in the morning, the first rays of light hitting as hot stew made from boiled pemmican with some black pepper, and horsemilk butter, a few chopped tubers and bush-onions found along the creek bank. One more day on the trail was ahead of them, and it felt like any other, but he was thankful for the time spent close to her, seeing Daenerys, in her riding trousers and tunic, vest and the long coat the Uzbeks called a duster, hat tied with a length of rawhead on her head against the wind, bandoliers and boots, not at all looking like a Princess as he had been raised to think a Princess looked, but alive, healthy, fiercely glad in the company of her mothers' guardswomen and companions, and maybe even, just maybe, his.

She smiled, and nodded when they had finished their stew and tea. "Come on, let's break camp, then!"

One could tell Nagurash was beaming with pride, and even Ser Barristan commented approvingly -- "She has learned well the lesson to share the burden of campaign with her troops."

Jon knew, and damn well knew, he wanted to be more than one of her troops, he wanted to see that smile more, and didn't care if it was while she was working hard or not. That's not quite true, though. She is finer for it. She's pretty, but her heart's prettier when you see it this way, when it has to stand on its own. A strange concept. Perhaps the one that Daena had been trying to teach him.

They started the day's ride, swinging on their saddles, cinching them and then swinging up into the saddle, boots into the stirrups, and then away, climbing up a gazelle-track along the southern ridge, above the cottonwoods, through the high grass and the occasional tough oak clinging to the slopes.

This had been a deep creek-gully, and when they reached the top, they all shifted to their first remounts at Nagurash's signal--Daenerys still let her lead these things, for she was experienced with the ways of horses. The sun struck them, hard and hot, and Jon pulled his hat brim low, and rode on, pressing up closer to Daenerys on the trail. They made time generally to the south, and walked their horses steadily along the trails, known well to the horses of khalasars or traders, or perhaps just to the wild animals of the Grass Sea. Nagurash could tell them apart, and the Dothraki too, but she used both without regard, as they had compasses, and rode with no carts, and enough remounts that they could take risks.

Daenerys glanced to him as he settled alongside; Jon could see her grin under the shadow of her hat. Is it mad of me to think this is mutual?

But now was not the time to ask. He'd given his promise to rescue her, and if he made her angry ... He'd hardly be in a position to help.

Then all such thoughts were gone at once, as Nagurash began to lead over the crown of the next ridge, and abruptly reined her horse in hard, turning the dapple mare back toward. "Stop! Stop! Smoke, three ridges on! Many lodges!"

"A khalasar," Jon gritted his teeth. Their luck had run out, and the danger of this awful place, the fact that it was awful because the Dothraki roamed it in a constant state of war, all against all, was immediately driven home.

Nagurash dashed back to them, circling quickly on her horse, glancing around -- Jon surmised it was to make sure they were all below the ridge-line. Satisfied, she halted alongside of Daenerys.

"Your Highness, we will have to work around their outriders. We can go west toward the river or east inland, that's the simple choice. We're far enough south that the river sees commercial traffic, but if that khalasar is on a raid, they will be moving toward the river, and we should expect them to come against us."

"We need to know if they are on a raid, or coming back from it," Daenerys answered flatly. "Anything else makes life or death a coin toss."

"As Your Highness says." Nagurash swung down from the saddle. "Make no sound. Light no fires," she instructed the others firmly, and beckoned to Jon--and Daenerys. "We will lay down and watch."

She dropped to her belly and crawled back through the grass, pushing her rifle in front of her. Jon followed, and Daenerys stayed close at his side. They all worked their way back up to the crest of the ridge. There she stopped, and just stopped, fishing for an old-style spyglass, rather than a pair of binoculars. This she could extend through the grass to get a proper look, while she glanced back to them. "Do not worry about people. I will keep an eye on the outriders. Be patient and still. Drink some water, eat some jerky, but never rise not even a centimeter. And watch the smoke. And keep watching the smoke. It is a slow thing to move a great nomadic camp, that khalasar may still be breaking camp for the day whereas we were already riding for hours. If they move, they are moving west, even if we can't tell it for sure. The only reason for them to be here is to raid, and they would be raiding to the west. But if they have finished raiding, they would stop and celebrate their victories, and spend some days resting, playing at sport to celebrate, and enjoying their new slaves and booty."

Daenerys grimaced and gritted her teeth. Nagurash's simple cold words had still emoted a reaction for her. She lay low, and looked up to the sky. He did too--and sometimes he looked at her instead. There were worse people to look at for a last sight in the world, before being run down by the khalasar's outriders.

Daenerys leaned to the side and smiled, a hint ruefully--at him.

They both said nothing, though Jon knew he would love to, but that he would be a greater fool than any who had lived before to open his mouth.

Daenerys looked up again, and Jon shifted his head to watch their Sirdar, the commander of their guards. Nagurash slowly chewed some pemmican, and watched through her spyglass for outriders, perfectly still, and presumably trusting Ser Barristan to at least enforce order among the others waiting on the reverse slope.

Jon didn't know if he could survive an entire day of this. The grass partially shaded him from the sun, and his clothes and hair did the rest--a bare neck was a fool's errand on the steppe, a good path to sunburnt misery--but the boredom would destroy him.

Fortunately or not, the agony of boredom quickly fled.

"They're moving west," Nagurash decided. The smoke was thinning--Jon, too, could see that much.

"They're going on a raid," Daenerys summarized in some mix of relief, for those who hadn't been visited with their depredations, and anger for those who would be. "Well, we can move around them to the east?"

"We should," Nagurash agreed, and began to slide backwards, first alongside them, and then further so. Jon followed. Daenerys cast one last look up to the fading smoke in the sky, and then followed as well. Ten minutes of backwards crawling later brought them securely below the reverse slope.

"And the border guards? Will they be able to hold off the khalasar?" Daenerys pressed as she popped up, drinking greedily from a flagon of water.

Nagurash turned back from a quick and fast explanation in the Maharani's tongue to the other guardswomen. Ser Barristan was looking to him for a similar explanation. Jon turned and offered -- "the enemy is moving out on a raid."

Nagurash and Daenerys were speaking behind him. "We cannot be sure they will do so, though sometimes they do. They are slaves who are expendable, and then the fast cataphractoi respond to the warning they give, with armies of Pike able to follow behind that, but more useful for campaigns against peers. The Volantene cataphractoi form their Frontier Force."

"And the men in the towers have no choice."

"Not if the attack is pressed hard," Nagurash acknowledged.

"Like Daena's people, on the border of the Raj..."

"Ahh, I see. But it is free men who fight that well, Your Highness."

"Still, I need a way for the Volantenes to trust me."

"You are of their kin, Your Highness." Nagurash waved to the south, toward Volantis. "They will take you in."

"I want no doubts about it."

Nagurash sighed. "Your Highness, make your best judgement; but if we don't get around them, we're all dead, and none of your ambitions will be realised. Before we can do anything else, we must go east, get around them, and ride south as fast as we can."

Daenerys at once turned for her horse and pulled herself into the saddle without another blink. "Then we ride, Nagurash!"

"Then we ride, Your Highness!" The Uzbek Guards Captain saluted, spun toward her own horse, and gave the order. "Mount up! We'll ride fast for the east and flank them. At the trot, and remounts every two hours!"

The bivouac the rest of the party had made was quickly filled with the clamor of women and men mounting. Unlike a proper camp with lodges raised, they were ready in five minutes.

Nagurash drew her sword. "Let's go!" She turned the head of her horse to lead them east, running along the refused slope of the ridge, relying on the grass to keep the dust of their passage down, picking their route carefully even as they trotted on hard. The horses would be good for forty miles, like this.

Perhaps it would be enough. The sun hung above, at perfect solar noon. The wind whipping their hair held the heat at bay.

Jon's blood thrilled despite the risk, and Daenerys fell in alongside of him. She did not fear the khalasar, and nor did he.