章 1604: 20
Chapter 20: A Lion Is On The LooseNotes:
I had designed this chapter to be ten parts, but it was just a guideline for my better understanding of what I was trying to achieve, hence you'll see those Roman numeral marks that I'll erase later. The thing is, I intended to make a 10k chapter consisting of ten parts, 1k something each, and as you'll see below, I was halfway there with five parts and 8000k words. It was insane. I don't remember having this streak since the mid-2020s, LOL.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and can leave your opinion in the comments. Opinions ON the chapter, if possible. Don't get stuck in a diatribe again about whether this fic is anti jon, anti dany, pro jon, pro dany, etc. because honestly, it's tiring, both things: the jon bashing and the people complaining of Jon's bashing but saying nothing about the chapter itself.
Have a nice day people, remember the world is going nuts right now. Don't come here to go nuts as well.
Chapter Text
20.
A Lion Is On The Loose
I
Pentos
Following a melodious sound of an unknown source, Daenerys lets herself be guided by it through the dimly lit passages of her memory, groping about and seeking to skim the surface closest to her. What she finds it's a rocky, brittle, and cold texture —a wall. Every try she struggles to make it make sense but all results are confusing, bran-bending, and even hurtful every single time.
Meanwhile, Brandon would insist, "Just keep going, Daenerys."
The effort of visiting memories of the past in search of a secure passage through time has taken her to places she thought lost in time. And they...they have heaved her heart with unbearable torment and broken her down with grief. Notwithstanding this, it's not been a futile endeavor, she Daenerys had at least seen again those she had loved the most once and lost.
'If all of it was a lie,' thought she, ' it was the sweetest of them', and she grows eager the more involved she gets.
Finally, the sound becomes something sensible: the soft chant of a woman. At the same time, she stumbles upon the realization, a wake of light flickers in front of her eyes, moving, sliding away from her. Instinctively, she rushes on, till there's a long, narrow corridor stretching before her, that seems to lead to nowhere. She never relents her pace when the light's guidance disappears, turning the restless little thing into something larger and brighter, like daylight. Indeed, birds start chirping and a soft current of air gently dances around her; She is out in the open, looking up at a warm, clear blue sky.
Squitting, she covers and protects her sight from the whitening light. The shift, from obscure absence to a bright openness, produces a dizzying effect on her, which makes her mind weak, dazed, and her knees trembling with anxiety.
To top things up, an inquiring, fierce voice of a woman asks her, behind her, "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
The hand that travels to her waist finds an empty spot, for she was wearing a simple dress. Not a belt where she secures a small sword time has demanded that she learn to use and carry, neither the breeches she's accustomed to, which ease her pacing, her frequent traveling, and flights. She's dispossessed from herself and forced into another persona.
Quickly she turns around. The source of the inquiring voice comes from another woman standing a few feet from her, an unmistakable, unquestionably appearance making Daenerys start with bewilderment.
"I'm not going to ask you again. Who are you?" she presses on, the strange but familiar-looking woman. Her looks resemble those she knew perfectly from herself: blonde, almost silver hair, and wide, sparkling violet eyes.
A younger, flustered woman trots to her side.
"Your Grace, we must find the guards!" she cries out in despair.
"Your Grace?" Daenerys mumbled inadvertent, at the way the other Lady referred to her.
"Who are you? Who sent you? What Ill intentions do you serve?" The silver beauty demanded more impatiently.
"My Queen!" whined out the distressed companion, "My Queen, Rhaella! we shall summon the White Cloaks! Our safety is perturbed here!"
Daenerys almost fainted at the name she's just heard slipped past the lips of the woman. Rhaella. Queen Rhaella.
This was her mother Rhaella.
***
As to why her recollections — or the eerie and intricate power of the Three-Eyed-Raven, more than likely — have brought her here, to this exact moment in time, that was unknown to her. And she is too overwhelmed, her nerves too excited to form any coherent conjecture. All she could do at that moment was to come up with an explanation or rather fabricate an excuse to escape it.
With words she couldn't quite remember she uttered, Dany freed herself from the interrogation she's been subjected to, while still standing on what she later discovered is a balcony. Not before of course, being required to throw her hands up and show herself unarmed, thus harmless. She claimed innocence on every accusation and wrong assertion on her: she was not an invader, nor a spy, nor anyone that seeks to harm her Grace or anyone else.
Now sitting on a chair and sipping from the sweetened water that was brought to her, she tries vainly to swallow the giant lump lodged in her throat.
"You seem rather rough-looking to be a courtesan," Rhaella claims while twisting a cloth in cold water and bringing it to her neck, which Daenerys recoils from, with a shift of her head. It comes almost unconsciously, so long used to be guarded and on alert.
Her mother purses her lips cocks her head, and watches her intently with questioning eyes.
Daenerys rapidly averts her gaze and wanders her eyes for a reflection of herself to ascertain what she is like in this dream, if a dream all of it was. When she catches a glimpse of her aspect on the gleaming tray where the servants brought wine and food, she almost faints there and there. She is indeed...rough looking, as her mother put it. And it is not the doing of the mysterious, ominous force that brought her here. It is her own doing.
Dany accepts the cloth from the offering hand of her mother and holds it close to her neck. She cannot stand looking into her eyes. She doesn't know what she's to do in this alien space. The room is spacious, well decorated, scented with incense and other essences such as vanilla, lavender, etc. There is a very noticeable crack in the corner of the hearth that inevitably siphons her attention, for it was wide and profound it seems, enough for a little rodent to go and leave as it pleases.
Out of a sudden, her eyes well up with tears.
Is there something wrong with me? she means to question inwardly, but it comes inadvertently out loud.
Oblivious to the conflict on her head, Rhaella sits quietly beside her.
"Oh, my dear," she said, with a soothing, make-amends edge, " I mean you are beautiful. But you are not a delicate one. You easily stand out in so simple garments. Nothing that it is wrong in itself but peculiar still for someone who claims not ill-intentions and at the same time provides no excuse for the sudden storming on my rooms. Oh, don't cry. Why are you so unsettled?"
"I…" Daenerys is rendered speechless. "I will not harm you."
"That's what you already said. Tell me then, what are you to do here?"
'Kill you', her mind speeds up to that conclusion, somehow stirred by her own words. 'I will not harm you' — what a lie. 'What a great tragedy are you, Daenerys Targaryen,' she allows herself to feel pitiful, 'Conceived through an act of horror, born amidst destruction and death and then, turned into a cause for further pain.'
It feels like a noose around her neck. The truth takes her so sharply, it crushes her under its weight.
Rhaella rushes to cup Dany's face in her hands.
"Breathe, breathe, dear, in and out," she commands, at the same time that she inhales and exhales herself.
Dany follows her instruction.
"That's it, that's it," Rhaella smiles as she says. "Start at least by telling me your name."
"Da—" she stumbles over the words. How could she reveal her name? She clears her throat and goes on, "Darla."
Disbelief clouded her mother's eyes. The name she just invented came out of her mouth so wrongly, so foreign.
The chamber's doors swung open, making both women eject from the seat. It is the Lady that also witnessed her sudden apparition on the balcony.
Dany stays quiet and still.
"Your Grace, the guards are growing suspicious. The King could have been already informed and appear at any moment," she informs, words coming out hastily in a rush that gives away the fear that runs through her.
Her father. The Mad King was the reason for it.
The sparkle in Rhaella's eyes disappears in an instant. Daenerys recognizes the fear — unmistakable and palpable.
"Please, Elaine, buy us the most of time you can afford," Rhaella asks. "Be cautious and secretive. And fear not, my friend, for this company is not dangerous. She's just lost her path. If my husband ever finds I am in the presence of a stranger, he'll show no mercy on any of us."
The woman rushes away.
Daenerys decides then this will not do. Whatever force is that sent her back here is only trying to hurt her, taunt her — like many years ago, the Undead Ones did by showing her an illusion of Khal Drogo and their son.
"I am so sorry, Your Grace. I sh-shouldn't be her. I will leave," she declares, standing up and meaning to return somehow to where she first showed up. The balcony.
However, Rhaella's questioning does not relent.
"Where?"
"To Lys," Dany lies. "I come from Lys."
Rhaella hums as she observes her one more time with that look to her eye that gave away suspicion and mistrust: she doesn't believe in all she's making up.
"That'd explain the looks," she answers as if agreeing to Daenerys inner thoughts. "Were you dragged into the Red Keep by force? Are you one of the King's mistresses? Please, tell me. You can entrust me with the truth. There's no case in denying it to my face."
Dany recoils from her approach, feeling sick and bursting with emotions.
"I wish not to disturb you. Your Grace. I shall find my way out," Dany persists, but she only keeps pacing the room, not knowing where to go. "I don't know the King. And I wish not to know him," she mutters through gritted teeth.
"He's hurting you."
"Who?"
"The King, of course!"
Her heart stops and shatters. Right now, the tears that she tried so hard to stop, stream freely down her cheeks.
"I know he does that, my husband," Rhaella admits, rolling up the loose sleeves of her dress to show the marks and lines her father's sadistic behavior her has permanently impressed on her mother's smooth skin. Rhaella compares that with those scars she also wears on the exposed skin of her neck and arms, reminders of another life and other experiences.
"I'm so sorry," it's all she can muster.
"But this is not your fault," Rhaella replies, sympathetic. "You'll find no way out, dear. We are sieged. Whatever path you came here on, it is now more than certainly sealed."
Daenerys frowns deep.
"Sieged?"
"Yes, dear, take a look out the windows and see it for yourself."
Striding forward with trembling steps, Daenerys peers out of the windows. Beyond the red-roofed houses that make up King's Landing, the walls are tall and still raised, and beyond that an army encampment.
***
II
304 ac
King's Landing
A cold mist hung over the city. Thick, greyish clouds were rolling across the clear sky, anticipating the boiling of a terrible storm. In the city, people ran to avoid the yet shallow rain as dogs started barking in tune with the thunderbolt breaking overhead. In the midst of it, the incessant tolling of the bells announced the city was under attack.
A crystalline drop emerged from the mist, splashing heavily on Jon's left cheekbone. He was still on the deck of their vessel, astonished, watching over the disturbance kindle. A rustling wind jarred him up, and he sped towards the ladder.
"Where you off to?" Arya stepped in his way, breaking out of her imprisonment for the first time.
"Something's off," Jon answered almost absently, dazed by the bell's tolling. There was something familiar to it, an odd association with danger that had nothing to do with his previous experiences.
"And you believe she'll blame it on us?" Arya guessed.
The thought hadn't crossed his mind yet, but there was a high chance she would. After all, he offended her before walking away. It could've passed as an open invitation to conflict, although Jon didn't mean it.
It was not that, however, that spurred him on back to the city.
"Before I left, I said some things that could be considered an attack on her person," he explained; "It's better if you stay."
"I am the one who caused trouble first — the one she'll blame first," Arya countered.
Jon cursed under his breath but accepted it was another possibility.
"Arya," he gripped her forearm tightly, and spoke sharply: "If things take a turn for the worse, I want you to leave the city, do you hear me?"
She had to bit back a sneering reply but looking down and up to his tight grip, she softly nodded.
***
Red Keep
The large gates to the Throne Room opened wide to welcome them. Jon, Arya, and the small retinue of northern soldiers strode into the crowded hall, where courtiers and noblemen gathered and Unsullied flanked the sides.
Agitation rose as Jon walked in front and positioned himself close to the throne, where the Queen was holding court. Arya expected to find her on the cusp of madness, but instead, she saw only a young and beautiful woman, not quite Sansa's age and about Jon's, frowning as if deeply abstracted, suddenly shooting her eyes wide as she caught sight of Jon.
"And what are you doing here?" the Dragon Queen asked bluntly. There was an edge to it that betrayed recognition and familiarity — could it be that in a matter of a few days that kind of trust had been built up? Arya wondered. Before she could get an answer, one of those noble imbeciles she had so abhorred as a child jumped out of nowhere and questioned Jon in an incensed tone,
"How dare you show your face here, bastard!" he exclaimed.
Arya clenched her jab. Jon, however, shouted a response before she could take the next step,
"Pardon me, my Lord, but who are you?" he returned, half-seriously, half sardonically.
"Lord Redwyne!" the Dragon Queen interjected angrily. "Don't take on powers that don't belong to you. I am the only one with the right to question the King in the North presence." Not giving the imbecile any more thought, Daenerys turned to Jon, "Why are you and your people here? No one summoned your presence."
Arya cocked her head to one side and pried at Jon's reaction.
"We heard about the attack, your Grace. And to avoid further misunderstanding, my people," he glanced briefly at Arya, "My family and I, we've come in spirits of conciliation and peace."
The Dragon Queen shifted in her throne. The image of Robert Baratheon flashed before her eyes, in his obese body barely able to recline. And then her father...Arya did not get to see him sitting on the throne, but she knew he did so while serving as the King's Hand. By contrast, the small figure of Daenerys Targaryen could freely move about.
A moment of uncomfortable tension ensued, filled with murmurings from an audience who was most likely speculating on the scene. Daenerys Targaryen was still too abstracted to show much emotion.
Her concentration restored, the young Targaryen rose from her throne and descended the steps that brought her down to the level of the mortal onlookers.
"Red Keep has been breached. My guards brutally attacked in order to free Cersei and take as collateral my trusted person, Missandei of Naath," she explained in a measured, leisurely voice as if making sure to convey the gravity of what had happened. In fact, Arya winced a little at the mention of Cersei's escape. Jon's face paled as well. "Unless, at this very moment, you claim to have information as to the whereabouts of both women, which would be utterly absurd under the circumstances," she said and glanced rapidly at Arya, "Your presence here reveals mere curiosity about what is none your business."
"Cersei escaped?" were the words Jon chose to return, "How?"
Either her brother really did have a high level of confidence in himself and in his treatment with the Queen, or he was already totally indifferent to what might happen next.
"It was an ambush. They took advantage of our lowered guard," said Lord Varys, the spider, as Arya remembered him. He sounded distressed, voice thinned with apprehension and unease.
"And the city? has it been sealed? Revised?" Jon continued, serious as the situation demanded. A reaction that even took Arya by surprise. Perhaps sensing this, Jon acknowledged, "Perhaps our judgments are not aligned at the moment, your Grace. But neither my people nor I wish to cause your people any harm. I have had the opportunity to meet and exchange some words with Lady Missandei, and I know her to be an innocent person, oblivious to all the conflict that has taken place. I know it is not much, and perhaps of no value to you at this time, much more so after the words I so impulsively and unwisely hurled in my beleaguered state of mind. I erred. I recognize my mistake. I am now at your disposal for any help you may need."
This was the first time Arya had observed Jon interacting with real nobles, the ones who'd speak on grandiose words and long speeches. It was a new side she was discovering in her brother. No more the boy hiding in the dark corridors of Winterfell, it seemed.
Up to this point, Arya stood with her arms folded behind her in submissive silence. It took the noble imbecile speaking again for her upper lip to twitch in annoyance,
"This is absurd. The first attacker who almost jeopardized our efforts to prosecute Cersei is present right here!" he cried out, pointing that little index finger at her.
Arya tilted her head slightly and replied with a half a smirk. I'd chop that little finger off in one move if I had Catspaw right now.
The Dragon Queen again interfered, "If Arya Stark had even had the chance to get close to Cersei, it would not be her absence that we'd been discussing right now but her death. Besides, what intentions could she harbor by taking Missandei? She's a but a wicked girl, not an abductor or a bounty hunter."
Words of rebuff stuck in her lips. She was transfixed at the direct addressing the Queen made of her.
"Your words back in Dragonpit," Daenerys took up, a harsh stare turned to Jon, "Rang out loud and clear, Your Grace. One would think you were quite sick of me, as I beleaguered your tender state of mind —as you put it." And then, her brow furrowed and her expression turned sly. "Is it only when it comes down to your family's enemies that you are willing to deal with it, Jon?"
This last question made Jon shrink with abashment, Arya noticed.
Next, her words that could only reveal of a personal nature, hinted deep resentment and pain,
"You," she said emphatically, " You're just a little rock in my boots that I'm going to shake out any day now. My mistake was thinking I should deal with you like you were some sort of a great matter instead of a mere nuisance I should've sent back to that hostile, cold, barren wasteland you call home the moment you set foot on my land, claiming my help while refusing to bend the knee." She paused, as if pondering how to proceed. "Stay, leave, no one will stop you. But know that our treatment comes to an end. You and I—" before continuing, Daenerys kept her eyes on Jon and blinked for a moment confused — both observed each other as if they were looking for the answer to the inconclusive speech. "You and I—" she made another attempt but with a deep breath and staggering a bit, in front of all of them all, the Queen collapsed on the floor.
***
"That went as well as we could have hoped," Jon said, walking by her side with an almost mournful pace. Lightning cracked the sky sending heaven's light through the storm. His eyes would betray him every now and then, looking back at the queen he was forced to leave behind.
Jon had grabbed her in his arms before she could hit the floor, but at the same speed, her guards pulled him away and sent them all off the Throne Room. They were on their way out now, the northern soldiers a few paces ahead of them.
"I can't believe Cersei escaped again," Arya complained through gritted teeth. "I should have twisted her neck the moment I got my hands on her."
She waited for Jon's disapproving rebuttal but received only silence. His gaze kept straying back to Red Keep.
"You care about her, don't you? Your little queen..." Arya ventured.
"If you mean I don't want any harm to befall her, then yes," he replied, adding, "She's not my queen."
"Oh yes, I remember your failed attempt of seducing her," Arya mocked him, "I can only imagine how humbling experience that must've been. You trying to woo the Queen into a deal. She mentioned your little tirade at Dragonpit, what exactly did you say?"
Jon heaved a deep breath, and responded, "I may have brought up her dead father."
"And she still didn't throw you to the dragons right then and there? Either you're stupidly reckless, or you're both really caught up in some kind of crude foreplay in some sort of crude foreplay. I'm leaning towards the latter, though I still think you're stupidly reckless."
"This is no play, Arya," he warned, his voice low and gruff.
"Besides, I was overwhelmed by happening there. She...tried and executed Sam's father. And let her dragons devoured his charred body."
Arya bit her lip, suppressing a response that might upset him. She would have given anything to see that.
"Sam... your friend Sam? Oh. That's bad. But there was a trial, and that's the law, isn't it? Father executed deserters from the Wall. You must have had your dead yourself. I..." She chose to discontinue at Jon's reprimanding look. She rolled her eyes.
"I accept that it was a rash, angry and impulsive reaction on my part," said Jon, beckoning his men to return to the ships and prepare to set sail. He was about to say something else but a sudden darkening stopped him.
Her knees flexed and her gaze flew up to where a winged shadow hovered silently over one of the castle's towering structures. For many, it would have been a scene of horror, but for Arya, it was striking, even wonderful to see such a mythical scene playing out before her eyes.
Jon next to her had a similar reaction, looking contemplative at the graceful landing of the dragon over the castle roof.
***
III
She heard distantly, Jorah's soft contention with the Dothraki healer that was brought to tend her. The provisional Maester that'd been the chief of the curators in Red Keep was kept in custody, being questioned about Cersei's disappearance, anyway, Daenerys didn't trust him or any other to examine her. She felt too languished to turn around and reiterate to her faithful old bear that it was all about stress and nothing further serious. Not poison or sickness. The Dothraki elder insisted that her spirit was broken, something Jorah found not specific enough. He was worried, of course. He cared for her beyond any reason. Daenerys sometimes wished it would lessen its intensity.
She lay turned to face the hearth but her eyes were fixed on that deep, dark crevice that was still there, after all these years. As they veered towards the crackling fire, she swore she saw there, images and sounds of distant but well present memories: Missandei looking straight at her with eyes full of sadness, anger and impotence. "Dracarys," she shouted, blunt and concise. Dracarys, indeed, said she, as she rained fire on those who in her tormented and bereaved mind had not been worth the effort that had cost her everything she held dear.
Daenerys summoned a meager strength to sit up in bed.
"Torgo Nudho," she blurted, turning mid-torso toward the Unsullied commander dutifully posted on the right side of her bed, in a stance so inexpugnable that no one but her would notice the inconspicuous traces of anger and worry. In the language they shared, she issued the following order, "Extreme security measures. Let no one leave the city and check all wagons and carts, even against their will. Houses. Also their houses, break into them if necessary. Especially in those near the coast, by the east, and those near the gates. Furthermore, I want Tyrion and Jaime Lannister to be interrogated." And her eyes shot with blood as she held his impassive stare. "Doesn't matter through what means."
Grey Worm tilted his chin down and retired with a mind perfectly aware of the task he was entrusted with.
I just hope it's not too late, Dany lamented, another stream of tears falling down her cheeks as she covered her face with her hands.
"Khaleesi," came Jorah's soothing voice, "Are you well?"
Am I? Daenerys wanted to snap at him. But it'd be unfair. He was always her companion, her shoulder where to rest her head in the most difficult times. She only wanted to be left alone to drown in this misery. She already was mourning the loss of Missandei, the same way she did when she lost her definitely, after already having lost Jorah. At least now, he was here. But how long will that last before he is also taken from her? Was it so doomed, this endeavor? So vain her efforts?
"I'm not well. I will not be well unless Missandei is brought back to me, unscathed and safe," she answered firmly. "But you may rest assured, Ser Jorah. I am not ill, nor am I straining at the strings of madness. Not at least for now." She looked down at her calloused hands, fantasizing about holding Drogon's horns and flying high, so high, she'd stop breathing.
"The warning was given quickly thanks to the swiftness of Lord Varys' call for help. If they try to escape the city, it will be no easy task."
"Lord Varys," Daenerys sneered under her breath, "How fortuitous that in the attack five of my loyal guards have fallen, and my most trusted person abducted, but Varys has come through all this unscathed. He's a little spider who always escapes a swipe, it seems."
Her first instinct was to channel all this at Lord Varys, but given his compelled reaction — feigned or sincere —, and his state of utter dumbfoundedness, Daenerys soon found herself wondering what he had to gain by plotting the liberation of Cersei.
He was, of course, he was discordant with Tyrion's imprisonment and trial, as well as insistently discouraging what he deemed "a hasty and unwise decision". But just as Tyrion had done little before to save his friend from the fire, Varys was also rather composed and unpretentious in casting his network to help ease his friend's plight.
"While he is a character not entirely to my liking, I think he is sincere in his testimony. You charged Missandei to keep an eye on him, and as soon as the guards were attacked in the hallway, she headed for the door instead of heeding Varys' call to escape. He is not a soldier, Khaleesi, you cannot expect acts of bravery from him. He fled to make you aware of the situation."
She closed her eyes and tilted her head, conceding to his reasoning. It was not about Varys, but about her sick feeling that it was all about her. Her choices. So it had been the first time and so it would be now unless she could turn the tables on fate before it caught up with her.
Jorah dragged a chair close to her bed, sat down close enough so that their faces were close to each other.
"Is there something you're not telling me, Khaleesi? Something troubling you?"
There was such tenderness in his gaze that Daenerys could not bear it, so she turned back to the crack in the hearth and returned to a distant memory.
***
"I shall help you."
Rhaella's words make Daenerys turn in surprise.
"What do you mean?" she asks her mother, forgetting that Rhaella doesn't know that she is her daughter and therefore she should've referred to her as Your Grace.
But the Queen is neither displeased nor annoyed. She proceeds instead to explain that she'd send her off with her retinue of ladies-in-waiting so that she would be safely removed from the city and sent to Dragonstone.
Daenerys still does not understand what Rhaella intends.
"Today is the day," she finally explains. "My son Viserys and I, we will be sent safely to Dragonstone."
***
"Khaleesi..."
Jorah's voice stirred her from her thoughts. Now they are both disturbed by a knock at the door and the announcement of Captain Waters' arrival.
"Captain Waters?" she turned to ask Jorah like a child who forgets her lesson and asks the nearest person for help.
Jorah explains: "Aurane Waters, Khaleesi. You provisionally named him your Master of Ships."
"Of course. Yes, let him in and wait in the foyer, I'll be there in a moment," Dany responded.
"Perhaps another time..." tried to dissuade Jorah but Daenerys was already on her feet, covering herself with a thick cloak and rounding the bed to leave her chambers.
Her mind was still very weak, eyelids heavy from the soothing effect of the infusion the Dothraki healer gave her. She didn't know what Captain Waters intended but she wanted to keep abreast of every new piece of information that they get. There was a good chance that Cersei was hiding in one of the ships moored in the port. She cursed under her breath at not having thought that possibility but just then.
The tall figure of Captain Waters turned slowly as she entered the foyer. "Your Grace," he greeted her with a slight bow of his head. Unlike other times, he didn't flash that vain, petulant look in his eyes. Instead he was serious, his posture straight as he recounted all the investigations and raids that had taken place at the Port of King's Landing, as much as the storm would allow.
"No vessel left the port after the ringing of the bells. We are highly certain she's still within the City," he concluded.
"And the boats? What if they fled that way?"
His eyes squinted skeptically.
"There's always a chance of a breach. However the passageways were sealed as you ordered and my shoulders had that whole area well guarded," he assured. "There is, however, an unexplored possibility. The ships whose sails wave the sigil of House Stark of Winterfell."
Daenerys jerked inadvertently. Not even in her worst episodes of madness would she think that Jon could do something like that. Not against Missandei.
He killed you, the ever-present whisper in her mind reminded her. His sisters would not hesitate to act against you. And consequently, he'll turn on you.
"No," Daenerys countered categorically, "I'm not interested in the Starks. They have nothing to gain by taking Cersei and Missandei as collateral. It's absurd," she said, and sighed, rubbing her brow. Her hands were trembling with pent-up energy.
She swallowed hard and made use of her reasoning. Jon was a traitor, a loyal lapdog to his family, but not deceptive or deceitful. At worst, he would act according to his sacred duty and not the impulse to obtain what he had failed to achieve. Moreover, she could still remember the hurt in his eyes when she confronted him earlier. The slight wince that stifled a response, he'd surely regret later. She remembered well that detail about him: his hesitation when his thoughts were in conflict. His abstraction when a situation became pressing. That gave her pause; If he was already aware of their relations, his identity crisis must chagrin him in conjunction with the imminent arrival of the Army of the Dead. An unconscious, instinctive part of her wished she could ease the weight on his shoulders, but couldn't be. Not now, not again.
"I do not believe the Stark children capable of such perjury," Jorah interjected, his presence close behind her. "They may be enemies of her Grace for the moment, but it is not the way of the Northerners, let alone the Starks."
A light chuckle escaped Dany's lips.
"Is that the Northerner in you talking, Ser Jorah?" she teased him over her shoulder. She turned back to Captain Waters. "Thank you very much for your report, Captain. Keep me posted on what comes up, no matter the time."
Aurane Waters bowed and took his leave, but not before giving Daenerys another longing look.
As soon as the Captain left the foyer, Lord Varys entered, in new attire and a neat appearance. His countenance, however, was still somber.
"May your Grace allows me a word?" he requested, glancing briefly at Jorah, "...alone," he added.
Daenerys sucked in a sharp breath and strained her posture at the Spider's presence. She would have liked to tell him that Jorah was the one she trusted, more than she ever trust anyone, but it was Jorah who excused himself on the grounds that he had to get on with the investigation. Then, they were left alone.
"You don't trust me," Varys asserted, not mincing his words and looking certain as if he were reading her thoughts. Not that Daenerys was making any effort to hide her true feelings on the matter.
"I don't," she admitted, "Even against my better judgment, I accepted you into my Council when you have done me the most harm of all of them. Allow me an ounce of mistrust, my Lord, without calling on me my father's paranoia."
"If this same situation had arisen when your late father ruled, believe me, my Queen, King's Landing would already be on its foundation stone."
"Humph. So you don't think I'm walking dangerously close to the edge of insanity?"
"Anyone in your place would be affected," he conceded, voice soft with comprehension. "It is in these dark moments that you demonstrate that, regardless of your rank, you are but a human being like the rest of us mortals. Notwithstanding this, the duty you carry makes you an individual above all others. Be angry, yes, scream your lungs out, if it helps you to vent the pain I am sure you are feeling at this moment. But then compose yourself, put on your Queen's robes, and face your enemies with the same fortitude that made you an exceptional character, not once but every time your enemies affront you."
"And what is the duty expected of me, according to you and the Westerosi ways, Lord Varys? My way of dealing with my enemies thus far has been but an extension of my resolutions in Essos. A different land. Just as savage, but less hypocritical. I was violated and mocked, Lord Varys. Anyone in my place would be chopping heads out in the open. But I'm not just anyone. I am Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of the Mad King and the last seed of a decadent lineage. If I were to choose now, I could mount my dragon and take my children to the wall, claiming for all to hear this: 'Surrender Cersei to me. Bring me back my innocent, beautiful Missandei, safe and sound. Do this, or else your city will fall, the fires will melt you down to your foundation stone.' And it'd be my right as their rightful ruler."
"In that case, you'd cast aside the good in you willingly, in plain use of your faculties, and choose to surrender to the evil that all humans shelter but keep locked in their hearts."
"And what that'd make of me, Lord Varys? Cruel or mad? Aegon and Visenya burn castles, uncaring of their inhabitants and at much the History records call them sublime."
"But you vowed several times, wanting to break the circle of inane violence. Install a new system where justice, mercy, and reason, govern above all else. Furthermore, you are not your family's name only. Exceptional events took place, rooted in your own person, and circumstances. Don't turn your fortune on an excuse to bring misfortune on those you once swore to protect and love as your own children."
Silence ensued after he finished and that only reinforce the bluntness of that last statement.
"Is that all? Have you only come to me with fancy words of encouragement?" she tried to play it down, meaning to detach herself from the coiling tension his words produced in her.
He sighed.
"No, your Grace, I'm afraid not. The truth is that in seeking to balm my wounded pride with self-pity for having so absurdly and unbecomingly failed in my duty, a thought has enlightened my mind, prompted by memories of times pasts and characters that I have unwittingly and negligently overlooked."
"Save the waffling for another time, Varys, and get right to the point," Dany spurred him on.
"Well, here is: there is a person we have not taken into account enough. I have brought him up a couple of times but I thought that at this point, the man would be more concerned with matters related to the far-off place in which he is currently living. But being the person he is, I wouldn't be surprised if there were still ties binding him to this place, thus interests that concern him regarding King's Landing, and the Seven Kingdoms in general. I'm talking about Lord Petyr Baelish, also known as Littlefinger."
***
IV
304 ac
Inn on Eel Alley.
The storm raged outside, the furious wind rushing over Visenya's Hill making the timbered roof of the inn creak and shriek. Every once in a while, the door would swing open wide, revealing another wanderer in search of shelter. Although there was a reluctant willingness to leave the city today, both Jon and the Captain thought it prudent to wait for the gale to die down.
Jon made himself useful by helping out the owners of the crowded place to make room for the new arrivals while assisting them. Arya backed into a corner and limit herself to stay away and not represent a nuisance in the path of others. Jon should admit this was not sheer abnegation on his part, but an attempt to keep his hands and mind occupied. A sick, anxious feeling settled in his stomach since leaving Red Keep he still couldn't get rid of. His unrest evinced in trembling hands and foggy, contradicting thoughts. Sometimes they wandered to the events currently taking place, in the unfairness come about regarding Cersei's escape and Lady Missandei's abduction. Subsequently, Daenerys would conquer his concern and thoughts. Her unconscious little frame landing so familiarly in his arms, her pale, resting face reminding him of death as if it were a close reality. That vulnerable side of her exposed to his eyes more than ever.
She cared fiercely for her own, as he did as well. And she was surrounded by strange and pretentious sycophants that she had to put up high walls to avoid being exposed for that weakness. But not to him. Her harshness and guard was for those whose nature she ignored or mistrusted. To Jon, she had shown him both parts, not afraid that he'd ill-treat that confidence.
Why? Because hard as it was to admit it to himself, she had read him well since the moment they meet eyes for the first time.
Encouraged by a renewed sense of duty, Jon told himself, 'It's not fair. Not again can the Lannisters take an innocent down with them.' And resolving that Missandei of Naath, that former slave whose chains had been broken, could not meet a tragic end, not if there was in his power a way to at least try to prevent it, Jon turned to the one person he was sure would at least give him an indication of where to start.
***
"Father was collateral damage," Jon said, approaching Arya, whose small figure was sitting on the windowsill of the inn's common hall.
"What are you talking about?" Arya asked, resting her cheekbone on her clenched fist and looking at him somewhat sleepily but with interest in his sudden statement.
"Sansa told me everything. He was supposed to be spared and sent to the wall, but then Joffrey ignored all the warnings from his mother, and the Council, and proceeded with the execution. Collateral damage."
"Hmm," Arya pondered, "I thought Sansa was collateral damage. That we all were eventually."
"Let me elaborate. I mean, the Lannisters have been our enemies ever since Bran was attacked. That's when it all started. But collateral damage is that, the one that comes after the fundamental damage is done."
"And where are you going with all this?"
"I think that Missandei of Naath is not collateral, taken by Cersei to ensure safe passage. And knowing little but certainly about Daenerys, I know that there is not yet fundamental damage between the Lannisters and her."
"The bloody Kingslayer slit her father's neck!"
"Daenerys wasn't even born when that happened. It's like resent Daenerys for the deaths of our grandfather and uncle. Tell me, is that feeling as strong as we feel about the Lannisters?"
Arya threw her head back and looked at him pensively.
"No. It's not," she agreed.
Jon leaned on, resting his elbows and arms on his legs.
"What I know is this, little sister. When you have the power in your hands to rectify a wrong before it is too late, then it is your moral duty to proceed. It is what Father honored with his actions at the time and what we should follow."
But he abandoned you to your fate on the Wall. He denied you your true name, his mind betrayed him by remembering. His words didn't match his true feelings no matter how hard he forced himself to silence that part of him that was getting louder and louder.
Luckily, Arya replied, "I'm still not sure I've got it right. Do you admit that Cersei is trash and deserves to die?"
Yes, Jon thought. But he didn't say it out loud. Instead, he pulled a chain of keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Arya.
She caught them and looked at him confused.
"Don't pretend you didn't know all this time Needle and Catspaw were in my trunk," Jon smirked.
Arya shifted and sat up, looking at him with wide eyes and a half-smile.
"You know I'll show her no mercy, right? Even if she's pregnant, I'll avenge Robb's murdered unborn child."
Jon swallowed hard and nodded slightly. It was not in his power to save that creature from his fate.
Arya jumped up and walked past him, heading into the room where his trunk and the weapons were safely guarded.
Her footsteps screeched to a halt.
"Jon?" she called out to him, the keys still in her hands. A soft gaze composed her features. "Before all this, I planned to give myself as a hostage to the Dragon Queen."
Jon's heart skipped a beat.
"What?" He was transfixed.
"It's the customary way of doing it, isn't it? Eventually, I was going to approach her as an ally, show her the value of our collaboration and especially...the value of my special skills, you know which ones." She shrugged. "A woman like that can only have as many enemies as admirers. I'm sure that by her side I would have at least been entertained."
Without another word, she wandered down the hall toward his room.
***
V
She was dragged and lifted to and fro as if she weighed nothing —as if she were nothing more than a rag in the hands of the men who seized her. Frustration, fear, anger took possession at the impotence of finding herself so overpowered, so weakened by the alien strength. Missandei reminisced on all the things Grey Worm had taught her about self-defense — the benefit of a slender frame for a quick escape, but all of that seemed words the wind carried away the moment she was outmatched by the superiority of strength of her abductors.
What was even direr, she felt aimless.
East, West, North, or South, she couldn't guess based on sounds, given the shrill sound of the storm, and couldn't quite make on the place because wherever she went, a bag covered her face. If she could at least see a glimpse, she'd form an idea. She had seen the maps, skimmed the structure of the city enough to know that it was made up of three hills and several main streets branching off into many more. Of course, she hadn't had time to visit the city properly to become familiar with its nooks and crannies yet but she had her instincts and that was enough.
How much despair! She should've known better than rushing into danger. She'd been so used to the calm of these days settled at Red Keep, they have already accomplished the main goal which was the Iron Throne, that she forgot about the peril it entailed. She recalled Daenerys warning then when she had freed her: You know that I'm taking you to war. You may go hungry. You may fall sick. You may be killed. And ever since then her words have rung loud truth. War, sickness, attempts on her life, all of these things have followed them down their path. Missandei has always held close to her heart what she answered after the warning: Valar Morghulis. All men must die. Women were not exempt from that rule, in spite of Daenerys words after. And it may have come the time to reckon with that truth. Only that now, it was harder to think about it — to accept it. She'd experienced the wonders of a life beyond the chains and the war, she'd known love through both Grey Worm and Daenerys. If fate was already written, then at least she'd wanted to show resilience. She'd not cry, she'd not beg, she'd not demeaned herself in any way. She'd fought for her life if it depended on that but chances were that she's been taken as a hostage of some sort. Possibly, to force Daenerys' hand.
Oh, they would have never let us be truly free, she thought as she imagine Grey Worm and Daenerys. All of them were chained to a different kind of master, be it duty, honor, legacy, it was all about their fate being already designed by the Gods, whoever they were.
She prayed for them, for the Unsullied that lost their lives trying to protect her. She even pray for the inhabitants of this city, has hostile and unfriendly they'd behaved with her kind.
***
The person who carried her here laid her down on a padded surface, her hands tied and her head still covered by the bag that prevented her from seeing any glimpse of light. Her bloody fingernails had tried in vain to hurt her attacker and abductor, but all she had succeeded in doing was hurting herself. Cersei rolled onto her back and sat on what appeared to be a mattress.
Someone pulled the bag off her head, her eyes squinted at the sudden influx of light.
"Bloody savages, I swear you'll pay for this!" she lashed out, searching around for the people who had dared to kidnap her. A kidnapping. That's what it had been. she couldn't even guess the purpose behind it, but she was sure it wasn't a simple liberation. Surely it was about that whore Stark girl, she surmised. Just another whore as her sister, Sansa. But of course, this was of a different kind, more rabid, less a woman and more a beast. To die by her hands felt so demeaning, so unworthy that she'd preferred the scaffold or the dragon's fire. She could imagine the history records reading: Cersei Lannister, death by Arya Stark of Winterfell, a girl not yet a woman.
Fuck. Fuck. A hundred times, fuck!
"One would expect to see Her Grace bursting out of joy," said a deep male voice, becoming clearer in front of his still pained vision.
"Who's there?" Cersei asked, growing alerted.
"Calm down, Lioness. Don't show your claws, there are no threats looming close yet."
That voice. She recognized it.
When the image became clear, Cersei brought a smile to her face.
"You," she said, looking at him like a child looks at a piece of candy, "You kept your promise..."
He was pacing the room. A sty compared to the Red Keep's comforts, but enough to keep her safe.
He poured two glasses of wine and reached over to extend one to her.
Cersei pointed to her tied wrists.
"'Will you promise not to scratch?' he asked, in a suggestive tone.
"Not unless the situation calls for it," she promised, her eyes bright with lust.
Her friend smiled and untied her. Cersei immediately drank from the full glass, not wasting a drop, and then went for his lips, in a desperate kiss that conveyed adrenaline, gratitude, contentment, and lust. He returned the kiss just as intensely though after a while he turned her face away from him to look into her eyes.
"So it wasn't true," he points out, hands that were at her waist wrapping around her mid-belly. Flat. "There is no child."
A moment of silence. Cersei dropped both arms to her sides.
"I lost it," he acknowledged, "I lost it the same day that silver-haired whore came to my city. But I needed an excuse to keep Jaime on my side, so he wouldn't give in to Tyrion and gang up on me."
"And tell me something, was that child really his? Because I remember correctly, you claimed to want a child, even more after the death of your only son. And your words were 'no matter who gives it to me'."
Cersei smiled deviously, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Now only the Gods know about it."
She tried to resume their passionate reunion, but he stopped her.
"I have a message from our mutual friend. Your last ally on the ends of this earth," he told her.
Cersei cocked her head, pondering who it might be.
"In his own words, and I quote, knowledge is power and power is power," he said reading an unfolded piece of parchment he pulled out of his inside pocket, "Reveal to our intermediary the path to the wildfire catches. He'll know what to do."
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