Chapter Text
Griff
After seven days of mourning for Eleanor Mooton, the Small Council met at last to discuss the investigation into her murder. During that time, Griff had been too busy securing the castle and comforting his queen to confront Dany about the recent subterfuge by which she had tricked him into legitimizing all bastards in the realm. Now everything was inspected before coming into the Keep, from scrolls, to wine casks, to bags of feed, to shipments of salt pork. All visitors had their persons inspected thoroughly by guards, and every apartment had been searched for poison or other evidence. The City Watch went with haste to every tailor and dressmaker, asking questions in hopes of making an arrest. Ser Jon did not hesitate to put aside his usual duties and seemed almost as on edge as Griff himself. A wealthy tailor who carried the same grey cloth from which the poisoned gown was made was ordered arrested and brought to the black cells to await questioning. However, the Watchmen returned to find him in his shop dead instead, having been stabbed in the liver and left to bleed out.
“Guilty, clearly,” Ser Laswell Peake said when the Council met the following day, “but working with an accomplice who may or may not be a member of the Guild.” He shook his head. “Had we questioned them strongly as I suggested, we would know the first thing about where to look, but now…”
Ser Bonifer Hasty and Daenerys had both spoken against using torture to seek out the murderer for different reasons – Hasty because it would offend the Gods, of course.
“Torture would not yield anything we could use, believe me, Ser Laswell,” said Dany. “We must trust the City Watch and their methods.”
“Those gowns were inspected thoroughly, and they were made by local tailors,” Maester Balabar said. “However, that poison is not among those in my supply, nor is it readily available here in Westeros. It is commonly found in the Forest of Qohor, actually. Quite abundant, but there is quite a process to making it serve this purpose. It needs to be aged for quite some time for full potency. In its raw form it doesn’t do more than cause mild itching.”
“How much time?” Griff asked. “Months?”
“At least a year, your grace. It is made from the roots of the Soul Lily, and the roots travel well. I’m afraid this narrows down our search just barely…”
“Lily roots,” Griff said. “Jon smelled them.” He shook his head.
“They have the faintest of odors, my king.”
“Not to him.”
Griff no longer viewed the rumors about Jon’s senses as silly. Sansa had been utterly inconsolable, blaming herself for not heeding the warning by Jon’s raven. I ejected him from the feast, and he…he was trying to tell me! Griff held her tight and told her it was nonsense, but he too remembered the bird calling bad grey gown! The bird had known Jon’s daughter was sick as well. It was impossible, and yet…
“Arya Stark received a similar gown, lest we forget,” Dany said. “She might have worn it if her pet hadn’t ripped it to shreds.”
“How strange,” said Lord Jason Mallister. “What sort of pet?”
“A squirrel…the poor thing,” said Varys. “It must have been looking for an acorn. Lady Stark was known to carry them in her pockets for the creature.”
Or the squirrel knew something, as the bird did, but how? “So, whoever did this was targeting not only the Queen but her sister,” Griff said.
“Or lady Arya is the culprit, your grace,” suggested Ser Hasty. “It is said the sisters were at odds. She might have conveniently avoided wearing the gown knowing well it was poisoned.”
“You do not still think Lady Arya is a murderer,” scoffed Dany. “She avoided the gown and the feast because she was meeting her paramour, who happens to be a member of my Guard. My goodness when you scamps get together you are no better than a sewing circle.”[1]
“Well said, princess,” said Varys. “From my view, Lady Arya and the Queen get on suitably well. Of course, all siblings quibble from time to time…”
“Still, I think Ser Jon may be too personally involved to head this investigation,” Ser Rolly Duckfield said. “If Arya had anything to do with this, he’ll never see it.”
In fact, Jon was not at the meeting because he was pursuing various leads, but perhaps Duck had a point. “What about Jon’s bird, the raven?” Griff asked.
“King?” Duck asked with a wry smile. “What about the big smelly bastard? King, I mean.”
“He seemed to know something. He was acting…upset. Before it happened.” Griff rubbed his eyes. “It’s nothing, I’m just…grasping at straws.”
“What about Tyrion Lannister, your grace,” Ser Hasty offered. “Has he been questioned?”
Dany’s eyes widened. “Lord Tyrion? I beg your pardon what for?”
“He was thrown over by the Queen for his grace, and he has spent time in the East.”
“Even if he had any resentment whatsoever,” Dany protested, “which he does not, he would never put Lady Arya in harm’s way. They are amiable companions.”
“More than, I’ve heard. And yet she too chooses Ser Gendry,” said Peake. “Tell me, my princess, can you say for sure and certain that the dwarf is above killing out of jealous rage?”
Dany blanched, and it was agreed that Tyrion would be brought in for questioning. Griff watched her bite her lip and could not help thinking she had some nerve. Of course, with all that had happened in those seven days, none in the Small Council dared make a bother about the Bastard Decree, though surely, they wished deeply to question such a change.
“My lords,” Griff said as they were about to adjourn, “if you have anything to say about the ruling regarding bastards, you might say it now because there may not be another chance.”
Hasty spoke first. “You have taken an important step toward eradicating sin and adultery among the nobility in these kingdoms,” he said. “I only wish you might have told me beforehand so I could support you.”
“Yes, my king,” said Varys. “I think Ser Hasty speaks for all of us…at least with his latter point. You are our king, and must do as you see fit, but…”
“I can certainly understand that you would want to be consulted on such a decision,” Griff said, eyeing Dany. “It was wrong of me to leave you out of that process. Deceitful, even.”
“Oh no, my king. As I said, you must do as you see right.”
“Thank you, Varys. Let us adjourn.” Griff stood. “Princess, if you will. I would like a private word.”
Dany nodded and remained still as the others did their bows and walked out, never once taking her eyes from Griff’s. The light had gone low in the chambers, and the shadows from the windowpanes stretched out over the table and the floor. Dany was both beautiful and half-monstrous as always, her lips blood red and her eyes lined in a garish purple. Her dragon headdress glistened in the late afternoon light, and her eyes flashed. Griff remained across the table from her and laid his hands on its surface to steady himself in his anger.
“I suppose you thought I had forgotten your treachery,” Griff said.
“I hoped you would, with time to think, see it was the right thing to do, your grace,” Dany said. Her voice was gentle, measured, like the purring of a cougar.
“That was a low trick, Dany. Some might say treasonous.”
“Rescind it then, if you must.”
“You know I can’t. It’s too late, and I would look the fool, which was your plan of course.”
“My only plan was to rely on your pride to force you to do what is good and right.”
“My pride?” Griff stood upright. “You are brazen, Dany. And what you say is good and right will lead us into war.”
“I’m prepared for that, your grace.”
“I find it decidedly convenient, Dany, that my queen’s lady is murdered on the same day that you decide to deceive and betray me. The distraction might well have aided your chicanery.”
Dany’s nostrils flared. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with Elly?”
“I’m only saying it was convenient for you.” Griff walked around the table to stand before her. She smelled of ginger, and he could hear a slight whistling in her chest. “I’m warning you Dany. There are people in my court who would take any excuse to see you in a black cell. Do a thing like this again, and I will oblige them.”
With that, he left her standing alone. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Daenerys
“There is another,” said Grey Worm, pointing high above them to the window of a tenement at the end of the lane.
Daily, Dany rode her silver around King’s Landing with Rakharo and Grey Worm, down River Row to Fishmonger’s Square, then down the Street of Steel to Cobbler’s Square and then back to the Red Keep, the Royal Guard trailing behind them and Drogon circling above. King the raven had been following them as well lately, calling out strange phrases that reminded Dany of the explosion that nearly killed her along these same streets. Green fire, the bird squawked. Green fire here! Dany reflected sadly that the raven’s own memories of the War for Dawn in the city must have been as intrusive to his thoughts as they were to hers.
One day previous, Dany had spotted something in the corner of her eye – the three-headed dragon in black on a red field. They soon discovered the roughly sewn Blackfyre sigil nailed to a pile of charred wood and rubble where the Street of Steel met the Street of the Sisters. Rakharo had clambered up the pile and pulled it away, then balled it up and made to throw it into the canals, but Dany stopped him, saying it should be taken to the King. The next day they had turned down the Street of Silk and saw the same sigil scrawled upon the wall of a burned-out brothel with coal and cochineal. Now one hung from a crumbling tenement in the dark gullet of Flea Bottom. Worm dismounted and entered the building carefully while Rakharo and Dany waited. In the meantime, two skinny children, a girl with tangled sand-colored hair and a boy with crusty eyes, peeked out from behind a barrel filled with stagnant, stinking rainwater. Rakharo put his hand on his coin satchel and eyed Dany. She nodded, and Rakharo tossed them a handful of gold dragons. They dove for them quickly and then bowed with gratitude before running away and shouting, hail Daenerys, Mother of Dragons!
“We should make haste, Khaleesi,” said Rakharo. “Before long, those children will bring all of Flea Bottom back here.”
Dany nodded absently and looked around in consternation. Reconstruction was well underway in most parts of the city – shops, bungalows, inns, taverns, and brothels had been remade in addition to the new hospital and orphan home. Here, however, in the northwest part of town called Flea Bottom, nothing seemed to have been touched. Worm emerged with the flag tucked under one arm and a squalling child in the other. The little boy kicked his legs wildly and beat at Worm’s rib cage with tiny clenched fists.
“Who is this?” Dany said, wondering if he might be one of Varys’s little spies. Some of these had been mutilated into silence, but like little Erma who they had left in the Riverlands, this one definitely still had his tongue. He flung curses and random profanity at the top of his lungs until he saw Dany. He then went limp and slack-jawed, all his fight gone as Worm pulled him onto his mount with him.
“He was alone, but for a corpse in the corner of the room,” said Worm. “His mother, perhaps, or his father…it was impossible to tell.”
The boy was still staring in apparent disbelief. “What is your name little one?” Dany asked.
“Daeron,” he said after wiping his nose on one ragged sleeve.
“Like the Young Dragon…”
“This place has been forsaken, your grace,” Worm said. “I don’t believe for a moment that this child is alone. There may be a hundred orphans not accounted for…”
“And not only orphans I would wager…we must alert young Griff to this neglect,” said Rakharo, shaking his head.
“That will do nothing,” said Dany. “It is Jon to whom we must go if we want to help these people.”
They dropped the boy off, wailing in protest, at the new orphan home, then rode to the Keep. After dismissing her generals and watering her silver, Dany took the flag to her salon and inspected it next to the other they had found. Certainly, they had not been made by the residents of the depressed and forgotten area of the city in which they were found. It was not professional work, but the cloth was of decent quality. It was the sort used for tablecloths and such as far as Dany could tell. The black dragon had been made with care, that was for sure. Dany sighed nervously and stood to check herself in the glass. She was soon to meet with Griff along with Jon, to advocate for Tyrion’s release. The man had been practically held upside down by the boots and shaken, and even when they found nothing, he was jailed on the basis that he seemed to be wearing a new doublet. Of that he was guilty. The doublet he had always worn stunk terribly of smoke, so Dany had Shyrli fit him with a new one in crimson with silver thread. Unfortunately, it was the same crimson silk as had trimmed the poisoned gowns.
Due to the investigation, furthermore, Griff had failed to give his full attention to the growing suspicion being raised by locals about his identity. According to Tyrion, some were celebrating what they believed to be a sixth Blackfyre Rebellion, though he knew for a fact that any living Blackfyre resided across the Narrow Sea. Some members of the Golden Company tended to strong drink, he had suggested. They were as much behind such rumors as anyone. When he had asked Septa Lemore about it, she only laughed. Lemore, it seemed, knew Griff more than anyone. She knew him as a babe, so if there was anything amiss with Varys’s story of the Pisswater Prince, he would find out from her. However, the Septa was as mysterious as her faith, and so far, nothing was certain.
Dany met Jon in the hall on the way to the throne room, dashing in his gold cloak and mail, but looking tired. He usually slept through midday, as he patrolled at night. He smiled at her and reached for her hand, squeezing it and letting it go just as quickly. They said nothing, not because they were accompanied by Ser Devan Seaworth and Ser Addam Marbrand, but because words seemed so pointless and empty. Their short meetings were spent less in talking than in holding each other for as long as they could without falling to temptation, after which they exchanged letters that would be burned in their hearths as soon as they were read. Some nights, Dany longed for him so badly, and others she fell into a numb sleep wondering how long it would take for her heart to wither. Only the letters kept it alive, and they were all ash. Their love was dying, and there seemed to be nothing she could do.
When they arrived at the throne room, Dany was pleased at least to see the Queen seated in her chair next to the Iron Throne. She wore a somber gown of heavy black brocade with a high neck and huge puffed sleeves, and a lace veil attached to her sparkling tiara. Her ladies were still veiled and wore black as well, as did Sers Balon and Shad. They had not appeared in court for days even after the mourning period was over. Dany curtseyed generously and inquired after the Queen’s health.
Sansa smiled. “Quite well, princess, thank you…and for your poem. It was lovely.”
After Elly Mooton’s funeral, Dany had made a copy of one of the poems she had written after Missandei’s death and sent it to Sansa. “It was nothing your grace. I only understand your pain…and your fear.”
“Of course. I had no idea you wrote poetry, Dany.”
Dany shrugged. “When I am so moved.”
“The Queen writes some poetry herself, as I recall,” said Jon.
“Ser Jon is flattering me,” Sansa said, “but perhaps we might write some together.”
“I would like that, your grace.”
Griff appeared to lose patience with this geniality. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “I assume, Dany, that you want to argue for Lord Tyrion’s release. How goes the investigation, Ser Jon?”
“Your grace, none of the local tailors remember making a doublet and breeches for a dwarf – or a child for that matter, and none recalled seeing Lord Tyrion in their shops,” Jon reported. “Given how memorable he is, I would say that is strong evidence against his guilt.”
“That doublet was made by my stylist, though she did buy the fabric in King’s Landing – at the market stalls,” said Dany.
“We searched Tyrion’s bungalow thoroughly as well,” Jon said. “We found no evidence of any dealings with the dead tailor or any type of poison.”
Sansa reached over and took the king’s hand. “That is a relief,” she said. “I cannot help but pity Tyrion. I told you that he has been falsely accused of murder before.”
“Yes, my love… poor Lord of Lannister,” Griff said darkly. “Did you find any evidence of his continued feelings for the queen or Lady Arya? A lock of hair, perhaps?”
Jon drew a long breath. “We found a pressed flower inside a book…hellebore. It is among Arya’s favorites. But we found many other pressed flowers and herbs in the same book.”
Sansa chuckled. “Tyrion is making an herbarium? How interesting,” she said.
“Septa Lemore is the herbalist,” Griff said glowering. “They’ve been spending far too much time together in my opinion. She too has begged for his release.”
“My king there is insufficient evidence to keep him,” Jon continued. “Samwell Tarly examined the tailor’s body and believes also that the angle of the knife suggests someone of…normal stature. There was not a drop of blood to be found among his things…”
“Fine, fine,” Griff said. “My queen, would you feel safe with Tyrion free?”
Sansa tilted her head as if thinking. “Yes, I believe I would,” she said finally. “Lord Tyrion would be a fool to attempt this crime, knowing his estimation in this city, and whatever the man is, he isn’t a fool.”
“Then I will permit his release, but I suggest he is still a person of interest and hope you will continue to watch him closely,” Griff said.
“My officers are watching a few people closely,” said Jon.
“Princess…what is that you are holding?” Sansa asked.
The Queen, being a dressmaker in her own right, would of course take notice of a bolt of cloth in Dany’s arms. Dany had been fondling the flags she held, thinking about what they seemed to imply. Did the people who posted them not remember what happened to the smallfolk as a result of those fruitless rebellions?
“Your grace these were found in very different sections of the city,” she said, handing one to Jon and unfolding the other. Both smelled of soot and dead fish, which heralded their authenticity. Once Griff recognized the black dragon upon red, he stood up and went to take it from Dany, examining it with a puzzled look.
“It is the Blackfyre sigil, your grace,” said Jon.
“I know that, Jon,” Griff snapped, “but why is it flying in my Capital?”
“I am deeply troubled, your grace,” said Dany, “by the ongoing theorizing about your identity as our rightful king. My agents abroad have ruled out the possibility that you are of the Blackfyre line, but it appears that some…”
“What agents?” Griff interrupted. “What are you talking about?”
“My king,” Dany sighed. “I thought it prudent to eliminate the possibility that you are anyone but my brother’s son…for your own security.”
“You never told me you were sniffing around Essos about me…how dare you keep such secrets!” Griff did not look at her, however. He was staring down at the black dragon in his hands, confused. For a moment, Dany pitied him.
“Your grace,” said Dany, “if Varys is in any way complicit in some conspiracy to install, let’s say a Blackfyre, on the Iron Throne, then…”
“I should have been told!” Griff threw the flag on the floor, where Sansa picked it up with two fingers, regarding it as one might a dead animal before handing it off to Commander Duckfield. Dany noted that Torman Peake, formerly of the Golden Company, snatched it away from Duck quickly. He seemed particularly interested in the conversation, while the other Kingsguard stood silent and still as if pretending not to be interested at all.
Dany stepped forward. “My king, please try to see the forest beyond the trees here,” she said. “Is there nothing? Some evidence of your journey across the Narrow Sea? A bill of sale? Anything that might prove to these people that…”
“The people support their king,” Sansa said, more to Griff than to Dany. “These questions arise from bad actors who wish to sow chaos and confusion…nothing more!”
Suddenly, King swooped into the throne room. The raven typically hunted for food treasures while Jon slept during the day. He seemed distressed when he landed upon Jon’s open hand, quorking loudly and frantically.
“Green fire! Hurry! Green fire!”
Then a terrible sound, like the earth breaking apart, rocked the castle, shaking dust from the rafters and making the swords in the throne ring and rattle. It was more distant, but it was a sound Dany knew all too well, and behind it a terrible rumbling, tinged with faint screams of agony and death. Sansa and her ladies were whisked away by her guards, and the rest of them ran down the hall to the great veranda overlooking the city. Between the Street of Steel and the Street of Silk, where the Tailors Guild kept most of their shops and stalls, the city was burning with emerald-colored flame, and the flames were spreading. Jon let out a low whine, and he and Ser Devan ran, King flying behind them. Ser Addam took Dany’s arm gently. Come my princess… he said, but before they sought the safety of her apartment, Dany looked over at Griff. The king’s mouth hung open, and he gripped the railing with both hands. He looked as lost as lost could be.
Griff
Connington looked like a dog who had been kicked. He had not eaten anything, though Griff had insisted he be brought a plate of the same supper he had eaten with the Queen – a thick slice of salt beef and a tiny loaf of soft bread with a side of carrots and potatoes roasted in herbs and butter. With that, a flagon of the city’s best ale sat on a table, untouched. Connington sat upon the bench he had been provided, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. When the door opened, and he saw Griff standing there with Duck and Ser Podrick Payne, he smiled and sat upright.
“My king…thank the Gods,” he said.
“Hello Jon…don’t get up, please,” said Griff.
“Perhaps you can tell me what in Seven Hells is happening,” Connington said. “What am I doing here?”
“Well,” Griff said, sighing, “you were arrested…for the explosion, remember?”
“You look drawn, my king…here, take some of this ale. It’s too strong for me.”
It had been a joke between them after Connington had stopped drinking. Everything was too strong that was not water. Griff would never let himself break down before his knights, but was so very tired, not having slept the last two nights. He took the cup Connington handed him and drank it down. It was good, but not as good or as strong as that which the Freefolk brewed. He had promised Sansa he would not get drunk before supper, but he had downed two full cups of wine during and another afterward, and with this flagon he was well on his way there. Whatever kept the tears out of his eyes.
“I do not understand,” Connington said. “Have I failed in my duty? Is your enemy dead, or no?”
“Some guild members who questioned my rule are gone, Jon, yes, but so are a lot of innocent people whose homes we only just rebuilt! Why, Jon? What were you thinking?”
“The loss of innocent life is part of war, Rhaegar. I know you mislike it, but we cannot hide behind small mercies while your enemies close in…”
“I am not Rhaegar, Jon. I am Aegon. Robert Baratheon is dead!”
“If the usurper is dead then I have done my duty.”
“And what about the City Watchmen who were investigating the attempt on the Queen? Duncan Liddle, Brennan son of Ygon – both good soldiers and loyal – are dead. Plus, we lost Jon’s man Ty and nearly lost ten other good men trying to put out the fire!”
Ser Jon the Lord Commander had been wounded too in the rescue effort and was now laid up in his apartment with mild burns. The new hospital had only just released a huge number of patients injured during the Battle of King’s Landing, only to be filled to capacity again with burn victims. The massive explosions had undone thousands of gold dragons worth of reconstruction progress – and it seemed as if his foster father, the man who had raised him through his childhood with kindness and love, had caused it. Griff had not wanted to believe it when Ser Jon presented him with the evidence. The alchemist’s guild had worked with Connington exclusively to move pots of wildfire to the outskirts of the city to build the firewall, but the commissions continued after the final battle was over. He told them, apparently, that the King’s enemies were hiding in the merchant neighborhoods, planning to hand the Iron Throne to a usurper. Initially, he had requested enough wildfire to take out the entire southeast part of town, but the head pyromancer had wisely determined to hold much of it back, after speaking to Tyrion Lannister, of all people. Lannister had been investigating pots of wildfire that had gone unaccounted for, having intimate knowledge of the supply. Now Connington sat in the same cell to which Tyrion had been confined.
Connington stood up slowly, pleading, “Your grace, I only wished to protect you and your reign. I won’t make the same mistakes I made with your father…”
Griff was not sure whether he meant Rhaegar or Aerys. Connington seemed to slip in and out of the past in which he had fought in Robert’s Rebellion. When Griff was a child, he often groused loudly about the Battle of the Bells. He would suggest, usually while deep in his cups, that he might have won had he burned Stoney Sept to the ground with Robert in it.[2] Once he became sober, he stopped saying such things out loud, but when Connington was suggested by Ser Jon and Tyrion as a suspect, Griff immediately remembered those drunken rants. Then there was the bird.
At the emergency meeting called when the fire had somewhat come under control, Griff supposed he looked insane when he suggested they talk to King the Raven. His calls of green fire over and over again were just the rehashing of experiences during the fighting against wights in the city, Balabar insisted, which had resulted in some older caches of wildfire catching fire and singing his black feathers. When Griff had insisted the bird had made other predictions, the council members humored him, but suggested he perhaps “needed some rest.” Griff pressed Ser Jon, regardless, and finally Jon admitted that he believed Lord Bran the Three-Eyed Raven was speaking through the bird. He seemed to know when and where a crime was occurring and had even been helping them sniff out organized crime syndicates.
My cousin is a warg, like myself, Jon had said.
I thought you must needs be in sight of an animal to change skins with it.
Bran sees everywhere, your grace.
Before he ran back out again to help with the fire, Jon also told Griff that a witness claimed to have seen a hooded man in the murdered tailor’s shop twice. The second time, he noticed greyscale scars on the man’s wrist as he handed out his coin. That witness was likely now dead. Jon for his part had mild but painful burns blistering his forearms, and a smoke-singed throat requiring bedrest. Connington believed he was protecting his king, but instead he may have set Griff back irreparably, and the other possibility was worse.
“Jon, please,” said Griff, “just tell me you had nothing to do with what happened to Lady Mooton. Tell me you did not attempt to murder my queen.”
“Your queen is at Dragonstone, with your children. The witch will be the end of you, my king…”
“Dragonstone? Witch? My lord, do you still mean to tell me you truly think I am Rhaegar and Sansa is Lyanna Stark? My father is dead, Jon. Lyanna Stark is dead. My mother and sister are dead. Dany is not Rhaella Targaryen…my grandmother is dead too.”
Connington’s eyes, already red and bloodshot, trembled in their sockets. A darkness seemed to fall over his features, and he fell backward onto the bench with a thump.
“Don’t you see what you have done?” Griff said, his cheeks burning. “Don’t you see you are the only parent that remains to me, and now I stand to lose you too?”
“I only meant to serve you.” Connington put his face in his hands. “To save you and your family from the fate your enemies want for you.”
“That is the problem, Jon, you no longer know the difference between my family and my enemies.”
With horror, Griff realized he might not know the difference anymore either. He knew that Jon and the City Watch were being hailed as heroes, where he looked like a king who could not control his court or protect his city. The colors of House Blackfyre had been found splashed all over the city, but so was the white wolf on black, along with praises of “Rhazor Dawnbringer” and his goldcloaks. Jon had not given himself the name – he had not needed to. He and Dany were also still meeting in secret to exchange messages that were probably hastily destroyed. What did those messages contain? If they were declarations of love, that was trouble enough, but what if they were more than that? He wanted to trust them, but after what Dany had pulled regarding bastards, how could he? He hated the fear and paranoia that was taking over his mind, and the worst of it was sometimes directed at his beloved wife.
He loved Queen Sansa desperately, and the comforts of her body had preserved his equilibrium when one thing after another went wrong, but he sometimes wondered about her evident connection to her father’s gods. The stone golem she kept made him nervous, and though he would never call her a witch, there was a feeling in her presence – something ancient and cold and haunted he could not name. Her sister, and her brother with that vicious brute of his were even worse. At least Sansa had finally relented and allowed Rickon and Shaggy Dog to sail to the Driftmark with Lord Monterys. It was hard on Sansa after losing little Martha Moonstone as well, but the direwolf made the godswood off limits to anyone who didn’t want their arms torn off. The Red Keep was no place for them, especially now.
Upon leaving the dungeons, they could hear the sounds of loud chatter from within the Great Hall. Naturally, the court was concerned about the state of the realm given all that had happened, and Griff had not made a proper public address for some time. Between Lord Mooton and other representatives from the Riverlands demanding justice for Lady Elly, local merchants demanding answers about the fire, and resentments over the Bastard Decree as well as the Ruling on Daughters, it was time to say something. Part of that something had to be a guarantee of some kind that he was Aegon, sixth of his name, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. The father of the Pisswater Prince had absconded, but several lords had met him. Still, that was not enough. Thankfully, Varys had something that might just silence the doubters. Following the Small Council meeting held after the fire, Varys had shown Griff an invoice and letter, penned and signed by his father, that solidified the exchange of young Aegon for the boy from Pisswater Bend. The parchment was yellowed and flimsy with age, but Varys had preserved it carefully in an envelope of onion skin, tucked in a leather folio, hidden deep in a chest he carried with him wherever he traveled. Upon seeing it, Griff had not expected to feel relief, but he did. He had never once doubted who he was. He had taken for granted he was the heir to the Iron Throne. But why had Varys not produced this sooner? A pebble of doubt had lodged itself in his mind and would not shake loose, no matter how the Queen said such thoughts were pointless. Do not let your enemies get to you, my love. You are the king.
Varys balked when Griff suggested the evidence be presented to the court, for reasons that did not make much sense. It could draw attention to the fate of the poor local babe, and might work against the King’s favor, he said. Griff thought it well too late for that and demanded that the invoice and letter be shown to the court. Varys suggested that some might say the papers were forged. If only we had some other documents written by your father with which to compare, Varys had said, still trying to discourage publicizing the invoice. Griff’s fury was compounded when Dany announced she possessed several letters written by his father to his great uncle Aemon. She swore that she had not hid them from him intentionally, that in the War for Dawn she had quite forgotten about them. She had only taken them from Dragonstone because it was suggested they might be stolen otherwise. Dragonstone had become a veritable haven for whores, ragged children and shiftless minstrels, if Septon Philando was to be believed, so the story checked out. Still, when they were together at Dragonstone after Myrcella’s death, she ought to have shown the letters to him immediately. If not, she should have brought them to him when she came to the Red Keep. Forgotten indeed!
Young Andred Rykker’s voice had recently broken, so his announcement was somewhat comical, rising to a screech on “Andals” and dipping back down on “Rhoynar.” Griff was too jittery to care. When the titles had rolled out at last, Griff rose from the throne and descended to the dais.
“Lords and Ladies of the court, and prominent residents of the Capital. In this time of tragedy, I am humbled by your loyalty, resilience and courage. I have heard your questions and concerns and acknowledge your right to answers from your king.”
Varys was frowning and holding the folio very tightly. Dany stood across the dais from him, holding a bundle of what must have been the letters to her chest. She too was pouting and glaring stormily at Varys.
“First, our investigations have revealed that a suspect has been identified in connection with the wildfire explosion. He has been jailed and is awaiting trial. It grieves me to say that the suspect is my once loyal advisor and longtime friend, Lord Jon Connington…”
Gasps and whispers rippled through the hall. Griff looked up at Sansa, who had placed a pale hand over her breast. Her eyes sent a message of sympathy and love that made him able to go on, when any moment he thought he would keel over.
“I must hope we are mistaken, for Lord Connington has been my protector since I can remember. However, it is also true that sometimes those closest to us are the most dangerous of enemies…”
He glanced only briefly at Dany, who still shot daggers from her eyes, and fondled the letters like a small pet.
“I have not forgotten, furthermore, that Lord Mooton awaits justice for his daughter. Though the fire may have complicated the City Watch’s investigation, I assure you we will not stop until the guilty party is found. For now, you can rest assured that all precautions have been taken to protect our queen and her family members.”
He could not yet bear to reveal that Connington may have had a part in Elly’s poisoning. Part of him still had hope it was not true. He could see Lord Mooton in the crowd, however, his nose red and his face shaded in stubble, ravaged by grief and anger.
“A trial has been scheduled and will be held two days after my half-brother the Lord Commander of the City Watch recovers from his wounds and can serve as witness. Judges have been named, and further witnesses are in the process of being called.”
As Hand, Dany was automatically chosen as a judge for the trial, and Jason Mallister was named to represent the Riverlands. Edmure Tully was also making his way to the city for the trial, and Bonifer Hasty was chosen as Master of Laws and Connington’s countryman.
“I can also assure you that, once again, we will rebuild. However, I cannot blame my subjects for being discouraged, and wondering about the future. Therefore, today I will attempt to prove my identity as your King, Aegon VI. I have here documentation of the exchange of myself with the unfortunate babe from Flea Bottom, signed by my father, to be compared with genuine letters formerly in possession of his uncle Maester Aemon Targaryen of the Night’s Watch…”
Varys produced the parchment, and Dany stepped forward with agonizing slowness, handing the bundle of letters over with obvious disdain. Maester Balabar had been installed at a table upon which he would examine the parchment against the letters as the court watched. It did not take long for him to confirm the parchment’s authenticity, declaring the handwriting a match. Griff felt rivulets of sweat flowing between his shoulder blades, and his heart thrummed in his ears the entire time. A small nagging voice in his hand said it might not be a match at all, and he hated that these irrational doubts had infected him. The Queen was right. Conspirators with foul intentions were bent on sowing chaos and confusion, and the destruction was as much their fault as Connington’s. When the court erupted with cheers and shouts of Hail King Aegon, long may he reign, Griff could breathe again at last.
Daenerys
The Red Lamb returned quickly with Ser Gendry, who had been posted outside Jon’s apartment while he treated his peeling arms. He wore the silver dragon on black of her Royal Guard, but his bull’s head helmet identified him easily from a distance. He was also the biggest of her Guard – even bigger in the chest and arms than Rakharo. He was clever, though, and reputed as a skilled tinkerer and smith.
“You wanted to see me, your grace?” Gendry asked after bowing. “I hope everything is all right?” He was the epitome of service and likely worried he failed in some duty.
“That depends…do not worry yourself, just come here a moment,” said Dany, waving him over. She held out the ebony box in which she had kept her letters exchanged with Jon before the War for Dawn as well as the letters from her brother to their uncle. It had been a gift from one of the Pureborn of Qarth. The top was inlaid with a tiny maze in jade and silver. She had to ask Irri for the key, for her scribe carried it around her neck along with a key to a secret diary and her jewel box. When she had inserted the key, it turned all the way around without a click, and the lid fell open. That was strange. “Would you say this lock is sound, Ser?”
Gendry took the box and eyed the lock. His hands dwarfed the thing, and he struggled to grasp the tiny key before pulling it out and then pulling the box open with little effort.
“No, your grace. It appears this lock here is broken.”
“Can that happen by accident?”
Gendry stroked his thick black beard in thought. “Well, I suppose, if it travels rough…these little locks can be tricky. Not much integrity, your grace.”
He closed one eye and held the lock up to the other. Dany brought him the glass she used sometimes for reading, and he used it to examine it carefully again.
“Now see, your grace. This lock’s been picked…look. Just at the top of the keyhole there.”
Gendry was right. Through the glass, Dany saw three tiny scratches.
“Thank you, Ser Gendry…and tell no one about this.”
“Of course, your grace.”
That night in bed, she read through Jon’s letters, occasionally running under her nose the leather strip she had used to tie them together, which had held back his hair. Griff had insisted on taking Rhaegar’s letters so he could read them, and he chastised her in front of the court for not sharing them with him. Why not just ask Varys what they say, she thought. He would certainly know. When she came to the last letter, the room was dark but for the light of the hearth and the braziers, and Shyrli lay on the bed next to her, yawning. Soon we will put faces and voices to these words we have exchanged…Dany’s neck was stiff, and her eyes hurt. She turned to look at the portrait of adolescent Rhaegar and remembered what Jon had sworn to her. Griff was not Aegon, according to her brother’s spirit. Perhaps it was a delusion. Jon had suffered a mind-killing amount of pain, enough to make one commune with imagined dead. However, it was also possible that Varys or one of his birds had broken into her room and stolen the letters long enough to copy its handwriting style.
It angered her that she could not keep the notes Jon had given her more recently. Some parts were committed to her memory before they became smoke and ash. He held a pillow to his chest when he slept and imagined it was her. The former City Watch took so many bribes that criminals had to be retrained to fear them. On the rare occasion he could take a night off to rest, he dreamed of hunting with Ghost. He hoped Rhaegal did not watch him from the Nightlands, saddled in his gold cloak. In the last letter, however, he had proposed marriage. She had burned it more quickly than the others, but the words stuck in her mind. I wed Val in secret. You wed Victarion in secret. What is to truly keep us from marrying? You should be my wife, Dany. It was the Bastard Decree that had emboldened him she knew, but how to arrange it? She recalled that Shyrli had begun to make a wedding gown when she heard Dany was betrothed to Griff.
“Shyrli?” Dany asked.
“Yes Khaleesi?” Her stylist was already buried under covers, a nightcap covering her thick dark hair.
“Perhaps you should finish my wedding gown after all.”
Shyrli sat up. “Now Khaleesi you make me happy!” She leaped out of bed and threw on the dressing gown she had made for herself, with silver horses sewn into black silk.
“I don’t mean now, silly,” said Dany, but Shyrli was already pawing through the wardrobe. Dany got out of bed to pour herself a cup of wine and sprinkled a bit of ash into it. Then she sighed, shrugged and dumped a spoonful in. She mixed it well and downed it quickly, then threw off her own dressing gown and climbed into bed. She watched Shyrli button the unfinished gown into a hempen bag, then bid Ned Dayne accompany her to her workshop and make certain she got there unfollowed before returning. When Ser Ned returned, he was blushing, and Dany smiled wondering what Shyrli had gotten up to with the handsome young knight. She noted before falling asleep that in the muted light of the dying braziers, he looked almost to have Targaryen coloring.
The next thing she knew, someone was calling her name. Someone with a deep voice, smooth as silk, called Daenerys. Dany opened her eyes to see Ned at his post, but he seemed taller. Then the clouds passed over the moon, and a beam of light showed him to be not Ser Dayne at all, but her brother Rhaegar. She knew it was him, for she had stared at the portrait of him as a pubescent youth many an evening. His hair had grown into a long thick mane, and his face had grown to match the size of his eyes, but it was him without a doubt. Shyrli had returned and was sleeping soundly next to her.
“Daenerys.”
“Rhaegar?”
“Do you know your brother?”
“The last time you came to me as Drogo in Vaes Dothrak, but I do know you.”
“Have you forgotten what I told you?”
“You told me to fight.”
“And not to let your enemies make you feel powerless.”
Rhaegar walked toward her. He wore his black armor with the ruby dragon on the breastplate. Rubies poured out of his chest like blood and covered the floor. An aura of flame crackled around his head and shoulders.
“Will you let the realm slip from your fingers?”
“Once again, you confuse your error for mine, brother.”
“Yes, I too became comfortable. Complacent.”
Dany looked down. It was true that the Iron Throne no longer held much attraction for her. Since she had pulled off the Bastard Degree, she had felt as though perhaps this was her destiny – to be Hand of the King and rule the realm adjacently. She could make change well enough from where she stood at the foot of the Small Council’s table. The more she watched Griff, the more the Throne seemed like a trap – a creature with thousands of steel teeth waiting to devour him. She had her own council and guard at any rate, and whatever she wanted, she could have – except a husband. Except Jon.
“I am not complacent. I will raise up the lower of this realm…”
It was Dany speaking, but Rhaegar’s voice joined hers like a chorus. It was a boy’s voice. She looked at the portrait, now aglow with blue and red waves of light. A tear shone upon Rhaegar’s pale painted cheek.
“A few yards from here, in a room just like this, my family died terrible deaths,” Rhaegar’s ghost said.
“I know.” Dany wiped a tear from her own cheek.
“Daenerys…look to your own life and that of your children…”
“My children? You mean Drogon?”
“The hovel by the sea is fading.”
“What?”
“Daenerys…”
Rhaegar was fading, the flames closing in and burning him away. Dany reached out to him, begging him not to go.
“Daenerys!”
Then she was blinking at the morning light, and Maebi of the Dothraki was shaking her awake.
“What is it? More trouble in the city?” Dany rubbed her eyes and looked at the portrait of teenaged Rhaegar. His oversized eyes seemed older somehow.
“The Golden Company has abandoned Griff!”
Maebi went on to explain that, in the middle of the night, every single member of the Golden Company, save for Ser Frank and Ser Duck, had boarded the ships that brought them to Westeros and sailed east. That included Griff’s Master of War, Laswell Peake, the Master of Coin Gorys Edoryen, and Torman Peake of the Kingsguard. Naturally, Griff was outraged. Jason Mallister was in the process of manning what was left of the fleet. However, without the Company’s ships, the fleet was small indeed – just a few ships inherited from Stannis, Dany’s Hazzea, Doreah and Eroeh, and those brought from Seagard. Their troops, which mostly consisted of Dany’s men, were not at their best on the sea. They would do best to follow them to Pentos, or wherever they would make port, and engage them there.
“The King wants them all captured and tried for treason, to a man,” said Maebi. “He demands you mobilize your men. Should we alert Lord Rakharo?”
Dany stood at the window naked. In the distance, the hulking black figure of Drogon was swooping over Blackwater Bay, coming for their morning ride. Each day, before she rode through the city on her silver, she flew with Drogon along the coast, over the Kingswood, and then over the Capital. Drogon hunted his breakfast in the Kingswood or in the Sea, but usually that was after he left Dany at the gates of the Keep. It had been a long time since Dany had seen and smelled his fire.
“Have my armor brought in…”
Minutes later, she and Drogon were flying over the Narrow Sea, the vast beauty of it intoxicating her – a rolling, sparkling mass of bluest blue. The air was cold and biting, but Drogon’s blood beneath his scales kept her warm. It was difficult to see, for at that speed, her eyes watered uncontrollably. Drogon dove above and beneath clouds to catch the wind and the scent of the Golden Company’s ships. Soon, Dany could see the golden yellow sails in the distance. Drogon took her higher, higher into a wet blanket of clouds that would cover them as they grew closer, for surely they would be expected. They were directly above them before the first man could nock an arrow, then bathed them all in flame as soon as they were loosed. It did not take long to melt the Golden Company in its entirety, and it sank into the sea just a few miles from Pentos.
When Dany returned to the Red Keep the sun was ablaze along the western horizon. For a time, she and Drogon circled above King’s Landing, watching the spectacle of the setting sun that looked so much like a row of ships on fire. She let the beauty of it fill her body and steel her heart. An arrow had found her thigh just to one side of her cuisse, but it had not gone deep. Dany hardly felt it. The fleet still sat in the Bay, so word of her flight must have spread. Indeed, she could hear cheering outside the Keep’s gates, mainly coming from her army and members of the City Watch. In the West Tower, she could see Griff and probably Varys and Duck, standing on a balcony.
“Go Drogon,” Dany. “Bē hen pōja bartos…”[3]
Dany thought she could feel laughter in Drogon’s backbone. He looped once and then at top speed flew directly at the tower, almost as if to collide with it, then at the last moment pulled up hardly more than a foot from the King and his men’s faces. Finally, Drogon left her at the open gates of the castle, amid the sounds of beating spears on shields and shouts of Stormborn, Stormborn, Stormborn. Dany took off her helm and went directly to the empty throne room. She stood at the foot of the Iron Throne and stared up at it. It seemed smaller, and the stairs leading to it seemed fewer. Dany rested a foot on the first step.
“Dany, what did you do?” Griff’s voice echoed through the hall. His hair was stringy and askew beneath his crown, and his face was splotchy red. “Where did you go?”
Dany turned and walked toward Griff without curtseying. “It seems you have fewer enemies than you did this morning[4], your grace,” she said.
“Dany, I did not tell you to do that.”
“Should I have consulted your Master of War? I’m afraid he’s permanently unavailable.”
“You killed them all. They should have been tried. Some may have come back to serve me if I gave them the option.”
“They are enemies to the Targaryen family. If some Blackfyre develops illusions of returning to Westeros and claiming the Iron Throne, they will no longer have the Golden Company to fight for them.”
“You ought to have told me before you left at least.”
“If I told you, then you too would be to blame for such a brutal and rash act. We cannot have that, can we?”
“I blame no one but the traitors. Dany, are you bleeding?”
“You are down a Master of War and a Master of Coin, your grace. I must now ask those roles be allocated to me.”
Griff’s brow wrinkled, and he seemed unsteady on his feet. “You are my Hand. You cannot be Master of…”
“I can, and I will be. It is my gold that we have been spending, and it is my dragon who just destroyed your enemies.”
Griff slit his eyes at her. “Dany, I don’t know if I can trust you. Every time I turn around, I find you have deceived me. I have been considering removing you as Hand as a matter of fact.”
“Removing me, and installing whom? Connington? Duck? Griff, sweetling, I understand that this is a most trying time for you. A crown is heavy, I know. But do not be a fool. A King must know his weaknesses. Yours is arrogance…”
Griff’s nostrils flared and his chest puffed with anger. “I’m warning you, Dany…”
“The Others take your warnings. You don’t give me warnings I give them to you! Remember, because I can back mine up!”[5]
Griff’s jaw hung open for a moment then clapped shut. He blinked several times rapidly and gritted his teeth but said nothing.
“I want my brother’s letters back by the morning,” Dany said, and walked past him out of the hall and through the doors to where the men still chanted her name.
[1] Tarantino, Quentin. Pulp Fiction, Miramax, 1994.
[2] Martin, George R. R. A Dance with Dragons, Chapter 61, “The Griffin Reborn.”
[3] Valyrian…something like “top of their heads…”
[4] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. Game of Thrones, Season 7, Episode 5: “Eastwatch,” HBO, 2017.
[5] Eastwood, Clint. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, Warner Bros., 1997.