Daenerys I

“One time,” Ser Barristan recounted, “after getting some coin from his singing on a street corner, we got horribly drunk.”

Dany couldn't help the laughter that escaped her. She was sure Viserys would have gotten angry hearing it, calling it unladylike and unbecoming of a Targaryen princess, but that just made it all the more enjoyable to let herself go. To think that her brother, the fearsome Rhaegar Targaryen, liked to sing to the people of King’s Landing and drink with them in secret.

Perhaps she had at least one brother to look up to. As that’s all she wanted to be as a queen. A leader for the people, someone they could look to in their times of strife, someone who put their needs first, and not the trivialities of this or that house.

Behind her, the scrape of boots and the clink of mail heralded Daario’s approach. It wasn’t hard figuring out who it was. Only Daario Naharis could make even the sounds of his stride presumptuous. “Your Grace,” he said. “Hizdahr is here, waiting in the audience chamber.”

Dany hid a sigh. “How many others are there?”

“Fifty, a hundred.” Daario shrugged. “Too many.”

She nodded. Boring as it was, it was still her duty. “Will you be joining us, Ser Barristan?”

The sellsword cut in, “I think I can protect you from Hizdahr zo Loraq well enough.”

“I think I could protect me from Hizdahr zo Loraq.” She smiled at the aging queensguard. “Go, Ser Barristan. Sing a song for me.”

xxxx

“Without these traditions, former slaves and former masters have nothing in common but centuries of mistrust and resentment. I can’t promise this is the answer to all our problems, but it is a start.”

As Hizdahr droned on, Dany wondered if by the time she finally sailed off to Westeros, him begging for the reinstatement of the fighting pits would be more of a Meereenese tradition than the games themselves.

She just couldn’t see how formerly enslaved men blooding themselves for sport could ever bring the city back together. How could they watch their brothers dying at the point of each other’s swords and call it a victory? She would have shrugged it off as a noble plot to repress the people and renew their own views of Meereenese culture if Daario hadn’t advocated for the restarting of the games himself, and former slave warriors had sung praises of the glory to be found in the pits.

Perhaps she could give it a chance—one chance, and see it allowing the games worked to heal the divide in the city.

Then the great double doors of the cavernous audience chamber groaned open and a pair of Unsullied in their spiked caps dashed into the room, allowing her to turn away from Hizdahr and his incessant arguments.

“My queen,” one of the Unsullied said in broken common. “Found a man in the city, interesting to see.”

She quickly nodded. The Unsullied weren’t in the habit of creating a disturbance if it wasn’t important. “Bring him in,” she ordered, then addressed the Meereneese noble still standing on the dais, “forgive this interruption, Hizdahr zo Loraq. It will only be a minute.”

Hizdahr bowed low and stepped aside. At least he knows his place, Dany thought.

The lead Unsullied cried out in High Valyrian with the growl of Astapor, and a squad of five eunuch warriors stepped into the room. In between them, with his hands tied behind his back, walked a tall man with blond-white hair, a graying beard, and the remnants of what was once a bear sewn on his ragged doublet. A man who just the sight of caused bile to rise in her throat and the dragon to wake inside of her.

“No,” she instantly said, her voice cold and distant. “Take him away. Out of my sight. Out of this city.”

The Unsullied took hold of him. “No, wait.” Ser Jorah struggled and pushed against his captors. “Please, my queen. I have word of the Seven Kingdoms—word you will wish to hear. Please.”

“Wait.” The words were out of her mouth before she could swallow them.

While she had come to love Meereen and its people, she still hungered for home. Once, it was a house with a red door with a lemon tree by the window. Now, home was the Seven Kingdoms—all of them. Her home was her birthright, and even with the bitter anger and heartache she felt toward Ser Jorah, she wished to know what passed there. Even a scrap of information would do.

Dany’s nails dug trenches in her hands as she stopped herself from sending away. “Very well,” she bit off. “Then speak and make it count, Ser Jorah Mormont.”

“The king is dead, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “Poisoned at his own wedding. And Cersei Lannister as well. Some say she hung herself, others that she was murdered. The truth of it I know not. A boy is king now. A young boy, Tommen. There’s more, my queen. Please…”

That’s what stood between her and her throne, now? A boy king? Cersei Lannister was no one to her, but any Lannister death was worthy of a celebration, in her mind. Perhaps this was the chance she had been waiting for, to take back what was her family’s; but she couldn’t make the decision alone, no. A queen might rule absolutely, but it was a foolish one who didn’t listen to her advisors.

“Yellow Leech,” Daenerys called. She still found it horrible to call them by the names the masters gave to the Unsullied, but she could hardly call herself the breaker of chains and force the decision on them. “Call for Ser Barristan, he’s just left my presence. You might still catch him on his way out. And have Grey Worm pulled from his rounds. I have need of him in the council chambers. You—” she pointed at Jorah Mormont “—will better prove useful, ser.”

The exiled knight swallowed and nodded. The hurt and yearning in his blue eyes were knives in Daenerys’ heart, and she had to look away. To his side, Yellow Leech saluted and left the room through a side door. The Unsullied had mapped the entire pyramid when they moved in, lest assassins slinked in through secret passages. Ser Barristan had told her many times of the expansive network of tunnels beneath the Red Keep. It was something to keep in mind should they ever need a way inside her family’s castle in King’s Landing.

“Your Grace,” Hizdarh zo Loraq said from the side.

She turned to him. “Yes?”

“The fighting pits, Your Grace…”

Daenerys bit the inside of her mouth. If it could quench the flames of rebellion in her city, what other choice did she have? “They shall reopen,” she said, and she could hear Hizdarh sighing in relief. “For now.”

Did I make a whole chapter just to save Ser Barristan Selmy? Yes, that’s exactly what I did. It’s Ser Barristan the fucking Bold. I’m not going to have him die in some back alley by some nameless essosi with a fucking knife or something. Expect future badassery from him. Dany won’t be sailing to Westeros straight away, btw. I’ll revisit her POV in a while and that will clear things up. Btw, Jorah doesn’t have the updated version of events, obviously. Info can’t travel that fast all the way across the world. So she doesn’t yet know of the shadow-demon being blamed on Targaryens etc etc.