╣there was nothing she hated more than a man whose ego outweighed his worth╠
"When is your southern king leaving? Is that fancy letter about him?" Ygritte was growing impatient with her days. The men of the Night's Watch did not allow anyone beyond the wall. Not with the imposing threat of the walking dead.
'You wanted on this side of the wall,' Alliser Thorne would say, 'On this side you will stay.'
His support within the Night's Watch was waning. It had been Jon Snow, not Alliser Thorne, who had protected them through the attack of the wildlings. It was Jon Snow, not Alliser Thorne who created peace between the Free Folk and the North.
"He's not my king. I have no king." Jon often reminded her.
"And yet you call him, your grace, and stand when he enters a room."
Jon would reply, "Because he could remove my head from my shoulders if I did not."
Ygritte was allowed to hunt as long as she was not stealing from Northern settlements and farms. She was allowed freedom, as long as she did not disobey any of the crow's laws. Life out of chains was infuriating.
Jon sighed and set down a scroll of paper. It was marked by a wolf on silver wax. Often Jon received ravens from his half brother who resided in Winterfell's halls. The war had left no time for communication and brotherly ties were left cold. However, when Robb surrendered and returned to the North, he made sure correspondence was seldom forgotten between him and his bastard brother.
"No." He said softly. "It's about my sisters."
"They're not dead are they?" Death had become a common bird upon their shoulders. "Your family drops like flies." It was not meant as an insult, and Jon had to take it with a grain of salt. The statement was true. If his family was not dead, they were in captivity in some palace or dungeon. Prisoners of war, they were called.
"For one of them, death would be a kinder fate." He thought back to his darling sister's wild spirit and her longing for freedom. "Arya has been married to the crown prince. She is stuck in the capital with the Lannisters for good." He spat out the words as if they tasted foul in his mouth. If he were not lord commander and so oath-bound, he would have cut down every Lannister to get Arya back.
"So now she's royalty." Jon hummed. "Do any of your women have a choice in their lives?"
Jon frowned at the statement. He thought of Lady Catelyn who was married to his father after her true betrothed died by Aerys' hand. He thought of sweet Sansa who was tied to Tywin Lannister's lesser son, destined to forever hold the Lannister name behind hers. He thought of the dowager queen Cersei, whose husband obsessed over a dead girl till the day he died. He thought of Daenerys Targaryen across the sea, sold to a man by her brother.
"No, not often."
Ygritte seemed to think for a moment, propping her feet up on his desk. "Do you think Stannis would be any kinder to his daughter if he were to win the throne?"
Without missing a beat, Jon responded, "No. Daughters are worth more than cavalries and castles, men would kill for a woman who could give them power."
"But they would not protect her from themselves." It was not a question, and Jon did not need to answer.
He thought of Catelyn Stark, holding Robb while his father returned home with a bastard in his arms. He thought of sweet Sansa, bound now to a cunning and cruel man. He thought of dowager queen Cersei and the bruises she covered with pastes and paint from across the Narrow Sea. He thought about Daenerys Targaryen, married to a savage man in a savage land.
Jon had always secretly wished to be a true born son. It was what all bastards wished for from the very moment they figured out what being a bastard meant. But being a bastard also meant that he would never have to wed his daughter off like chattel. He would never have to watch her toil in silence with a man who did not deserve her. He supposed that for that reason alone, he was glad Robb was lord of Winterfell, and not him.
✵ ✵ ✵ ✵
Rhena rolled her shoulders as she stared up at Meereen. Nothing much had changed. The same sentries walked the battlements, the same harbors filtered silks and coin, and the same immovable wall stood between her and the city.
Hundreds of people, slaver and slave both, lined the walls to gain a glimpse of the Targaryen army. Never before had the Dothraki been so mighty, never had they cooperated for a common cause. Rhena wondered if Lady Mondera was somewhere watching, remembering the woman who once lay in her services.
The air was heavy and thick. This day was one for shade, tents, cool water, and napping. The sun beat down on her shoulders, making her skin slick with sweat. Tunics and trousers were the most practical for what she was trying to accomplish, but at the moment, she wanted the soft flowing silks from her younger days.
Rhena looked to the sky and wished for rain. It was seldom in their part of the world which was watered by desert rivers and ocean banks. She longed for the gray skies and dark clouds. Rhena wanted to smell the air, feel the heavy heat of thunder. Clear blue skies mocked her openly and the sun beat down on her leather-clad form.
The makeshift small council stood behind her, all waiting for something to happen. Four dragons flew above them, breaking the rays of sun. "What do you propose my queen?" Greyworm asked. He was growing more comfortable with voicing his opinions, questions, and thoughts.
"We must turn the city against their holders. The masters must fall."
"A just ending for an unwelcome cause." Rhena loved the way that Callan's voice sounded when speaking her ancestor's tongue. He had not been raised on it like she had and his Westerosi accent blended with Valyrian in a unique way.
"How do you propose we do this?" Aryen stood beside his brother and aunt. Bags under his eyes hinted at poor sleep. Rhena could relate; her shoulders ached from the extreme heat and chill.
Daario stepped in front of them all, ignoring the careful placement of power that each of them held. "Care to speak in a language we can all understand?" Rhena bit her tongue to prevent foul words from passing, and ignored the man. If she were younger and short of two sons, Rhena would have gravitated towards Daario Naharis. His strength and arrogance would have been addictive.
But she was a mother late in her third decade with a city and seven kingdoms to conquer.
The urge to continue in Valyrian was strong, but Barristan and Ned were struggling to keep up as well, and she valued their counsel. "The walls will not be brought down by simple spears and warfare. I have defended them myself."
"We have dragon fire." Daario said, pivoting to the dragon queen. "It would be an easy endeavor. I hear you took Yunkai in the same fashion."
"That easy endeavor," Callan started, ready to stamp down any stupidity in the group. "Would no doubt end with the death of many slaves in such a confined space."
Aryen picked up after him, tiring of the man and his obsession with his aunt and mother. "Yunkai was an open desert city which offered easy escape to any fleeing the flames. Any in Meereen would be trapped and burned alive."
"And if the masters send their slaves for battle?" The doors groaned and creaked after Daario's comment. A single rider rode from the bowels of Meereen, bathed in shining golden armor adorned with tassels and glittering gems.
Rhena smiled. It was as she had hoped. "They will not." She assured, pointing out to the man who lay across from them. "That is their champion, he and mine will decide the fate of the city." A short time ago, before she had lost her last brother, Rhena held great promise in Meereen. So great that she was granted training with the city's champion. "His father commands the Meereenese city guard and his uncle is the richest man in the city. He is practically a prince of the people." He was not a terribly unlikable man. His skill was great and his title rightly given. But he was arrogant and slow, relying on his power and weaponry.
"Good Queen Rhena," Daario's steps were too calculated, too sure. "I have not been in your services long, but I long to serve you any way I can. Allow me to win this victory for you."
And the bidding began.
Barristan stepped up, bowing his head in respect. "Your grace, you have witnessed the length of my skills from the moment you were brought into this world. Let a steadfast blade serve you again."
"Rhena," Drogo said, voice rough, "I will kill this man in your name, in Daenerys' name, in the Targaryen name." His Westerosi was coming along well. Rhena was still curious how Daenerys had explained that the throne would pass to Rhena, not her. She wondered how he took it so well after promising Daenerys the throne under his gods and spirits.
Callan did not speak, but his eyes were open and soft. If she were to ask, he would win a thousand victories for her. Greyworm did not speak either, his conditioning barred him from imputing his wishes on more important matters such as this. Rhena would have that conditioning broken soon.
She turned back to the city and shrugged off her leather shell. Daenerys had spent days on it, embroidering dragon scales that draped over her shoulders. On the center of her back, red threaded rubies formed the Targaryen crest. She was reminded painfully of Rhaegar and his caved in armor every time her eyes set sights on it.
"How do I deserve this city if I cannot even fight for it myself?" Missandi stepped up to take her outer layer. She too was learning how to loosen her tongue around larger groups. Rhena rolled her shoulders again, sighing when the resistance gave way to a soft pop. "I will rid of this champion myself." Daario's face screwed up as if he had eaten a particularly sour lemon. Rhena fought down the urge to scoff. There was nothing she hated more than a man whose ego outweighed his worth.
The champion was off his horse now, spitting foul words at Rhena and her party. "What is he shouting about?" Ned asked. Rhena did not envy him, being fluent in a lesser language across a sea was not ideal.
"He calls this army one without cocks." Rhena said, stepping further away from the party as she spoke. "He calls me a man who hides mine in my asshole." Low Valyrian had been easy enough to learn during her time in Meereen. It was the daughter of her first language, branching from the same family. "He calls me unworthy of my past praise." Sounds of awe and blood lust sounded from those watching on the gates. Not often did a leader sacrifice their own life, lesser was a woman held in such a place of power.
A strong breeze made its way across the flat valley base and Rhena relished in the dry desert air that worked through her crimson tunic. "Ignore him your grace." Barristan insisted.
Just after the words were spoken, the champion unbuckled his trousers, let them fall, and pissed on the ground. Aryen coughed to cover his laugh and Ned sneered, disgust simmering behind his eyes. "Well that is a bit hard to do now isn't it?" Rhena asked. She drew her sword, gleaming silver in the sun. Its leather had long ago melded to the shape of her fingers. Rhena flexed her hand around it, body easing into a familiar fighting stance. "Do your worst!" Her voice was gravely and deep, carrying from one end of the canyon to the other.
Oznak zo Pahl did not take her comment very well and angrily stomped to his horse. He tormented some squire for a lance when he had mounted. Meereen cheered for their champion as he readied himself for battle. "Mother, perhaps a horse?" Tyros asked, already reaching for the reins of Rhena's horse.
"No, I will be quite alright on my own." Rhena pulled out Tyrion's dagger from the sheath on her arm with her unoccupied hand.
Aryen shared a look with his brother. "He has a horse mother." His voice was hard and blunt. "Horses are faster than people."
"I do not trust a horse for this task. I trust my own feet." The man had begun his pursuit, kicking his horse to gain his speed. A messy cloud of dust was left in his wake as he raced past lines of Unsullied.
Aryen and Tyros stood stiff. They did not doubt their mother's skill, but they had not grown accustomed to seeing her in battle. Callan stood with an easy smile; Meereen would be theirs within the month.
Closer and closer the champion got, until he had transformed from a dot in the distance to the form of a man. Rhena tightened her jaw, drew back her arm, and released her dagger. It found its mark in the horse's eye, a quick death for a gentle animal. She would have thrown it at the man, but his armor was heavy, and his fall would not deter his mount's course.
Meereen's champion fell at her feet with a scream that melded with his horse's. Rhena could hardly see through the sand and dust that had been kicked up, but her sword found the his neck with hardly any effort. It was in moments like these when she could feel Visenya's blood running through her veins. She was the result of a matriline long forged from the conqueror's blood. She was a woman. She was a mother. She was the Targaryen Legacy.
Meereen cried out as their champion fell. Masters rushed to the railings of their balconies where they watched comfortably.
Rhena turned back to her party. Callan and Daenerys were smiling, proud of their queen and her strength. Aryen looked relieved. Tyros even more so; his legs looked as if they would give out. Missandi stood with a cloth for her bloody sword, awe swimming behind her eyes.
"An excellent kill your grace." She bowed her head when Rhena grabbed the cloth. The queen cupped the girl's cheek, an affection she saved only for her sister. She sheathed her sword and moved to retrieve her dagger from the horse's scull.
"Will you speak to them your grace?" Ned asked. Rhena stoped to think. It would be a good idea, letting the people hear her voice. But the walls were high, and her voice would surely not carry. She cast one long look up to the city that would belong to her.
"No, my words will be useless from here." She would need more time to clean her dagger, blood had found its way into the careful carvings. Rhena wiped it away as best she could and pocketed the black cloth. She took one last look at the city above her before her attention moved to Greyworm. "Let them taste freedom."
She passed through the ranks of her army, each row shifting in unison to allow her passage. Her sister and son's followed, as did the rest of her council. To their left and right, catapults launched barrels toward the upper city walls, positioned just high enough to break above the heads of the residents. Above them, behind glittering walls, broken collars fell upon Meereenese slaves.
✵ ✵ ✵ ✵
Divide and conquer should be Tywin's words. It was how he handled problems of state and land. It was how how he handled his enemies. It was how he handled his children and wards. It was why he admired Aegon who divided and conquered each of the Seven Kingdoms.
It was how he now sat on the Iron Throne in the place of either Tommen or Arya, both to be crowned within the fortnight. His eldest son stood beside him, body dressed with golden armor, arm dressed with golden hand. Arya and Tommen stood on the steps of the golden dais, framing Tywin's form. They faced the court which had assembled for hearings.
Joffrey's murder had turned stale and bitter in the mouths of every noble who had attended the wedding. Tyrion and Sansa had coincidentally escaped their cells on the same night as Oberyn Martell's hasty departure. With no suspects to be tried, and the imposing coronation of a new king and his wife, none seemed to care that the tyrannical boy had died.
No one but the queen mother, who was easy to wine and easier to anger. Even the Hand held no grief for his late grandson.
"We found this one on the beaches, my lord, my prince, princess." A gold cloak nodded to each as he spoke. "I wouldn't have bothered you with a low matter such as this but," He pulled out a small sword from beneath his cloak. "He claimed this was a favor for the Princess Arya."
Arya gasped and quickly moved from the high step. "Arya!" Tywin barked out. "Mind your duty." Arya cared not and continued down to where the nameless knight stood.
"That's my sword." She breathed, reaching out. The goldcloak took a half step back, uncertainty passing over his face. His eyes darted from Arya's outstretched hand and Lord Tywin, begging for an easy escape. Whispers had erupted around the room. No doubt there would be vile tales strung of the wild traitor's daughter and her lust for blood by the end of the day.
"Arya," Tommen called out. He was timid in any interaction with her. Never forceful, never strong.
"That's my sword." She said, louder so that her voice carried through the room. "Gifted to me by my bastard brother. I would have it returned to me."
"A bastard brother giving a sword for bastard intentions no doubt." Cersei called out from her place in the gallery. Giggles and whispers followed her statement. "Return to your place good daughter." Arya's face screwed up in anger, disgusted at the thought of ever being Cersei's good-daughter in name.
Tywin stood and the two Kingsguard at his side moved back a step to give him the platform. "Take the sword to my study Ser Parox." The knight bowed and retreated, leaving his captive to face Tywin Lannister alone. The lord Hand passed his grandson and moved to stand just a step in front of Arya, asserting his position above her. "Who are you, what is your aim? Speak."
The man looked up. There was nothing particular about his face. His skin was bronzed by the sun like all those who lived in the capital. His eyes were dark, the most common. The only distinguishing feature was his hair; thick, curly, and bunched in a knot at the back of his head.
His voice was low and smooth strung together as a bard would string a song. "This one's name is Barcos." He said, shifting in his chains. "I have come to repay a debt I owe to the Princess Arya."
"What debt?" Tywin asked. But then again, he never truly asked for anything. His questions were so demanding that they almost sounded like a command.
Barcos shifted his stance and that's when Arya knew. The man was no who he seemed. "Three were cheated from the stranger, he asks for three in return." Arya stepped back, eyes widening. "I would ask for three names."
This was it, this was the moment she could earn her freedom. Tywin, Cersei, Tommen. The three who held her from the North.
Before she could say anything, Tywin gestured to the guards behind 'Barcos'. "Take him away. If his true intentions are not reviled by the night's end, kill him and throw his body to the sea."
"Valar morghulis." The man said simply before turning from the royal dais.
Tywin hummed and whispered a short, "Valar dohaeris," before turning back to the throne. "Tommen, escort your wife back to your chambers, I will summon her by the end of the day."
Arya watched as Jaqen H'ghar was led from the throne room. Likely, he would escape in no time and find her again to repay the debt which he owed. She wondered how long it would take for the Stranger to tire of her debt and strike her down himself.
Tommen was at her side instantly. He moved quiet and graceful for a boy his age. She supposed it was the product of growing up beside a brother such as Joffrey. "Arya." He spoke softly too, something which angered her greatly. He was supposed to be the next king. The man to lead the continent into a new age, and he couldn't form a firm sentence without stuttering. "You heard him, common."
Jaime had come to stand with them, most likely to stand post outside of their rooms. "I'm bored of this room." he stated in his pompous westerland voice. "Care to stop on the kitchens on the way?" Arya glared and walked towards the huge doors of the throne room, leaving Tommen and Jaime to catch up. Nobles parted for her and bowed, offering noises of farewell. She was clearly not what the kingdom wanted for a queen, but queen she would be. Ass kissers the lot of them. Arya thought to herself as the doors were swept open for her departure.
Her mind was reeling. Needle was somewhere in the castle, likely to be locked away at Lord Tywin's orders, never to lay in her hand again. Jaquen was somewhere, waiting to kill for her. It was too much for one afternoon and her head ached from the heat. She needed to speak to Syrio. With Sansa gone, he was the one person in the capital whom she could confide in.
She took a sharp right and glanced back. Tommen and Jaime's footsteps were loud as they hurried to catch up with her fast pace, but they were still in the throne room, gone from her sight.
To her left was a large tapestry hung over a window which overlooked Fleabottom. It was most likely placed there to mask the awful sight of the poorest part of the city from anyone of importance. It was a perfect place to hide.
One look over her shoulder told her that the corridor was void of any guards or maids or aristocrats. Jaime and Tommen were still not in sight. That was all she needed. Her feet were quick and she was behind the the tapestry in no time. The window was a foot off of the ground and two in depth so her form did not show behind the heavy fabric. The sill offered a place for her to stand and she pressed herself against the warm glass, slowing her breath to hear anything on the other side.
"Fuck me." She could hear Jaime just as the cloth stilled. "Where did she go now?"
"Grandfather won't be pleased." Tommen responded with. That made her want to gag. Who gave a flying fuck what Grandfather thought? Apparently the whole of Lannister house. "Should we-"
"No." Jaime cut off the boy, sighing. "Let her find her own trouble. If she dies or escapes, you will have Margaery Tyrell to wife." Tommen made a small noise of complaint but was once again cut off by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "Common, she'll turn up eventually. Don't worry your royal head over it." Jaime's armored footsteps passed her and Arya thanked the gods for her lack importance to the man.
Tommen's leather shoes hardly made a scuffing sound on the marble floors. In truth, he would have made an excellent water dancer in another life. He stopped in front of the tapestry. She couldn't tell how close or far he was, but she could smell his saffron soap and hear his unchecked breath through the thread. Sweat pricked at Arya's forehead from both the suspense and the old, heavy air trapped between the window and the tapestry. Move. She urged him on in her head. Move so I may have a moment of peace.
He did not. He lifted his hand and pressed against the tapestry. Arya could see the imprint of it against the fine stitching. Something tugged in her chest, and for only a moment, she wanted to raise her hand to meet his. Wanted to feel the press of his palm against hers.
"Tommen!" Jaime called from further down the corridor. "I will not face your mother's wrath for your wandering."
And the moment was gone. Arya's hand twitched as his pulled away. She leaned her full weight against the glass, contemplating what would happen if she were to fall through. The fall would surly kill her, Tommen would marry Margaery, and Stark house would loose more blood over King's Landing.
She stayed their for a long while, making sure that Tommen and Jaime were really gone before allowing herself the privilege of even breaths. Twin's study would be the next move of course, but the smell of saffron made her linger for a moment.
Tywin.
Cersei.
...Tommen.
She shook her head and pulled the tapestry back. There was no time for hesitation. She had to get to needle. She had to speak to Jaqen H'ghar. She had to get home.