Meereen had erupted into chaos.
Saera kept to herself for weeks, missing Jorah and only speaking to her training partners and Ser Barristan on a good day. All other times, she wrote to Ellaria, she made notes to herself as she grieved Prince Oberyn, remembering the scared little girl she'd been when he took her in.
It was strange to not see his body, to not be able to mourn him. Then again, it was exactly what she'd experienced with her parents, brothers, Elia, Rhaenys, and Aegon. Always knowing they were gone forever, hearing about the horrible ways they died and then nothing.
They became nothing, remembered fondly in her heart and her heart alone. No one missed the Mad King, but she missed the father he'd been on his best days. No one was left to remember Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella the way they should, but she'd never forget all the times they comforted her when she was afraid of the smallest things, sang and soothed her without judgment. Viserys would not be mourned because of who he'd become. The Dornish were the only ones who, aside from her, felt pain when remembering Elia and her children.
They were gone, too. Gone, gone...
And Saera was here, without her close friend, isolated from all but a few people who valued her. Shunned and unappreciated by her sister.
Why had she ever expected differently?
She hated herself for ever entertaining the idea that life in Essos would have been like a fairytale, where everything went her way. She thought she'd braid Daenerys's hair for her every night and sing to her. She thought they'd be arm in arm, that her sister would look consistently happy with her presence because for the first time in her life, she'd feel the utmost security with Saera there.
Instead months had gone by where Saera was sure Daenerys wanted her gone, dead even.
Daenerys considered Saera might be right about one thing. Was she behaving like their father? Was she really so paranoid that she thought her own sister was here to usurp her throne?
(Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to usurp the throne. And definitely not the last.)
She knew Saera was a good person; she'd seen how she cared for people, she'd seen that she tried to understand situations. And yet Daenerys just couldn't shake the thought that her sister judged her every choice, her every move.
Saera wouldn't shut up about the crucifixions, she wouldn't hold her tongue at the Small Council meetings, she wouldn't stop ranting about the dragons. A constant challenge, something Daenerys wished she could welcome, but instead loathed.
She'd never wanted a sister. She never thought she'd get one. And now that she had one she wished she didn't. She wished Saera had never come, that she hadn't disrupted what she was trying to build.
She didn't want Saera here. And she told herself the best way out of this was to assign her to do something elsewhere. She would, because she still wanted to help her and keep her safe.
But at least then they wouldn't have to deal with one another.
She could see that Saera was miserable. If she wasn't beating into Kavarro, Black Fist, and anyone else who wanted to train with her (lately the line was growing longer), she was in her chambers alone. She didn't walk among the Meereenese because they both knew Daenerys wouldn't like it. Saera had nothing to say to them; if she got to hearing their problems she knew she'd offer something her sister would find problematic.
Daenerys had considered sending her back to Dorne, but then they'd received another letter from Ellaria.
"Tywin Lannister is dead," said Saera hotly. "We have the opening of a lifetime right now. That man– who while wicked was extremely brilliant and capable on the battlefield– is gone. King Tommen hasn't got a Hand anymore, Tyrion Lannister is gone and the suspected killer... they are vulnerable. If there was ever a time you wanted to conquer, it would be now."
"No," said Daenerys simply, looking across the Small Council table at her, the two leaning over opposite sides, glaring. "I wish to stay in Meereen. My work here is far from complete."
"You have ruled in Meereen for weeks," said Saera. "You've placed ambassadors in Yunkai who should return in a few weeks; why not do the same here? You are the one who wants to conquer yet here you are relishing in power over former slaves. I struggle to understand what your true motivations are. If we are not taking King's Landing now, we might as well never do it. What use are we to anyone here? If you intend to rule Meereen, that should be a long-term commitment, but you haven't said it will be so. We've been here for too long, and I think it may be time to let these people do what they wish to do in accordance with their culture, and go claim the throne you desire."
"You are eager to leave here," said Daenerys softly, though her tone was anything but sympathetic. "The news of Prince Oberyn's death has rattled you. Perhaps you've realized what I mean when I say justice ought to be answered with justice."
Saera hated that she was insinuating that she only wanted to leave to kill Lannisters. "I do not want to kill anyone for what happened, Daenerys! The gods decided the outcome of that trial, he chose to do it! I hate it, I hate The Mountain, but I do not thirst for his blood. I want you to have your throne if that is what you want, I aim to give you what you seek because I am your sister."
"You make it sound like a requirement."
At this point, it seemed it had become one.
"I want you to have what you desire so we may go our separate ways," admitted Saera. "You have come up with no compromise; you continue to push me aside and express your jealousy. I am tired of it. I do not exactly ask to be included in all your audiences but I wish to be informed of what my purpose here is. Lately it is as if I am only a sword you call upon when you need something."
"You remain here because you are my blood," said Daenerys as Saera straightened up. "My heir until I have one of my own. You wished to come here and protect me–"
"And I have tried! Yet you push me away at every step, you disregard all my ideas. If I am thinking of something wrong, if I am misunderstanding, correct me, don't simply shove my ideas aside and pretend they don't matter. I am not your Queensguard, I am not your Hand, and you certainly don't treat me like the Princess of Dragonstone; the heir typically sits on the council and expresses ideas, too. So decide, Daenerys, what do you want me to do? Because if you intend to stay in Meereen, I'm afraid I have no purpose here. Westeros was your goal, now it is not. That is fine if it is what you decide– after all, it's all fucked now. A Bolton rules Winterfell, Stannis Baratheon is at the Wall, Lysa Arryn is dead, whatever Kingdoms remain in the fold are ruled by a boy King who is a bastard and has no wisdom of his own. I simply want to know the truth of what you want so I can determine my place in it. I am nothing here."
The door burst open. "Forgive me, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan, leading in Missandei, Grey Worm, and the advocate for the Meereenese freedmen, Mossador. "We have something you'll want to hear."
Ser Barristan handed her a golden mask after Mossador revealed that one of the Unsullied had been found dead in a brothel.
"The Sons of the Harpy?" said Daenerys, referencing the group that had been meant to break the slave trade in Slaver's Bay.
"Yes, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan. "They left this on the body."
Daenerys was surprised, "They've never killed before."
"It was only a matter of time, Your Grace. Conquerors are always met with resistance."
"I didn't conquer them, their own people did."
Saera gritted her teeth, thinking it ridiculous that Daenerys still couldn't see it. She warned her about respecting their culture, of ruling over them as the masters did. She had conquered them, but still seemed to think she could do no wrong.
"Gaomis daor ūndegon īlva hae issaros, Aōha Dārōñe," said Mossador. (T: They do not see us as people, Your Grace.)
Daenerys clasped her hands together, "Pār emilzi naejot gūrēñagon naejot ūndegon ra ñuhoso, Mossador." (T: Then they will have to learn to see things differently, Mossador.) She spoke to the others, "He did not risk his life fighting for his freedom so cowards in masks could take it away. And I did not take up residence in this pyramid so I could watch the city below decline into chaos."
"What did you expect?" said Saera. "This pyramid was made by slaves and was inhabited by their masters; now you're here. They see us all as invaders. As foreigners who need to be shoved out."
She ignored her, "What was the name of the man you lost?"
"White Rat, Your Grace," said Grey Worm, greatly improved in the Common Tongue with Missandei's lessons; despite Saera's distance, she could see those two were fond of each other.
"I want him buried with honor, publicly," said Daenerys. "In the Temple of the Graces."
"The Sons of the Harpy will hear that message," warned Ser Barristan.
"Make them very angry," agreed Mossador.
"Angry snakes lash out," said Daenerys. "Makes chopping off their heads that much easier." She looked at Saera, "You wished for a task? Find the men who did this and bring them to me."
Saera was given rotations alongside Grey Worm, Black Fist, and the other Unsullied to patrol the city. It was strange to actually walk around the streets and see the Meereenese that she hardly paid attention to. A few of the smaller children walked up to her, perhaps thinking at first glance that she was their 'Mhysa' from her silver hair.
When they realized she wasn't, they still hung around, calling her 'Mhynda,' the old Ghiscari word for 'sister.'
Some of the children wanted to ride on her back as she walked around the city, others wanted to see if she could hold them up while they clung to her spear. A few of the mothers watched with smiles on their faces as they ran back and forth, playing a game where they had to reach a destination without her tapping their heads.
Her patrols became less about guarding the city and more about getting to know the citizens. She realized she should have been doing this all along. Perhaps the best way to figure out everything the Sons of the Harpy intended was to find out from those who knew them personally.
The extra distance was beneficial in keeping tensions between her and her sister low, though it seemed Daenerys was disappointed that they didn't find anything in the first week that she joined the patrols. Nevertheless, it was enough that she was doing a job, and it granted her a seat at the next Small Council meeting that took place when Daario and Hizdahr zo Loraq returned from Yunkai.
"Our mission to Yunkai was a resounding success," reported Hizdahr zo Loraq in the throne room. "The Wise Masters of Yunkai have agreed to cede power to a council of elders made up of both freed men and the former slaveholders. All matters of consequence will be brought to you for review."
"Good," said Daenerys happily.
"They did ask for some concessions," added Hizdahr carefully.
She narrowed her eyes. "Concessions?"
"Politics is the art of compromise, Your Grace," said Hizdahr.
"I'm not a politician, I am a queen," said Daenerys.
Hizdahr added, "Forgive me, Your Grace. You're right, of course. Still, it's easier to rule happy subjects than angry ones."
"I don't expect the Wise Masters to be happy. Slavery made them rich, I ended slavery."
"They do not ask for the return of slavery. They ask for the reopening of the fighting pits."
Daenerys once again was upset with this subject. "The fighting pits? Where slaves fought slaves to the death?"
"In the new world that you've brought to use, free men would fight free men. The pit fighters you liberated plead for this opportunity. Bring some here and ask them yourself."
"No fighting pits," she said firmly.
"Opening them would show the people of Yunkai and Meereen that you respect their traditions."
"I do not respect the tradition of human cockfighting."
"If you–"
She snapped, "How many times must I say no before you understand?"
"Your Grace," said Saera, seeing the offended look on Hizdahr's face, "we have spoken before about the culture here and how we must replace existing systems. Perhaps we can give them what they want with modifications. If they enjoy this practice, we ought not spit in the face of their traditions; we are the foreigners here, not them. We cannot expect them to conform to our view without indulging a bit of theirs."
She posed an idea, "It may be beneficial to reopen the fighting pits but give payment to the winner, perhaps make it so they can only kill once a day or even that cannot fight to the death and only to near-death– when sparring there are always moments where we stop because we know a killing shot would have been made– so they might fight multiple times. We must be immersed in this culture if we intend to rule. If this is what your people want, why deny them? If you control and restrict them, you're no better than the masters. You claimed you didn't come here bringing commands but now you're commanding they set aside their traditions. You wouldn't like it if anyone did it to us, therefore we should not make a habit of meddling with foreign practices if we're not first going to attempt to understand it."
Daenerys was shaking with rage, furious that Saera had dared undermine her in front of company again. "I said no," she demanded. "I will hear no more on this matter."
Saera could see that both Hizdahr and Daario agreed with her. Even Ser Barristan seemed convinced this was worth further discussion. But Daenerys wasn't willing to entertain the idea.
Daario gave her a thumbs-up after Daenerys walked out. "I will speak to her," he whispered as she walked past him. "The fighting pits should be reopened if we wish to avoid further trouble."
It surprised her, bringing a smile to her face.
His reasoning was that he was here because of the pits, that he grew as a fighter and became a man he was proud of. Saera figured others felt the same way. But apparently, Daenerys still couldn't be convinced.
Missandei came looking for her in the evening.
"This is a treat," said Saera, welcoming her in and sitting her down, offering a bowl of grapes. "I haven't got anything but wine, and I'm not sure if you drink–?"
"I'm quite alright," said Missandei gently.
"I almost wish to bet that Daenerys sent you to smooth things over with me," said Saera. "But the look on your face tells me you are confused about something... perhaps uncomfortable?"
Missandei nodded. "I have a question. I do not know who else to ask. I... I asked Grey Worm and he did not know. I do not wish to ask our Queen."
"What is it?"
"I want to understand why White Rat would have been at a brothel. I have heard that other Unsullied do this as well."
Saera shrugged, sitting with her. "Even eunuchs can feel desire. Many less so than others, but from my understanding it does not mean that sexual arousal is impossible. I'm told eunuchs simply can't produce children; many have tried to no avail. I suppose now that they are free, they have learned about desire, they wish to explore it, and the easiest place to do that is in a brothel."
"Oh," said Missandei in a small voice, cheeks red.
"But Grey Worm isn't like the other Unsullied, if that is what you truly wish to know," Saera assured her. "He is quite disciplined. Is there something else you wanted to ask me about?"
She shook her head. "No. But there is another worry. I... I should not say, though... I am worried for our Queen. She visited her dragons and returned to her room terrified."
"They're not supposed to be in there," said Saera quietly. "They are meant to be free. Perhaps they feel she betrayed them. The dragons need room to grow. They will resent her the longer they are there, in chains. I wish I could free them–"
"You cannot!" she squeaked.
"I won't," Saera assured her, getting to her feet. "Not now. But I... may have an idea. You may go. I do not want the Queen to know anything."
She snuck into the catacombs with as much raw meat as she could carry in a basket. Black Fist was on duty, and asked no questions, commanding his brethren to pull back the stone and let her in.
"Rytsas, byka zaldrīzoti," she cooed, walking in carefully. "Nyke maghatan ao mirros." (T: Hello, little dragons. I brought you something.)
A column of fire shot up over her head, causing her to drop to her knees. The flame illuminated the room, letting her see that Rhaegal, the green and bronze, was upset with her presence.
"Lykirī, Rhaegal," she said, slowly reaching for a slab of meet. She tossed it to him, letting him begin to eat while she turned her attention to Viserion. "Lykirī, Viserion. Lykirī. Lykirī." (T: Calm.)
He snarled as she approached, but she did not stop, holding the meat carefully between her hands. At last, he was quiet, and did not make to snap at her. "Sȳrī." She smiled. "Dohaerās, Viserion." (T: Well done. Serve.)
He tilted his head at her, still letting a small rumbling echo through the room. She repeated it again, "Dohaerās." She stepped back, setting the slab of meat down at some distance away from him. "Māzis." He began to approach too quickly, causing her to hold her hand out, stopping him. "Umbās–" she paused, waiting for him to slow down before asking, "Rȳbās." (T: Serve. Come. Wait– Forward.)
He stepped toward her in little steps, crooning as he reached the slab of meat. "Umbās..." she stepped out of the way. "Kelīs... Drakarys." (T: Wait... Halt... Dracarys)
He blew his fire onto the meat, then brought it into his mouth, chewing noisily. She waited until he was done, approaching with her hand extended, "Nyke mērī jaelagon naejot renigon ao." (T: I only wish to touch you.)
He trilled, the sound echoing through the catacomb as he let her caress his forehead. Rhaegal had already come closer, wanting more meat. She tossed him another, glad that he was calm; he'd always been the most patient of the three of them. Now that he saw she wasn't here to do harm, he didn't have anything to worry about.
"Olvie sȳz," she observed, realizing how much larger they had gotten in only a few weeks as she traced her hand down Viserion's chin, then toward his wings. "Iksā mazverdāre adhirikydho, byka zaldrīzoti. Kesan ivestragī ao hen, mirri tubis. Yn istia sagon sȳz byka zaldrīzoti." (T: Very good. You are growing quickly, little dragons. I will let you out, someday. But you must be good little dragons.)
Viserion seemed to have no problem with this, waiting for his next piece of meat. She split the pieces evenly, letting them both eat before she carried the basket out, bidding them a good night.
Her heart was racing as she walked back to her room, a giddy smile plastered on her face.
She dreamed about flying that night, the sort of dream that she hadn't had since she was a little girl. She imagined Viserion much larger, carrying her through the clouds and over the ruins of Old Valyria, which she'd seen many times in books.
Perhaps it wouldn't have to be a dream for much longer.
Daario took charge of the patrols the next day, having an idea how they might find members of the Sons of the Harpy. He hit the jackpot in early afternoon, bringing to Daenerys a man they'd found hidden in the wall with weapons and a golden mask just like the one left behind on White Rat.
"Sons of the Harpy, they want to put a collar back on my neck," said Mossador. "On all of our necks. Please, Your Grace, you must kill him."
"It would send a message," agreed Daenerys.
"I think we should exercise restraint, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan carefully, worried she might bite his head off the way she did Saera's. "He may have valuable information."
"The Son of the Harpy has no more valuable information," said Daario.
"How do you know that?"
"Because I questioned him."
Hizdahr spoke up, "And from the information you did get– he is young and poor."
"He is born free," said Mossador.
"Why should he want to bring back slavery?" said Hizdahr. "What did it do for him?"
"Perhaps the only thing that gave him pride was knowing there was someone lower than he was," said Daenerys.
"They pay him," insisted Mossador. "Great families afraid to do a thing. They pay poor men to do it for them."
"And how do you know this?" asked Hizdahr.
"Everyone know this."
"I don't know it! And I'm the head of a great family."
"We do not know what this man did or didn't do," said Ser Barristan. "Give him a trial at least, a fair trial. Show all the citizens of Meereen that you're better than those who would depose you. Teach them a better way."
"I do not know the place from where Old Ser comes," said Mossador. "Things maybe are different there, I hope. But here, in Meereen, before Daenerys Stormborn, they own us. So we learn much about them, or we do not live long. They teach me what they are." He glared at Hizdahr, "Mercy, fair trial, these mean nothing to them. All they understand is blood."
Daenerys decided that was the end of their meeting. "Thank you all for your counsel."
They began to walk out, but Ser Barristan motioned for Saera to stay. "Your Grace, a word, please, I beg you."
"About what?" she asked.
"About your father. About the Mad King."
"The Mad King?" said Daenerys, side-eyeing Saera as if she thought she put Ser Barristan up to it. "You're here to remind me of my enemies' lies? Consider me reminded."
"Your Grace," he pleaded, "I served in his Kingsguard. I was at his side from the first. Your enemies did not lie, neither did your sister. When people rose in revolt against him, your father set their towns and castles aflame. He murdered sons in front of their fathers, he burned men alive with wildfire and laughed as they screamed. And his efforts to stamp out dissent led to rebellion that killed every Targaryen except three. Now only two remain."
Daenerys seemed struck by this. "I'm not my father."
"No, Your Grace, thank the gods. But the Mad King gave his enemies the justice he thought they deserved. And each time, it made him feel powerful and right. Until the very end. Your sister does not counsel the opposite as you to make you angry or to challenge your claim, she does it because she knows who your father became and is trying to show you a way to avoid that."
Saera stared at him gratefully. Daenerys decided, "I will not have the Sons of the Harpy executed without a fair trial."
Ser Barristan smiled weakly. "Your Grace."
"Leave us, please," said Daenerys, beckoning Saera to the balcony.
The sister remained alone, overlooking the city. "I swear to you I do not want this throne," insisted Saera. "I want to keep you safe and I cannot go without voicing my ideas when I feel you are being too extreme. I am not trying to undermine you. Whatever I've done, the mistakes I've made that made you think otherwise, I am truly sorry."
She was quiet for a moment. "What do you recommend?"
"I say we hold the trial. Question the man, find out what the Sons of the Harpy want. Come up with some sort of compromise so that we do not fall back into slavery but also do not erase their culture. Ask to speak to their leader to make this work, if we must. We can make it work but we have to be willing to see their side of it."
Daenerys nodded. "Then it will be so. Arrange it... Princess of Dragonstone."
For the first time in weeks, Saera felt proud to be the Queen's sister.