Part 18

The faces of death that Jon Snow remembered were far too many and far too frequent. Rarely did he see people pass naturally, in their old age, after seeing all their lives and living story after story, exhausting the pages of their books until the slip away in bed when their bodies grew far too exhausted to wake. The only one he could remember to die so was Maester Aemon. Old Nan, even in her ripe old age, was lost in the furor of the Greyjoy hold of Winterfell, and Jon had no way to know how she had passed. Often he liked to pretend that Old Nan died in bed after living all her years, but Jon Snow knew too much about war to know the old woman passed in a less restful way.

At least Jon had never fooled himself into thinking his death would not be in battle, his blood half spent and his body raw and torn. Never, at least, before one night in that ship bound for White Harbor, as he lay in bed with the queen pressed up against him, her fingers gently playing the skin over his ribs like a harp, and he discovered unfamiliar laughter bubbling in his throat.

Jon fooled himself that night, and wondered how life would be if the war was done and there was nothing more to do but live.

With her.

She had looked up at him then, her purple eyes and the silver gold that framed her face screamed at him that she was Targaryen, with fate and responsibility that was more than he would ever comprehend. Targaryens did not vanish into obscurity to live out their lives—Maester Aemon notwithstanding. Targaryens took the throne and, in her own words, saved the Seven Kingdoms.

And, as far back in his mind as he pushed it, that one niggling truth remained, fueled by the passion that Sam had when he told him—he was Targaryen now.

As if that one fact meant the world of difference to the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon Targaryen.

Bundled up and renamed, hidden in plain sight for his own survival. Ned Stark's deception was the only reason he lived with what family he had, raised nobly and studied at Robb's side, instead of chased away from city to city with assassins poised for murder at every turn like every other Targaryen.

The way Daenerys had been.

He was Targaryen, burdened by the same responsibility to a people who knew nothing of him. The accountability was the same—this time for more than the people of the North, but for all of Westeros. He was Targaryen, burdened by the same privilege to sit on a throne molten by trophies of fallen kings and rebels.

More than Daenerys would be.

As they drew closer to King's Landing, Jon watched as Jamie Lannister's bone tired shoulders straightened in anticipation, how even as the weeks bent his spine atop his horse his posture became proud and eager. Samwell Tarly who rode not far behind seemed more anxious with the bound book clutched tightly at his side, knowing it was the only proof they carried of the claim Jon still could not be certain he wanted to lay.

Despite his unwillingness to slow, which made the way down the Kingsroad much quicker than ever it had been, Jon made his way up the crest on which Jaime Lannister had stopped to look down at the path before them. His sister was more familiar with this road, and bid him to take care as she stayed below. Jon stopped beside the former Kingsguard and looked down where he did.

The sprawling cityscape was tighter and busier than what he remembered just a few months ago. Above the dragons loomed, and he had no doubt anyone that saw the shadows from afar would tremble in terror. At this vantage he knew that they would be warning Cersei's army, and the advantage of surprise being taken from them was not something he had spoken with Jaime about.

"Down below," Ser Jaime said quietly, "I have a family waiting—one I traded to fight the dead."

Even with those simple words, Jon's skin crawled, thinking of the stories he had heard. Three golden shrouds, for the three Baratheon children. Was it the dead that awaited Ser Jaime in King's Landing?

"Cersei is with my child," Ser Jaime confided in Jon. The words torn from his throat painfully but with satisfaction. "This one I can claim as mine."

And finally Jon knew the drive that took Jaime Lannister across the land to the dreary North, to fight a war that he could lose more than win. It was no more a sense of honor than it was for love. Jaime Lannister fought for the life of his child, for hope to come.

The blonde man looked back up at Jon with an intent glare. "I have come to help you take your wife back, because I know you will not be whole to fight until then. But after that swear you will help me take down the dead, so my child will not be born to that blasted eternal winter you seem to love."

Summers in Essos crumbled like spring flowers, swept away by the autumn breeze.

"Allow my labor at least give my child one parent honorbound enough to keep his word."

Men can dream of an escape from all that Westeros could take from them, but king knew dreams were only that—dreams.

"Let me save my wife and my child, and then we will finish the Night King," Jon asked of the knight.

~o~o~

When the Targaryen queens grew their babes in their bodies, they looked out these same high windows to gaze upon the world around them. Should there be sons inside them, they were anticipated as kings. Should there be daughters, they were to be wed to kings. And so those moon turns during which the queens grew and waxed full were wonderful and hopeful, essential to the realm. Nothing had been more important to the family than the new Targaryens to come, because they were the last of the old dragon's blood that had since been doomed with Old Valyria, and the Targaryens were the future.

And now after all she worked for, she stood on King's Landing, carrying the child of a king and a queen, with no power, her miracle of a child seen only as an obstacle.

Daenerys had no doubt that her own mother proudly looked down at all that her children would rule. Her mother lived through the horrendous sack of King's Landing, only to die in Dragonstone birthing her.

She was no dreamer by any means. Her dreams were prophetic—full of warnings and visions—but she never fooled herself that the world around her would be perfect once she triumphed. Where she once thought she would sit on the Iron Throne at the end of this all—after all for all she knew she was the last dragon—she wondered if it was not her dragonwolf who would sit there.

This is why she was going to break the wheel. Griff—this Aegon—whether or not he spoke the truth that he was Rhaegar's son miraculously smuggled into Essos by the Spider who had then served years in King Robert's court, or he was some mummer's dragon installed to weaken her claim—represented simply turning back the wheel.

The sellswords were nothing, even combined with Cersei's army that now, in the absence of Jaime Lannister, was nothing but arms and feet waiting for a head. She looked down at the fleet in Blackwater Bay, overwhelming in number and equipped with impressive firepower—a combination of what remained of Yara's defeated fleet and Euron's bride prize for Cersei.

Never at sea, she thought. By land even but a quarter of her own army could swarm the enemy. At sea, she would be defeated—Jon would be defeated. She looked behind her as Missandei quietly moved about the room, setting a place for two. Below she saw Cersei Lannister being led across the courtyard. Closer still to the Maidenvault was young Griff, whom she could not bring herself to call Aegon. Daenerys straightened and prepared herself, putting on the regal and stoic mask she had perfected since her time in Meereen.

When the doors opened to young Griff, she was not surprised. He handed a small sack to Missandei. When he looked back at her, his face was full of remorse. "Dusk rose tea from Essos, as you wished."

"Late."

"Late. You did not make it easy. You were it was native across the Narrow Sea, not in Westeros. But your tea is here, just as you wanted."

Daenerys nodded to Missadei, who set aside a pot to steep another. "The captain had sent another. Missandei has prepared it."

"Leave Strickland's offering for Cersei Lannister. You have the dusk rose. It took a lot for me to find it." And then he placed a warm hand, all too familiar, on her shoulder. "You deserve nothing less. Apologies for my temper. I have the hot blood of a dragon. I only want our blood on the throne."

She knew what he meant, but somehow the words sent a chill down her spine, an image flashing before her of dark red blood staining the iron, dripping onto the hard stone floors to pool by the throne's sturdy claw feet.

"I want the exiled lords to return to their lands."

Daenerys thought of the many wars and battles since, of castles changing hands, of fealties sworn and taken back. The wheel had turned and the trees had branched larger, sprawling infinite vines and godswood after the rebellion. "There are no more lands for them, you know that." His grip on her shoulder grew firmer. "When those families betrayed mine—ours," she corrected herself, "and fought on the side of the Blackfyre cousins, they lost their rights to the old houses."

His thumb dug deeper into her collarbone, and instead of shaming herself with a cry of pain, Daenerys took all her strength to wrap her hand around his wrist and pull off his hand. "Is this what you promised in return for their support?"

"I am returning the houses of Westeros to their true lords, just like the throne will return to the true heir."

"You will throw us into chaos."

"You are the bringer of chaos, hatching dragons, taking savages across the sea."

Her lips thinned at the words. "Do I bring chaos with my dragons and savages?" she demanded. "Then you do not want my host."

He shook his head. As if he could bring himself back. As if that flash of anger could be easily forgotten—like she did not see Viserys's malice in the way he looked at her. He needed her, this much she already knew. She may have no armies now, no weapons or dragons. But Daenerys recognized between the two of them she was the one who held the upper hand.

"Take the power from these disloyal houses who pledged to the usurpers; Take it away from those that would not honor their ancestors' fealty to us." Even as young Griff spoke of traitors she could remember the first day she met Jon Snow, when he refused to bend the knee and honor Torrhen Stark's allegiance to the first Aegon Targaryen. He continued, "Grant power back to their rightful owners, people who have proven they know what loyalty means. Think about it." He took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. "Know I will do everything to give us back what is rightfully ours. I just need your faith in me."

Daenerys forced a nod. The knock on the door told them that her audience with Cersei had begun. She watched when Griff stepped aside, as if schooled in courtly manners, to allow inside Cersei Lannister. The door closed behind young Griff. Missandei hurried to take the cloak that enveloped Cersei, and Daenerys' eyes widened at the heavy belly that Cersei sported. She was further along then, and Daenerys realized that Cersei must have been pregnant when they all met at the dragon pit.

"This is unacceptable," she said aloud. At the protective hand that Cersei placed on her belly, Daenerys shook her head. "You may think me a monster, but I have my morals. You cannot return to the dungeons so far along in your condition. I cannot promise a change now, but I will voice my demand that you be placed in better lodging."

Cersei's lips curved, not in happiness, but in acknowledgment of the irony. "You may object, but arguably we are the two most powerful women this kingdom had seen—and we are in varying measures of captivity."

Daenerys allowed herself to smile. "I am afraid these people around us have no appreciation of that. After all, they have allowed us to convene."

"I know how I ended up here. I was betrayed by men I hired and paid for. I was abandoned by men who should have been the most loyal to me," Cersei admitted. She looked at Daenerys from head to toe. "You look as if you not too far behind with child than I am, and last I saw you were with the self-proclaimed King in the North. For all his going on about being true to his word, I doubt you were betrayed by Jon Snow. How did you end up in King's Landing?"

Daenerys's gaze flickered towards Missandei as she sank in her chair. Cersei followed her gaze and her formerly most trusted Handmaiden looked down as she poured the steaming cups of tea. Cersei took a seat across from Daenerys.

Missandei placed the cups before the two queens brought low in their captivity. "Your grace, would you rather have the tea from the dusk rose leaves that Master Aegon brought with him?"

Daenerys picked up the steaming cup and brought it up to her lips. The fragrance of the tea assailed her. She glanced back at the fine satchel that Missandei held in the palm of her hands and saw the familiar leaves, and the comforting memory of sipping tea at the top of her pyramid in Meereen visited her. She put down the tea and nodded. "I might as well."

Cersei picked up the steaming cup and sipped the tea already placed before her. Before Daenerys could offer, Cersei had downed half of her drink. "This is luxury enough to me after weeks in the dungeon, with the tepid tea and bland meals I was given." Cersei looked back at Daenerys as she sank back into the plush seat. "You have a taste for foreign things, I see."

Daenerys smiled. "It reminds me of home."

"And that tea, my dear, is why you will be challenged staking your claim on the Iron Throne. You are foreign. You will always be looked upon as foreign to the Seven Kingdoms."

"For tea?" Daenerys repeated in disbelief.

Cersei nodded. "For your taste in tea. And many others." She waved around her, then cocked her head towards Daenerys. "Tell me. Do any of these decors and clothing please you?"

Daenerys sat back. "They are very beautiful, but none I would have chosen myself."

"All that Margaery had adorned her tower with are sourced right here in the Seven Kingdoms." Cersei gestured to the dressers and the bed. "Those were especially ordered from the Vale. The sheets and curtains," she pointed to the windows, "came from Dorne. The clothes and jewelry in those closets, of course," Cersei declared, walking towards the stand from where she lifted a heavy necklace with its ruby dropping from the chain, "came from her very own home in Highgarden." Cersei smiled, "Set in Lannister gold." Cersei replaced the necklaced and shut the drawer, then turned to Daenerys. "Even the fur that lined her hunting cape and boots were brought in from the North. The upkeep of that queen," she said, filling that last word with some disdain, "supported families in the Seven Kingdoms. They loved their queen."

Daenerys plucked a lemon cake from the saucer served before her and took a bite of the sweet. The taste of it exploded in her mouth. She had not had anything as tasty, and her lips curved with the pleasure it brought to her.

"In return, she made a spectacle of how much she loved them." Cersei made her way towards the window. "That is the kind of queen these people want—born and bred a Westerosi instead of a foreign invader."

Missandei quietly placed the dusk rose tea before Daenerys. She picked it up and sipped on it, the perfect muted taste sat well with the lemon cake.

"But love cannot sustain a throne," Daenerys repeated. "You know that." Because no matter how wide Cersei's web of lies grew, Daenerys knew that to have grown three children with one man—even one that this backwards society saw as sinful relations—one had to love, and love truly. She shrugged. "Margaery Tyrell found out the second she burned in the sept. No, the Iron Throne needs more than love. She needed power, which you never let her truly have."

To Daenerys's surprise, she thought she saw a tinge of regret in Cersei's eyes. The older woman said, "Do you truly think I had a choice?" Cersei shook her head with a small, thin, sad smile.

"You were queen, and then you were not. You could not let others have power." Daenerys nodded. "I understand well enough." After all, without strength, without the ability to ride, Drogo's power had gone and had she not grasped the power and loyalty of the khalasar Daenerys shuddered to think of what fate waited for her in the grasslands. Losing power would have meant surrendering the fate of her children to a younger queen. For a woman like Cersei, who had breathed and lived in power, it was a gamble too risky to take.

"I guess there are truths that remain the same no matter the land you hail from," Cersei murmured as she took another sip of her tea.

"I do not expect you to agree, but I am from Westeros, my lady," Daenerys said, putting an emphasis on the title she had used. Cersei's eyes narrowed at the diminution of her position. "I was conceived right here in the capital, born princess of Dragonstone." Daenerys placed her cup back on the saucer. "Remind me, my lady, since I have been far too long removed from my kingdom—did you come to the throne by blood as well?"

Daenerys started at the sudden noisy of breaking glass. She looked down at the shattered cup on the floor, then up at where Cersei Lannister gripped the edge of the window. Daenerys shot up in her seat and called for Missandei. Cersei met her eyes with a look of stunned pain, one hand grasping at the front of her dress, then shooting low under the curve of her belly. A ragged scream tore from her throat. Hurriedly Missandei knelt by Cersei's feet and gathered the heavy cloth of her dress. Daenerys's eyes widened in horror at the sight of the trail of blood zagging and criss crossing path, until suddenly a flood of it drenched Missandei's hands.

"No," Cersei moaned. And the older woman tried as much as she could to hold herself up, eventually crumbling to the floor, a scream pealing from her chest.

Daenerys watched in horror as the pain tore through Cersei Lannister, with her own fevered dreams whispering from the back of her mind. Daenerys could not tell which was memory or nightmare, but she knew this very pain had overcome her before. It happened too fast, with no time to call for help. Even still Daenerys bid Missandei run for a maester if one remained in King's Landing. She grasped Cersei's hands as the older woman cried out from the pain and helplessness. A warm body fully formed slid from between Cersei's bloodied legs, met by its mother's sobs.

When Missandei returned there was no maester at her side. Instead, it was young Griff still, useless in this regard. Daenerys flew to the closet and sought for a small blanket to use as a swaddle, and came back with a silk shawl instead. She reached for the child in its mother's arms to wrap it, but saw the horror stark in Cersei's face and knew.

The child was dead. Blue and dead like Rhaego, but perfect and fully formed. The child was crowned with golden hair that stuck tight to its tender scalp, its lips pursed as if suckling, eyes shut tight. "No," Daenerys whispered. She took the child from Cersei's grasp, to save him as she had not tried with Rhaego, She rubbed the child's chest and back the way she had seen the women do in the khalasar, and dipped her finger into the child's mouth to clear its throat. When these did not work, Daenerys patted the child's back and slapped its bottom.

The child did not wake, and Cersei took it with trembling arms. Him. Cersei took him, Daenerys corrected, seeing the child's parts.

From behind her, someone clutched her elbows and helped her rise. Her dress was bloody as she was led backwards and away from the scene. She heard the crushing sound beneath his boot as Griff walked over Cersei's broken cup.

"Set it away," he said quietly.

Missandei looked back at him in horror, and hurriedly put aside the tea as Cersei howled her despair in the corner.

When they were at the steps outside Daenerys slowly turned to him as truth dawned. "The child was large and healthy."

"A child for a child."

She drew a trembling breath. "The tea—" An abortificant. Her hand flew to her own belly.

"You are not hurt. Neither is your child. I brought you your own tea, so you would not take Strickland's." He shook his head. "They think that is the easier solution to take away any other claim to the throne. But I have my honor," Griff said. Honor. "I will not have the blood of my blood on my hands."

Honor.

Honor that saved her child to the loss of another innocent one.

And then she found herself hitting him, and he was wearing a breastplate but she could not even feel the hurt of her bare skin pounding against beaten metal. "Children are not the enemy." Far too long the children had suffered over the fate of the throne. Rhaegar's children—child—daughter—she could not even decide if he was or war not. Rhaego. Viserion. Even Viserys and herself who spent their lives running. For that throne. All for the throne and this power it seemed to have. He caught her wrists.

"I saved your child. I could have not, and started my own line now, than months down the road after you birth it. Remember that."

Daenerys scowled and pulled away. From the top of the steps she stumbled, but he caught her and wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. In her precarious position she was unafraid, because she had proven now at least he needed her so much more than she needed to lull him into protecting her. And she said the worst thing she could accuse him, if he truly believed he was Rhaegar's son, the prince who would have just as possible died in the sack. "You are just as bad as the Lannisters and the Baratheons. They killed your sister, and you did nothing when they killed Cersei's son." Daenerys licked her lips, and then she said softly, "Rhaegar would be ashamed of you."

Young Griff released her, then stalked down the steps.

"Send a maester. We have lost the child. We will not lose the mother," she called after him.

"Cersei Lannister."

"Not even Cersei Lannister. You have blackened your soul enough for a day, Griff."

Daenerys gathered herself and pushed back inside the chamber. She found Cersei wrapping the small body in a tight bundle, her back straight even as she pulled herself up unsteadily. She could see the pain had drawn the older woman's face tight. Even in the regal way that Cersei pulled herself together Daenerys could see the streaks of blood on her cheeks, where Cersei would have hurried to surreptitiously wipe her cheeks dry.

Daenerys shut the door closed. She declared, "We are going to escape. You are coming with me." Cersei turned to her, eyes dead and blank. "We will return with the maester."

She motioned for Missandei, and they made their way down the steps, waiting for Griff to send the man. Daenerys looked at Missandei. "You failed me once. Look at what they have done. I will not allow them to harm my child, Missandei."

Missandei shook her head. Her face was pale, and Daenerys did not doubt the disbelief in the Handmaid's face. "They swore they would not harm you. Lord Varys said he worked all these years to ensure you have the throne, your grace."

"To sit consort for this pretender!" Daenerys exclaimed. "Whatever they say about sending my child to the wall, or as ward of another house will change, especially if it is a son. Look what they had done to Cersei Lannister, just because they are afraid of any remaining claim to the throne the child would have."

And then, Missandei's demeanor melted, and the smooth shoulders slumped before Daenerys. Missandei covered her face and her back shook. Daenerys did not offer a comforting hand, nor assuring words. She waited until Missandei looked back up with wet cheeks.

"Will you send a raven to Winterfell, Missandei? Will you let Jon know my child and I are alive?"

Missandei hesitated, then nodded.

"Do you fear Grey Worm will know what you have done?" When Missandei nodded, Daenerys finally offered, "He was fond of you."

"He is nothing if not loyal to you, my queen. He will be angered." And then Missandei sighed. "Such is my fate. I will face my fate after I have done my part to save your grace."

"Send a raven to Winterfell. And then tonight we will leave. I am not spending another night here." Craven cowards these men were. To think that they called themselves lords.

"What is the plan, your grace?"

Daenerys turned back to the chamber and walked past Cersei, who had since lain down curled beside the infant. She steeled herself from pity, stopped herself from seeing herself as a child bride who had lost a son. She was beyond that now. Now, she was going to save herself. She threw open one of the drawers and clutched a handful of jewels. Daenerys lifted each one, then selected one piece. Too much would raise suspicions faster. She stepped outside and placed the bracelet in Missandei's hand. "Have it melted, then bring me the gold and the gem. I need to buy a ship. Tell Grey Worm I need him waiting at White Harbor."

tbc