So here it is, the last chapter of this book! Honestly I'm ridiculously proud of myself for sticking with this story and taking the time to share it with everyone. Thank you, thank you to everyone who read this story, and left their thoughts or kudos. I definitely wouldn't have made it this far if not for everyone's support. I love hearing your thoughts, and I love knowing that y'all love these characters as much as I do. So enjoy this last chapter! I'm so excited to share it! Recognizable dialogue from A Game of Thrones., A Clash of Kings, and "Mother's Mercy." Enjoy!

The scarlet comet split the dawn. Shireen thought that the gods themselves must have taken a knife to the heavens. It reminded her of a dripping wound, hanging high above the crags of Dragonstone in the pink and purple sky.

She leaned out her window, the stone rough and solid beneath her stomach. The sea frothed below her. It crashed against the black stone like a restless creature, desiring to swallow the ocean whole.

In her dreams, Shireen slipped into the ocean as quick as the silvery fish that darted through the grey waters of Dragonstone. No one swam in those waters, but if Shireen squinted she could see where the ocean turned blue on the horizon. All sorts of lovely creatures might swim in blue waters such as those. Merwives and selkies and nymphs.

It was said that the Baratheons were descended from the gods themselves. Elenei, daughter of the wind and sea had fallen in love with the first Storm King, Durran Godsgrief, and he took her as his queen.

When the sea crashed against the walls of the castle, Shireen dreamed that the waves were coming to sweep her away, to cradle her in their cool embrace and bring her to the home of the mermaids.

It was only when she was awake that she was plagued by terror. The fear of flames licking at her feet twisted in her stomach, stopping her breath. She would cry then, terrified she would burn in her bed.

Maester Cressen fretted over her, thinking it was the nightmares of dragons that had so unnerved her as a child.

"Dragons cannot come to life," Maester Cressen had soothed her. "They are carved of stone, child. In olden days, our island was the westernmost outpost of the great Freehold of Valyria. It was the Valyrians who raised this citadel, and they had ways of shaping stone since lost to us. A castle must have towers wherever two walls meet at an angle, for defense. The Valyrians fashioned these towers in the shape of dragons to make their fortress seem more fearsome, just as they crowned their walls with a thousand gargoyles instead of simple crenellations. There is nothing to fear."

She didn't fear dragons anymore. The statues of Dragonstone had lost their fire thousands of years ago when the island's fury had cooled. Shireen imagined that the molten rock had curled back in despair when it met the cool, grey kiss of the sea.

But she told her maester none of this. He didn't know that her dreams were sweet relief compared to the horror that tormented her waking mind. Shireen would not burden the kindly old man with what it was to burn alive.

Her nails dug into the rough, black stone of the window sill when she spotted Ser Davos' ship bobbing in the harbor. Its pale flags whipped in the salty wind.

She ran from her room, ducking the few servants who trickled through the halls of the castle. Worse it would be if her mother spotted her.

Shireen paused in the gallery, rising on her tiptoes to peer between the tall, arched windows. In the yard below, archers fired at practice targets. Their arrows made a sound like a flock of birds taking wind, and Shireen imagined the arrows transforming into white swans that would soar high into the clouds.

Guardsmen strode the wall walks, dipping their heads between the fearsome gargoyles that lined the stones. The early morning air was already thick with the smoke of cookfires as three thousand men sat down to break their fasts beneath the banners of their lords. Past the sprawl of the camp, the anchorage was crowded with ships. No vessel that had come within sight of Dragonstone in the past year had been allowed to leave again, save Ser Davos' ships.

Her father's guards stood outside the stairs that led up the Stone Drum. They blocked her as she went to ascend.

"Princess Shireen," Ser Blake said with a slight nod. "The King is speaking with his advisors at the moment. He has requested that no one disturb him."

Shireen stared back at him. Ser Blake could not keep his eyes from drifting to the ruined side of her face. It made Shireen feel very small and ashamed.

"Ser Blake," she began. What would someone very brave say? "I am Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. I am my father's one true heir. I would witness his council." She was no longer just a small and frightened girl. She was Queen Nymeria who had taken ten thousand ships to sea to save her people.

The guardsmen looked surprised at her words. They glanced at each other, and Shireen's throat tied up.

"Yes, Princess," said Ser Edd.

Her breath left her all at once in relief as they parted to allow her past. She climbed the dizzying stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table. She stopped before the door, her fist hanging in the air. Princess Rhaenys The-Queen-Who-Never-Was rode the dragon Meleys into the battle to fight for her Queen Rhaenyra. She would not cower from a door.

Shireen knocked on the door before she could give in and scurry back down the stairs.

"Enter." Her father's voice held little warmth. It seldom did.

She pushed the heavy door open. Stannis was seated in a single chair that had been positioned to sit in the space that Dragonstone would have occupied. Ser Davos stood behind him, his hands tightly clasped. Shireen searched her onion knight's face, and the upset she saw there frightened her.

There was no shift in her father's features when he spotted her, but she sensed that he was taken aback by her presence.

"Princess," Ser Davos greeted her. "The dawn has just broken, m'lady. You should still be abed."

"Was it a nightmare, child?" her father asked. "A maester can be called to attend to you."

"No, Father." Shireen tugged at the ends of her hair as she spoke. "I spotted Ser Davos' ship in the harbor. I wished to hear the news of our banners."

"Quite the eye, m'lady," Ser Davos said with a sad smile. "I returned only in the black of the morning." He glanced at Stannis. "With news that is perhaps not fit for the ears of little girls."

Shireen held her breath.

"Speak freely, Ser Davos," Stannis said gruffly. "Princess Shireen is mine own true heir. I would rather her ears not be stuffed with wool."

"It was a bitter affair, Princess," Davos said, weighing his words. "The Stormlords will not rise for your father."

And although Shireen knew well that Davos spoke the truth, she did not relish the look on her father's face when the blow landed.

"What did they say when they refused us?" Shireen asked.

Davos fiddled with the glove on his left hand. "Some gave soft words, some blunt. Some made excuses, some promises, and some only lied. In the end, words are just wind."

Shireen glanced at her father. "How shall we sail for King's Landing?"

"We do not have the numbers," said Davos almost sorrowfully. "If we sail there it will only be to die."

"Enough," Stannis snapped. "Ser Davos, if that is all you have to offer me then you may leave."

Davos looked as if he wished to stay, but he did not argue. He bowed to them and left.

Shireen circled the table, tracing the uneven edges of Westeros. Her father's anger filled the room, choking the room like smoke. She stopped at the opposite side of the table near Highgarden, and reached out to pick up the stone rose of the Tyrell family.

"My brother has risen against me," said Stannis, his knuckles white on the edge of the table. "He calls himself the rightful King. The Stormlords will not rise for the eldest, it seems they do not like me, my just cause means nothing to them. The cravenly ones will sit behind their walls, waiting to see how the wind rises and who is likely to triumph. The bold ones have already declared for Renly! For Renly!" Her father spat the name like it was a poison on his tongue.

Shireen stared at the stone rose in her hand. Renly was so much a mystery to her. Maester Cressen spoke lovingly of him, an energetic little boy with curls as dark as coal who loved to play king of the castle. Shireen had tried to draw an image of Renly from her father's face, but all she ended up with was a muddied picture of laughing eyes and roses.

"What shall be done? Ser Davos is right. We cannot sail against the Lannisters with only three thousand men."

"I shall not sit here while my right is stolen from me," growled her father. "While your right is stolen. If I am to perish in this war, I will expect every effort be made to sit you upon the throne in my stead."

Shireen placed the rose back on the map. "I would rather you lived than be King."

"It does not matter what we want," her father dismissed.

The door creaked open, and Maester Cressen hobbled in. The old man looked unsteady from the long climb up the stairs, and Shireen ran to take his arm.

"I knew you would come, old man, whether I summoned you or not."

Shireen flinched at the harshness in her father's words.

"Thank you, child." Maester Cressen patted her back, and leaned on her slightly. He looked up at Stannis. "Once you might have woken me."

"Once you were young," said Stannis. "Now you are old and sick, and need your sleep. I knew you'd learn what Davos had to say soon enough. You always do, don't you?"

"I would be no help to you if I did not," Cressen said. "I met Davos on the stairs."

"And he told you all, I suppose? I should have had the man's tongue shortened along with his fingers."

"He would make you a poor envoy then," said Cressen with a weak smile.

"Maester Cressen," said Shireen, desperate for his counsel. "The Stormlords have declared for my uncle. They will not raise their banners for us."

"Oh, child," said Cressen. "Renly has been the Lord of Storm's End for near two decades. Those lords are his sworn bannermen - "

"His," Stannis broke in with a snarl. "His, when by all rights they should be mine. I never asked for Dragonstone. I never wanted it. I took it because Robert's enemies were here, and he commanded me to root them out. I built his fleet and did his work, as beautiful as a younger brother should be to an elder, as Renly should be to me. And what was Robert's thanks? He named me Lord of Dragonstone, and gives Storm's End and its incomes to Renly. Storm's End belonged to House Baratheon for three hundred years. By rights it should have passed to me when Robert took the Iron Throne."

Though her father's face was still as stone, his fury seemed to rattle Shireen's bones. Do not tremble.

"Robert did you an injustice," Maester Cressen replied carefully. "Yet he had sound reasons. Dragonstone has long been the seat of House Targaryen. He needed a man's strength to rule here, and Renly was but a child."

"He is a child still," Stannis declared, his words ringing throughout the room. "

A thieving child who thinks to snatch the crown from my brow. What has Renly ever done to earn a throne? He sits in council and jests with Littlefinger, and at tourneys he dons his splendid suit of armor and allows himself to be knocked off his horse by a better man. That is the sum of my brother Renly, who thinks he ought to be a king. I ask you, why did the gods inflict me with brothers?"

"I cannot answer for the gods," said Cressen, his tone grieved.

"You selden answer at all these days, it seems to me. Who maesters for Renly? Perchance I should send for him, I might like his counsel better. What do you think this maester said when my brother decided to steal my crown? What counsel did your colleague offer to this traitor blood of mine?"

"Father, you speak cruelly to Maester Cressen," said Shireen in a tremulous voice.

"I speak truthfully," Stannis ground out.

"It would surprise me if Lord Renly sought counsel, Your Grace." Maester Cressen laid a wrinkly hand on Shireen's shoulder, to soothe her.

"Your Grace," Stannis repeated bitterly. "You mock me with a king's style, yet what am I king of? Dragonstone and a few rocks in the narrow sea, there is my kingdom. Tonight I am to sup with my lords bannermen, such as they are. Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, the whole paltry lot of them. A poor crop, if truth be told, but they are what my brothers have left me. That Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan will be there with the latest tally of what I owe him, and Morosh the Myrman will caution me with talk of tides and autumn gales, while Lord Sunglass mutters piously of the will of the Seven. Celtigar will want to know which storm lords are joining us. Velaryon will threaten to take his levies home unless we strike at once. What am I to tell them? What must I do now?"

"Your true enemies are the Lannisters, my lord," Maester Cressen answered. "If you and your brother were to make common cause against them - "

"I will not treat with Renly," Stannis answered in a tone that brooked no argument. "Not while he calls himself a king."

"Not Renly, then," the maester yielded. "Others might serve your needs as well. Eddard Stark is a just man. He might be convinced to bring the North to your aid. His lady wife is the daughter of Hoster Tully. With Winterfell and Riverrunn behind you defeat of the Lannisters would be possible."

"No," said Stannis, and the suggestion seemed to inflame him. "Lord Stark has pledged himself and the North to the bastard usurper. His daughter is betrothed to the false king. Lord Stark has made his decision, I will not beg him to change it."

Shireen felt a flicker of unease. Is Lord Stark not dead? She was sure she remembered that the Lannisters had taken his head.

"Lord Stark loved your brother - " Maester Cressen began.

"Oh and Robert loved him, to be sure," her father interrupted. "Loved him as a brother, how often did I hear that? I was his brother, not Ned Stark, but you would never have known it by the way he treated me. I held Storm's End for him, watching good men starve while Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne feasted within sight of my walls. Did Robert thank me? No. He thanked Stark, for lifting the siege when we were down to rats and radishes. I built a fleet at Robert‟s command, took Dragonstone in his name. Did he take my hand and say, Well done, brother, whatever should I do without you? No, he blamed me for letting Willem Darry steal away Viserys and the babe, as if I could have stopped it. I sat on his council for nigh twenty years helping Jon Arryn rule his realm while Robert drank and whored, but when Jon died, did my brother name me his Hand? No, he went galloping off to his dear friend Ned Stark, and offered him the honor."

"Great wrongs have been done to you," said Maester Cressen gently. "But the past is dust. There are others you may sound out. What of Lady Arryn? If the queen murdered her husband, surely she will want justice for him. She has a young son, Jon Arryn's heir." He glanced at Shireen. "Perhaps a betrothal could be arranged."

"No!" Shireen said in alarm, just as her father spoke.

"The boy is weak and sickly," Stannis objected. "Even his father saw how it was, when he asked me to foster him on Dragonstone. Service as a page might have done him good, but that damnable Lannister woman had Lord Arryn poisoned before it could be done, and now Lysa hides him in the Eyrie. She‟ll never part with the boy, I promise you that."

"Then send Shireen to the Eyrie," Maester Cressen urged. "This is such a grim place for a child. Let her spend time in the mountain air, and play with other children."

"I won't!" said Shireen, stepping away from Maester Cressen. "I want to stay here, I will stay here!"

"Child," Maester Cressen said softly.

"It is perhaps worth trying," said her father gruffly.

"No!" said Shireen. She was ashamed to be already on the verge of tears. "If I am to be your heir, you will treat me as such. I would stay here with you and - "

"Must the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms beg for help from widow women and usurpers?"

Shireen turned. She had not heard her mother enter. Seleyse pursed her lips when she spotted Shireen, and crossed to put a hand on her shoulder.

Her father scowled. "I do not beg. Of anyone. Mind you remember that, woman."

"I am pleased to hear it, my lord." Selyse stroked Shireen's hair, absently. "Lady Arryn owes you her allegiance, as do the Starks, your brother Renly, and all the rest. You are their one true king. It would not be fitting to plead and bargain with them for what is rightfully yours by the grace of god."

"Your god can keep his grace," said Stannis. It's swords I need, not blessings. Do you have an army hidden somewhere that you've not told me of?"

"Maester," said Selyse, ignoring Stannis. "Take the princess back to her chambers."

"She is my heir," Stannis repeated. "She will stay."

Selyse's nails contracted in Shireen's hair. "Your heir. Of course." Shireen could feel her mother's shame and anger, it dripped from her voice. She did not think her father had meant it as a slight, but her mother took it as such.

Finally, her mother spoke. "My brothers and uncles and cousins have armies," she told Stannis. "House Florent will rally to your banner."

Her father shook his head. "House Florent can field two thousand swords at best. And you have a deal more faith in your brothers and uncles than I do, my lady. The Florent lands lie too close to Highgarden for your lord uncle to risk Mace Tyrell's wrath."

Shireen cast her eyes over the table. The Tyrells will join with the Lannisters after Renly's death… they will come to Joffrey's aid when Father attacks the city… it will go terribly… Ser Davos will lose Dale, Allard, Matthos, and Maric. The Tyrells can raise the most men of any kingdom, whoever they support shall be victorious. But there are only three kings yet, where is the King in the North? Robb, his name was. Robb of Winterfell.

"There is another way." Her mother spoke in a fervent tone that struck fear into Shireen's heart. "Look out your windows, my lord. There is the sign you have waited for, blazoned on the sky. Red, it is, the red of flame, red for the fiery heart of the true god. It is his banner - and yours! See how it unfurls across the heavens like a dragon's hot breath, and you the Lord of Dragonstone. It means your time has come, Your Grace. Nothing is more certain. You are meant to sail from this desolate rock as Aegon the Conqueror once sailed, to sweep all before you as he did. Only say the word, and embrace the power of the Lord of Light."

It's what the Lord wants.

Please! Let go! No, please!

Mother! Mother don't let them do this!

Shireen shuddered. It was all she could do not to curl up in a ball and cry.

"All you need," Selyse promised. "The swords of Storm's End and Highgarden for a start, and all their lords' bannermen."

"Davos would tell you different," her father said. "Those swords are sworn the Renly. They love my charming younger brother, as they once loved Robert… and they have never loved me."

"Yes," said her mother, "but if Renly should die…"

Shireen closed her eyes in terror. Had it been her mother who convinced her father? She had heard the whispers after, of how it was claimed that Renly was killed by a shadow. Was it Melisandre's shadow that bore down on him? Did it feel like he was burning?

Dimly she heard Maester Cressen speak. "It is not to be thought. Your Grace, whatever follies Renly has committed - "

"Follies?" Her father's voice was cold. "I call them treasons." He turned to her mother. "My brother is young and strong, and he has a vast host around him, and these rainbow knights of his."

"Melisandre has gazed into the flames, and seen him dead."

Cressen voiced the horror that Shireen felt. "Fratricide… my lord, this is evil, unthinkable… please, listen to me."

"And what will you tell him Maester?" Selyse's voice was measured. "How he might win if he goes to the Starks on his knees, and sells our daughter to Lysa Arryn?"

"I have heard your counsel, Cressen," said Stannis. "Now I will hear hers. You are dismissed."

The old Maester was sorrowful and shamed, as he bent his stiff knees. Shireen longed to take his hand as he had taken hers when she was a little girl. She worried about him making it down the endless stairs of the stone drum. And she feared the death she knew was coming for him, though how she would stop it, she did not know.

She hesitated, torn between the maester and her parents. She had no wish to stay in this oppressive room.

"May I take my leave, Father?" Shireen asked.

"Yes, child," said Stannis, and Shireen fled.

Shireen walked to the high table on her mother's arm. Selyse had chosen a beautiful gown for her to wear, black velvet draped over long yellow sleeves, and a collar of ermine fur. But she knew that even the most lovely dress could not distract from the crackled stone that covered her face. She could feel the lords' eyes on her, and she ducked her head under the weight of their stares.

She was seated at the table next to her mother. Here, it was easier to fade into the background, and watch her father's bannermen.

She saw Ser Davos enter beside a man dressed in a scarlet satin doublet that was crisscrossed with golden chains inlaid with jewels. Shireen wished she could sit beside them instead, she would feel warm and safe. Davos would let her hid her face beneath his cloak.

She was surprised to see Maester Pylos enter without Maester Cressen by her side. She was sick with fear. Had it already happened? She should have stayed with him after walking him to his chambers.

"Mother," she whispered. Selyse turned from her silent contemplation. "Where is Maester Cressen? Should he not be here?"

"He has grown too old and useless," her mother replied. "Maester Pylos will fulfill his duties from now on."

Shireen felt like crying. So Maester Cressen had not come to harm, but she could only imagine the old man's grief when he discovered that he was no longer asked for. What did a maester do when his lord had no more use for him? They had no children to care for them, no family to return to.

She did not feel like eating as the banquet dragged on. Every shadow that the torchlight cast over the hall made her jump, as if it knew her thoughts and waited to drag her back to the fire. The chair next to her father sat empty, and Shireen feared that he meant to sit Melisandre beside him.

Perhaps she should have not begged to come to the feast. She had been searching through Dragonstone's library for the oldest tomes, hoping to find something that spoke of children of the forest, or of the North.

Her skin prickled with heat, and she looked up to see Melisandre striding towards the High Table. The red silk she wore was as bright as the comet that had spit the sky this morning, and it hurt Shireen's eyes.

There was a crash that silenced the murmuring din of speech, and Shireen craned her head to see Maester Cressen. He had lost his cane and been knocked to the floor. She half-rose to go to him, but her mother caught her arm. Instead, Melisandre had turned and pulled the Maester to his feet.

Melisandre's voice carried through the hall. "Maester, you ought to take more care."

Shireen could not hear Cressen's mumbled response.

"A man your age must look where he steps," said Melisandre. "The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Only children fear the dark," Maester Cressen told her. His voice wavered from the pain.

"Perhaps they know the truth," said Melisandre, "there are truths in this world, Maester, that are not taught at Oldtown." She turned to make her way to the High Table, and her eyes met Shireen's for an instant. It was like looking into an open flame.

Shireen looked to Maester Cressen, and saw the look that befell his face when he spotted Maester Pylos in his place.

"Maester Pylos," Cressen said in a trembling voice. "You.. you did not wake me."

Pylos had the grace to blush slightly. "His Grace commanded me to let you rest. He told me you were not needed here."

Silence swept the hall. Maester Cressen looked about the hall, but the lords turned their heads.

"You are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man." Her father did not speak gently. "Pylos will counsel me henceforth. Already he works with the ravens, since you can no longer climb to the rookery. I will not have you kill yourself in my service."

Maester Cressen blinked. Shireen remembered how he used to tell her stories of her father when he was young, how he had been so sad and sullen, yet Maester Cressen had loved him despite it. She wondered if Maester Cressen saw that boy sitting before him now.

"As you command, my lord, but… I am hungry. Might I have a place at your table?"

And Shireen did cry then with a soft gasp, tears dripping down her cheeks. It was too much to bear, to hear him beg.

Ser Davos rose before Cressen's words could hang unanswered in the dismal air. "I should be honored if the maester would sit here beside me, Your Grace."

"As you will," said Stannis. He did not look at Maester Cressen, only turned to speak to Melisandre who had taken the seat beside him.

Shireen watched Maester Cressen sit stiffly beside Ser Davos. Ser Davos bent to speak to the maester, but Cressen was not looking at him. His eyes stayed on Stannis at the High Table.

"Let me take Maester Cressen to bed," Shireen begged her father. "He must be in pain from his fall."

Her father's mouth was grim. "Maester Cressen says he is hungry. He will sup at my table, and then return to his chambers."

"Lord Stannis." Her father's name burst from Maester Cressen's lips as if he could not contain himself.

Her father turned, but it was her mother who answered. "King Stannis. You forget yourself, Maester."

"He is old, his mind wanders," said Stannis gruffly. "What is it, Cressen? Speak your mind."

"As you intend to sail, it is vital that you attempt to make common cause with allies. Lord Stark, and Lady Arryn…"

"I make common cause with no one," Stannis said. His hands had wrapped themselves into fists.

"No more than the light makes common cause with darkness," said her mother. Selyse reached out and placed her hand on top of her father's fist.

"The Starks have sworn themselves to a usurper, the Lannisters have stolen my throne, and my own sweet brother has stolen the swords and service and strongholds that are mine by rights. They are all my enemies."

Cressen slid his hands inside his sleeves for warmth. He looked so fragile in the light from the torches. "You are the rightful heir to your brother Robert, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men. But even so, you cannot hope to triumph without allies."

"He has an ally," said her mother. "R'hllor, the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow."

"Gods make uncertain allies at best," the old man insisted, "and that one has no power here."

Poor maester. How can you be so right and so wrong at once?

"You think not?" Melisandre's voice was as soft and deadly as a serpent. "You speak a fool's words, perhaps you ought to replace your chain with motley."

"Yes," agreed her mother. "Fetch the old man a fool's hat and mayhaps he will dance better than he speaks.

"No," Shireen cried, but her voice came out very small. "Please don't."

Her father's eyes were shadowed beneath his heavy brow, his mouth tight as his jaw worked silently. "As my lady wife commands."

Melisandre stepped from behind the high table, and fetched a wooden bucket that the servants had left behind. She placed it on Maester Cressen's head as the hall jeered their approval. The bucket tipped forward, catching on Maester Cressen's ears, but covering his eyes. He bowed his head.

"Perhaps he could sing his counsel for us, henceforth," said Selyse.

"You go too far." Shireen thought she heard the slightest bit of remorse in her father's voice, but it did not matter to her, he had already let it happen. "He is an old man and he's served me well."

"Mayhaps I have been a fool," Maester Cressen said, in a voice of such sorrow. He stood with a cup of wine in his hand. "Lady Melisandre, will you share a cup of wine with me? A cup in honor of your god, your Lord of Light? A cup to toast his power?"

Shireen did not understand as Melisandre smiled and met the Maester beneath the High Table. She did not understand as she watched Melisandre place her hand over the cup, and whisper to Maester Cressen. He shook his head and offered the wine again to her.

She took the cup and held it to her lips. "As you wish." She drank long and deep, the eyes of the hall, watching. When she had finished, she tilted the cup back towards Maester Cressen.

Shireen saw his hand shake as went to accept the cup, knew that something terrible and deadly was coming. The wine dripped from the corners of his mouth and he dropped the cup. It shattered on the floor.

"He does have power here, my lord." The ruby at Melisandre's throat shone so brightly, Shireen could not help but look. "And fire cleanses."

Maester Cressen tried to reply, but he was choking and coughing. Shireen began screaming.

There was a terrible, thin whistling as Maester Cressen tried to suck in air. He sank to his knees, his face a deep purple.

Shireen covered her face, and stumbled backwards into the wall. She crouched there, sobbing, as the strangled gasping slowed and slowed until it stopped.

She screamed to fill the silence, and choked as fire and ash rushed in to clog her throat. The flames were licking at her feet, and Melisandre's ruby was glowing, blood and fire.

"Hush!" Her mother's voice cracked like a whip. Selyse seized her, and yanked her to her feet. "Stop it." She pressed Shireen's face into her stomach with a hard hand against the back of her head.

Shireen fought to push her mother away, and ran down the back of the hall, far from where Maester Cressen lay silent on the floor. She had almost reached the door, when she was caught and held close.

"There, there, child," Ser Davos murmured. He wrapped his green wool cloak around her and picked her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and sobbed into his shoulder.

Distantly, Shireen could hear talking and murmuring, but pressed closer to Ser Davos to block out the noise.

"... Princess back to her rooms."

And then Ser Davos was walking, taking her away from her mother, her father, the terrible red woman, all the men who had laughed, and poor Maester Cressen lying on the floor. He carried her to her bedchamber, and sat her on the side of her bed, and wiped away the tears on her cheeks.

Shireen shivered miserably.

"I can ask the maid the light a fire, Princess." Ser Davos made to stand.

"No!" burst out Shireen. He stopped. "Only… only a candle."

"Yes, my lady."

She watched as Ser Davos lit a single candle on her table. Carefully, he picked up the books she had been reading and moved them away from the flame. She pulled his cloak tighter around her.

He sat next to her on the bed, rubbing his left hand. "I've not had the pleasure of hearing one of your stories since I've been gone," he told her gently. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me one. Oh… one about merwives and such under the sea."

It was said that Elenei loved her Storm King so much that she sheltered him in her embrace from the storm the gods wrought. Seven times the gods sent their storms, and seven times Elenei withstood their rage and Durran built their walls higher and higher as a testament to their love.

How it must have felt to slip her scales and curl her toes into the cool sand? To run far from her parents wrath while the wind and sea battered the castle that Durran raised to protect them.

Shireen thought perhaps a touch of the sea still lived her blood. Mayhaps it had been the souls of mermaids who gathered her up in their arms when the heat of the fire had grown too terrible to bear. Shireen closed her eyes. She rubbed her feet together, and imagined them growing together making a beautiful, silvery tail that would take her far, far away from here.

Did Elenei let her children dip their toes in the sea? Did she put pearls around their neck and seaweed in their hair? Did she ever wonder what it would be like to take them to her kingdom under the waves?

Shireen curled her toes. Nothing.

Under the sea, the birds have scales for feathers

I know, I know, oh, oh, oh

It's always summer under the sea

The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver

I know, I know, oh, oh, oh

"Ser Davos," Shireen whispered. Her voice was rough and raw. "If I told you a story. A terrible story. Would you believe me?"

He smiled at her, fondly, but troubled. "Aye my lady. I've seen many strange things in my time. I would believe most things. What is it you wish to tell me?"

"It's a long story," Shireen told him. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "About Kings and queens and princesses and… and monsters… and ice. And fire. How both burn."

"Tell me," said Ser Davos, gently.

Shireen imagined that she was looking up through the waves, slanted with sunshine. Each word was a bubble, that slipped past her lips and rose towards surface. And she let them go.

She heard a crack the sound of shattering stone. The platform of wood and brush and grass began to shift and collapse in upon itself. Bits of burning wood slid down at her, and she was showered with ash and cinders. Something else came crashing down, bouncing and rolling to land at her feet; a chunk of curved rock, pale and veined with gold, broken and smoking. The roaring filled the world, and yet dimly through the firefall she heard shrieks and cries of wonder.

Only death can pay for life.

And there came a second crack, loud and sharp as thunder, and the smoke stirred and whirled around her and the pyre shifted, the logs exploding as the fire touched their secret hearts. She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki people raised in shouts of fear and terror. Ser Jorah was calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him. No, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you see? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, she stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.

The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.

When the fire died at las and the ground became cool enough to walk upon, Ser Jorah found her amidst the ashes, surrounded by blackened logs and bits of glowing ember and the burnt bones of man and woman and stallion. She was naked, covered in soot, her clothes turned to ash, all her beautiful hair crisped away… yet she was unhurt.

The cream-and-gold dragon was suckling at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right. Her arms cradled them close. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, it's long sinuous neck coiled under her chin. When it saw Jorah, it raised its head and looked at him with eyes as red as coals.

Wordless, the knight fell to his knees. The men of her khas came up behind him. Jhogo was the first to lay his arakh at her feet. "Blood of my blood," he murmured, pushing his face to the smoking earth. "Blood of my blood," she heard Aggo echo. "Blood of my blood," Rakharo shouted.

And after them came her handmaids, and then the others, all the Dothraki, men and women and children, and she had only to look at their eyes to know that they were hers now, today and tomorrow and forever, hers as they had never been Drogo's.

As she rose to her feet, her black hissed, pale smoke venting from its mouth and nostrils. The other two pulled away from her breasts and added their voices to the call, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air.

For the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

Shireen is 1000% amazing and I've been absolutely dying to make this reveal! So with that, the official stats are:

The Mother: Sansa
The Stranger: Arya
The Father: Jon
The Warrior: Brienne
The Smith: Tyrion
The Crone: Sam
The Maiden: Shireen

All of them have multiple traits of the Seven, but for the purposes of this format, this is who I envisioned them representing.

Also Daenerys' part is pulled straight from the end of A Game of Thrones. Sincc her story's not changing yet, she's a bit of a barometer for the original timeline.

Another note, I'm changing the title of this book to "As High as Honor." The next book will be titled "Ours is the Fury." Lots of Shireen, and Margaery too next book! The series will still be under the title By Her Hand. I'll post an update on this book to let everyone know when the next book is started .