IX

This is not how it was meant to be.

Cersei knew that she was meant to be Queen since she was a little girl, when Father promised her that he would see to it that she married Prince Rhaegar. He told her not to speak of it to anybody else, not yet, for he did not wish to excite the jealousy and enmity of every petty Lord who dreamed of seeing his sister or daughter wear the Queen's crown. They must keep their secret until the time was right to announce the betrothal, but he promised her that he would see it done.

To the child she was then, his pledge was all the surety she needed, for there was nothing in the world that was beyond the power and influence of Tywin Lannister.

When she was ten, King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar paid a visit to Casterly Rock, and Father staged a tourney in honour of his royal guests. Aunt Genna fussed over her gown and hair, telling her that she must look especially beautiful, and even allowed her to wear a necklace and bracelet from Mother's jewel box in honour of the occasion, something Father had never allowed before. He was not a sentimental man by nature, but every keepsake of Mother was precious to him, and he usually refused to allow even their only daughter to touch her jewels, for fear that they might be damaged. That night, however, he relented, knowing that the future Queen of the realm deserved better than the simple ornaments of girlhood.

Aunt Genna whispered in her ear that her betrothal to the Prince was to be announced at the final feast, and even hinted that she might soon be summoned to court, to be a companion to Queen Rhaella, and to learn from her all the thing she would need to know when it was her turn to be Queen.

Not that she had any intention of being like Queen Rhaella, ignored by her husband, except when he wanted to put a baby inside her, and wielding no power.

She would be Rhaegar's love, his helpmeet, his confidante in all things, and his staunchest supporter. One day, she would rule the Seven Kingdoms by his side.

Young as she was, Cersei knew that living in the Red Keep would also be a chance for her to make herself known among the Lords and Ladies of the court, and to determine which of them were worth cultivating as friends.

It never occurred to her to worry about potential enemies, for who would dare try to harm a girl who was the daughter of the King's Hand, the future good-daughter of the King, and the beloved future bride of Prince Rhaegar. There was no doubt but that they would be jealous of her, but they would know that any unkindness they showed her as a girl would be repaid a hundred times over once she was Queen.

She knew that every lady at court, young or old, would be falling over one another to be the first to befriend her, that the most powerful Lords would be sure to show her every courtesy and kindness, and that the most skilled and gallant knights would vie to be the one to carry her favour in tourneys, so that all might see that she favoured them. Not that she would bestow that honour on any man but her husband to be.

The night before the royal party was due to depart, Cersei slipped away with Melara to visit Maggy the Frog, who confirmed that she was to be Queen, and she was so thrilled at the thought of being married to Prince Rhaegar… to King Rhaegar… that she refused to allow herself to dwell on the rest of the woman's prophecy, telling herself that the old hag was just jealous of the glorious future that awaited her, knowing that Cersei was to be Queen while she would spend the rest of her days wallowing in her hovel, with nobody ever troubling to see her except when they had use of her unnatural sight, and wanted to frighten her.

But there was no final feast.

After the tourney, Aerys, his son, and the company of knights who had accompanied him on the visit, departed for King's Landing with discourteous haste.

The King's mood was black, and Father's was blacker still.

Father did not deign to explain to her why the plan had changed. It was as if he had never considered offering her hand to Prince Rhaegar, much less that he had promised her that she was to be Queen.

It fell to Aunt Genna to tell her that, while Father had proposed the match, Aerys refused to consider it, insulting his Hand by declaring that he would not wed his son to the daughter of his servant, as if Tywin Lannister was no better than a stablehand or scullion, as if ladies of lesser Houses had not married into the royal family before, as if Aerys' own grandmother had not been a mere Blackwood, and far beneath a Lannister of Casterly Rock.

No reassurance from her aunt that this was no fault of hers, that no complaint could be made of her charm or courtesy, much less her beauty, and that there was nothing she could have done that would have changed the King's mind, could comfort her. Nor did she take any consolation from Aunt Genna's promise that, when she was a little older, her father would find her an even better man.

What man could be better than Prince Rhaegar?

What other man could make her a Queen?

Had Mad Aerys not been so jealous of Father, knowing as he must that Tywin Lannister was the true ruler of the realm, no matter that his own backside warmed the Iron Throne, and so determined to shame his Hand by declaring his daughter beneath Prince Rhaegar, the Seven Kingdoms would have been the better for it.

She was no Elia of Dorne, too frail to bear a child without being left bedridden for months on end, and incapable of holding the attention of a man like Rhaegar. Had they been allowed to marry, they would have been true to one another. Even Jaime could not steal her heart from Rhaegar, and he certainly would not have spared a second glance to a near-savage from the frozen wastelands of the North if he had her for his wife.

There would have been no Rebellion.

Robert could have had his Lyanna, and welcome. He could have spent the rest of his life drinking and whoring in Storm's End, bedding every comely serving woman. He could be another Walder Frey, fielding an army from his breeches, except that most of his sons would be born on the wrong side of the blanket. He would have been obliged to bend the knee to her and to Rhaegar whenever he was invited to court, and his brats by his precious she-wolf would vie for the honour of serving as companions to her princes and princesses.

Everybody from Dorne to the Wall would have rejoiced the day the Mad King died, and their Silver Prince took the Iron Throne, with a golden Queen by his side.

Their children would be so beautiful that the gods themselves would weep at the sight of them.

She could never truly forgive Robert for killing Rhaegar, but she would have been a good wife to him, had he given her a chance. He was a handsome man, fresh from victory at the Trident and newly crowned King, when they were wed. There was no Lord to compare to him, and not a maid in the Seven Kingdoms who did not dream of him. It pleased her to know that he was hers, and not just because their marriage made her the Queen that Father had promised she would be. For that, she was prepared to make the best of their marriage. But though she was willing to try to put Rhaegar from her thoughts, and even to cast Jaime from her bed, Robert refused to return the courtesy. Even on their wedding night, he refused to banish Lyanna Stark from his thoughts, pining for a corpse when he had the most beautiful woman in Westeros in his bed.

She wondered if he was ever able to admit to himself that the true reason for the great love he believed he had for the girl he had scarcely known was that marriage to her would have allowed him to call his beloved Ned 'brother'.

On their wedding night, with Robert lying next to her, snoring and snorting, stinking of sweat and wine, his ruddy cheeks stained with the tears he shed for the dead girl who held his heart so completely that no corner of it was left for Cersei to claim, she resolved that, as he refused to give up Lyanna Stark, she would not give up Jaime.

Thankfully, Jon Arryn was mindful of the need for the Crown to maintain ties with Tywin Lannister, so even Ned Stark could not persuade Robert to force Jaime to take the black for slaying Aerys, or to cast him from the Kingsguard, much as it would have pleased Father to have his heir restored to Casterly Rock, so she could always keep her twin, the other half of her soul, with her.

Robert, his head swollen from the flattery of the countless whores who were well paid to put on a good show of devotion, never imagined that his wife might look to another man to find a better lover, and a better father for her children. Or perhaps he simply did not care what she did, as long as she did not force her company on him.

Having Jaime with her was the only thing that made her marriage bearable, until her children were born.

She should have killed Robert sooner.

She should have killed him before Ned Stark could uncover who had fathered her children, before Jon Arryn could grow suspicious that none of her children resembled Robert when each of his bastards bore his stamp on their faces, and before Joffrey was old enough to know that, no matter how hard he strove to win the approval of the man he knew as his father, Robert would never praise him, much less love him as he wished he would.

Joffrey was so sweet when he was small, a golden-haired, sunny-natured little boy. On the rare occasions when he appeared before the people, women cooed and wished that their own sons could be half as beautiful, and even the men always had a smile for their prince. Those who saw him murmured that he was a fine boy, strong and handsome, everything a prince should be. His nursemaids squabbled over who was to have the honour of rocking him to sleep each night. The cooks sneaked cakes to the nursery, just to make him smile.

He was so eager to please, looking on Robert with the same reverence that a Septon would the Father, craving his love no matter how much attention and affection she lavished on him. Perhaps Robert was stupid and sentimental enough to think it a betrayal of his precious Lyanna if he opened his heart to another woman's child, even a child as bright and sweet and beautiful as the three she presented to him. Myrcella and Tommen he ignored, but Joffrey he scorned. Perhaps he resented her poor son because he knew that, no matter how little he might wish to have her as his wife, no matter how much he resented that their marriage was the only thing holding the realm together, he could have no justification to set her aside once she bore a prince.

If she had killed Robert when Joffrey was still little, still sweet, the people would have embraced their child King. They would have given Joffrey the love that Robert denied him, and that love would have made her son blossom. He would have craved their approval, as he once craved Robert's, but they would not have withheld it from him. He would have grown to be a ruler who deserved the love of his subjects. She would have been Regent, and Father would have been Hand. Between them, they would have taught him all he needed to know to earn the love of the commons and the respect of the highborn. They would have helped Joffrey grow into a King that the realm could be proud of, a King who might carry the Baratheon name but who would embody the best of the Lannisters.

But she had waited too long to rid herself of Robert, and by the time Joffrey took the Iron Throne, he was beyond her influence.

He became a King with few friends and an ever-increasing number of enemies, and he was murdered at his own wedding feast.

Tyrion, besotted with the little bride he had not even wanted to marry in the first place, must have seen it as a fitting vengeance for her mother and brother's deaths, must have thought that, ugly and stunted as he was, he might yet succeed in winning Sansa Stark's heart if he avenged her kin. It had probably been a shock to him to learn that the little dove fled the city, leaving him alone to face justice for their crime.

She should never have allowed herself to be persuaded to agree to the match between Tommen and Margaery.

Father, Pycelle, and the Spider all insisted that they needed the support of the Tyrells if they were to have a hope of defeating Stannis, and of feeding the city through the long winter that the Maesters agreed was coming.

Even Jaime agreed with them, stating bluntly that Tommen was as good as dead if the Tyrells went over to Stannis' side, and that the rest of them would follow him into the grave.

If the price for the support of the Tyrells was that Tommen be married to Margaery, Father was ready and willing to pay it, turning a deaf ear to any protest she might have made, refusing to consider that she might know more than he did about what was best for her son and his realm. He knew that Margaery would manipulate Tommen, just as she had manipulated Joffrey, but he did not care, not as long as the marriage maintained the Tyrell alliance.

She should have demanded that he wait, should have argued more vehemently against Tommen marrying before he was a man. She should have insisted that Margaery remain unwed for at least two years out of respect for Joff's memory, rather than insulting her son by marrying his little brother before his body was cold, as good as shouting to the realm that she had never cared for him in the least. She should have married Loras if that was what it took. The Tyrells could have had no cause for complaint if their unnatural heir was married to the Queen Regent, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. She was even willing to bear him a son, if he was not so unmanned as to be incapable of getting one on her. That should have been enough to bind the Tyrells to them, enough to buy them at least a few years before they had to let Margaery get her claws into Tommen.

In a few years, Tommen would be older and wiser, less vulnerable to Margaery's manipulations. He would know not to take her sweet words at face value, know that his mother should have his trust, above all others.

In a few years, Stannis could be dead, his army scattered, the Lords of the Stormlands ready to bend the knee to Tommen, never again daring to suggest that he was not Robert's trueborn son and heir.

In a few years, they could have found Sansa Stark and executed her for her treasons, or the wretched girl might have died, forgotten, in a gutter, the last spark of rebellion in the North dying with her.

In a few years, they would have far less need of the Tyrells, and could find Tommen a worthier bride, one who would know her place, and know that Tommen needed his mother to guide him far more than he needed a wife to beguile him. She would choose the girl this time, and would find one who would love Tommen with the devotion he deserved, yet never try to make him hers.

Tommen was gentle and good and wanted so badly to do right by his people.

He was the first man in fifty years who deserved to sit on the Iron Throne.

Those who knew or suspected that he was Jaime's son reviled him as a bastard born of incest but she knew that he would have been a better King, a better man, by far than any brat born of Robert's seed could ever hope to be.

Margaery manipulated him into falling in love with her, determined to drive a wedge between mother and son, determined to steal all of Tommen's love for herself, even trying to persuade him to banish his mother to Casterly Rock.

There was no choice but to be rid of her.

She never imagined that Tommen would choose to follow his wife in death than to live on under his mother's care and guidance.

She should never have allowed Tyrion to sell Myrcella to Dorne. She should have delayed him, by any means necessary, until Father came to take his place as Hand, putting an end to the free reign he had given Tyrion. She would have been able to convince Father that, no matter what they might say, no matter what bribe they were offered, there was too much bad blood between their Houses for the Martells to ever be relied upon as allies. The Martells might promise peace, but they would never forget that Princess Elia and her children had been wrapped in Lannister crimson when their bodies were presented to Robert. It was folly to give them a hostage. She knew it as soon as Grand Maester Pycelle told her what it was Tyrion had planned, and she was proven right when Jaime returned, Myrcella's body already growing cold.

"You will have three… Gold will be their crowns. Gold their shrouds."

But she proved the witch wrong, and the proof lay in the cradle by the fireside, grumbling her discontent at the tight swaddling that kept her warm, but also prevented her from kicking her little legs or chewing on her tiny fists.

The Princess Joanna of House Lannister.

One day to be Joanna, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Joanna was born to be the future of House Lannister and of Westeros both. She was the fourth child, born in defiance of Maggy the Frog's prophecy. She would never have to bear the Baratheon name, forced to pretend that she was born of the seed of an arrogant fool who went to war for a girl who jilted him, who murdered Rhaegar, hunted children, and seized Seven Kingdoms that he was unfit to govern. She would be as sweet as Joffrey was when he was little, and know no unkindness that would ever mar that sweetness. She would be as gentle as Tommen, and as eager to do right by the people, yet wise enough not to be fooled by false friends. She would be as clever and kind-hearted as Myrcella, but she would be a Queen in her own right, not a pawn to be traded like cattle to advance the schemes of men.

Cersei knew before the crown was placed on her head that the people would never love her.

But they would love Joanna.

Let them say what they would about Queen Cersei, let them call her an adulteress, a brother-fucker, a traitor, a murderess, whatever names they wished, but they would have to see that Joanna was perfect in body and mind, a beautiful, kind, bright child who would grow to be a wise, gentle and compassionate young woman.

Let them pray for the day when she would die, and pass her crown on to her daughter.

Joanna would be her redemption, and that of Westeros.

Hundreds of years from now, when the Maesters wrote of Robert's Rebellion, of a land torn apart because men were foolish enough to think that Lyanna Stark was worth fighting over, of the downfall of House Targaryen, of the War of Five Kings that brought an end to Houses Baratheon, Tyrell, and Stark, and of the rise of the Royal House of Lannister, they would look back on Cersei's reign and know that she was unjustly reviled, that every hard choice she ever made, every moment of harshness, had been to pave the way for Queen Joanna.

Queen Joanna would have the luxury of being merciful, because those who would have threatened her were gone.

Queen Joanna would be able to be generous, because her mother would see to it that she had plenty to give.

Queen Joanna would have peace, because her mother had fought all of the wars, and won.

Queen Joanna would be loved, because the hatred of the realm was focused on Queen Cersei.

This was how the story of House Lannister was to begin anew.

It was never meant to end like this.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies on the wings of many birds, their fragile minds and bodies unable to bear his essence for more than a day or two, some of them lasting only a matter of hours before he must seek another host and their tiny bodies, hollowed out to receive him and empty once he leaves, fall from the sky.

He watches the Night King and his army move South, winter storms fiercer than any the land has seen in thousands of years heralding their approach.

The dead sweep through villages, towns, and castles, leaving no survivors.

The slain swell their ranks, and the army grows larger with each small conquest.

They regain the numbers they lost in battle at Winterfell many times over as they pass through the North.

Over a hundred thousand cross the Neck.

By the time they pass through the Vale, their army is over a million strong, and their numbers have doubled before they leave the Riverlands.

They move as one, never dividing their forces.

The vessel that was once Brandon Stark of Winterfell bore the Night King's mark on his flesh, and so the Night King could follow him, crossing the Wall and the protections that had stood for eight thousand years, and follow him to Winterfell. The Three-Eyed Raven left the mark behind when he left the vessel, an instant before the Night King cut it down. Without the mark to tie him to the magic of the Night King, the Three-Eyed Raven can no longer be traced, yet there are times, when he flies too close, his wings beating frantically against the snowstorm, his tiny, fragile body buffeted by heavy, icy winds, that the Night King seems to be able to sense that he is being watched.

The Night King makes no effort to seek out his enemy, and never has the millions of wights at his command attack the birds overhead with stones or sticks or whatever else they might find to throw.

He knows as well as the Three-Eyed Raven does that it would be a wasted effort.

Without a host, the Three-Eyed Raven cannot survive.

He need only wait.

"There must be something that we can do!" Cersei's skirts are too heavy to do more than twitch slightly as she paces the length of her solar, moving as much out of a desire to warm herself as out of frustration. She wears two of her heaviest gowns, one over the other, with woolen petticoats underneath, and a fur-lined cloak wrapped around her, yet she cannot keep the chill from her blood and bones.

Before being dismissed, one of her ladies heated wine for her by leaving a poker in the fire until its tip glowed red, and then sticking it in a jug of wine. The wine hissed and bubbled at first, and steam rose as the girl poured it out before withdrawing, but it was only warm when she took her first sip, and quickly grew tepid, then cold.

Jaime and Qyburn are with her, both ignoring the chairs in favour of huddling by the fireside. Jaime has had to set aside his armor, as the gilded steel is icy from the cold, and Qyburn wears so many robes, one on top of the other, that he looks as plump as the High Septon, the one torn apart by the mob during the riot.

Ser Gregor, his dead flesh immune to the cold, stands, impassive, by the door.

How can it have come to this?

Her reign is not two years old.

She was prepared to fight against House Tyrell, House Martell, even House Stark, if its last survivors decided to venture outside their beloved frozen hell, knowing that the North could not hope to survive the coming winter if they did not have the support of the Iron Throne. She could fight an army of men. Men could be cut down. Men could flee the field of battle when they saw that their cause was lost. Men could even be persuaded that it was in their interests to serve a new master, one who could offer them more generous rewards than the one they fought for. An army of men could be met in the field by an opposing army, and while thousands would die on both sides, there was always a chance for victory, particularly for the side with the greater numbers. This army, however, could not be swayed by promises or surrender. This army would keep going, no matter how many of its warriors it lost. This army would grow with every man, woman and child they slew.

"According to Lord Snow's message, there are only three weapons that can be of use against this army of the dead," Qyburn observes. "Dragonglass…"

"Which we don't have, and we have no way to get to Dragonstone to get it," Cersei cuts him off.

It would be a lie to say that she grieves for Euron's loss, but the loss of his fleet is an undeniable blow. If the strongest ships in the Iron Fleet could not survive the storms, there is no hope that the few vessels left in the royal navy will be able to make the crossing to Dragonstone, and even if they could, it would be folly for them to waste the effort on securing a few weapons to fend off an army of millions. If they had any seaworthy vessels, and if there was a chance that they would not be shattered by the storm, she would use them to get away.

Better for Joanna to live in the Free Cities than for her to die in the Red Keep.

Even Jon Snow has fled Westeros, choosing to save his skin when he had the chance rather than stay to fight a losing battle. At least he has more sense than his father… than both of his fathers, if there is any truth to his outlandish claim. She cannot imagine that anything would have persuaded Ned Stark or Prince Rhaegar to flee. They would have insisted on staying to play the part of the hero, even if anybody with a brain could see that their cause was lost, and that the best thing they could do would be to save as many of their people as they could, and leave it to the gods to sort out the rest.

"Quite so, Your Grace," Qyburn agrees mildly.

His calm unnerves her. He would be of no use to her if he spent his time wailing, and she knows that if he shed a tear in her presence, she would immediately demand that he pull himself together and be silent if he could not be helpful, yet it is still unsettling to see that, when faced with the advent of an army of monsters, he seems almost entirely untroubled. She supposes that his chief disappointment is that he will not have a chance to capture one of these wights or Walkers or, better still, the Night King himself, so that he might cut it open and see how it operates, see if he can find a way to bring these creatures under his control, as he did Ser Gregor.

"Valyrian steel will work," Jaime chimes in, his hand brushing the gilded hilt of Widow's Wail.

"You should never have given your sword to that great beast of a woman," she snaps at him.

She did not realise at first that he had given away the sword Father gave him, the larger of the two forged for House Lannister. It was not until after Joff's death when, instead of putting Widow's Wail away until Tommen was old enough and skilled enough to be trusted to bear Valyrian steel without hurting himself, Jaime chose to carry Joffrey's sword himself, that she asked questions. She was touched at first, thinking that he had chosen to carry Widow's Wail rather than the longer sword Father had made for him in memory of their firstborn, and that he intended that his own sword would pass to Tommen when he was of age, that father and son should each wield one in defence of their family and the realm. Instead, when she asked, Jaime confessed that he gave his sword to Brienne of Tarth.

He was lucky that she had not told Father how little his precious Jaime thought of the Valyrian steel sword that he had spent so long trying to obtain for their family before he was finally able to replace Brightroar. Instead of cherishing it as both a gift from Father and a future heirloom of their House, he handed it over to a woman who fancied herself a knight, and who would have fought for Renly against their family, if she had had her way.

When word reached them, through Qyburn's network of little birds, that Brienne of Tarth had entered the service of Sansa Stark, pledging herself to the bitch who had plotted with Tyrion to murder Joffrey, she wished that she had told Father, and let Jaime face his anger for allowing a Lannister sword to be used to protect their enemy.

"If you hadn't given away your sword…"

"We would have two Valyrian steel swords, instead of one," Jaime finishes for her. "No doubt that would make all the difference."

She imagines for a moment what damage Ser Gregor would be able to do to these wights, armed with a Valyrian steel sword in each hand. He was monstrously strong while he lived, capable of beheading his great destrier in a single stroke. In a melee or in battle, he cut through men as easily as he might cut through dry grass. When Qyburn succeeded in bringing his corpse back to life, or a semblance of life, he lost none of his strength but he no longer felt pain or fatigue, and no longer cared about preserving his own life, or about anything other than obeying the orders that she and Qyburn gave him. If so ordered, he would single-handedly charge against this army of walking dead, cutting them down by the dozen. Or he could be stationed outside her chambers, guarding them against the invading force and killing any wights who approached.

But even Ser Gregor could not hope to defeat an army millions strong, whether he faced them head-on or stood guard over her and Joanna. Sooner or later, he would fall to their numbers.

"That leaves fire," she says at last.

She tries to imagine what Father would order if he was here. Flaming arrows fired from the walls of the Red Keep against the approaching horde? To find a way to lure them into a large enough space, perhaps the Dragonpit, one that would be laid with pitch and wildfire, ready to be ignited as soon as they entered it?

"According to Jon Snow, if we kill one of the White Walkers, all of the wights that follow them will be destroyed," Jaime muses aloud. "And he thinks that if the Night King is killed, all of his army will be destroyed with him."

"Then he will never be stupid enough to join the battle." She may not have had the opportunity to study battle strategy with a Maester, or at Father's knee, as Jaime had when they were children, but she knows enough to be certain that no enemy with a weakness that could so easily be exploited would risk everything by entering the fray, not when he could leave it to his army of slaves to do the killing for him.

"We don't know that they're clever enough to strategize like that."

"We know that they're clever enough to have swept through half of Westeros, and clever enough to build their forces before they came to the biggest city in the Seven Kingdoms."

Jaime dipped his head slightly, as if conceding her point. "What about evacuating? They're coming for the city. Is there any way we can get the people out? Can we at least get away from here ourselves with Joanna?"

"It should be possible to ensure that at least some of the people can flee the city, Ser Jaime," Qyburn says, in his maddeningly placid tone. "There are tunnels, and we have some hours yet before the army is outside the city walls. Fleeing is the easy part, and it will be quicker and easier if it is just a small number of people. Finding a place to flee to is more difficult, however, and surviving the cold long enough to reach it would be impossible. You can feel the cold as we speak, though we are behind thick walls and a great fire burns in the hearth," he adds, speaking as gently as he might to one of his little birds. "It is colder by far outside. The snows are far too heavy to travel by wagon, and I doubt that horses would long survive the elements. Princess Joanna could never hope to survive. Even if you could flee King's Landing, even if you could survive the cold long enough to reach the next village or town, this army of the dead will simply move on once they have taken the city, and their numbers will be greater still. They do not appear to be able to swim, so the islands may be safe, but we have no way to reach them."

Cersei moves to the cradle, scooping Joanna up and holding her as close as the blankets and furs in which she is swaddled allow. Her baby yawns widely, and opens her eyes.

Her eyes are Lannister green, and look up at her with such innocent trust.

She never noticed before that Joanna has Tommen's eyes.

She remembers the Battle of the Blackwater, remembers the terror she felt when all hope seemed lost, and Stannis' victory a certainty. She remembers the flash of gratitude she felt that Myrcella was not there to become a casualty of war, her hope that if she was murdered in Dorne, they would do it with a gentle poison, that she would be spared the fate of Princess Rhaenys or, worse, Princess Elia. She remembers Lancel bringing word that the battle was lost, that Stannis' troops were at the gates. She remembers taking Tommen away from the frightened hens, lest their tears and whimpers frighten him more than he already was, and sitting on the Iron Throne with her baby boy on her knee, distracting him with a story of a mother lion and her little cub. She remembers how it felt to bring a vial of poison to his lips, knowing that it was the kindest thing she could do for him, that it was a thousand times better for him to die a gentle death, in his mother's arms, than that he be left to Stannis' non-existent mercies.

She would poison Joanna now, if it would spare her baby, if it would allow her to slip peacefully away in her mother's arms, never to know a moment of pain or terror.

But she knows that it would do no good.

This Night King has the power to raise the dead, to force them to serve in his army.

Do the children he raises continue to grow? Will Joanna grow into a monstrous womanhood, or will she remain as small as she is now, and become the tiniest soldier in the Night King's army?

No.

This will not be Joanna's fate.

She will not allow this to be Joanna's fate.

"How much wildfire do we have?" she demands.

The order is issued that all of the people are to remain indoors. Those who do not wish to take shelter in the Red Keep, or who are too far away to be able to brave the bad weather to reach it are to remain in their homes, or with their neighbours, with their doors bolted, and their windows blocked with whatever they can get their hands on.

The only people not to take shelter are those sentries who stand watch, ready to send word when the Night King and his army have entered the city, and those who stand ready to do what they must when that time comes.

Cersei orders that the granary and food stores set aside for the army be emptied, its contents distributed to the people, with instructions that every man, woman and child in the city is to eat their fill this night. To the cooks at the Red Keep, she gives orders that they are to empty the pantry, and prepare a feast the like that this castle has never seen. The dishes they prepare are simpler than the seventy-seven served at Joffrey's wedding feast, but they are far more numerous, and the tables set out in the throne room, and in the great dining halls, groan under their weight. The cellars are emptied of Dornish Reds and even Arbor Gold, all laid out for the feast.

A huge log fire burns in every hearth, and braziers are set between them, driving the worst of the cold from the rooms.

The people who manage to reach the shelter of the Red Keep gape in wonder at the feast laid out for them, and at first, they hesitate, as if they are afraid that she has laid some sort of trap for them, that the first to help himself to the feast spread before them will find himself arrested for his presumption.

Their wariness irritates her.

If Margaery was the one to summon them to the Red Keep and invite them to dine, they would seize the opportunity with both hands, and heap blessings on her for her generosity.

She supposes that it is not without cause. She has never given them any reason to love her before, and one good meal is unlikely to do much to change their view of her.

She rises from the Iron Throne, drawing herself to her full height, and speaking with all the authority she can muster. "Eat. Drink. Your Queen commands it of you."

That is enough to prompt them to begin to make their wary way towards the tables, and once the first few have begun to ladle food onto their plates, with no move made to stop them, the rest are quick to follow, fearing that if they hesitate too long, there will be nothing left… or perhaps fearing that she means to send those who refuse her hospitality to the Black Cells.

Jaime extends his arm to her as she steps down from the dais, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, and escorting her out of the throne room. He opens his mouth to say something, but she speaks before he has a chance.

"They won't die with empty bellies. I can give them that much."

A simple supper is laid out in her solar, and a jug of Arbor Gold sits on the table.

The fire is banked high, and a full dozen braziers are lit.

For the first time in far too long, she is warm.

She takes Joanna from her nurse, and dismisses the woman to eat her own supper downstairs. When she and Jaime sit down at the table, she can almost imagine that they are like any ordinary family, sharing a meal after a long day, and enjoying one another's company.

Might their life have been like this, had she listened to Ned Stark, and fled with her children? Might she and Jaime have found a place where they could live in peace, as a family?

She doubts it; Robert would have hunted them to the end of their days, even more determined to see them dead than he was to have the bodies of the last Targaryen children laid before him. And even if they could escape his wrath, how could she ever have explained to them why they were no longer princes and princess?

She finds that she has no appetite for the food, and even the wine does not appeal to her. Jaime crumbles a slice of bread without eating any of it, pours himself a goblet of Arbor Gold, and swirls the wine slowly, staring into his goblet as though he hopes that he will be able to find an answer there, some means of escape they overlooked.

Joanna whimpers at first, before erupting in hungry wails.

It takes her a moment to unlace the front of her gown, and she quickly brings her daughter to her breast, immediately enfolding them both in her fur-lined cloak.

Joanna sucks strongly, her little legs shifting slightly inside her swaddling. Her eyes close, and her rosebud mouth curves in a slight smile of contentment.

Jaime watches them in silence for several minutes before he speaks.

"The Mad King was going to do it," he says quietly. "He was going to burn the city, and everybody in it, rather than allow Robert to claim it." In another time, she might have made a joke of it, might have quipped that it would have been a mercy to the people of King's Landing to spare them the suffering they endured during the sack of their city, and later due to Robert's incompetence, or a mercy to all of their noses if this cesspool of a city had been destroyed, and a new one built in its place, but she cannot make light of it, not now. Jaime never speaks of Aerys, not even to her. "He kept saying it, over and over again. 'Burn them all!'." He lets out a brief chuckle, but there is no humour in it. "They say that some of the Targaryens could see the future in their dreams. That's how they came to settle on Dragonstone in the first place. One of them foretold the Doom of Valyria, and warned her family. I forget her name."

"Daenys the Dreamer. You always forget the women."

"Daenys the Dreamer," Jaime repeats. "Maybe Aerys took after her. Maybe he foresaw all of this, and wanted to stop it. He was just more than twenty years too early."

She doubts that this was the case, but says only "Seeing this could drive anybody mad."

"I'm sorry that I couldn't get us away."

"It's not your fault."

There is a part of her that would like to be able to blame somebody. To blame Jon Snow, for expecting her to take his word for it that the threat approached, without presenting her with a shred of proof to give credence to such a far-fetched story, or being willing to meet her halfway. To blame Sansa Stark, who undoubtedly convinced her brother to refuse the offer of aid from the Lannister forces, in exchange for his bending the knee, though she must surely have known that Cersei could not believe in the threat if Ned Stark's son proved unwilling to swear fealty in order to save his people. To blame Olenna Tyrell, and Ellaria Sand, both of whom managed to vanish from Westeros before the Night King could reach them in their domains. To blame Euron Greyjoy, for not having stronger ships, ships capable of seeing them safely through the storm, and across the Narrow Sea to a new life. To blame Tyrion for murdering Father, who might have been able to find a solution that eluded them. To blame the men of the Night's Watch, for spending eight thousand years guarding the Wall, only to fail in their duty to protect the realm when it truly mattered. To blame whatever vile magic gave life to the Night King.

But there is no point to blame. Not now.

She has given orders that they are not to be disturbed, and not to be told when the Night King's army has breached the city walls, or when they come close to the Red Keep.

Qyburn and her men have their orders, and know what it is they must do when the time comes.

She does not want to be warned when the moment arrives.

She wants to enjoy these last, precious hours or minutes with the only two people left to her to love.

"If your plan works, the Reach and Dorne will be safe," Jaime observes.

"Don't remind me," she says, but there is no anger or resentment in her voice. She chuckles, despite herself. "If they only knew..." If this works, it will be the greatest deed of her life, but nobody will ever know of it.

Jaime moves his chair over next to hers, sitting so close that their knees brush one another's, and their heads touch are they watch Joanna, who is drowsing off at her breast, a dribble of milky drool running down her chin.

"She would have been a wonderful Queen. She would have been a wonderful woman."

Jaime's smile is sad as he leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of Joanna's head, rumpling her golden hair. "The best," he agrees.

Joanna, roused from her drowsy state by her father's kiss, opens heavy-lidded eyes to look to each of her parents in turn. Cersei's nipple slips free of her tiny mouth, and she lets out a chuckle of pure, innocent joy.

She will never see Joanna again.

She is under no illusions on that score.

If the gods exist, she has committed sins aplenty, enough for them to consign her to one or another of the Seven Hells. Even if her plan can save lives, it will not be enough to spare her the punishment her sins have bought her. She may see Joffrey in the world beyond death; her poor, precious boy had sins of his own to answer for, and even a King cannot escape the wrath of the gods. Myrcella and Tommen were as sweet and innocent as Joanna is, and no god could be so cruel as to deny them peace in one of the Seven Heavens.

She kisses Joanna once for Myrcella, a second time for Tommen, and a third time for herself, and then moves her lips to the shell of her little ear, whispering a plea to her baby to pass her kisses on to the sister and brother she never had a chance to know, and to tell them how much their mother loves them.

For a moment, she finds peace in the thought of three of her children enjoying an eternity of happiness together.

The Three-Eyed Raven watches.

The streets of King's Landing are deserted. With the exception of the small number of sentries keeping watch for the approach of the Night King, every soul in the city is safe behind the walls of their home, or taking shelter in the Red Keep. Doors are barred, and every window is boarded over or covered with heavy cloth, but that does not keep the Three-Eyed Raven from seeing, with his mind's eye, all that happens in the city.

He sees families huddled around fires, cooking meals, relishing the all but forgotten taste of salted meat and fish, the vegetables that have been worth their weight in gold these long months past, and marveling that Queen Cersei should have given the food to them.

He sees mothers singing softly or telling stories to children who drift to sleep without hunger gnawing at them.

He sees fathers gather knives and axes and shovels and clubs, anything that can be used as a weapon, ready to fight and die to defend their families from whatever foe it is that Queen Cersei is making ready to battle. They have been told to stay in their homes, that the Lannister army will meet the enemy in battle, yet virtually all of the men, and many of the women besides, are ready to fight against this unknown foe.

He sees a blacksmith in his forge, the blaze of the great furnaces driving away the cold. The blacksmith has opened his forge to shelter his neighbours, and distributed the weapons in his shop to any man or woman who wishes to wield them, but he keeps the finest for himself, a great war hammer.

He sees people gathering in small clusters, and hears their prayers.

He sees thousands feasting in the Red Keep.

He sees soldiers at their posts beneath the city, torches ready.

He sees the approach of the Night King, an army of millions at his back.

Wights and White Walkers pour into the city, an icy river of dead men. As they march, the snows swirl more violently, and the air becomes colder and colder. They pour into the city, filling the streets, drawn to life, drawn to warmth. The Night King leads hundreds of thousands towards the centre of the city, to the Red Keep, where so many have sought shelter, while others move off, guided by their master's unspoken command, to target the homes in the city, seeking to end the lives of those within, that they might be raised to swell their forces.

It happens quickly.

The bells of the city peal so loudly that not even the fierce storm can muffle the sound.

The people in their homes hear them, and shudder, knowing that the ringing of bells never means anything good.

The soldiers stationed beneath the city hear them, and do their duty.

Tens of thousands of casks of wildfire, carefully spread through tunnels and sewers and catacombs, ignite.

Green flames engulf the city.

For the people, it is over in moments, before most of them have a chance to realize the true nature of the salvation that Queen Cersei promised them.

Every wight caught in the inferno is incinerated.

White Walkers explode in shards of ice, the green flames burning hotter and faster than any natural fire, too hot and too fast for the cold of the White Walkers to extinguish them, as it would natural fire. As White Walkers are destroyed, the wights they raised are destroyed too, even those who remain outside the city walls, and who escape the wildfire.

The Three-Eyed Raven watches the green inferno blaze below.

He is not grieved by the loss of the people who perished, or pleased to see so many of the Others destroyed, or relieved to think that the battle against the Night King may be over at last, but as he watches the city below him burn, something stirs within him, something that reminds him of the memories of hope he has gleaned from his vessels.

It takes a long time for the green inferno to burn out.

When it does, the Three-Eyed Raven sees the Night King standing, unharmed, amid the ashes.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies.

Though snow still falls, each snowflake sizzling as it lands on the smoldering rubble that is all that remains of what was once one of the greatest cities on the continent, the storm has eased. The Night King may have brought the storm, but with most of his wights destroyed, and without his White Walkers to lend him their strength, his power is weaker. Not extinguished. It seems that nothing, short of his destruction, will extinguish his power. But he is weaker, and so the storm eases. Even the seas are calmer now.

As the Three-Eyed Raven flies from his enemy, he sees the people to the South, those the Night King and his army would have visited once the people of King's Landing had swelled their ranks.

The Night King will not stop.

The Night King will never stop, not while there is a soul in Westeros that still lives.

But this defeat will slow him, force him to create new White Walkers, force him to target small villages first, to build his numbers gradually, before he can move to the Reach, or to Dorne to finish his work.

The people who still live have more time now, time that they can use to flee this continent before it is forever claimed by the dead.

There is not enough time for the Three-Eyed Raven. If there was another greenseer still living, he could take it, but the vessel that was Brandon Stark was the last, and he cannot wait for the next to be born.

The Three-Eyed Raven flies.

Few weirwoods grow this far South, where those who worship new gods have destroyed almost all remnants of the Old Ways, and the Three-Eyed Raven knows that the body that contains his essence does not have the strength to reach the closest one. Already, he can feel its wings weaken, its heart beat impossibly fast, its mind breaking under the strain of hosting that which it was never meant to host.

A weirwood would be best, but any tree will do.

The body that contains his essence is almost dead when it reaches the forest, but it clings to life long enough to fly to the tallest, oldest tree.

The Three-Eyed Raven can feel his vessel's feeble struggles, its desperate attempt to assert its will, to ensure its survival, but it cannot hope to overpower him. He flies to the tree, to its heart, where a broken branch is the opening he needs. He flies hard, and the force of his collision with the broken branch pierces the bird's breast. As the bird's blood mingles with the sap of the tree, the Three-Eyed Raven pours his essence into the tree, from branch to bough to trunk to roots, from the roots to the soil of the forest, and from the soil of the forest he spreads across the land.

He is this land and this land is him and though the Night King may destroy every living soul, may freeze the continent so that no tree or flower or any plant may grow, he cannot destroy the land.

Burrowed deep beneath the ground, too deep for the cold to touch him, the Three-Eyed Raven sleeps.

They take their meal on the rooftop garden that evening, just the three of them.

The setting sun bathed the city in light that shifts from gold to orange to pink before the purple that gives way to twilight. As the sky darkens, the dainty white flowers of the jasmine shrubs begin to bloom, their perfume mingling with the scent of the other flowers, and contrasting with the sharper tang of the orange and lemon trees arrayed in great ceramic pots throughout the garden.

By the time they have finished almost all of the meal prepared for them: fried bread, goat and lamb basted in honey, wine and spices, roasted and cut into bite-sized cubes, and sliced fruit, the sky is dark enough to see the first stars of the night.

Even at this late hour, and from eight hundred feet above the city, the night is hot and dry. Daenerys has always been less troubled by the heat than others, but still wears a light linen gown, so finely woven that the cloth is as translucent as the dress Magister Illyrio gave her when he was selling her to Drogo. The cloth feels almost as light as air against her skin. Even Jorah has abandoned his usual wool tunics. He rolls his breeches past his knees and dangles his feet in the pool. The water is tepid from the day in the sun.

Daario, after declaring himself so hot that he might melt, and insisting that he does not want to leave the sheets of their bed stained with sweat, strips off his shirt and breeches, and jumps into the pool. He flicks water at Jorah's leg, grinning impishly at him, before paddling over to Daenerys, and extending a hand to her.

"Why not cool down a bit?" he invites, his smile widening when she nods and, after Jorah has helped her unlace the back of her gown, slips it over her head and places her hand in his, allowing him to draw her into the pool.

The water might be tepid to others, but it feels chilly to Daenerys. Ordinarily, she prefers her baths scalding, and more than once, she has contemplated asking one of her children to use their fire to heat the water in the pool for her, but on a night like this, the coldness of the water is a blessed relief.

Daario moves his hand to rest over her abdomen. "How long before you feel this little one move?"

"Another month, maybe a little longer, or a little less." Though Daenerys believes that the child was conceived on the first night when she lay with them both, she cannot be certain, not yet. Once the babe quickens, Sarella will be able to estimate the dates. "It will take longer before you can feel it," she adds, anticipating his next question.

Jorah clears his throat before speaking. "We have not yet had a chance to discuss this," he begins, his awkward posture hinting that he would prefer not to have to broach the topic. "But the next months may pass far very quickly. We need to talk about the baby's future. This is not Westeros, but for an unwed Queen to bear a child…"

Daenerys remembers one of the stories Viserys used to tell her of Rhaenyra, the Half-Year Queen. Though they were descended from her last surviving son, Viserys' namesake, he never had a kind word to say about her, and his tales made much of the rumours that her Velaryon sons were not Velaryons at all, but the bastards of Ser Harwin Strong. He heaped insults on Queen Rhaenyra for her wanton ways, and for the selfish ambition that had torn the realm apart and destroyed so many of their House's dragons. With hindsight, she recognizes that her brother used their ancestress as a cautionary tale for her, to warn her that a sister who failed to support her brother's lawful claim would come to no good end, and that the same was doubly true of a wife who betrayed her lord husband. His vivid description of Rhaenyra being eaten alive by her brother's dragon gave her nightmares.

The account of Rhaenyra in the books Jorah gave her was not quite as venomous as Viserys' tales, but they made much of the rumours that her sons were not her husband's, and Daenerys wondered if this was part of the reason why so many of the lords who had sworn to defend her succession had instead supported Aegon.

Had the princess once adored as the Realm's Delight lost the love and loyalty of those who had sworn fealty to her, those who swore to uphold her right to follow her father on the Iron Throne, lost the crown that should have been hers, for doing the same thing that countless men did every day?

"Our child will be my heir." There is no question of that in her mind. Boy or girl, this baby will one day follow her on her throne, care for her dragons, and keep her people safe.

"Is this your way of proposing?" Daario asks, more solemnly than he intended.

Jorah hesitates a long moment before shaking his head regretfully. "I am already married," he reminds them. "If I were free, there is little that would give me greater joy than to ask you to take me for your husband, but Lynesse may yet live, and if she does, I am bound to her. You, however, are free," he tells Daario.

"Free to make an honest woman of me? Why would you want us to marry, when it would leave you out?"

Their relationship may not be ordinary, but it works. She loves them and they love her, and she cannot bear the thought of losing either of them. Why would Jorah want to change things in a way that would divide them; her and Daario as man and wife, and himself the outsider? If they do this, it will change things between them, no matter how hard they try to keep everything between them as it is. Sooner or later, Jorah will draw away from them.

"I don't want anybody to be able to call the baby a bastard," Jorah tells her gently.

"Not 'the baby'," Daario corrects him. "It's our baby. All of ours. And none of Daenerys' people will call her child a bastard. All they need to know is that it is their Queen's. They will love the baby because they love her."

This is not a conversation that should take place while two of them bob in the pool, so Daenerys starts to climb out. Jorah is quick to help her, and as soon as she is out of the water, he hastens to fetch a soft linen towel and her silk nightrobe. He wraps her in the towel, delicately brushing his fingertips over her shoulders.

Daario climbs out after her, shaking his head vigorously and sending drops of water splattering everywhere. He accepts a towel from Jorah, drying himself briskly.

"I will not choose between you," Daenerys says firmly, once she is dry and sitting beside the pool. "Many men take more than one wife. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Why should I not have two husbands?" As soon as she says it aloud, it makes perfect sense to her.

"Why not, indeed?" Daario seconds her, raising a challenging eyebrow in Jorah's direction. "If you were free…"

"I am not free," Jorah interjects.

"How can you be sure of that? How long has it been since you last clapped eyes on the woman? For all you know, she is dead already, and even if she is still alive, she's hardly going to march into Meereen and tell Daenerys that she wants her husband back, is she?" Despite himself, Jorah cannot keep his hope from showing on his face, and Daario presses on. "She ran off with another man, didn't she? Nobody in Meereen would deny you your right to cast her aside for that. Daenerys can declare you free tonight, or first thing in the morning if we need witnesses."

"I don't know of any marriage ceremony for a woman to take two husbands," Jorah points out.

"If there is one, Sarella will know of it." Daenerys is frequently astounded by the breadth of Sarella's knowledge, which leaves her acutely aware of her own lack of a formal education. "If not, we will make our own ceremony."

"Not everybody will be willing to accept it as lawful," Jorah warns her.

"That doesn't matter. I will know that you are my husbands, you will both know that I am your wife, and our baby will know that you are both his or her fathers."

"Does this make me Daario Targaryen?"

She smiles at the quip, but shakes her head. "No. We all have names, and none of us should give them up."

Jorah nods agreement, and when he speaks, his tone is resolute. "The baby… our baby is of House Targaryen."

Daenerys would never argue with this, and she sees Daario nod his approval.

"That's one of the baby's names decided on," Daario says. "What about the other?"

When she first knew that she carried Drogo's son, there was never any question for Daenerys but that she would name him for Rhaegar. She wanted so badly to honour the valiant brother she had never had a chance to know, and she hoped that using his name would bless her son with his strength, courage and honour. Now that she knows more about him than the pretty stories that Viserys and Ser Barristan told her, knows that he was prepared to see the realm torn apart and their family destroyed for the sake of his lust for Lyanna Stark, knows that he left his wife and two little children unprotected while commanding that three of the Kingsguard should defend his mistress, she knows that she would not use his name for this baby, any more than she would use their father's.

"Your father's name was Jeor, was it not? Jeor Targaryen has a ring to it." She hopes that the suggestion will please him, but he hesitates for a long moment, before reluctantly shaking his head.

"My father died ashamed of me," he says, his voice filled with sorry and self-loathing. "I don't know that he would wish to be namesake to my child."

The silence stretches between the three of them before Daario breaks it. "I won't be able to be much help," he announces, with forced good cheer. "I don't even know who my father was."

"Ser Barristan was a great man," Daenerys suggests, before another name springs to mind. "Ser Willem Darry smuggled Viserys and me from Dragonstone, when the rest of the garrison wanted to sell us to the Usurper. He could have had lands, castles, and gold for the asking. The Usurper would have given him whatever he wanted in exchange for our heads, but instead he left everything behind and risked his life to save us. He brought us across the Narrow Sea when I was a baby, to the house with the red door, and he kept us safe there until the day he died. He was the kindest man I have ever known. He used to call me 'little princess'."

"They would both be worthy namesakes for a son," Jorah agrees gently. "What if it's a daughter?"

"If we have a daughter, I would like to name her for my mother."

"I can think of no more fitting name."

"Barristan, Willem, or Rhaella," Daario ticks the names off on his fingers before grinning mischievously at her. "Maybe you're hiding triplets in there, and we can use all of them."

The thought of bearing triplets would both thrill and alarm Daenerys, if she did not already know from Quaithe that she carries one baby.

"Just one baby," she tells him, resting her hand over her abdomen.

"It will be the best loved baby in the world," Daario vows, and Daenerys knows that he speaks the truth.

Their baby will have everything she ever dreamed of when she was a little girl, and more.

Their baby will have the love of its mother, fathers, and the friends, the family, she has made on her journey.

Their baby will never know cold or hunger or fear.

Their baby will have friends and toys, everything a child could ever wish to have.

They will grow lemon trees on their baby's balcony, Daenerys decides, and the door of the nursery will be painted red.