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The crimson silk of Cersei's gown whispered against the marble floor as she paced her chambers, golden goblet clasped in white-knuckled fingers. Outside her window, the setting sun painted King's Landing in shades of blood and fire – fitting, she thought, taking another deep drink of Arbor gold. The sweet wine did little to calm the storm brewing inside her.
Her chambers, usually a sanctuary of luxury with their Myrish carpets and gilded furnishings, felt more like a cage with each passing day. The mirror across the room caught her reflection – she still looked every inch a queen in her crimson and gold gown, her golden hair falling in perfect waves, but there were shadows under her eyes that even the finest powders couldn't quite conceal.
Where is your raven, Father? The thought circled her mind like a hungry vulture. You promised to crush these dragons. You promised...
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her brooding. "Your Grace?"
"Enter," she commanded, straightening her spine. Queens didn't slouch, as her father had always reminded her.
A messenger in Lannister crimson stumbled in, his face pale and sweating. Cersei's grip tightened on her goblet. She knew that look – it was the face of a man bearing news that might get him killed.
"Speak," she said, her voice as sharp as Valyrian steel.
"Your Grace... Harrenhal has fallen." The words fell like stones in a still pond. "Lord Tywin... he's been captured. The dragon..."
The rest of his words faded into a distant buzz as memories flooded Cersei's mind. Joffrey's face, smiling at her. Her beautiful boy, her firstborn, her king. She hadn't heard from him since he rode out with the army. In her heart, she knew.
"The dragon burned everything," the messenger was saying, his voice trembling. "The Golden Company's elephants went mad, trampling their own men. Lord Tywin tried to hold the inner bailey, but—"
The goblet shattered against the wall beside his head, sending wine cascading down the tapestries like blood. The messenger flinched but didn't dare move.
"Get out," Cersei whispered, then louder, "GET OUT!"
He fled, leaving her alone with the spreading stain on her wall and the chaos in her mind. Her father, the great Tywin Lannister, captured like some common sellsword. Her twin, her other half, nowhere to be found. Her son...
"My lion cub," she whispered, moving to the window. The city sprawled before her, unaware that their world was crumbling. The Great Sept of Baelor caught the last rays of sunlight, its crystal towers gleaming like sword points.
They'll come for us next, she thought, watching the smallfolk scurrying through the streets below. The dragon whore and her nephew, coming to take everything I have left.
Her reflection caught her eye again, and for a moment, she saw herself as her enemies might – a cornered lioness, dangerous and desperate. Let them come. She still had resources they knew nothing about.
Cersei swept to her desk, pulling out a piece of parchment. Her hand was steady as she wrote, even as her mind raced with visions of green fire consuming everything in its path. If the dragons wanted King's Landing, they would find more than just stone walls waiting for them.
"Your Grace?" Another servant, hovering in the doorway. "The small council awaits—"
"Tell the Pyromancers I want production doubled," she cut him off, not looking up from her writing. "No, tripled. Every cache, every cellar." She finally raised her eyes, and something in them made the servant step back. "If they can't meet the quota, they'll find themselves personally testing their product."
As the servant hurried away, Cersei returned to the window. The sun had set completely now, leaving the city in gathering darkness. Soon enough, she thought, it would be lit by a different kind of light. Dragons might be immune to normal fire, but wildfire... that was something else entirely.
"I am the lioness of Casterly Rock," she whispered to her reflection, watching as the first stars appeared above the city. "And I will burn them all before I let them take what's mine."
She reached for another goblet, filled it to the brim. Somewhere in the darkness, dragons were flying toward her city. But dragons had died before, and they would die again. She would make sure of it, no matter the cost.
The wine tasted like victory on her tongue as she began to plan.
Tomorrow
The Small Council chamber felt smaller than usual, the empty chairs a reminder of those absent. Cersei took her seat at the head of the table, where her father should have been sitting. The thought made her reach for her wine.
Littlefinger sat to her right, immaculate as always in his silver-threaded doublet, that perpetual half-smile playing at his lips. Like a cat that's found the rat, Cersei thought, watching him shuffle his papers with those delicate fingers. Had he already heard about Harrenhal? Nothing seemed to surprise the Master of Coin anymore.
Grand Maester Pycelle dozed in his chair, his chain clinking softly with each wheezing breath. His loyalty to House Lannister had always seemed unshakeable, but then, so had her father's power. On his left sat Maester Qyburn, the new Master of Whispers, his black robes a stark contrast to his pale hands. Another of Pycelle's sycophants, she thought, though something in the man's too-steady gaze made her wonder.
"Your Grace," Littlefinger broke the silence first, as he always did. "Perhaps we should discuss the situation at Harrenhal—"
"Perhaps we should discuss the traitors in our midst first," Cersei cut him off, taking another sip of wine. The morning sun streaming through the windows caught the ruby ring on her finger – a gift from Jaime. Where are you, brother?
Pycelle startled awake with a snort. "T-traitors, Your Grace?"
"Dragons don't appear from nowhere," she said, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. "Such a thing can never stay hidden for long, someone must have seen something. Someone has been feeding information to our enemies."
Littlefinger's smile didn't waver. "A concerning thought, Your Grace. Though perhaps the more pressing matter is the Targaryen army that will soon be at our gates?"
Is it you? Cersei studied his face, searching for any sign of deceit. Petyr Baelish had always been too clever by half, always scheming, always plotting.
"The defenses are prepared," Qyburn offered softly. "The city walls are well-manned, and the new scorpions—"
"Like the scorpions at Harrenhal?" Cersei laughed, a bitter sound. "Tell me, Maester, how well did they fare against dragonfire?"
"Your Grace," Pycelle wheezed, "perhaps if Lord Tywin were here—"
"My father," Cersei's goblet slammed against the table, wine sloshing over the rim, "is in chains. Thanks to someone in this city who saw fit to betray us." Was it you, you doddering fool? Playing the faithful servant while sending ravens in the night?
She could almost see Tyrion's misshapen shadow lurking in the corner of the chamber, his twisted smile mocking her. He should have burned at Harrenhal, roasted alive in that armor he could barely wear. Instead, he'd probably scurried away like the rat he was, just as he'd done after murdering their mother.
"The treasury can still fund additional defenses," Littlefinger noted, consulting his ledgers. "Though with the Tyrell alliance ...gone, our resources are more limited than—"
"The Tyrells," Cersei spat the name like poison. "Plotting with Renly behind our backs, no doubt. If that boy hasn't already gotten himself killed at Harrenhal." She turned to Qyburn. "What do your little birds say about Highgarden?"
"They sing confused songs, Your Grace," Qyburn replied, his hands folded neatly on the table. "Some say Lady Olenna treats with the dragon queen's emissaries. Others claim they march for King's Landing – though in whose name, none can say."
Lies, all of it. Cersei's eyes darted between the three men. One of them – perhaps all of them – were selling her secrets to her enemies. Like Varys had, she had disappeared without a trace; some said he was killed. Though they'd never found the spider's body... sometimes she wondered if he was still hiding in the walls, spinning his webs...
"Your Grace," Pycelle ventured, "what word of Ser Jaime?"
The question was like a knife in her gut. Her twin, her other half – where was he? Fighting somewhere, surely. Killing their enemies, making his way back to her. He wouldn't abandon her. Not like their father had.
"Perhaps," Littlefinger suggested carefully, "we should discuss evacuating the younger children? Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen could be safely away before—"
"No one leaves the city," Cersei snapped. The wine was running low in her goblet. Why was it always running low? "The moment we show weakness is the moment the wolves strike. Or dragons, in this case." She laughed again, the sound brittle as cracking ice.
"The wildfire stores are being replenished as ordered," Qyburn reported. "Though the Pyromancers say that producing such quantities so quickly is... dangerous."
"Everything is dangerous," Cersei waved away his concern. "That's why we must be more dangerous than our enemies." Let them come with their dragons. Let them try to take my city, my throne, my children. They'll find out what happens when you corner a lioness.
"Your Grace," Pycelle's chain clinked as he shifted uncomfortably, "using wildfire within the city walls... the risks are considerable..."
"The risks?" Cersei stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor. "What risks? That we might burn? That the city might burn? Better to rule ashes than surrender to dragons." She braced her hands on the table, looking each man in the eye.
Littlefinger's quill scratched against parchment, documenting her orders. But was he also documenting them for someone else? How many copies of that ledger existed? How many ravens would fly tonight, carrying her secrets to her enemies?
"One more thing," she added, watching their reactions carefully. "I want daily reports on everyone entering or leaving the city. Every merchant, every servant, every septon. Someone is passing information to our enemies. When I find out who..." She let the threat hang in the air.
"Of course, Your Grace," Littlefinger bowed his head, but she caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Mock me now, you upjumped coin counter. When the time comes, you'll burn with the rest of them.
"Dismissed," she waved them away, already reaching for the wine pitcher. As they filed out, she caught fragments of their whispered conversation – something about the cost of scorpion bolts, as if that mattered now.
Alone again, Cersei moved to the window. The sun was setting, painting the city in shades of gold. Lannister gold, she thought, though it looked more like flames. Soon enough, real flames would light up the sky. Dragons thought they were invincible, but dragons had died before. They'd died right here in King's Landing, in fact.
"Come then, dragon spawn," she whispered to the gathering darkness. "Come and take what's mine. I'll teach you why they call it the Red Keep."
The wine was sweet on her tongue as she watched the shadows lengthen across her city. Somewhere out there, Jaime was fighting his way back to her. He had to be. And when he arrived, they would show everyone why Lannisters were to be feared.
Until then, she had her wildfire. And her suspicions. And her wine.
Always more wine.
Night
The torchlight cast flickering shadows across white cloaks as Cersei faced what remained of her Kingsguard. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount stood at attention, while Ser Balon Swann shifted uneasily, ser Arys Oakheart. Four white cloaks where there should have been seven. How far we've fallen, she thought, taking another sip of wine.
"The royal children must be protected at all costs," Cersei declared, her voice echoing in the chamber. "If the city falls—"
"Your Grace," Ser Meryn interrupted, "surely with the city's defenses—"
"When I want your opinion, Ser Meryn, I'll have it beaten out of you." The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but the wine made her tongue loose. "My father is in chains. Dragons circle our walls. When – if – the city falls, Tommen and Myrcella must be safe."
Ser Balon cleared his throat. "What are your orders, Your Grace?"
Cersei paced, her crimson skirts whispering against the stone floor. "Ser Boros, you'll take Tommen to Rosby. No – Duskendale. No one would think to look there first." She spun to face them again. "And Myrcella... Myrcella must go to..."
Where was safe anymore? The Stormlands were in chaos, the Reach couldn't be trusted, and the Westerlands... Father, why did you let them take you?
"Perhaps both children should remain together," Ser Balon suggested carefully. "For protection—"
"Together they're an easier target," Cersei snapped. The wine goblet was empty again. When had that happened? Was someone drinking her wine when she wasn't looking? "Separate them. Yes. Tommen to Duskendale, Myrcella to... to Rosby. No – reverse that. No one would expect..."
She trailed off, seeing confusion in their eyes. Were they judging her? Plotting against her? Perhaps they too had been bought by her enemies.
"Your Grace," Ser Meryn ventured, "the defenses of the city—"
"Will be doubled," she cut him off. "No, tripled. Station men at every gate. Close the gates. No – keep them open, let them think we're weak. But man the walls. Every wall. Every tower."
"With what men, Your Grace?" Ser Balon asked. "The City Watch is already stretched thin, and with the refugees—"
"Then stretch them thinner!" The goblet crashed against the wall, making them all jump. "Post guards at every corner. But keep them mobile. Static defenses are useless against dragons. Keep them moving. But maintain strong points at the gates. All the gates. Except the ones we leave undefended to trap them."
The Kingsguard exchanged glances. Were they questioning her? Plotting?
"See to it," she commanded. "Tommen leaves at dawn. No – dusk. They'll expect dawn. Unless they expect us to expect that..." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "Just... see to it. And send more wine."
As they filed out, she heard Ser Balon murmur something to Ser Meryn. Plotting, always plotting. Like Tyrion had plotted, like everyone plotted.
But she would show them all. Let them come with their dragons. She had her wildfire, her children, and her rage.
And soon, she would have more wine.
Daenerys
The torches cast long shadows in Harrenhal's dungeons as Daenerys descended the worn stone steps. Her boots echoed against ancient stone, each step taking her deeper into the castle's bowels where the great Tywin Lannister now resided.
She wore riding leathers instead of a dress, Targaryen black adorned with red threading. No crown – she didn't need one to face him. Two guards flanked the cell door, straightening as she approached.
"Leave us," she commanded. When they hesitated, she added, "If Lord Tywin could harm me, he wouldn't be in chains."
Tywin sat on a stone bench, his armor was striped from him, and now he was left with just enough clothes to cover him. Even in chains, he maintained perfect posture, his green-flecked eyes watching her with cold calculation.
"The dragon queen graces me with her presence," he said, his voice carrying no trace of defeat. "To what do I owe this honor?"
"I wanted to look into the eyes of the man who had children butchered in their beds," she said quietly. "Who had a mother raped and murdered with her infant's blood still on her."
"Ah," Tywin's lips curved slightly. "Princess Elia and her children. Is that what this is about? Revenge?"
"Justice."
"Justice?" He almost laughed. "You sound like Ned Stark. There is no justice in war, girl. There is only victory or defeat. I chose victory."
"And what victory was that?" Daenerys stepped closer to the bars. "The one where you waited until the war was already won to murder children? Where you hid behind your Mountain while better men fought and died? Tell me, Lord Tywin, where was your legendary courage when my brother's army was in the field?"
A muscle twitched in Tywin's jaw. "They were threats—"
"They were bargaining chips," Daenerys cut him off. "Valuable hostages. You didn't kill them because you had to. You killed them because you wanted to prove how ruthless you could be. But look where that ruthlessness has brought you – your legacy in chains, your army broken, your house nearly destroyed."
"You know nothing of legacy," Tywin's voice was sharp now. "Everything I did—"
"Was for your family?" Daenerys laughed. "Look around you, Lord Tywin. Your son Jaime has joined us. Your daughter is alone in King's Landing. Joffrey Water is half burned. You sacrificed honor, decency, and justice for power, and now that power crumbles."
She saw her words hit home. For the first time, uncertainty flickered in those cold eyes.
"They were threats," Tywin said again. "Every breath they took was a challenge to Robert's reign. Every day they lived was another day the realm might bleed. I ended the war in a single stroke."
"By having the Mountain rape and murder a princess of Dorne?"
"A regrettable excess," Tywin admitted. "Gregor Clegane exceeded his orders there. But the children had to die. You know this – you've studied history. How many civil wars were fought over surviving heirs? How much blood was spilled over questions of succession?"
"They were children," Daenerys repeated.
"They were dragons," Tywin's eyes locked with hers. "Like you. Like your nephew. Tell me, what will you do with my grandchildren when you take King's Landing? Will you show them the mercy I didn't show yours?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. She had tried not to think about Tommen and Myrcella – their golden hair, their innocent faces.
"They are not threats to my or my nephew's claim," she said, but the words rang hollow.
"No?" Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Then you're a fool. Every living Baratheon and Lannister is a banner for your enemies to rally around. Every survivor is a seed of future rebellion. You know this. You're not naive."
"I am not you," Daenerys snapped. "I don't murder children."
"Not yet," Tywin's voice was almost gentle. "But you will. Because that's what power demands. That's what holding a throne requires. Ask yourself – how many did you burn yesterday? How many sons and fathers and brothers died screaming in your dragon's flame?"
"That was battle," she protested. "They were soldiers—"
"And their deaths were necessary," Tywin finished. "Just as Elia's children's deaths were necessary. The only difference is, I don't hide behind pretty words. I did what needed to be done, and I'd do it again."
Daenerys looked around the cell before looking down at Tywin. "And you still lost," she added with a triumphant smile.
"At least I didn't burn men alive for pleasure," he countered. "Like your father—"
"My father was mad," Daenerys agreed calmly. "He deserved his fate. But you? You were perfectly sane when you ordered children murdered. What's your excuse?"
Tywin studied her for a long moment. "You think you're different? Better? Power reveals what we truly are. And you Targaryens..."
"We bring fire and blood?" Daenerys shook her head. "We also brought peace. Unity. Progress. For every mad king, there was a Jaehaerys the Wise. For every Maegor the Cruel, an Alysanne the Good. You see only what you want to see, Lord Tywin."
Something shifted in Tywin's expression – respect, perhaps, or recognition. "Perhaps," he said finally. "But let me give you one piece of advice, dragon queen. When the time comes that you carry a child in your womb, be very careful what you eat. And who serves your meals."
Daenerys frowned. "What do you mean?"
"All those Targaryen babies dying...You'll understand. Eventually." He turned away, a clear dismissal despite his chains. "The game never really ends, Your Grace. Remember that."
Daenerys wanted to demand more answers, but she recognized the futility.
A silence fell between them until Tywin finally spoke again, his voice almost casual. "Tell me, Your Grace, what news of my son?"
"Which one?" Daenerys smiled coldly. "The Imp who fled your disaster at Harrenhal, or the Kingslayer who betrayed you?"
Something flickered in Tywin's eyes – not pain, never pain, but perhaps a shadow of it. "Jaime. Is he alive?"
"Ser Jaime Lannister rides with my nephew," Daenerys savored each word, watching his reaction. "He provided us with your battle plans for Snake's Pass. He'll help us take King's Landing." Her smile widened. "How does it feel, Lord Tywin, to have both your sons turn against you?"
But Tywin's face remained a mask of stone. "Both?" He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Tyrion was never my son. The bastard who killed my wife has no claim to my name or blood."
"You still cling to that lie?" Daenerys raised an eyebrow.
"Jaime will continue the Lannister line. Tyrion cannot become Lord of Casterly Rock. I'm sure you know why. I always made sure to spread the word that Tyrion is a bastard amongst my lords, he is not my son, and despite what you think. Lords and Ladies will serve you if they fear you, or if you talk pretty like Renly Baratheon. Tyrion is neither of those things, and people cannot stand him. If you place him as Lord of Casterly Rock, not even a year will pass and you will find Tyrion in the bottom of a mine somewhere." Tywin cut her off, his voice firm. "That's enough for me. Jaime is the only one who can continue my line."
His eyes traced her face with unsettling intensity. "You look just like her, you know. Rhaella. Same eyes, same determination. Though she had more steel in her than anyone knew—"
"Don't," Daenerys's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare speak her name."
Tywin held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head slightly and leaned back against the cold stone wall, saying nothing more.
"Enjoy your last days, Tywin Lannister. Once we take King's Landing, you will be executed for your crimes against House Targaryen."
"I'm not afraid of death, Dragon Queen."
She turned and climbed the stairs, his cryptic warning echoing in her mind along with the weight of all that remained unsaid.
Behind her, in the darkness of his cell, Tywin Lannister began to hum softly. The tune was familiar – The Rains of Castamere.
The Great Hall
The great hall of Harrenhal bore the scars of recent battle. Sunlight streamed through newly-made holes in the ancient stone walls, illuminating the gathered lords. The wooden table before them was covered with maps held down by captured Lannister swords.
Daenerys stood at its head, her riding leathers still bearing traces of ash from yesterday's fight. Around her gathered the lords of the North and Riverlands – Ned Stark's solemn face, the Greatjon's imposing bulk, Blackfish's battle-hardened countenance.
"My nephew marches toward King's Landing as we speak," she announced, her finger tracing the path on the map. "We'll meet his forces there."
"What of the Golden Company?" the Blackfish asked. "Half their number escaped south."
"They will met with my nephew then," Daenerys replied. "I'm sure my nephew can easily handle them." She noticed the way Lady Dacey nodded. She could tell that she still held feeling for him.
"Our combined forces will give us the numbers we need, but taking the city without massive civilian casualties..." She paused, studying the detailed map of King's Landing. "That's our true challenge."
"The city will never surrender while Cersei holds power," Lord Blackwood observed. "And she holds the Kingslayer's children."
"Then we must be clever about this," Daenerys traced the city's defenses. "Cannibal can destroy their scorpions and gate defenses, but I won't unleash dragonfire within the city walls. We're not here to rule over ashes."
The Greatjon leaned forward. "The Gold Cloaks are poorly trained and worse led. A strong show of force might make them reconsider their loyalties."
"Agreed," said the Blackfish. "But we need to move quickly. Every day we delay gives Cersei more time to prepare her defenses."
Daenerys pointed to the city gates. "We'll need to take all of these simultaneously. Lord Stark, your forces can take the Dragon Gate. Lord Tully, the River Gate—"
"Your Grace," a Northern lord interrupted. "The smallfolk... if they resist..."
"We're not here as conquerors," Daenerys's voice was firm. "Any man who rapes or loots will face dragon's justice. We're here to free the city from Cersei's madness, not add to its suffering."
Ned Stark nodded approvingly. "The people will judge us by our actions, not our words."
"What of the Red Keep itself?" asked Lord Blackwood. "Cersei won't surrender easily."
"No," Daenerys agreed. "But she's predictable in her pride. While she watches for dragons from above, infiltrators can move through the tunnels below. Ser Jaime knows them well."
The discussion continued as they refined their plans – deployment of forces, signals for coordination, contingencies for various scenarios. The lords argued and debated, but there was a unity of purpose that hadn't existed before Harrenhal.
Finally, Daenerys rolled up the maps. "We ride at first light. Let your men rest well tonight – tomorrow, we take back the capital."
As the lords filed out, Ned Stark lingered. "Your Grace... this approach honors your house. The Targaryens who built rather than burned."
Daenerys thought of her conversation with Tywin, of fire and blood and madness. "Sometimes the hardest victory is the one won with restraint, Lord Stark."
He nodded, understanding in his grey eyes. "Indeed, Your Grace. Indeed."
Through the ruined walls, she could see Cannibal circling overhead, a dark promise of what could be unleashed. But tomorrow would test not their strength, but their mercy.
And mercy, Daenerys had learned, could be the sharpest sword of all.
Later
Daenerys sat in what remained of Harrenhal's lord's chambers, a glass of Dornish red in her hand. The room still smelled of smoke, though servants had cleared away the battle's debris. A guard's hurried footsteps approached before a sharp knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Enter," she commanded, setting aside her wine.
Ser Barristan strode in, his armor still bearing scorch marks from yesterday's battle. "Your Grace, there's something you need to know about one of the prisoners."
"Another Lannister cousin claiming special treatment?" She had dealt with three already today.
"No, Your Grace. This one claims to be Jon Connington."
The name hit her like a physical blow. She'd heard stories of the man – her brother Rhaegar's closest friend, the former Hand who had failed to kill Robert Baratheon and been exiled by her father.
"Connington is dead," she said carefully. "He drank himself to death in Essos years ago."
"So the stories say," Barristan agreed. "But this man... he knows things, Your Grace. Details about Prince Rhaegar that few would know."
Daenerys stood, moving to the broken window. Outside, Cannibal dozed in the courtyard, his black scales gleaming in the afternoon sun. "What sort of details?"
"Songs your brother composed that were never performed publicly. The name of his favorite horse. The way he would spend hours in the Dragonstone library reading about prophecies." Barristan shifted uncomfortably. "He even knows about the Knight of the Laughing Tree."
"Where is he now?"
"In the eastern cells, Your Grace."
Daenerys turned back to face the old knight. "And you believe him?"
"I believe he believes it," Barristan said carefully. "His hair is dyed blue, in the Tyroshi fashion, but there are strands of red showing at the roots. And his hands..."
"What about his hands?"
"They're stained reddish-purple. Greyscale scars, treated with something to hide them. Few survive that disease."
Daenerys remembered other stories about Connington – his fierce loyalty to Rhaegar, his pride, his fall from grace. If he truly lived... "Tell me, Ser Barristan, why would Jon Connington fight for the Golden Company against his prince's sister?"
"That's the strange part, Your Grace. He claims he wasn't fighting against you at all." Barristan's voice lowered. "He says he serves another Targaryen."
The wine glass nearly slipped from her fingers. "What?"
"A young man, silver-haired and purple-eyed, who rides with half the Golden Company toward King's Landing even now."
Daenerys felt her heart racing. Another Targaryen? But how? Who? "Bring him to me," she commanded. "Now."
"Your Grace, perhaps we should wait until—"
"Now, Ser Barristan." Her voice brooked no argument. "I would hear what Jon Connington has to say about this... other Targaryen."
As Barristan bowed and left, Daenerys returned to the window. Cannibal's eye opened, meeting her gaze. Another Targaryen... The implications were staggering. Was it possible? Could there be another survivor of her house?
Fire and blood, she thought. But whose fire? Whose blood?
She needed answers, and Jon Connington – if it truly was him – would provide them. One way or another.
"Bring him in chains," she called after Barristan. "But treat him with respect. If he is who he claims to be... we have much to discuss."
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