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Birthed by the flesh but lives by the stone, I know, yes I know
Reigning on high, but never alone, I know, oh oh oh…
*
The Hand finds her in the library.
Shireen knows him by his gait; quiet, measured, a little uneven from the leg that had broken years ago and never healed quite right. He wears the symbol of his office and his House crest pinned to his breast. Picking up one of the books on Shireen’s desk, Davos peers at the title. It is a copy of The Four Kings; she had helped him read it in her fifteenth year, and she can see the nostalgia gleaming low in his eyes. Davos bows respectfully, and then flicks his eyes to her.
“A million ways to get yourself lost in this keep, and yet I always find you here, Your Grace.”
Shireen smiles, and marks her place in the tome on genealogy that has had her attention for the past several hours.
“The library is so monstrously huge; I could lose myself in here as well.”
“The idea doesn’t seem to displease you,” Davos observes, and his smile pushes a few more wrinkles into his leathery face. Shireen has known that face for all her life, and even as he ages, as they both age, he still looks the same to her. It is a comfort.
“Seven knows I sometimes feel like this is all too much for me. Perhaps someday,” she says with a little shrug, standing and putting her books aside, “we’ll start feeling less like visitors in our friend’s very fancy house, my Lord Hand.”
He offers her his arm, and pats her hand. “There’s still time, Your Grace. You have many years to reign.”
“You may be right,” she gives. “But you aren’t here to placate me. What is it, Davos?”
His eyes turn grave, and he nods, and starts leading her to the door.
“You are needed in the Pit.”
*
The journey takes them through the daylight dark of Shadowblack Lane, then along the Street of Seeds towards the Square. Davos rides besides her in the royal carriage, while a few members of the Queensguard and the royal guard are mounted without. Shireen had asked around the Red Keep for Arya before they left, but the younger Stark sister had not been in her quarters, nor anywhere else anyone could put a hand on her. Shireen is used to this. Arya keeps her own, strange hours, and comes and goes as she pleases.
The city is in the midst of its afternoon bustle; vendors are hawking their wares, the gold cloaks are making their rounds, the cutpurses are surveying their potential prey. Shireen watches from the window of the carriage. It has been six years since the beginning of her reign, but every time she ventures out into the heart of King’s Landing, she swears she sees a different side of the city and her subjects. It is a city of scars, intrigue, and movement.
In the midst of the King’s Square, as always, is the tall statue of her father. Shireen had commissioned a sculptor from Myr to see it done, during her first year on the throne, and the frowning, balding, twenty foot tall effigy has been standing there ever since. A shallow well of frothing water, fed by underground pumps, rings around the sculpture, recalling the stormy seas of his birth. Shireen had also honoured him on Dragonstone, done tributes to him in the Red Keep and Storm’s End, but she loves this one best. Her father would have thought it pointless, but it makes her smile a little to see Stannis scowling down around him in the midst of all the petty larceny and indecency and general lawlessness. In fact, it has been said that King’s Landing’s crime rate has gone down since the statue’s appearance; as tall a tale as has ever been told, but one that lightens her heart.
‘Stannis had met his end well; it was a death any man would be proud of.’ This is what people say of him, and Shireen does not begrudge them that. They mean well; the words are supposed to comfort her. Her father, most likely, would have thought them all fools. He had not intended to die in the Battle for Dawn any more than he had intended to let Daenerys have his throne, and he would have been intensely annoyed to know that he would perish when there was still work to be done, a kingdom to hold together by the seams, evil, human and inhuman alike, to be defeated.
The carriage turns in the square, moving around to the Street of the Sisters. Shireen looks up into the face of the man who had given her life, and left her with an army and a duty that she could not shirk. It had been hard, without him, but she likes to think that she has done well, so far.
The Hand of the Queen, next to her, is looking up at the statue too.
“He would be proud of you,” he says, as if he knows her thoughts. Shireen sometimes thinks of that none of the Baratheons know themselves as well as Davos does.
“I do hope so,” she says.
Though their errand is urgent, Davos says that she has time for one stop. Before the carriage leaves the Square, the queen descends to the foot of the statue. The orphans and urchins ring around her immediately, and she doles out copper coins and kind words while Ser Podrick and Ser Devan keep an eye out. This done, Shireen looks up at her father, crowned by the afternoon light. He had been a king, and the best of them, even if he’d never sat on that silly chair.
King’s Landing looks on as she kneels, and presses a fierce kiss to the stone.
*
It had taken a year of continuous construction for the Dragonpit to reach anything approaching liveability, and another year after that before the dragons would call it home. Decades of debris and filth had had to be cleared out, and then the ceiling repaired and the cavernous walls fortified. Shireen has seen likenesses of the Pit in several books, and the new building has none of the fearful majesty of the old one. She prefers it this way. It sits atop Rhaenys’ Hill with dark, quiet placidity, the distant roars of its three inhabitants giving life to it once again.
At the moment, Drogon’s roars can be heard for miles.
The carriage rolls through the wide entrance, and Shireen hops down before it has properly stopped moving. Davos strides alongside her as she hurries towards Drogon’s enclosure. The huge ceiling is open to the light sky, and two dark shadows are perched on the rim; Rhaegal, and her dear Viserion. Drogon remains chained.
Three women had ridden into battle on dragonback; three dragons, three heads. And though Viserion and Rhaegal had learnt to share affection and loyalty between their old mistress and their new, Drogon had been Daenerys’ beast, and hers alone. He remains so even now.
One of the Pit’s senior attendants falls into step with them, almost tripping over his deep curtsey.
“Thank you for coming, Your Grace. The situation is not dire, he is barely riled, but I thought it best…”
“Yes, of course, Selwyn. I am glad you called me.”
The ground beneath their feet is warm and dusty. Selwyn leads them along winding passages and strong walls to the black dragon’s enclosure. His cage is made of a metal imported from the Summer Isles; strong, and impervious to heat. It is the same material that they used for the chains which bind him to the ground. The great beast can rise thirty feet into the air, and no more.
Shireen’s heart hurts to see him, as it always does. Huge, terrifying, belligerent and in pain. She wishes that there was something more that she could do for him, but until they find that solution, his pain will only make him more dangerous than he already is. She knows that more than most.
Daenerys had never told her the entire story, of what she and Drogon had been through together. Shireen knows that he had been wild before, untameable where the other dragons could be reasoned with, to an extent. But in the time lost in the Dothraki Sea, he and Daenerys had lived through something that had drawn them closer together, calmed his seething rage, that had made Daenerys both his rider and his mother.
Now, his mother is gone, and Shireen is the only one he will respond to. He has never allowed her to ride him, and Shireen is almost glad for it, for she does not know how that would affect Viserion. But neither has he allowed anyone else to do so.
Aegon had tried, while he still lived. Ser Barristan had been hale and healthy then, and he had helped to arrange the meet and the marriage. Shireen would wed Aegon and share the rule with him, provided that he could be the third head of the dragon. She had been less than enthused; a young man battling a dragon for her hand had not seemed as romantic as the songs would have it. Aegon on the other hand, having heard all the tales of the Black Dread come again, had been eager, adamant in fact, to agree to the arrangement.
Too eager, as it turned out. Targaryen or imposter; there had never been any way to verify Aegon’s identity with total surety. Whatever he was, he had burned and screamed like any other man beneath Drogon’s black flame.
He’d been the last person that the dragon had killed. Soon after, Shireen had helped lure him into the enclosure, and here he has remained.
His roars quieten with her approach. Eyes hot and smouldering like the red heart of the world stare out at her. The men of the Queensguard make a tight arc behind her but do not approach; they’ve learnt by now not to get between her and Drogon.
For some reason, it never takes much. His rumbling never quiets altogether, but he allows Shireen to pass a hand through the bars, and slowly, softly, reach up to one of the knots in his foreleg. He glares down at her immediately, as he registers the touch, but Shireen does not move her hand and Drogon doesn’t move at all.
They remained connected for almost an hour.
She leaves him sleeping, placated for now. They don’t know yet what triggers his rages, or why Shireen’s touch is the only thing that will becalm him. Daenerys might have known, but she had died alongside Stannis and so many others when the White Walkers and their minions had marched for the last time. This is a question she must answer on her own.
When they return to the atrium of the building, they find Arya, leading a cow along on a leash. She speaks to it in a low voice, her northern accent tempered by years away from home. Shireen feels warmer at once.
“Is this where you were all along, then?” she asks, straightening her skirts.
“Not all along. I’ve been here and there.”
It’s the kind of answer that makes Shireen sigh and shake her head, and Arya knows it; she grins slyly as she pets the animal between the ears, and gestures to a few handlers nearby for another. Ser Devan, gallant as ever, finds a chair from somewhere and brings it over to her; Shireen sits while the other cow is led over. Overhead, the two large shadows stretch and yawn.
“Nevertheless, I’m glad to see you here,” Shireen says, crossing her ankles. Arya’s grin softens until it is almost a smile. She only does that very rarely, smile.
“How was he?” she asks, sinking to sit cross-legged at Shireen’s feet. As usual, she gives no thought to propriety. “I came as soon as I heard his caterwauling.”
“It was not as fearsome a spell as some of his others,” Shireen assures her. “And they have not been as frequent of late.”
“That is something,” Arya says, shading her eyes as she turns them on the open ceiling. The shadows roar, emitting wisps of smoke and dark flame.
“We still don’t know why he reacts to me that way,” Shireen muses. She’s barely spent any time at all with Drogon; everything that’s she’s ever learnt about dragons and how to train them has been lovingly used elsewhere.
“We never may,” Arya answers eventually. “Magic came back onto the earth with the dragons, Shireen. There’s a lot about this new world that doesn’t lend itself to easy explanation.” She pinches Shireen’s ankle gently. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some magic in you.”
She’s teasing again, of course; Arya has more magic in her fingernail than Shireen has in her entire body. But Shireen doesn’t mind. She likes to see that long face when it’s softened and sweetened by mirth.
“As for Drogon… I know he cannot remain riderless forever,” Shireen goes on carefully. As mercenary as it is to say, he is too huge of an asset to go uncontrolled. “But I won’t have anyone flinging themselves to their deaths like Aegon. Perhaps we can hold a tourney of some sort.”
Arya shrugs. “Perhaps. You know what I think of that idea.”
“That I do.” Arya is quite against a vetting process of any kind; she thinks that the dragon should see all comers, and rid the world of all the noble fools who would surely try. “May I try to change your mind?”
Another little pinch nips at her ankle affectionately, making Shireen smile. “Whenever you’d like.”
Up above, the shadows cry out again and begin to descend.
They get larger and larger as they drop, the sunlight glittering off of their metallic coats. The attendants and the knights give them a wide berth, while the cows begin to moan and low with terror. Rhaegal and Viserion are as tame as anything of their size can ever be said to be, but they are dragons all the same, two of only three left on earth. Shireen is already smiling, her eyes transfixed on the gold. His neck is stretched out towards her.
Arya rises to her feet, and begins to tug the cows forward.
“Finally. I was beginning to wonder if they would make us wait all afternoon.”
*
After the revelation, Daenerys had had a little chuckle about it. Much, much later afterwards. It had taken some time to accept. Out of all the people in Westeros and the wide world, her dragons had chosen the daughter of the Usurper’s brother, a girl she’d met for the first time in an icy parley, and the daughter of the Usurper’s dog, a girl she met for the first time as an orphan on the streets of Braavos.
“The dragon must have its three heads,” Ser Barristan had reminded his queen, while Tyrion snorted his amusement into a wine glass.
Shireen remembers the first time she’d seen Viserion. She hadn’t thought, like her father’s advisors had, of how fortuitous it would be to steal away one of the queen’s precious children, or how advantageous a dragon of their own would be against the White Walkers. All she had seen in the shining gold eyes as he snapped harmlessly at her, pressing skin to scale and stone against stone, was the possibility for a new friend.
She’d spent years of her childhood on Dragonstone, ancient stronghold of the Targaryens. The hideous statues and gargoyles had haunted many of her dreams, and she’d come to develop a healthy fascination for and fear of dragons. She’d read the books and the histories; she knew the stories of the Conquest and the Dance.
But Viserion, somehow, recalled none of those chilling tales. He was victory and strength, power and alliance. He was a bed of warmth on an icy field, a way forward. That first time, Shireen had reached out a hand to touch him, and the first thing she’d noticed was how similar his skin felt to hers.
*
Arya travels back in the carriage with her. Davos pointedly accrues a dappled grey mount from somewhere, and rides with the rest of the guard on the cobbled streets outside.
Shireen coaxes Arya’s head into her lap, and sets about combing her hair into a long braid. Some of the cow’s blood had splashed onto her trousers and shoes; Arya, of course, cares not. Time with Rhaegal relaxes her, makes her more pliable and somehow fiercer. It is something like the effect her direwolf has on her. Shireen has not seen Nymeria in quite some time however; Arya insists that she remains in Winterfell, with Sansa.
“They were playful this afternoon,” Arya comments with a sigh, arching her back as Shireen’s fingernails scrape along her scalp.
“Mmm. Would you like to take them out for a flight, soon? I’ve been meaning to visit Arianne, and she’s expressed an interest in seeing them once more.”
“If you’d like. I’ll have to keep an eye out for her cousins, though. They flirt too much.”
Shireen wrinkles her nose. “They don’t. Do they?”
“’Course they do.”
“Elia doesn’t flirt with me,” Shireen points out.
“Elia takes that white cloak of hers very seriously,” Arya says, playing with the loose ends of Shireen’s hair where it pools below her waist. “It’s the others in Dorne I’m talking about. You don’t think they really want you to ‘show them around the Red Keep’, do you?”
“Oh, hush.”
Light fingers creep up her thighs, over her skirts. “I’ll have to remind them that I’m the only one who gets to play ‘Come Into My Castle’ with you.”
“Hush.”
Shireen’s face is as hot as dragonflame. Arya wiggles in her lap until she’s facing upwards, and the grey of her eyes is like a stormy sky. Taking Shireen’s hand, she places her mouth against her wrist in a half-bite, half-kiss. The little prickling caresses go all the way up her arm. When she can go no further, Arya starts again on her other arm, and then on her stomach, making Shireen breathless without ever touching her lips.
Davos likes to tell her that she grew up too fast, that she never had time to be a girl. Arya, she feels sometimes, has plans to rectify that tenfold. In what seems like no time at all, they are sprawled out on the sumptuous cushions, and Arya is attacking her neck with lips and tongue, while Shireen gasps and giggles in a most unqueenly manner. The fingers on her body leave kisses of their own, and for a few minutes, Shireen is as young as can be.
*
As they bypass the mouth of the Reeking Lane, Arya glances outside and sees something that makes her sigh and mutter, “Might as well take care of it now. ” She leaves Shireen with three quick kisses to the stony side of her face, and slips out the carriage window with new features. Shireen is used to disappearances like these too, and knows that she’ll see her again soon. Arya’s days of running are done.
At the gates of the Red Keep, the carriage halts abruptly before they can enter the courtyard. After righting her clothes and making sure her face is cool, Shireen leans out of the carriage to find Davos conversing with a flour-speckled woman and a bundle of rags. Ser Loras, seeing her, silently moves nearer; not blocking her line of sight but ready to spring into action if need be. Shireen colours. A better monarch, she supposes, would be less aware of the movements of her Queensguard, and see them only as shadows, moving as necessary according to the position of the sun. Shireen still has trouble remembering that in this equation, she is the light.
“—but you will have to return tomorrow,” Davos is saying patiently to the woman, who is both taller and wider than he is, and doesn’t seem impressed. “Queen Shireen holds court before midday; you may present your case—”
“I ain’t got no case to present, m’lord,” the woman says crossly, jiggling the bundle in her arms. It’s a baby, Shireen realises. “Just want her to say a few words, let the babe touch her, p’raps.”
Edric snorts.
“The queen will not—”
“Cannot,” Davos amends, softening his comrade’s words with a sidelong glance, “take the time to—”
“Listen to your petty request,” Edric finishes succinctly. “She’s quite busy.”
“Oh, this is nonsense,” the woman snaps, flapping her hand at Edric. “She’s right there, I can see her. Why’re we going on like she can’t hear us?”
Aptly said, Shireen thinks, unable to suppress a smile. She touches Loras’ shoulder briefly, gesturing for him to move aside, and leans forward.
“Please, dear woman, how may I help?”
Edric shakes his head in mild disapproval, which Shireen ignores. He is still waiting for something horrible to happen out of her willingness to speak to and interact with her subjects. But Shireen had knighted him, her childhood friend and cousin, along with Devan and Mya and Pod, and thus given him the right to fuss and worry like an old fishwife to his heart’s content. If he took one thing from Stannis, it was a devotion to duty.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” says the woman, stepping forward boldly after making as good of a curtsey as she can manage. “I was only wondering if you might bless the baby.”
She holds up the bundle to the carriage’s window, and the makeshift hood falls back. The child is asleep, a little thing no more than two, and wriggles placidly in its little cocoon. Red, chubby cheeks stand out on the pale skin, and a curl of brown hair hangs low on the forehead. Shireen has blessed babies before; it seems to be one of the requirements of being queen. It’s always shocking, though, to find that people want her to touch their children. There are many things said about greyscale, not all of them true, but many of them horrifying. And Jon Connington’s slow, silent death is now legend.
Shireen opens her mouth to give a polite benediction, but then the cloths around the baby’s shoulders shift. Thin grey lines crawl around its little neck and chest, standing out starkly like pebbles on sand.
“Gave me quite the scare, she did,” the woman says, hugging her child to her chest now that Shireen has seen. “She wouldn’t move, ne’er cried, and hardly nothing would seem to get her warmed up. Thought I was going to lose her.”
Saying the words seems harder for the woman than it had been to stare down the men. Shireen’s heart jumps with a little ache.
“But you didn’t. You took care of her.”
“Aye, I did,” she says with pride. She kisses the child where the greyscale marks her, and even Edric stops looking so sour. “Baked bread until my hands were sore, and traded it for limes and mustard seeds to treat her with, just like that maester told me to. And my little girl is all right now. I just thought it would be nice, is all. Seeing as you’re just like her, Your Grace. I talk to her about you all the time, you know, our Stone Queen. I tell her she’s my Stone Princess.”
Her brown eyes are shining. And thank the Seven that Shireen has managed to learn how to better control her emotions, because she thinks for a moment that she might cry as well. Someone more cynical might believe the story a sham, a ruse to garner sympathy. Shireen has tried cynicism; it is not for her.
She ends up spending a half an hour in the carriage out there before the gates with Dalia and little Hanna, and leaves them with a handful of coins and a blessing and a kiss each.
*
Westeros had been quick enough to accept her. Most had only known of Shireen as Stannis’ ugly daughter, the girl he took for an heir only because Selyse never gave him a son. But at the worst point in the war, the Others had reached as far south as Goldengrove, and no one could be bothered to argue the legitimacy of one of the women who’d helped to drive them back.
“We did what we had to,” Arya had said once, a few weeks after the cold had crept back to the lands beyond time and the Wall, “and I’m glad for every one of the smallfolk that we saved, but other than that… I’m not sure Westeros was worth it.”
She’d still been cold and brittle and thin as a sheet of ice back then, and wore three false faces in between every appearance of her true Stark features. Shireen would kiss her, several weeks after, jerking her out of a long tirade after a mission and surprising her so much that the wispy beard and yellow locks had disappeared, leaving stringy brown hair and pleased grey eyes in their place.
That would be weeks later. At that point, Shireen had only said, “You will believe what you must. But may I try to change your mind?”
Arya had snorted. “Whenever you’d like.”
Shireen still wonders what might have happened, had so many people not died. Stannis might be king. Daenerys might be queen. Cersei might still be clutching at the remnants of her power, or Aegon might be her husband, and rule at her side. Arya might have put her roots down in the north, where Starks are said to survive and thrive. The world might be so different.
But she doesn’t think of it often.
What is, is, and she has a duty to the land that was her father’s, and is now hers.
*
Mya sees her to her room. Her eldest cousin is the member of the Queensguard that Shireen finds easiest to talk to, though she has not known her as long as the others. The war had brought Mya off of her mountain and driven her north, where she’d performed the acts of bravery that had earned her her knighthood, and where she’d also seen her sweetheart die. It had changed her in ways only war could, but Mya still has a smile to spare for everyone and an easy manner that lightens the spirit, even on the grimmest of occasions.
“Ser Barristan took a turn for the worst,” she mentions on their walk. “Lysander had to double his dosage of the poppymilk before he was able to find some rest.”
Shireen’s heart sinks a little, and she rubs her hands together, against a sudden chill.
“We’ve been expecting it for so long now, and yet…”
Mya nods.
“You should go see him tomorrow, Your Grace. It may not be long now.”
In her chambers, Shireen sits patiently while her maids undress, bathe, and dress her again. There is much to look at to keep her mind occupied. The rooms are dotted liberally with little keepsakes and souvenirs from her mother. The painting on the wall above her bed is from Norvos. A jewel carved in Bayasabhad hangs near the vanity. Mounted near the foot of the tub is an Asshai’i statuette depicting the Red God.
When she has thanked and dismissed the women, Shireen rereads Selyse’s last letter. Thinking of her mother always makes her nostalgic in a bittersweet way. This trip has been the longest; she’s been gone for two years this time, and though she always comes back, she always leaves a little piece of herself, somewhere out there in Essos.
Shireen had known it would come to this. Many of Stannis’ men had wanted Melisandre executed; she had put their king’s sword in another man’s hand, and had not been there beside him in the defining moment. Shireen could not do it, and though she cared little for the red priestess, she’d seen the woman safely banished, for the love she bore her mother. Selyse had stayed, thanked her, seen her crowned and established, and then she left for the first time.
Shireen is glad that her mother is happy, spreading R’hllor’s light to foreign lands. Happiness had never been something that Selyse concerned herself with overmuch, and that bit of selfishness does her good, Shireen thinks.
She folds the letter, puts it back into her nightstand drawer. Her fingers brush against a silver charm, fashioned in Qarth. Selyse will be back when she’s ready, and until then, Shireen has her keepsakes.
*
As she always tends to do when Shireen is lost in thought, Margaery materialises a few minutes later, as dusk is approaching and Shireen is settling down at her writing desk.
Mya announces her and slips back out to her post. Lady Margaery floats in. She wears a rose-pink gown today, with flowing sleeves and a low bodice, and she smells of gardenias. Shireen receives her curtsy with a smile, and then gestures for her to sit. She places her pen on the desk, and then faces her friend, back straight, hands laced in her lap, and shoulders squared. Margaery blinks at her, and bursts out into a fit of giggles.
“Your Grace, may I ask why you look as if you’re preparing yourself to walk through hot coals?”
Shireen squints at her shrewdly. “I know that look, Lady Margaery. I know when I’m about to get a scolding.”
Margaery bites at her bottom lip and smiles, but doesn’t deny it. She’s wearing her best sweet but pragmatic expression. Shireen gestures her on.
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Well, my queen, there are a few things…” Margaery looks at her fondly, and then presses on with a steady tone. “A few days from now, you are going to receive a formal, but warm invitation to spend a few weeks at Sunspear. I beg you to please accept it.”
Shireen is a little taken aback. “Well… of course. There is no reason to object. Arya and I were just speaking of Arianne today, in fact, it will—”
“The invitation will not come from the princess,” Margaery interrupts gently, “but from the prince.”
“From the… ah.”
It would be over the top to pout, but a part of her does feel a bit like doing so. She had thought that after things had gone sourly with Lord Celtigar’s son and the Mallister boy, the attempts would stop for a while. But Margaery is obviously more tenacious than that. She rushes to continue.
“Prince Trystane is a good man, Your Grace, honourable, just, and mild-mannered. He has been mourning Myrcella all these years, but the Princess and I have been successful in persuading him to at least attempt to love another. That other could be you, Shireen. Please say you’ll go.”
“Margaery…”
“And if things do not go well with the prince, I have heard that Edric Dayne is currently staying at Sunspear. He would be suitable as well.”
“Suitable? He is Lord of Starfall!”
Margaery waves that point aside as if it were no more than a speckle of dust. “He has aunts and sisters aplenty who would be more than willing to take his place were he to become husband to the queen.”
Still resisting the urge to mutiny, Shireen sighs at her friend and confidante.
“Why are you so eager to see me wed, my lady?”
“I am eager to see you with an heir,” Margaery corrects, reaching across to pat her knee. “You need one, to secure your rule. Once that is accomplished, I will be satisfied.”
It is all overwhelmingly practical. Shireen supposes she must seem like quite the child to Margaery, who had wed three men whom she did not love for family and ambition. She’d married Renly, knowing his heart belonged elsewhere; Joffrey, knowing him to be a monster; Tommen, though he’d been but a child. She’d done all that, and Shireen cannot bring herself to consider it more than once. It had been hard enough to agree to Aegon, but she’d been younger then, and eager to have a peaceful end to the game of thrones. Now…
“I know that you are thinking of Lady Arya,” Margaery says sympathetically. “And I am certainly not one to judge another for falling for Stark charms.”
Shireen smiles and nods. If Margaery is a rose then Shireen is the dusty rock beneath it, but she had somehow not been surprised to find that they had some things in common. They had celebrated together with a bottle of Arbour Gold the night when Margaery’s ravens north had finally started coming back with replies.
“Arya does think that I should marry,” Shireen admits. “She plays at being the jealous lover sometimes to tease me, but she’s much more practical than I am.”
“Things certainly would be easier if she could give you an heir; you’d simply name her your royal consort and be done with it. But since she cannot…”
Then another must be found. Shireen knows that it would be a good match; Prince Trystane is of good blood, is spoken well of by all, and has had a woman as his liege for years. There would be no grasping for power on his part. If he could give her a child, it might indeed ease a few of her problems. Margaery raises an eyebrow encouragingly, as if she knows her thoughts. Shireen huffs.
“I thought that I had made you Master of Laws, not the Royal Matchmaker,” she accuses ruefully.
A delicate shrug. “I apply myself where I am needed. The Hand looks upon you as a daughter, and so I understand why this is a duty that he might find himself shirking.”
Shireen allows herself a moment of thought, dallying and dragging it out, but she eventually nods acquiescence, as she knows she must.
“I will make no promises, but I will go.”
Margaery grasps her hands, and kisses them both. “My queen is gracious and wise. I would marry her myself, if I were still the marrying kind. Goodness knows I might have tried to, several years ago.”
Shireen laughs at the sally.
“Go on, my lady. I know you’re not done with me yet.”
Margaery nods.
“You have heard about Ser Barristan, yes?”
“I have. It is unfortunate, though inevitable. I will pay him a visit tomorrow, if Lysander thinks he is up to it.”
“That you should,” Margaery agrees. “You should also start making plans. Ser Barristan served us all well when he was able, but his position as Lord Commander has been nothing more than nominal for years now.”
Shireen acknowledges her with a dip of her head. There is little that she likes less than speaking of the dying as if they were already dead, but this isn’t a matter that can be left to time. She plays with the ends of her hair, pensive.
“It will have to be Loras, of course. He is oldest, most experienced, most skilled.” She glances up at Margaery. “Do you think that he will be willing?”
“I will speak to him, if he is not,” Margaery assures her. “We may also start thinking of who will be the newest seventh of your Queensguard. This is a prime opportunity to garner favour from families where it has been lacking. I have, for your perusal…” And she dips her hand into her bosom and procures a scrap of paper. “…a list. The men and women here are all skilled and acclaimed, and come from families that we would do well to have on our side.”
Shireen rakes her eyes over the list. It is as Margaery says; excellent knights all, from powerful families. She cannot even claim to be surprised.
“Are you ever not well prepared, my lady?”
Margaery lifts her shoulders, smiling softly. “I do not like to boast, but no, never. I have learnt what happens when I am not.”
“And am I allowed to add names of my own to this list?” Name, in fact; she only has one in mind.
“Certainly, should you think it meet. The final decision will of course be left to you, Loras, and Lord Seaworth.”
“Then I thank you, my lady, for your foresight.” She places the list carefully into her drawer. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one more thing, my queen.”
It is Margaery’s turn to square her shoulders, firm up her jaw. Shireen waits.
“I heard about your trip to the Dragonpit, earlier today.”
“Yes…”
“I am glad that the situation was resolved peacefully, my queen. But please allow me to suggest, once more…”
“No,” Shireen says immediately, as kindly as she can. She knows where this is going; Margaery has suggested it before. “I cannot.”
“Cannot, or will not?” Margaery says sharply. “Your Grace, the beast is a danger, and manageable as he might be now, we do not know when that will change. We have Rhaegal and Viserion—”
“And so Drogon’s life should be forfeit? No, I do not hold it so. We only need to find him a rider.”
“Not as simple a task as you would have it! You know what happened to the last man who tried to tame him, and we cannot risk another life like that.”
“Margaery, I regret Aegon’s death more than I can ever say, but he was foolhardy, and we all know it. He pressed Drogon when he ignored him, antagonised him into lashing out. I agree that we cannot allow just anyone to face the dragon, not until we know they are well prepared and equal to the task. But simply slaying the beast outright…” Shireen shakes her head firmly. “I will not do it.”
The Master of Laws presses her lips together. “I hold that it would be the simplest solution. Volatility and dragonkind are not a comforting mix. How safe can the city be said to be, while he resides here?”
“He responds to me…”
“And why does he?” Margaery argues. “Is it the greyscale, your past friendship with Daenerys, that drop of Targaryen blood in your veins? We know not, and an unanswered question like that is as good as a pot of wildfire, Your Grace.”
The queen worries at her lip. She has considered all these things before.
“But he is manageable.”
“For now.”
Shireen rises to her feet, paces the length of her bed and back. Margaery’s eyes follow her, calm and resolute. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, and tries to imagine doing it. Lulling Drogon into sleep and security, while a small army of knights waited to attack, on her order. She would have to point out the places where his scales are thin or missing, give them every opportunity to make the deed a quick one.
She contemplates it, and the thinking of it makes her a little ill.
“I am sorry, my lady,” she says, turning back to her friend. “We will make every effort to find Drogon a rider, and see about curing whatever ails him. And you have my word that if I feel at any instant that Drogon might endanger even a single life, I will… take the necessary steps. But while he is able to be controlled… I cannot.”
There is a little stretch of silence, then Margaery chuckles softly.
“I am not surprised; I expected as much. I have your word then, my queen?”
“You do,” Shireen promises fervently. Margaery smiles again, looking up at her.
“I will hold you to it, you know, as much as one can hold a monarch to anything.”
“I know. And I hope that you know that I would never willingly break my word, once given.”
Margaery huffs, amused.
“I am well aware. Did you know, Shireen…” she begins, staring off into the middle distance. “Before you came to King’s Landing, I knew little of you. Grandmother had of course ensured that I was well versed in Westerosi politics and lineage, and I knew the names and descriptions of all members of the Great Houses. But by that time, I had mostly forgotten about little Shireen Baratheon, niece to the late king.”
“Many people had,” Shireen allows, lips quirking upwards.
“And so, when the tales started coming south, of the woman who had conquered one of Daenerys’s dragons, who burned White Walkers and Bolton men alike from atop its back, who was coming to King’s Landing to claim her throne; the woman born of Stannis Baratheon and whom all the smallfolk were calling the Stone Queen… well.” Margaery chuckles ruefully. “It took me until your arrival to realise that the moniker was not in reference to your heart.”
Shireen shares her laugh, briefly touching the hard, grey scales on her temple and cheek. “No, not at all.” She peers down at her friend. “And you despair of it. You think I am too soft.”
“At times, yes,” she admits. “Other times, I am glad of it. Anyone else would have had Tommen killed, but because of you, he resides quite peacefully in Casterly Rock.”
“I could not have, not when he surrendered willingly... he was a sweet boy...”
“And now lives to be a sweet man, a loyal supporter, and Tyrion’s heir.” Margaery stands, and closes the distance between them. She moves in to kiss Shireen’s cheek. She must tiptoe quite a bit to do so; Shireen has her mother’s ears, her father’s eyes, and the height of them both. “I bent the knee to you, my queen. I would not have done so if I had not thought it best.”
After all this time, it is still buoying to hear that. Margaery has more of a mind for politics and intrigue than Shireen or Davos ever could, and there is no question that they would be lost without her.
“I am ever grateful that you did,” Shireen says, and returns the kiss. “But you will continue to tell me, no, when you think I am wrong?”
Margaery laughs, a sound like swords and music.
“Of course, my queen.”
“Good. I would not have it any other way.”
*
The greyscale is most prominent on her face and neck, but it had marked other parts of her body in equal score. There is a patch of diseased flesh on her inner thigh, near her knee, one that travels along her arm, liberal dots of the infection on her stomach and back, and thin lines of stone that lead down her chest. One of these lines curves over her breast, and stops just short of her nipple.
A kiss to this spot wakes her, hours later as she lies in bed. Most nights, she sleeps unclothed; Dragonstone was far cooler than the capital, and she’s spent enough years far north to thicken her blood. It is also in small part because Arya has mentioned that she likes to see her skin laid bare. Shireen opens sleepy eyes to find that familiar face looming above her, just watching.
“You look like a picture,” Arya says, and kisses her nipple again. Shireen murmurs drowsily, and tugs Arya down so that she can curl into her.
“Don’t you mean like a statue?” Shireen counters, and Arya laughs, holding her close. Cuddling is sometimes a bit of a challenge, when Shireen is so tall, but they make it work. Arya nibbles along her jaw, caresses her neck and shoulders. She pulls back after a moment.
“You’re flaking. Here, let me get the oil.”
Shireen slits her eyes open again to watch as Arya, naked, roots around on the vanity for the bottle of oil that Shireen applies to the greyscale.
“Was your business concluded satisfactorily?” she asks, yawning.
“It was.” That is all the answer Shireen will get, unless she presses for more. But this is not a night for the business of faceless men. “How was your afternoon?”
“Busy. We will be travelling to Dorne, soon enough, where I may or may not marry Trystane Martell.”
“Oh ho?” Arya drops back down over the coverlet, and starts rubbing the oil onto Shireen’s neck. “I hope he is a good duellist, if he plans to steal you away from me.”
Shireen rolls her eyes. “Or Edric Dayne.”
“Ned?” Arya snorts. “Ned is a good sort, but I’ve bedded him before. You deserve better, Shireen, someone without the hips of an old man.”
Slapping her lover’s thigh, Shireen arches her face away to bare more of her neck to Arya’s fingers.
“Sometimes I think I would enjoy it if you were actually jealous,” Shireen teases.
“Oh no.” Arya’s fingers rub gently against the stone, working the oil in and easing the itch that Shireen has learnt to ignore most of the time. “I am fool enough to love a queen, but not fool enough to expect to have her all to myself.”
Shireen cups her face and kisses her abruptly; Arya does not confess her love very often, and it does please her so to hear it. For a few moments, they forget the oil and Arya’s impromptu massage, and lay entwined together, kissing until their lips are numb and the quiet is all around.
When they pull away, Shireen lies pliant and happy as Arya resumes her rubbing. She tries to remember what they were speaking of.
“Did anything else happen while I was away?”
“Hm… I have promised Lady Margaery that we will make serious attempts to find a rider for Drogon. I hope that you will aid me in the endeavour.”
“Of course. We are in agreement that it needs to be done.”
They fall into a discussion of the dragons, of past riders and potential candidates, of tests that should be passed before a chosen one could face Drogon. Arya continues to work her fingers cleverly, moving from Shireen’s neck to her cheek, arm, chest and leg. More than soothing the itch and the irritating flakiness, the caresses work straight into her bone, until Shireen is only murmuring her replies, and Arya keeps poking her playfully to ensure that she is still awake.
She waits until they are lying beneath the covers to bring up the third matter. The room is pleasingly cool, and the high windows let in light from the outside. It is a full moon tonight, a blue moon. Viserion will be out anon; he likes to fly when the sky is clear.
Shireen trails a finger down Arya’s arm.
“You would have heard about Ser Barristan’s turn for the worse, of course.” Arya nods, her nose bumping against Shireen’s jaw. “Lady Margaery and I discussed his replacement, as well as the future need for a new white cloak.”
Arya grunts. Her eyes are closed, but Shireen knows by her breathing that she is quite alert. Shireen takes a deep breath.
“Margaery offered me a list of very suitable candidates, but before I turned to them, I wanted, first, to offer the position to you.”
“No.”
The solitary word rings out against the vast ceiling, bouncing back and echoing. Arya’s eyes are still closed. Shireen blinks at her.
“You… you did not appear to think on it for very long.”
“I didn’t need to.” A hand rubs little circles onto the small of her back, sometimes kneading the flesh with her knuckles. “You’ve read all those books, Shireen. It never ends well for anyone when a member of the Kingsguard is fucking the queen.”
“This is not a book, nor is it a history lesson,” Shireen protests. She had thought to find Arya reluctant, but she had not anticipated such a flat refusal.
“Cersei and Jaime were real enough,” Arya points out, yawning.
“We are not siblings!”
“Aye. And I am not a knight. I thought that that was a requirement for membership to their most esteemed fellowship.”
“I could easily knight you,” Shireen presses, leaning on her elbow. Arya doesn’t move, but she shakes her head, very calmly.
“No, Shireen. I was not meant to be a knight. And I will always protect you, duty or no, but my place is not in the Queensguard. You have my answer, sweetling.”
Her tone is flat, and very final. Shireen nods slowly. Wriggling away, she puts just enough space in between them so that she can clasp Arya’s hands. They are smaller than hers, with shorter fingers, but they are hard and scarred, like so many things about Arya. Shireen kisses each finger; the thumb that has been sliced open at least three times, the twisted middle finger, the index that is missing its nail. Arya watches her.
“I think I know how you feel,” Shireen says carefully. “It is sometimes hard to believe that I am truly queen, that I am responsible for so many, loved by so many, despised by no small amount, I am sure. This castle is a stranger to me sometimes, with all its red halls and secrets. And it is hard to call it a home, but I do what I must. I of course accept your refusal, my dear, but I hope that you know that your place is ever at my side.”
Arya huffs; not quite a scoff, not quite a laugh. She is smiling very slightly; as true to the real thing as she ever approaches.
“I have never lied to you about what I am, have I, Shireen? I am a killer. You know that. I do nothing on Westerosi shores that would displease you, but you know what I am capable of.” She wrinkles her nose, and this time, she does laugh. “And yet you would have still tried to make a knight of me. You are very sweet, Shireen Baratheon, and far too good for me.”
Shireen kisses the hands that she still holds captive.
“Now that, I do not accept.”
“But it is so.”
“If that is what you think.” She regards Arya seriously, looking into her stormy grey eyes. Grey like stone, grey like scales. “May I try to change your mind?”
Arya surges forward to kiss her, and Shireen can feel the beginnings of her smile.
“Always.”
*
As ever, she holds court in the mornings.
The throne room of the Red Keep is much changed from her girlhood days. The most evident of those changes is the throne; Shireen had had the ridiculous thing melted down and fashioned into something that is still impressive, but far less likely to cause bodily harm. She agrees with Aegon after a fashion; no ruler should ever be so complacent as to sit comfortably on the throne, but his execution of his dictum had been, in her opinion, needlessly dramatic.
And so the Iron Throne is now just a throne. Shireen stands without the hall, waiting to be announced. Lady Margaery and the small council will have already gathered inside, as well as the nobles and some of the petitioners. Arya, no doubt, will have taken up her usual seat on the steps leading up to the throne, playing with a coin or a dagger. The Queensguard is gathered around her, ramrod straight and keen-eyed.
Davos, as always, is by her side.
“I don’t believe there will be a large crowd today, Your Grace.”
“Neither do I. We may have a leisurely afternoon. Perhaps I can finally take you out flying, my Lord Hand,” she teases. Davos eyes her sidelong, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
“I think not.”
Shireen giggles, and is then forced to readjust the crown on her brow. It is simple, made of the same material as her father’s, and ringed all around with curved antlers. Davos had seen it commissioned, and in the absence of a septon, Davos had placed it on her head.
Down the hall, a merry voice is singing a tune.
“Under the sun the less is always lesser, I know, yes I know. Bonded to the brother of his brother's killer, I know, oh oh oh…”
Patches. Still more absent than present, still a bit broken, still her friend. His clothes are new and his tattoos are faded, but his manner is the same. She smiles at him as he wanders past, and he wiggles his fingers at her, continuing his nonsense tune under his breath.
“Your Grace,” Davos murmurs. In front of them, the guards are opening the great doors of the throne room. Shireen squares her shoulders, clasps her hands in front of her, and remembers to stand tall.
“All hail, Queen Shireen of House Baratheon, the First of Her Name. Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail!”