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"Now, in the name of Daenerys Stormborn, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of Dragonstone, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Queen of Meereen, Liberator of Astapor, Breaker of Chains in Yunkai, and Breaker of Shackles—I sentence you to death."
Missandei's voice rang through the throne hall like a hammer striking stone.
The moment the word "death" left her lips, the slave masters and nobles in their tokar robes below began to wail. Some wept openly. Others soiled themselves where they stood. They begged, cursed, and pleaded with the woman seated high on the throne, but Daenerys did not move. Her violet eyes remained fixed on them, and in her mind she saw her brother Viserys once more—saw Khal Drogo pour molten gold over his head.
Power.
She had tasted it before, but this was different. She had crushed the Sons of the Harpy rebellion and rooted out its backers. She was the undisputed Queen of Meereen, and the feeling was intoxicating.
The condemned were dragged to the execution grounds. Daenerys had chosen public death by dragonfire, both as justice for her Unsullied and as a message. Barristan Selmy oversaw the proceedings. He did not approve. Aerys had loved burning his enemies, and Barristan feared his daughter might walk the same path. Still, he had spoken against her, and she had listened.
She had wanted to burn over a hundred men. Barristan's steady counsel had reduced the number to eighteen.
Eighteen "Wise Masters" and "Good Masters" stood gagged and bound to stakes above kindling. Below them, the crowd roared for blood. The same people these men had once forced into the fighting pits now screamed for their deaths.
"Burn them!"
"Long live the dragons! Long live the Dragon Queen!"
Under the blazing sun the condemned had already accepted their fate. Their legs shook. Their eyes were empty.
Daenerys had deliberately placed the execution in the old fighting pit. If these men had enjoyed watching slaves bleed here, then let them bleed in the same place.
Barristan gave the order. The rusted gates opened. A silver-gray dragon emerged, scales gleaming, wings folded as it moved on four legs. When the bound men saw Viserion's head appear, some closed their eyes in despair. Others began to sob and scream.
The freedmen in the stands felt no such fear. To them the dragon was a guardian. They turned their faces toward the high terrace where Daenerys stood and roared her name.
"Viserion! Viserion!"
"Long live the Dragon Queen!"
"Burn them!"
Daenerys accepted the cheers with quiet satisfaction. Beside her, Young Griff watched with a mixture of awe and unease. No Targaryen in living memory had ever commanded three dragons at once. He envied her. He also wondered whether she would ever agree to marry him and share what she had.
Months earlier, Connington and the others had quietly told Barristan the truth—that Young Griff was not truly his son, but Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar and rightful heir. Barristan had been deeply moved. Connington, however, had insisted on honor. If they wanted Daenerys's help, they should offer help first. Westeros was stable for now; the time to strike had not yet come.
So they had aided her against the Sons of the Harpy. The rebellion was crushed. Daenerys had called for a feast to celebrate. They planned to reveal Aegon's identity there.
Watching her now, Aegon doubted she would share her dragons. She still named herself the rightful heir to the Iron Throne in every proclamation.
Viserion walked toward the bound men. The dragon was already the size of a wagon. It stopped before one fat master, opened its jaws, and bit deep into the man's soft belly. Blood and viscera spilled across the sand. The other condemned screamed in terror.
Even some of the freedmen in the crowd looked away from the sudden brutality.
Daenerys saw it too. She called down from the terrace, voice sharp. "Viserion!"
The dragon lifted its blood-smeared head.
"Viserion. Dragonfire."
The silver beast spread its wings, braced its legs, and drew in a deep breath. Its chest scales flashed in the sunlight. Then it exhaled.
Silver flame, hot and bright, poured over the stakes. One by one the bound men caught fire. Their screams rose and then died beneath the roar of the crowd.
"Long live the Dragon Queen!"
The Unsullied took up the chant first. The freedmen followed, voices growing louder, carrying both reverence and fear.
Barristan watched Daenerys from below, studying her beautiful, composed face for any trace of her father's madness.
Two days later the victory feast was held. Only Daenerys's inner circle and the Westerosi party attended. The scale was modest by Meereen standards, which suited the Westerosi knights just fine. Some of the local entertainments involved far more explicit performances than Barristan or the others cared to witness.
Before Daenerys arrived, the group spoke quietly among themselves.
"We must not rush her," Connington warned again. "She is Aerys's daughter. We move carefully."
They had rehearsed their words. Tyrion had suggested Young Griff try to seduce her first—"Targaryens have always married within the family, and the boy is handsome enough"—but both Connington and Aegon rejected the idea outright. They would not stoop to that.
Tyrion shrugged and turned his attention to the lightly dressed serving girl pouring his wine. He had grown accustomed to the pleasures available in Slaver's Bay. He wondered, idly, just how skilled a bed slave trained in the arts of the sighing spring truly was.
Missandei's voice announced the queen's arrival. Everyone rose. Connington and Aegon looked especially tense.
"Thank the gods she doesn't recite the entire list of titles every time she enters a room," Tyrion muttered.
Daenerys took her seat, flanked by her maids. She thanked them all for their help, especially Connington, whose experience as Hand to Aerys had proven invaluable in crushing the rebellion.
"Ser Connington," she said, "I would have you as my Hand. Help me take back the Iron Throne."
The table went quiet. Tyrion set down his cup, suddenly interested. Aegon's face tightened.
Connington rose slowly. "Your Grace honors me. But before I answer, there is something I must tell you."
Daenerys looked puzzled. Connington glanced at Aegon. So did she.
Aegon stood, removed his hat, and let his silver hair fall free.
"Your Grace," Connington said, "standing before you is Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."