51 Can the Center Hold

Lips pursed in a thin line, cheeks reddening with anger beneath the closely-cropped whiskers, Jon mentally heaped every profanity in his vocabulary upon Joffrey and Tywin Lannister. "Arya is in the hands of that monster."

Podrick looked him over with sad eyes. "It would appear so, sire." It was just the two of them and Ser Barristan, huddled within an alcove - all others were at the platform for the day's events.

"What was she doing there?" the old knight asked. "You certainly didn't give the order."

A pained sigh left Jon's lips. He felt as if he could spontaneously burst out in tears or homicidal rage at any moment. "If I know my sister, she felt she had to protect Daenerys… after the assassin from the coronation escaped." Despite his best efforts, Jon felt a hot tear fall from his eye. "It doesn't surprise me, Arya saving my Daenerys from that bastard."

Barristan scowled. "Fucking traitor. I knew there was something self-serving and disloyal about that snake." He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Nothing we can do about it, sire. The Empress has her dragons and your brother. She'll be safe for now - I also doubt Tywin would harm a valuable hostage. He's a calculating tyrant, but not an idiot."

Wordlessly nodding, Jon motioned for them to follow him. Barristan was right, there was nothing he could do - getting home to Dany and rescuing Arya meant defeating the masters, and such he would do. Closing his eyes, he stepped into the light.

What had to be the entire city had turned out. Throngs of people packed all public space offered with a view, many crowding on rooftops for an additional view. The winding roads going up the rocky crags of the ancient Ghiscari city saw milling crowds guarded by auxiliary forces, the top sporting the Northern regulars and Vale cavalry resplendent in full armor. Many were boiling inside and guzzling water by the gallon - nearly all dousing themselves with the liquid - but for today, the populace needed to be dazzled.

For today was execution day.

Two raised platforms had been hastily erected for this day. To Jon's right stood the various dignitaries and officials, guarded by the Phalanx wall of the Bolton turned Stark bannermen. Ollie waited at the bottom of the steps, Longclaw in hand should Jon need it. With a half smile, Jon walked past his squire and to the platform. Freedmen and lower caste freeborn greeted him with great deference and respect - as befitting the husband of Mhysa and Vhrysa in his own right. The collection of Great Master noblemen however, with the exception of the Loraq father and son, greeted him cooly. Outwardly formal, but who's deference did not reach their eyes.

At their head was the richest and most august nobleman in the city, Zhoggaz zo Zartal - descendent of the Ghiscari Kings themselves. From what Dany said of him, he was the only one of the lot that wasn't a coward. Brains kept him from the Sons of the Harpy or the Slaver's Alliance, but the man was no friend to the cause. "Your Majesty." He bowed with the sincerity of a jackal. "On behalf of the Great Masters, I ask you for mercy. The offer from Astapor to trade gold for their lives is still on the table - shouldn't mercy be the order of the day?" One good thing about him, he never mistreated any slave. It came from a highborn haughtiness rather than any moral fiber, though.

Jon, however, was of better birth than anyone living. "What worth is gold if it is soaked upon the blood of the innocent." He allowed his voice to boom. "Let it begin!" With that, he took his position to watch the show.

Glancing up from his wheelchair, Bran gently tapped Jon's side. Worn grey eyes met their counterpart, ones half-devoid of emotion. "Arya will be alright, brother," he whispered. "Daenerys too."

Jon blinked. "Did Podrick tell you… before I?" He would need to have a talk with the young knight.

"I just know." Both left it at that cryptic answer, Jon having a hard time understanding his brother's new… skills and Bran not wishing to explain.

To the right stood the other platform, a line of ten burly men waiting for what was to come. Rested along ten identical blocks of wood was a sharpened axe. At a nod from Podrick, the Stark Bannermen brought out a line of ten prisoners. Dirty and disheveled, beards caked with blood and grime, they made a sorry sight shambling towards their impending death. Shuffling to the platform, the bannermen and executioners guided them not to the blocks but to the gallows behind them. A Westerosi tradition that Jon had brought to send a message. Roughly, the executioners tightened their ropes around the prisoners' necks.

All along the line, cries of mercy in Valyrian and heavily-accented common tongue left their throats. "Bloody cowards," Jon heard Barristan mutter behind him. The Emperor agreed, but kept his stoic silence. Raising his arm, he let it drop - sealing the men to their fate in each of the seven hells.

Trapdoors flung open, the ten condemned men fell through them. Two had the profound mercy of their necks snapping as the rope broke their fall, life cutting short into darkness as if a torch had suddenly snuffed out. The others weren't so lucky. Necks bruised and cut rather than snapping, they dangled and sputtered in agony as the lack of air slowly suffocated them.

Jon felt no remorse for their deaths. "Bring forth the others," he commanded, not even waiting for the life to ebb from the writhing criminals. The bannermen shouted at each other as they hauled the next group towards the platform.

"Would you do this yourself?" Zhoggaz said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Murmurs broke out among the other nobles at the challenge, and clenched fists from Mossador and the other freedmen councilors. A flagrant breach of protocol - the Emperor could have Zhoggaz flogged and beheaded for his insolence. Many a slave or lower class citizen had suffered the same fate for a challenge to a Great Master of Meereen.

Looking over his shoulder, quiet grey eyes meeting the hard glare of the challenger, Jon said nothing. Instead, he made his way to the steps off the platform. Knowing the drill, Ollie immediately withdrew Longclaw from its scabbard and handed it to Jon. He gripped the hilt nonthreateningly but tightly. The loud whispers and chattering from the crowd descended into silence as he approached the raised execution platform, shadows dancing from the condemned corpses dangling from their nooses.

The executioners stared at their Emperor with jaws agape. "May I?" Jon asked the first one, who nodded dumbly, stepping aside. Looking at the condemned man below him, Jon saw the stony resolve etched on his face. Evil as this man was, he wasn't a coward.

His father's words filled his ears like a soft whisper, guiding him as if the spirit of Eddard Stark were hovering over his shoulder. "He who passes the sentence, swings the sword." Of the spokes of the wheel - the Tywin Lannisters, Euron Greyjoys, and Razdal mo Erazs of the world - none of them sullied themselves with the dirty work of their barbarity, unless they enjoyed it like Joffrey Baratheon or Ramsay Bolton.

But he wasn't that. Neither he nor Dany were like those monsters and tyrants. They took their mantle for the people, by consent of the people - and thus they had to take upon the sins of their subjects. Honor demanded it. Face set in a hard line, not a speck of disgust or tinge of glee visible, Jon raised Longclaw high in the air. The Valyrian steel glinted in the sun as he brought it down upon the first of the condemned.

Longclaw swung true, razor sharp edge slicing through flesh and bone as if it was paper. Blood spurt onto the rough wood below as the head fell into the placed basket. Wordlessly, Jon walked to the next man as bannermen removed the beheaded corpse behind him. Again the process continued: raise, swing, remove, Jon going about it with nothing but an iron determination in his face. Nine further times, till the last head plopped into the basket. With that, he handed Longclaw back to Ollie and returned to his platform, the eyes of a Kingdom resting upon him.

An hour later, it was all done. The coppery stink of blood filled the air, one Jon was used to but others weren't, many nobles looking green. Clearing his throat, Jon peered at the vast expanse of people crowded around the courtyards, roofs, and streets of the city. Staring at their Emperor, a far more foreign face than even their beloved Mhysa. He may have been their Vhrysa, but he was still an enigma. "People of Meereen."

To his left, Mossador quickly translated into High Valyrian. While Jon was getting better at the language, he didn't trust himself to speak it conversationally - nor did he want to advertise it. He remembered how Dany secured the Unsullied from Astapor. 'Never advertise.' His showboating in training at Castle Black only drew further hate from Thorne.

"I will be brief. One should not expect me to promise cake and tourneys for all. What happened today is just the beginning, a journey of tears and sweat. Out there!" he pointed at the mountains and hills of the coastal road. "There lurk those that seek to enslave all of us… the ones who supported..." Jon shifted his hand to the corpses, swaying slightly on the noose. "These monsters." Stopping, he surveilled the crowd, allowing the silence to create murmurs of anticipation. "Mhysa fought for you to be liberated from bondage, but today I ask you to fight with me for your continued freedom. So that your babies never need to know bondage. Join me. Fight with me!"

The cheer that followed shook the very ground of the city. Freedman and freeborn alike, chanting their love of their Emperor. Looking back, Jon's eyes caught those of Zartal, the bejeweled noble at the head of the cluster of Great Masters. Derision in his eyes, nothing seemed more disgusting to him that being lumped in with the rabble cheering for their Emperor. 'You will see, noble Zhoggaz zo Zartal. You will see what Joffrey thinks of you.' Nothing but the roar of the crowd filled the air.

A small shockwave resonated through the air around Riverrun castle as the great Balerion the Dread reborn signalled his arrival with a massive roar. Imperial soldiers and noncombatants, dashing about, stilled and gazed upon the impressive sight - the jet-black dragon with wings nearly as wide as a great sailing ship landing upon the snow-covered ground, the silver-haired Empress atop its shoulders like the Targaryen Queens of legend. Only this was the current reality, not legend.

Daenerys gently helped Jorah down. His wound was minor, but in the days she needed to arrive safely in Riverrun it had shown early signs of festering. "I need a Maester!" she yelled. Luckily, someone managed to produce a stretcher, dried bloodstains indicating someone had been using it in the near past. "You'll be just fine, Jorah," she told him, the knight's eyes fluttering into an exhausted sleep. Hooting, Balerion launched himself into the air just as Dany spotted someone familiar. "Gendry?!"

"Your Majesty." The legitimized Baratheon bowed, nervous as anything. Not only did he not relish the idea of telling the woman who made him a trueborn nobleman of the Stormlands, but also the fear of not finding Arya in the Castle gnawed at him since arriving back from the battlefield. "We received word from one of the ships that Dragonstone has fallen."

"Where are my children, Gendry?" Dany asked, not wanting to tell Gendry in public about Arya's capture - the poor lad would be crushed. At this point only they could improve her mood.

Gendry rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly trying to find the right words. "They… have been sent to Winterfell on order of Lady Margaery."

A pair of amethyst eyes burned brightly. "What?!"

"She determined that they would be safer in the North away from Riverrun. After our defeat at the God's Eye and the loss of Harrenhal, the Central Riverlands would become a battleground."

The Empress clenched her fists. "Where is Robb? Is he here?" She wanted to hear the mainland developments from the mouths of those in charge.

As she stormed down the corridors of the castle, one of the persons she was so keen on seeing nearly slammed into her legs. "Your majesty," Tyrion yelped, composing himself. "We were worried about your safety after…"

"Walk with me, and do keep up," she snapped back, continuing her rapid walk.

Tyrion was forced to jog to keep up. "When we heard of Dragonstone, I immediately feared the worst."

"The prime base of operations in the south fallen to the enemy. Our entire fleet sunk, captured, or scattered to the wind. No word of whether the Greyjoys have survived. I would think such is the worst that could happen, no?" She did not mention Arya, not yet. Not until Robb was in her presence.

"But you are still alive, your Majesty. The survival of you and Balerion are worth more than any fleet…"

Dany cut him off. "You do not want to patronize me at this moment, Lord Lannister. So far, it seems as if your master plan has only led to defeat after defeat."

"We took Casterly Rock." The Empress halted for a split second, glaring at him before continuing her movements. "Edmure and Greyworm sacked it, but it was discovered that my father hid the fact that the Westerlands mines have been dry for at least the last several years… the army is intact and marching our way just ahead of any move to cut them off."

"So what you are telling me is that our only victory is a useless one that took crack troops and bannermen away from the main theater of conflict?" The silence from Tyrion answered her own question.

Dashing down the hallway at a brisk pace, Dany could hear grunts and suppressed groans of anguish that could only be that of a proud male wounded. As the guards outside bowed for her, she entered with Gendry and Tyrion right behind. "Be careful, my Lord. The arrow only missed your lung by a hair over an inch… don't move." Probe and flagon of wine in hand, Sam Tarly was in the process of ever so gently removing the barbed crossbow bolt from Robb's torso. Every so often, he would pour some of the wine into the wound, causing Robb to snarl and clench his teeth.

"Shhhh, calm, my love." Seated by Robb's head, Margaery gently stroked his hair. "Let Sam do his work." It was only then that she noticed that someone knew had just entered the room. "Daenerys." She stood and hugged her. "Thank the gods you're alive."

"What happened? How did my strongest army lose Harrenhal and a third of the Riverlands in one battle?" She was in no mood to dither.

A snort from the far wall found the Queen of Thorns speaking up. "Cause they were betrayed, that's why." Olenna rolled her eyes. "Sellsword scum."

Tensing up, Dany had a bad feeling. "The Second Sons?"

Crying out in pain as Sam finally pulled out the bolt, Robb's head fell back to the table, sweat drenching his brow and hair. "Aye. Them and our Vale cavalry arm, abandoning us in the field and doubled back to capture Harrenhal." He gritted his teeth once more as Sam began to clean out the wound. "If it weren't for Lady Tyene bringing the Dothraki to our aid…" The aforementioned noblewoman dozed in the corner, completely exhausted.

Daenerys decided not to wake her. "Tyrion informed me of what the dispatch from the fleet stated…" She bit her lip. "But there is more…" With her Empire shattered before her, it was almost obscene to shatter it even further. "The Lannisters, they sent Euron Greyjoy and my former Sellsword commander to capture me. They almost succeeded, if it weren't for… Arya."

As the natural reaction to the news played out before her in curses and angered shouts, Dany's eyes flickered to the ceiling. 'Jon, please. We need you here.'

"What do you mean she wasn't captured?!" Voice high in anger, Joffrey picked up a cup and tossed it at his fool. The poor former knight fought the urge to cower - or fight back - allowing the golden goblet to strike him in the stomach. It could have been worse. "Grandfather promised me her head!"

Littlefinger kept his eyes trained on the floor, keeling and covering his face as was protocol. "Forgive me, all highest. But you have secured Dragonstone Island back under your proud rule…"

Another snarl left Joffrey's mouth. "It is all mine! From the freezing icebox to the worthless desert, this entire land is mine, mine, mine!" He sounded like the petulant child that he was. But a child that could have entire cities burned to the ground and thousands murdered on a single snap of his fingers.

"Of course. Such is the truth." One had to walk a fine line - the price to pay for having essentially absolute power over an entire realm. "But I, Euron Greyjoy, and the defector Daario Naharis have a gift to present to you. A gift on top of the destruction of the Dragon Bitch's fleet." Sensing the king was still seething atop his throne of swords, Littlefinger motioned to Ser Preston, who opened the door to the throne room. He stood, eyes on the floor but motioning with his arms. "Presenting to his Highest, Lady Arya of House Stark." He smirked as he spotted Joffrey through the corner of his eye immediately straightening on the Iron Throne.

Wrists manacled tightly and chains brusquely jerked by the Goldcloaks, Arya immediately felt the overpowering malevolence that drenched the throne room as a fog would on a northern summer morning. Memories of the Red Keep had been literal nightmares for her since her father had died, but reality at the moment was far worse than they could ever be. All windows had been bricked up, the little light streaming from ornate yet sparse candelabras. Weapons and skulls - interspersed with the banners of Renly and Stannis and Dorne - decorated the walls, clearly of those Joffrey had ordered conquered. Was father's skull mounted in the room? The thought made Arya want to retch.

But the presence of the wraithlike king atop the Iron Throne boiled her blood hotter than dragonfire. Even hidden under the gossamer veil, Arya could notice the reptile's manic glee. "Little Arya. We meet again." Joffrey's voice was almost simpering from delight at this development. "I am so happy you are here!" He clapped his bony hands together. "Ser Gregor and I will be most delighted to have a new playmate."

Arya's skin crawled. Much as she hated the Hound for what she did to Micah, the story of the Mountain's torture of his brother indicated a psychopathic figure rather than someone callous. Alone among the others, she kept her eyes trained directly on him. "Be careful… Joffrey." Her voice dripped a fake sugary syrup. "Remember what happened the last time we played together. My wolf is still alive and is so anxious to see you."

Suddenly, Arya let out a cry as Ser Boros slammed the flat of his sword into her back. "How dare you be insolent to his Highest!"

Stepping off his throne, Joffrey gloated over the prostrate Arya. "This is perfect, little Arya. Your brother Robb will die. Your sister Sansa will be sold and raped by the highest bidder. Your Dragon Bitch will be the whore of my lieutenants. And I shall have your bastard brother's head for my collection… alongside your father's." He cackled, but Arya would not take the bait.

"And… I'll… bet… you…" She heaved in breaths, trying to block out the pain. "Are too… much of a coward… to do it yourself. You can't even handle a blade." Gasping laughs left her.

"You do not speak to a weak, oppressed boy. You speak to a King! A literal god on earth sent to build the vision of the divine…" He was cut off, a sudden fist slammed into his face - blood spurting from his nose.

Gloating lasted for a moment before she felt a hand wrap around her neck. The Mountain holding her by the throat, Arya watched as the doddering Grand Maester interjected himself. "Do you wish to kill her for her insolence, all Highest?"

Blind servants fawning all over him - not by choice - Joffrey hissed. "No, that would be too good for her! Send her to the pyramid as a common slave!" Much as he wanted to, the girl frightened him too much. The one being that had actually been in a position to kill him… if she died then her spirit would likely finish the job.

The next thing Arya knew she had been dropped to the tile floor, abruptly being dragged by her chains out of the throne room. "Winter will come for you, Joffrey!" she called out. "I will be the last face you see before you die!" With that, the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind her.

It was one of Daenerys' creations. The culmination of years of wrangling and cajoling, of intricate political debates and arcane traditions. In all honesty, the whole concept gave Jon a headache. Raised in the forthright Northern tradition and of age in the brutal meritocracy of the Night's Watch, he could barely stand Westerosi politics. Combined with the upheavals emancipation brought to Meereen, the Castes General Council was as chaotic as one would seem, even moreso.

'At least this one lasted,' he thought bitterly. Not one day into his arrival before the month-old news of Yunkai and Astapor overthrowing their councils and restoring the Wise Masters and Good Masters to control with the help of Qarth and Volantis arrived at his desk. Daario Naharis was supposed to keep such rebellions in line, but… Jon would enjoy feeding Longclaw to that traitor.

For now though, he was stuck trying to herd cats - herd cats spooked by a dragon more like it. "Honored councilors," he said, voice resounding in the great hall. Large and airy, it was a beautiful building. "Please listen to me, what we face is a threat unlike any…"

"The only threat we face is the prospect of a long and vicious war of the Empress' own making," interrupted Zartal zo Zhoggaz. Seated to the right of the Imperial dias with the other masters, his blue-gold silks rustled as he stood. "She had the chance to make peace, but instead chose war to satiate her greed."

Jeers and shouts came from the left of the dias, where the commoners and freedmen sat. "Mhysa is the true ruler of Westeros!" Mossador countered, face red with anger. "She and Emperor Jon seek only their birthright…"

"...and the rivers of blood that must be spilt to do so matter not," a portly master replied. Jon recognized him as a prominent merchant, not one directly involved in the slave trade. Losing ones like them was disastrous in his goal to unite Meereen. 'Calm yourself, Jon.'

Lone among those on the right in his support for Jon, Hizdar zo Loraq interjected. "It matters not how we got here, councilors. Our enemies threaten us, and to squabble like children would not stop the rivers of blood that will flow through Meereen if they get through." Agreement arrived from those right of the dias and from a few masters.

Zartal refused to be convinced. "Our countrymen would not stoop to the levels of a dragonrider," he sneered. "Yezzan zo Qaggaz assured me in correspondence that we had nothing to fear in a peace."

The outcry was immediate. "TRAITOR!" One young freedman was vicious in his tongue. You dare collaborate with our enemy?!"

"Qaggaz is a new man, one low in birth. He has no desire but to make money, and war is bad for business," Zartal defended. "The point of the matter is to save as many lives as possible."

"At the cost of what, Zartal?" Jon looked at him. "Our honor? Our freedom? In the North, we would rather die on our feet than live on our knees."

"And what do you know about freedom, Emperor," Zartal hissed. He glanced at his colleagues, arms spread out. "Our noble Vhrysa keeps his subjects as slaves with his dragons, which are also slaves to him!" Words in High Valyrian, they drew laughs from the nobles and jeers from the others.

Fists clenching, Jon decided it was time to reveal himself to the hall. "Iā zaldrīzes iksis daor buzdari!" A dragon is no slave.

At looks of shock and wonder directed his way, Jon allowed himself a dark smirk. Rising from the dias, he looked once at Ser Barristan, who offered him a nod. "You ask why I would not consider peace, to spare innocent lives the tragedy of an early death. If I could do so I would. I have no desire to fight, and I long to know a world no longer hearing the battlecry." Accent still present, and halting over certain words, being able to know the High Valyrian words visibly brought a new respect from many in the council. Dropping back to the common tongue, he resumed. "But there is to be no peace, for our enemies demand only death or slavery."

"Lies! Qaggaz assures me…"

Jon pulled the scroll out of his trouser pocket. "I have in my hand a message between Razdal mo Eraz and Tywin Lannister to the leader of the Sons of the Harpy, found on his corpse following the battle of the market square!." Unfurling it, he read it. "'Peace is something that cannot be allowed. Only total subjugation is what we seek. Total annihilation of our foe's will to even remain independent and free of our influence.'"

"And such is not all, noble councilmen." Jon's voice dropped into a snarl, the anger completely genuine - the revulsion and horror building in him since his conversation with the escaped slave in the pens of King's Landing. "It is at the end of this massif in which the true evil of our foe comes to light. In the words of Razdal mo Eraz, 'The great Chimera wishes slaves that know servitude, but have no connection to this land as to not foment uprisings.'" Everyone, including Zartal, were hanging on his every word. "'I agree, as should you, that this is something we do not want either. So I have proposed and he has accepted that the entire population of the Northern Kingdom and Dornish Kingdom of Westeros be sent here…'" He paused for effect, building up the horror and curiosity in the chamber. "'And that every man, woman, and child not of the ranks of our alliance or that of the Sons of the Harpy be sent to King's Landing as slaves for the Chimera!'"

Jon's shout resonating through the hall, sound echoing on the domed marble of the roof, such brought shock… no, more than shock. Literally everyone felt a near electric jolt into profound and utter silence. Silence not even seen in the deepest abyss. Only those that knew beforehand - Podrick and Ser Barristan - did not see their entire worldviews upended. Even the freedmen, for not even they expected the Masters to stoop so low.

It was Zartal, drawing on whatever patrician composure he had, that managed to babble out a response first. "You… you lie…" It was an accusation without vehemence. "That is impossible. They would not enslave their own…" For someone as illustrious as him to be nothing but a common slave, sold as chattel simply for deploring the violence of the Sons of the Harpy… he refused to believe it.

Wanting nothing more to toss the scroll at his most persistent thorn, Jon instead walked to the noble. His manner and demeanor that of the proud Targaryen Kings of old. "Look at the seal, Zhoggaz zo Zartal! Tell me that is not the seal of Eraz and Joffrey Baratheon!"

Hands trembling, the nobleman took the scroll in hand. Zartal - with great difficulty - managed to unfurl it and read the contents. He knew mo Eraz's handwriting, and that of the Lannisters, having done business with them many times over countless years.

"Well?" asked one fellow noble, verbalizing what the entire council chamber felt. "Is it true?"

All the color drained from Zartal's face. Mouth agape as a fish, he could only nod. It was true.

Watching the man shake, barely able to stand upright, Jon placed a hand on his shoulder. "Istiti iōragon hēnkirī, se īlon kessa ērinagon." Zartal looked up at him, and for the first time there existed an emotion other than disgust or displeasure in his dark eyes. "Istiti iōragon hēnkirī, se īlon kessa ērinagon!" Shouted the Emperor, proclaiming it to the heavens.

Mossador leapt from his seat. "War!"

A wealthy former Great Master followed. "War!"

Soon the entire council was on their feet, shouts matching Rhaegal's roars in intensity. "WAR! WAR! WAR!"

'If only Dany could be here.' Jon could feel her pride for him seeping through even in her absence, and for once he allowed the esteem to sink in.

He had done the impossible. All of Meereen was united under the Dragonwolf.