Chapter Text
I.
The Small Council chamber still smelt of beeswax and fresh parchment. Daenerys Targaryen sat at the centre of the long table of dark oak, her fingers drumming on the polished wood. To her right, Ser Jorah wore that patient expression he assumed when he knew the Queen was about to grow bored. Missandei was taking notes with her customary precision. Grey Worm stood by the door, impassive as ever.
"The ninth candidate, Your Grace," the guard announced.
Daenerys sighed imperceptibly. Eight maesters had already filed through that morning, each with their own tinkling chains and their own theories on how to govern the Seven Kingdoms. Too much theory, too little substance.
II.
The man who entered was different. Older than the others, with a well-groomed grey beard and a chain displaying more links than Daenerys could count at a glance. But it was the eyes that struck her: keen, measured, and completely devoid of the servile reverence of the other candidates.
"Your Grace." He bowed, but no more than necessary.
"Your name, Maester?"
"Maester Lysander, of Oldtown. I served at Dragonstone under your father, for a brief time, and subsequently at Storm's End and Highgarden."
Daenerys arched an eyebrow. "Under my father? You must have been very young."
"Young enough to remember, Your Grace. Old enough to learn."
A charged silence stretched across the room. Jorah leant forward slightly.
"And what do you believe you can offer this Queen that the others cannot?" asked Daenerys, her voice as cold as the ice beyond the Wall.
Lysander extracted a parchment scroll from his leather bag and, with a decisive gesture, unrolled it on the table. Daenerys rose to see better.
It was not text. It was a diagram: two lines intersecting to form a cross. Numbers along the margins. Four distinct sections.
"To govern, Your Grace, is an art that everyone claims to understand, but which few truly know how to practise. Allow me to show you something that is not taught in history books, but which every successful sovereign has understood instinctively."
Daenerys looked at the diagram, then at the man. "Continue."
Lysander indicated the horizontal axis. "Here: ruthlessness and mercy. Not as abstract virtues, but as tools. On one side"—his finger slid to the left—"the capacity to eliminate obstacles, punish betrayals, cut away what rots. On the other"—he moved to the right—"the capacity to give, to forgive, to alleviate."
"And this?" asked Daenerys, indicating the vertical axis.
"Passivity and proactivity. To act or to react. To use your resources to change the world, or to conserve them whilst letting the world flow by."
Grey Worm took a step forward, interested despite himself.
"Four quadrants, Your Grace." Lysander touched the upper right corner. "Proactive mercy. When a region is devastated by an earthquake and you send grain, maesters, rebuilders. Not because someone has challenged you, but because you choose to use your power to alleviate suffering. This builds legends. The people sing songs about this."
His finger moved to the upper left. "Proactive ruthlessness. When you identify the enemies of the realm and sweep them away before they can strike. When you conquer. When you punish those who obstruct progress. This is how power is taken and maintained."
"And these?" Missandei indicated the lower quadrants, her quill suspended over the parchment.
"Bottom left: passive ruthlessness. You do not spend resources to improve the lives of your subjects. You leave them to work, to toil, to manage. This is how you maintain wealth in the realm's coffers, soldiers armed, dragons fed."
"And this last one?" Daenerys's voice had grown sharper.
Lysander touched the bottom right corner with almost reverential respect. "Passive mercy. Forgiveness after someone has broken the law. After they have challenged you." He paused. "This, Your Grace, is the most dangerous quadrant."
"Dangerous?" Jorah had risen, now studying the diagram attentively.
"A traitor whom you help with earthquake relief does not make you seem weak. A traitor whom you forgive after he has conspired against you, however, does. The difference is crucial: in the first case you choose to act, you demonstrate power. In the second, you react to a challenge already made. Those who observe you do not see generosity, they see hesitation."
Daenerys remained motionless, her violet eyes fixed on the diagram. She thought back to Meereen, to the Great Masters she had forgiven and who had betrayed her again. She thought of those she had crucified, and the peace that had followed.
"There can be exceptions," Lysander continued. "Strategic amnesties. Reconciliations that serve a greater purpose. But they must be used sparingly, and always for a precise end, never from weakness."
"And all government reduces to this?" asked Daenerys, sceptical. "Four quadrants?"
"Everything, Your Grace. Legitimacy, consensus, institutions, culture... in the end they are all derivatives of these fundamental choices. When to act, when to wait. When to be the dragon, when to be the mother."
The silence in the hall was absolute. Even Grey Worm seemed thoughtful.
Daenerys sat down slowly, her gaze still on the diagram. "And what would you have done, Maester Lysander, in my place? With the Great Masters of Meereen?"
"It is not my task to decide, Your Grace. Only to show you the tool. You are the arbiter. You choose the weights, the priorities, the moment. I can only help you see clearly the consequences of every choice."
Daenerys nodded slowly. "Good. Because I have had quite enough of divine promises and manifest destinies. I want tools. I want clarity."
III.
Grey Worm took another step forwards, his eyes fixed upon the diagram. 'This... this changes everything... Maester Lysander is not merely offering us a tool of governance—he is introducing a way of thinking that is systematic, rational, almost...'
The word escaped him, and he turned to Missandei, who ventured: 'Proto-scientific? Power no longer as divine right or brute force, but as something to be analysed, understood, optimised?'
Ser Jorah turned towards them.
He was surprised by the almost excited tone in the always-controlled voice of the Unsullied commander, and invited him to elaborate with a questioning look.
'When I was a slave,' Grey Worm continued, 'the Good Masters said: obey because it is right to obey. There was no reason, no explanation. Only: this is the way of things.' He indicated the diagram. 'This... this says there is a reason behind every choice. That it can be understood. That it can be learnt.'
'And this excites you?' asked Jorah, in a tone that was not quite sceptical, but almost.
'Yes.' Grey Worm remained composed. 'In battle, I know why I choose one formation over another. Why I attack or defend. This'—he touched the parchment with respect—'is like having a formation for governing.'
Jorah leant back against his chair, folding his arms. 'The fact that Lysander presents a visual diagram is revolutionary: he is quantifying and visualising abstract concepts, agreed... but in my day, a lord learnt to govern by watching his father. Observing, living. Diagrams were not necessary.'
'And how many lords governed well?' asked Missandei, gentle but direct.
The old knight hesitated. 'Some. The best of them.'
'Precisely,' Lysander interjected. 'The best did so by instinct, by experience accumulated over decades. But why must one wait an entire lifetime when one can teach in an hour what took them fifty years of mistakes?'
'Because some mistakes must be made,' Jorah countered, his voice harder. 'Because governing is not mathematics. It is feeling the pulse of the people, understanding moods, knowing persons. One cannot reduce everything to... to lines and numbers.'
Grey Worm inclined his head. 'But the diagram does not tell you what to do. It only tells you what happens. It is like a map. The map does not walk in your stead.'
Jorah opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. He looked at Daenerys, who was observing the exchange with evident interest.
'Ser Jorah,' said the Queen. 'My father learnt to govern by watching his father. And what did he learn?'
The silence that followed was eloquent.
'Times change, old friend,' Daenerys continued, more gently. 'And perhaps it is well that they do. Perhaps it is time that sovereigns study governance as maesters study the stars. With method. With clarity.'
Jorah sighed, and for a moment seemed older than he truly was. 'As you wish, Your Grace. But I hope that, in all this studying, there remains space for honour as well. For loyalty. For things that cannot be measured.'
'Those,' said Lysander with a smile, 'are the weights that every sovereign places upon the scales. The diagram shows the scales. You choose what to weigh.'
Grey Worm nodded vigorously. Jorah, more slowly, did likewise.
IV.
Missandei set down her quill and raised her gaze from the diagram. 'Maester Lysander, a question, if I may.'
'Naturally.'
'These quadrants... they describe actions, strategies. But every action of a sovereign generates a reaction in the subjects. A sentiment.' She indicated with precision the quadrant in the upper left. 'Proactive ruthlessness. If too little, what does the people feel?'
Lysander smiled, as though he had awaited this question for years. 'Contempt.'
Grey Worm turned sharply. Daenerys too stiffened in her chair.
'When a sovereign lacks the strength to eliminate the realm's enemies, to punish traitors, to conquer what is rightfully theirs... the subjects do not love them for their mildness. They despise them for their weakness. Internal enemies multiply. Vassals cease paying taxes. Neighbours invade the borders.'
'And if too much?' asked Daenerys, her voice suddenly taut.
'Terror.' Lysander did not avert his gaze. 'When every suspicion becomes a condemnation, when heads roll without trial, when dragons burn not only enemies but innocents upon mere suspicion... the people obey, yes. But they do not sleep at night. And terror, Your Grace, has a limited duration. Sooner or later it transforms into despair, and despair leads to suicidal revolt.'
Missandei nodded slowly, and her finger moved rightwards. 'And proactive mercy?'
'If too little: indifference. The people see you as distant, cold, concerned only with power. They respect the crown but do not love the person who wears it. If too much...' Lysander paused. 'Dependency. You become the mother who feeds every mouth, solves every problem. The subjects cease to be citizens and become eternally needy children. And when one day, inevitably, you can no longer give enough... they will feel betrayed.'
Ser Jorah frowned. 'The people's loyalty becomes a noose about the sovereign's neck.'
'Precisely, Ser Jorah.'
Daenerys drummed her fingers upon the table. 'Continue. The other two.'
Missandei indicated the quadrant in the lower left. 'Passive ruthlessness.'
'If too little: expectation. The people grow accustomed to aid, subsidies, exemptions. They begin to demand as a right what was once a privilege. If too much...' Lysander sighed. 'Resentment. The subjects labour, die, suffer whilst the realm's coffers fill and nothing returns to them. They see soldiers well fed, nobles in their castles, and ask themselves: for whom am I toiling? Resentment is a slow fire, Your Grace. But when it burns, it burns everything.'
Daenerys and Missandei pointed in unison at the corner in the lower right, seeming almost like children, so filled with anticipation were they.
Lysander hesitated for the first time. 'This is the most complex. If too little: fear. Not terror, which is more intense and immediate. But constant fear that every error, every fault, will be punished without possibility of redemption. Such a society becomes rigid, broken. People cease to take risks, to innovate, to truly live.'
'And if too much?'
'Contempt. Again. But of a different kind.' Lysander met her gaze. 'When a lord betrays and is forgiven, then betrays again and is forgiven again... the people do not think "what a merciful queen". They think "what a weak queen". Repeated forgiveness does not generate gratitude. It generates strategic calculation. Your enemies begin to measure how far they can push before you finally react. And each time you do not react, the answer becomes: a little further still.'
The silence in the room was thick as fog.
Missandei took up her quill, then stopped. 'So each quadrant is a balance. Too much or too little generates the wrong sentiment.'
'Precisely. And the people's sentiments, Your Grace, are the true measure of power. A sovereign may have armies, dragons, gold... but if they have lost the hearts of their subjects, in the wrong way, everything collapses.'
Daenerys rose and walked round the table, studying the diagram from every angle. 'Contempt, terror, indifference, dependency, expectation, resentment, fear, contempt again.' Each word was enunciated with surgical precision. 'Eight ways to fail.'
'Eight ways to lose balance,' Lysander corrected gently. 'The art lies in moving between these extremes. Never too fixed in one point. Never too unbalanced.'
Grey Worm stepped forwards. 'It is like fighting. Too defensive, the enemy surrounds you. Too aggressive, you leave your back exposed.'
'Precisely so.'
Daenerys returned to her chair but did not sit. She remained standing, her hands resting upon the back, her gaze fixed upon the diagram as though she might burn it by force of will alone.
'And you, Maester Lysander,' she said at last. 'What sentiment do you feel, at this moment, towards your future queen?'
The elderly man smiled faintly. 'Hope, Your Grace. Hope that finally someone is willing to see governance for what it is: not magic, not destiny, but conscious choice. And responsibility for the consequences.'
Daenerys smiled, and for the first time that morning the smile reached her eyes. 'Ser Jorah, what do you think?'
The old knight nodded slowly. 'It is... illuminating, Your Grace.'
'Missandei?'
'Practical, my Queen. Very practical.'
Daenerys rose, and all in the room bowed instinctively. She walked round the table until she stood before Lysander.
'Welcome to my Small Council, Maester. I believe we shall have much to discuss.'
Lysander bowed deeply. 'It will be an honour to serve, Your Grace. And... if I may...'
'Speak.'
'The difficulty is not in understanding the diagram. The difficulty lies in judging, in the moment of choice, the correct modulation of the quadrant you are employing. And how to do so, and why.'
Daenerys nodded, thoughtful. Outside, in the air above King's Landing, Drogon emitted a distant cry.
'Indeed,' murmured the Queen. 'How to do so. And why.'
Yet Daenerys was not satisfied.
Not entirely.