A Crown of Ash and Snow
The events of this story take place immediately at the end of Season 8 of Game of Thrones. Spoilers for the final season are interjected throughout. If you have not watched the final season of Game of Thrones, it is strongly advised that you do so before reading. Chapter Two, "The Queen of Fire" is a continuation of the first chapter of the "A Crown of Ash and Snow" saga, "Fell Deeds Awake".
Chapter Two: The Queen of Fire
Tormund Giantsbane
As the wildlings who had made their temporary home at Castle Black sought to find a more permanent home beyond the wall, none of them looked back at the strange castles and places they had left behind. The wildlings did not belong in stone houses, nor did they belong fighting southroners wars. Yet still their recent history was a bloody one, fraught with war, hunger, but above all else death.
The army of the dead was long gone, turned to ash in the snow before Winterfell, but the Night King's grip was still on the country. Hardhome was in ruins, all of the wildling villages had been pillaged and burned. It was eerily quiet, or so Tormund thought. Everywhere he turned he expected to hear the familiar shrieks and wails of the dead. The Night King had made a mark upon the land, yes, but more so to the people that lived there.
His people were skittish and quite fearful to return. Many feared that the Night King would return to rain calamity down upon them once again. Tormund did his best to assuage their fears but could do little to soothe his own. The truth was that no one knew what the future held for them. Still, returning to their home was their best option to secure the kind of future he wanted for his people. The wildlings would not march south again.
Wordlessly, Tormund marched with the others through the deep snows. Speechlessness did not come easily to Tormund Giantsbane; he always had a fantastic tale or two to tell anyone who would listen. Looking at Jon Snow, he could tell he was not in the mood for conversation. The Dragon Queen's death for him was still too near. Tormund, at the least, would not make his mourning harder for him.
He is haunted by the dead more than we are, Tormund thought to himself, he carries her wherever we go. In truth, Tormund never understood Jon's fascination with the Dragon Queen. Ygritte he understood, but Daenerys? What had she of the North in her? Save Jon Snow upon occasion. To him, Daenerys never quite matched Jon. Ygritte made him better, Daenerys just made him different. The same man who once journeyed to treat with Mance beyond the wall was not the same man he looked upon now. Tormund wasn't sure he'd ever see that man again.
He and Jon walked in silence for longer than Tormund could reckon. They passed by many places that made Jon take pause. They passed Craster's Keep, or what little left of it that stood in ruins. Old Craster deserved what he got from his girls in the end, but in truth Tormund wished he hadn't. We could have at least lived in his house for a while, Tormund thought, if his wives hadn't burned it to the ground. He wondered where the daughter-wives of Craster were now. Probably bones now, Tormund thought, or burning with the army of the dead.
As they continued to walk through the forest, to Tormund's surprise and delight he heart birds overhead; life was returning to the land. It was a wondrous sound to hear. He oft worried if his people would have the food they needed, the shelter, the warmth. He did not yet know where he was marching them, but it needed to be special. He could not uproot his people again. This is where they'd lay down roots.
Jon
Jon's feet were beginning to hurt as they made their slow march up North. This would be his penance. Be glad you still have feet to walk upon, he told himself. For now, he should be long dead for slaying his queen. Instead, he'd help the wildlings resettle the North in whatever way he could. Even now after turning down yet another offer to become King in the North, he chafed against following orders. Jon forced all of his ideas, suggestions, and critiques down inside him. He had his chance to rule but he gave it up. He'd have to get used to this new role.
As the Fist of the First Men loomed in the distance, Jon Snow finally spoke up, "Where are you leading us?"
"I don't know," Tormund admitted, "Where would you lead the people if you were me?"
Jon was the de facto leader of the Wildlings, it did little good to pretend otherwise. Tormund has never led, nor wore a crown and he looked to Jon for guidance, "We can not return to Hardhome. That place has seen too much strife for the people to ever be happy there."
"The people say it must be haunted," Tormund interjected.
Jon laughed, "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
"You didn't believe in giants, or wights, or dragons until you laid your pretty eyes on them," Tormund quipped, "For all you have seen, you still disbelieve?"
Jon grunted. He had always been the kind of man that needed to learn by seeing. He thought the wildlings savage until he met Ygritte, he thought the wights to be a story until he fought them, he even balked at the existence of dragons until he saw one in the flesh. Jon is and ever was a hard man to convince of anything without proof.
The two men stopped the group of refugees, beckoning them to take shelter in the tree line. Many of whom that were left were either old, women, or children. In truth the wildlings has lost most of their best fighters. Both Tormund and Jon seemed to wonder how they would recover from this, if they could recover from it.
"I know a place," Jon spoke softly to the wild ginger man, "It's not far from here."
"You're beginning to know the north better than I do, Little Crow," Tormund smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, "Where are you leading us?"
"A valley," Jon said simply.
In truth, Jon had discovered the place as he took his first dragon ride. A vast glittering valley awaited them, with caves for shelter, and sparkling fresh water for drinking. Trees for building loomed nearby. A more perfect place to settle in the north, you could not have wished for. He half wondered if these were the caves in which he spent his first night with Ygritte. There were many caves carved into many mountains in the North, Jon Snow could hardly tell the difference between them.
"We could stay a thousand years— no one would find us", Daenerys once said to him as they landed in the unspoiled valley for the first time. And Jon hoped nobody would, for the wildlings had suffered far too much. One thing was for certain, he'd look for no love in this place. In effect, he had already lost two women there.
If Hardhome's name was in any way prophetic, signaling the dark fate that would await the people there, Jon and Tormund wanted the name of their settlement to reflect a new era. At they very least, they didn't want their village's name to spell doom before it was erected.
"Happy Home?" Tormund suggested in jest, grinning.
Jon winced at the name. The wildlings were not a particularly cheery folk these days, they'd never agree to a name so ludicrous. The North was most beautiful but it was also feral, wild, tough living. Most days Jon felt little to be happy about. The lords of Westeros were fond of naming places in this fashion, on the nose and garish. No, the wildlings sought something far more close to home.
"What about 'Snowfort', in 'Winter's Valley'?" Jon suggested.
"Snowfort," Tormund mulled it over, stroking his beard.
After a long while he smiled at Jon and said, "Give it to the fancy lord to come up with our new name. Snowfort, I like that."
"I could think of no better name for the Land of Always Winter," Jon half smiled.
The winds would whip hard through the valley. The days and nights alike would be bitterly cold. But that's who the wildlings were- of the snow. The people were hearty; they would last the winter. Jon was of the snow too, just another one of the Stark men who should have never ventured South. Jon would never make that mistake again.
Sam
No matter how many times Sam slipped his robes over his head, fastening the Grand Maester's chain around him, Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The last time he had set foot in the great library of Old Town the maesters hardly felt as though they should let him in. His mind began to adle as he spent days on his hands and knees, cleaning up after the maesters that were too frail to even read. The frustration he felt during that time was overwhelming. Now, he thought, looking at himself in the pocked mirror before him, I can read every single one of the books in that library and nobody can tell me otherwise.
It was true, Sam sought knowledge above all else. It was the one thing he was exceptional at, aside from being a loyal friend with the truest heart. That was what the maester's had lost- their heart, and Sam intended to reintegrate it with much haste. He had never thought he'd witness such coldness from men so learned. They let poor Ser Jorah linger with Grey Scale, with the ability to help him. It had been Sam that had cured him, albeit very painfully. The maesters had forbid it. Never again would another man get to make that decision, at least not as long as Sam lived. He'd not let people whom he could help ever suffer again.
He often wondered if he deserved to be Grand Maester. After all, Sam had left Old Town in disgrace without so much as a link of his chain. King Bran felt differently, ordering him to take up the position. Sam was flattered yet often doubted himself. Whilst he did not know it, that was precisely why Bran chose him for the position; Sam had humility.
Sam smiled as he turned to Gilly, who was reading to little Sam. Years past she had never even left the North, never-mind having left the North. She unconsciously held her stomach as she read, protecting their unborn child. Whether warrior, maester, lady, or sailor, Sam's love for that child was unconditional. He'd not do what his father had done, banishing him, hating him. He'd be there for them, to love them, to support them. I may not be the greatest soldier, or have done many great deeds, he thought as he moved to sit by Gilly, but you will always have my love, little one.
"Do you have to go?" Gilly asked him softly.
"Yes," Sam sighed, "Bran- erm, King Bran has summoned me to a meeting of the Small Council."
"For what?" Gilly's brow knitted.
Little Sam tugged at her hair. "I don't know," Sam admitted, "Only that it's urgent, and I'd best be off soon."
"You-you'll be coming back, right?" Gilly half whispered.
"Of course I will," Sam smiled, "I'm not going off to war, Gilly. Only to the Tower of the Hand."
"Though," Sam added, "Depending on the mood of Lord Tyrion and Lord Bronn, sometimes I feel like I'm walking into a battle."
"I just don't like being away from you is all," Gilly admitted, "Especially as the baby gets closer."
"Gilly, you're four months pregnant. It's not as if you'll be giving birth this afternoon," Sam somewhat chastised her, "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Why don't you and little Sam go for a walk?" he suggested, "I hear that some of the gardens have been replanted. It's said that they're really quite beautiful."
"Alright," Gilly said reluctantly.
Gilly's behavior was to be expected, or so Sam had thought. They had been through so much strife, she didn't relax easily. In time, she'd come to love living down South in the capital. Upon their arrival, they were married on the beach. The ceremony, while sparsely attended, owing to the fact that most of their friends were dead or exiled, was quite beautiful. Gilly had a glow about her, owed less to her pregnancy and more to her smile. The south, though she tried to deny it, agreed with her.
In three month's time, Sam planned on taking Gilly to Horn Hill so she could spend her final months with child in comfort with his mother and sister. He hadn't seen either of them since his father was killed and he yearned to look upon their faces once more. After the wars, he realized how precious life was, family was. He wouldn't lose touch with his whilst he still had the time to spend with them.
Sam planted a kiss upon little Sam's forehead, clasping a hand lightly on his wife's shoulder. "I'll always come back to you," he smiled, and turned from their chambers, ready to fulfill his duties to the Small Council.
Gendry
One of the final decrees Daenerys Targaryen made before she died made Gendry the Lord of Storm's End, and master of the seat of his fallen father, King Robert Baratheon. Gendry had never been acknowledged by his father whilst he lived. He lived as an orphan, a struggling blacksmith apprentice in Flea Bottom, the poorest section in King's Landing. As Flea Bottom was mostly in ruins, the only home Gendry had ever known was gone. Where would he go now?
King Bran took him by surprise when he held up the decision made by Queen Daenerys. He had retained his newly gained title and holdings. Overnight he had not only become Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, but also Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. A Baratheon had held that title since the War of Conquest when Aegon Targaryen rained down fire and death upon them, unifying the Seven Kingdoms in the process. Bran would not break with that tradition. Nor would Gendry.
One of the seven kingdoms belonged to Gendry now, though he could hardly believe it. He had never even looked upon Storm's End, now he was to rule over it. If only Arya had stayed by my side, he thought, she could have taught me a thing or two about ruling. Arya had left him in favor of exploring, and Gendry still harbored some small ill will, though he'd never outwardly show it. He had everything he ever dreamed of, yet she was not there. Arya or no Arya, he'd need someone to teach him to rule. He'd not let Storm's End nor the Stormlands fall whilst Gendry the Warhammer defended her.
It felt odd to Gendry to ride under his father's stag banners. He pawed at the sigil emblazoned on his chest in disbelief. If he had told the little boy he once was who he'd become he would have balked at them. Still, he hardly felt as though the armor fitted him. To Gendry, wearing the Baratheon stag upon his chest felt about as natural as a fish on dry land. Still, he was Lord of Storm's End now, and he needed to keep up appearances.
Storm's End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon, loomed before him. Gendry had never looked upon the place before. Storm's End was one of the mightiest castles in all of Westeros. The castle towered high above the sea. Storm's End was a seat of strength; even the ever-present storms, salty air, and the sea could scarcely touch the place. At its core Storm's End was a fortress; it was meant to protect. Bran had told him that Storm's End had endured countless sieges but had never fallen to an enemy. Gendry would not be the first to let her fall.
Gendry watched as the tumultuous waves battered the ancient rocks below the castle walls. The seaward wall was nearly eighty feet thick, the colossal curtain wall encircling a massive drum tower. It pierced the sky like a solitary stone column. Gendry marveled at the enormity of the place. There easily was a one hundred and fifty foot drop into the sea from the top of the walls. The fortress, unlike the many towers of the Red Keep and Winterfell, was just one large building.
Gendry could see sentinels moving towards the top of the tower, their golden armor glinting in the sunlight. "I thought our armor was silver," Gendry narrowed his eyes, peering at the men, "And that Storm's End was abandoned."
"It was, my Lord," mused Sebastion Errol, bannerman of the Stormlands.
Sebastion Errol, Lord of Haystack Hall, was a tall man with a gaunt face. He had a sense of simple nobility about him; he was educated, well-kempt, but cared little for finery nor gold. Sebastion was five and twenty, and the last of his house, save his younger sister, Jelissa Errol. Sebastion had not seen his sister in some time; she'd be nearly six and ten now. The war had kept him from her and he wanted nothing more than to get back to her, to ensure she was safe.
House Errol had supported Renly Baratheon during the War of the Five Kings, after his death, Sebastion and his father returned to the region to support Stannis. Sebastion's mother and father had both perished during the war, leaving him Haystack Hall. Their sigil was one of the strangest in the land, or so thought Gendry, for it was a large yellow haystack upon a field of orange.
Gendry and Sebastion halted a great distance from the keep, commanding their small escort to halt. They narrowed their eyes, peering at the castle. "Those are not our men," Sebastion said wisely, "We wear no gold in the Stormlands. Only silver, as the clouds that bring the storms above the sea. That has long since been our way."
"Lannisters?" Gendry inquired.
"I think not," Duncas Storm, a Baratheon general not well known to Gendry, interjected, "When the Red Keep fell, all the Lannister soldiers that didn't burned were either executed or they turned tail and ran. They wouldn't waste their time taking a keep they could never hold."
Duncas Storm was a squat but sturdy man with a large barrel chest and deep brown eyes. His hair had whitened on his temples, his face covered in a patchy grey beard. His leathers were worn, his cloak moth-eaten, but he had served House Baratheon for centuries, and that was good enough for Gendry.
"Who are they then?" asked Gendry, in disbelief that his first day as Lord of Storm's End could be going so poorly already.
"We had heard rumors," Duncas reluctantly admitted, "But thought them to be thoroughly untrue. Believe you me, my Lord, you would have been the first to know had we put any stock in them."
"If there are rumors then I'd have you tell me," Gendry commanded.
"Many moons ago we received a letter from Arianne Martell, my Lord," Duncas Storm began, "Most of the men were either in King's Landing, the North, or both, we thought nothing of her claims."
"And what were those claims?" Gendry asked impatiently.
"They say there was a Targaryen that sailed across the Narrow Sea," Duncas admitted.
"I know," Gendry said simply, "I've met her. She's kind of the reason I'm standing here, actually."
"You misunderstand, my Lord," Sebastian interjects, "Not Daenerys Targaryen, no. This was Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia Martell. Folks down in Dorne say he was spared the sword when your father took the Seven Kingdoms, that the boy was hidden and sent to live on the other side of the world. Most say he's a fake, an imposter, that he's no real Targaryen at all."
"What does that have to do with Storm's End?" Gendry asked.
"When your uncles abandoned the castle, it is said that Aegon sailed across the Narrow Sea and claimed Storm's End for his own with the help of the Golden Company."
"The Golden Company is gone," Gendry spoke up, "They burned with King's Landing. Arya Stark told me so. Not to mention, I saw their armor collected down in the dungeons. Well- what could be salvaged anyway, what with the dragonfire and all. In any case, the Golden Company's burned, dead."
"Not all of them, apparently," Sebastion gestured to the castle, "Looks like some of them are still here."
"We have not the men to take the castle, my Lord," Duncas admitted, "Not if the Golden Company holds it."
The wind whipped Gendry's face hard. The seawater was unforgiving, biting and licking at all of his half-healed scars from the Great War. He looked out onto the ocean, half hoping he'd see Arya coming about on the horizon. No, he thought, I will do this on my own.
"We cannot hope to survive a siege. Aye, I know that," Gendry began, "But I know another way we can get inside."
In all the time since Gendry had gone north, he got to know one man quite well- Ser Davos Seaworth. Not only was Ser Davos the best smuggler in the Seven Kingdoms but he was there when his uncle was killed- he was in the cave when Melisandre birthed King Stannis' shadow. Paths that shadow followed led him through Storm's End and to Renly Baratheon's camp. Gendry would follow that same route; he could take his castle back from the inside.
"I'll need a rowboat," Gendry half laughed, "And my hammer."
Arya
Peering up from her maps at last, Arya Stark sighed, rubbing her temples. Her head pounded and ached, but not from her battle scars. No, this was fatigue, disappointment. They had been sailing for a fortnight yet heard no sight not sound of land, bird, or living creatures, save the fish. If she was looking to find what was 'west of Westeros', she was becoming more and more certain that it was nothing. She hadn't left her cabin in days, preferring to stay below decks and out of sight. How could she show her face in front of her men? Would the great vanquisher of the Night King, Arya Stark herself, be so quick to admit defeat? No, she'd rather stay below decks forever.
The last time she'd been on a ship she had been sailing back home to Westeros, across the Narrow Sea from Braavos, preparing to kill Walder Frey and ultimately Queen Cersei. Daenerys Targaryen had saved her the trouble of the latter. A disappointing death for the queen, or so Arya thought. If Sandor Clegane hadn't convinced her to turn back and flee the city, Arya was sure she would have been able to do the deed. Of course, she likely would have died in the process. But the God of Death did not take her that day, neither was it her fate to kill Cersei. Still, Arya she longed to do it, fantasized about how she'd do it, relished in that taste for the sweet revenge she so desperately craved. In the end, it had been stolen from her. Cersei was crushed by falling rocks in the arms of her brother. A poor death in all senses, and thoroughly unsatisfying for her. It certainly wasn't what she deserved. She deserved agony, hardship, pain, or so Arya thought. Yet, she tried not to dwell on it; there'd be other green eyes that she'll get to shut forever.
"West of Westeros. I'm just a stupid girl for ever thinking..." she muttered to herself, banging her first on the table, sloshing the mug of ale onto the map.
"Shit," she muttered, sopping up the liquid before it could bleed the ink.
If there is anything west of Westeros, it's out much further than the distance from Westeros to Essos, she thought silently, pouring over the map once more. A knock sounded at the door loudly, "Lady Stark?" the voice called, "You must eat. You missed supper again."
"I'm not hungry," she lied, not wanting to show her face to the man, "And stop calling me 'lady', Leith."
Ignoring her, Leith Seacrow slammed the door open. "Hey!" Arya called standing, "You can't just barge in here like that."
"I can," the man said defiantly, "I'm your first mate, and I have every right to look in on my captain."
"Besides, if you're wantin' us to stop treatin' you like some highborn lady, then you're gon ter have to stop acting like one," the man said boldly, "You've been shut up in here for days. The men are gettin' restless; they know something is up."
Leith Seacrow was an Ironborn man, brown of hair, with eyes like bright green seafoam. He was of the same age as Arya, but already an accomplished seamen in his own right. Yara Greyjoy had sent the boy with her to assist her as they journeyed westward. Arya had offered Yara a chance to go with her when she stopped in the Iron Islands on the first leg of her journey but Yara seemed distrustful of the Starks. Arya couldn't say she blamed her, though. After all, a Stark killed her queen.
Arya had butted heads with Leith ever since he had arrived. He was always trying to second-guess her or undercut her decisions. What Arya hated most was that he seemed to have an answer for everything. However simple his speech may have seemed, there was a lot of thought behind his eyes. His arms were strong and his skin bronzed. He kept faith with the Drowned God but that did not bother Arya. After all, the God of Death was known to wear many faces.
"What am I supposed to tell them?" Arya said angrily, "That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing, where we're going, or what we're even going to eat in a week's time?"
"Everyone on this ship is here 'cause we want to be," Leith said simply, "Because they believe in you."
"Do you believe in me?" Arya asked.
"I believe in Yara Greyjoy," he admitted, "And she's got faith in you. I've never known her to be a liar. Not a fool, neither."
Arya had known for some time that Leith thought her foolish. In some ways he was right, she knew little about sailing. She'd only been on a boat a handful of times, and none of them at the captain's wheel. It came as no surprise that he'd have little faith in her, especially now.
Leith cleared his throat through his silence, "The point is, yer men will stand by ya, myself included."
"I suppose the men want to turn back then," Arya sank back down into her chair and took a particularly large swig of ale, "I don't blame them. I probably would too."
"No, m'lady. We'll be keeping going if it please you," Leith said surprisingly, "I always wanted ter be an explorer. And we'll make landfall, don't you worry."
"You may meet your Drowned God before we get there," Arya whispered darkly.
As Leith made to open his mouth to give answer to her, as he usually did, a man appeared at the door. Croll Cratter was of the Riverlands, from a small village due north of Riverrun. He lost everything in the Great War, his home, his family, even his left eye. Still, Croll Cratter was born and bred upon the Red Fork, a meandering and treacherous stretch of the Trident, the largest river in Westeros. Cratter had fought with her uncle, Brynden the Blackfish, during his time but made his living as a bargeman down the river. No finer a waterman could Arya find on the mainland.
"My Lady," Croll Cratter panted, clutching a stitch in his side, "You must come quick."
Arya's hand instinctively reached for the catspaw dagger lingering upon her belt loop. The blade had never left her side since she slayed the Night King. "Ya' won't be needing that," Croll looked at her, his eye widened, causing his eyepatch crinkle oddly.
Arya did not take her hand off her dagger. She had learned far too much on the road to take any man at his word. She'd not be stabbed to death by usurpers as Jon Snow had been. "What is it then?" she asked, trying her best to sound commanding.
"One of the men spotted it," Croll Cratter said, "I could hardly believe it myself."
"A gull flew past not two minutes ago," Croll explained excitedly.
"That means…" Leith started but trailed off.
"...There's land nearby," Arya finished for him, launching from her chair.
She pushed past the two men, ready to make for the decks to see for herself. She turned on the spot without so much as a squeak from her boots and said, "Ready to find out what's west of Westeros?!"
Tyrion
Tyrion Lannister rested his head upon his hand and used the other to tap the table in the Tower of the Hand nervously. Bran must have had a good reason to send for the small council members so early. What now, he thought to himself, what's just around the corner waiting to kill us now?
The other council members filed in nervously, one by one. Sam Tarly was the first to arrive. "Those robes they suit you," he smiled to Sam.
"Do you think so?" Sam fussed with his chain awkwardly, "It's a bit heavier than I thought it would be."
"Heavy with the weight of knowledge and learning," Tyrion sighed, "At last, a man who understands the burden."
"You could have been a maester, Lord Tyrion," Sam half whispered, "And a good one I'd think."
"Me a maester?" Tyrion said half shocked, "My father would never have allowed it. Can you imagine? The Lannister imp draped in chains bigger than him? Of course not. Besides, iron's not really my color."
"His color has always been chickenshit red," Bronn smiled, sliding into his seat at the table.
"Ser Bronn, how lovely to see you," Tyrion said sarcastically, taking a rather large sip of wine.
"Tyrion," Bronn nodded in return, pouring a glass of his own, "Any idea why we have been summoned by his rolling highness?"
"Nope," Tyrion took another sip, "Only that it was urgent. He would not have called us here otherwise."
"I thought he could see the future," Bronn started, "So why wouldn't have he known this, you know, beforehand?"
"It doesn't work like that," Sam was quick to correct him, "Bran can see glimpses of the future, as well as the past but he can't see what he doesn't look for. Does that make sense?"
"Not in the slightest," Bronn shook his head.
"Well, you and eye have eyes, right?" Sam started to explain.
"Yes, Grand Maester, I'm pretty sure all of us have eyes. Go on," Tyrion said, rolling his own.
"Well, you see, Bran's got a third eye, that's why they call him the Three-Eyed Raven."
"Where's he keeping his eye?" Bronn asked, "Because I ain't ever seen no eye yet."
"No, it's not a physical eye," Sam struggled to suppress a laugh, "It's a way of saying he can see the things we can't. Like the past and future."
Sam sighed and continued, "As I was saying, we all have eyes. Our eyes may be opened or they may be closed. When they're opened, we see the world around us. At night when we sleep, our eyes close, shut to the world. You see, Bran can only see things when his eye is open. In essence, Bran only sees when he looks."
"Is that why his eyes go as white as your cloak?" Bronn said in jest as he looked up to Ser Brienne of Tarth, who was in a hurry to take her seat.
Her face was puffy and her eyes were red around the edges. Doubtless she had gotten very little sleep recently. Tortured by my brother, Tyrion thought, if only he had stayed in the North with her. Then maybe he'd be here sitting beside me.
Ser Davos Seaworth followed Ser Brienne before anyone else could speak. That would be the last of them, save King Bran, of course. They were still missing a Master of Whispers, War, and Law. Tyrion struggled to think of who was left. Anyone he ever called a friend was either dead or already in the room. What this council needed was new blood, not more of his friends looking to make up for their past sins. No, they had done enough damage already.
As Davos took his place at the small council table the door opened for a final time. Ser Podrick Payne assisted Bran, wheeling him to the head of the table at the far side. Brienne had bid him to do so after he delivered his dark news, for it was her that had the task of summoning the small council. Tyrion noticed even she struggled to mask her apprehension. Worried, Tyrion could glean little from Bran's placid expression either. "Thank you, Ser Podrick," Bran said softly, "Please wait outside and see that we are not to be disturbed."
"Nobody is to interrupt us for any reason," Bran added to ensure Pod understood, repeating, "For any reason."
"Yes, your Grace," Podrick said, bowing slightly, backing out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.
Lord Tyrion was the first to speak, "Why the secrecy, your Grace?"
"I bring grave news not fit for prying ears and loose lips," Bran said but made no effort to smile nor change his expression.
"Then it is good that we have not filled the position of Master of Whispers," Bronn said in jest.
"We may not get the chance," Bran said ominously, in no hurry to follow-up with more information to qualify his secrecy.
The small council sat in silence for a few moments. It killed Tyrion, for her was a man of many words. He wanted to cry out, yell to Bran to spit out his words with haste. The old Tyrion may have made some sort of joke of it, but the new Tyrion knew better. Instead he used his time to study the King. Ultimately, this is what prodded him to speak.
"You look uneasy, Tyrion," Bran whispered, "Rightfully so. It is time I tell you the gravest news of my reign thus far."
"Those White Walker fuckers back?" Bronn asked, "Or that dragon?"
"Neither," Bran entertained him, "But the latter is much closer."
"Have you found Drogon?" Sam Tarly asked, in wonder.
"Yes," Bran said, "Drogon has flown to Dragonstone."
"Well, that's a relief," Ser Davos sighed.
"I wouldn't be too quick to say that, Ser Davos," King Bran cautioned him.
"I followed the dragon in the night from Dragonstone. The beast was headed East. He held his mother's corpse in its claws."
"East?" Tyrion was taken aback, "Do you think it makes to take her home to Mereen, the Dothraki?"
"I think not, in fact, I know not. There is no question about where he has taken her. I've seen it with my own eye."
Sam looked to Bronn as if to suggest he had been foolish to quip about the King's power. "And where in your mind's eye did Drogon take her?" Tyrion sighed, adding, "Your Grace."
"Volantis," Bran said simply, as if it were his breakfast order or the name of an acquaintance.
Few in the room, save Tyrion and Sam, seemed to understand the gravity behind the word. Volantis, Tyrion thought, remembering the last time he was there. He had been kidnapped by Jorah and taken to Mereen, the long way around. Despite this unplanned journey, he still knew much of the place. How could he have forgotten the Temple of the Lord of Light?
"Daenerys Targaryen has been taken to the Temple of the Lord of Light, to Benerro, the Red Priest. Drogon dropped her body in the square. I felt the sea air shake off his scales as he took to the air. The gust of wind hit my face like a hurricane. He left her there, like a child dropping their doll at their mother's feet."
"So her corpse is going to rot in Volantis instead of King's Landing," Bronn murmured, "What's that have to do with us, your Grace?"
Sam opened his mouth to answer him but Tyrion cut across him, "It means my worst fear has been realized."
After a great pause, air thick and heavy with anxiety, Bran finally said, "Daenerys Targaryen has been brought back to life."
Sansa
"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa sighed, throwing down the message Bran had sent her, "That is what my mother always told me, and she's not wrong."
Drogon has carried Daenerys across the Narrow Sea to Volantis. The Red Priest has brought her back to life. Daenerys Targaryen is alive once more. Burn this letter and tell only who you must. Bran.
Sansa crumpled the note in her hand and threw it into the fireplace behind her throne. She poked it until she was certain the flames had eaten all traces of the ink. She'd learned many lessons from Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys; one must never leave one's secrets laying around for someone to find. Ultimately, both men paid the price for their tactlessness.
"Your grace?" Maester Wolkan inquired.
"A letter from my brother, maester," she said, taking her seat in the direwolf throne, "I saw no reason to be sentimental about keeping it."
Sansa did not yet trust Maester Wolkan. He had served under the Boltons, albeit as a victim himself. Still, he could have helped her escape them, yet he did little to put a stop to them. He may have laid a crown upon her head and proclaimed her Queen in the North, but he did not have her full trust. In truth, Sansa hardly knew if she could trust anyone completely ever again.
She sat, stony faced, in front of the fire and thought about her next moves. She had learned at Cersei's skirts, at Petyr Baelish's elbow, even at the knifepoint of Ramsay Bolton yet still she knew not what to do. What allies had she to fight against a dragon? Surely Daenerys would come for her. She thought of Arya, away at sea, too far gone to make any difference to her. Bran would have to protect the other Six Kingdoms. The Northmen were still reeling from King's Landing. Her thoughts turned to Jon, her brother not by blood but by choice. He was the only one closeby enough to make any difference. Besides which, he needed to be warned. If Daenerys had been resurrected, she'd certainly be coming to take revenge on Jon Snow, for it was he who had slayed her. Someone would have to ride out and meet him. She'd trust no one else for the task but herself.
"Maester Wolkan," Sansa spoke at once, firmly cementing her decision, "Please make ready my horse. I have a long ride ahead."
"Your Grace," he said, taken aback, "But winter has come. You cannot possibly make the journey alone."
She thought on his words a moment. He was right, Sansa could hardly navigate the North alone. What she needed was a guide. "Maester," she started, "Do you know where to find the Reeds?"
"The Reeds?" he wrinkled his nose, "The Frog People?"
"Yes, those Reeds," Sansa said, half annoyed, "Send for Meera Reed at once."
Meera Reed had led Bran through the North and back once. Perhaps she could do the same once again for Sansa. In any case, she was her only hoped if she wished to make it beyond the wall and back home. She'd just won her crown, she wouldn't soon leave it in the snow.
Daenerys
Daenerys' bare chest heaved as she panted in the humid Volantine air. Her lungs were still heavy with ash and smoke. Delirious, she could hardly tell where she was. "I was dead," she murmured, "Jon-J-Jon Snow, he killed me."
The bright white of the room hurt her eyes; they burned as though they were still aflame. Evidently, she had survived through fire even in death. They had shed her skins and furs of the north and returned her to the manner in which she started when her dragons were born those long years ago. With a strong sense of deja vu and confusion, Daenerys stole herself to speak again, "I'm alive."
Tycho Dynyr's gaped open-mouthed at her in disbelief. Realizing what happened, at long last, he made a short awkward bow to her. "Queen Daenerys," he said, "We heard rumors that you conquered King's Landing."
"I did," Daenerys said coldly, her voice sounding odd, even to her own lips, "But it was taken from me."
"I never even got the chance to sit upon the Iron Throne," she admitted.
"The rumors also say that Iron Throne has been destroyed," Tycho reluctantly admitted, fearing for the Queen's reaction, "They say the throne was reduced to embers by your Dragon, my Queen."
"And what has come of the city? The usurpers?" Daenerys' eyes darted back and forth, eager for as much information as anyone could tell her.
"We know so very little, my Queen," Tycho whispered, "Perhaps you should rest a bit, not push yourself. You've only just returned to the land of living, glory to R'hllor."
Daenerys hardly even cared to ask how she'd been brought back to life, but that was her nature. She craved intrigue, knowledge. "No," she commanded, "If you know what has become of my kingdom, I will have you tell me."
"O-of course, your Grace," Tycho stuttered, "Brandon Stark has been crowned king, or so I am told."
Daenerys wrinkled her nose, "Bran has been made king? But he's crippled. He never wanted the crown."
Her thoughts turned to Jon Snow at once; when she took the first breath of her new life she assumed it would have been Jon Snow that took her kingdom from her. After all, he was a Targaryen too, with a better claim. "Are your certain Jon Snow is not king?"
"I know not of Jon Snow, you Grace. Only that this man you speak of is no longer of the Six Kingdoms. He was banished for what he did to you,"
Banishment was not good enough for what he did to me, or so Daenerys thought, for he deserved to die for this. Where was Grey Worm? Drogon? Had they not defended me even in death? "What else can you tell me?" she inquired.
Tycho spoke softly, "Only that Bran was crowned king of the Six Kingdoms. That is the extent of my knowledge."
"Six Kingdoms?" Daenerys questioned him, irritated, "Westeros is made up of seven kingdoms, not six. I'd expect a red priest to know better."
"King Bran reigns over only six," Tycho corrected her delicately, "They say that the North has gained independence. The Queen in the North reigns over that territory."
Daenerys scoffed, Sansa. She had long suspected that Sansa was not exactly on her side. Clearly, she wanted to be Queen in the North all along. With Daenerys dead and out of the way, who could stop her? She conspired with him, I know she did, Daenerys thought to herself madly, she killed me to gain the North.
"They say that Westeros is largely at peace," Tycho said.
"I gave them that peace," Daenerys sat up from the great slab of tangerine quartz, her brow furrowed, "It was my victory, not theirs."
"I do not doubt your victory, my Queen," Tycho half bowed again, "I only mean to tell you what I know."
Daenerys tutted and asked, "And how did I come to be here?"
"Your dragon left you here in the square," Tycho explained, "Benerro, our High Priest recognized you at once."
"And pray tell me, where is Benerro now?" Daenerys asked.
"B-Benerro," Tycho stuttered, "Benerro was the one who brought you back to life."
Daenerys' eyes narrowed in disbelief, "I think not," she said, "For he would still be here, would he not?"
"No," Daenerys shook her head, "It was you who brought me back to life. Thank you…"
She lingered, looking for his name. "I am called Tycho Dynyr if it please you, your Grace."
"Thank you Tycho," she smiled oddly, "But I must warn you. Never let lesser men take credit for your great deeds. Men go not win glory by giving it away to others."
"You're wrong," Tycho spoke loudly.
"I beg your pardons, my Queen," he corrected himself, "I only mean to say it was not for my glory that brought you back to life. It was the Lord of Light, R'hllor himself. You are Azor Ahai reborn at last."
"I'm who?" Daenerys asked.
"You must see for yourself, my Queen," Tycho scurried from the rooms.
Within minutes Daenerys began to hear the dull thumping of drums within the chambers below her. She heard high strange voices chanting and praying. Tentatively she stood up. It felt strange to be on her own two feet once again. She wiped ashes away from her body and stretched her back. Slowly, she began to take her first steps once again. She exited the room, emerging into a bright chamber with a large open window at the far side. The sea breeze on her face felt like a dream.
The room was empty, save herself. Tycho Dynyr had gone away, but to do what she did not know. Did the people know she was returned. Tentatively, she approached the window, lightly pushing aside the gauzy pale orange curtains that blocked her view. Shielding her eyes with her hand she blinked hard several times and stepped closer to the windowsill.
As she looked out she was greeted by the people of Volantis. Nearly the whole city had emptied out to catch a glimpse of her. They greeted her with the cheers and devotion she had craved whilst in Westeros. They bowed to her not as a queen but almost as if she was as goddess.
Despite her nakedness and her ashy face they showered down love upon her. Daenerys could not help herself to smile, though she did not know why. It's not often that one smiles so after they find out their lover had killed them and seized power for their brother. Daenerys would set aside that problem for another day. For now, she basked in the love and admiration from the people of Volantis.
Every so often Daenerys caught some words and prayers in her mother tongue of Valyrian said by peoples below. "Azōr Ahaī ēza māzigon arlī!", they called to her, Azor Ahai has come again!
"Mirre hail se vīlībāzmio hen perzys!" she heard them shout, "Mirre hail se dāria hen perzys!"
All hail the Warrior of Fire! All hail the Queen of Fire!
