A/N: I wanted to weave these two narratives together for this chapter, and decided to do it through four smaller points of view rather than one long one. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Bran Stark
"Why, suddenly, do all my brothers insist on going to Dragonstone?" Sansa questioned him. He could tell frustration was welling inside her, and her blue eyes were pinched slightly shut. She wheeled around and headed for one of the room's seats.
Without a word between the two, Bran glanced back at his servant and his chair was wheeled forward. "I told you, Sansa. Jon needs me." The eldest Stark girl's resistance was the source of frustration for him, but doing this with her would be easier than doing it against her.
"Jon needs you for… what exactly?" Sansa snapped back, resting an arm on the back of her chair, and propping her head up on the adjoining hand.
Bran's mouth drew closed into a thin line, hollow eyes locking with Sansa's until she looked away. He let silence maintain its grip on the room for a few heartbeats, and then replied. "I told you that I can see everything, but they're like pieces to me. The present is the easiest, it's as clear as day to me. The past is like a memory, I can call it clearly, but I have to look for it specifically. The future is like a dream. Sometimes it's fuzzy, or sometimes its memory is fleeting, but parts remain crystal clear."
"So you're telling me you saw Jon… in the future, needing your help?" Sansa's face wasn't frustrated anymore. She seemed suddenly frozen by further realization of Bran's abilities. A slight, hollow terror crept through the slackness to her jaw, but quickly she pulled herself together. "What is he doing there? I thought he only went to ask the Targaryen Queen for dragon glass." She shifted her head so that her face rested between her hands, and let out a sigh.
"I told you Sansa, it's hard to make out," Bran replied. "But I have seen parts, and alternatives that could take place. Every possible series of events is happening all at once."
The quote hit Sansa instantly, choking Sansa with the overbearing bravado so quintessential to Littlefinger. She also found her fears over the reach of Bran's sight once more, but this wasn't something he hadn't shown before.
"Will you assist me?"
"No," Sansa replied, her voice shaking a little. "I won't help my youngest brother go off to Dragonstone, and lose even more family if the Targaryens resume burning Starks."
Bran's eyes sharpened, losing some of the hollowness that'd haunted them moments before. "That is unfortunate, Sansa." He could see Sansa recoil at the formality of his address, but she didn't say another word as his servant wheeled him out.
Daenerys Targaryen
"As a girl, my brother told me many stories," Daenerys began. Her voice was steely, and echoed ominously through Dragonstone's throne room. "He told me tales of our brother, Rhaegar. I never him, but from what I've heard he was kind. He was good."
"He was, your grace." The voice back to her was rich and smooth, how Dany imagined liquid gold might sound, were it a voice—fitting for a Lannister. She stared sharply back at him, silently warning the man about the dangers of cutting her off.
"One of Viserys favorite stories was about what we would do to the man that killed him, the usurper Robert Baratheon. The ways we would kill him, and the suffering he would endure first." Her face was as though it had been carved from ice. "When he wasn't fantasizing about torturing the man that slew our brother, it was the man that betrayed our father. The Kingslayer." Tyrion, half a dozen feet to her right side, flinched at the name.
"Your father was an evil man," the voice called back. Jaime Lannister took a step forward, climbing the first step that lead to her throne. The two Dothraki that stood at either side of her stepped forward to engage him, should he venture further. "He would've burned the entire city, innocents and children included, rather than see it under Robert's banners."
Dany's breathing was sharp, and she was attempting for Tyrion's sake to contain her rage. She hadn't liked the idea of recruiting the Kingslayer, but she had thought it would be easier to contain her feelings. She was wrong. "That may be so, but you were his sworn shield, Ser Jaime." She wanted desperately to call him the title he earned with her father's blood, but Tyrion had pleaded with her to contain herself. She was trying.
"I was," he confirmed. "And I broke those vows. I ask you, your grace, would you sacrifice half-a-million innocent men, women, and children just to keep your honor in others' eyes?"
Dany clenched her teeth together, trying to find measured words to respond to him, but couldn't. Turning to Tyrion, she snapped, "You brought your brother here so he could speak ill of my dead father. The father he killed."
Tyrion winced, but affixed her with pleading eyes. "No, your grace… I apologize for any offense my brother may have brought you…" He was still trying to conjure up the words needed to sate her.
"I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, on behalf of House Targaryen, pardon you, Ser Jaime Lannister." The words felt like poison leaving Dany's throat. They burned in her throat, even after speaking them. But they were spoken.
To his part, Jaime looked taken aback at first. "You have my thanks, your grace."
"I do not need your thanks, I need your assistance," she replied coldly. "Your brother has vouched extensively for your honor, and I respect him. If I am to believe Jon Snow, there is an army of dead men marching south. However, I am still locked in combat with your sister. Without an armistice, how am I expected to venture north to fight this army? Cersei will simply retake all that my armies have fought and died for."
Jaime had a knowing resolve on his face, and nodded along with her. "Of course. As I promised Tyrion, I will go north with Jon Snow's party, and survey the Others for myself. If they are a real threat, I will do all I can to convince Cersei of it as well."
"Good," Dany replied cooly. "Now if you don't mind, my lord, I would prefer you find elsewhere to be."
By hand, I will break the Kingslayer, sweet sister. Body and mind, I will torture him until there's little left of him. And then, when he has suffered for days, I will execute him as father would have—with fire.
As Jaime turned to leave, Dany's head lowered. One word, brother. One word and I could have him burned away by Drogon. She pinched her eyes shut, her cool smile fading into a tired frown. When she opened her eyes Jaime was gone, but Tyrion glanced worriedly at her. "Your grace…" Tyrion began, "I appreciate what you did for him, and I know he appreciates it as well."
"Good," Dany cut in. Her eyes were distant, looking far past the shorter Lannister. As much as she tried to shake it away, Viserys voice was whispering in the back of her head. Reciting the ways he would torture Jaime Lannister, the ways he could kill Jaime Lannister, and the list of crimes committed by Jaime Lannister.
Shaking her head, Dany stood up from her throne and began to descend the stairs from its dais. She caught sight of Tyrion turning to follow her, but she stopped and shook her head. "I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind, Lord Tyrion." He seemed to recoil at her words, but gave a slow nod and backed away.
"Yes, of course, your grace," he replied politely. "I'll be going then." He spun away, and made for a nearby hallway. Finally, as Dany strode through the throne room, she was mostly alone. There still stood her Dothraki guard, and Tyrion's footsteps betrayed that he had not yet reached the door, but still there was no one watching her.
Dragonstone was a comforting place for Daenerys, and one of its simple pleasures was just solitude. She had been born here, during a storm like no other, after her father had already been slain. She didn't remember any of her time here, though that was to be expected of a newborn. Still, she felt a connection to the place. The dark, gloomy shadows cast in its long angular halls matched her internal mood most days.
For her entire childhood, since she could remember, Viserys talked of nothing beyond taking Westeros. He spoke of destiny, how his was the true right to the Iron Throne. He spoke of killing the Usurper, taking back King's Landing, and dealing out punishment on the unfaithful lords. Then he had died, and his ambition transferred to her as if it were a stone tumbling down a hill, propelled by so much momentum that not even death could stop it. Everything she had done in Yunkai, Astapor, and Mereen, had been partially to gather resources needed to take the Seven Kingdoms.
However, now that she was here, Dany had to admit that she'd never felt more lonely in her life. The return of Ser Jorah had been a relief, as he was one of her longest-lived friends, and closest advisors. Still, those around her were mostly new faces. Lord Varys, the Spider who had pretended to serve the Usurper until such a time as he chose to reveal his allegiances. Tyrion Lannister, a trusted advisor, but one that she'd known no longer than Lord Varys. No, Dany found the most comfort in the friendship with her hand maiden Missandei, and her Unsullied or Dothraki soldiers. She thought that perhaps she ought to yearn most for Daario, as he'd been the closest she had to a lover or an intimate confidant since Drogo's death, but she hardly even thought of the mercenary left behind. Dany yearned for company and companionship, but she was so unfamiliar with the subject that she had no picture of what she desired.
She paused to run her fingertips against the rough, cold surface of Dragonstone's wall. This place not only offered her peace in its solitude, but it provided her peace of mind in its situation. Though it was close to King's Landing, it was a solid fortress, and was out of sight of the cursed capital. It afforded her a modicum of security in this heated war.
She continued walking while her fingers brushed against the wall. She could feel the cool stone sapping at her finger's warmth as she moved, the skin of her fingertip slowly cooling. Already, her time wandering in silence had provided some peace to her rage, and just in time it seemed. She reached a dead-end in the hall. There was no path branching to either side. She was faced just with a thick wooden door, leading to the outdoors. The door opened to reveal a small stone balcony, with a path branching to the castle's wall, and another in steps that lead to the courtyard. To her right stretched the yawning mouth of Blackwater Bay, and to her left Dragonstone's courtyard.
Carrying upward from the armory, on the other side of the courtyard, came the shrill shriek of steel hammering against steel. There were voices too, but Dany was far enough away that she couldn't make out any of their words. She kept walking, stepping down one of the nearby stairwells. The new background noise was a nice change, and she clung to each word, curious if she could make any of it out. At first she couldn't, but soon Dany found that one of the voices was more familiar than the others. It was the haggard, wind-whipped drawl of the North—more specifically, of Jon Snow.
Dany crept through the courtyard, towards the armory, now able to recognize the thick flea bottom accent of Ser Davos as well. She hastened her step, and was to the armory's entryway when Jon spoke up again. This time she was close enough to hear him well, though none had seen her—save for a third man, that Dany didn't recognize.
"Believe me, Ser Davos, I mean no disrespect," Jon began, turning between Davos and the younger, black haired man. "We need every body we can get, and Gendry here seems very capable. But what brought him aboard…?"
"Erm.. sorry, your grace, but-" the younger man pointed at Dany, and the two older men spun towards her.
"Your grace," Jon said, nodding his head respectfully. "I didn't know you were there."
Dany shook her head, and looked past him to 'Gendry'. "Please, continue, Lord Gendry. I didn't mean to interrupt Lord Snow's question," Dany replied. Jon just pursed his lips and stepped aside, suddenly less comfortable than he'd been moments before.
"Your grace," Lord Davos cut in, "Gendry here is no lord, he's just a flea bottom bastard. I was looking for wea-" Davos was saying, before being interrupted.
"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard," the younger man blurted. "My name is Gendry Waters, your grace."
Sansa Stark
"Once upon a time," came the chilling sound of Arya's voice from behind her. Mentally, Sansa prepared herself for whatever pointed remarks her sister had in store this morning. "Father would dine with a different of his banner men each night. He would speak with them, and hear their concerns. One night with Mikken, hearing the ins and outs of the armory. Another with Hullen, listening to all the intricacies of horses." By now Arya had swiftly come to walk beside Sansa. Her hands were tucked behind her, and she was standing stiffly upright, dagger and sword proudly displayed on her belt. "I see that the Lady of Winterfell has been, so far, too busy to dine with her men."
A deep, annoyed sigh shot from Sansa's nostrils, and she quickened her pace. Despite having shorter legs, Arya somehow matched her in pace without missing a step. "I don't have time for this Arya," Sansa shot back. "I wasn't preparing to be the Lady of Winterfell. When I left here, Ramsay Bolton sat over the Great Hall. Jon was in charge from the moment we took the castle, until he decided he needed to run to bloody Dragonstone." It was mostly the truth. Sansa was having little difficulty stepping into the position, and it was one that she felt she was good at. Still, a castle as large as Winterfell, and wars such that they were facing, were quite the undertaking to prepare for.
"I know," Arya replied, and said no more. The pair walked in silence until they reached a point where the path split, one direction back indoors, and the other to the wooden bridge that oversaw the courtyard. Arya calmly slowed her pace, slipping towards the door. She paused for a moment, with her hand on the knob and her eyes staring over at Sansa. Despite her best judgement, Sansa had stopped and was turned back to look at Arya. "You're doing well," she said, suddenly. "I think you're a shit, but you're doing well at being lady."
The words took Sansa off-guard, and for a moment she just stared at Arya with her mouth slightly agape. Finally she gave a slight nod, and interlaced her fingers, "Thank you, I appreciate it." Sansa turned to walk away, but paused and turned back one last time. "If you'd like to bring one of the men from the castle, or elsewhere, to dinner tonight, there will be a place. As is tradition for the Starks of Winterfell."
Arya's lips parted in a smile, and she nodded back at Sansa. The bitterness she'd bit with before was gone now, replaced by a genuine enthusiasm. "I will, thank you." With that, the sisters parted ways, Arya back indoors and Sansa further into the castle's yard.
Winterfell was a din of activity. From the moment the Starks retook their ancestral home, preparations had been underway for winter and the coming wars. Sansa spent the earlier part of her morning, in-part, by hearing from lords about their contributions.
As she walked along the wooden walkway, lords would approach her and ask passing questions. She dismissed each of them as quickly as she could, with an appropriate answer, and continued her stroll. She hoped to reach the Godswood, not for any religious comfort, but for the silence and respite it offered.
As she descended one of the castle's staircases, she gave a glance over the open courtyard. There was a wagon drawn up in the middle of the yard, with one rider already seated, and a driver preparing to climb on; the rider was Bran Stark. Littlefinger was the most recent of the lords to nip at her heels, but she turned to the older man and raised a hand. "Wait here if you would, my lord."
She didn't wait to hear his response, but instead hastened her step down the stairs towards the wagon. "Bran, what are you doing?" She asked.
Her mild mannered brother only gave her one of his blank stairs, as if it should've been obvious. "I am going to Dragonstone."
"No Bran, I need you to stay. I said that," Sansa bit back. She turned to the stable boys that were preparing the horses. "You there, stop that now, put the horses away."
"I'm 'fraid we can't, ma'am," a boy of maybe-fourteen drawled back. "Lord Stark demanded us to prepare these horses."
Sansa's eyes were as sharp as daggers, and she turned to glare at Bran. "Lord Stark? I thought you said you couldn't be lord of anything." Her voice was hard, and matched her anger.
"Yes, that is what I preferred," Bran explained. "I am not really Lord Stark, though I was, and I can be." He almost sounded regretful, like he was sorry to her for how it was. "I am the three-eyed-raven, that is who I must be. But since you wouldn't help me, I had to be Lord Stark."
Sansa pinched her eyes shut, and shook her head. Strands of red hair bounced around her cheeks. "Fine, fine," she snapped. "If you want to run to Dragonstone and die, then go."
"I know, I will," Bran replied calmly. "Thank you, Sansa," he added, but Sansa had already turned around and was storming back towards the castle.
Jon Snow
The south didn't suit Starks well, and despite being a bastard that applied just as much to Jon. The King in the North shifted in his lighter armored leather tunic, the sweat building up beneath it an unfamiliar sensation to him. Jon was used to living, working, and fighting in the bitterest of cold. He still missed the Wall most mornings, longing for the simplicity and brotherhood of the Watch, and the more comfortable climate. He knew that was cherrypicking the memories, though, and shook the thought from his mind. The Night's Watch was a thing of his past, and soon to probably be a thing of the past. The Long Night was coming, and once they passed the wall, the Watch no longer had a duty, if they survived.
Jon had very little to do on Dragonstone at the present. Ser Davos, his closest advisor, as well as Tyrion Lannister, the only person resident to Dragonstone that he knew, were both gone. The pair had traveled to King's Landing during the night prior, bent on the task of facilitating a meeting between Tyrion and his brother, the Kingslayer. He could speak with the Dragon Queen, but conversations with her seldom went far without her looping back to her primary concern. Bending the Knee. The thought of her issue brought slow-simmering ire to Jon's blood. He had taken on the moniker of 'King of the North' because it had been thrust upon him. He sought to uphold its martial and practical responsibilities, that of protecting the North, and seeing to its welfare. He hadn't wanted any of the political maneuvering that was attached, and that was exactly what he'd stepped into on Dragonstone. Queen Daenerys, the daughter of the Mad King, was calling on the ancient oaths of Starks long dead.
The reinvigorated frustration drew a brooding sigh from Jon, and he began to slowly pace the castle's courtyard. A decision born out of boredom, Jon began making his way towards Dragonstone's armory. Growing up in Winterfell as a child, but only a bastard, Jon had been cursed with abundant periods of having nothing to do. In those times, he had found company amongst the smiths and armorers of the castle. It was only natural that he would seek respite in an old comfort, amongst all that was different at present.
He stepped inside the dark area, his eyes struggling to adjust to the change in lighting. However, a familiar voice boomed out and alerted Jon to his presence. "Well if it isn't the King in the bloody North!" Proclaimed Davos. The Onion Knight stepped forward and clapped Jon on the shoulder, and Jon was starting to make out the rest of the armory.
"Ser Davos," Jon replied, his voice reflecting the grin on his face. "I trust your trip back to King's Landing went well?"
"About as well as a trip into that shit-hole can go, if you'll forgive my language," Davos replied.
Jon nodded in response, stepping further into the armory and looking around. "Did Lord Tyrion get in touch with the, erm," he stopped mid-sentence, catching himself from saying the Kingslayer. "With Ser Jaime?"
"Aye actually," Davos replied following after Jon, "Ser Jaime came back with us."
Jon nodded approvingly, heading towards the back of the armory where he heard the pounding of an anvil. "That's good, we can leave soon then. The sooner that I can meet Queen Daenerys' demands for assistance, the sooner we can hope to defeat the Night King."
"I agree, your grace," Davos said. "I believe she's with him at the moment. Perhaps we'll get a more accurate timeline for this."
Jon saw that there was a younger, burly, black haired man working one of the anvils. He didn't look like anyone that had come with Daenerys, she had few Westerosi in her party. He also didn't look like anyone from Jon's party.
"What's your name, my lord?" Jon asked, inquisitively.
Before the man could answer, Davos jumped in. "Your grace, he's no lord. This here's Gendry Waters, a bastard from Flea Bottom. He looked like my nephew, and smiths good steel."
"Believe me, Ser Davos, I mean no disrespect," Jon began, turning between Davos and Gendry. Confusion was spelled out on his face. "We need every body we can get, and Gendry here seems very capable. But what brought him aboard…?"
"Erm.. sorry, your grace, but-" Gendry spoke up for the first time. He pointed behind Jon, who turned to see Daenerys standing there.
Shock shot through his system, and he racked his brain to think if he'd said anything she might possibly find offending. "Your grace," Jon said, nodding his head respectfully. "I didn't know you were there."
Daenerys shook her head, and looked past him to Gendry. "Please, continue, Lord Gendry. I didn't mean to interrupt Lord Snow's question.
Jon felt immensely less comfortable, but he stepped aside to allow Daenerys to speak with Gendry
"Your grace," Lord Davos cut in, "Gendry here is no lord, he's just a flea bottom bastard. I was looking for wea-" Davos had been saying. Gendry stepped forward and cut him off, though.
"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard," he blurted. "My name is Gendry Waters, your grace."
Jon's mouth hung slightly open, and then he grinned at the sudden irony. "Your father was King Robert?" He let out a stiff laugh, "I grew up on stories of our fathers fighting the Targaryens together."
Gendry's face looked sad, and he shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I didn't know who my father was until he was already dead, your grace."
"So you had no relationship with him?" Daenerys cut in. "You seek no claim to his throne?"
Gendry shook his head urgently, "Absolutely not, your grace," he sounded frightened. "I just wanted to get the hell out of Lannister-country. They killed my father, and they would've killed me if it weren't for Ser Davos."
Daenerys' tense posture relaxed, and she gave Gendry a smile. "I don't hold you responsible for the sins of your father, the same I ask Lord Snow not hold me responsible for those of my father. You are welcome in Dragonstone, Gendry Waters."
