A Future We Would Make Ourselves

By littlelights

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Chapter 21

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons had never presided over such a motley collection of advisors, councilors, or allies. Where once there had only been Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, now many more people had joined her circle. A few of them, such as Missandei and Grey Worm, had been with her since the first sack of Astapor. Others, such as Lady Olenna, had arrived recently by whim or circumstance.

There were allies, there were friends, and then there was the one person she knew to be family.

Jon Snow, born Jaehaerys Targaryen. Her nephew. The man Northerners called the White Wolf. The King in the North.

With the delivery of news from Winterfell, Daenerys now had a great-nephew, born barely two weeks ago. A little boy his parents had named Robb. Given in honor for the eldest son of Eddard and Catlyn Stark, the man her nephew admired as his brother and one of his greatest friends. The elder Robb had died years ago, along with his mother, wife, and unborn child at the Red Wedding. And something just as odious had been planned for the younger Robb Stark, fated to be poisoned less than an hour after his birth.

Misplaced trust had cost Daenerys the life of her own son, and she'd be a fool to let another breach threaten the lives of the last two members of her house. Jaehaerys Targaryen was her staunch ally and trusted battlefield commander, and his son Robb Stark was an innocent babe, and had yet to see a month of life.

Brandon Stark, the young Three Eyed Raven, had been invited to her tent. Bran had experienced another vision of Sansa and the babe alive after the birth. Sansa was still quite weak, Bran explained. She didn't trust anyone to guard her son better than herself and Arya's direwolf, Nymeria. But the babe was thriving.

The dragon bloodline was still alive, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't protect it with every conceivable political trick and physical punishment known in Westeros.

Still, there should be justice. Which was why Lord Baelish wasn't led to the council meeting as a prisoner. He had been simply summoned just as everyone else had been, to give the illusion that the concerns of the war were at the forefront.

Daenerys didn't spare Lord Baelish much of a glance when he entered the tent. But she noticed how his custom of surveying the room was in place, keeping up the appearance of being non-threating and amiable to those gathered around her chair. His eyes spent a moment longer on Arya Stark, who stood with her husband. For her part, the younger Stark sister schooled her expression to that of a mourner at a funeral.

All the better to deliver news in the way it had been originally intended.

Daenerys' nephew was seated beside her, his handsome face set in stone cleaved from years of upheaval and loss. Before she called council, they had spoken at length about how to approach this delicate political power struggle. Jon had raged, rasped his opinions, but ultimately conceded to her experience. His wife was alone, health failing and barely protected by the few people left in the keep. And he had nearly lost his firstborn son by treachery within the confines of his ancestral home. It had been bitter news to swallow, and now the attempt on the babe's life had prevented his wife from recovering fully from childbirth.

Lyanna Stark had died in childbed. Sansa Stark may soon follow from exhaustion if the situation wasn't remedied directly. Having lost her own spouse, Daenerys was keen to see her niece-by-marriage recover and thrive as a new mother. The gods knew the addition of more children to their family would be a blessing beyond compare.

Jon had wanted Baelish's head. He wanted to be the one to pass the sentence and swing the sword, just as his uncle, grandfather, and Stark lords had done since before Aegon's conquest. Daenerys for her part, felt obliged to grant him that kind of justice. But Lord Baelish had sworn himself to her cause, and had been richly rewarded for it. Now he'd become ensnared in a trap of his own making. The Northern and Southern Kingdoms would need to act in a united front to hold a trial and pass sentence without riling up the Vale.

Lord Varys had been feeling out the Lords of the Eyrie for some weeks now. Littlefinger had overplayed his hand this time, and the murder of an innocent child to further his own ambitions was the final excuse to end his scheming once and for all.

The realm, no doubt, would be all the better for it.

"I call for your council, my lords, my ladies." Daenerys began. Her voice lifted over the murmuring din of the crowd, settling it into a state of respectful silence. "We have much to decide today. The dead are rising among our ranks due to hostile conditions and lack of medical care. We must find a way to improve camp for a longer stalemate with the Night's King."

"This may be the plan of our enemy to see his dead rise within our army and wear our defenses down from the inside," Jon added. "He sends the winter to freeze us dead and to wear our army down from exhaustion. The more men who die from winter weather, the harder it will be for us to fight."

"Let us send for more maesters, your grace," said Ser Davos. "There is a large enclave at the citadel in Old Town. Young maesters who are skilled in the healing arts may wish to pursue their studies where it can make a difference."

"We have a library and old Maester Aemon's quarters here at the castle," said Edd Tollett, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. "The new maesters can bunk together and still have space for books and the stuff they need. It won't be as good as what they have at the citadel, but it's the best we've got."

"There may also be maesters who can engineer new lifts and logistic plans for us," Lord Tyrion added. "Getting men from the top of the wall down to a maester on the ground is proving to be difficult, and as we can't just chuck a man down from the wall and hope he survives the trip, well, we'll need a better way to transport the wounded and the dead to facilities here."

Discussion continued for another hour, with requests to be made to the citadel and to other locations around Westeros for building equipment need for the plans.

The hour gave Daenerys the opportunity to see if Lord Baelish would sweat a little. But he sat calmly, coolly, invested in the conversation, not sparing Arya Stark so much as a sly glance. Oh, he was a cold one alright.

"Before we discuss further matters, Lady Arya Stark arrived today with news from Winterfell. You may approach and speak, lady."

Lady Arya emerged from the shadow of her husband to stand in the middle of the council. She looked so very young and vulnerable in that moment. This was the other one to watch for, Daenerys thought. Lady Stark seemed to be a model actress, someone who could switch emotions in an instant if she wanted to. She brought a sense of unease to the circle, and the queen saw more than a few men react to the subtle undertone of mourning she brought forth with her words.

"I have grave new from Winterfell," Arya Stark began. Her voice didn't falter, but her tone was a combination of resignation and somber acceptance. "Just two weeks ago, my sister, Sansa Stark, wife to the King in the North, gave birth to a son. The maester said she delivered swiftly and easily, and her laying-in was better than expected."

A ripple of soft compliments filled the room. "Well, this is good news." Lady Olenna interjected. "A male heir to the north and a healthy mother. But from your face my dear, I'm thinking not all is well within the walls of Winterfell."

Arya shook her head no. "No, my lady, it is not. While my sister seemed to be recovering well, something much worse happened to the babe less than an hour after its birth."

All the people in the tent seemed to be holding their breath. Daenerys could see a tiny glint in Lord Baelish's dark eyes. His face was passive, but his usually cold eyes flared just briefly with one look: victory. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, which as all eyes in the tent were glued to Arya Stark, Littlefinger must have allowed himself one small moment of triumph.

"The midwife took the babe away to be cleaned," Arya continued, "But when he was ready to be returned to his mother…" She shuttered briefly, closing her eyes as if she was reliving the moment. Her words had the desired effect. Lord Baelish didn't say much, but focused his apt attention on what was to be said next.

"What happened, my lady?" Lord Tyrion asked softly.

Arya opened her eyes, and with a voice of deadly calm she said, "The midwife poured poison down his throat."

Some gasped, some shook their heads.

"How do you know this, my lady?" Lord Tyrion asked.

Arya pulled a flask from her pocket. "She was found with this. It's called 'The Long Goodbye'. Smell it, and anyone well acquainted with poison will tell you it is so. It was intended to be a slow and gentle death, where the babe would have just gone to sleep, never to awake again. The midwife was questioned at Winterfell, and she confessed to the crime."

"And the fate of my great-nephew?" Daenerys asked, her voice laced with concern.

"The maester had a remedy already made. The babe took it without issue, and has made a full recovery."

A sigh of relief swept the circle.

"I have brought the midwife to the King in the North to face justice." Arya continued. "However, she did not act alone."

"Who was helping her with this plot?" Daenerys asked.

"Her apprentice, who has since died. But she also gave another name. The name of a man who keeps close to your circle."

Lord Tyrion raised his hands to calm the whispers and voices rising around him. "Quiet! Please! My lady, who did she name?"

Arya hesitated, allowing for time to build suspense. Her quarry didn't so much as bat an eyelash.

"Lord Petyr Baelish."

And all hell broke loose.

XxX

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