"He what?" Daenerys gasped, standing before Grey Worm, who nodded. Dany sighed and shook her head, bright silver hair reflecting the light of the fire inside Winterfell keep. "Send a blood rider South along the Kingsroad. Order him to find Tyrion Lannister, and escort him back to the guarded carriage at once." The dragon queen ordered, her voice shrill and irritated. Grey Worm responded with a bow before marching out of the dim room, closing the door behind him, and leaving Daenerys alone in the stone room. Sighing, she slumped back into a rotting wooden chair, thinking to herself, "What possessed my fool of a hand to run off on his own?"
"Urgent news, your grace!" Came a voice from outside the door, combined with a series of hard knocks.
"You may enter." She replied, standing again and straightening her posture, and keeping her chin high. The door swung open, revealing an obese man clad in plate armour, Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, an unsullied soldier on either side of him.
"Apologies for the intrusion, my queen, but Theon Greyjoy has returned." The fat knight announced, prompting Dany to crack a smile.
"Excellent. I must speak with him." She answered. The fat knight bowed, turned and left the room with the dragon queen in tow, the loyal unsullied maintaining their position between their queen and the obese man with each step. She was followed by two more unsullied, keeping her guarded on all sides. The group entered the stone courtroom, the pale daylight shone through coldly on the faces of everyone within. In the middle of the room stood Theon Greyjoy and his sister Yara, both scruffy and greasy from their long travel. The two immediately fell to one knee upon seeing their queen.
"My queen." Theon humbly greeted, head bowed before Daenerys. Yara's head only slightly tilted downwards, still too proud to willingly submit to anyone, even the dragon queen. The Ironborn woman stood back up, stretching her back and neck, looking to the ceiling as if she'd been bent over for a long time. Theon followed suit and stood.
"We only have a few ships." Yara stated, hands on her hips, leaning to the side casually. "We docked em' in White Harbor. An escape route for your men... Well. A third of your men should the fight against these dead men go bad." She explained, clearly scoffing and not taking the threat at all seriously. Dany ignored Yara's obvious lack of formality. "We've got a few dozen fighting men with us, as well."
"One third of our men?" Daenerys curled her lips, sneering to herself. "I suppose the rest would have to march the entire way to King's Landing, should we retreat." She sighed, disappointed in her lack of resources.
"We could have... Commandeered more ships. But as you said. No more reaving, roving, raiding, or raping." Yara smirked, eyes wandering around the cracks in the ceiling.
"Considering the well being of others is often the biggest obstacle to power." The dragon queen sighed once more, looking over her shoulder and spotting Sansa standing in the corner, eyes locked on Theon, a look of longing, and apprehension strewn across her pale face. She along with other Northern rulers chose to stay in Winterfell to keep the morale of their men stable. "What is your opinion on the matter, Lady Stark?" Daenerys asked, seemingly jolting Sansa into attention.
"After all this..." Sansa paused, blinking a few times, lip quivering slightly. "Why did you come back, Theon?" She questioned, and Theon looked her in the eyes with the most pride he's had since before Ramsay.
"I've come to fight for Winterfell." Theon stated, weak chin now high in the air, no nervous twitches or shuddering. "If you'll have me, Sansa." The two shared a moment of eye contact before Sansa could stand it no longer. A tear escaped her eye and she sputtered in joy, rushing over to the Greyjoy and embracing him in a loving hug.
Hundreds of pale, greasy, sweaty men piled into the Winterfell courtyard, sitting on the cold, frosty ground, shivering while slurping down hot soup, wiping snow from their matted hair and their shoulders as it constantly fell. Ser Davos and some other men stood inside a market stand, a roaring fire boiling the soup in a dark iron cauldron. The line of men waiting to be served their rations seemed to go on forever, but Davos continued to fill their bowls regardless.
"We're not soldiers, ser!" Exclaimed a dirty muscular peasant as his soup was being poured.
"You are now." Davos replied, his flea bottom accent nearly overwhelmed by the sheer noise of the Northerners. The peasant just looked at him with defeat, mouth open in despair. Davos leaned in. "Look. I made it through most of my years without ever getting near a fight." The onion knight explained, pouring into the bowl of the next man in line. "But then we survived the battle of the bastards. Right outside these walls." He cocked his head towards the solid stone walls. "If I can live through that, you can live through this." The man shuffled along, but still stuck around and looked at Davos with fear. "You're not going to be on the front lines facing a cavalry charge." Davos shook his head with a chuckle. "You're gonna be up on the battlements, twanging arrows into a crowd of bumbling idiots, tossing big rocks onto their heads, and poking them with spears if they try to climb." He explained, continuing his feeding duties. "You'll be fine."
"Th-thank you, milord." The man nodded before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Davos alone again to continue feeding these starving conscripts.
