Small Counsel Chamber

The chamber is overflowing with bickering lords, ladies and knights from every corner of Westeros. Few have chairs, the rest stand pressed tightly together, each trying to hold the king's attention. Jon Snow, now King Aemon Targaryen, lies his head in his hand, trying to keep patience.

"This may be the least small Small Council in history, your grace," Davos Seaworth quips. But Jon has finally had enough.

"Silence!" Jon stands suddenly.

Silence falls. But one woman is not so quick to listen. Yara Greyjoy stands at the opposite end of the table.

"I demand you release Queen Daenerys at once!"

"Not until her trial." Jon answers, sternly.

"Then there is nothing further to discuss. Perhaps you will see things differently once the rest of the dragon's armies arrive."

As Yara exits, she throws a chair to the ground. Her supporters follow, and one by one the chamber empties. Jon can breathe again at last.

"I tried to speak with the men from Oldtown…" Sansa takes a seat beside him. "I do not think they know yet what side to choose. The Hightowers are the most powerful House in Westeros now. Let me speak to them on your behalf…"

"No," Jon rises. "We are not on a team. There are no sides. We must be united. I will not have people say that the Starks are conspiring to rule Westeros."

"But, Jon," Sansa rises to pursue him. "Just let me help. I know these people. I'm your sister."

"But you aren't, are you?" Jon does not look back. "Not really."


Oldtown

Lady Rhonda Hightower softly pushes open the door to her husband's study within the Blackstone Fortress. She enters to find him toiling with quill and ink over a parchment. The walls are lined with shakily drawn scribbles, designs for a new tower to replace the one that bore their family name.

She speaks. "Baelor, dear, you should be packed." Startled, the lord jumps to his feet, angrily tearing up the parchment and throwing it across the room. He begins to tear down the other drawings. Rhonda rushes to stop him.

"It's no use!" he shouts as she tries to calm him. "I've failed… I've failed them all." He slides to the floor amidst the mess he has created, and tears begin to come. "Garth, Leyla, Alysanne… all dead. All from my own plans. I was their brother and their lord. I was meant to protect them."

"They had their own lives, my love," Rhonda sits beside him, taking his hands. "They made their choices willingly. As must we all. You are the voice of Oldtown, now. The people must hear you. Where is Baelor Brightsmile hiding away?" She pokes his side, playfully, eliciting the slightest of laughs. Baelor rises and pulls a jacket over his undergarment.

"The caravan is waiting upon us," she leads him out towards the door, but suddenly he turns back again.

"No, I can't leave…"

Rhonda stops her husbands mouth gently, pointing to the disheveled drawings piled around the room. "I think it would be good for us to get away from the city for a while." She feels the patchy scruff on his cheeks. "And for you to shave."

Slowly, they kiss.

"Your hair…" Baelor runs his fingers through streaks of grey in his wife's pale yellow hair. "I do not remember this…"

"We've all grown old, Baelor," Rhonda smiles. "Even our son. I say he looks much like you, when we first met."

Baelor smiles, recalling his youth. "Can you imagine, how different things would have been if Elia Martell had chosen me instead?"

"I wouldn't want to imagine it," Rhonda tussles his thinning hair.

The lord of Hightower laughs, for the first moment in a long, sad while.

"Let's all grow a little older, shall we?"


Highgarden

Art Hightower sits in his chambers within the castle, looking over a missive from his uncle Gunthor. The war over, the surviving half of the army had dispersed at Goldengrove. Now he has at last an account of the casualties of the Battle of Tumbler's Falls – Chief among them his uncle Garth, aunt Alysanne and her husband and his namesake, Lord Arthur Ambrose.

"I can't believe they're gone," he whispers to himself as Tall Tarly slips into the room.

"As much as we meet, I think my suitors suspect they have all been beaten out by you," she smiles. By the way she looks at him, Art himself suspects she hopes it to be true. But marriage is the last thought on his mind. He hands her the report.

"I'm so sorry…" she reads it. "Lord Arhtur's son is here. Does he know?"

"My cousin is the lord of Red Hills now. I do not wish to trouble him in his grief. But I believe that he will side with our plan when the time comes."

A single knock comes on the door as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, castellan and steward of Highgarden, pushes his way into the room.

"It's generally customary, ser, to wait for a welcome."

"Eh, this is still my castle," Bronn quips. "And I know you two ain't doin' anything worth hiding. I have news. Your parents are coming."

Art is shocked. His father hasn't left Oldtown for nearly a decade.

"What will they think of the plan?" Talla asks him, but he does not know.

"Oh, and another thing!" Bronn calls back as he exits. "You've got a bigger problem. You uncle decided not to retreat to Brightwater after all. Gunthor will be here in a day's march."


The Burn Ward

Groans of pain echo out from beneath the ramshackle hospital set up in a ruined hall of the Red Keep, haphazard sheets and tents strung out over sections of destroyed ceiling in a futile attempt to keep out the cold. Missandei flits back and forth, supervising the little birds and other volunteer nurses as they tend to new victims arriving every minute.

The groans of pain form a hideous cacophony of death, but Missandei has long since been numbed to the sounds. There is too much work to be done.

"My lady, I fear there is little we can do for many of these victims but to give them milk of the poppy and let them die in peace," a diminutive septa reluctantly reports.

"We will find a way, I swear," Missandei insists, dismissing the old woman. She turns to Alys. "Report to the king, have him send word. We need more supplies."

But Alys does not leave. Missandei bends down to the girl's level. Sometimes she forgets just how young Qyburn's former apprentice truly is.

"What's the matter?"

"My lady, I think I know of ways to help these people."

"Why haven't you said anything?"

"I did not know if you would… The lord Hand…"

"Qyburn? Show me." Missandei lets Alys lead her to where she has stored the piles of Qyburn's books and scrolls. Slowly, Missandei looks through them. The studies are there, ways to treat the burns they are seeing. She grimaces at some of the diagrams and their descriptions – remembering the two faces of the old man she knew: a kindly scholar and a savage torturer. She knows she does not want to know how he came by these findings.

"Make it so," she finally commands. "We must act to save what lives we can." Alys nods urgently and scurries away. She is replaced by the arrival of a knight.

"The king is hosting a feast this evening, my lady," the man declares.

How can anyone celebrate in times like these? Missandei shakes her head.

"Give his grace my apologies," she bows, humbly. "But my place is here."


The Dondarrion's Quarters

Tywin Dondarrion and Wynafryd Manderly sit nervously under the piercing, hawklike gaze of his father, Lord Harlan.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" Harlan shakes his head. "You've never been particularly clever, boy."

"I'm with child," Wynafryd declares. "His child."

"I'd be shocked if my son proved so effective," Harlan shakes his head. "And I know you already told your lord father that lie, girl. If you conceived before that debacle of a wedding in White Harbor, it would be apparent by now." Wynafryd tries to protest further, but is cut off. "Regardless, I have agreed to renew your betrothal. With you having already shared a bed, it would be dishonorable to do otherwise."

"Thank you, father!" Tywin nearly jumps out of his seat.

"However," Harlan continues to face Wynafryd, ignoring his son, "if you wish to be a Dondarrion, you must act in our interests. Daenerys Targaryen would have revoked our hard-earned titles and thrown them to the bastards of a failed king. I will not allow that. You are of the North, and close to Sansa Stark. You are clever. I hope you can deduce my expectations."

"Of course, my lord," Wynafryd bows, and struts confidently from the room. Tywin, however, lingers.

"I don't want any part of your schemes," he glares.

"My son," Harlan rises slowly. "You have no part in these schemes. Because I have no reason to believe you would succeed. But I will, and when I do, one day you will be handed the most powerful name in all of Westeros. Until then, I know you will never believe I did not harm your mother. But I do not need your love. I need your honor. Can I rely on that?"

Slowly, silently, Tywin nods.

"Then dress yourself. The king hosts a banquet tonight. You must look like the son of a great lord."


The Stark Quarters

Sansa Stark bites nervously at a lemoncake as Arya helps tighten the laces of her gown. She had bought it in White Harbor, after her clothes were destroyed when the White Walkers attacked their boat. A simple, grey dress, she had passed time stitching red weirwood leaves in a pattern along its side.

"You've gotten heavier," Arya mutters, and Sansa's spine stiffens in embarrassment. She wraps the final strings. "What? I'll be your maid, but I don't have to be polite about it."

"You're not my maid," Sansa turns. "You're my sister. I can help you with your…" She stops, examining the loose grey and black riding jacket and breeches on Arya. "That's what you're wearing all night, isn't it?"

"Is that a problem?" Arya glares.

"No," Sansa smiles and offers her sister a lemoncake. "You look wonderful."

"I still hate lemoncakes," Arya turns away, but pauses, looking back. "You're… you look very beautiful, too." Slowly, they share a warm embrace.

"Even if a bit heavy?" Sansa pinches the back of her sister's neck, and Arya playfully slaps her away in response. They share a laugh.

Have we ever done that before?

Sansa grabs a quick drink of wine to steady her nerves and together with Arya, steps out of the room. Their companions wait outside, dressed in their finest clothes – Mycah Manderly, dashing as ever, and nervous Sam Tarly, sweating profusely. And then there is Arianne, in a black, feathered dress that looks painfully tight with a plunging neckline; her mask freshly polished and gleaming; her ominous vulture's crown perched defiantly in her raven hair. Sansa thinks she couldn't blame Jon if he offered his hand at first sight.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Mycah takes her hand. "The king awaits." Together, the young nobles walk out the door.


A Hall in the Red Keep

The keep's largest hall may have been destroyed, but even its lesser atriums offer plenty of space for the visiting dignitaries. Good victuals were, understandably, hard to come by, but Jon had done his best to ensure his guests would be pleased without placing too great a strain on the survivors in and near the city. He would arrive last, as he hears is expected. But as he walks towards the sounds of life, a blonde man in a pale blue coat crosses his path. He recognizes Lord Sebaston Farman from Daenerys' fleet.

"Your grace, I apologize, but I must speak in private before the dinner," he insists. "It's Lady Greyjoy. She has worn her own crown to this feast. The disrespect... I know that I have sworn to Daenerys, but I cannot idly stand by and put my people at risk to an ironborn kingdom free of the Iron Throne. Were we to make an arrnangement..."

"Lord Farman," Jon silences the admiral. "This is not the place for such matters. If you have qualms with Yara Greyjoy, bring them to her face in the council. Now leave me be, before I delay this dinner any longer."

He marches onward into the hall. It is Sam who starts the cheers, he thinks. However, he walks sternly past them to his place at the head of the hall. He had carefully selected only his personal inner circle to take to his table – Harry Strickland, Davos Seaworth, Jon Bettley and an empty seat unfilled by Missandei. As he signals for the food to be brought in, he notices that his guests are starkly divided among their regional lines.

The ceremonial approval of each dish nearly bores Jon to tears. He barely notices when Arianne Martell approaches the empty seat beside him.

"That seat is not for you," he grumbles.

"I beg pardon, your grace," Arianne bows, subtly thrusting her chest towards the king's face. "I only wished to meet you in person. Our paths have not yet crossed."

"And now they have," Jon nods, dismissively. He reaches for a freshly presented plate. "Here, have this. It's surely delicious."

"I'm not here for food." She takes a seat despite his protests. "You do know who I am?"

"The Princess of Dorne. You signed the missive declaring me the heir."

"Yes, that's right, isn't it?" Arianne straightens her crown. "You would not be sitting here if it were not for me. But seeing you here, in person, it is my honor to give you what you deserve…" She leans in closer, gently touching his hand.

"I do not wish to be disturbed!" Jon swats her hand away, raising a concerned glance from Davos and Harry. Arianne rises to leave.

"Do not forget, King Aemon, I rule a free Dorne. If you wish to reunite all seven kingdoms, it will take something much warmer than that to bend my knee."

As she leaves, Jon notices she has stabbed the carving knife deep into the wooden table.

He nervously glances to where his family sits. Arya seems oblivious, sloshing ale with the knights, but Sansa is watching his every move. He shrinks back into his seat, trying to remember how a king ought to look and act. There will be much drink and music and dancing. But tonight it will all come as misery for him.

Hours later, as even the most drunken revelers have drifted off, Jon and Harry Strickland sit alone in the hall. Jon fidgets with his knife on his plate, the pitched scratching echoing off the walls.

"You are indeed surrounded by vultures, your grace," Harry comments. "Some more beautiful than others."

"As is any king," Jon mutters. He hates to call himself that. "Tell me, general. I remember when we met, you whispered in my ear. You told me you knew of who I was."

"All men know who you are. The Dornish missive saw to that."

Jon examines Harry closely, watching for any telltale gesture of deception. "I feel there is more that you mean." He glances to the side door, where the squire Grif waits upon his master. "Who is the boy?"

"You have many questions," Harry rises and tightens his sword belt, yawning. "As your general, I advise you to answer the ones posed to you before posing ones of your own."

Upon Harry's exit, Jon is left in a fouler move before. He storms from the room and into the empty passages of the abandoned keep, but even here he does not find peace. Harlan Dondarrion steps forward from the shadows, his long black cape nearly invisible in the corner where he had lurked.

"I wish to walk alone this evening," Jon eyes him sternly.

"Of course. I often find evening walks to clear the mind. Foolish men waste the night with drink and revels. I am pleased to see you are not among them."

"I was blessed with good teachers," Jon keeps walking, but Harlan follows in stride. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a white specter in the dark hall behind – one of the Horpe knights, no doubt. He walks faster.

"Yes," Harlan continues. "Ned Stark and Jeor Mormont. Both honorable men betrayed by cowards, if the reports are true. The kingdoms are at a great loss for their passage. It is hard for true men to survive in this world. But we have survived. And here we stand, on the cusp of the dawn."

"What do you want?" Jon finally stops. The walkway they stand upon is partly crumbled, exposing the ruins of the city before them, small fires everywhere, dotting the black cinders and white snow.

"I want what any good father would. To retain the titles the Iron Throne bestowed upon me so that I may pass them to my children and my children's children."

"You seized those titles by allying with Cersei. Gendry and Mya Baratheon rule the Stormlands now, as did their father before them."

"I kept my vows to the throne," Harlan insists. "And Robert's bastards were legitimized by a false queen to garner her own political favor."

At that, Jon suddenly and violently seizes Harlan by the scruff of his cape, pushing him out towards the ledge.

"You will not speak of Daenerys that way!" he shouts. In an instant, the Horpe knight is upon him, pulling them back and stepping between the king and his master.

"Peace, Ser Steffon," Harlan remains calm. "Your grace, I did not mean to offend. I only mean to offer my allegiance. I can deliver all the lords of the Red Mountains and Marches to you. Can Gendry Baratheon make the same promise?"

Jon has no answer for the man. He instead leaves them behind, their white and black cloaks circling together in the wind, and marches away into the darkness.


Tyrion's Chambers

There had been a time when Tyrion Lannister would never miss a feast. Now, he sits alone in a small room in a small manse that escaped only slightly scorched. He had burned his motley the moment he had escaped the city, and had floundered in oversized tunics until new clothes fit for a dwarf could be made – not in Lannister colors, but dull browns. His thoughts are with the dead.

His captivity had left him with little news of the outside world. So many who once walked beside him were now resting beneath the soil – Littlefinger, good riddance. Varys. Podrick. Jorah. And his brother, dear Jaime.

At last he found the noble fate he sought. Perhaps now they will sing songs for him. But little comfort will those songs give me. Not even my tongue made it through the war alive.

Only Bronn, the old bastard, seemed to have survived, Tyrion thinks, as he hears his door swing open. He turns to see Brienne standing there, with a plate of food and bottle of wine.

"My lady did not wish you to go hungry," she places the gifts on the table before him. He grimaces. Food and drink offer little joy without a tongue to taste with. But Brienne does not leave him be, so he begins to eat. "Perhaps you might visit the sick ward. The lady Missandei tends to the wounded without rest. She would appreciate your assistance, my lord."

I am no lord, he thinks. But the woman has a point. As she finally leaves him be, he declares to himself that tomorrow, he will finally leave these quarters and brave the scorched city. His mind and hands have been idle for too long. If he happens to save a few lives, perhaps he may yet stop damning himself.


The Riverlands

Thick, fluffy snowflakes fall gently down from the sky onto the small valley where the hostages escaped from Daenerys' camp have taken shelter. Hoster Blackwood's tall, gangly frame clumsily swings away with a stolen battleaxe, attempting to cut wood for a fire.

"You'll cut off your leg like that," Meera Reed pulls the axe away from him. "You've got to do it like this." She carefully takes aim and cleanly spits the log in half, only to see Hos has already been distracted by the falling snow. "Have you seen snow before?"

"I was very young the last time it snowed at Raventree," Hos catches a huge flake on the back of its hand and watches it melt. "It's so beautiful."

"Perhaps," Meera cuts more wood. "But it means death for most folks."

"All of life is like that, no?" he looks up to the sky, letting the snow fall onto his face. "We find life and death in the same things. It's all a circle."

"Damn the gods for sticking me with a poet," Meera tosses lumber at Hos, who fumbles to catch it. "Save your musings for after the fire is started."

Together they carry the wood back to where the younger children wait.

"Where are we going?" Hos asks. "No matter whose men stumble on us first, we'll wind up prisoners of the dragon again all the same."

"There's a place my father told me to go if I ever had to hide. The safest place in Westeros, for those blessed by the old gods. We're going to the Isle of Faces."


Near Moat Cailin

Across a snow-covered hill, two horses and a pony carry their riders in the stead of a massive white direwolf. Bran Stark clings tightly to Ghost's back, his lame legs flopping uselessly to the side. Obara Sand and Theon Greyjoy ride in pace. Behind them, on the pony, disguised in oversized rags, follows the child of the forest, Frost.

As they near a small valley, Obara spies a small, huddled group of peasants waiting alongside the road.

"We should pass around them," she warns, looking nervously back at Frost, the creature's golden eyes glowing beneath her hood.

"No," Bran shakes his head. "We are not in hiding."

As they near, the smallfolk recoil in fear at the sight of the massive wolf.

"Prince Bran of Winterfell!" Theon declares, as if they would not know the lad by his wolf and broken legs.

"Your grace!" the smallfolk fall prostrate on the ground – a small family, or perhaps two moving together. "We are but poor travelers seeking comfort in the winter."

"Get up," Bran commands. "Two leagues east of here you will find a storehouse – there will be food and shelter. Go there, and may the gods be with you." He hands a weirwood pod down the leader. "Plant this in the earth when you arrive."

Theon watches the smallfolk disappear over the horizon.

"Have you seen the city?" he asks. "Did you see what happened?"

"Yes," Bran answers, sadly. "Though I wish I had not."

"I wish youd've given us a warning," Obara fondles her spear. "I can't believe I was going to fight for that dragon. I should have killed her before she ever left Winterfell."

"Wishes are fine things," Bran sighs as Ghost lurches forward down the road once more. "But I cannot see the future. Only the shadows of things that may yet be. And unless we act swiftly, I fear those shadows will consume us all."


The Dragonpit

The great ruins of the Targaryen's mighty dragonpit were untouched by both the ravages of wildfire and the strafing flames of Drogon's assault. Now Rhaegal prowls through the long-abandoned shell of the building as Jon and Davos watch.

"Do you think it can feel them?" Davos asks. "The ghosts of its brethren?"

"There are no ghosts," Jon shakes his head. "Only the living and the dead."

"And some of us in between," Davos looks mournfully at Jon, haunted by recognition of the pain and defeat that had ate away at the last king he served. "The armies will be here soon. Already the Greyjoys plot against you. You will need a council."

"How can I have a council? I barely have a kingdom." Jon turns away, but Davos places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"No man can carry this weight alone, your grace," Davos quickly removes his hand, fearing he has overstepped. "I did warn you of the red god's ways," he adds, reluctantly.

"Indeed," Jon nods, his voice tinged with regret. "And I will need counsel. But I already have a Hand." He extends his open palm to Davos, but the old smuggler does not take it.

"Perhaps that journey has come to an end, your grace. I have been Hand to a King of Dragonstone and a King in the North. I have had enough of politics. You have a kingdom to rebuild. I fear you will need someone more learned than me."

"Who would you have me choose, then?"

"Someone who has served both you and Daenerys. Someone who can address the Dothraki and Unsullied as well as the Dornish and Ironborn. Someone who can secure the favor of Oldtown. Someone with the knowledge to help you restore what has fallen."

Jon does not answer at once, the wheels in his head turn slowly. Finally, the light of recognition appears in his eyes and he summons Rhaegal. The great dragon kneels for him to mount. The uplift of the wings nearly knocks Davos from his feet.

Shaking the dust off, Davos walks slowly back to his horse, not bothering to trace his king's path in the sky. A dragon is assuredly faster than a horse. But after so many years of running, Davos is happy to take his time.


The Burn Ward

Missandei has taken a rare moment to rest her feet when Ser Argilac pulls two unexpected guests into her makeshift study – Tyrion Lannister and a tall woman in grey robes with colored ribbons tied into her white-streaked hair. Her sinister orange eyes unnerve Missandei.

"I found the Imp lurking outside with this one," he reports. "I think he wants to help."

"Thank you!" Missandei is relieved to work with her old friend again. "Alys!" she summons the girl to fetch supplies for Tyrion. She rises, bumping into the strange woman.

"I would… also like to help," she speaks, and suddenly Missandei remembers her – glimpses from the shadows of Oldtown. "I am Mallora Hightower. I saw you help my family in the city. I have… special skills that could be of service."

"Of course," Missandei nods, enthusiastically, remembering the stories of Mallora and her father dabbling in sorcery. "Argilac will show you the way."

She steps outside only to walk into the path of another shocking visitor – Jon, wearing his rough-hewn crown and flanked by members of the Golden Company.

"Missandei of Naath," Jon gently takes her hand. She scans her surroundings, unsure of what to do. "You have served the Targaryen family now for many years. You have proven yourself noble, true and wise. These are qualities any king should seek in his counsel." He opens his other hand. She sees a familiar pin, only this one is made of gold. "I would remand Ser Argilac Horpe into my service as a Kingsguard. But he shall stay with you, as I wish for you to serve me, as Hand to the King."

Missandei is at a loss for words. She looks back to see Argilac similarly dumbstruck. The grim knight quickly drops to his knee. Tyrion steps forward, watching, as a look of pride spreads across his face. Missandei turns back to Jon.

"I accept."

"Good," Jon gently places the pin upon her chest. "Let Lord Tyrion tend to the sick for a moment. We have visitors we must see."


The Walls of the City

Sandor Clegane has never been more convinced of his hatred for horses than now. Trudging along at the head of the massive force of Stormlanders and Dornishmen has been as miserable as he's felt since being left for dead in the Riverlands so long ago. He'd much rather walk, but the wound the White Walker had dealt his leg left him without that option. And so he rode on with a watchful eye on the young Baratheon lord, to ensure nothing happened on the long march to the city alongside Harlan Dondarrion's sinister Horpe knights.

And now they had arrived. He had heard the news of the city's destruction, but nothing had quite prepared anyone for the sight of the utter devastation. A sellsword had met them there, in the ruins of the city, and demanded, by order of King Aemon Targaryen, first of his name, that the leaders of the army meet at a designated space. So they had carried on, Sandor not letting Gendry out of his sight, until they encountered the approaching representatives of the northern and western armies.

And then they found the king.

With the huge green dragon and row of battle elephants behind him an ominous backdrop, the bastard boy Sandor knew as Jon Snow now stands in a crown, with a flowing red cape. He is surrounded by gilded knights and two in the white plate and cloak of the Kingsguard – Ser Argilac Horpe and Ser Jon Betteley.

The leaders of the armies approach with varying degrees of reverence. First Sigorn, the wildling lord, takes his place at his king's side. Then come Gendry, Eres, Lord Fowler and, lastly, Damion Lannister, who stops, standing face to face with Jon.

"Where is my queen?" Damion demands to know, his Hand's pin fused to his red and gold lion breastplate.

"She is held until her trial," Missandei steps forward, her own Hand's pin on prominent display. "For the destruction of this city and the murder of countless innocent smallfolk."

"Who are you?" Damion scowls. "I am here to speak to the pretender king."

"Aemon Targaryen is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Missandei answers, for the whole crowd behind Damion. "He will issue a just ruling upon his aunt for the actions she took. I served Daenerys for many years, as you do now. I promise you, she will be treated fairly."

"It is already clear that is not the case," Damion turns back to Jon. "Are you two afraid to speak to me, boy? Now that your aunt won the war from you and you've stolen her throne?"

Argilac lashes out with his fist, splitting Damion's nose, but the knight does not flinch, even as the blood runs down over his mouth. Jon continues to stare, silently.

"Stolen glory is worth nothing in the end," Damion turns away, walking back to his men.

"You will all find housing prepared for you within the city," Jon finally speaks. "But your armies must camp outside the walls. The council will meet tomorrow. Do not delay."


Daenerys' Cell

Jon stands outside the door, alone, trying to steady his breathing. He does not know how long he has waited here. It has been hours since he confronted the newly arrived lords. Slowly, he steels himself and pushes the door open. Daenerys sits in the middle of the floor, the ground and walls covered with arcane markings. As he looks into her blue eyes for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. And she is as beautiful as ever. He has no words.

"They're tearing you apart, aren't they?" she looks up, softly. "Even after all that's happened, they can't stop playing their little game."

"I wish you were there with me. You know these people and their ways better than I"

"Do you?" Daenrys laughs, scornfully. "Is that why you have me in chains?"

"You must answer for your crimes," Jon puts his foot down. This was a mistake.

"My crimes?" She stands. "I delivered justice! Justice for Ned Stark, for your true parents, for Elia Martell and everyone else Cersei and this wicked city destroyed. I ended the war without our armies spilling another ounce of blood! Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Not like this." Jon turns away. Slowly, Daenerys calms.

"What do the people say of me?"

"Many of your followers remain true. No one weeps for Cersei. Yara and your Hand certainly have no love for me, either. Others call you mad, like your father. They say that when a Targaryen is born, the gods…"

"Flip a coin. I know. I never hear men say that of Tywin Lannister. And look at the crimes he wrought. He gets "The Rains of Castemere". I get "The Mad Queen."

"The world is cruel. That does not mean we must be cruel to change it."

"You really hate me…" Daenerys reaches out. Jon lets her take his hand.

"No."

"I loved you from the day we met…" Her eyes seem to grow a deeper, sadder blue. "Was it ever truly real?"

"Yes! I love you! I still do! If I did not, I would have struck you down the day you burned the city." Jon realizes he has pulled her close. He shakes free.

"No," she glares. "You are wiser than that. You knew you needed me alive to placate my followers."

"Then you greatly overmeasure my wisdom. Were I a wise man, I never would have journeyed south."

"Then go, run away back north!" Any remaining sympathy is gone now. "Back to that frigid, gods-forsaken place! I'll even let them be free! Just leave me to my throne." Jon does not reply. "But you can't do that, can you? Your family has conspired against me from the moment I arrived. The assassin and the seductress and the cripple with his dark magic..."

"I am not conspiring against you! My siblings have nothing to do with this!" He shoves her away. "Never speak of them that way again! I would gladly leave, if I could! But I cannot allow what you have done to go unpunished!"

"What am I to think?" Daenerys rises again, laughing a sad, lonely trill. "You promised to help me win my throne. And now, after I win the war by myself, sacrificing my dragon, my child, you lock me away and sit in my place! You want me to believe you don't want this? If you loved me, we would be planning our wedding, not my trial!"

"I love you. But I know my duty."

"And duty is the death of love." She answers coldly.

"How did you…"

"They will never follow you, Jon. You're weak. You need me. We need each other."

"I do not need them to follow me," Jon steps back through the door. "I only need them to fear me."

The door slams closed between them.