Chapter 45: High in the Halls of the Kings Who Are Gone
Tarth…
Theon stood on the deck of his ship, staring out at the isle of Tarth as they sailed past. The skies were covered with clouds, as they had been for some time now. He couldn't remember the last time he saw sunlight. Days passed since he had infiltrated Euron's flagship to rescue Yara, yet it felt like hours. The things he saw in the bowels of the Silence would haunt him for the rest of his life. Everyone on the Iron Islands knew his uncle was power-hungry and ambitious, but it seemed like everyone underestimated just how insane he was.
Cages of priests with their tongues cut out, the stench of death and foul magic, and the fact that Euron had raped not only Olene, but also his own niece. He meant to impregnate both of them, but for what possible purpose? Incest was one of the foulest acts in the world. The Targaryens were famous for it, but most of them were born insane. To willingly engage in such a heinous crime…
What could the purpose be?
Thankfully, Theon had rescued Yara. He had wanted to rescue Visenya Blackfyre also, but at the very least he saved her innocent children. Taking one last look at the horizon, he went belowdecks and walked up to the cabin he set aside for Yara. He knocked three times, then waited until hearing, "Come in."
Pressing the door open, he saw his sister laying on her bed, dressed in her usual clothes and covered by the sheets. She still bore countless scars and burns from her time as Euron's slave. But she bore them with a strength few could, and that made him infinitely proud of her.
Yara nodded by way of greeting, then reached over to the dresser and plucked the vial of Moon Tea. Popping the cap, she downed the contents in a single gulp. Yara had been drinking every last bit of the substance on the ship, since it was used to prevent pregnancies or…abort children while in the womb. Theon said nothing, knowing she would want to eliminate every last trace of Euron's touch.
"How are you feeling?" he finally asked.
She fixed him with a hard stare, but there was no venom in it. "I feel like shit, thanks for asking." When he looked at the floor, she softened her expression and added, "But I'm much better now. Here." She held out her hand, which he took. Yara held him in a steel grip. "You saved me from that hell, from our fucking degenerate of an uncle. I cannot repay you enough, brother."
"You came for me, all those years ago," Theon said. "I'm only sorry I didn't go with you then. This was my chance to repay you."
Yara smiled, and her eyes conveyed some of the crushing emotion she must have been feeling. "Where are we going?"
"To Dragonstone," he answered. "The Iron Fleet, at least our portion of it, is patrolling the seas and ensuring Euron's raiders don't disrupt our supply lines. You can rest at Dragonstone and get better. Drakon Blackfyre's children will be safe there, too."
She furrowed her brow. "And what about you?"
He looked at the wall, trying to best frame the proper words. "I get the feeling these are the end times, or close enough at least. I've done my best to atone for what I've done, but—"
"You've done enough," Yara insisted.
A single tear ran down his cheek. "That means more than you know. But you're not the only one I've wronged. If I don't survive the battles to come, then I have to apologize and atone to others while I have the chance. There's a place I have to go, a place I need to return to if my life will have any meaning."
"Where?"
Winterfell…
Edric drew his sword, Wolf's Howl.
He took a moment to admire the ripples of the Valyrian Steel blade and the golden wolf heads on the cross guard. Many men had tasted its bite, and even a giant, a feat which earned the young Blackfyre his colourful epithet 'Giant-Slayer'. More recently, it had cut down dozens of undead Wights. It was part of a key, one that would save them all from ultimate destruction. Edric looked at Brienne, who stood beside him. She drew her own weapon, Oathkeeper. Though she agreed with his request, she likely felt the same hesitation he did. A warrior's weapon was their life, an extension of themselves. Nevertheless, she gave him a solemn nod.
They handed their swords over to Edric's father, who stood across from them with his silver hair tied in a bun. He took both in hand, then turned around and stepped over to the forge. Drakon and Winterfell's blacksmith were both shirtless, displaying their prodigious muscles. Already, their skin glistened with sweat from the heat of the fires.
Together, both men removed the handles from the swords. They then placed them in the furnace. To the left, Rhaegon poked his massive head through an opening in the wall. It rested its gargantuan body on the castle wall. Edric and Brienne stepped back several paces, as did Drakon and the blacksmith. Edric's father took a deep breath, then said, "Dracarys." Rhaegon opened its cavernous mouth, but instead of a torrent of flames that could melt castles in moments, a lighter stream of fire came out. It bathed the furnace like water poured over a table, tongues of fire licking the air.
The secrets of making Valyrian Steel had been lost for three centuries, ever since the Doom of Valyria. That made the existing swords and other relics priceless. Only the most highly skilled smiths, a handful across the world, had the ability to reforge or rework an existing blade. Edric's father had traveled across Essos for years –managing to study with Qohorik blacksmiths— and he had spent a lifetime researching the ways of Old Valyria. He acquired enough knowledge to recreate some of the processes of working Valyrian Steel. A key element that helped the process was having a living Dragon to provide the flames.
Soon enough, both blades melted. Drakon poured the liquefied metal into the mould, recombining that which had been split by the foul Lannisters. He drew a dagger and sliced his left palm without so much as a wince. Edric watched the blood drip into the molten steel, each drop sizzling. Interestingly, they also produced small flashes of crimson light.
After all, there was power in king's blood. And Drakon was a king of Targaryen blood. A potent mix.
Edric and Brienne left the smithy, returning to their respective tasks. Over the next two days, Drakon and the castle blacksmith laboured on the sword. They folded the steel thousands of times, making it stronger and stronger. Drakon regularly added some of his blood, making incantations in the Valyrian tongue. To passersby, it seemed that the very air around the smithy rippled with otherworldly energy.
Finally, the work finished. Edric stepped inside, shedding the thick fur cloak he wore. The air felt hot and oppressive, making it difficult to breathe. He blinked, wiping sweat from his brow. The blacksmith sat against the far corner, pouring a waterskin over himself. Drakon approached Edric, muscular body dripping with sweat. He looked as pale as the snows outside, bandages wrapped around his hands and arms from numerous cuts. Drakon gripped the finished sword in both hands, holding it out. Edric took it, noting the greater weight than his former weapon. But even so, the Valyrian Steel was many times lighter than regular steel.
The blade was as wide as Edric's hand, and almost as long as he was tall. The telltale ripples were beautiful, so dark they were almost black with hints of dark crimson. Both ends of the black-stained metal cross guard were shaped into snarling wolf heads, and a clawed Dragon hand gripped a red jewel set into the pommel. Edric smiled, admiring the sword for its beauty as well as what it represented.
Ice had been reborn.
Edric kissed Sansa on the forehead, then kissed Eddard and Catelyn before quietly stepping out into the hall. His wife was exhausted, so he left her and the babies to their well-deserved sleep. The room was well-lit with candles, and the fire crackled as it did its best to heat the space. As soon as Edric stepped into the hall, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. He shivered, shoving his arms inside his cloak. Winterfell was heated by underground hot springs, but the extreme cold of the last few days seemed to slowly overwhelm that heat.
Brienne stood by the door, as she always did. She must have been chilly, but showed no obvious discomfort. "Hopefully they can get some rest," he told her, gesturing to the door.
"She's been through a lot," Brienne agreed. She paused, glancing at the longsword at her side. Castle-forged steel was of good quality, but nowhere near the level of Valyrian Steel.
"I wanted to say thank you," Edric told her. "For agreeing to hand over Oathkeeper. I know you had that sword for a long time."
The big woman replied, "It was necessary."
"Yes, it was. You're an honourable warrior, Lady Brienne. I've known many knights, but you're one of the few that deserves the title."
"Thank you, my lord."
He left her by the door, making his way outside. The moment he did, he was struck by freezing winds and had to trudge across ankle-deep snow. No one had seen daylight since his father brought them back on Rhaegon. Several Maesters had said that this winter would be worse than any of previous record. They were right. But Edric knew the reason for that. He remembered the blizzard he and his companions had braved Beyond the Wall on their way to the ancient Weirwood grove. At the time, it seemed like the weather itself had been trying to stop them. The snows and wind all fell away in an instant when the Night King sprung his trap.
The enemy of all life did not only ride the storm. He brought the storm.
Whatever fires were lit in braziers or torches along the walls were nearly smothered by the cold, requiring constant tending. Not only that, but also they seemed to give off a fraction of their normal heat. Edric felt sorry for all the guards on duty, as well as the workers and soldiers outside the castle. He had ordered the construction of a series of fortifications and trenches just past the outer castle wall. If the White Walkers managed to make it past the Wall, then Winterfell would be the best place to mount a defense. Most of the towns and holdfasts to the north had been evacuated already during the civil war. But for every preparation, Edric wondered if it would really make a difference.
He flashed back to the week he and Beric and the others spent trapped on that island in the centre of the frozen lake. A week, watching men freeze to death as a massive Army of the Dead and monsters stared at them like statues. It had been the worst experience of his life, even more terrible than dying.
Reaching one of the training yards, Edric drew Ice from the sheath strapped to his back. He gripped the greatsword tight, giving it a few cursory swings and stabs. Growing up, his father had given him and Edwyn instruction on many different types of weapons. The reasoning being that, in a fight, one had to use everything at their disposal. If you lost your sword, then knowing how to wield the first thing you picked up could be the difference between life and death. Still, it had been many years since Edric wielded a greatsword.
Sizing up the metal-plated wooden pole in front of him, Edric swung Ice backwards to build momentum, then brought it down in a diagonal strike. The Valyrian Steel cut through the metal and wood in a single stroke, and he felt no resistance. A powerful weapon, sure to be deadly once he mastered it.
He practiced for an hour in the freezing cold, chopping poles into pieces and refining his technique. The harsh winter weather did not seem to affect him as much as everyone else. Northerners lived with cold all their lives, and yet even they suffered under the unrelenting snow and wind. But not Edric. He shivered, but no more than if he were affected by an ocean breeze. Dying and coming back had dulled his senses, and he swore to himself that he would not become an unfeeling thing like a Wight. That would never be his fate.
The sound of footsteps crunching the snow drew his attention. Jon approached, wearing a leather cuirass and a gorget with a Stark Direwolf emblazoned under his black cloak. He opened his mouth to say something, then paused when he saw the sword. "That's my father's sword."
"Yes, it is," Edric confirmed. "With a few touches to the handle, but other than that it's the same weapon." He held it out to Jon, who took it reverently.
"I never thought I'd see it again. After the Lannisters melted it down, I felt certain it was gone forever." Jon ran a hand along the flat surface of the blade, admiring the ripples of the Valyrian Steel.
"It's yours, if you want it."
He blinked in surprise. "What?" he asked. Then, he said, "No, I can't. This sword belongs to House Stark."
"Which includes you."
Jon shook his head. "No. The Starks are my family, but I've never truly been one of them. You should have Ice, since you're lord of Winterfell."
"Jon, I only married into the family. You're blood. Ned Stark is your father, just like Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon. But regardless of that, family is what we choose for ourselves. You were raised in this castle, just like the others. They treated you like one of their own, so what does it matter that you have a different mother? You have just as much claim to Ice as I do."
He was silent for a few moments. "Maybe someday. For so long now, all I've cared about is protecting the North. Protecting my people. First from Mance Rayder and his army, now from the Night King. When I joined the Night's Watch, I forsook any claim to titles or land. And all that time I spent past the wall with the Wildlings, it changed me."
Edric cocked his head, recognizing the look in the other man's eye. "Who was she?"
"Ygritte." Jon's lips formed a small, nostalgic, smile. "She was a Wildling. First time we met, we tried to kill each other. But then I infiltrated Mance's army, and we started spending time together. We fell in love."
"What happened to her?"
"She died when Mance attacked the Wall. Afterwards, I took her body into the woods past the Wall and burned her. There hasn't been a day since when I haven't regretted losing her. Lands and titles and inheritance…none of it matters to me. The North is where I belong. The real North."
"What are you saying?" Edric asked.
"If the Night King and his army somehow manage to invade, and we lose, then that's that. But if we somehow win and survive, I'm going back north. If the White Walkers are defeated, then it'll be safe to live Beyond the Wall. It's in my blood. I've got no desire to trudge through shit politics and spend every day fighting over rights to this place or that place."
"Have you told Sansa and the others?"
"Not yet. We need to focus on the fight ahead and do what needs to be done." Jon handed Ice back to Edric, who sheathed it. They stood in silence, watching the comings and goings of the castle. Edric spotted his father on the opposite end of the courtyard, talking with Ser Davos. A passing group of guards gave him a sidelong glance, as did some of the others up on the walls. Everyone feared Drakon for his strength as well as the presence of Rhaegon. But they were also wary of him. Northerners were, in many ways, an inscrutable folk. But their bonds of honour and brotherhood were stronger than steel or stone. The flipside of that was their general distrust of Southerners and other foreigners.
Edric had lived in the North for years now, and he had proven himself several times over. But even he still felt like a stranger. He would have been completely ostracized if not for his marriage to Sansa and the support of Smalljon Umber. Despite Drakon being their liege and ruler, the Northerners looked at him with suspicion because of his Targaryen blood. "It was my father who reforged Ice, by the way," Edric said. Jon looked at him with mild surprise. "He's a good man."
"He's also done a lot of terrible things," Jon reminded him.
"I know. But sometimes we must do something terrible to prevent greater evils. Most of the people he killed to unify Westeros were oath-breakers, usurpers, and monsters. Among them were the Freys and Boltons who murdered Catelyn Stark and your brother Robb. Ever since I first became Warden of the North, I've learned something about power. Power is dangerous. It corrupts the best and attracts the worst. Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up. My father has blood on his hands, but so do we all. And if you suffered everything he has suffered, I think you might have made the same choices he did. You and I have both gone through countless trials and suffered grievous losses, and that has made us stronger. My father is the strongest person I've ever known."
"I wonder if—" Jon started to say.
The shrill, whipping winds and snowfall were shattered by the roar of a Dragon.
Edric looked up to see a pair of dark shapes crossing the sky. Though the heavy storm clouds made it hard to identify them, he knew they could only be Dragons. And apart from his father, only one person in the world had Dragons at their disposal. He and Jon ran over to the front gates as everyone around them cried out in concern. Drakon joined them as Edric ordered, "Open the gates!"
The heavy wooden gates creaked open, showing the snow-covered Kingsroad between the army tents. Both Dragons flapped their wings as they landed in front of Winterfell. The first one had golden scales and cream-coloured markings on its neck and tail, as well as red orange wings. The second had emerald scales with bronze markings on its neck and tail, and yellow orange wings. The second Dragon had a rider, which could only have been Daenerys Targaryen. It lowered a wing, which allowed her to step down onto the ground. The Mother of Dragons was gorgeous, with striking Targaryen silver hair done up in intricate braids. She wore a white fur coat with pointed shoulder pads, black leather gloves, and a silver, three-headed Dragon broach connected to a chain wrapped around her shoulder and chest.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," Drakon greeted. "I would have thought you and your armies would be assisting my son in the Reach."
"We defeated the Darklyte army," Daenerys explained. "My Dragons killed Gaeryn Darklyte. But Drogon…" She paused, collecting herself. "He was struck by a Scorpion bolt. Somehow, the Darklytes coated it with a powerful acid and deadly poison. I left healers to attend him, since he cannot fly."
"I'm sorry," Drakon said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "But, if I may ask, what convinced you to come all this way?"
She hesitated, which only increased Edric's interest. "After the battle, I had a dream. It felt more like a vision. I saw a great darkness pouring out of the North, swallowing all in its path. No army could defeat it. I saw you and your Dragon fight and lose, and I knew in my heart that you would die without me and my children. We would all die."
Edric and Jon shared a glance. Drakon nodded, then said, "It sounds like you had a Dragon Dream. I have had many in my life. Those of our bloodline sometimes have premonitions of the future."
"So I've been told."
"Daenerys, let me introduce you to my son, Edric."
"A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace," Edric said, bowing.
She gave him a strange look. "Your hair is longer, and you have a beard, but you look exactly like your brother."
He smiled. "The curse of being a twin. Though I'm much better looking. You and your Dragons are welcome in Winterfell, and you are welcome to every hospitality I can give."
She smiled, inclining her head. "You are most kind, Lord Edric. And it is a pleasure to see you again, Jon Snow."
"Likewise," Jon said.
Drakon placed a hand on the small of Daenerys' back and gestured to the castle. "Come, let us speak inside. There is much you need to know." They walked back through the gate, leaving the Dragons to their own devices. By this point, a large crowd had gathered in the courtyard. Standing among them were Lyanna Mormont, Smalljon Umber, Beric, Gendry, Arya and Rickon, Meera pushing Bran's wheelchair, and even Sansa. Daenerys came to a stop when she saw how the Northerners looked at her. Edric recognized the same look of distrust leveled at his father, but with barely concealed hostility. Drakon had at least curried some favour by wiping out the Boltons, but Daenerys had no such favours.
The last time any of them had dealt with a Targaryen, Sansa's grandfather and uncle were executed, and thousands perished during Robert's Rebellion to remove Daenerys' insane father. The North Remembers, as the saying went, and it seemed the old enmity would be hard to erase.
"You all know who this is," Drakon said, taking a step forward. "We cannot afford to be trapped in old grievances while the White Walkers bear down on us. The threat we face will annihilate every living thing if we do not band together. She should not be judged based on the actions of her family."
Before anyone else could speak, Lyanna Mormont said, "If it were only that simple. Everyone knows the gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born. And we've all heard the stories of how she fed people to her Dragons and slaughtered thousands in Essos. She came here with armies of eastern savages to conquer our country and retake the Iron Throne. There are no Stark blades in that ugly chair, and the North will never bow to another Targaryen demanding our allegiance."
"That's all well and good, Lady Mormont," Edric said, taking a step forward and leveling a steely glare at the little girl. "But that sort of stance is exactly what my father was talking about. If we cling to old hatreds and feuds, then Westeros is doomed to repeat a needless cycle of blood. And we will be helpless when the White Walkers come. We need to make every preparation before they can cross the Wall."
"It's too late for that." Bran's voice was so quiet he might as well have been whispering, but everyone stopped and turned to look at him. "The Wall has fallen." He was met by a chorus of gasps and denials. "The White Walkers are marching south as we speak. It will take them time to march to Winterfell, but we must prepare to make our stand here." All thoughts of blood feuds and old hatreds vanished in the face of such cataclysmic news. The Northern Lords all shared nervous glances, then focused on Edric, Drakon, and Daenerys.
Edric looked at Sansa, whose lips were firmly pursed. The end times were upon them, and everything and everyone he had ever loved would die if they could not stop the Night King from marching south into the other kingdoms.
They would stand at Winterfell and find victory, or they would perish.
The First Man screamed as the Dragonglass shard was shoved into his chest.
Bran stood at the edge of the grove, watching the ritual unfold. There had to be some way to discern a weakness in the power the Children gave to the Night King. Unfortunately, the leader of the White Walkers had grown beyond his constraints when he rose against the Children. And in the ensuing 8,000 years, his powers had magnified several times over. Having seen his enemy's potential, Bran was beginning to question if overcoming the Night King could be done.
He shook his head, shoving those thoughts aside. Despair was a weapon of the White Walkers, one that he would not succumb to. However, the oncoming storm would claim many, many lives. Some were destined to die, while others' fates could be altered. Bran considered the possibility of changing the timeline.
If this ritual could be prevented, then the Night King would never have existed.
There were terrible consequences to meddling with the past, as he had learned with Hodor. A change of that magnitude could change the history of the world irrevocably. The world might just end. If all else failed, Bran could somehow enter this moment and warn the Children of what they were creating. He would have to convince them not to enact their plan, to make peace with the First Men on their own.
The mark on his arm itched so badly it felt as if it were on fire. Bran winced, scratching at it. As always, he felt a tug whenever he watched this scene play out. Every time, the tug grew stronger. But for the sake of the human race and the world, he had to ignore it and view what he needed to.
Turning around, he left the ancient Weirwood grove behind. He chose to appear at another familiar sight. The Tower of Joy stood tall in the hot Dornish sun. At its base were several corpses, most of them Northerners that had accompanied a young Eddard Stark and Howland Reed. Two of Aerys Targaryen's Kingsguard were among the dead, cut down in the melee.
Bran stood by the base of the tower stairs. He watched his father, young and strong and proud, run up the stairs. Blinking, Bran appeared inside the tower. His father burst into the room, covered in sweat and blood. On the bed laid his aunt, Lyanna. The sheets were covered in blood, and it did not take a Maester to see that she would die from blood loss.
"Ned," she called weakly.
"Lyanna!" Ned rested Dawn, the ancestral blade of House Dayne taken from Ser Arthur Dayne moments ago, against the bed. He knelt by his sister, brow creased in worry.
"Is that you?" she asked. "Is that really you?" He took her hand in his, cupping her cheek with the other. "You're not a dream?"
"No, I'm not a dream," he replied with a smile. "I'm here. Right here."
Lyanna's face scrunched as her eyes watered. "I've missed you, big brother."
"I've missed you, too."
She took a gasping breath as tears ran down her face. "I want to be brave."
"You are."
"I'm not." Ned touched a hand to her stomach, looking at the blood on his fingers. "I don't want to die."
"You're not going to die." Ned looked to the maid standing on the other side of the room. "Get her some water!" he ordered.
"No, no water."
"Is there a Maester?"
"Listen to me, Ned!" He looked back at her, leaning in close. She whispered into his ear. The first few times Bran watched this encounter, he had not heard what they said. Ever since the Wall had fallen, he heard the words. "His name…is Aemon Targaryen." Ned's gaze fell on the crib the maid stood beside, with a tiny arm visible. "If Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me."
The maid picked up the baby and brought him over to Ned, even as the blood drained from his face from the revelation. He took the baby in his arms, looking down at it with a haunted expression.
"Promise me, Ned. Promise me…" Lyanna said. Her hand slipped from his, and she breathed her last.
The level of activity in Winterfell became almost manic. News of the Wall falling, after 8,000 years, nearly caused a panic. Fortunately, the stoic strength of the Northerners came through. Supplies were gathered and prepared, the armies began intensive drills and exercises, and weapons were regularly maintained.
Edric oversaw much of the efforts, sending ravens to the major castles and towns in the North. Everything north of Winterfell was evacuated already, except for those near or at the Wall. The Night King now had thousands more soldiers for his army, between the men of the Night's Watch and the Wildlings who settled in the Gift. His orders were clear: everyone not currently at Winterfell was to evacuate just outside the Neck. If the Walkers were defeated, then they could return to their homes.
And if they lost at Winterfell, then most of the North could cross south and escape the oncoming storm of death.
Another preparation was feeding the Dragons, as they were the greatest assets available against the Army of the Dead. Large numbers of livestock were kept for the sole purpose of keeping Rhaegon, Viserion, and Rhaegal in optimal shape. Some would consider three fully grown Dragons overkill, but they had not seen the extent of the Army of the Dead like Edric had. As for the Dragons themselves, they seemed to get along better than one would expect. Rhaegon kept his distance from the other two, and with Drakon and Daenerys tending to their respective children, there was no danger of the creatures becoming violently territorial.
Soon enough, Drakon, Edric, and Daenerys summoned the Northern Lords to formulate a strategy.
Edric stood by his father as everyone filed into the room. In the centre, a map of the area surrounding Winterfell had been placed on top of the table. Marker stones identified Northern soldiers from siege equipment and the Army of the Dead. "We all know what's coming," Drakon said once everyone was present. "Therefore we must prepare for the battle of our lives." He gave them all a significant stare, conveying the seriousness of the matter. "This will not be a traditional engagement. The White Walkers are capable of raising the dead to join their ranks, so the more soldiers we lose, the greater our enemy's numbers. We cannot risk getting bogged down in extended clashes."
He looked at Edric, who nodded. Edric gestured to the markings in front of Winterfell. "I've had workers preparing a series of ditches and barriers by the walls, and a trench further out. They're just about complete. Our pikemen will man the ditches and fortifications, but that is the last line of defense before Winterfell itself. The trench will be filled with Dragonglass spears and set aflame when the battle begins."
"An excellent start," Drakon said. Edric smiled at his father's praise. "I would also suggest digging another, larger, trench at least 200 metres out from the middle trench. From what I saw, the Army of the Dead relies on sheer numbers to overwhelm opposition. This outer barrier would break their initial assault and leave them vulnerable. Trebuchets on the outer wall will be able to inflict severe casualties from range. How many cavalry units do we have available?"
All eyes turned to Wyman Manderly, who shifted in his seat. "We have 2,000 horsemen, primarily heavy lances."
"That will have to do," Drakon said. "We will have them stationed here, in the gap between the outer and middle trenches. Their task will be to charge and destroy any Wights that cross the trench."
"What is the point of that if the dead are so numerous?" Asher Forrester demanded. "Killing even a few thousand this way won't make a damned bit of difference."
Drakon leaned on the table, gesturing to the mass of markers indicating the Army of the Dead. "Again, from what I saw, the Night King prefers to send in his army to overwhelm any force. Even if his Wights fail to destroy an enemy, then they will be so weakened that he and his White Walkers can move in to finish off those that are left. Our ultimate goal should be to kill the Night King; he is the most powerful of them all, and therefore the greatest threat. If we are smart, we can whittle down his forces and provoke him into showing himself."
Smalljon grunted, looking at the map. "Alright. So we have the cavalry and trebuchets focus on the Wights at the trench, but what's stopping them from moving around the trench and attacking us from our flanks?"
"That is where Daenerys and I come in," Drakon replied. Daenerys, who stood beside him, perked up at the mention of her name. "Our Dragons will be providing support from the air. Dragonfire is a powerful weapon against the undead, and we have three Dragons. We will fly over the flanks of the Army of the Dead and destroy as many as we can. The fire will also contain them, and force them to cross the trench in a forward approach. We win the battle by controlling the battlefield and limiting their movements. If we concentrate them across this small area to the north of the castle, then we negate much of their numerical advantage.
"Now, I suspect the outer trench will not hold for long. At the first sign of a mass crossing, all our cavalry will fall back into Winterfell. Once that is done, the Wights will be stopped at the middle trench. At that point, they should be in range of our archers as well as the trebuchets. Our goal should be to keep them from closing on Winterfell itself as long as possible. Kill as many as we can, but we must deny our enemy the chance to raise more soldiers from our own. As their losses mount, the White Walkers themselves might appear."
"They're not to be underestimated," Jon said from where he stood. "Every White Walker is a powerful warrior with gods know what kind of magic at their disposal. I fought one at Hardhome, and it almost killed me."
"So how'd you kill it, then?" Smalljon asked. "Flipped your pretty fucking hair at it?"
A few chuckles echoed through the room. Edric gave him a silent glare, and the big man shrugged in response. Jon, other than scowling, said, "I managed to kill it with Longclaw. We know that Dragonglass kills them, but it seems like Valyrian Steel will do the trick, too."
"We only have a few Valyrian Steel blades here," Edric reminded him, rolling his shoulder to feel the weight of Ice on his back.
"Well, between the Dragonglass in the trenches and fire, we should have everything we need," Drakon said. "When the White Walkers appear, then the Night King will not be far behind. The moment we see him, Daenerys and I and all three of our Dragons will focus on him and blast him to cinders with Dragonfire."
"You're sure that will work?" Arya asked.
"Dragonfire is the most powerful force in the world. It can melt stone and steel and anything else in equal measure. No one in the history of the world has ever resisted it."
"The Night King might not die so easily," Edric said. "Bran wouldn't have sent us for the Weirwood sap if anything else would work."
Drakon looked at him for a moment, a bevy of thoughts in his expression. "I don't claim to be an expert on ancient magics, but we cannot afford to pin our hopes on a single weapon. A threat like this must be fought with everything at our disposal. Dragonfire will be our first response to the Night King. But…if, by chance, that is not enough, then Valyrian Steel and that sap will have to come into play. But I'm not sure how we can safely use those when any of our fighters have to cross an ocean of undead soldiers."
"Use me."
All eyes turned to Bran, who sat in his wheelchair watching impassively. As always, his quiet words almost demanded full attention from anyone who heard them. "No, that's not a—" Arya started to protest, when Bran cut her off.
"The Night King will come after me. He did it once before, and he's hunted Three-Eyed Ravens for centuries. If you use me as bait, then he will have no choice but to try to kill me."
"Why is that?" Drakon asked. "I think we all deserve some answers, Bran. Why are the White Walkers here? Why are they invading?"
Bran blinked at him, then lazily glanced at everyone in the room. They stared at him, anticipation etched on their faces. "Thousands of years ago, the First Men and the Children of the Forest fought a terrible war. Many thousands died, with no end in sight, and the sacred forests were burned down. In desperation, the Children captured a First Man. He was a Stark, the younger brother of our ancestor." His words elicited shocked gasps and murmurs, and Arya's and Sansa's and Jon's mouths fell open. "They enacted a ritual, one so powerful and so dangerous that they'd never before attempted it. But they saw no other way. They turned the First Man into a White Walker, the Night King. The first and greatest of them. In the beginning, the Walkers were a powerful weapon, and the tide of the war changed in the Children's favour. But the Night King soon broke from the Children's control, and he began slaughtering them as well."
"Why did he do that?" Edric asked. "How?"
"The Night King was created to feel nothing but pure, concentrated hatred for men. His hatred soon turned inward at himself, since he used to be a man, and eventually at those who turned him into a monster. It was strong enough to break the Children's control. Soon, he and his forces became too much of a threat, and began the Long Night. Hundreds of thousands died on all sides."
Drakon crossed his arms. "Then how were the Walkers defeated?"
"Recognizing that all life would end, the First Men and the Children of the Forest united. The Children shared their magic, and the brother of the man who became the Night King, a Stark, swore to kill his brother. He set out with twelve companions, and became known as the Last Hero."
"I've read the legends," Drakon said. "He's often compared to Azor Ahai, who the followers of R'hllor believe ended the Long Night, and is prophesied to return to save the world. Most cultures have some sort of saviour figure in their myths and legends."
Bran nodded, almost imperceptibly. "After decades of war, the hero managed to slay the Night King. But by then, his powers had grown considerably. The Night King passed into the hero and took control of his body, and the hero became the Night King. But the hero was able to exert enough control to stop the slaughter and make a treaty with the First Men and the Children. They swore to divide the land; the White Walkers would have dominion over the far northern lands, the Children would remain in the forests, and the First Men would have claim to all the other lands. The hero's companions willingly sacrificed themselves and became White Walkers as part of the treaty. The hero's son, Brandon, with the aid of the Children and the Walkers, built the Wall to mark the divided territories. The Starks and the newly born Night's Watch were also obliged to offer male children to the Walkers as a yearly sacrifice."
The room echoed with shocked and disgusted voices. Drakon held a hand to silence them, though he, too, seemed disturbed by the cripple's words.
"Fucking Craster," Jon hissed. "That's what he did; he kept his daughters, but gave his sons to the Walkers. I saw it. That's why they left him alone when he lived so far north."
"He honoured the treaty in his own way," Edric said. He had heard stories of Craster, the Wildling who lived in the middle of the woods Beyond the Wall. The old man had married his daughters, and eventually married the daughters they gave him. Such a foul man deserved the most painful death imaginable.
"That still doesn't explain why the Walkers are invading," Drakon pressed. "Was the treaty broken? And if so, by whom?"
"By us," Bran answered. "Men. The sacrifice continued for generations, until the men of the Night's Watch had enough and overthrew the Lord Commander of the time, the thirteenth. As the centuries passed, men began to break every part of the treaty. The Wildlings were banished Beyond the Wall, and began encroaching on the White Walkers' lands. Not only that, but men have caused so much damage to the land. The chaos of the Andal invasion, Aegon's Conquest, Robert's Rebellion, the War of Five Kings, and the Second War of Conquest."
Jon crossed his arms. "Why would they care about that?"
"Despite being free of the Children's control," Bran explained, "the Night King still bears an innate hatred for men. He wishes to preserve nature, just like the Children of the Forest that created him. He's become convinced that we will destroy the world, and he is coming to stop that."
"He's going to save the world?" Arya asked, her skepticism clear.
"By killing every last man, woman, and child in the world. And when we are all dead, added to his army, he will bury the world in snow and ice with a second Long Night. The Long Night has already begun, and it will not stop. When the race of men is exterminated, he and his brethren will retreat back to the Lands of Always Winter. The snows will melt, and nature will regrow. To save the world, he will commit genocide. As the Three-Eyed Raven, I represent the world's history, the history of men. To complete his plan, he must kill me so my knowledge is lost. He not only wants to kill us, but annihilate every last trace of our existence. If I stay in the Godswood during the battle, he'll have no choice but to seek me out. We use that to lure him into the open so we can kill him. So Edric can kill him."
The room went deathly silent. No one spoke for quite a while, Bran's words hanging over them like crows flocking to a corpse to feast. Their enemy's true intentions were unknown for so long, but to learn the extent of the Night King's plan…Edric felt sick, and fought to keep his supper down. Even those of iron will, like Lyanna Mormont or Smalljon Umber, looked at the floor in fright.
Finally, Edric broke the silence. "Okay," he said quietly. He felt the gazes of everyone present fall on him. "Bran will be in the Godswood, along with a sizeable escort. I'll be there, too, ready to kill the Night King when he shows himself."
"I'll be there, too," Meera Reed spoke up. "I've gotten you this far, Bran. I'll be damned if I leave you now."
"I'll protect him, also," Jon added.
Arya took a half step forward. "And me. We're family, and we should look out for each other."
Drakon nodded slowly. "Then it is decided. Right now, this is the best plan we have. With any luck, we can diminish the Army of the Dead so much that the Night King and his generals will make themselves vulnerable. We make our stand here, or else everything we hold dear will be consumed by darkness. We stand for the living."
"We stand for the living," everyone echoed.
Men and women began filing out, all knowing the colossal stakes at play. Bran spoke up and said, "Drakon, I need you to stay a moment. And you, Jon, and Daenerys also. You need to hear what I have to say."
Edric paused, sharing a confused glance with his father. He shrugged and walked out, arm in arm with Sansa. Ser Jorah lingered, but stepped out when his queen nodded to him. Before long, Drakon, Jon, and Daenerys were the only ones in the room with Bran.
Drakon clasped his hands in front of himself, staring down at the crippled Stark boy. "What do you have to tell us, Bran?" he asked. "And why couldn't you say it with everyone present?"
Bran assessed the three of them with an unreadable expression. "Because my words will directly impact the three of you. Your lives will never be the same. And because what I am about to tell you will impact the fate of Westeros."
Drakon felt the marrow in his bones freeze. He shared a nervous glance with Daenerys and Jon, all of them at a loss.
The cripple fixed him with his dead eyes. "You grew up with Rhaegar Targaryen. He loved you as his brother, and considered you one of the finest men he ever knew." Drakon's jaw ached, remembering the love he felt for the prince and how he had dishonoured his memory for so long. "But there were things Rhaegar did not tell you. Secrets he felt should be kept. Those secrets involved my aunt, Lyanna Stark."
Jon crossed his arms. "What about Aunt Lyanna?"
"She was my aunt, Jon. Not yours."
"What? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Robert Baratheon went to war against House Targaryen after Rhaegar absconded with Lyanna. He believed Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped her for his own ends. But the truth was far more complicated. Lyanna chose to run away with him. They were in love."
Drakon furrowed his brow. Then, the words reminded him of an old memory. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree," he said quietly.
"Exactly."
"What does that mean?" Daenerys asked.
"At the Tourney of Harrenhal, a mystery knight appeared to defend the honour of a Crannogman who had been bullied by three squires. The knight bore a laughing weirwood on their shield, hence the name. They beat the knights of those squires in the joust, then disappeared. At the end, Rhaegar won the tournament. Instead of crowning his wife as the queen of love and beauty, he crowned Lyanna instead. I heard the story for months after the fact, but Rhaegar always avoided answering my questions about it. Lyanna must have been the mystery knight, and they fell in love at the tourney."
Bran nodded. "Rhaegar and Lyanna ran away to be married in secret. He had to leave to fight against Robert during the Rebellion, so he left her in the Tower of Joy, in Dorne, under the protection of Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar lost his life at the Trident, and Aerys II was murdered when King's Landing was sacked. My father learned of Lyanna's location and rode there with Howland Reed and a company of soldiers. They fought and killed the Kingsguard. Howland was wounded, and my father was the only man who survived unscathed. When he entered the tower, he found Lyanna in bed, dying. She had just given birth."
Bran lazily turned his head to look Jon in the eyes. Jon sharply inhaled, and Drakon felt as if someone had punched through his heart with a mailed fist. Everything he previously knew about himself, and the man he loved like a brother, shattered like so much glass. He and Daenerys looked at the Northern bastard, their mouths agape.
For his part, Jon struggled to speak. He opened and closed his mouth several times, stammering and cutting himself off. "What…what are you saying?"
"Lyanna Stark wasn't your aunt. She was your mother. And Rhaegar Targaryen is your father. Your real name is Aemon Targaryen."
Silence fell as the three of them struggled to absorb the information. Drakon re-evaluated everything he knew about Rhaegar, wanting to know why his brother would have withheld such information. They told each other everything, and such a massive, world-shattering secret being kept from him broke his heart. He saw Daenerys undergoing a similar kind of turmoil. She had worshipped her brother since childhood, but only knew him through stories. Now, she had to learn that he fathered a child, an heir with a greater claim to the Iron Throne than either she or Drakon had.
"Why wouldn't Lord Stark tell me this?" Jon demanded. "Why the fuck did he let me believe I was his bastard son?"
"Because Robert swore vengeance on Rhaegar's entire family. He would have murdered you if he found out the truth, regardless of how close he and my father were."
"It's true," Drakon said slowly. "Robert tried to annihilate House Targaryen."
"My brother and I barely escaped with our lives," Daenerys added numbly.
"Why didn't Rhaegar tell me any of this?" Drakon asked, unable to suppress just how hurt and betrayed he felt.
"He would have, once the Rebellion ended. He never expected to lose his life to Robert Baratheon. Once the war was done, Rhaegar would have brought Lyanna back to King's Landing. Targaryen kings had married two wives in the past, as per ancient Valyrian custom, so his marriage to Elia Martell would have remained intact. Drakon, he would have appointed you to as Jon's guardian, to protect and teach him. Jon would have been your ward, your charge."
Daenerys, doing her best to compose herself, took a deep breath. "Why did my brother do this? You cannot tell me he did it solely because of love. His decision plunged the realm into war and nearly destroyed our family."
"Rhaegar became obsessed with prophecy. He saw some of the doom that was coming, and realized that if he fathered a child with someone of Northern blood, of Stark blood, then that child could be our salvation. The union of ice and fire. He believed his child was destined to become the Prince That Was Promised, a prophesied saviour. Even I don't know if this prophecy is true or not. But one fact remains: Jon is the heir to the Iron Throne."
"But I don't want it, or any kind of power," Jon protested. "I never ha—"
"Don't give me that!" Drakon hissed. Jon and Daenerys both looked at him in shock. "You are all that remains of Rhaegar, the greatest warrior and greatest man the world has ever known. You are his heir, and you cannot escape your birthright."
"Drakon?" Daenerys asked. "What are you saying?"
He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm not saying we make you king right now, Jon. Daenerys and I have far more experience in that regard. But you should be our heir. The blood of the Dragon should always sit on the Iron Throne."
Jon shook his head. "Look, we don't have time for this! The Night King is on his way here now to destroy us all. Whether you or I or Daenerys or who the fuck else should sit on the Iron Throne doesn't matter."
"I don't know if we'll win against the White Walkers," Bran added. "If we lose, then nothing will matter in the end. But if we win, then these truths should come to light."
Drakon swallowed. "Jon, I understand how you feel, but we need to discuss what kind of future you…Jon!" The Northern bastard –Rhaegar's son, he had to remind himself— stormed out without saying another word.
"He's right, Drakon," Daenerys said. "The White Walkers must be dealt with now. Afterwards, we will…sit down and talk about this."
Despite wanting to press the issue further, Drakon knew the truth of her words. It was not the proper time to focus on dynastic issues while the end of mankind bore down on them. He stared at the open door, reeling after the revelation of Jon's true identity. Despite everything, another piece of Rhaegar lived on. Daenerys and Jon were all that remained of him, and Drakon would use all of his strength and will to protect them both. He had a chance to redeem himself for failing to save Rhaegar's wife and children. In the face of annihilation, he had a chance to cleanse his soul.
Bran was right. None of their lives would be the same after this.
Dragonstone…
"And it would seem the Darklyte's campaign has been stymied," Varys reported. He sat at the Painted Table, near the carving of Dragonstone. Across from him sat Grey Worm and Missandei, serious-faced as ever. But Varys had been working with them long enough by now to notice tell they were pleased by the news. Tyrion sat at the head of the table, near the carving of Dorne, strumming his fingers on the hard surface.
"So our queen was successful?" Missandei asked.
Varys nodded. "Quite so. Apparently, she and the Dothraki smashed the Darklyte army in the field. Now they have no military assets outside of Highgarden apart from minor garrisons. Even as we speak, the Golden Company is retaking the Reach. It won't be long before the Darklytes are forced to sign terms of surrender."
"And then what?" Grey Worm asked, tactful as ever.
"Then we do our best to secure the safety and stability of the realm while our queen and Drakon Blackfyre are away," Tyrion replied. "Constant war has ravaged this country; we must begin the process of putting it back together. It seems the Maesters were correct after all, as this winter looks to be worse than any in living memory. There's been no sunlight in days, and snows have been reported as far south as the Arbor."
"Many of the Smallfolk across the realm are saying these snows will not end until the whole world is buried," Varys added. "Given the severity of this winter thus far, it's hard to dispute that claim."
Grey Worm shifted in his seat. "We should be out there, aiding our queen. She should be leading us in putting Westeros…" he looked at Missandei, whispering something, then finished, "back together."
Varys smiled at him. "I sympathize, my friend. But the reality is that our queen has decided to ally with Drakon Blackfyre. A decision, I might add, which has spared the lives of potentially tens of thousands of soldiers and common folk alike. For the time being, they are both in Winterfell to combat the threat of the White Walkers."
Missandei shared a glance with the Unsullied commander, then asked, "Do you think the Walkers are real, my lord? Was Jon Snow telling the truth?"
Varys took a few moments to formulate his thoughts. "I have seen much in my life. I've seen the greatness of human compassion, and the depths of human cruelty. We are capable of good and evil in equal measure. The horrors of gods and monsters are convenient stories we tell ourselves. There's often enough horror to go around, perpetrated by men." He gazed out at the tides of Blackwater Bay as fat snowflakes drifted down from clouds so dark they might as well have been black. Varys and the others had been forced to wear heavier cloaks and garments to combat the cold chill, and they had avoided sitting near the balcony. Old memories drifted to the surface of his mind, of when he'd been sold to the sorcerer as a boy. When he'd been cut. Varys still saw the flames at night, when he dreamed. He felt their heat as if he stood in front of them.
And then he heard the voice. That terrible, haunting voice in the flames.
Clearing his throat, he affected the best smile he could and added, "Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think. The sheer number of reports coming from the Night's Watch these past years lead me to believe that something is coming."
"I remember my visit to the Wall, years ago," Tyrion said. "Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon were convinced something was coming from that wasteland. They'd been getting reports of men rising from the dead with blue eyes for some time. All things being equal, I don't think seasoned men of the Night's Watch would have been so concerned over nothing."
"And surely the queen and King Drakon will succeed?" Missandei asked. By her tone, she needed convincing.
Varys scratched his chin. "With three Dragons between them, not to mention Drakon's peerless strategic mind and the formidable warriors of the North, I'm certain of a positive outcome." He looked down at the parchment in his fingers, which he had been holding for most of the meeting.
Grey Worm nodded at it and asked, "What is that?"
"A letter. A copy of a letter, one which I forwarded to Winterfell on behalf of Lady Olenna in King's Landing. In Drakon Blackfyre's haste with his Dragon, sending him any correspondence has been difficult since his return to Westeros. Now that we know he is residing in Winterfell, I was able to send the letter, along with the news of his children's rescue."
"What was in the letter?" Missandei asked.
Varys' smile melted away. He and Tyrion shared a heavy glance. "Some rather distasteful information that Drakon needs to know. It will surely cause him a great deal of distress, but sometimes the truth must come into the light."
The sound of footsteps interrupted the conversation as one of the Unsullied entered the chamber. "One of the ships of the Iron Fleet intercepted a ship approaching the island," he reported.
"Do we know who it belongs to?" Tyrion asked.
"Its sails bear the flaming heart of R'hllor."
Varys and the other advisers shared looks of surprise and confusion. Followers of the Lord of Light had not graced Westeros' shores since the death of Melisandre. Why would they come now? Standing from their chairs, the four of them made their way to the beach with an escort of Unsullied warriors. In the distance was one of the Iron Fleet ships of the Greyjoy children. Next to it was a ship of Essosi make, with white sails bearing the flaming heart sigil of the Lord of Light. Stannis Baratheon had once taken it as his own sigil in his bid for the Iron Throne.
A rowboat approached the shoreline. Several Ironborn were aboard, as well as a trio of women dressed in red robes. Varys stood with his fellow advisers, watching as the party soon landed. Despite the cold, the women did not appear to be bothered. Each were strikingly attractive, and their formfitting robes highlighted their curvaceous figures. The central woman Varys recognized, from his time in Meereen.
"It has been a long time, Lady Kinvara," he greeted, inclining his head.
The High Priestess of the Red Temple of Volantis gave him a warm smile. "It has, my Lord Varys."
"If I may be so bold, what has drawn you to our shores in these troubled times?"
"It is precisely because of the times that I have come," Kinvara replied, her tone grave. "The signs are unmistakable: the Long Night has begun, the age of darkness and cold and death prophesied to last for endless generations until the world is scoured of all life. The enemy of all life has begun its campaign, and the Lord of Light has sent us to prepare the salvation of all mankind. The end is nigh, and the Lord's Champion must be prepared."
Did anyone catch the Vikings reference I threw in here? Also, the chapter title is in the text like this since the site has an annoying character limit for chapter titles, and the song lyrics are essential.
Well, here we are! The beginning of the end. I apologize for the massive infodumping in this chapter, but it's all necessary setup for plot threads that will unfold later. Also, I felt obliged to make the White Walkers' motivations for invading more interesting and logical than the bland answer we got in the show. I have done a crap-ton of research on the White Walkers and read just about every fan theory on the internet. I'm surprised my eyes haven't turned blue from all the reading yet.
The tactics Drakon laid out for the upcoming Battle of Winterfell are based on a very informative video on YouTube. If you're interested, it's called "Improved Battle Plans – A Defense in Depth for the Battle of Winterfell" by the channel Invicta. They do amazing work for videos on ancient cultures, armies, battles, architecture, you name it. Check them out if you're into those sorts of things. As has become my habit of late, I felt obliged to create something better/more logical than what we got in the show. In other words, the main characters will use PROPER TACTICS.
As for the Jon reveal, I chose the name I gave him here because I didn't like the one the show used. Aegon is a bit obvious for a Targaryen name, and Rhaegar already had a son named Aegon. I thought Aemon more appropriate, since it would resonate with Jon's relationship with Maester Aemon, who Rhaegar probably knew well and respected. It also matches with other, well-known and loved, Targaryens from Westerosi history. The show did absolutely nothing with Jon's true heritage, other than to create cheap tension between him and Daenerys. While I'm not opposed to the idea of that pairing, it became melodramatic fluff and did not work. Hopefully I captured the three characters' confusion well. Massive revelations like this take time to fully settle in, and as Bran and the others point out, there is an impending doom to think of first.
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and please drop a review and favourite!
South Down: Thank you! I can't wait for the end either, mostly out of excitement to see this season play out.
krasni: Thanks! That would be an interesting confrontation, but unfortunately they don't have time to dwell on such things. Both men have done unfortunate things in the name of the greater good, and no one person is supremely right and free of blame in Game of Thrones. You raise a good point about the Stark/Blackfyre names. Unfortunately since we're nearing the end, I'm forced to cut certain things to keep the plot moving and focus on particular character arcs. The point about the Stark name is valid, but several Houses have become more loyal to Edric out of old bitterness to Robb. It's a complex situation, but many things get thrown out the door when Armageddon comes a-knocking. Glad you liked Edwyn's growing maturity. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Lord Pyrus: Yes, they do! I'm so excited for this season, since it is pretty much the apocalypse. One of my guides for this is the Norse myth of Ragnarok, which is one of the coolest mythical stories in human history. Gods and man and monsters will clash, and the world will be reborn, one way or another. Yeah, Jayne's going to have some shock coming her way soon. Everyone will.
Tohka123: Thank you so much! I try to put out the best work I can for your guys' enjoyment.
TheOnlyKing: Visenya is in a very bad way, but death might not be in store. You'll just have to see how it plays out. As for Euron, I'm so pleased you're liking him! I enjoyed show Euron to a point, but I fell in love with book Euron because he's essentially a psychopathic dark lord straight out of the Cthulhu Mythos in a medieval setting. Blending those two characters has been a challenge, but a rewarding one. Your comment about immeasurable will is very shrewd, and it brings to mind two things from pop culture: Thanos, and the Sith Order. Both eschew common morality and rise above it to obtain ultimate victory, all while embracing any tool. Euron is very much cut from the same cloth, and since Star Wars is my life, I'm not surprised my subconscious has poured some of that into this story, lol. Hope you stick around for the ride as things kick into even higher gear!
Slycerr: Drakon and Daenerys' relationship has been rocky, but they are on much firmer ground now. They've mostly worked out their differences, and they have common goals they want to accomplish. And even amazing, inspiring leaders like Daenerys can make mistakes or be blind to her companions' failings. Drakon has done it, too. After all, they're only human. Hope you've enjoyed the roller-coaster that has been Drakon's adventure.
Valar Dohaeris!
