Chapter 46: Jenny Would Dance With Her Ghosts
Highgarden…
Aelyx watched as his soldiers heaved the castle gates open. He sat astride his horse, the hood of his cloak drawn. In all his life, the northernmost extent of his journeys had been the Twins. In his youth, he visited Essos frequently. That was where he had met and fallen in love with his wife, Faelyn. But in all his years, Aelyx Darklyte had never felt the chill of the North. Winter always brought some cold with it, but in the Westerlands and the Reach, that cold was minor.
Now, snows fell in the southern kingdoms for the first time in recorded history. Heavy, unending snows. The verdant fields and bountiful crops, so unused to snow, were being smothered. He pulled his cloak tight around his armour, shivering from the chill. Looking up, all he saw was dark, brooding clouds. It had only been a week, but the memory of sunlight felt distant. Almost like it would never be seen again.
How would the world continue, Aelyx wondered, if it became covered in eternal darkness?
He shook his head, pushing such negative thoughts out of his mind. Kaenys was beside him, astride her own pitch-black steed. He saw her shivering, despite the multiple layers she wore. Aelyx had had to remind her to bundle up in the first place, as her easily distracted genius forgot such necessities as cloaks in snow.
"I don't like this cold," she muttered.
He nodded in agreement. "Makes you wonder how the Northerners could stand cold year-round."
"I thought that's what all the beards and furs were for."
Aelyx smiled. "Yes, I suppose you're right."
The gates opened, and he and his daughter urged their mounts forward. A dozen men rode as escort around them, two of them holding blue flags with the Darklyte sigil of black flames. They rode out of Highgarden, kicking up small clouds of snow. Set in the field of white, halfway between the castle and the besieging army camp, was a tent with four lit braziers at each corner. The flames looked oddly weak, as if the cold were actively smothering them. Aelyx could see the Blackfyre escort, a dozen like theirs, standing on the opposite side of the tent from theirs. Once they arrived, Aelyx and Kae dismounted as one of their men took the reins. He entered first, holding the flap for his daughter.
The inside of the tent was spacious and pleasant, with fur rugs and a table off to the side with a pitcher of presumably wine. Four finely carved chairs were in the centre, two pairs facing each other. The far chairs were occupied by a young man with handsome, clean-shaven features, and close-cut hair. The green tabard over his armour displayed a black Dragon's head breathing thorny vines. He had a strong, heroic build, taking after his father. Beside him sat a beautiful young woman a few years older than Kaenys. She had lustrous brown hair arranged in intricate braids, striking, angular features, and wore a black dress with red lining. Not the colours of her husband's House, but her father's. Despite appearing to be simply the wife of a lord, behind her eyes lurked the sharpened mind of a master politician. She also took after her father in that regard.
Behind them stood a Blackfyre soldier, holding the arm of Saernys. Aelyx sharply inhaled as he looked at his daughter. She wore a thick cloak for the weather, and a few bruises marked her face and neck. Judging by their yellowish tint, they were at least a week old. At least her captors were not beating her.
"Sae!" Kaenys breathed, taking a step forward. Aelyx held an arm out to stop her, then looked pointedly at Edwyn Blackfyre.
"Remove her chains, then leave us," he ordered. The soldier obeyed, unlocking the chains around Saernys' wrists and ankles before stepping outside.
Free of restraint, she rushed over to them. Aelyx and Kaenys wrapped their arms around her, squeezing her tight out of fear of losing her again. The three of them stood there, relishing the reunion as each of them willed the rest of the world to go away. Then the harsh reality settled, and they separated.
"We wanted you to see her," Jayne Royce explained. "To put your minds at ease."
Aelyx stared at her, then inclined his head. "Thank you."
"Father," Saernys said, her breaths short and faltering. The look on her face chilled his soul, and his hands started to shake in terrible anticipation. "It's Gae. He…He's…" She shook her head, eyes shut as the rest of the words refused to come out.
"What?" Kaenys pressed. "Sae, what's wrong?"
"I'm afraid your son is dead, my lord," Edwyn Blackfyre said.
"No," Kaenys said softly, shaking her head. "No, that can't be! Sae, tell us he's wrong."
Aelyx could only watch his eldest child stare at the tent wall, as if searching for a ghost. He felt his legs give out, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Belatedly, he felt his daughters' hands on his back, but if they said something he did not hear it. Aelyx's ears rang, and all he could see was the face of his son. His child. To his shame and horror, he could only picture Gaeryn's disfigured, burned face, armour melted into the skin of his body. Not the adventurous, stout-hearted boy blessed with the exceptional height of their family. Not the man he grew up to become, strong and brave and honourable. Gaeryn had died alone, far from home and away from his family, looking like a monster.
Aelyx's tears dripped onto the furs as he took stuttering, choking breaths. Saernys stared at him with hollow, sorrowful eyes. Her tears had already been shed. Kaenys began sobbing, saying, "No, no, he can't be dead. He can't be dead!" over and over. Pushing aside his own grief, he wrapped his daughter in his arms and held her tight, letting her sob into the collar of his cloak.
He turned his head to look at the Blackfyre siblings. They purposefully looked down at the floor, avoiding his gaze. Neither of them looked triumphant, or smug. They did not even maintain a mask of neutral emotion. At least the spawn of Drakon Blackfyre had the decency to show regret for their actions. Feeling his anger surging, Aelyx stood and fixed the siblings with a venomous glare. "You murder my son, and now you come here to taunt me with that knowledge?"
"We didn't come here for that," Edwyn refuted. "It was Daenerys Targaryen who killed your son. He died in battle, a hero's death by all accounts. You should be proud."
"Do not mock my pain! I should kill you both right now to avenge my son's death."
Jayne sighed, as if she were a parent disappointed in her child's performance. "I know you are in pain, my lord, but think logically. If you call in your guards to attack, we will call our guards to defend us. No matter the outcome of the resulting melee, the end result will still be the same: you and your loyalists will be trapped in Highgarden, and our army will continue the siege. Just how long can you survive in there, cut off from fresh supplies and any supporters?"
"Longer than you or your army," Aelyx retorted. "Our stores will last years. We will outlast you."
"And then what? Winter is here, my lord. All the food is either stored in Highgarden or gathered by our forces. By the time we die from cold and starvation, there will be nothing left for you and your people. Not to mention the deaths you will suffer from disease. And speaking of the cold, have you seen the conditions of late?"
"I have seen far more winters than you, child," Aelyx said.
Her eyes narrowed at the word 'child', but her expression otherwise did not change. "And in all those winters, my lord, have you ever seen heavy snows this far south?"
Beside him, Kaenys stood and wiped her nose. Sniffling, she said, "It is unusual."
"All of Westeros has been darkened," Jayne went on. "The clouds are so dark they block the light of the sun, and snows have fallen endlessly from Last Hearth all the way to the Arbor. And we have received word that similar weather has afflicted Essos. Plant life is withering, and the lands are being choked by snow and ice. Something has gone horribly wrong, and if it is not addressed, then all our lives are at risk."
As much as he might want to, Aelyx could not fault her logic. He, too, had noticed the severity of the weather. Maesters had been warning for years that this winter would be harsher than any in living memory, but no one expected anything of this extent. Mold had been running rampant in Highgarden due to the melting snow, and ice had begun to create small cracks and depressions in the stone. Barely an hour passed without a soldier losing a finger or toe to frostbite. The Reach and Westerlands had never suffered such a severe winter before.
Forcing himself to exhale, Aelyx sat down in one of the chairs facing his enemy's children. "So, why did you call us here?"
Edwyn looked to his sister, then leaned back and rested his hands on his knees. "In our father's absence, it is up to us to decide the best way of ending this war. After much discussion, my sister and I have agreed that the most ideal outcome of this conflict is if we call a temporary truce."
Aelyx regarded them warily, slipping on the familiar mask of neutral emotion that had served him well for decades. "A truce?"
"Yes," Jayne replied. "None of us want to continue a protracted state of conflict, not after all the devastating wars of recent years. Our people are suffering, and thousands more will die regardless of the eventual winner. What we propose is this: both our factions cease all hostilities for the time being and pool resources. Once our father returns, we will convince him to show mercy and spare your lives."
Saernys snorted. Aelyx glanced at her, then said, "What guarantees would I have that you would keep your word? Forgive me, Lady Jayne, but I am well aware of your reputation. The bodies you left behind in the Eyrie speak volumes of your…efficient methods."
She gave him a tight smile. "Those men were plotting to murder my family, my lord. I merely took appropriate action. They were, after all, traitors and oathbreakers. Let us not forget that, between us, you are the rebels and traitors."
He smirked. "A traitor is only a traitor because they act contrary to the current power base. Aegon the Conqueror had no legal right to these lands, but he took them because he could. Daemon Blackfyre tried to overthrow his brother, and history vilifies him as a usurper only because he lost. You consider us traitors because your father is king. Were our situations reversed, you would be the rebels. Power is fluid, ever changing. The heroes of today are the villains of tomorrow."
"So that is why you rebelled against the crown?" Edwyn asked. "Because you feel like it is your turn to be in power?"
"Not just for me. For a century, my family has been forced to live in the shadows like vermin. Disgraced, threatened with extinction if we ever rose out of the muck. It was the same for the Blackfyres, until your father launched his campaign and seized the Iron Throne. I realized that it was possible for House Darklyte to regain its lost honour. When news came of your father's death in Slaver's Bay, I knew our time had come. Westeros was poised to devour itself in a hundred different succession struggles. For the good of the realm, and for the good of my House, I decided we must rise and claim what was rightfully ours. All of this was to provide a future for my…for my children."
He thought of Gaeryn, and bowed his head as a fresh knife of grief pierced his heart. Saernys and Kaenys held each other's hands.
Edwyn shared a look with Jayne, who said, "Believe it or not, Lord Darklyte, we may be the only ones in the world who understand. At least your House endured all these years. Our father's House was nearly annihilated, ground into the dust of history. Our father was the last of his kind, and he built everything we are through blood and toil and struggle. Lives have been lost on both sides of this war, but it is not too late to correct our mistakes. All of us here are Blood of the Dragon; we share a common ancestry. The lines of House Targaryen have been split for over a century. Perhaps now is the time to unite in common purpose."
"Maybe…" Kaenys said softly, "Maybe we should consider this, father."
"It is no easy thing to discuss, Kae," Saernys said.
"But we should still have the discussion. What if, after all this, we lose anyway? What then? Maybe this is our chance to assure our family survives. Otherwise Gae died for nothing!"
Aelyx sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You mentioned pooling resources. To what end?"
"For now, my brother and I think it best if we concentrate on fighting common enemies," Jayne replied. "Once the fighting is done, then we can apply our efforts towards sustaining our supplies and population through the rest of winter."
"And by 'common enemies', you mean…?"
The Blackfyre siblings shared a glance. "We believe there might be a threat coming from the North, and that it may or may not bear responsibility for this weather."
"And what's your evidence?" Kaenys asked, her scholarly mind piqued.
"We can discuss the particulars later," Edwyn said, clearing his throat. He looked apprehensive, as if the information he held were more embarrassing than politically revealing. "But we have reason to believe that this threat from the North is why our father has chosen to remain at Winterfell for the time being. We've sent ravens, and we can inform you as soon as a response comes."
Jayne gazed at Aelyx and his daughters, crossing her legs. "But in the meantime, there is an urgent matter that demands our immediate attention. A foe at our doorstep."
Aelyx nodded, knowing of what she spoke. "Euron Greyjoy."
Saernys shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the name. The winds outside increased their intensity, and a few flakes of snow blew in under the tent walls. Jayne paused at the activity, then asked, "When was the last time you were in contact with him?"
"Truthfully, it has been almost a month since he has returned our messages."
"He is out of control," Edwyn said. "I'm sure you are aware that he and his fleet have sacked Oldtown with the aid of Maelion. According to our spies, your daughter stole that Dragon, my father's Dragon, using a Valyrian horn provided by Euron. People say he has command of black magics. I'm willing to guess that he used those to take control of Maelion and make him a puppet. That's why you fell from the sky that day, isn't it Saernys?"
Saernys crossed her arms. "When I was flying to Highgarden, a murder of crows flew past me. They had red eyes. Moments later, Faelyn started shaking and thrashing. At first I thought it was some sort of affliction. That's when I crashed into your army."
"You killed Randyll Tarly by doing that," Edwyn said. "The man may have been a prick, but he was an ally and a friend. His family is still grieving."
"I was trying to save my family!" Saernys spat. "Their lives were threatened by your siege." Taking a calming breath, she added, "But, after the crash Faelyn started acting strange. You were there, Blackfyre. You can attest to it."
He nodded.
"Maybe you are right, and Euron did take control."
"He is right," Kaenys said, drawing everyone's gazes. "I've studied Valyrian Dragonlore since I was four years old. In all the literature I could find, Dragon horns were said to be bound to their masters and no others. Any Dragon bound by a horn is ultimately loyal to the horn's owner, not necessarily the person who used it."
Aelyx nodded. "It does make a certain amount of sense. But what about the crows with red eyes? How do they figure into the horn's power?"
Kaenys shrugged. "I can't say. I don't have enough information. Magic has only come back into the world in the last few years, and hardly anyone knows its secrets."
"A Dragon is the most powerful weapon in existence," Jayne said. "And despite our separate political ambitions, neither of us want someone like Euron Greyjoy to control such an awesome creature. He clearly has his own agenda that is a direct risk to both our Houses. With our situation so dire because of winter, we cannot afford to have a psychotic Ironborn pirate running amok with a Dragon at his command."
Aelyx was silent for several moments. He considered all the recent events that had led him and his family to this point, as well as every potential consequence of his decisions in the present. For now, the situation was stable. If only just. But if he did not act, any number of factors could see it deteriorate into pure chaos. For the moment, he could afford to look at alternate paths to the current one. If the negotiations led to nothing, then nothing would change and the siege would continue. If they led to a peaceful solution, then he could not dismiss it out of hand.
"Very well," he said at last. "Let us discuss a possible truce. We will see if your intentions are honest, my lady."
Winterfell…
Drakon stood in the fields outside Winterfell, arms crossed. He watched hundreds of men and women digging into the ground with shovels and picks, carving a trench into the frozen ground. He himself had performed much of the early work, directing Rhaegon to plow through the soil with his tail and snout. By his estimation, it had shaved off days of work by normal means. Now the workers completed the trench before Dragonglass spikes and pools of oil would be added.
The freezing winds tore at his exposed flesh, cutting him like swarms of razor-sharp daggers. His beard and eyebrows were mostly frozen solid, and his joints ached from the unrelenting cold. Yet Drakon did not notice, nor did he care. As he watched the work proceed, Rhaegon curled beside him, all he could think about were Bran's words two days earlier.
Jon Snow was Rhaegar's son.
Drakon remembered when his brother's children with Elia were born. Rhaenys and little Aegon had brought great joy to their parents, and were loved by many. He had never met them, since Rhaegar's father had confined him to the catacombs out of paranoia by that point. But he had seen them from hidden vantages and heard Rhaegar's stories about their brief lives. To learn that his brother fathered a secret child, and never once told him about it.
Bran's assurances that Rhaegar would have told him after putting down Robert's Rebellion were only words. Words that came from someone other than Rhaegar. Drakon had since focused on the defenses of Winterfell, but in the back of his mind he could only think of this one thing.
Jon was a good man, a great man. Every part the warrior and leader Rhaegar had been. From the stories he heard about the bastard, from Edric and from others, he knew Jon would have made his father proud. But ever since they spoke with Bran, he hardly saw him. Edric spoke with Jon a few times, and Drakon wondered if his son knew the truth. At the moment, it did not matter with the looming threat of battle. But Drakon knew it would have to be addressed once the living won.
If the living won.
He remembered flying over the Army of the Dead far beyond the Wall. At the time, he had been focused on saving Edric. But looking back, he could only think of the endless ocean of blue-eyed corpses and their immortal master hurling ice spears. According to Bran and Edric, the Night King had waited for over a week, watching Edric's party starve and freeze, just to lure him and his Dragon into an ambush. The undead were a serious threat, but the intelligence of the one controlling them made Drakon afraid.
Armies he could fight. People he could fight. But an ageless, undead malice that had waited eons to enact its revenge? That, he mused, was something not even the Black Dragon himself could defeat. Not without an enormous cost in lives and suffering.
Leaving the workers to their task, Drakon turned around and went back through Winterfell's gates. Half a dozen workers stood before the nearest entrance to the castle crypts, using brick and mortar to seal it. He had given the command the day before, knowing that since the enemy could raise the dead, the crypts represented a serious weakness in the defense. According to the stories, they ran for miles underground, supposedly housing Starks from as far back as the Age of Heroes. The men and women buried down there were great lords and warriors, heroes all. To think of their remains being desecrated and raised as mere fodder for the White Walkers incensed Drakon. Let the dead stay dead. They had earned their rest.
He watched their progress from the far side of the courtyard. Once the brickwork was completed, Rhaegon would lift large stones one at a time and set them against the entrances. Wights were powerful, but even they could not break through that kind of barrier.
As he stood there, something caught his eye through the snow. A group of men approached the front gate at a casual pace. The sentries and scouts at the edge of the forest would have intercepted them if they were hostile, so they must have been allies. The group spoke with the gate guards, then filed into the courtyard. Drakon approached, noticing their armour was not of Northern design. They wore fur cloaks, but likely purchased only after arriving in the North. The krakens emblazoned on their chest plates indicated they were Greyjoy men.
One of the group separated from the others and walked over to him. "Your Grace," he said, bowing. "It's an honour."
"Well, you're obviously not Yara," Drakon said. "So you must be Theon."
The young man nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."
Drakon grabbed him by the shoulders. "I know you were the one that saved my children from your uncle. I…I cannot thank you enough. Please, if there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, name it. I am in your debt, Theon Greyjoy."
Theon looked at the ground, then back at him. "I only did what I could. I am sorry I couldn't save your wife. I tried, really I did. But Euron and his men, they were…"
The image of Visenya caught in the grips of Euron Greyjoy and his mutes flashed in Drakon's mind. He closed his eyes, holding onto the grief that seized his heart. He had felt it since hearing the news of her capture. For a while, his quest to see Edric had distracted him, but now, especially with the knowledge the rest of his family was safe, the grief returned. Opening his eyes, he said, "You are an honourable man, Theon Greyjoy."
"I wouldn't agree, Your Grace. But thank you."
Clapping the young man's back, Drakon guided him across the courtyard. "I suppose you want to speak with Jon and his siblings."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Bran spends much of his time in the Godswood, so there is a good chance some of them are there, as well." Fortunately, when they entered the Godswood, they saw all five Stark siblings huddled together by the Weirwood tree, conversing. Bran said something, and they all turned to see the newcomers.
"I…I hardly know what I'll say to them," Theon said.
"Just speak from your heart," Drakon advised. "They were your family, once. I'm certain they will listen to what you have to say if you are honest. Go to them." He gently gave Theon a push, and watched him approach the foster siblings the Greyjoy prince once betrayed. Drakon turned around and left the Godswood. What Theon had to say to Jon and the others was a private affair, and he had no right to intrude. With any luck, they could find reconciliation. Theon's recent actions proved his stalwart character.
A few hours later, Drakon stood in the courtyard as hundreds gathered there. He had given a command that all those who could not fight were to evacuate Winterfell and make their way south. The children, elderly, and the infirm. After all, a battle was no place for the helpless. If they failed here, Drakon thought, then these innocents could yet be saved.
If that was to be his legacy, then all the pain and bloodshed of his miserable life would have been worth it. Let him save at least some of his subjects.
He watched Edric help Sansa carry their twins into a carriage. Drakon had flown over the Kingsroad for half a dozen miles, breathing fire to clear the snow. But already it was up to one's ankles. The evacuees had to leave now. Edric spent a few moments in the carriage with his children, then stepped out and faced Sansa. Husband and wife held each other, speaking quietly. In his heart, Drakon was overjoyed that his son had found such bliss. Losing his eye and being sent to overlook a harsh, frozen land had not been easy for him. But Edric's Blackfyre blood gave him strength, and he had weathered every challenge with courage and strength. Drakon could not have been prouder.
Edric and Sansa wrapped their arms around each other, squeezing tight as if they would float away. Then, faces glistening with tears that froze on their cheeks, they kissed. For all anyone knew, it was for the last time.
Drakon took that moment to approach. "I bid you farewell, my lady, and wish you and those accompanying you a safe journey."
She smiled. "Thank you, Your Grace. Our hopes are with you. If the gods be good, you will succeed."
"Yes…if the gods are good."
Jon and Arya walked over, having said their goodbyes to Rickon. The youngest Stark son sat on a horse ahead of the carriage, staring forlornly at the stone walls of his home. Jon and Sansa embraced in a tight hug, their breaths unsteady. "It seems like we're always saying goodbye," he said, forcing a chuckle.
She laughed. "Try not to wait five years before we see each other again."
"I'll do my best."
Sansa turned to Arya. The younger sister bore her characteristic stoicism, but Drakon saw her mask crack with sadness. They embraced, and Sansa said, "Try not to anything stupid before I come home."
"Don't worry," Arya said. "It's not as much fun annoying people when you're not around."
They separated, and Sansa gripped her siblings' shoulders. She spared a glance at Bran, sitting in his wheelchair at the edge of the courtyard, then said, "We look after each other. That's what Starks do. Remember what father used to say: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies…"
"But the pack survives," Arya finished with a light smile.
Taking a shuddering breath, Sansa gave them a kiss on the cheek, then a final, tender kiss with Edric, before climbing inside the carriage. Drakon took a step forward and in a loud, clear voice called, "Those of you who are leaving, do not lose heart. This castle has stood for thousands of years. It has endured tyrants, wars uncounted, and Long Nights that would not end. We who remain will defend that legacy to our final breaths. If fortune be on our side, then we shall prevail over the forces of darkness. But if we fail, then you represent the spirit and future of the North. Of this great kingdom of Westeros. Never forget the faces of your loved ones, for even if they die, they shall live for eternity. We stand for the living!"
"We stand for the living!" the crowd echoed, raising their fists in the air. The riders at the head of the column rode forward, and soon the rest followed. They were sent off with declarations of love and comfort, tears and smiles. Within minutes, thousands made their way along the Kingsroad, away from the oncoming storm of death.
Drakon put a hand on his son's shoulder, staring after the column until it vanished into the snowy, fog-covered distance. "Whatever happens, they will live."
"They will live," Edric repeated softly. "They will live."
Edric turned a corner, walking past a pair of Umber soldiers. He had just come from the forges, where every blacksmith and apprentice was hard at work casting Dragonglass into daggers, arrowheads, spear tips, and spikes for use in the trenches. Ever since Jon and Davos' visit to Dragonstone, the glass had been flowing steadily into Winterfell in large quantities. Whatever else the alliance with Daenerys cost, it delivered valuable resources in the hour of dread.
Despite himself, Edric thought of Sansa and the twins. Not having them by his side ached, more than anything in his entire life. Logically, he knew they were safe. But one thing he had learned over the years was humans were not logical creatures. They acted on emotion and sentiment far more often than reason.
He pictured Sansa's face and her auburn hair, and the twins' pinched features. Catelyn hardly ever cried, content to be on her own. Eddard, on the other hand, cried nearly every hour. Edric wanted to see his children grow up. But they would not have a future if the forces of the living failed against the hordes of the dead. Perhaps…
His line of thought shattered when someone bumped into him on their way out of a room. He was a young man, with a mop of black hair, an honest face, and a red shirt.
"Apologies, m'lord!" he said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Edric stared at him, recognizing the face and the voice. "It's…Podrick, isn't it? You're Brienne's squire."
Podrick nodded. "Y-yes, m'lord. I'm terribly sorry for bumping into you like this."
"What were you…"
Edric's gaze drifted past the open door, where a pair of Northern women laid on the bed. Their chests rose and fell with laboured breath, and smiles marked their gleaming, sweaty faces. One of them looked over at Podrick, blowing him a kiss. Podrick gave them an endearing smile, then closed the door, cheeks bright red.
Just then, a female warrior with the sigil of House Mormont on her shield strode by them. She smiled at the squire and, biting her lower lip, said, "Hello, Podrick." She walked out of view, leaving both men alone.
Edric stared after her, mouth agape. He looked back at Podrick, then said, "Come with me. You and I need to have a discussion. Spare no details." They walked aimlessly through the castle halls as the squire explained everything to an increasingly amazed Blackfyre lord. By the time they reached the great hall, all Edric could say was, "So that's what you did to them."
Podrick nodded.
The next time he joined Sansa in the marriage bed, he would have a great many things to show her. Simple, yet astoundingly effective. Now he had something else to live for.
Dismissing Podrick, Edric entered the great hall. It was mostly empty, with a handful of lords and guards. He saw his father at the far end of the room, in discussion with Jon, Smalljon, and Davos. Ever since Bran had spoken to them in private, Drakon and Jon had become tense, as if even more weight had been added to their shoulders. Neither of them had confided in Edric what that might have been. But knowing both men as well as he did, it must have been something world shattering. A side door opened, and a young messenger entered. He handed a rolled up letter, probably delivered by raven, to Drakon, then left.
Edric's father nodded to Jon and Davos, who walked away, then opened the letter. As he read its contents, his face paled and his mouth opened as if to speak, but did not. Then, he dropped the letter and collapsed onto the floor. Edric rushed over to him along with everyone else present. "Father, what's wrong?" he asked, helping him to stand.
"I…she…" Drakon muttered. He stared into the distance, looking utterly confused. That confusion, coupled with his pale features and shaking hands, haunted Edric.
"Take him to his chamber," Edric ordered. "Have the Maester look him over."
Two of the guards complied, each taking one of Drakon's arms as they guided him out of the great hall. Everyone started murmuring and whispering to each other, inquiring as to what brought on the king's frightful state. Looking down at the floor, Edric saw the letter his father had been reading when he collapsed. He picked it up, strolling into the centre of the hall. It was actually two pieces of parchment, clipped together. The broken wax seal had the image of the Hand of the King, Mace Tyrell. Which meant it came from his mother Olenna.
I was told to send you this by your friend Rona Grey, in the event anything untoward should happen to her. Given recent events, she was correct to be so cautious.
Edric frowned. His father told him of Rona's betrayal and murder at the hands of Simon Groat, who had likely been working as an agent of the Darklytes. But what sort of information would she have entrusted to Olenna Tyrell? Flipping the first letter, he read the second, larger letter.
Drakon
Hopefully, you will never have to read this. By rights, I should be telling you this in person. It's what you deserve. But I fear that the recent chaos here in King's Landing presents too great a danger. You know I am nothing if not prepared for every potentiality. For all I know, you really did die in Meereen. But I keep hope alive. You have survived far too many impossible odds in the past.
If you do live, and if I cannot tell you myself, I want you to know I conspired with Simon to slander Visenya. You asked me to keep your secret at Dragon's Rest years ago. As your friend, I kept it, for the sake of Jayne and Edric and Edwyn. They are as dear to me as if they were my own, and your secret would only cause them pain. But now they have moved on, and have their own families. With them away from the capital, I felt free to act.
Visenya is a poison. She will destroy the legacy you and I fought so hard to create, and I had to do something. But with no soldiers to command and no renowned name, my options were limited. I thought the easiest way to get rid of her would be to spread your secret. My hope was for the city to become so hostile to her that she would leave and return to Essos. Unfortunately, Simon has proven to be an untrustworthy ally. He armed the Faith Militant to cause chaos, and my plans went up in smoke.
I fear I will die, and Visenya will continue to destroy your dreams. I've done so much for you, my friend, but I refuse to keep this secret any longer. Visenya may have given you more children, but a brother laying with his sister is where I draw the line.
Edric felt the breath rush from his lungs, and staggered back as if struck. Brother and sister? But…No, that could not be. Except he knew Rona would never lie about something like this. He had heard of the rumours circulating around the capital in the wake of his father's supposed 'death'. But they were just that: rumours. Edric had cut off the fingers of a man caught spreading such things in White Harbor. The fact that they were true, that his father had fornicated with his own sister…
"My lord?" Wyman Manderly asked tentatively as he approached.
"Get out," Edric said. "All of you." The others hesitated, which caused him to whirl on them and bellow, "Get the fuck out! Now!" This time, they obeyed, rushing out of the great hall. Even the guards bid a hasty retreat, closing the doors behind them. Now alone, Edric sat at the head of the hall and kept reading the letter.
I know you will hate me for this, and I don't blame you. It breaks my heart that this secret should tear apart out friendship. You have been so dear to me, Drakon. You took me into your confidence, made me a member of your family. I only did what I did because I truly believe Visenya is a toxic influence. Over you and your children.
I had my birds investigate her for a long time. You and I only knew that she was born in Lys, but nothing else. I was able to confirm that part of her story. But there is much more. Not long after she left home, she started to gain influence with petty lords, information brokers, traders, and other sorts. Much like you and I did here in Westeros. One such associate was Euron Greyjoy. It seems they shared a rather intimate relationship, but I cannot be sure if she had genuine feelings for him. One thing is for sure: she and Euron intercepted and ambushed Gerion Lannister's ship and took Brightroar. She planned to ingratiate herself with you for a long time.
Then, I instructed my birds to make inquiries as to her possible influence in your life. As you will recall, she went by the alias of 'The Wyvern' in her underworld dealings. Trades, poisonings, anything her clients requested. I learned that it was The Wyvern who acquired a book on Dragonlore and sold it to Lady Buckwell. Knowledge from that book caused her to steal your Dragon eggs, which lured you from Dragon's Rest. While you were away, Visenya disguised herself and infiltrated the keep. She used the Tears of Lys, an exceedingly rare substance, to poison Jocelyn's food and kill her. All so she could worm her way into your life and seduce you.
"No…" Edric said, fingers trembling. Mother. Her beautiful face, framed by auburn hair, flashed in his mind. He remembered her gentle touch and wise words, how he would cry into her shoulder as a child. Losing her and her unborn twins had been devastating, but to learn that they were murdered by his father's second wife tore a hole in his chest. "That bitch," he hissed, picturing Visenya's face and long, silver hair. "That fucking bitch!" Crinkling the parchment, Edric read the final part of the letter.
I'm sorry, Drakon. I know this will hurt you. When I first learned of all this, my first instinct was to keep it secret and burn all the evidence. But I cannot do that this time. I have lied, cheated, poisoned, and killed for you. For your family. I have known nothing but deceit since I was a child. But I cannot continue to let secrets rule my life. Every lie we tell incurs a debt to the truth, and sooner or later, that debt is paid.
If you choose to banish me or kill me for this, I will accept it. But if I should die before seeing you, or you really are dead already, then all I can do is tell you how sorry I am. The years we spent, working towards restoring your House, were the best years of my life. I never felt so sure of my purpose than when I aided you and your family. Thank you for the memories, and thank you for the gift of your friendship.
Goodbye, my friend.
Rona
Edric felt a cold numbness spreading through his body, and the letters slipped from his fingers and onto the floor. He sat in silence, Rona's words echoing in his mind. In that moment, he swore to himself that he would survive the coming battle with the White Walkers. He would strike down the Night King and destroy the Army of the Dead. Then, he would travel south, hunt down Euron Greyjoy's fleet, and disembowel the murderous cunt that had taken his mother from him.
Drakon sat in the great hall, facing the lit fire in the hearth. The tables had been cleared out earlier as preparations for the defense were completed, leaving the grand chamber empty and cavernous. He stared into the crackling flames, guzzling another goblet full of wine. Having lost count by now, Drakon simply grabbed the pitcher from the floor and refilled his goblet.
No amount of wine could numb his pain, however.
The faces of the dead and living formed and withered in the flames. Rona, Lady Buckwell, Sebastion, Jocelyn, Ser Hugo, and Visenya. His entire life played out like a comedy, the central character eternally beset by tragedies and misfortunes of his own making. Only a witless fool could have suffered so much, he reasoned. Only a fool would learn after the fact that his best friend betrayed him to plot against his second wife who had murdered his first wife. Drakon Blackfyre, head of House Blackfyre, King of Westeros, and complete fucking idiot.
He drank more wine, and the doors opened as Daenerys and Ser Jorah entered. The latter grabbed one of the chairs stacked by the wall and placed it beside him, then the former sat in it. For several moments, neither Drakon nor Daenerys said anything. He did not know if she was aware of the terrible secrets contained in Rona's letter. In truth, he had lost the ability to care.
"What's wrong, Drakon?" she asked, staring at him in concern.
Finishing his goblet, he replied, "No matter how hard I try to better myself, to correct the mistakes of my past, nothing makes a difference. Everything I do ends in failure. Everything I touch turns to dust."
Daenerys reached out and touched his arm. "I do not believe that. All of us have made mistakes. There isn't a single person who lives and dies without regret."
He gave her a weary smile. "I envy you, Daenerys. All I have, I gained through force and intimidation. I maintain power through strength and fire. But you…You inspire love. Loyalty. Your people are willing to follow you to the ends of creation. They better themselves because of your example." Tossing his goblet onto the floor, he added, "Today, I learned that my best friend conspired against my wife, all because she'd discovered my wife had murdered my first wife, Jocelyn."
Daenerys' mouth opened in mild shock. "I…"
"I first met Visenya in the wake of Jocelyn's death. I grieved, suffocated by the weight of her loss and the loss of our unborn twins. Visenya offered me comfort and support. But now I find out she tore my heart in half all so she could step in and be the one to mend it. Do you have any idea what it is like, to have someone you trusted betray you because they loved you?"
"Yes."
He turned to look at her, noting the heavy expression on her face.
"But those who betrayed me did not do it for love," Daenerys explained. "Love is selfless, and kind. To love someone is to sacrifice for them with no thought of yourself." Sitting beside her, Ser Jorah shifted in his chair. "I loved Drogo, but ending his life was an act of mercy. If I kept him alive, it would have been for my benefit, not his. I love my children, and would give anything for them. Just as you would do for yours. Perhaps Visenya does love you, in her own way. But hers is a selfish desire, willing to harm anyone who comes between her and her happiness."
Drakon stared into the fire, turning her words over in his head. He had loved Visenya with all his heart, but now, he wondered if it was because she arranged it that way. Jocelyn and all the others Visenya had killed were obstacles, in their own way, between her and him. Her actions in his absence did bring her intentions into question. If she truly loved him, then would she not have endeavoured to complete the work he started?
Instead, she willingly helped plunge King's Landing into chaos, regardless of civilian casualties and the anarchy of the Sparrows and Simon Groat.
"When the Dothraki held us captive, you told me that life was too cruel to let you die. That it wanted you to suffer."
"I remember," Drakon said, nodding. Weeks of being beaten by dozens of Dothraki warriors came screaming back, and he winced at the memory of all his broken bones and swollen joints.
"You and I both know there is no higher power directing the course of our lives," Daenerys said firmly. "Our actions are ours alone. Destiny is what we make it. I should have died a long time ago, lost in the Red Wastes. Or forced to marry some self-righteous noble to be his whore on command. But I refused to let that be my fate. I struggled and clawed and fought every day since I was born to get where I am. So have you. One thing we do have in common, Drakon of House Blackfyre, is that we never surrendered to destiny." She regarded him with pity, though not without a measure of kindness. "Do not let the actions of others distract you from what must be done. Visenya may have wronged you greatly, but you still have to keep your promise. We will make a better world, you and I. A world without men like Tywin Lannister and Xaro Xhoan Daxos or women like Visenya and Cersei Lannister. And nothing will stop us from doing that."
Despite himself, Drakon felt the choking cloud of depression and despair lifting. He still felt the weight of his actions, and those of his wife, but they did not seem so great in that moment. Daenerys was right: they had work to do. They had to prevail in the coming battle, then bring a lasting peace and prosperity to the realm. That quest, that purpose, was far more important than any one person. Visenya would be dealt with, when the time was appropriate.
The doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, and Edric stepped inside. Drakon, turning his chair away from the fire, saw the same rage and sorrow in his son's face as he himself felt. But like him, Edric was strong. He had weathered countless tragedies, but that did not make Rona's revelation any easier to digest. Accompanying Edric were Smalljon Umber, thick beard frozen solid, Ser Davos Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth and her squire Podrick Payne, and Beric Dondarrion.
The group made their way over to the fire, each grabbing a chair and forming a loose circle. "So," Smalljon Umber said, brushing the snow from his cloak, "the trenches and fortifications are finally complete. What have you cunts been doing?"
Drakon saw Daenerys roll her eyes. He sat up in his chair and replied, "Just reflecting on life, and the choices we make."
Smalljon snorted. "Sounds fucking boring. Where's the wine?"
Drakon grabbed the pitcher by his feet and handed out cups to everyone. Once they each had a full cup, they raised them in salute and drank. Clearing his throat, Drakon asked, "Where's Jon?"
Edric, rubbing his leg to increase circulation after being out in the cold, said, "He's spending time with Ghost. I swear he loves that Direwolf more than his own siblings."
Daenerys shared a quick glance with Drakon at the word 'siblings'. Now was not the time to correct a lifelong lie. Not with death at the door. Forcing himself to think of something else, Drakon asked, "And what about Arya?"
"Last I saw, she walked off with Gendry." Edric paused, suppressing a smirk. "They, uh…seemed pretty occupied."
Drakon's eyebrows rose. "Oh."
"He's a good lad," Beric said, crossing his arms.
"Well," Smalljon said, belching after emptying his cup in a single gulp, "there's no better time for fucking than the end of the world. Nothing like the threat of impending doom to get one's cock poking through their trousers."
Drakon stared at the large man in bewilderment. "You truly have a gift for words, my lord."
Smalljon shrugged. "I've been saying it for years. No one fucking believes me."
Ser Davos swirled the wine in his cup, staring down at it. "Well, no matter how this goes, at least our families will be safe." His words pulled a damper on the otherwise lighthearted conversation as everyone stared at the floor. Ser Davos had said his farewells to Shireen Baratheon, his daughter in all but name, just as Smalljon had said farewell to his young son Ned. Almost everyone in the room had sent away a loved one, knowing it could be the last time they ever saw them. But this was necessary.
Drakon refilled everyone's cups. "I suppose the one positive aspect of war is that it serves as the great equalizer." The others looked at him curiously, prompting him to say, "In battle, it does not matter who you are. A king bleeds and dies like any man, a trained knight can feel fear, and a common man can show greater bravery than either. Everyone becomes equal in the crucible of battle."
"That may be," Beric said. "But there are still some slight differences. Not all of us have Dragons, after all."
"True enough."
Taking a sip from her cup, Daenerys asked, "Have there been any female knights?"
"No," Brienne answered sadly. "Plenty of female fighters, but none have ever been officially anointed."
Smalljon waved his cup around, spilling some wine. "Ah! Knights. Who the fuck needs 'em? They strut around the south, prancing and play-fighting with their jousting lances. Most of 'em aren't even good fighters!"
"It's a great honour," Brienne told him, to which he scoffed.
Drakon paused mid-sip, an idea taking root in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. "Lady Brienne," he said, drawing her gaze. "It occurs to me that you have performed heroic and valued acts of service for Sansa Stark, who has become my daughter-in-law. And you have served my son Edric with the highest integrity and noblest character. As King of Westeros, it is within my right to reward those who serve the realm and my family well." Placing his goblet on the floor, he stood and gestured to a spot in front of him. "Come, kneel."
The big woman's mouth fell agape, and she froze with shock. "Y-Your Grace, I couldn't possibly…"
"Lady Brienne, this has been long overdue. You already possess the character of a true knight, more than almost any other I have known. This is simply confirming what we all know to be true."
Brienne looked to Podrick, who smiled and nodded. Everyone else nodded in approval, and she finally stood from her chair. She and Drakon were nearly the same height. Taking hesitant steps, as if unsure this was even real, she approached and knelt before him. Drakon drew Blackfyre from its sheath. The sword of kings, the namesake of his House, gleamed with reflected firelight, the red jeweled eyes of the Dragon heads on the cross guard glittering like bloody stars. Tapping her on the shoulder with his family's sword, he began to recite the words.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent." Lowering his sword, he added, "Arise, Brienne of Tarth. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms."
She slowly rose to her feet, breaths shaky and quick. Ser Brienne stood tall and proud, every bit the heroic image every child aspired to be. Her eyes became wet with tears, and she smiled as everyone in the room began applauding. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Drakon smiled. Sheathing Blackfyre, he placed a hand on her armoured shoulder. "It is I who should be thanking you, Ser. For reminding the rest of us what bravery and honour should be."
They returned to their chairs, and shared a fresh round of drinks.
"Someone needs to start singing," Smalljon said, rivulets of wine running down his beard. "This is supposed to be a celebration, not a fucking funeral! Onion Knight, know any songs?"
"You'll pray for a quick death," Ser Davos said sardonically.
"What about you, 'Ser' Brienne?"
The big woman shook her head.
"Mormont?"
Ser Jorah smirked. "I don't think any of us needs to suffer before the battle begins."
Smalljon huffed. Looking at Beric, he said, "Well I know the fucking fire worshipper won't know any good songs. Come on, someone must know a fucking song!" Just then, Podrick, the one least likely to have been guessed by any of them, parted his lips and started singing a song.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most
The one who'd been gone for so very long
She couldn't remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Drakon stared at Podrick as the squire sang. Once more, the faces of all he had lost and those who still lived appeared before him. All his triumphs and defeats were laid bare, his entire life played out like a drama on stage. Daenerys' earlier words echoed like a lone voice in a cavern. Yes, he had experienced loss. Yes, he had experienced betrayal. But he was Drakon Blackfyre, heir to two separate bloodlines of great kings and warriors of legend. He had suffered much, but that would not deter him from his path.
The Black Dragon would succeed or he would perish.
In the forests to the north of Winterfell, amid the howling winds and blankets of heavy snow, the Night King emerged from between the trees. His generals stood in a line behind him, and the vast horde of the Army of the Dead waited, motionless, in the forest. The Night King stared at the great keep of Winterfell in the distance.
Now was the time to claim his prize.
And here we have chapter 2! Preparations are done, and a storm of doom is rolling towards us.
Here we address yet another logical failing of the Long Night arc in the show. It's just like Peter Dinklage said in an interview: "We're putting all the women and children in the crypt, where the dead people are." When your enemy can raise the dead, YOU DON'T DO THAT. Hence the evacuation of all the non-combatants in this chapter.
The final scene of the second episode of Season 8 was one of the finest in the show for me. A quiet sequence where the characters we all learned to love share one last drink and good time together. Brienne's knighting was long-overdue and sweet. Podrick's song was my favourite moment in the entire season because it was so melancholy and beautiful and bittersweet. A perfect metaphor for Game of Thrones as a whole. Looking back, it was the last moment I truly enjoyed before the show turned to shit.
Up next: the epic clash of living and the dead for the fate of Winterfell…and the world!
krasni: Thank you! You're absolutely right about the timing, but it's all part of Bran's strategy. In this story, I've made him a pseudo-Doctor Strange, peering into time and formulating the best possible plans for the coming apocalypse. As for Jon and Daenerys and Drakon, anything's possible. And we get a bit of the Darklyte response in this chapter. Common threats are a wonderful way for people to come together.
Lord Pyrus: Glad you enjoyed them! I think that's where GoT really shined: deep conversations and character moments, since they were the primary driving point of the show. Glad you enjoyed the name change, and hopefully you enjoyed the Darklyte pov!
TheOnlyKing: I think the term you're looking for is 'man-crush'. Sounds better. And it was a gut reaction from Drakon, since he's always had (and always will) had a guilt complex when it comes to Rhaegar. Trauma in one's youth just doesn't go away. He knows he can't just make Jon king, since that'll create all kinds of political problems. But he wants to provide for Jon and honour Rhaegar's memory in any way he can. And the main provisions for Jon being the heir would be to make Drakon's children heirs after him. He knows Jon is a man of honour who would respect those wishes.
ImmortalShadyMerchant: Well, in the feudal medieval world of Game of Thrones, endings like that are possible. You'll just have to stay tuned and find out!