Missandei took Jeyne, Asha and Val to a grand, shared luxurious bedchamber in the higher levels of the Keep while Jhiqui led Toregg and Davos to the separated Windwyrm Tower. Jeyne saw it as a calculated move to separate them but she was none too worried about it. There were four grand-style beds that could each sleep the three of them together comfortably without them even touching one another, each with canopies and curtains. The room had wardrobes of silk gowns, cloth robes, dresses, undergarments, sashes, belts, tunics and satin pants.

"All this fine wear" Asha commented as she opened one of the wardrobes, "do they think us dainty court maids?"

Val peered over her shoulder. "Well, you could pass for one. With your bust, these would fall right off of you."

Asha shoved her away with a glare. Yet only a moment later, the two of them giggled.

Missandei turned to Jeyne. "Unsullied are in the halls ensuring your safety. There are serving girls at your call if you should require."

"That shouldn't be necessary."

Val sat awkwardly on one of the beds, bouncing herself up and down on her bottom. "This bedding is too soft. And high off the ground." She reached out and tugged on the curtains beside her. "Such gaudy things these kneelers have."

Jeyne returned her attention to Missandei. "Missandei, do I have free rein of the keep? Would I be able to make my way to the kitchens as Lord Tyrion said?"

Missandei folded her hands and smiled gracefully. "Why, of course. As His Grace said, you are no prisoners here."

"Would you be able to … show me where that is?"

"I can arrange an escort for you."

"That'll do fine."

.

King Daeron's council convened in the Chamber of the Painted Table, the top floor of the Stone Drum even higher than the quarters provided for Jeyne, Asha and Val. It was the very same place Aegon the Conqueror had planned his initial invasion of Westeros. In truth, Daeron was not fond of the thing. It was another reminder of the very scheming nature of warfare and he always felt somewhat empty when he and his commanders made their mock strategies over it. The table was so long and wide that they had rods of nearly two armslength to use it properly; it was not a practical thing to use for a council meeting. No, they had placed another round stone table in the room as well as other amenities for that.

Varys, Victarion Greyjoy, Jorah Mormont, Aurane Waters, and Ser Barristan Selmy comprised his council and had seats at the table, though they stood at their chairs for the moment. His Hand, also a member, had yet to appear. Grey Worm and the Great Khal's three bloodriders Rakharo, Aggo and Jhogo stood guard over the proceedings and could provide a dissenting opinion if they wished (though this was frowned down upon by the others). King and Khal Daeron had his grand seat at the head of the table but he stood apart from the others with his back turned to him, pouring himself goblets of a shining gold vintage wine at the stand nearby, which he downed in silence.

"Where is the Imp?" complained Lord Waters. "The night is cold and damp. I wish for bed." He was right. Although the chamber was lit and warmed with dozens of braziers, the level was so high up that there was a tangible chill in the air that couldn't be denied.

Thunder rumbled loud at that height and was answered in turn by the roar of the dragon that was so near.

"That was Doreon's call" stated Jorah. "The storm will be especially bad tonight."

"Oh, yes" agreed Varys.

"The Drowned God will have many ships and offerings this night" declared Victarion.

"She always hated the rains" Daeron murmured over his shoulder before finishing his goblet and promptly pouring another. "But like her father, she must endure."

Jorah looked over at her king with concern. "Your Grace, perhaps you'd like to take your seat while we wait for Lannister?"

"I thank you for concern. My friends, when Tyrion arrives you may begin without me seated. I'm fine right here."

Jorah sighed.

They heard the chamber doors being opened and closed again followed by clumsy footsteps across the marble floor. They turned and waited for him to come into view.

"You're late" stated Victarion plainly at the sight of him.

"I was not aware" Tyrion answered as he waddled towards them with his cape flowing behind him and his tome underarm. There was more booms of thunder that were answered by another call from Doreon. "She's having a blast, I see."

He moved to his chair to the right of Daeron's grand seat where his inkwell and quill were waiting for him. He turned his attention to his king. "Will His Grace be joining us?"

Daeron didn't answer; he only kept his crimson cape facing him and drank his wine.

"Very well" Tyrion said and flung his tome on the table before he climbed into his chair and got comfortable. "You may be seated."

The council members all took their seats. He held his pair of spectacles a bit above the bridge of his nose and opened the tome to the current date. He unstopped his ink and dipped his quill before he called out the calendar year and day to mark their session.

He paused before writing in the tome. "Before we begin, I would like to address the dragon in the room. Our northern guests; what exactly do we plan to do about them and their requests?"

Victarion had just begun to speak when Daeron himself cut in and shut it down.

"Address our agendas before, Tyrion" he said without facing them. "Save the North for last."

Jorah swallowed and folded her hands.

"As you wish." Tyrion answered. He pulled out the unsealed letter that he had kept in the tome. "We have received word from the Citadel regarding our request for a Grand Maester. They are sending a maester named Furon. He is young and not a Grand Maester, though they say he is very skilled in healing and war strategy. He has multiple links on his chain of iron, black iron, bronze and silver. He is en route by ship with an armed escort. We are to expect ravens telling of his progress. They will revisit the notion of sending a Grand Maester when we've taken the Iron Throne."

"May I see that letter?" asked Ser Barristan.

Tyrion passed it along to him.

"Those grey rats" cursed Victarion. "They vex us with this young man. What is it they say? A warring maester? Are we supposed to be impressed by that?"

"It's clear they begrudge us for the death of Pylos" stated Jorah.

"We've paid them handsomely for that" said Lord Waters. "And assured them that we will continue to do so. They spit on us."

Varys spoke his piece. "My lords, I think it is fair to say that they are being cautious. There is a war for the throne and however favorable our position may appear, they already risk much by sending a maester. We all know they risk angering King's Landing."

"Is there anything your birds have found that we should know?" Jorah wished to know.

"Lady Jorah, I assure you that when my birds have wrest anything that aids His Grace and this council, I will be forthcoming."

"Well" Tyrion wrote some shorthand notes on the matter, "what is to be our response to the Citadel if we have a response?"

"What is there to do?" asked Ser Barristan. "He is on his way and is of the Citadel. His is honor-bound to serve His Grace faithfully while he holds Dragonstone. So, he will and we should endow him with the proper respect his order deserves."

"I agree" said Jorah. "We may not like it but it is done. He has come to serve Dragonstone. If we have a grievance after he has come, we should address it then."

"I suppose it is done" sighed Lord Waters. "We shall see his worth when he arrives."

"Fine" said Victarion. "May the Drowned God take him before he arrives; I'd like to see what that school of soft bones say then!"

"I am so glad to be seated with such wise lords and a brilliant lady" gushed Varys. "I also agree to wait and see."

Tyrion wrote of the matter before continuing to other matters such as taxes on various shipments to Dragonstone and the logistics of an evacuation of Dragonstone in case of Dragonmont's eruption. Daeron stayed apart from them and allowed the council to make the decisions even when they came to the topic of various lords offering the hands of their daughters to the king in exchange for support. The Council deemed all of the proposals too costly and the prospects of land and even the ladies too low for their king. They had nothing to gain from marrying King Daeron to any of them. They were fighting a war and though they hadn't yet been fielded, his marriage would have to be one of an equal or close to equal birth and advantage. His options were few.

"Lord Connington and his Golden Company have asked us to join him in the field" Varys informed them. "He's growing quite insistent and he demands King Daeron weds the woman he calls Rhaenys Targaryen."

"Absurd" scoffed Jorah. "Everybody knows Rhaenys was slain when King's Landing was sacked."

"Aye" added Ser Barristan. "I saw it myself. She was stabbed so many times. That poor girl. Lord Connington dishonors himself and Prince Rhaegar's memory by using her name."

"Another pretender to smash" said Victarion.

"Not as simple as that" dissented Tyrion. "The Golden Company numbered ten thousand at first but they split their forces and acquired half of the Stormlands including Storm's End and Blackhaven. Their numbers have swelled. They're not sellswords anymore; they're a proper army now."

"More than that" Varys chimed in. "It hasn't come out yet but they have allied with Dorne."

Aurane groaned at that.

"If this is true" Ser Barristan said, "Tyrell and Lannister are no longer our biggest threat. Even Aegon the Conqueror could not conquer Dorne."

"It has been curious that Prince Doran has not offered Princess Arianne's hand in marriage to His Grace" Varys mused, "though my birds whisper that he intends to."

"What is he playing at?" asked Jorah. "That would conflict with Connington's plan to wed us to his false dragon."

Varys smiled. "I am told Prince Doran is a most avid schemer."

"He must love cyvasse" commented Tyrion.

"He's a studious player."

"I must challenge him should we meet. Connington claims his Targaryen is the true heir of the Iron Throne since daughters come before uncles in the line of succession. His Grace would be her uncle so we would need her hand to solidify our claim."

"It is a lie" Jorah insisted.

Tyrion looked back at Daeron. He thought he would have had something to add by then considering how much it concerned him. Still, he didn't interfere.

"I know it is but let's say hypothetically it isn't. We would be in quite the spot. Connington doesn't believe we will use the dragons on them if there is even a possibility that his Targaryen is really Rhaenys. How do we know if Dorne will stay allied if we marry to Connington's army? The reverse if we marry to Dorne. Of course, that could all just be what Prince Doran wants us to think if he really is such a schemer. Then there's the matter of the North."

"Finally" sighed Victarion. "I was waiting to speak on this."

"We know you were" teased Tyrion. "The North is of course, the most vast of lands that is nearly the size of all the others put together and they have just reunited under the rule of the Starks. They are a threat that cannot be ignored."

"The wolves returned from the grave" sang Varys. "I wonder how our fair Lady Jorah feels of their return."

Jorah wrung her hands together. "Keep your foul whispers to yourself, Varys. My thoughts are mine own."

"No." King Daeron came to the table at last and set his goblet down. "Your counsel is mine. I will hear you, Jorah. What do you make of the North's defiance?"

Jorah looked up at him and swallowed uneasily. "Your Grace, we must go to the North. They do not understand your strength and wisdom. That only you are fit to rule and protect them."

"The Dark is coming" proclaimed Victarion. "Even the wolves see it. They will be the first to die and still they turn their nose up at His Grace. They were always stupid. Long before the boy king took Lord Ned's head."

"That Snow is ridiculous and treasonous to call herself Hand" Aurane said pointedly. "She comes begging for dragonglass when she should be begging for your dragons and strength."

"As the Prince Who Was Promised, Your Grace is destined to destroy these ice demons of hers" Victarion went on. "If the North will not get behind us, we should smash them and save the realm ourselves. Your dragons will destroy the Great Other and give all that oppose us to the red god."

.

Tyrion waddled frantically down the halls to his destination straight from the council meeting with his tome underhand and two Unsullied guards at his back. He shook his head. "Ridiculous."

Jeyne was waiting, seated by herself in the Feast Hall outside of the kitchens. She rose at his appearance and went to him.

"Where have you been? I have been waiting over an hour!"

"I appreciate your patience. My apologies, Jeyne. Are you hungry?" He turned to one of his guards. "Please tell Jono to steam some of his delicious stew in trenchers and have his serving girls bring it out for two with some shining gold wine and two goblets."

The guard left them and Tyrion gestured for Jeyne to sit with him at a nearby bench.

"We don't have time for this" Jeyne informed him. "The –"

Tyrion raised a hand. "We will speak, of course. But I would rather hold off until the wine arrives. I refuse to speak terms with a sober mind."

It wasn't long before the trenchers were brought before them. Often time, the stew was steamed over stale bread to make use of moldy bread before it was completely rotten but this bread was fresh, crisp and seasoned with garlic butter and onions. The stew was steak, onions, leaks, carrots, potatoes and crab in a spicy gravy. She hated to admit that it left her mouth watering. He poured her some of the wine which was quite fine as well and was of the finest she tasted with a nice mixture of bitter and sweet flavors. She cracked a crab leg in her hands and silently sucked out the meat before wiping her hands on her towel.

When they had eaten a portion of their stew and drunk some of their wine, Jeyne started. "Now, will you speak to me?"

He sighed wearily. "You have really done it now, Jeyne" he said, swirling the last bit of his current pour of wine in his goblet. "King Daeron is being advised to burn Winterfell to the ground and he is considering it."

"I must speak with him, Tyrion. He has our allegiance but the North must remain independent."

"Why? Why should the North be independent? All must serve a king. Why not him? Because he is Targaryen? He is not the Mad King. He wants to save you fools from your Others, if they exist. Let him."

"The North has been in turmoil for so long. We've torn at ourselves. Free Folk raided us. The traitorous Theon sacked Winterfell. Bolton threw down Stark. Yet we are whole again, without the help of anybody. We liberated ourselves. We will rule ourselves as our own kingdom. We have earned it. I am the Hand of Queen Sansa Stark."

Tyrion finished his goblet and poured another. "Yes, I suppose you are. However little good that will do you."

She considered her hands and ran her right hand over back of the left. "Hands are oft required to make decisions for their liege. In the best interest of their realm yet not necessarily their desires. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I do."

"We of the North are not the dull, isolated savages you think we are. I know of your … dilemma."

He was curious. "What would you know of it?"

"I know that the Tyrells still fight a silent war with Cersei Lannister for the throne. And that His Grace has secretly aided Lannister but not out of anything as loyalty."

"My sister is a vain and oft-stupid woman and the throne is weaker with her on it. Weak enough to topple with little effort. Odd how you would know of that in the North."

"I also know that The Golden Company has formed up around one called Rhaenys Targaryen and allied itself with Dorne. They are raring to make war with the throne and call for His Grace to honor Rhaenys' succession. He would have to wed her to remain king or else kill her and be named kinslayer."

Tyrion rubbed his chin. "Unless of course, this Rhaenys is false."

Jeyne shrugged. "She must be Rhaenys Targaryen. Prince Doran is a cautious man who doesn't act until the outcome is in his absolute favor. But even a cautious ruler will make questionable decisions when family is concerned. You could field an army of eighty thousand and much more across the narrow sea. And three dragons. You are by far the greatest force in the world, let alone the Seven Kingdoms. He could only gain from supporting you. Yet, Dornish forces are in the stormlands with the Golden Company. She is who they say she is, I assure you."

Tyrion sighed and sat back in his chair. He glumly gulped his wine. "Yes, I thought as much myself. They're ruining everything. You are a Hand. What would you do?"

She sipped her own wine. "As a northman, I say this is all folly. When the Others come, it doesn't matter who sits the throne. We will all die."

He pouted. "So dour, just like the other northmen. You remind me of Jorah."

"As a Hand, I cannot strictly think that way. I had hoped to get an audience with you. Rhaenys Targaryen and the Golden Company need King Daeron and you know they want the dragons' power. Dorne will always remain attached to Rhaenys. They may act on King's Landing but will slow their halt. They are waiting on you. Don't go to them. Come to us. Betroth King Daeron to our Queen Sansa."

Tyrion was honestly surprised at this. This woman kept catching him off guard. "Did you not know? I am Sansa's husband. Technically speaking, I am your King."

"We do not recognize your marriage. It was unconsummated. Do you deny it?"

Tyrion laughed. "You northmen are getting too clever. Dangerous. We may have to kill you after all."

"The validity of the marriage can be confirmed by the Faith after the War. It would be lawful in the North before the old gods. In any case, I am only speaking of betrothal. Rhaenys will not fight King Daeron. She has a journeyed army far from their homes. She cannot win. She will not fight. But we will. We have scorpions for your dragons as does the rest of the realm who built them when you came. I knelt to King Daeron because he is a king in this domain but he will never be King of the North. Her Grace will not kneel to him and neither will the rest of us. We will bleed you before you ever fight King's Landing or Euron Greyjoy, whom some claim will return in force. The Others will take us all anyway and it would be better to die to you than to them. Take Her Grace as wife and King Daeron will have the strength to overtake all his enemies and Rhaenys if she should deny him. But he must fight the Others with us, first."

"The dragonglass?"

"That can kill the Others and wights. But I have been in their presence. Even being near them is experiencing a winter that can freeze the sun. It … is unbearable. Dragonglass will not save us. Many will die regardless. The North will likely fall."

She seemed near on the verge of tears and paused to regain her composure. "The others with me. Even Her Grace. They all think I came for dragonglass. But no, it was for this. If you come, the North will fight you from the Neck to the Wall. Every step of the way, even if you are on dragonback. But we need your help. Marry Queen Sansa and fight with us. The only fight that matters. Please accept."

Tyrion sighed and refilled her goblet. He then took entire the bottle of wine and began drinking from that. He considered her after that. "I remember a girl from long ago I met at the Wall. A bastard. Young. Fair but slightly unkempt. Bold but hopeful. Fierce but a bit too romantic. She had a fire in her eyes. A bit like yours. You've changed, though, haven't you? You're … more."

She scoffed. "I've lost much … as you know. I … suppose … I've lived."

He chuckled and drank some more. "I think I prefer you back then."

She smiled and let the jab slide.

He looked at her sad, grey eyes. "Still so young but still the somber one. You have lost things, haven't you?"

"We all have, haven't we?"

He nodded. "I suppose."

"From one Hand to another, will you accept my proposal? Most of the realm would be yours with a marriage."

Would he dare it? Betroth the king? Would he accept? What would Sansa say to him being involved in her marriage again? He actually considered it.

"I'm inclined in a certain direction but I must first deliberate with my king. He will want to meet you eventually. You'd better be more charming than you were with me."

She nodded, digging into her stew again. "Sansa is the charming one."

"On that, we agree."