After being forced by her brother to see the maester, Bellegere set out to find her husband.
All of her stitches ached as she rushed through the keep. Her guards could barely keep up, even though she was limping.
Bellegere paused as she entered the room he was in. She was happy he was alive, but she did not want to see his injuries.
"Belle?"
She released a deep sigh and continued forward.
"How did you know it was me?"
"Just a feeling."
Bellegere grimaced when she saw Brynden lying on the bed. Immediately, she turned to the maester and the handmaidens.
"Leave us."
Runa rushed to her side and whined pitifully. A scarred, wet nose sniffed at her mother's fresh wounds and she tried to lick them.
Bellegere wrapped her arms around her large beast and kissed her.
"Thank you for protecting him, girl. You can stay," she said softly. "I'll be checking you over next."
Brynden chuckled lightly.
"She's fine. Those bastards didn't stand a chance."
Bellegere sat down beside him and sighed sadly. It pained her to look at him in this state.
"Am I still handsome," he asked, grinning as best as he could.
"Of course you are."
Brynden's face was swollen and bruised, and covered in numerous cuts.
As he reached out to her, she noticed that two of his fingers were missing on his left hand. Having been bitten off during a struggle.
On his left arm, a long, jagged laceration extended from his shoulder, down to his wrist. The fresh stitches flexed as she took his large hand in her own.
Brynden pressed his lips to the back of her hand as a tear fell from her eye. He tried not to stare at the trauma on the left side of her face.
Most of the long cut was covered by an eyepatch she'd fashioned from weirwood leaves.
It was still a reminder to him that he wasn't quick enough to protect her.
"Maester Luwin says I will be fine. You have no need to fret," Brynden said quietly.
"It is I who should be worrying over you. He told me you lost the eye."
She shook her head, hiding her sadness.
"It was useless, anyway."
Bellegere struggled to control her breathing as she carefully examined him. He winced when she gently caressed his battered face.
"You fool," she whispered hoarsely. "I told you to stay with Runa, no matter what. What in the bloody hell were you thinking?"
"Protect. That is all that crossed my mind."
She sighed, shaking her head.
"Those cowards attacked from your blind side. One of them slashed you across the face with his fucking blade," Brynden said angrily.
"Did you expect me to stand by and watch the mother of my son die? Watch my beloved be slaughtered like a pig?"
A myriad of emotions tugged at her heart.
"I was more of a boy than a man when we married, but you have still loved me faithfully. You've shown me the true meaning of honor and duty, and I've become a better man for it," he continued, seething.
"I saw you fighting on the battlefield. Fighting for us, Belle. For our family. You gave your all."
Brynden paused to calm himself.
"How dare I allow you to be killed by a pair of dishonorable bastards?"
Bellegere kissed his hand softly, over and over, reveling in his touch.
"I understand, my husband. It just pains me to know they hurt you," she said, wiping her tears. "You know I would have done the same for you."
Brynden exhaled, smiling faintly.
They shared a glance filled with a love that needn't be spoken aloud. What was understood did not need to be explained.
"The people of the north have proclaimed me as their queen," Bellegere said, pursing her lips. "I will be crowned soon, and you will be my king consort."
Brynden's brow rose slightly and he smirked, wholeheartedly unsurprised.
To him, it was only a matter of time before the North rallied around her.
"Do I have to refer to you as 'your grace' now?"
"Yes, but I prefer 'beloved'," she said, smiling. "May I refer to you as my king?"
Brynden pretended to think for a moment.
"Actually, I quite like that."
As they laughed together, forgetting the events of the day, their pain became a distant memory.
But once it waned, Bellegere noticed his somber expression. It unsettled her greatly.
"What bothers you?"
She held her breath as he hesitated to speak.
"My uncle," Brynden said, clearing his throat. "Ser Royce is no longer with us. I saw him die."
Just like that, all of the light within his wife left.
Runa whimpered in the corner.
"Does Lady Stone know," she asked with a vanishing voice. "Has someone else told her?"
He lowered his head, knowing she would've wanted to tell Mya herself.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
Bellegere swallowed against the lump in her throat as her mind went to Mya and her child.
To lose a babe and a husband so close together was a nightmare she never wished to know. She could only imagine the pain and grief she was experiencing at this moment.
Bellegere herself could hardly take in a steady breath as she tried to wrap her mind around her friend's demise.
As quickly as the sadness set in, it vanished.
Only to be replaced by fury.
"Ramsay," she said, clenching her teeth.
Brynden sighed as she stood up on shaky legs. He knew what she was thinking.
"Vengeance won't bring Royce back."
Bellegere ignored him.
She placed a lingering kiss to his lips, whispering a promise to return to his side soon.
Brynden knew where she was going.
He would not see her for some time.
The dungeons of Winterfell were dark and rumored to be haunted, but that did not deter her.
When Bellegere was a little girl, she was terrified of venturing down into it's damp depths.
Now, as a queen, she was the one to be feared.
"Ah, the blind bitch finally graces me with her presence," Ramsay chuckled.
He smirked when he noticed her marred face.
Majority of the gash was hidden behind an intricately fashioned weirwood leaf eyepatch.
However, it extended above and beneath it by two centimeters, cutting her brow in half.
It was swollen and grotesque in it's fresh state.
"Look at that face. Not so pretty now, are you? My men did a grand job on you. But not good enough. I would've took your head."
She did not react.
"Have you come to execute me as some pathetic show of power? Do you think I fear death? Because I don't."
When Bellegere's flat expression did not change, he seethed internally.
"Strap him to the table," she ordered.
Her guards bowed.
"Yes, your grace."
Ramsay forced himself to remain calm.
Equally unsettled by his vulnerability position, as he was shocked by her new title.
"I've heard tales about you, Lord Snow. Horrible whispers," Bellegere said in a quiet tone.
"You openly enjoy abusive practices, such as having young women stripped naked and released into the Bolton forests. You find it amusing to hunt them with your pack of feral dogs, before killing them, raping their corpses, and flaying them."
She did not look away from him as she paced across the creaking floor.
Each step louder than the next.
"The women who do not give you good sport are raped and then flayed alive. The skins of your kills are brought back with you to the Dreadfort as gruesome trophies. The bodies of the women are fed to your dogs."
Ramsay did not cower away when she looked upon him with disgust. He expected nothing less from a soft hearted woman. She couldn't fathom the true desires of men.
"Your exploits remind me of a story I heard many moons ago. A tale about a woman named Pretty Meris," Bellegere said, clasping her hands behind her back.
She paced in front of him slowly now.
"Meris is blonde, and near six feet tall. She is earless, with a slit nose and scars crossing both her cheeks. She is said to have cold, dead eyes, like two gray stones. She was reportedly raped by half the members of a sellsword company, Old Nan said."
Her fingers tickled over the horrifying instruments hanging on the wall as Ramsay struggled against his restraints.
"She dresses in mail and carries a crossbow. There is talk that beneath her armor, only scars are left by the men who cut off her breasts. Old Bill Bone says that Meris can stretch out a man's dying for a moon's turn."
Bellegere turned to her captive with raised brows.
"A moon's turn, Lord Snow," she emphasized. "Do you know how long that is?"
Ramsay refused to answer.
"Nearly two fortnights. Twenty-seven and a half days. That is a long time to suffer. An eternity, as it pertains to pain."
When he spat at her, she dodged it.
"You will not frighten me, witch," he hissed. "I've done things to men that you can't fathom. Theon Greyjoy can vouch for me."
Bellegere blinked once.
"What did you do to him?"
Ramsay grinned widely, displaying yellow teeth.
"He is snipped, branded, and broken. Like a good pet should be. Where once he was defiant, he now loves me."
Instead of the horror he expected to see on her face, her lips twitched into an amused smile.
"Theon recieved a great mercy, compared to what I would have done to him," Bellegere said quietly.
"Compared to what I will do to you."
At her words, Ramsay could no longer hold in the fear that clawed beneath his skin.
It was as plain as day on his pale, blotchy face.
"One of your men took a good friend of mine from his family. His wife lost a child fretting over his safety in the battle, only for her nightmare to become a reality. All because of your desperate need for outside validation and power," Bellegere continued.
"You owe a debt to me and my house, and you will repay it."
The quiet calmness of her voice was more frightening than if she were to yell.
It reminded him of his dead father.
"I told you the tale of Pretty Meris because I believe I know how to stretch out a man's dying for longer than a moon's turn. And you will be my proof of that."
Ramsay flinched as she caressed his sweaty cheek. The dried blood beneath her fingernails only served to frighten him more.
"As you certainly know, if you break a man's body, he will obey you for a time," Bellegere whispered.
"But, if you break a man's mind, he will belong to you forever."
He bared his crooked teeth at her.
"I'm not a weakling," Ramsay growled, gathering whatever audacity he had left.
"You won't break me, wench. No woman could break me."
A smile tugged at her busted lips.
"It matters not if you are weak or strong. Every man has a breaking point, Lord Snow. I will find yours soon enough."
When she realeased him, Ramsay laughed at her.
"No matter what you do to me, you will never erase my family from history. We will always be known as the house that helped kill the King in the North and his lady mother. My name will follow you wherever you go. Mocking you."
She turned around, eyeing his fat lipped smirk.
"Erase you? Why would I want that?"
He frowned, confused.
"I want your name to ring in every hall, from beyond the wall to the shadows of Asshai. For, when they hear your name, they will tremble as they remember me. The Butcher of House Bolton, the north coined me. The Queen in the North."
As Ramsay erupted with belligerent anger, spittle flying from his mouth, she understood what would break him.
It was not fear or pain.
It was his own pride.
To strip him of it was to flay him alive.
"My army, along with the remainder of your own, volunteered to march to the Dreadfort and remove every semblance of your house's existence. They offered to burn it down," Bellegere said, clasping her hands.
She didn't miss the indignant rage in his eyes.
"In my infinite wisdom, I refused. Instead, I've chosen to award your ancestral home and lands to someone that I find deserving. Perhaps then, the dark lineage of House Bolton will be wiped clean."
As Ramsay thrashed against his restraints, cursing her name and her house, Bellegere turned to her guards.
"Leave the room."
Once they were alone, she retrieved a dirty cloth, a thin piece of twine, and a butchering knife from the table by the door.
"What are you doing," Ramsay asked, sounding more meek than she ever heard him before.
Bellegere did not answer.
Instead, she forcefully gagged him and began removing his armor.
Ramsay thrashed and commanded her to stop behind his gag, but his words could not be heard. Once he was completely naked, she stared at him as he struggled to get free.
"You swore that if you won the battle, you would keep me as your wife," Bellegere said, looking at his manhood amusedly.
"You were right. I would rather die than be forced to fuck you. Now I understand why you rape women for your pleasure."
He tried to hide his blush with a glare, but her eye saw all. His shame and embarrassment were as clear as day.
When she tied the piece of twine around his dangly bits and brandished her knife, his muffled cries echoed in the room.
Those flat, pale eyes glistened with tears.
"Hush now, Lord Snow," Bellegere soothed him.
"You have very little to mourn."
Outside the room, her guards flinched as Ramsay's muffled screams met their ears.
He was certainly in agony.
They could only imagine the horrors he was experiencing at the hands of the queen.
However, they couldn't find the will to care.
For all he'd done, he deserved it.
When Bellegere exited the room, her guards tried not to stare at the blood on her jerkin.
"Quent, send a maester down to sew him up," she ordered. "And tell them his tongue offends me. I want it removed."
He nodded solemnly.
"At once, your grace."
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
Two days later
The Great Hall was filled with people. Every lord and lady of the north, and several from the riverlands and the Vale, was present for the coronation ceremony.
Even those that betrayed House Stark.
The room was alive with chatter and banter until the doors suddenly burst opened.
The screeching of chairs sliding across the floor was the only sound in the room as everyone stood from their seat. The leaders of the noble houses formed lines on either side of the aisle for their queen's entrance.
Bellegere entered the room with stoic confidence. She moved with the grace of a queen twice her age, despite her injuries.
Each lord bent the knee as she passed.
In the farthest corner of the room, Sansa Stark watched intently.
Bellegere was still as beautiful as she remembered her to be, even with the long gash that marred her face.
The dress she wore was pitch black, embroidered with weirwood leaves the color of dried blood. An homage to her new nickname, no doubt.
When a stony, silver eye found Sansa, her heart leapt in her chest. Her older sister smiled, finally showing the softness she was familiar with.
Sansa remembered nights when a young, vibrant Bellegere would read stories to her under candlelight. Her voice would rise and fall with inflection, and she would smile at her when asked to continue reading.
Now, Bellegere was colder than the northern winds. Hardened by war and grief. Most of all, she was the warrior queen the north chose.
However, Sansa knew that if the occasion were not so formal, she would have marched over to embrace her.
When Bellegere reached the throne of Winterfell, the ancestral seat of every Stark King, she sat down with her back straight. Posture stiff and poised with class.
Maester Luwin carefully lifted her crown from the satin pillow it rested on.
This one was not the spiked crown worn by the Kings of Winter. It was the crown taken from the Warg King, thousands of years ago, by her ancestors.
Instead of silver or gold or steel, it was crafted from the limbs of a young weirwood tree. Ancient runes were engraved upon every inch of it.
After thousands of years, the ivory crown had turned to stone, remaining unchanged.
For, a weirwood could never rot.
When Luwin carefully placed the crown upon Bellegere's head, she reveled in the weight of it.
A crown was never meant to be an accessory.
It was meant to be a reminder of the duties that a monarch is expected to fulfill.
"I present to you, Queen Bellegere of House Stark, first of her name," Maester Luwin began proudly.
Her eye found her husband in the crowd.
Brynden smiled at her proudly, holding their young son in his arms. Beside him stood her brothers, Jon and Rickon, who nodded to her reassuringly.
She sat even straighter in her throne.
"The First Queen in the North, Crimson Thumb of the Godswood, Champion of the Old Gods, Butcher of the Boltons, the Black Wolf, and the Witch of Winterfell."
The lords stood, unsheathing their blades, and lifting them toward the ceiling as they chanted.
"Long may she reign!"
Once the ceremony was over, Bellegere searched the crowd for her little sister. She wanted to finally reunite with her.
The past few days were packed full of preparations for her coronation, dealing with the aftermath of the battle, and choosing her councilors.
However, her plans were thwarted again as Lord Wyman Manderly approached her.
Bellegere tilted her head at him and he shifted uncomfortably. She admired his audacity.
"Your grace," the large man said, bowing.
"You have some gall, my lord. Didn't I tell you not to return to Winterfell? Or did you forget?"
Wyman withered under her glare.
"You did but, after the biggest blunder of my life, I found it necessary to come to you as a man and apologize," he said sincerely.
"In my anger, I betrayed you in the worst way. You had every right to kill us all, but you refrained. For that, I am forever indebted to you."
Bellegere watched as he kneeled before her.
"For blaspheming your gods and breaking my oath of loyalty, I beg for your forgiveness. I wish to renew my oath to you and I swear to honor my word, before the Old Gods and the new."
The silence in the room did not escape her.
In the corner, Lord Peter Baelish watched the scene play out with great intrigue.
Bellegere stood from her throne to place a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her with regret in his eyes, and she nodded to him.
"You have my forgiveness, Lord Manderly."
Her gaze turned to the crowd, lingering on the faces of the nobles who took up arms against her. They shrank beneath her stare.
"I also extend my full forgiveness towards the rest of the houses who fought for my enemies," Bellegere said in a calm tone.
They bowed their heads to her in gratitude.
"I hope you remember this kindness when the crown declares war. Because If you decide to turn your back on House Stark again, you should also decide which tree you want your corpse hung from. I swear to honor your request."
Littlefinger smirked as the nobles trembled with fear. He wondered how Eddard Stark managed to raise a woman of her pedigree.
"Now," the queen said, smiling widely.
"Let us feast."
As Bellegere sat beside her brothers and her husband in the Great Hall, her eyes searched the crowd for her sister.
Eventually, she spotted Sansa speaking to an older man in the corner.
The Lord Protector of the Vale.
Bellegere frowned as she pondered how it was that her sister wound up in the Vale and not back in Winterfell with her family. Especially after the death of Lady Lysa.
She questioned why Lord Baelish didn't escort her home or why Sansa didn't send a raven to let her know she was alive and well.
There were too many questions that needed answers, and she would have them swiftly.
The queen stood from her seat, and the loud, gleeful hall fell silent.
She rose her chalice.
"I would like to raise a toast to Lord Peter Baelish and his Knights of the Vale," Bellegere said, smiling.
As many within the hall murmured their agreement, Littlefinger bowed respectfully.
Sansa watched his mouth twitch at one corner. Her eyes narrowed, wondering what he was plotting now.
"Without prompting, he aided us in the battle for Winterfell. The North will not forget your kindness and loyalty. Let us drain our cups to Lord Baelish and his good health."
"Hear, hear!"
Littlefinger lifted his cup to the queen as well. She nodded to him and swiftly turned her gaze back to her sister.
"I would also like to raise my cup in celebration of the homecoming of my brother, Rickon, and my sister, Sansa," Bellegere said, smiling softly at her younger siblings.
"It warms my heart to have them back home after so many years apart. Two of our siblings have yet to return, but I will continue to pray that they do. Let us drain our cups to them."
"Hear, Hear!"
As the cheers echoed, Bellegere excused herself from her table. She paused to press a kiss to the crown of Rickon's head and touch her husband's shoulder before she beelined to her sister.
Lord Baelish lingered close by as the two women embraced each other. His eyes raked over the queen's shapely frame.
"You're a woman grown now," Bellegere chuckled, admiring her. "You're so tall and even more beautiful than I imagined."
Her pale cheeks blushed.
At one time, she envied her older sister for her beauty, and her ability to seamlessly blend feminine grace with her more masculine interests.
They were opposites, but Belle always found ways to connect with her.
"You're too kind, your grace," Sansa said, pausing for a moment. Her expression became somber.
"I've missed you very much. Seeing everything you've accomplished since we departed is astonishing."
She took her hand and rubbed it gently.
"You can't fathom how much I've missed you, little sister. I never stopped thinking of you."
Bellegere smiled faintly, but she could see something in her sister's eyes that worried her.
She glanced behind her and noticed Lord Baelish lurking in close proximity. As well as a very large woman that resembled a knight.
She hummed, leaning closer to Sansa.
"We shall speak privately."
Once within her solar, her soft smile was nowhere to be found and neither was Sansa's.
"I hate to ruin our reunion like this, but there are things I need to know," Bellegere said, honestly.
Sansa nodded her understanding.
"Tell me everything that transpired, from the moment you reached King's Landing until now."
Bellegere listened intently as her sister explained what she'd been through at the hands of the Lannisters.
The letter she was forced to write to Robb. Their father's death. Everything.
She comforted Sansa when her eyes would well with tears, wishing she was there to protect her sister.
However, the tears did not fall and she would quickly compose herself.
That alone told her that her sister was no longer the innocent, starry eyed little girl she knew.
What a shame that was.
"I wanted to send word to you that I was in the Vale, but Baelish told me it was unsafe for anyone to know my whereabouts after Joffrey was poisoned," Sansa explained somberly.
"Because you refused to marry the imp, he said you were now a target and it wouldn't be safe for me in Winterfell either."
Bellegere scoffed, shaking her head.
The more she heard about this man, the more she disliked him. To say that her sister wouldn't be safe with her was insulting.
"When we learned about your conflict with the Boltons, I immediately asked him to aide you. It didn't take much convincing," she said, giving her a pointed look. "Probably because he knew you would be in debt to him. I don't know what he wants, but he always wants for something."
Bellegere hummed to herself, her jaw flexing.
She had an idea of what he might desire.
"Worst of all...he shoved Aunt Lysa through the moon door," Sansa said quietly. "She was definitely planning to harm me, but still. He murdered her."
"Pardon me?"
Bellegere's brows furrowed as she leaned forward. Her sister's expression told her she was deadly serious.
"He must stand trial for murder," the queen said in a matter of fact tone.
When Sansa pursed her lips, she frowned.
"What is it? Do you not want him to meet justice?"
"It isn't that," she sighed. "For some reason, I feel as though I owe him for rescuing me from King's Landing. And now, for ensuring your victory and returning me home. I never thought I would be back here."
Bellegere understood the sentiment.
She also knew that her sister didn't want to feel responsible for the snake's death. Even if he rightfully deserved it.
To put him on trial meant that Sansa would have to be a witness against him.
The guilt would eat her alive.
"I will not speak a word of what you've told me," Bellegere said softly. "But, if Lord Baelish tries to manipulate me, I must take action."
Sansa grabbed her hand.
"I understand. And...thank you for listening," she said, feeling truly safe for the first time in years.
"It feels good to be home."
Bellegere smiled lovingly.
Her frosted heart filled with a great warmth.
"Welcome back, little sister."
Ten Months Later
Queen Bellegere twisted her wedding ring as she listened to her council.
The topic of discussion was rather bleek.
For the past hour, they listened to her brother explain the threat of the undead, beyond the wall.
She could tell that some of the lords and ladies present would need convincing.
"We've all been focused on preparing for the crown to declare war, but the real war is on it's way as we speak," said Jon Snow.
"The army of the dead march south. If they make it past the wall, all the people of the realm, if not the world, are doomed. The unification of the North was a great accomplishment by her grace, but the entirety of Westeros is needed to win the Great War against the Night King."
After a moment of silence, Ser Rodrik Cassel caught her eye.
"Forgive me, your grace, but everything Jon told us sounds like a fever dream," he said in disbelief. "White walkers and Night Kings. Next we'll be discussing grumkins and snarks."
Jon sighed quietly, but didn't speak.
The stoic expression on his sister's face told him he didn't need to.
"Ser Rodrik, do you trust me," Bellegere asked, still twisting her ring.
He frowned.
"Of course, your grace. With my life."
She looked up at him with a stern expression.
"Well, I trust Jon with my life, and I believe everything he said to be true."
Her gaze examined every face around the table.
"Let us not forget that I awakened my brother from the dead. Dragons have returned to the world. Jon and I have direwolves, and there is a damned giant probably taking a nap in the wolfswood right now," she chuckled.
"The walking dead isn't so farfetched if you take a moment to think about it. Instead of passing off everything you don't understand as fiction."
The people around the table pondered her words.
Bellegere grimaced and placed her hand on the swell of her stomach as the baby kicked.
"Are you alright," Brynden whispered. "Should we end the meeting?"
She smiled at him reassuringly.
"I'm fine. Your son is just very strong."
Bellegere turned her gaze to the Hand of the Queen and gestured for her to speak. She needed a moment to catch her breath.
"Thank you, your grace."
Lady Melisandre stood to gain the full attention of the room.
"We have a war brewing in the south and the Great War brewing beyond the wall. But, there is also a Targaryen on her way to reclaim the iron throne with three dragons, and a massive army," she said frankly.
"I submit that we take action as swiftly as possible. The question is, where do we start?"
Bellegere leaned forward, listening intently.
All eyes focused on the red woman.
"It would be wise to join forces with Daenerys Targaryen. We help her obtain the iron throne. In exchange, she aides us in defeating the Night King."
Silence reigned for a spell, before the room erupted into chaos. Bellegere rubbed her temples as the noise made her head ache.
"Enough," the king consort said, exasperatedly.
The room quieted down.
"What Lady Melisandre suggested may be extremely dangerous, yes. We do not know if the Targaryen can be trusted. But, it is still a very smart idea. Those dragons would be a huge advantage for us, if what Jon says is true."
Bellegere silently thanked him and turned to her Hand curiously. She was highly skeptical of this plan for several reasons.
The Mad King burnt her grandfather and uncle alive. Rhaegar stole her aunt Lyanna. Ned Stark helped usurp the throne. The history between their houses wasn't good, and it would not easily be forgotten.
There was also the problem of her title.
"This Targaryen styles herself as the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I doubt she will take kindly to the Queen in the North offering her aide without bending the knee. Because I assure you, I will not bend the knee."
Her words gained her nods of approval from the lords and ladies in the room.
"That is very true, your grace, but the potential of this alliance is so strong that only a fool would turn you away," Melisandre said, smirking faintly.
"I have intelligence that Daenerys is without a fleet. And what do you have at your disposal, my queen? Strong blood ties to House Otherys. One of the most powerful seafaring houses in Braavos. Your aunt is the current Black Pearl of Braavos. The most famed courtesan in the land."
A smile tugged at the queen's lips until she began chuckling outright. That hadn't crossed her mind.
"You're very good," she said, pointing at her. "Very good indeed."
The red priestess smirked.
"I try my best, your grace."
Beside her, Brynden stroked his beard.
"It would be wise to send an envoy to determine how trustworthy this woman is before we jump into an alliance," he said thoughtfully. "We need to ensure she will honor the agreement, as we would."
The council murmured their agreement.
"With the queen's acquiescence, I would have Maester Luwin send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen informing her of my desire to speak with her," Melisandre said dutifully.
"If she accepts, which I believe she will, I will journey to Meereen to treat with her on behalf of her grace."
As the queen thought about the implications of her next decision, the room waited patiently.
The Targaryen had dragons and a large army, which they would need against the coming threat beyond the wall.
On the other hand, she was in possession of resources Daenerys needed.
If Bellegere sent a raven to her aunt, she would have a massive fleet at her disposal. Not to mention, the influence her late mother's house had over the Iron Bank.
It would be a strong alliance, and a certain victory against the young King Tommen and his mother. Tywin Lannister had met his demise over a year ago, and ever since they'd been much weaker.
Despite her personal reservations and dislike of House Targaryen, she knew that this was the smartest decision.
It was best to show good faith to Daenerys, rather than waiting for her to step foot on Westerosi soil.
Bellegere sighed deeply.
"Send a raven to Daenerys Targaryen," she said clasping her hands. "We shall attempt to negotiate an alliance with her."
Maester Luwin bowed.
"At once, your grace."
Meereen
Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen dreamt of a black wolf walking across a bed of freshly packed snow.
Each giant paw print left behind was stained crimson as it stalked forward with grace and deadly poise.
A weirwood crown was grasped in the wolf's jaw, dripping with what she assumed was blood.
One of it's eyes was eternally shut and the other was as silver as the blade of a valyrian steel sword.
When the wolf finally turned it's gaze upon her, Daenerys awakened, alone in her bedchambers, shivering with cold sweats.
She wiped the perspiration from her brow.
She remembered rumors Tyrion whispered about the new queen that emerged in the north.
The one who refused to marry him, at her own detriment.
The queen practiced necromancy, fought men without fear, and bathed in their blood. She hung her enemies bodies in trees as gifts to the Old Gods, and sacrificed men before the heart tree.
Once he finished his tales, Tyrion would say that these claims were all just gossip and heresay, but at this moment she wasn't so sure.
Somehow, Daenerys knew the wolf in her dream was Queen Bellegere of House Stark.
The Witch of Winterfell.
When Daenerys attempted to find sleep once more, it illuded her. For, each time she drifted off, that silver eye appeared again.
It's gaze unsettled her to the core.