They landed in White Harbor as a fleet, the Stark banners flying on the forward ship to prevent an attack from ships or Seal Rock. Jon had sent ravens ahead to the lords of his kingdom, but Tyrion wanted no chances taken. Dany appreciated his concern, though he became too insistent about some issues. He kept pushing at the heir-issue, as he called it. Dany couldn't think about it. I might have children yet. She shivered of joy at the thought, though she attributed most of the emotion to the person who shared her bed most nights. If her councilors saw, they did not say, and she would not broach the topic herself until the Great War was won. It would not matter if they were all dead.

Dany eyed the tridents with some interest as they were greeted by a coterie of guardsmen. They did not cower in fear from the dragons swooping overhead, and she admired their courage. Jon and Davos walked ahead of her and Missandei, and she heard Davos speaking in his thick accent to Jon. "Many a good man has died in the Wolf's Den, my lord."

"Aye, Davos, and many bad, too."

"I might have died there, my lord, if I'd dare brave the White Knife."

"I'm glad you didn't dare, my friend," Jon said. Dany could see his eyes scanning the faces in the streets, constantly looking for danger, though a column of tridents and two columns of Unsullied guarded them all. Dany held no illusions; she had not expected to be greeted by cheering crowds, not with her children presenting threats to anyone or anything big enough to interest them. But the silence that fell as their party moved through the crowd spoke volumes. The North was a hard place, its people harder, just as Jon has said.

White Harbor itself was beautiful, and New Castle stared down on the pale stone buildings from behind the Seal Gate. When the war was won, Dany promised herself, she'd come back and see the whole city. She'd tour the kingdoms, meet her people. Maybe then they'd cheer her arrival if they were still alive. She shuddered against a chill.

"Do you think they're happy to see us?" Dany asked Missandei in High Valyrian, feigning nonchalance when her friend gave her a searching look.

"I'm not sure they understand who you are, Your Grace. Perhaps Lord Snow, since his banner is known across the North. They know the dragon banners, too, I'm sure, or at least the older ones might. And everyone surely recognizes your hair. But they may not understand the significance." Missandei's wisdom made the pale, dirty snow piled in corners seem even more grey.

"I wish I could speak to them, as I did in Meereen," Dany confided, looking at the pallid faces as they passed.

"We have time, Your Grace. If not now, within the next few days, while we wait for the horse lords."

"Yes…" Dany hesitated. "Will they hate me? Think I'm a tyrant here to burn them?"

"Only if you act as such, Your Grace."

Dany looked not at the smallfolk, but at the back of Jon's form, wrapped in furs and wool against the firm breeze coming off the water. He didn't feel her eyes—that was a child's tale of love, and Dany was no longer a child. Instead she thought of his grandfather. Her father had his grandfather burned alive for defending his son. She had burned two men alive. She hadn't told him that yet. Was she already mad, just as her father had been? She didn't feel mad, just angry. Angry that she had to fight for her throne, fight for her kingdoms, fight for her people's love. And fight the darkness, too. Jon calmed that flame inside her that called for blood. He'd told her about wrestling with the village boys from Winter Town when he was small. She wanted to know the smallfolk that way, know their wants and fears. She hadn't truly known that in Meereen. She wanted to know it here.

"Wait," she called on impulse in Valyrian to the Unsullied guardsmen. Grey Worm called a halt and turned to see her, his face hidden beneath the masks they wore. "I would like to speak to them."

Jon turned to look at her, and Dany brought her eyes to meet his. His only showed curiosity, none of the heavy devotion that lay there every night and every morning. He only spoke Common, so she repeated her words for him. "I would like to speak to them. They're my people."

He nodded slowly, thoughtful, then looked out over the hushed crowd. It was an eerie silence, but it didn't seem to hold any malice.

"Your Grace," Tyrion said, going to argue.

"I will speak to them. Others may go on ahead if they like. I need to be with my people." While there's still time, she added to herself.

"Your Grace," a guardsman said, the Captain of the trident-bearers. Dany turned, but he was looking at Jon. "It's not safe. They may get violent. We had a minor bread riot just last week."

"They are people," Dany responded. "They will only get violent with reason. I do not expect to give them a reason. Only words and my ear."

"Lord Manderly is expecting us," the captain said, still looking to Jon. That would have infuriated her, but he did not know the way of things yet. And Jon had a natural leadership; people were drawn to him.

"Send word we are delayed," he replied, eyes only for Dany. She wanted him to take her in his arms and kiss her. Not hard and teasing like Daario, not possessive like Drogo. She wanted him to kiss her like she was precious, in front of all of her people, his people. Their people. Jon voiced her thoughts with his next breath. "Our people need us. The Unsullied will protect Daenerys if you feel you are not up to the task. Anyone else may follow you."

Their entire group hesitated, but none of them moved to leave. Dany knew they saw the dangers in staying, but they also saw the wisdom. Dany looked to Missandei again, and her friend shared that secret smile of approval. She didn't need the approval, but to know someone so kind gave it helped bolster her. Missandei knew it—the people who love you will fight harder for it. Dany turned to face the blank faces to the left of their party, and stepped toward the edge of the guard-enforced bubble. A small group of the smallfolk made sore attempts at bowing, but Dany ignored them, spying a little girl clutching a straw doll to her chest.

"Hello," she said, crouching in front of the child.

"Hullo," the girl said, shy beneath a shock of red hair.

"What's your name?"

"Alys. Who're ya?

Dany smiled at the child, though the knuckles of the woman clutching the girl's shoulder turned white at the girl's casual manner. "My name is Daenerys Stormborn."

"Tha's a good name. Who's he?"

Dany looked behind her. Jon hovered there, a smile in his eyes though his brows were creased, and his hand was gripping the pommel of Longclaw. "Jon Snow."

"I've gotta brother named Jon," Alys said, opening up to the attention. "Do you got brothers?"

"I did," Dany said, gently. "They died."

"Wha'happened?"

"One was killed in a big battle in the South. A long time ago. The other died in the far east of Essos." That was as simple as it got; you couldn't tell a girl that a Dothraki man had crowned her brother with molten gold.

"My pa went south. He ain't come back."

"You must miss him."

The little girl nodded. "He use ta take me ta see the ships."

After she said goodbye to Alys, Dany moved up the hill at a sluggish pace, stopping to talk to individuals every few feet. She did not tell them about the coming doom or mention the war to come afterward if they survived, she only asked about their lives. They were hungry, missing loved ones, worried about winter, the Dothraki, the Unsullied, the dragons. She did her best to reassure them all, especially the young ones, the children. She ached for the children.

Jon moved with her, an ever-present splotch of black clothing out of the corner of her eye, just beyond her left shoulder. Growing up at Winterfell, he'd told her, he'd known the faces of the smallfolk, known how to talk to them, to laugh with them, to feel for them. Dany wanted to feel that, to know that, especially here in his North. She never truly had understood her people in Meereen, though she had tried. She'd been a foreign queen there, though the same could be said here. She had no home here in the North, though she ached for it as much as she ached when Jon offered an arm to help her up stairs or his eyes lit in a smile at something said in the crowd.

They reached the top of the hill eventually, and Dany turned to look down on the Harbor from the shadow of the walls. The crowd was no longer silent, their voices rumbling through the streets as they watched her, and she saw some souls waving and calling to her. She waved back, and a cheer went up, one that didn't call her Mother or shirk from Drogon's blast of voice overhead. One that said they knew her, she knew them, she was just a woman who wanted to bring them peace if she could. Jon's hand rested gently on the small of her back as he stepped forward to her side, and the cheer deepened to something else, something she couldn't place. She turned her gaze up to him, and he wasn't looking at them, he was looking down at her, his eyes filled with raw passion, raw pleasure at the sight of her face.

"Come, my queen," he said in a quiet voice that said he wished he could kiss her here, in front of his people, in front of all those people. She'd follow him anywhere, though she knew she'd have to lead. She wasn't dreading it, just wishing she could be a girl, let him take her places she wouldn't go herself. "Lord Manderly is waiting for us."

Dany turned back to the crowd, pride in their vocal acceptance of her and Jon making her throat tight. She nodded to Jon, and then waved her hand again before she turned to him and took his offered arm to enter the Seal Gate. The roar didn't fade much when the gate was shut behind them, but it lessened the pressure of their stares. Jon's gaze didn't tear from her cheek as their friends arrayed around them.

"My lord," Brienne said, coming forward. "If you allow us, Podrick and I would like to hurry our way back to Winterfell. Lady Catelyn..."

Jon nodded, and Dany watched him from her spot on his arm. He was a leader, through and through. It made her grateful that he'd bent the knee willingly. Many men might have met their deaths for him. "My sisters require your services, of course, Lady Brienne. Would you mind traveling with a larger party? We should send the dragonglass ahead of us as well. Gendry, I'm sorry my friend, but would you ride ahead with it? We need someone to teach the others how to create the weapons."

"Yes," the burly man said, his ever-present war-hammer slung over his shoulder. He'd bent the knee quick enough, at Jon's urging, after their journey north of the Wall.

"I didn't know my father, Your Grace," he'd said. "He didn't come back for my ma after she had me, and I don't care to make his mistakes again. He was friends with Ned Stark, and that's enough for me to follow Jon. And he follows you. He must have his reasons, and I'm sure I'll figure them out soon enough."

The Hound stepped forward gingerly. Dany hadn't much talked to him, but he seemed to still be finding his place in the world. Jon looked at him. "Leaving with them, Sandor?"

"I don't much care for Lords anymore, Snow. And they've never liked me."

"Very well," Jon said, his face an open book of concern for the man he'd fought next to. "Travel safe." Dany noticed he was the only person who did not call the burned man by his nickname, nor his family name, aside from Brienne. She resolved to amend the name in her thoughts since Jon always had a reason, and the warrior woman did, too.

"Grey Worm, send units with them," Dany said after a beat, using Common for the sake of the nervous captain hovering nearby, "to start coordinating defenses at Winterfell, and to protect the dragonglass."

"Yes, Your Grace," the man said. He signaled to a pair of soldiers and ordered them in Valyrian back to the ships to give a message to one of his commanders to meet the three travelers outside the Northern Gate and to march north with the necessary supplies.

"Your Grace," Tyrion started as people began to break off. "Was it so wise to delay our travels with that display?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation, voice tight. "They are my people, I need to know them." Before it's too late, she added silently.

"Smallfolk don't win wars, Your Grace," he said, the smallest note of condescension in his voice. "In fact, I'd argue that these smallfolk may lose us the war should they all die and rise up again to kill us all."

"The death of my people is not a joke, Lord Tyrion," Dany said. "And I would argue smallfolk win wars when they hide you from the enemy knocking at the gates, as they did for the Usurper. They certainly influence wars when they protect forces such as the Brotherhood Without Banners. They break sieges when they let an enemy soldier in through the sewers as they did for Lord Mormont and Grey Worm. Soldiers win wars, it's true, but they lose wars as well. They could not prevent my brother's death at the Trident, they could not save Jon's brother from massacre. I'd argue in this war, the smallfolk are our only hope. If we beat the Walkers, the people's love of me, of Jon, or their hatred of your sister may give me my kingdoms back. So you will forgive me if I stop to ask them whether they're eating well, or if their children are having nightmares, and to tell them I will not let my own children harm them." Dany had not meant to get so angry with him, but it was done, she had made her point. He could well advise her, but she was his queen, too. She deserved the ability to not have her actions questioned in front of her subjects.

"Well said, Daenerys Stormborn. You're as fiery as one of your dragons," a booming voice called from the steps of the New Castle.

"Lord Manderly," Jon said with an even tone, "may I introduce Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, Rightful Heir of the Seven Kingdoms—"

"I think you mean Four Kingdoms, Your Grace," the man said, tottering on legs the size of twigs in comparison to his body. In some vague way, he reminded Dany of Illyrio, though his manners were worse. A girl hovered in his shadow, eyes sharp and searching beneath garish green hair. Dany bristled at the insult but bit her tongue. The North was hard, he'd said, the North remembers.

"No, Lord Wyman, I meant Seven," Jon said. "She is your queen and mine, by rights."

"Seems to me she lost that right when her father was killed and replaced by the Baratheon man. And I remember electing myself a new king, the King in the North. Did you leave him dead in the South?"

Jon stayed calm outwardly, but Dany felt the tension in his sword arm. It occurred to her that they must look a sight, their arms still interlocked, though there were no more stairs to excuse their behavior as simple courtesy. Jon rarely touched her in public; he was getting bolder. The thought warmed her stomach but she refocused on the man, who's red face was surveying the crowd of Unsullied men next to his guards, the Lannister dwarf wearing the Hand pin, Davos off to one side standing a seaman's pose, Missandei hovering between Grey Worm and Dany like a dog who couldn't choose his master, Varys and Jorah, half hidden at the back of the group, each as uncomfortable as the last in this hard place. Dany raised her chin, and looked down her nose at the overly large man, scrutinizing. He was testing her, she knew, but whether for future wars or as his leader, she could not yet tell.

"I do not seek your approval, Lord Wyman," she said, looking him dead in the eye. "I do not need it. We could move on to Winterfell now if you wish it, but you may want to hear what your former king and lord has done since he left you last. It may interest you."

Wyman opened his mouth to retort, but the girl at his shoulder spoke first. "Welcome to New Castle, Your Grace. My grandfather and I are honored. I should like to hear the stories, and wish to invite you to share guest right with us before you move on in your journey."

"I would gladly share guest right with you…" Dany trailed, amused at the stranger's interruption and waiting for her introduction. A bold child, barely more than fourteen, and composed as well.

"Wylla Manderly, Your Grace," the girl supplied. "My grandfather's heir now that my father has passed. He fought for the Young Wolf. We believe he perished at the Red Wedding; as such, we take guest right very seriously within these walls. As long as you don't mind my grandfather's teasing, you shall not be harmed once we share bread and mead."

"Thank you, Wylla," Jon said. "I believe any further discussion can wait."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"I'm just a lord, Wylla," he said gently, thinking she was mistaken. But Dany saw the hard stubborn look in the girl's eye. It was not a mistake, but a statement, clearer than the arguments Wyman had tried to make. The North came first until Dany proved herself to them. She squared her shoulders at the challenge. She would prove herself. If Jon accepted her, the stubborn Northmen would as well.

Guest right was taken seriously, Dany realized, when Wylla and Wyman offered them bread and mead from the table just within the castle doors, partaking themselves as well. She'd heard of Robb Stark's death, but just when she cared only that he was not warring in her kingdoms anymore. Now she knew his half-brother, knew him better than she knew most men, and wished she'd been able to meet the noble Young Wolf, King in the North. She'd have to settle for his sisters, for his younger brother, for Jon. It wasn't hard to see that they each got their nobility from their shared father, their sense of right and wrong. It was the second time a wolf had gone to war over the loss of family in as many generations. Dany could understand that. She was fighting a war for the entirety of her family, both dragon and horse lord, and even for her smallfolk. Her people, her family. She would fight for them. She would fight for the North, for Jon's North.

"Thank you," Dany said sincerely to Wylla as she took the bread and placed it on her tongue. It was plain, but delicious, and Dany's stomach growled. She'd been hungrier and hungrier with each passing day. She put it down to the stress of war. A terrible time to be eating too much, she thought, when her people starved. The mead followed it down, the acidic flavor burning the back of her throat, but warming her. Tyrion and Varys did not put much stock into the tradition, she saw, though they took the offered food and drink well enough. Two men who didn't trust as they ought, because they had so long not been trusted. Missandei and Grey Worm seemed skeptical as well, but they followed her direction, as the soldiers followed Grey Worm. Davos and Jorah were the only ones who seemed to pay the ritual it's required solemnity. Davos nodded to Lady Wylla and took a deep breath before taking the bread into his mouth and chewing, then swallowed a sip of mead.

"The captain of our guard could show your soldiers where they may retire, Your Grace," Wylla said to Dany. "And anyone else may be shown their rooms by our steward."

Dany nodded to Grey Worm in assent, and he and his men followed the nervous captain back out into the inner bailey. Missandei watched the man go anxiously but straightened her gaze after the doors closed. Dany suppressed a smile; her friend was smitten. "Our friends will stay, I believe," Dany said when the steward shuffled his feet anxiously.

"Very well, Your Grace. We have refreshments in the southern sitting room if you'd wish to relax and tell your stories." Dany nodded to Wylla, thinking she'd make a great diplomat as she grew older, though the green hair might throw off her visitors.

They settled in, and Dany had to resist the lemon cakes and biscuits laid out. Her stomach rumbled quietly as she settled in a prominently placed chair. Missandei brought her a glass of wine, however, and Dany thanked her in a whisper. Jon sat beside her but took nothing. She hardly saw him eat anymore; he seemed to have the opposite problem during stressed times. Wylla abstained as well, though a servant brought many of the refreshments directly to her grandfather's table for him. Dany wished she could take Jon's hand, but knew it would be seen as a weakness to exploit, and more than she wanted to reveal, even to her advisors.

"What stories would you tell us, Snow?" Wyman said, between nibbles of food. He seemed half a fool, but a fool wouldn't have sharp eyes such as he had.

"We have persuaded Cersei Lannister to postpone her war and to march north to defend against the Others."

"How'd you tame the lioness?" Wyman said with some irony. Dany thought that Cersei reminded her more of a snake than a lioness; she'd enjoyed needling her by arriving late to the Dragon Pit.

"I spoke to her, as her brother," Tyrion interjected. "Made her see reason."

"She has no reason," Wyman said between bites of cold chicken.

"No, not often, I will admit that," Tyrion said with a tight smile. "She's tried to kill me twice, you know. Thought she would again when I spoke with her."

"Can you trust a woman who wants your head?"

"We have no choice, Lord Wyman," Jon said quietly. "We've seen the full army of the dead, again. They are marching on the Wall."

"You should have led with that," the large man said, and he set down his food. Wylla was watching Jon closely, and Dany sensed some worry there. A childhood crush, perhaps?

"Tell them, Jon," Davos urged after silence hung like cobwebs in the air. "They must know."

Jon nodded stiffly and tightened his jaw. He glanced at Dany, eyes showing that pain they held always, but more pronounced in this moment. She nodded to him, wishing he'd take her hand for support, though she knew he wouldn't need it. A man who could survive what he had was stronger than her. A man who turned to face an army to get at the creature that shot her child down was a man who knew death, would greet it like an old friend. Dany could not do that just yet. She needed life, needed warmth, needed family.

"We needed a way to persuade Cersei to fight with us, rather than against us. And, truthfully, Davos and I needed to fully convince Daenerys," he said, glancing her way again. She nodded to confirm, she hadn't believed him, not even with the carvings in the mine. If she had, everything might have been different. Viserion. "Lord Tyrion rightfully pointed out that Cersei would not believe our words; she'd need proof. We came up with a plan: a group would go beyond the Wall, attempt to capture a wight alive—well, in their way—and bring it to King's Landing. It had to be alive, you understand, because otherwise, it would just be a corpse, and what would that prove?

"Myself, Jorah, and a group of others went through the Wall at Eastwatch and traveled north. There was a small storm the first day, but we kept on. Someone, I can't remember who, saw the bear first. Dead, but alive, as a wight would be. It attacked, and it took all of us to hold it off. It killed a wildling, and brutally wounded Thoros of Myr—we met him at the Wall, with Beric Dondarrion and Sandor Clegane—"

"What in Seven Hells were they doing at the Wall?"

"Dondarrion and Thoros are both disciples of the Lord of Light, my Lord, and their god sent them north, to save the world. Dondarrion and Thoros saw it in the flames," Jorah explained. "The Hound fell in with them in the aftermath of the wars in the South."

"Who else went with you?" Wyman asked, looking to Jon.

"Tormund Giantsbane and a group of his wildlings, and Gendry, an unacknowledged bastard son of Robert Baratheon. Davos found him in Flea Bottom, got him out before Cersei discovered him. She killed most of his brothers and sisters by Robert."

"There's one in the Vale," Tyrion said suddenly. "If she's still alive, they may have a reunion."

"How would you know that?" Wyman asked, incredulous. Dany was just as surprised, and felt a pang of jealousy that a baseborn boy had more family than she herself did, without even knowing it.

"I met her when Catelyn Stark took me hostage. She's a guide up the mountain to the Eyrie. I believe she's the only known bastard Cersei was not able to reach."

"Do continue, Your Grace," Wylla interrupted. "The bear, it wounded Thoros."

"Yes," Jon said. "We pressed on, though, we had to find the wights, the true wights. Later that evening, only a full day's walk from the wall, we came upon a group, a small group of about eight, with one Walker. We approached and accidentally alerted them to our presence. They attacked, and we squared off, attempting to kill all but one. I fought the Walker, distracting him. He made a mistake, and I destroyed him. All but one wight collapsed. What that says about their methods, I don't know, but it felt like a trap. We captured the wight, and he screeched—loud and long, painful to hear.

"We found out then it was a trap. 100,000 wights heard him scream, and they came running."

"100,000? That cannot be right."

"It is," Dany said quietly. "I saw them, all of them."

"How?"

"The wights came for us, Lord Wyman. We ran, but we are not quicker than dead men; we would have been overwhelmed. We sent Gendry alone, racing away back to the Wall for Daenerys to come with her dragons. It was the only hope," Jorah said, voice tight, not answering the question for the sake of the story. Jon nodded with the words and looked to Dany again. She thought of the terrible moment after Viserion fell, when Jon ran from her toward the Night King, through the monsters. She'd seen him go beneath the water from Drogon's back. She'd thought he was lost to her forever; it ached to even think of it, and she had to break contact and look at her lap. Jon took her hand then, for just a moment, unconcerned about the way it looked. It made a heat begin to build just below her heart, and she looked up again. When he saw her eyes clear and strong, he turned back to his bannerman.

"We made it across a frozen lake, to a small island. The wights could not cross the ice—it wouldn't support their weight. They cannot swim, it seems, so we were somehow safe. Thoros died that night, Lord Wyman. We're not sure what took him, the cold or the loss of blood. We had to burn him, or he'd rise up beside us. The wight we'd captured kept calling to the army. They had us surrounded. In the morning…"

"Clegane threw a rock at a wight, and then another. The second landed on the ice," Jorah said, picking up where Jon fell away. "It triggered a rush of wights. The ice held them now. They came, endlessly, undeterred by us. We held them off as well as we could. They seemed to be focused on retrieving their brother. Either the Walkers or themselves understood the significance of us trapping one. Two of them nearly pulled Tormund beneath the ice, and they managed to kill some of the wildlings. We managed to free Tormund, but it was becoming too much. We were pushed up to the edge of the island on one side, where a cliff had held them off before."

"They were building a ramp out of themselves," Jon said, quietly. "To get to us at the top of the cliff. I held them off for a while, but they kept coming. And then Dany—Daenerys…"

"I found them, Lord Wyman. Five men holding off an army larger than I've ever seen. An army of dead men. I told Drogon, Rhaegal, and Vis—Viserion to set them afire. Even then it was barely enough. I estimate I took out about 5,000, but that is nothing compared to the size of the whole. Drogon managed to land on the island, and then..." Dany had to stop, the emotion rising in her throat. And then Viserion fell from the sky, screaming.

Jorah came to her aid. "We were climbing aboard, all of us, when a Walker—"

"The Night King," Jon corrected. Dany swallowed hard. Yes, it mattered. He was the monster who'd killed her child, no other.

"The Night King threw a spear made of ice, and killed Viserion," Jorah finished. Dany had to close her eyes; she was reliving it. Jon's hand came back and stayed in her grip. His voice broke the tense silence. It sounded pained, and Dany's throat threatened to close with tears.

"I had not yet climbed on Drogon, Lord Wyman. He was vulnerable on the ground, and the Night King was going for a second spear. I ran for him. Drogon took flight—he had to—and barely escaped the second throw. I was fighting my way to the Walkers when I was pulled under the water. I managed to break free, but by that time, Daenerys was gone. The wight army was still above the surface, waiting for me. They charged a second time."

"How did you escape?" Wylla asked, her voice gentle. Dany squeezed Jon's hand this time. He had nearly broken down when he'd first told her what had brought him back to her, to his home.

"My uncle Benjen. He disappeared beyond the Wall a few years ago on a ranging mission. We thought he had died, but he must have survived somehow—I'm not sure how. It doesn't matter. He must have been watching, because he rode in on his horse, fought back a few feet, and threw me on the beast. I was in danger of freezing, from the water. I tried to get him to climb on, but… he gave his life giving me time to get away. I can't explain it, I truly can't, but I made it back to the Wall." Back to me, Dany thought to herself as his thumb brushed the back of her hand, offering a small comfort.

"100,000," Wyman muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. As the story had progressed, his face had become strained, his body tense. "And they're coming for the Wall."

"For Eastwatch, we believe," Jorah said. "They're startlingly close."

"What are we to do?" Wylla asked for her grandfather. "Are you calling the banners, Jon?"

"No, not just yet," Jon said. "Though it's not just my decision. We need to do our best for the entire Seven Kingdoms, you understand. If we fail, they take everything, everyone. I bent the knee to Daenerys because this is not just our war for the North. It's the war to save our world, everything anyone has. She deserves our loyalty, if not for herself, for what she is doing for her people. She gave up a child already, she is giving up her war to be here with us."

"By that logic, I should bend the knee to Cersei Lannister," Wyman pointed out. "She's coming north as well."

"Daenerys is a strong ruler, my lord," Jon said, though he was staring at Dany herself, and not his bannerman. "She cares for her people, wants what is best for them. She agreed to help our cause before she saw the threat because she wanted to help the North. After she saved us, she agreed to give up the war for her kingdoms to fight the Great War. The only war.

"You don't have to agree with me," he added. "We have called a truce until the war is over, but after we win, I will be her bannerman."

"We will elect a new king. Or perhaps a queen," Wyman said, and Dany stared into his eagle's gaze, defiant. "Your sister has shown her teeth while you have been in the South. She is a strong woman, more wolf than she used to be. Perhaps she would like to lead us."

"Perhaps," Jon said, meaning it. "I would not fight her for it. She is my father's daughter, his trueborn daughter. She has more claim to the title than I."

"Then perhaps we will elect her now," Wyman mused. Dany tensed.

"Or perhaps, Grandfather, I should send you east to join the Company of the Rose," Wylla said suddenly, her eyes locked to Daenerys.

"Wylla—"

"We swore to be Stark men always. They took our ancestors in and gave them food, shelter, this city, when everyone else was against us. You want to break that faith? We've knelt to Targaryen kings before, as Torrhen Stark did. We vowed to follow the Starks, to follow the Kings in the North. You elected Jon Snow, you saw he was fit to rule despite his name. He has made a decision, a wise decision, if our people have anything to say about it. You saw them; they see something in Daenerys, in Jon Snow. If you will not bend the knee, I will. I will follow the King Who Knelt Again, I will follow the Dragon Queen. We have before. It was not she who kidnapped Lyanna Stark, it was not she who burned Rickard, nor strung Brandon by his neck. No, she has been trying to piece the kingdoms back together. She has come North to learn our ways. That was all we wished—a ruler who knew us. So," she concluded, tearing her eyes away from Dany to look at her grandfather, "shall I find you passage to Essos? Or will you bend?"

Wyman watched his granddaughter with a bemused expression, before swinging those hawk eyes on Dany. "I suppose I shall bend. I would have soon, Your Grace, but I was testing you, you see."

"I saw," Dany said, though she had worried for a mere moment. "I also see that your granddaughter will rule her people well when you are gone. I shall be glad to know her."

"Yes, she has learned well. Honor, duty, loyalty," Wyman said, "all traits from her father I fear. I prefer to be cunning and vengeful."

"We shall need both, I think," Tyrion commented. "Perhaps we could make plans for the safety of the city."

"After dinner," Wyman said. "A man needs a full stomach for plans."