Chapter 19: Dragonstone

Part I: Tyrion

The storm clouds loomed large outside the castle windows. Tyrion lay in bed listening to the bellowing thunder and watched as the rain fell hard against the castle windows outside. He contented himself by listening to his wife sleeping. His wife. Sansa lay in bed across from him, sleeping peacefully, her eyes closed tightly, and her breathing deep and steady. Her face was a study in calm, and her hair was splayed out across the bed covering her pillow and his, shimmering like spun copper in the candlelight. Tyrion steadied himself by listening to the sound of her breathing, and found comfort in the small fitful movements that she made as she slept, and dreamed. He wondered what she dreamt about. A few times, he glanced over at her and he thought he saw the corners of her mouth twitch as if in a smile. He was running out of time to enjoy her smiles. Today, he would be leaving for Dragonstone. He was to go alone. Sansa was not to go with him. They had only a night to enjoy each other, and he would be travelling to Dragonstone, as soon as he broke his fast. He did not want to leave the bed. He did not want to leave the room.

He sat up in bed now. The castle was still dark, and quiet. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he knew that it was earlier than most in the castle probably intended to rise. He felt Sansa begin to stir next to him.

"Tyrion," she said sleepily, her voice small and tentative. "Why are you awake?"

"Just thinking," he said.

"You do too much of it, my lord, " she said with a slight smile. As she turned towards him, her eyes were small, and tired.

"My mind is occupied today. This is nothing new, of course." He patted her softly on her thigh. She began to shift her body beneath the coverlets, moving closer to him. "My lady should not worry."

"Shouldn't I? You are to leave today." Her face had begun to lose some of its drowsiness. She nestled next to him now, her body warm and soft and supple. She looked at him with a doe eyed innocence that tore at his heart. She cuddled up next to him, her head on his chest, listening to his heart and he felt the softness of her pressed up against him. "I will write to you as soon as I reach Dragonstone," he said, stroking her hair.

He could feel her warm breath in his chest hair as she said, "Write me before."

"I shall," he said, stroking her hair. "Try to sleep, sweetling." She nuzzled closer to him and soon, he could see her closing her eyes. As he ran his hands across her smooth, warm flesh, he brushed his hand across one of her breasts and felt the nipple harden at his touch. He watched as his sweet little wife fell asleep. Though she seemed to fall back asleep easily enough, he could not.

Tyrion must have fallen asleep at some point, because when the rains quieted, and the light streaked through the windows in their chambers, he awoke to the sound of a knock at the door.

"Tyrion," the voice of Lord Varys spoke to him from the other side of the door. "Your presence is requested in the Great Hall."

Of course it is. Tyrion thought to himself.

"A moment, Varys." He said, projecting his voice across the room. Sansa stirred.

"Sansa," he caressed her face, "I must go speak with the Queen." She looked drowsily at him, and he wasn't sure she understood. He disentangled himself from their embrace and kissed her sweetly on the lips.

As Tyrion slid out of bed, he grabbed the tunic that he had been wearing and slipped it over his head. He walked to the door, opening it slightly, and found Lord Varys still standing there.

"Varys," he said, " I will be there shortly. Let me...ready myself."

"Of course, Lord Hand," the eunuch still looked tired, and wan, Tyrion thought. Tyrion rang a bell for the servant. A young, plump girl with reddish brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, peeked her head out of the door across from their chambers.

"Yes, m'Lord," she said.

"Bring me a basin of warm water, a bar of soap, and a cup of ale."

"Yes, m'Lord. And, for the lady?" The servant stopped for a moment, looking at him expectantly.

"Let her sleep," he replied.

"Yes, m'Lord." Tyrion watched as the servant made her way through the halls, and Lord Varys turned the corner, and he closed the door and glanced around the room for his slippers. The day was not going to wait for him or anyone else, and Dragonstone called.

Part II: Daenerys

Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, sat at the head of the long table at the center of the Great Hall in Winterfell. Jon Snow, sat at her right. She was finally to ride south and take her armies to Dragonstone to prepare for the siege of King's Landing. The dragons were mostly recovered. She was in good spirits, and the soldiers had been rested. Now she planned to make her way to Dragonstone, the ancient seat of House Targaryen, and take back what was rightfully hers.

Dragonstone was the place of her birth. She had been born during a great storm one night there, and now she was to return home during another great storm to retake her birthright. It seemed like justice.

Dragonstone was, albeit, not a happy place. Many found it grim, and it was surrounded by storm swept waters, crags of stone, and devoid of arable land for planting crops. It was meant to be a fortress, not a home. The Valyrians had built Dragonstone up from the sea as if by magic. Some say it was built with magic., Daenerys, was not sure. What was true, is that the black stone of the towers was formidable, and was burned by dragonfire or some other sorcery into the shapes of dragons and gargoyles. The dragon shaped towers loomed over the rocky shores of Blackwater Bay like sentinels, and anyone who saw them, could not help but look at them in fear and wonder. Aegon Targaryen planned his entire invasion of Westeros from within the walls of the castle at Dragonstone, calling his allies and bannermen to his side, and drawing up battle plans in the Chamber of the Painted Table, that sat behind the throne room.

Today, in Winterfell, surrounded by her friends, she looked towards the future. Today, Daenerys was outfitted for travel. Her long, pale, silver hair was braided intricately and hung at her back. Her violet eyes were alight with promise, and she awaited the council of her Hand of the Queen, Lord Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion had asked for her permission to marry the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark. He wanted to leave her service. But she still needed his council. He was to leave his new bride behind today, and she wanted to speak with him, to discuss the future.

Jon Snow, Sansa's older brother, had been a constant voice in her ear, begging her to let Lord Tyrion leave her service. As yet, she was unmoved. Her eyes searched the Great Hall for him, but she found him not. Lord Varys had only just entered the hall, and he was approaching her at the head table.

"Lord Varys," she said, regarding him curiously. Lately he did not look well. Maybe the North made him as uneasy as it made the Dragons. "Have you spoken with my Lord Hand?"

"Yes, your Grace," Varys assured her, "he is making his way to the hall as we speak."

"Lord Varys," she said, "Are you going to break your fast with us this morning? Do have a seat." She gestured to a space on the bench across from her. Her eyes continued to scan the room for Lord Tyrion. He was not here.

Jon had been in conversation with some of his house guard, about protections for Sansa, once they left for Dragonstone. He was worried about the discomfort that the Northern lords might have with her marrying a Lannister.

Lannister, Stark, What did it matter? She thought to herself. She was more focused on the war to come, than the wars that had caused such enmity. The War of the Five Kings, was nothing more than a squabble among usurpers as far as she was concerned. The Seven Kingdoms had been in the hands of mad men, and usurpers, but she was finally here, to set things right. She was the blood of the dragon, and she remembered who she was, and what she was, and she would take what was hers, with fire and blood.

Fire and blood. Daenerys looked out among the sea of faces before her in the hall. She had her army. Yes. She had lost some men, but the ones who remained were fierce and loyal to her. She had two dragons. She had two grown dragons, and a horde of Dothraki screamers at her back. She had survived assassins. She had grieved a husband and a brother and a child. She had walked through fire, and come out unburnt, and naked, with ashes at her feet and given birth to three dragons. She was a miracle. She could make the impossible come true, and now, she was going home.