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Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Mother of Dragons

Softly, silently, snowflakes drifted through the hole in the roof of the First Keep. Icicles formed sharp teeth hanging from the charred and blackened roofbeams still jutting from the stone walls. Robb had to tread carefully over the floorboards, rotted away by exposure to the elements but the missing slats dangerously concealed by snow and detritus. Through the First Keep, into the Guard's Hall where repairs had been carried out by the Boltons. A bone crunched underfoot. A jaw bone, with loose teeth still rattling in the sockets. He paused for a moment, wondering whose it once was.

Up the tower of the empty Rookery, he walked out onto the covered bridge that connected to the Main Keep where he and his siblings grew up as children. Only his footsteps broke the silence, echoing over the empty yard where a fire had recently burned out. What servants had remained tore down the Bolton banners and built a pyre before he returned, sparing him the sight of the flayed man hanging from his battlements and turrets. Now ash and charred scraps of pink and red silk blew across the cobbles, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air.

When he was a small boy, one of the first lessons his father taught him was that no lord could rule through fear alone. Fear made those who inspired it feel powerful, that much was true. But fear was a brittle thing and never static. Just one blow to a feared lord's perceived power and weakness was exposed, bringing that fear crashing down. A feared lord could heap terror upon layer of terror, as the Boltons had tried to do. But if innocent people were going to be flayed alive no matter what, then what did they have to lose by rising up against their oppressors? In such cases, fear became irrelevant. And, in the end, it had been the servants and smallfolk that had turned on the Boltons still holding Winterfell. News of his victory at the White Knife had come through and they'd torn down the banners, hanged the retainers still holding the garrison and smashed down the gate using battering rams made from felled trees. The first corpse he passed was that of a Bolton guard with a pitchfork driven through his throat.

His tour of the deserted castle continued. Even in his darkest days, he had never imagined Winterfell empty. It had been fixed permanently in his mind as a place full of life, people and animals, noise and children running semi-wild through the halls and courtyards. Crossing the yard, a snowball could smack you in the head at any moment. Right now, not even the ghosts remained. Only bones and fallen masonry. He began to wonder whether he'd pined for a home that never really existed.

Even the Main Keep was in darkness. A trestle table had been overturned and one wall's panelling had been scorched during a fire. The brazier responsible was still overturned on the floor. But the direwolf of his House still dominated the wall behind the dais. A piece of them not even Roose Bolton could chip away. The high table and lord's seat was the same one he remembered from years gone by.

Back out in the yard, he passed the ruins of the sept. The Ironborn had done for that, if he remembered it rightly. Septon Chayle himself had been thrown down a well and left to die; he could be down there still for all Robb knew. He stepped inside what was left of the sept, finding it caved in at the roof with the beams and supporting rafters collapsed around the floor. A smashed crystal scattered, glinting from between charcoaled wood. Wondering whether to level it or rebuild it for Margaery, he found himself lingering among the wreckage far longer than he intended and only the crying of an infant jolted him from his musings.

Initially, he thought he was hearing things. The castle was deserted but for him and his greyhound, even his horse was tethered at the gates. He gave his head a shake, but the whimpering cry came again. A thin, wavering note followed by a hastily stifled 'shush' from someone older. The sound came from within the sept, but he could see no sign of life.

"Who's there?" he called out. Only the presence of a baby stayed his sword hand.

The baby cried again, the adult obviously with it stifled a choking cry of their own. But Robb finally found them. Cowering beneath the wrecked altar, mostly covered by the alter cloth, a large woman wrapped her arms around a tiny new born. She stared up at Robb through terrified eyes, her face as white as snow but for livid red marks that ran down both sides of her face. Someone had clawed at her, a patch of white scalp showed through her hair where someone had pulled a fistful of it out. Visibly shaking, she wrapped her arms tighter around the baby so Robb couldn't even see it and tried to shy from him.

"Lady Bolton," he said by way of greeting.

At the sound of her name, she gasped and sobbed. Tears shone on her round face, lips trembling as she tried to wring from words from her throat. All the while, she clutched her infant to her bosom and it was a wonder it wasn't suffocating.

"P-please, my lord, I'll go back to the Riverlands – "

"I'm not your lord, I'm your king. And you can't go back to the Riverlands, your grandfather's House has fallen," he explained brusquely. "Look, I'm not a Bolton nor a Frey. I don't hurt babies or defenceless women. Come out from under there, I promise I won't do anything untoward."

Climbing gingerly over fallen masonry, he went to help her up. Thinking she was worried about the baby, he reached out to carry it to safety. But she whipped the little bundle away as soon as she saw his hands reaching for it.

"Forgive me," he said, right hand still extended. "I gave you my word, now take my hand. It's not safe for you in here."

Had Ramsay still been alive that baby would have been dead already, he realised. Roose knew that, too. He'd said as much to his mother, once. Ramsay had done for Domeric and would undoubtedly do likewise for any son this wife had. The only regret the Leech Lord seemed to have was the grief it would cause Walda, rather than his own dynastic legacy. But then, Roose had always been a strange one.

Eventually, after much cajoling, Robb got the former Lady Walda Bolton inside the Main Keep. It was warm in there, sheltered from the elements thanks to Bolton repairs. He managed to get a fire going and a supply cart from the baggage train arrived with food and small ale. The first tentative signs of life returning to Winterfell.

"Why were you hiding in the Sept?" he asked as soon as they were warm and had food in front of them.

Walda hesitated, fretful and uncertain. "They attacked me. The servants. I saw them kill the guards and then they came for me and my baby."

They almost got her too, if the marks on her face and the missing hair were anything to go by.

"That's very regrettable," he answered, pulling at a heel of bread. "But after everything your husband did to those people, their fury is understandable – I will not be pursuing the matter. Now peace has been restored, House Stark is back in Winterfell, I am returned as their King: I will make it plain no harm is come to you or the baby. Is it a boy?"

Walda nodded. "He won't be a monster, like Ramsay. I swear, I'll raise him better than that. I thought to name him after his other brother, Domeric. I hear only good about him and I thought if he's named for a good man, he'll grow to be a good man."

"Domeric was a good man," Robb agreed. It was true. Domeric Bolton was learned, a talented musician and showed all the promise of being the decent lord the Dreadfort so desperately needed. The only mistake he made was his attempt to get to know his half-brother; an act of brotherly love that left him in an early grave. "But your son will be raised here at Winterfell, by my Queen and I. He'll be raised as one of our own; educated, trained and nurtured alongside our own children. If all goes well, he'll wed my eldest daughter or, if I have none, a suitable lord's daughter."

Walda tried to stifle her tears of relief, her body sagging as she gripped her son. But the baby had settled again now that he'd been fed from his mother's breast and slept deeply. Robb had managed to get a proper look at him. He had fine golden curls, just like his mother, and her same dazzling blue eyes.

"And what of me?" she asked. "I cannot return to the Twins; my mother won't have me back at Castle Darry and my father is dead."

"The Dreadfort is yours," he answered. "But there's a caveat. All lands once belonging to House Hornwood have now been transferred to Lord Wyman Manderly. The land west of the Weeping Water has been gifted to House Glover. The land bordering the south of your late husband's territories has been brought under Stark jurisdiction. My Queen will see to the running of it and, upon her death, it will be bequeathed to whichever of our children she sees fit. A holdfast will be established there to keep the power of House Bolton under control. House Umber will be taking over the lands north of the Dreadfort, saving the first one hundred square miles, which remain under Bolton ownership. All land south as far as the Weeping Water, also remain under Bolton ownership."

In essence, he had broken House Bolton's legs but given them a crutch to walk with. But whether Walda understood that, it was hard to tell. She smiled vacantly at him, seemingly rather happy.

"You are not free to remarry at will," he continued. "If you do wish to wed again, you must present my Queen and I with a petition. Whether we agree or not is entirely down to us."

"Oh, I have no desire to remarry, your grace," she insisted. "I have my son and I have a new home, what more could I want?"

It was something easily said when someone was merely happy to be alive. But he knew suitors would soon come running for her in hope of a few scraps from the Stark and Bolton tables. Marriage was power, and this one didn't seem to grasp that.

"When you do take up residence at the Dreadfort, you're free to visit your son here at Winterfell whenever you wish," he ceded. "And, naturally, we will arrange for him to visit the Dreadfort on occasion, more frequently as he nears his time of majority."

Under the circumstances, it was the best offer he could give her. But, she seemed content as they turned their minds to breaking their fast. All the while, the rest of his company was slowly rolling through the gates of Winterfell. He'd left the barbican open to admit them purposefully. It was then, as his mind wandered beyond the walls of his own castle that a thought struck him.

"Is House Darry still loyal to House Targaryen?"

Walda, rightfully, looked rather taken aback by the question. "I always thought so. But recently, my mother made my sister marry Lancel Lannister, who then abandoned Ami for the faith. Before that, we still had the Targaryen banners inside all our halls. We only took them down when King Robert came to stay as he was on his way to the North to visit your father. As soon as he was out the door, they went back up again."

Poor House Darry, always backing the horse that was out front but about to fall at the final hurdle. The Targaryens, the Freys, the Boltons and now the bloody Lannisters, too. Whatever the case, House Darry was still worth a try.

"Write to your mother and tell her that Daenerys Targaryen will soon be returning to Westeros with an army and three grown dragons," he explained. "Lady Mariya owes nothing to the Freys now her husband is dead and she would do well to make a friend in Daenerys Targaryen. Tell her to leave Lancel to his prayers and to back the right side, for once."

Walda looked at him curiously for a moment, a twinkle in her eyes. "Is it true?" her voice was barely a whisper. "About the dragons?"

Robb nodded. "And Walda, now you're looking after the Dreadfort for your son. I've as good as made you a proper Lady of the North. You have power now. You understand?"

Her face coloured. "Oh, yes. Yes, I do."

"So, I can rely on you for your full support and backing," he continued.

"Absolutely, your grace," she replied without hesitation. "But I know little of politics, I was only meant to be a Lord's wife- "

"We'll guide you," he promised her. "Don't worry about that. Just do as the Queen and I say and you'll do well for yourself."

He paused to let what he was saying sink in, thinking of Lancel Lannister as he did so. With Tywin dead and Cersei's children denounced as bastards, Jaime in the Kingsguard and Tyrion in exile, Lancel's dynastic worth was rising all the time. Now could be the time to remind him that he's only alive because Sansa of House Stark saved him from being trampled to death during the Battle of the Blackwater. His newfound piety may render him more humble than most of his kinsmen, more inclined to repay an act of selflessness. That was, if his faith hadn't addled his wits as well as rendered him useless in the bedchamber.

"I'll gladly swear fealty before all the lords of the North," she said. "For me and on behalf of my son. And I'll add my voice to yours, whenever you require it."

Robb rewarded her with a smile. "Good, I'm glad we understand each other."

He'd paid off his supporters using Bolton land and secured himself a new puppet to boot. But he believed himself right when he said she could do well. Securing House Darry for Daenerys would probably be easy enough, winning herself the friendship of the new Queen. Keeping him sweet in the Northern Council would ensure the safety of her House. It suited them both and he hoped she understood that.

Later that day, the Tyrell army arrived. Margaery had already been sent for and was traveling in easy stages toward her new home. It could be months before she finally arrived, which left him plenty of time to arrange the castle. The Boltons had already repaired the Great Hall, Main Keep, curtain walls, Guest Halls and Guard Halls. The Turrets needed repairing, which he set the builders to doing as soon as they arrived. The stables and kennels needed to be fully replaced and the library, burned the same night someone tried to kill Bran, also needed to be rebuilt.

It was as he set the builders to work that another man he took for a tradesman arrived. His face was a little weather-beaten, he was older than the rest with grey hair but sharp grey eyes. However, the fingers of one hand were cut off at the first knuckle.

"Forgive the intrusion, your grace," he said. "I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord Manderly requested that I sail to Skagos and return something quite precious to your grace."

Robb frowned, wondering what was going on as a boy stepped out from behind Ser Davos. He was almost thrice as tall as Robb remembered him, his auburn hair unkempt and his clothes tattered. All the same, it was definitely Rickon. Shaggydog followed him like a second shadow, green eyes glinting in the darkness. Robb's heart leapt into his throat, but the wolf growled ominously when he tried to hug his brother. Rickon was only six, and he looked up at Robb as if he were a total stranger.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and turned back to Ser Davos. "Thank you, Ser Davos. I, er, I appreciate it greatly."

Unable to help but notice the frosty reunion, Ser Davos raised a pained smile. "Give it time, your grace. I don't think he remembers much of his old life."

Sometimes, Robb felt the same.

Dead locusts, crisped over open fires and glazed in honey. They were left to dry in the sun, giving them a crunchy exterior. That was what many of Mereen's inhabitants were living on. In an act of solidarity with her people, Dany ordered the same. Insects and honey. There was no denying what they were and all around her the people starved. Those who weren't eating were the ones already dying. The Pale Mare still ran rampant in the poorer districts, even affecting many of her Unsullied. The dead were buried in pits or burned in pyres just beyond the city gates.

All the time, more refugees attempted to gain access to Mereen itself only to find the way blocked by Yunkish forces at sea and Astapor on land. Even the Qartheen were rumoured to be getting in on the act now and sending reinforcements to her enemies. No matter how hard she squinted, there was no end in sight.

Against advice to lock herself up in the great pyramid, she ventured out into the city if only to show her people that she had not abandoned them. It was a small act, and one made safe in the wake of making peace with the Sons of the Harpy. But it was act rewarded with faith and loyalty from those who had followed her here, those who'd placed their lives in her hands.

"None will desert you," Missandei assured her as they walked the streets. "They've come this far and they'll stay to the end."

But it wasn't just them. It was her, too. She had come all this way, struck her own path to the gates of Mereen, and she had to fight to her last breath to keep it. She was never a fool and she never thought it would be easy. Likewise, she just didn't think it would have been this hard.

"I promised them a golden future," she said. "And all I've delivered is dead insects."

"And honey," said Tyrion.

"What?"

"Dead insects and honey," he explained.

This was not the salve her moment of raw despair needed. "Oh!" she huffed, quite unable to think what to follow up her exclamation of frustration with. "Fuck the honey! See, this is so bad I even used a curse word."

"Use it again and I think Ser Barristan might put you over his knee," replied Tyrion, persisting in trying to be funny. "Isn't that right, Ser Barristan?"

"Luckily for her grace, I neglected to bring a slipper out with me," the old knight answered drily. "Using them to swat locusts, you see. I prefer them flat."

"You're not funny!" she protested.

"Missandei's laughing."

She was, too. Hiding her smile behind a dainty hand. However bad the reality was, it was good to see her cheered. In her past life, laughter was unheard of and she once more looked like the child she still is.

"And you sound like Sandor Clegane when you curse," Tyrion continued. "Did you notice that, Ser Barristan? Hardly a promising sign in a Queen."

"As long as she doesn't look like Sandor Clegane I think we're safe enough," Ser Barristan rejoined.

However much she tried, she couldn't join in the jovial mood. The easy banter washed off her back and her mood remained low as their journey progressed. They passed the elephants at the back of the Pyramid, who trumpeted at her as they went. Glumly, she wondered if there was enough of them to possibly feed the hungriest.

Down by the river, they could see the blockades. Yunkish ships preventing any food or reinforcements getting into the city. Before much longer, the people would be too weak to resist them and they'd just march on in and take it all away from her. As she considered the grim future, she felt Tyrion's hand taking her own.

"Come," he said, serious now. "Come with me."

Before she could protest, he led her back toward the pyramid, to a door at the river-facing entrance. Down stone steps, leading her through three stone arches and across a sloping ramp. She knew where he was taking her, now. They reached the heavy iron door, guarded by the Brazen Beasts who unlocked the chain for them. The door whined on its hinges as they admitted her and Tyrion to the dragon pit.

It was forty feet deep and large enough for almost a thousand men. Since her arrival, it housed only two rapidly growing dragons. It was Viserion she noticed first, clinging to the wall where he'd dug a lair for himself. She knew he had melted his chain but saw little point in replacing it. Rhaegal, however, was still bound.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked.

Rhaegal whined at the sound of her voice, lifting his head to look at her. His bronze eyes disappeared momentarily as he blinked at her.

"To remind you of who you are," the dwarf replied.

"But I know who I am." Even the quavering tone of her answer made her sound full of self-doubt.

"Do you?" he challenged her.

Viserion scuttled down the wall, swinging his neck around so his face was inches from her own. Rhaegal, on the other hand, was picking over the carcass of an aurochs. She understood what Tyrion meant. She had been away from her children too long, she was slipping away from who she really was. Even touching Viserion's face was enough to give her a jolt.

"I cannot use them to burn our enemies," she said, at length. She'd brought these two to heel well enough, but Drogon remained bad tempered and stubborn but he did answer to her.

"That's not what I was suggesting," Tyrion gently pointed out. "But they should be visible. Remind them of who they're dealing with. They're dealing with you. The Mother of Dragons."

Rhaegal lashed his tail against his chains, the metallic echo ricocheted around the deep vaults of the chamber. It pained her to see them confined, but the memory of the child burned alive by Drogon was raw in her memory. But where was Drogon? He was always hers, the bond between them growing even in his absence.

"You didn't see my black dragon?" she asked, turning back to Tyrion.

He shook his head. "I'd have remembered if I did."

She let Rhaegal nuzzle against her, his warm face rubbing against her own. While he did that, Viserion snatched up the remains of the aurochs and gobbled them down greedily. It made her laugh, until Rhaegal lashed away from her and snapped at his brother in anger. Suddenly fearful, Tyrion backed away but Dany calmed her boys quickly enough to reassure him.

"When we return to the pyramid," he continued. "We will discuss a way to get ourselves out of this impasse. We will start working out our terms, places where we're willing to compromise. You might want to consider reopening the fighting pits and setting a date for your marriage to Hizdahr Zo Loraq."

A wedding would be a chance for all her people to celebrate. She didn't know what with, but she felt they could organise some supplies as a concession in return for a favour to the Yunkish forces. They already had Daario as a hostage, but there was bound to be something else she could do.

"You're right," she said, running her hand along Viserion's scales. "I promised myself I would not give in to despair. It's not what got me through the Red Wastes, or the loss of my husband. Despair's not what freed the slaves or conquered cities. Yet today, I feel despair finally got the better of me."

She felt embarrassed admitting it now. But Tyrion did not scorn her. "You're only human, Daenerys. And the situation is bleak, but at least you admit it's bleak. Others, like my sister, would bury their heads up their arses and pretend the bad things aren't even there. A little despair is better than a lifetime of denial."

"Cersei was a fool to cast you out."

"I quite agree."

Daenerys smiled again, feeling a little confidence returning to her. He was right. They needed to plan, rather than wait for their enemies to make the next move.

"Thank you," she said, timidly.

"For what?"

"This," she answered. "Just this."

It was hard for her to articulate it. She wanted to thank him for reminding her of who she was. Of what she meant, of what she was supposed to be doing. For pulling her out of the mire of politics and intrigue that had threatened to take her under. She felt like she had lost sight of what really mattered: her ragtag band of followers. Her company of exiles, misfits and down-at-heel victims who'd lost all hope until they came to her. Whatever it was they saw in her, she returned it with a love so tender she'd never known its like before. A tenderness that felt like it could stop her heart at any moment.

"Free them," she said, turning to her dragons. "They shall be visible again. I command that they be freed."

"That's more like it," Tyrion replied.

Even underground they had grown large. Left cooped up together and they'd start to tear each other apart and she couldn't have that. The dragon only has three heads; they couldn't afford to bite one off.

"You made me feel like something far better is just on the horizon," she said, turning to the dwarf again. They stepped aside to let the Brazen Beast men unfetter Rhaegal. "I don't know what that something better is, or how it'll get here. But I think I sense it coming."

Viserion was already free, but Rhaegal had to lash his tail at the chains again. He gave a violent shake as the last fetter came loose. Dany turned to him, running her hand under his scaly maw to sooth him.

"Are you ready?" Tyrion asked.

Daenerys answered: "I think I am."

They emerged from the dragon pit into the late afternoon sun, Rhaegal and Viserion barrelling them past them in the tunnel and bursting into the sky. The air was filled with their shrieks and cries, their sudden appearance drawing people into the streets to point and gasp. Daenerys emerged with Tyrion at her side, feeling taller and stronger. The tide was turning, she was getting closer to home. She could smell the change hanging heavy in the air and it was sweeter than a hundred perfumes.

Out of White Harbour, down the east coast to Braavos. From Braavos to Pentos, to Dorne. From Dorne they pulled away from Westeros, leaving their world far behind them. Asha sailed them expertly through the treacherous Step-Stones all the way south of Essos. Around Lys and further still past Volantis. Jon watched the city slip by as they pulled out into the sea after an overnight stop there.

"Robb's first wife was from Volantis, wasn't she?" he asked Sansa as they left.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Do you think we should have tried to find her family?"

"I wouldn't have known where to begin looking."

Time ticked by, weeks turned to months at sea. Every day he woke up and thought of home. He wondered what Robb was doing, whether he'd yet taken back Winterfell, or even if he had succeeded. He knew Sansa was worried too, although she kept her troubles and her fears largely to herself.

He passed the time learning to take other people's boats, like the Ironborn did when they fought at sea. Clumsy and more than a little worrying at first, Asha soon had him swinging from vessel to vessel. First in calm waters, then in choppier conditions to better get the hang of combat at sea. He fell overboard a few times, learning first hand the sheer terror of plunging into the open seas, only for Asha to drop a rope and fish him out again. He soon learned to avoid making mistakes while Theon learned to be himself again.

All the while, they sailed wide around the smoking ruins of Old Valyria. He returned to his own vessel with his new white wolf sail hanging from the mast, where Sansa watched the mysterious islands gliding past them from the prow of the ship.

"What would happen if we landed there?" she asked.

"Nothing good, little sister," he answered.

The smell of sulphur was carried on the breeze, emanating from the clouds of smoke that still belched out over the old Valyrian Freehold. In its day, the place had been a wonder of the universe. He'd heard tales of towers that rose into the sky, sphinxes and flocks of dragons. It was enough to pull him there, tempting him to set foot on its shores just to see if he could, to see what it was really like. But then, he had also heard tales of whole fleets vanishing in the Smoking Sea.

"Tyrion told me his uncle vanished in there," she continued, suppressing a shudder. "It's eerie."

She wasn't wrong, either. He couldn't see much of the land through the noxious smoke and they were miles away, anyway. But he glanced through a far-eye to try and see more. There was only tall cliffs and the smoke drew a thick veil over the lost wonders of their world. Every so often, he thought he heard a noise coming from the dead, silent islands but put it down to whatever volcanos were active there.

Their journey around the Valyrian peninsula continued until they reached the widest mouth of Slaver's Bay. The last leg of their travels and he was glad to be away from lost cities of Valyria. All the same, he watched them vanish, wishing he knew what lay beyond the plumes of smoke. It was then he saw it move. He frowned, thinking himself to be imagining things. Fire streaked across the sky followed by a deafening roar. A huge black beast took wing high above them, emerging from the smoke and soaring into the clear blue sky. Sansa screamed and Jon protectively threw himself on top of her just as another river of flame streaked through the sky. It spread its vast leathern wings, beating at the air so hard it disturbed the sea beneath their vessels.

"Seven hells!" Jon cursed.

"That's a fucking dragon!" Asha pointed out. "If that fucker sets my sails alight I'll drown it."

She would as well, he'd seen her in action enough to know that. All the same, it made him laugh. The dragon circled them, decided they weren't tasty enough and flew off into the distance towards Meereen. Pale, shaky, Sansa climbed to her feet and watched the dragon's departure.

"Maybe he's showing us the way?" she laughed. "Sweet of him really, if you consider it."

"Aye, very sweet," Jon retorted. He realised he was shaking himself. In fact, he admitted to himself he was struck dumb by the sight of it, which he could still see. A speck on the horizon, he could just make out the beast beating its wings as he flew north east. "Is it the Queen's dragon?"

"It must be. One of them, anyway," Asha answered.

In the shock of the dragon's spectacular appearance, he'd forgotten there were two more. Two more, possibly just as huge and fierce. For all he knew, that dragon could be the runt of the litter. All the same, he alone could still wipe out whole hosts of wights, Jon thought to himself. That dragon, Balerion reborn, could do it with one breath of fire. That terrifying brute could be the saviour of them all.

Thank you for reading, guys. As always, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute to spare. And, I'll be back with another chapter next Thursday.