Ser Davos was right – after the first, torturous day on the open sea, Charleen gradually became used to the rolling motions of the ship, and the sickness began to subside. It did not entirely disappear, however, and for the remainder of the journey, she was left with a slightly queasy feeling in her stomach that was always worst in the morning, when she got up out of bed and felt anew the swaying of the planks beneath her feet.

And so, she was very much relieved when, after almost a fortnight upon the ocean, Ser Davos pointed out a tiny speck on the south-eastern horizon, beyond the mainland. Dragonstone.

Even from afar, the island looked forbidding, a jagged mass of rock rising steeply from the sea. High upon the cliffs stood an enormous castle with narrow ramparts, and beneath it, a strip of beach ran down to the edge of the water.

As Jon, Charleen and their companions were being rowed ashore, a group of warriors came down the beach to greet them, holding strange, curved weapons in their hands. At the head of the group walked a girl with bushy black hair and skin darker than any Charleen had ever seen, and beside her, a figure whose unusual height and gait she recognized. It was Tyrion Lannister.

There was a slight jolt and a scraping noise as the keel of the boat met the sand. Jon rose, stepped down into the surf, and held out his hand to help Charleen over the edge. Together, they approached the waiting group, with Ser Davos following them and Jon's men bringing up the rear.

A few feet away from Tyrion, Jon stopped, planting his feet firmly into the sand.

"The bastard of Winterfell," Tyrion said.

His tone was not unfriendly, and Jon replied in kind.

"The dwarf of Casterly Rock."

A smile flickered across Tyrion's face, and he moved towards Jon with his hand outstretched.

"I believe we last saw each other atop the Wall."

As they shook hands, Charleen noticed how different Tyrion looked from the first time she had seen him, when he had come to Winterfell in King Robert's retinue. He was no longer clad in Lannister red but in dark blue and black, and on his doublet gleamed his badge of office, a silver brooch in the shape of a hand. His hair was longer than she remembered it, but neither that nor the beard that now covered the lower half of his face could fully hide the scar that ran from his forehead across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek.

He turned to her, and Charleen felt Jon's hand at the small of her back.

"My wife," Jon said, "the Lady Charleen of House Wollard."

"My lady." Tyrion took Charleen's proffered hand and kissed it. "I'm honoured to meet you again."

He looked earnestly at her for a moment; then, his gaze fell across her shoulder upon Ser Davos, and he took a step towards him.

"I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"Davos Seaworth."

"Ah," said Tyrion, briefly grasping Ser Davos by the hand, "the Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at the battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me," Ser Davos retorted caustically.

For a brief moment, Tyrion appeared embarrassed. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated the bushy-haired girl standing beside him.

"Missandei of Naath is the queen's most trusted advisor."

The girl nodded with a smile.

"Welcome to Dragonstone," she said. "Our queen knows it is a long journey. She appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf. Now, if you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons…"

From the corner of her eye, Charleen saw Jon and Ser Davos exchanging a look.

"Of course," Jon said.

Immediately, some of the warriors came forward to take the Northmen's swords, and Charleen watched anxiously as Jon unbuckled his own sword belt and handed it over to one of them. Meanwhile, several others had lifted up the boat and were carrying it up the shore.

"Please," Missandei said in a friendly tone, breaking the tension, "this way."

They followed her along the beach to a stone stair at the far end. The steps led up to a barbican that had been built directly into the cliff. Its huge gate, guarded on either side by gigantic dragon's heads hewn from the dark rock of the island, opened onto a narrow stone causeway that led up the cliff to the castle.

As they started up the causeway, Jon quickened his pace a little and fell into step beside Tyrion.

"You've changed since our last meeting," Charleen heard him say. "Picked up some scars along the road."

"It's been a long road," Tyrion replied. "But we're both still here. At some point, I want to hear how a Night's Watch recruit became King in the North."

"As long as you tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen."

"A long and bloody tale. To be honest, I was drunk for most of it."

For the first time, there was a hint of his former wit in his words, and Jon turned to exchange a smile with Charleen.

"My bannermen think I'm a fool for coming here," he confessed.

"Of course they do," Tyrion said. "If I was your Hand, I would have advised against it." He paused, looking at Jon. "General rule of thumb: Stark men don't fare well when they travel south."

"True," Jon retorted, "but I'm not a Stark."

At that instant, there was whooshing sound from above, and a sudden, ear-splitting roar. Charleen ducked instinctively and found herself pinned to the ground as Jon threw himself over her to shield her. Raising her head, she saw a huge black dragon flying away towards the summit of the cliff, its reddish-black wings beating powerfully.

"I'd say you get used to them," came Tyrion's voice, "but you never really do."

He held out a hand to help her to her feet, and she stared in awe as the dragon shrieked softly and two others appeared above the cliff as if in answer, one of them a dark greenish colour, the other a golden brown.

"Come," said Tyrion, beckoning them onward, "their mother's waiting for you."

GoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoTGoT

The throne room of Dragonstone castle was wrought all of black stone, with narrow windows and a ceiling so high it was lost in the gloom. At its far end, a seat had been hewn into a huge, jagged rock, and on it said the most strikingly beautiful woman that Charleen had ever seen.

Daenerys Targaryen had long, silver hair that was elaborately braided on both sides of her head and fell in gleaming waves down to her waist. She was dressed in the colours of her House, wearing a black dress and a red sash that was fastened on her shoulder with a thick silver chain. Her posture was very straight, and she fixed her gaze firmly upon her guests as they approached.

Jon and Charleen stopped at a respectful distance, while Tyrion and Missandei positioned themselves on either side of the steps leading up to the throne.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," Missandei announced, "rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains."

In the silence that followed, Charleen saw Jon turning to exchange a look with Ser Davos, who was standing to the side a few paces behind him.

"This is Jon Snow," Davos said after a moment's hesitation, "the King in the North. And his wife Charleen, the Lady of Winterfell."

"'Lady of Winterfell?'" Daenerys repeated. "Not 'Queen in the North'?"

There was a hint of scorn in her voice, and Charleen felt a sudden surge of annoyance.

"My husband is king by the choice of his people," she declared defiantly, "not by conquest or descent. But the people did not choose me, and I therefore cannot nor will not call myself queen."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jon moving as if to seize her hand, but he did not touch her. Daenerys fixed her with a piercing stare.

"Not 'queen', then," she sneered. "Good. And you, my lord," she turned her gaze to Jon, "I assume you're here to bend the knee?"

"I am not," Jon replied calmly.

"Forgive me," Daenerys said, her brow wrinkled in feigned uncertainty, "I never did receive a formal education. But I could have sworn I read that the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life, and the lives of the Northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen, in perpetuity. And now you have travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

"Break faith?" Jon repeated incredulously. "Your father burned my grandfather alive. He burned my uncle alive. He would have burned the Seven Kingdoms –"

"My father," Daenerys cut across him, "was an evil man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father." She paused. "Our two houses were allies for centuries. And those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity, with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee, and I will name you Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it."

When Daenerys had ended her speech, Jon turned his head to exchange a look with Charleen.

"You're right," he finally conceded to Daenerys. "You're not guilty of your father's crimes. And I am not beholden to my ancestor's vows."

"Then why are you here?" Daenerys demanded coldly.

"Because I need your help, and you need mine."

Daenerys looked at him in silence for a moment, her expression smug.

"Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?"

"I did."

"And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"They're hard to miss."

"But still, I need your help?"

"Not to defeat Cersei," Ser Davos suddenly cut in. "You could storm King's Landing tomorrow, and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn't even have dragons."

"Still –," for a split second, Daenerys hesitated, but Tyrion immediately supplied the missing prompt.

"Your Grace, this is Ser Davos Seaworth."

"Still, Ser Davos, that doesn't explain why I need your help."

She looked at the old knight, but it was Jon who answered.

"You need my help," he said with a sigh, "because right now, you, and I, and Cersei, and everyone else, we're children playing at a game, screaming that the rules aren't fair."

Instead of answering him, Daenerys turned to Tyrion.

"You told me you liked this man," she hissed.

"I do," Tyrion replied calmly.

"In the time since he's met me, he's allowed his wife to mock my claim, he's refused to bow, and now he's calling me a child."

"I believe he's calling all of us children," Tyrion pointed out. "Figure of speech."

"Your Grace," Jon interrupted exasperatedly, "everyone you know will die before winter's over if we don't defeat the enemy to the north."

"As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the north," Daenerys snapped at him.

"I am not your enemy," Jon retorted emphatically. "The dead are the enemy."

"The dead," Daenerys repeated. "Is that another figure of speech?"

"The army of the dead is on the march."

"The army of the dead," Tyrion echoed incredulously.

"You don't know me well, my lord," Jon replied in a measured tone, "but do you think I'm a liar? Or a madman?"

"No," Tyrion shook his head, unsmiling, "I don't think you're either of those things."

"The army of the dead is real. The White Walkers are real. The Night King is real. I've seen them. If they get past the Wall and we're squabbling amongst ourselves –" His tone growing fervent, Jon took a step forward, but the Dothraki warriors guarding Daenerys immediately moved in turn, and he checked himself to speak more calmly.

"– We're finished."

There was a long pause. Finally, Daenerys spoke.

"I was born at Dragonstone," she said icily, rising to her feet. "Not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course."

She advanced slowly towards Jon as she spoke, and Charleen noticed that the silver chain which ran across her upper body ended in a brooch that was wrought in the shape of three dragons' heads.

"I spent my life in foreign lands," Daenerys continued. "So many men have tried to kill me, I don't remember all their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea, any sea. They did, for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will."

She had approached to within an arm's length of where Jon and Charleen were standing, close enough for the extraordinary colour of her eyes to be discernible – a rich shade of indigo so dark that it was almost purple.

"You'll be ruling over a graveyard," Jon told her in a low voice, "if we don't defeat the Night King."

"The war against my sister has already begun," Tyrion argued, stepping forward in turn. "You can't expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting –" he hesitated, "whatever you saw beyond the Wall."

At this, Ser Davos also moved closer.

"You don't believe him," he said. "I understand that; it sounds like nonsense. But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow King in the North. All those things you don't believe in, he's faced those things. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for –" He fell silent abruptly as Jon turned his head and cast him a warning glance.

There was a moment's silence. Then, Ser Davos concluded, "if we don't put aside our enmities and band together, we will die. And then it doesn't matter whose corpse sits on the Iron Throne."

"If it doesn't matter," Tyrion said to Jon with a hint of exasperation in his tone, "then you might as well kneel. Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys, help her to defeat my sister, and together, our armies will protect the North."

"There's no time for that!" Jon exclaimed in frustration. "There's no time for any of this! While we stand here debating –"

"It takes no time to bend the knee," Tyrion said placatingly. "Pledge your sword to her cause."

"And why would I do that?" Jon demanded angrily, turning to look at Daenerys. "I mean no offence, Your Grace, but I don't know you. As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name, and my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King." He paused. "The lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them, and I will continue to do so as well as I can."

"That's fair," Daenerys replied. "It's also fair to point out that I'm the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself king of the northernmost kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

Her face was contorted with anger, but before Jon could answer, there was a soft sound of footsteps behind them. Turning, Charleen saw a heavy-set, completely bald man hurrying towards Daenerys with a grave expression upon his face. He moved to stand close by her and whispered something in her ear, and Daenerys listened attentively. When the man had delivered his message, she remained silent for a second.

"You must forgive my manners," she finally said to Jon and his companions. "You'll be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms."

Turning to one of her Dothraki, she added something in a strange, harsh-sounding language, and the man stepped forward with a nod, signalling to Jon and his companions to follow him.

"Are we your prisoners?" Jon called out.

Daenerys had started up the steps to her throne, but at Jon's words, she stopped, and turned to look at him.

"Not yet."