DAENERYS

Day and night the rain pissed down.

Archmaester Marwyn said it must end, eventually, but there was no end in sight. The stone dragons along the balconies of the castle were damp to the touch, and getting damper with every passing moment. Tendrils of moss and ivy forked through the gaps in the flagstones, growing through the rain. Messan of the Unsullied reported that the beach had become a quagmire. Dragonstone was now ringed by quicksand. Only yesterday two of the queen's soldiers had been pulled under by their own armour.

The island was at war with her, same as everyone else. In the Chamber of the Painted Table, her forces – a pile of malformed dragon pieces – seemed small and lonely marooned in the middle of Blackwater Bay. And where the dragon seemed weak, dozens of lesser beasts were crowding in, ready to snatch at its treasure, waiting to feast on its corpse. Dany frowned down at them: crab and seahorse, rusted battleaxe, wolf in a sheep's clothing. And in the west, the thorns in her side: Tyrells and Martells, numbers unknown, but expected to be somewhere around forty thousand, or more.

She had left Lord Rosby and Lord Celtigar in King's Landing, come what may. Along with Aurane Waters, they had materialised the day before her departure, begging her forgiveness and asking to be named her loyal servants again. Dany had given them what they wanted – after taking hostages from both their families, of course. As for the city, let them have it. King's Landing was nothing to her now. The only things it offered were ashes and disease. The flux was spreading like wildfire up and down the Blackwater. Here on Dragonstone, she could at least assemble her fleet in peace without fear of pestilence, to sail north to the Wall to help this Jon Snow, or east back to whatever allies she still had in Essos.

"Your Grace," Marwyn the Mage's voice called from outside her chamber door.

"Come in," the queen answered.

The archmaester entered, his cloak sodden with rain. "Your councillors are assembled in the Chamber of the Painted Table, Your Grace," he said. "Should I go ahead and tell them you are on your way?"

"There is no need," Dany said. "I am ready now." She pulled up the hood of her cloak and stepped across the threshold.

The rain did not stop, not even for queens. Though she was dry under her hood, Dany could feel the drops splashing down her cloak and the puddles growing under her boots. A bright flash to her right, followed shortly by the percussive hiss of thunder, caught her a little by surprise, but she stood straight and kept going. She was Daenerys Stormborn, and Dragonstone was her place.

Above the door that led into the throne room three stone dragons coiled, entombing one another in lust, or perhaps in violence. And as the rain fell bright against their cracked stone bodies and ran down from the stone recesses of their eyes, Dany swore she could hear screaming, of one dragon for a lost brother, fallen over the Blackwater or disappeared into the northern mists. Then the throne room doors swung open, and the dragon's screech drowned beneath the groan of hinges, and the Unsullied drew them shut behind her, and the rain and the wind was gone.

The throne room was nearly as big as the one in King's Landing. There was no Iron Throne here, but Dany did not care; the Iron Throne, for all the nonsense that had been fought over it, was just a chair. Let palsied children play on its barbs, she thought, let drunken beggars dance on its steps. It would make no difference. Indeed, in some ways, she preferred this hall, here in Dragonstone. The Lannisters and the Baratheons had both hung their banners in these halls, but they had never profaned them the way they had the Red Keep. They could take the dragon skulls out of the throne room, but they could never take the stone dragons out of Dragonstone. The stone dragons, of whom they said, spill the dragon's blood here, and they will return to life.

She beneath the stone throne of Aegon the Conqueror, and down the rain-slick steps into the Chamber of the Painted Table. When she had arrived on Dragonstone, the chamber had been decrepit, the magnificent table splintered and dusty with mistreatment, its ornately carved chesspieces spilling all over the flagonstones. Beyond the open window, the night wind boomed. The waves spat flecks of salt and foam, trying to climb the walls of the fortress, and failing.

"Where is Ser Jorah?" Dany asked. Everyone was here, save for her bear knight: the red priest Benerro, Messan of the Unsullied, Grand Maester Gormon, and of course, Marwyn the Mage, at her right shoulder, smelling strongly of raw meat.

"Ser Jorah went down to the beach," said Benerro. "He spied a ship coming in. I imagine he will be back soon with the news."

"What sails did they fly?"

"Dark ones, Your Grace. Beyond that, I could not see."

The Westerosi said dark wings, dark words, Dany knew, but she could not recall whether they said the same about sails? "Very well," she said darkly. "I imagine I will learn of these new arrivals soon enough. For now, updates on our present situation will suffice." She walked down the length of the table to where Dragonstone sat, a raised rock out at sea. The island was stacked with half a dozen wooden dragons, each promising five thousand men. Thirty thousand in all. And off the coast floated enough counters for her fleet of five hundred ships. Barely one-third of those were warships; the rest were cogs, traders, and barges that had been in service to Aegon and the Braavosi at the battle on the Blackwater. It was the biggest fleet in Westeros, there was no doubt of that.

"We had a letter earlier from Lord Rosby, in King's Landing," said Grand Maester Gormon. "He says he will be sending Lord Willas to join the Night's Watch on the morrow—"

"There is no Lord Willas," said Dany. "He has been stripped of his lands and titles. I trust you remember that, my lord." Grand Maester Gormon was a Tyrell by birth. He had to be reminded of his loyalties every now and then.

"Yes, Your Grace," the maester replied. "The… the former lord of Highgarden will be starting north on the morrow, at dawn. Meanwhile, the epidemic of dysentery in the city is still strong… truly, Your Grace, an outbreak of the flux on this scale has not been seen since the Great Spring Sickness of King Daeron the Second's day…"

Daeron died of the Great Spring Sickness, Dany thought. Does he want me to die, too? "I know this," she said. "What about—"

"Truly, things are dire," the Grand Maester went on. "What with the crop burned to ashes along the Blackwater, we have not even half of the provisions we need to last through this year."

"We will make do somehow, I am sure." She had sent Aurane Waters to the Free Cities to make arrangements for the trade route to be re-opened between Lys, Myr, Tyrosh and the Disputed Lands. "It may not matter, anyhow. Since we are heading north, we will not be a burden on Dragonstone's larders much longer—"

"Your Grace, King's Landing is still home to some five hundred thousand citizens."

Yes, for now. "The Tyrells were supplying King's Landing. And now they are not. If the people want someone to vilify, let it be Olenna Tyrell and her grandsons."

"Your Grace," said Marwyn the Mage. "The people have chosen someone to vilify, and it is you. There has been a… resurgence of the sparrow movement in the capital city. The High Sparrow has risen again – though it may be a different man to last time – and his followers are making a pilgrimage through Your Grace's lands, spreading treason—"

"Words are wind," said Dany.

"Yet winds may overturn even the tallest towers, if they blow strong enough. The Faith has been subdued this last year, but it still has power among the people."

"The people know the Faith of the Seven to be false," said Benerro, in his deep, spiced voice. "Did the seven gods protect them from the false king Aegon? I think not. Did the seven gods keep the towers of Baelor's sept from falling? No. But, Your Grace, if we offer them an alternative…"

Benerro had been pushing this for weeks. He was starting to sound like Hizdahr zo Loraq with his fighting pits, and that made Dany wary. I gave Hizdahr what he wanted, but he turned against me nonetheless. She did not agree with the red priest, either. She could not change the culture of the Seven Kingdoms just like that. People would not follow her example simply because she told them to. That was the one lesson Hizdahr had taught her.

"Of course, this will matter little once we head north, Your Grace," said Marwyn the Mage.

"Yes." Dany nodded. "Of course. And when… how are the preparations going?"

"Very well, Your Grace. We estimate two weeks' sailing to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, if the wind holds up. And from there, it will be another two weeks to Castle Black, though of course you could fly on Drogon."

"Has there been anything more from this Lord Snow?"

"Nothing yet, Your Grace. That may be a bad sign. If the threat is what Lord Snow says it is, the Night's Watch may well have already been overrun."

Dany sensed he was holding something back. "Speak plainly, Marwyn."

"Well, Your Grace… we have been here on Dragonstone for two weeks, and we still have not left for the North. Leaving it so long could not be perilous—"

"I will not flee north and leave my enemies to feast on the lands that are rightfully mine," the queen said. "Until our situation is stable, we remain here."

"With respect, Your Grace—"

"What do you think, Benerro?"

The red priest cleared his throat. "I saw a great battle in the snow, Your Grace. But I never saw when this battle would come."

Dany was about to speak when the doors of the Chamber opened and Ser Jorah Mormont came down the stairs, in a thick fur cloak which nearly hid the silver pin that marked him out as Hand of the Queen. Behind him were two men. She did not recognise the first man: him of the white-blond hair and bristling yellow moustache. He was hugely broad, with the shoulders of an ox; the badge his doublet was quartered blue and pink, adorned with a moon and a sun. Yet he wore them with unease, and were it not for those noble colours, the queen might have mistaken him for a fisherman.

"Your Grace," said Jorah, bowing. "May I present Lord Selwyn, the Evenstar of Tarth." The blond man came forward and inclined his head barely a few inches. "And his companion, Ser—"

"You need not introduce him," said Dany, stepping forwards. "I never forget an old friend."

"Neither do I," said Ser Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company.

"I thought you were dead."

"Would you prefer it if I was?"

"I think you already know my answer."

"I should have known better than to ask." The sellsword bowed his head. "Your Grace."

"Is there a reason you are here, or have you merely come to beg for mercy, ser?"

Ser Harry inclined his head further. "The latter, I fear. The storms are too strong and our ships too few to carry us back across the Narrow Sea."

"How many men do you have left?"

"One thousand, four hundred and seventy-four. Not enough to launch any great offensive in the name of the late King Aegon, as I'm sure you understand."

"But if you had the men, you would?"

"Our word is as good as gold." He smiled.

Dany scowled back at him. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't have you executed."

"You are not stupid, Your Grace. Give me one reason why you're bothering to talk to me, and not having me executed already."

Because having one ally, however treacherous they might have proved in the past, is better than having nothing. "You are not what you once were, are you? Fifteen hundred men. Though I suppose you are not the only sellsword company still hiding out in the reaches of the kingswood or over on Massey's Hook. Have you seen Brown Ben or the Tattered Prince anywhere, perchance?"

"If you want that answer, you will have to take me into your service, Your Grace."

Perhaps you are right. Dany did not want him on her side, but if she granted Strickland clemency, some of the other sellswords might come forwards. And she could always rid herself of the Golden Company later, she supposed.

"Perhaps," she said. "But not tonight. For now, I will have Messan take you down to a cell. I think you would benefit from a few hours of contemplative silence."

"Your Grace is merciful and wise," said Ser Harry, even as the Unsullied led him from the room.

The queen turned her attention to Lord Selwyn. "I am wary of making hasty observations, my lord, but your choice of companion is hardly encouraging."

"Strickland is no friend of mine," said the Evenstar of Tarth. "I have even less faith in him than I do in you. Your Grace."

His straightforwardness took Dany aback. "If you have no faith in me," she said, after a pause, "then why are you here at all? I did not ask you here."

"I am here because I am afraid of you, Your Grace," said Lord Selwyn. "I was at the Blackwater. I was on Aegon's side of the battlefield, though my men did not fight his cause, because I had no faith in him either. I saw your dragons descend upon the Braavosi fleet. I saw what they did to those ships, and to the men aboard them. I remember the smell: cooked meat, ashes, fire and blood. When I smelled that smell, I fled with all my men, with not a care for what the other lords might think of me. They are – were– young fools who only ever saw the glory in war. But I still remember the days of your father, the Mad King. I remember the way he would line men up in the throne room to burn."

"I am not my father."

It was Lord Selwyn's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Aren't you?"

"Have you any children, Lord Selwyn?"

"A daughter. Only the one."

"And would you say your daughter is like you?"

"More than you might think." Lord Selwyn curled his lip distastefully. "Brienne would see right through you."

"Is your daughter here?"

"No. Unlike you, Brienne learned to stick to what she is good at."

Dany glanced over Lord Selwyn's shoulder at Jorah, who was making a concerned face. Not now, ser, she tried to signal back, I do not need you yet. "Tell me, Lord Selwyn," she said. "Do you think I should have surrendered to my nephew because I am a woman?"

"No," said the Evenstar. "I think you should have surrendered because you were born to conquer, Daenerys Targaryen, not to rule. Stormborn. A storm destroys that which lies in its path; it does not nourish it. A storm will not feed your children or make your harvest fertile. But it will keep you safe from your enemies, and it will force your enemies to scatter themselves to the winds."

"I am a conqueror and a ruler," Dany said. "But your words are not without some merit, my lord. Truth be told, I shared your concerns when I was in Slaver's Bay—"

"Slaver's Bay," said Lord Tarth bitterly. "The unfortunate few who sail into Tarth from there now tell me it is a lawless place, rife with corruption and civil war… and yes, slavery. Do not count Slaver's Bay among your successes, Your Grace."

Had he been waiting for her to fall into that trap? Dany had heard nothing from Slaver's Bay since Reznak mo Reznak's last envoy, and that had been a year ago, or more. Lord Tarth might well be right. Her victory over the slavers could well be in tatters by now.

But that was a matter for another time.

"Ser Jorah," she called. "Take my lord of Tarth to some rooms befitting of his rank. It is getting late. I think it would be better if we all got some sleep and continued our discussions on the morrow." She did not wait for Lord Selwyn to object, or for Marwyn the Mage to make a last ditch-plea to get her to listen to his Northern plans. Instead she walked out of the room before any of them could say a thing, half a dozen Unsullied fast on her heels.

Out on the wallwalk the storm was blowing even harder. Dany could make out the black-clad figures of her Unsullied ranged along the stone wall, their shields braced against the wind. As she stepped out there was a loud and sudden crack, and angry vibrations bit into the stone beneath her feet, tickling her soles. The smell of sulphur filled the air, and a flash turned her pale skin bright and white. The braziers ranged along the wallwalk shivered in their brackets, and threw their black sparks out to be swallowed by the rain. The flames flickered, on the brink of death, as salt washed over the high stone ramparts and drenched the walkway. Behind Dany, one of the Unsullied guards slipped, and had to be helped up.

"Your Grace," said one of his companions, in broken Common Tongue. "You should hurry inside."

"No," said Dany. "You can. But I intend to stay here a little while longer."

Here she was. Stormborn. A name she had given little thought to, or not nearly as much as she should have.

Twenty years ago, or thereabouts, Rhaella Targaryen had been up in one of these towers, with a young Viserys clutching her hand, screaming out unheard in the black, black night, as the Usurper's men struggled to overcome the waves that turned them away from this island and onto the rocks.

They said that, in a storm like this, when the only brightness came from the sparse braziers along the wallwalk, and from the lightning that flashed sporadically over the island, you could see the stone dragons moving, creeping along the wallwalk, their talons and claws outstretched, slowly but surely carrying the island through the unending depths of Blackwater Bay. As for where they were heading, no man could say.

Presently Ser Jorah came out to join her on the walkway. His beard was sodden, his cloak a wet black rag, and Dany noticed that he had to brace himself against the battlement with one hand to keep from slipping. "Your Grace, you should not be—", he said, and then broke off, because he knew better.

"How is Lord Selwyn?"

"He seemed… manageable. Not happy, but manageable."

"What do you think we should do with him? Did he bring many ships?"

"Only three, Your Grace. The better part of his armies and navies are still moored back on Tarth. But… I thought we might send him out again, rather than keeping him here."

"Why?"

"Because here Lord Selwyn will do nothing but cause you trouble and doubt. But if we send him out to treat with the others who are yet to fall in line with your cause: the Sunglasses, the Peaseburys, the Bar Emmons, the Velaryons—"

"Lord Selwyn has no love for me. It seems unwise to send him to promote the virtues of my cause."

"On the contrary, Your Grace, who better? Lord Selwyn carries the same doubts as many of the Stormlords whose loyalty you seek. He can sympathize with them, and with what they want, and even if he cannot and will not convince them to love you, he will convince them to follow you, same as he will follow you. And maybe, if you were prepared, we could send the boy Edric Storm—"

"No. The boy cannot be controlled. He will stay here. But nonetheless, your idea may have some merit, Ser Jorah. I must have had good reason for making you Hand of the Queen."

Mormont frowned. "Your Grace?"

"It was a joke, ser."

"Ah. Of course, Your Grace."

"Has Marwyn lectured you about his northern expedition yet?" Dany asked.

"No. But I am prepared to hear it."

"Prepared for the expedition, or for Marwyn's lecture?"

Ser Jorah's face showed a brief flicker of sourness. "Your Grace," he said, "forgive me, but… it seems you are hesitant. About heading north. We could have sailed days, even weeks ago."

Dany sighed. This again. "I will tell you what I told Marwyn. I will not sail north until I am comfortable with the situation in the south."

"Your Grace, the situation in the south is… it is…"

"Say it."

The knight sighed. "The situation in the south is one we cannot salvage. Short of burning Highgarden and Sunspear and forcing the Reachmen and the Dornish to bind their cause to ours, we have no chance of recovering ground here. And even if you did force them… they would not be your true allies."

"Then they had best hope they do not do anything to displease me," said Dany, looking away. She sensed Jorah was about to reply, so she cut in with, "Thank you, ser. That will be all for now." She closed her eyes, and listened to his footsteps as they faded away.

Dany turned her gaze back to the sea. A great wave hurtled up the beach below her, washing away a day's worth of sediment and leaving a different day's in its place. The queen breathed in and out, in and out, her breaths tied to the sound of the sea. As the sea entered its next deep swell, Dany felt something swell inside her, too. The child, faintly kicking against her stomach, alive in the rain.

(Would she give birth to it here on Dragonstone, or in some distant kingdom, far to the North? Would it have her eyes and hair, or Daario's—)

You are a conqueror, not a ruler, Daenerys Stormborn. Daario had said that, long before Selwyn Tarth had. Daario Naharis, her lover and her betrayer. Why was she still carrying his child? Did she really want that reminder of prophecy nestling inside her? Did Ser Jorah and the others know?

It was too many questions for one night, she decided. Instead she leaned against the rampart again, letting the sea continue to play its distant lullaby. Briefly she closed her eyes.

Then, from the east, she heard the screeching again, the same screeching from earlier. Through the grey-black of the clouds flapped something blacker. His wings were two hundred feet from wingtip to wingtip, and his scales gleamed as black as her skin gleamed white. Drogon. The lightning flashed again behind him as he came over the ramparts, flapping so hard that the wind nearly knocked Dany from her perch, sending the rain flying in every direction, scattering droplets into the mouths of the stone dragons that adorned the castle walls.


I think this chapter acts pretty nicely as a reset, putting Dany back to where she was at the start of TSK - though there's a lot of differences. It's a setup chapter, but it's necessary setup for an arc that is one of my favourites in this fic.

Next chapter: more setup - this time in a previously unseen location.