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Chapter Thirty-Two: An Indecent Proposal

Lady Olenna slid the miniature portrait across the desk, whereupon Robb studied it intently. The subject was older than he expected, but as comely as his brothers and sister. But, beside his age, there was another drawback. "He's lame." The lady did not cushion her words. "He walks with the aid of a stick and can only stand straight with the help of a leg brace. However, he is a gentle and kind man. Most suitable for a young lady who has spent the last two years in a lion's den, just waiting to be eaten alive."

Lame or no, it would make Sansa the future Lady of Highgarden and strengthen the North's ties to the south. As he thought it over, Robb picked up the portrait and ran the pad of his thumb over Willas Tyrell's oiled face. It was his decision, he knew, but it was only right that he talked it over with Sansa first.

"Our brother, Bran, is a cripple. He'll never walk again," Robb replied. "As such, I think Sansa will see past that disability. Still, I would like to wait until Sansa is a little older before marrying her off- "

"Of course," Lady Alerie, sitting beside her mother in law, cut in. "What I would like to propose is that Sansa return to Winterfell for the duration of the war. Upon the cessation of hostilities, she would be fostered at Highgarden until she reaches the age of sixteen. Only then will the marriage take place."

Satisfied, Robb allowed himself a smile as he slipped the portrait into the pocket of his doublet. "I'll show this to my sister, although I'm sure she will be most pleased by the offer. I know I certainly am. May I ask, have you spoken with my mother about this?"

Alerie suddenly looked guarded. "We thought it best to speak with your grace, first."

Far from being annoyed, Robb thought it wise. Now reunited with both her daughters, Catelyn had been guarding them both like a lioness. Even Sandor Clegane had displayed a flicker of fear as Lady Stark drilled him on what was expected of him now that he was as good as pledged to Sansa. Meanwhile, Arya had been placed in the care and tutelage of Brienne of Tarth – an attempt by Lady Stark at reconciling herself to her youngest daughter's wilder side. It was an arrangement he himself was more than satisfied with, despite the lingering presence of the Hound continuing to darken their halls.

"Very well, leave my mother to me," replied Robb, after a brief pause. "But the delay until Sansa is sixteen should be more than enough to allay any fears she may have."

With that business concluded, Robb turned his attention to pouring wine for his guests. Mace appeared to have nodded off during the talk of marriage, but a sharp dig to the ribs from Olenna soon brought him round with a grunt and a start. Pretending he had not noticed, Robb poured him a healthy measure of Arbour red. Servants brought in platters of cheese and oatmeal biscuits, already buttered. However, if he thought the subject of marriage was over, he was sadly mistaken.

"Do you have a lady we don't know about tucked away in the north somewhere, your grace?" Lady Alerie piped up, taking a sip of wine. "It's just that we have a darling cousin, Desmera Redwyne, who would be about your age- "

"Gods, woman, give the poor boy a break," Olenna cut over her, then turned to Robb. "Don't mind her, once she gets going she'll have the whole realm – man, beast and fish alike – married off by the end of the afternoon."

Alerie laughed. "But, mother, a King needs a Queen and Desmera needs a suitable husband."

"If you don't mind waiting a while, there's always Alla," Mace offered. "A very sweet girl, but perhaps a little young for your grace. No, no, on second thoughts more suitable for Bran or Rickon. And, of course, there's Leona Tyrell who may also be considered for one of your brothers- "

"Oh, Mace, what about Elinor," Alerie cut over him again. "She's only a year or two younger than his grace and such pretty, witty little thing!"

Mace nodded his approval, but Robb had frozen half-way through taking a bite of his cheese and biscuit. He blinked in confusion, trying in vain to keep up with the names of all the Tyrell women suddenly being flung at his feet. Alas, he had forgotten most of them within seconds of their being mentioned. Mercifully, a knock sounded at the door of his solar and he found himself being ushered outside by Ser Rodrik Cassel. Excusing himself from the three Tyrells, he vacated the solar in the north tower of Harrenhal and entered the outer-gallery where Ramsay Bolton was awaiting an audience.

Normally, he would not be such a welcome sight. But given the alternative, Robb approached him gratefully.

"You saved my hide there, Lord Bolton," he jested, drawing him toward a window embrasure in the outer-gallery. "You'd think there were five of me, given how many of their womenfolk they're trying to marry me off to."

"Hmm," Bolton murmured. "So many women, so little time."

As always, he was inscrutable just as his father was before him. No matter how hard Robb tried, he could not warm to the man. Just as he could never tell what he was really thinking. Just as he never really liked that glimmer in the Lord's pale blue eyes. Sometimes, he wished Roose Bolton had not died. After barely a minute in his company, Robb wanted their business rapidly concluded.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"I fear my timing may be somewhat inopportune," Ramsay replied, a smile spreading across his plump lips. "But I have an offer to make to your grace, concerning your sister. An offer that, I believe, would both join our houses together and finally end the enmity between Bolton and Stark that stretches back further than either of us care to remember."

The path Bolton was heading down made him feel cold. "Which sister?"

"Lady Sansa, of course. Surely you can understand that her beauty and charm had a profound effect on me after I rescued her from that savage, Clegane."

Whatever reply courteous rebuttal Robb had was choked back by Ramsay's version of what occurred that day. "You mean when you dragged her away from the only man who tried to protect her, reducing her to tears as she pleaded with you not to harm him?"

Ramsay's smile stiffened. "Well, I wouldn't quite put it like that- "

"Clearly not," Robb interjected. "Nevertheless, that is what you did. As for your offer, are you being serious?"

"Of course I am being serious," he snapped back. "This union could end centuries of infighting between Starks and Boltons. Infighting that could easily be exacerbated, if what I hear about your so-called brother is true. Everyone seems to know, except me- "

"That answer is no!" Robb cut him off. "I thank you for your offer, Lord Bolton. But Princess Sansa has been through an ordeal and is not ready for marriage of any kind."

"So you weren't in there arranging her marriage to Willas Tyrell?" Ramsay countered, making it clear he knew full well already what they had been talking about.

Shocked, Robb was momentarily lost for words. However, he quickly gathered his wits before Ramsay could see how his foreknowledge had thrown him.

"A proposal has been made, but nothing has been agreed," he replied, stiffly. "I have yet to speak with Sansa and Lady Stark."

"All right, a compromise. I'll take Princess Arya."

Robb let out a mirthless laugh. "The Others will take you before you or any of yours take a sister of mine, my lord." It was a hasty, un-guarded rebuke that he almost regretted as soon as he said it. But Robb stood his ground. "Forgive my rash words, Lord Bolton, but Arya is far too young and Sansa most likely to be pre-contracted elsewhere. Now, good day to you."

Turning on his heel, he was about to walk away when Ramsay called out to him again.

"You take too much for granted, your grace."

Robb turned back, steel in his glare. "And you presume too high, my lord. Take care that your reach does not exceed your grasp."

He remembered Theon, then. The look in Ramsay's eye when he refused to hand over the Ironborn for flaying and torture. The same look had been in the Lord's eye when he was publicly upbraided for his treatment of the Hound. Now, their raised voices had brought out the Tyrells, who thought there was a fight happening just beyond the solar door. Olenna stepped forward, fixing Ramsay with a hard, gimlet eyed stare.

"Gods, what is that?" she demanded, shrilly.

Unable to do anything surrounded by so many others, Ramsay dipped a stiff bow of forced courtesy. "My Lady."

"Did that up-jumped, swivel-eyed loon deign to address me?" Olenna demanded. "Seven hells, what is the world coming to. I think I need more wine. Mace, bring me more wine."

Robb kept his eye on Ramsay at all times, measuring his reaction as it veered from anger to hatred. "We will speak later, my lord. Leave now."

That smiled returned to Ramsay's face. "Perhaps I will."

Desert me and I will hang you for the traitor you are, thought Robb as he turned to follow the Tyrells back into the solar. But once seated again, he had lost his appetite. Instead, he penned a brief note to Jon and Margaery, then sent it away courtesy of Ser Rodrik who was still on guard outside the door.

It was quiet in Jon's private chambers, high in the south turret. The windows overlooked the placid God's Eye and when the mists cleared, they could see the Isle of Faces. A place scared to the followers of the Old Gods, Sansa felt an instinctive pull deep inside her whenever she saw it. Like she was magnetically drawn to it. But on that day in particular, she sat with her back to the window and picked at the lemon cakes Margaery had had baked especially for her. Arya was by her side, polishing Needle with an oil cloth in a manner so reminiscent of their father that it made Sansa pine for him again.

"May I have one, please," Arya asked, nodding to the cakes.

"Of course, sister." Sansa drew the plate closer to her. "Take as many as you like."

Arya thanked her, reaching for the nearest confectionary with oil stained fingers. Sansa noted the dress she was wearing. A pale pink silk affair that was a little too long for her and had nicks in the fabric where Needle had defied its name and bitten into it. Strangely, it also looked lumpy on her; the silk just did not sit straight and it looked more like the dress was wearing Arya, rather than the other way round. It was so typical of Arya that brought a smile of affection to Sansa's face, giving chase to the bittersweet memories of their father.

However, ever since she arrived at Harrenhal, things between her and Arya had been … weird. When she wasn't with Brienne, training in the yard, Arya now wore dresses and curtsied as best she could. She was always polite and never pulled her hair or made rude remarks, and she never flicked messy food at her across the table. The wild little sister she had missed so painfully had gone. There was one brief flash of the old Arya, when she vowed to kill Sandor Clegane for her if ever he betrayed her. But it was gone too soon and this forced Lady was back in front of her.

At first, she thought it was just the shock of learning Jon's real parentage reverberating on to Arya. But he was still her brother whoever made him, but Arya felt so very different in an unnatural way. She knew she was partly to blame.

"When I was in King's Landing, I missed you so much I dreamed of you," Sansa blurted out. She still felt silly for admitting it. Arya had always hated her. But now that she had said it, she found she needed to continue. Drawing a deep breath to gather herself, she added: "I dreamed we were in the Riverlands together, hunting and protecting a wolf pack. When you were in my dreams I felt safe, even when I woke up. Sometimes, I even thought you were still in the room with me."

While Sansa was speaking, Arya had put down both Needle and the oil cloth. She turned in the bench seat they shared, facing her properly with tears standing in her eyes. Although she didn't say anything, she scrambled up on to her knees and wrapped her skinny arms around Sansa's neck, hugging her tight. Choked with emotion, Sansa reciprocated.

"I'm sorry," said Arya, tremulously. He voice was muffled as she spoke into Sansa's shoulder. "I'm sorry I never tried to get on with you, I promise I'll be a lady from now on. I'll try my best, I promise."

Their father spoke true, there were no lone wolves. Only the packs and Sansa knew she had returned to hers now.

"You don't need to be a lady," she assured Arya. "You just need to be you."

They both sniffed and shuddered as they composed themselves. After another few moments in that tight embrace, Arya eventually extracted herself and began tugging at the lumpy, ill-fitting dress.

"Did you mean it when I said I didn't have to be a Lady?" she asked, giving her side a scratch.

"Of course," Sansa replied, assuring her. "You don't have to wear that for my benefit."

Arya grinned. "Good!"

She then grabbed the hem, pulling it up over head and off completely. Alarmed at first, Sansa quickly noticed that she was wearing her training breeches and a woollen shirt beneath it. There was even ringmail beneath the woollen. Sansa burst out laughing.

"Oh, Arya!" she laughed as the pink dress was balled up in Arya's hands and tossed across the room. "Face it, sister, you could never be a lady no matter how bad you wanted it."

Arya's laughter joined her own, melting away any residual stiffness between them. All pretences dropped they hugged again, kissed each other's cheeks and set about the rest of the lemon cakes. The only remaining mystery was what had become of their hosts. Jon and Margaery had left more than a half-hour passed, ostensibly to check that Jon's breastplate stretcher had been properly polished. Sansa had never heard of such a device and nor had Arya. She had a sneaking suspicion that there was, in fact, no such thing. A suspicion evidently shared by Arya.

"You don't think they're kissing do you?" she asked, making a face as though her lemon cake was a little too tart.

"Not even Jonquil and Florian can kiss for half an hour," replied Sansa.

"I bet they can, though. I bet they're like this…" Arya launched into a demonstration. She stood up with her arms open as if embracing an invisible person, then closed her eyes and poked her tongue out and made sucking noises. Sansa dissolved into laughter again, almost in tears as the door open and the young lovers returned. Jon's gaze fell on Arya, still in the throes of her demonstration; only a second too late did she stop. Margaery arrived a second later, freezing at his side and rapidly stifling laughter at the sight that greeted her.

As Sansa composed herself, she noticed the small scroll of parchment crumpled in Jon's fist.

Jon rolled his eyes, not wanting to even guess at what Arya was doing. But with little time to play along, he merely mussed up her hair as he sat down opposite the girls. The note from Robb, just delivered by Ser Rodrik, he folded and pushed up his sleeve before any wandering eyes could see it. He was not panicking, but he was keen to get Sansa back under guard and kept close at all times.

"Arya, Brienne is waiting in the training yard," he said, discreetly nudging her toward the door. "Run and catch up with her."

Arya slid down from her seat, hugged him and Margaery in turn and then left. Ser Loras was waiting outside and Jon knew he would see to it that Arya got back to Brienne safely. Brienne could probably take on the whole Bolton army and win, if it came to it. Meanwhile, Sansa was finishing a lemon cake and about to pour some tea for them all.

"Something's happened, hasn't it?" Sansa set down the pot, looking directly at Jon. She wasn't really asking, either. It was more a statement of fact. "I know that look. That secretly hiding small notes and discreetly removing other people from the room. That's what happens when something serious needs to be discussed."

"It's nothing you need to worry about," Jon tried to assure her.

"Which usually means the opposite," Sansa returned. "If it concerns me, just tell me."

He and Margaery exchanged a glance, her nodding for him to continue.

"Lord Bolton has offered you his hand in marriage," Jon stated, finishing with a sigh.

Sansa paled. "No! Jon, no, I will not marry him. Robb won't allow it- "

She fell into silence as he held up his hand in a gesture of peace. "Of course not!"

"You won't be forced to marry anyone at all," Margaery assured her. "But your older brother turned Ramsay down flat, in front of witnesses and things turned nasty."

"Is Robb all right?" she asked, defiance turning to worry in an instant.

"He's fine," replied Jon. "Ramsay wouldn't dare start on Robb directly unless he has a death wish. But Robb has decided to increase your guard while you're here. Just in case Ramsay tries anything with you."

Sansa smiled. "Sandor wouldn't let anything happen."

"But Sandor is just one man and Ramsay has an army," Jon pointed out. "We've decided it would be best if you stayed here with us until the issues with Ramsay are resolved."

Sansa did not protest. She soon calmed down and returned her attention to the tea. But Jon's nerves were still tensing. Unlike Sansa, he had heard the rumours about the Lord of the Dreadfort. He heard rumours of Ramsay's involvement in the strange disappearance of an elderly, heirless widow with lands and money in her possession. Many other stories swirled around both Ramsay and the Dreadfort, and the things that were said to happen there. He had shared all the information he had with Margaery, who in turn pointed out that Ramsay seemed to be collecting up an array of reasons and excuses to betray them. Now, all they could do was wait and see what happened.

"I don't want to leave you anyway," Sansa replied, at length. "Arya and me, we both want to stay and help defeat our enemies. There's no reason why we can't. I know the court and Arya knows all sorts that could help."

Margaery was placatory. "We know that. But all we want is for you and your sister to be safe."

"I'm safest with my brothers," she replied. "Or brother and cousin."

"Brothers," Jon corrected her. "You'll never be anything less than a sister to me, Sansa. You know that."

She smiled then, relief in her sapphire blue eyes, and giggled. "The Queen is tying herself in knots trying to figure out why this marriage is happening. Not even Varys knows and he's up to his neck in other people's business. But you've beaten them both at their own game, without even trying."

Ramsay Bolton was as good as forgotten as the subject turned to the Court. It was the very reason they had brought Sansa here in the first place, when she would much rather have been down in the tourney yards watching the knights train for battle. To compensate, Jon promised her they would go down there after supper and she could meet the Tyrell brothers and all their important new allies. Before that, however, he had to tap her for every morsel of information she had on the Lannisters.

Margaery rose from the seat to his left and sat back down in the spot recently vacated by Arya. She and Sansa had met several times now and already they were becoming as close as sisters. So Sansa did not shy away, like she did at first. On the contrary, she shuffled closer to Margaery and joined hands with her.

"Cersei told me a story about our father," Sansa began. "She said that father rode to Dorne, rescued Aunt Lyanna and killed Ser Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower. When he found Lyanna dead, he went on to Starfall where she met Ashara Dayne, who had just had a baby. Cersei thinks that baby is you, Jon. She said to me, that she could never work out why Ashara killed herself; whether for the baby father stole from her or the brother he killed."

All through the story, Jon shook his head. "Horse shit!"

"I know," Sansa replied. "The day before that, I spoke to Varys in the Godswood. He set me up so we met there without anyone else knowing. He told me the Ashara Dayne story too, but then said that the dates didn't add up. He said Ashara's baby was a stillborn girl and at least a year or two older than you."

Jon listened intently, then turned to Margaery. "Do you know this Varys?"

"Only by name," she replied. "My parents and grandmother might know him, though."

"I think mother knows him," Sansa added.

Jon had a feeling he would soon know Varys, too. "And is Cersei convinced of the Ashara Dayne story?"

Sansa nodded. "She never admit she's wrong, ever."

"What about the Imp? I've heard it said that Lord Tyrion is the smartest member of House Lannister," Margaery asked.

Sansa relaxed a little at the mention of Tyrion. "He was always kind to me and made sure the Kingsguard didn't beat me anymore."

"What?" a white hot anger reared up in Jon. "Did you say the Kingsguard beat you? What were their names?"

Her face reddened, as though she were ashamed. That heightened Jon's anger, it was they who ought to be ashamed and not their innocent victim. His was suddenly gripping his cup so tight that his knuckles turned white.

"Ser Meryn Trant, Osmund Kettleblack and Arys Oakheart," she replied, almost silently as the memories returned to her. "Arys Oakheart only did it because Joffrey commanded it. Ser Jaime Lannister also tried to put a stop to it. But Joffrey always found a way of getting rid of them, so only Trant and Kettleblack were there to do it. When father was killed, they brought me to the throne room, where they tore off my dress and beat me with the flat of his sword."

Jon could tell Sansa was trying not to cry in front of him. To avoid embarrassing her, he gestured to Margaery who responded by wrapping a protective arm around the girl's shoulders. Some words he could not hear were whispered into her ear and she nodded and smiled back at Margaery. But that hollow smile soon faded as Sansa's gaze dropped again.

"I pleaded for father's life, for Joffrey to show him mercy," she continued, her voice low and hoarse with suppressed emotion. "And Joffrey gave me his word; he promised to be merciful and I thought that meant he would let father live. But on the day, on the steps of the sept of Baelor, he gave the command for Ser Ilyn Payne to cut off his head anyway. Later, Joffrey told me a clean death was the mercy he meant. He made me watch and later he made me look at the severed heads. Father was next to Septa Mordane. And they killed Jeyne Poole. They even killed Jory and Ser Vayon. They killed all our men and I thought they had killed Arya until I saw her here."

Several times her voice cracked, but as she spoke of the deaths of their men she couldn't contain it any longer. She wept convulsively, prompting Jon to sit beside so he and Margaery could console her. Then, after several minutes, Sansa steeled herself and lifted her flushed, tear stained face to Jon. Her expression hardened in a way he had never seen in her before, her gaze locking into his.

"Joffrey is a monster," she stated, her tone hardened by cold hatred. "Cersei tries to control him, but really she's scared of him. I've seen it in her eyes. Everyone is scared of him except the Imp. You cannot show him mercy you must kill him."

Jon remembered the soiled, obnoxious brat of a prince from his time in Winterfell. There had been the occasional flickering of despotism there, but nothing on this scale. Even so, there was little chance of them letting Joffrey live once the capitol was taken. This only solidified Jon's resolve.

"There will be nothing left of him when we're done, I promise you that," he assured her, kissing her forehead. "I swear to you he will be dead before the year's out."

Later that evening, when Sansa was asleep and the Hound was guarding her door, Robb joined them in the private chambers. Exhausted himself, Jon lay on the bench with his head in Margaery's lap, drained and half-asleep. His grip on consciousness became weaker as she massaged his scalp, soothing him greatly.

"Wake up, brother!"

Robb's voice jolted him, causing him to almost head butt Margaery as he sat bolt upright. Cursing, he grabbed the nearest thing and hurled it at Robb. But the missile opened up in a flare of pink silk as it caught the air, then floated harmlessly to Robb's feet. Grinning, he stooped and scooped it up before holding it to his chest.

"Lovely frock, brother, a little small for you I fear," he jested, before dropping it on the table.

Jon groaned. "You've got your sense of humour back, I see."

But the smile faded as Robb settled himself between Jon and Margaery. "I heard Sansa's story. I take you did too."

"We came to look for you before, so you could be there when Sansa told it, but you were tied up with that Lord Bolton business," Jon explained. "Don't worry, though. Sansa understands."

Robb looked relieved. "Good, and thank you to you both."

"What do you make of it?" asked Jon.

"I say we wait a while, until your aunt's dragons are matured. Then bring them over and burn the fucking lot of them," replied Robb. Jon thought he was actually being serious. "The Queen, her awful children, her brothers, the vermin who beat our little sister …. All of them. Oh, and the Bolton's too."

"Emotionally speaking, I'm inclined to agree," Margaery laughed. "But it's too easy. I think we should begin as we mean to continue and all those men ought to answer for what they did and face justice for it."

Jon considered it for a moment, eyebrow cocked. "The dragons would be easier and more cost effective, though. Don't you think?"

Robb tilted his head onto Margaery's shoulder. "He has a point, my lady."

Margaery laughed, reaching for some wine she drank from the bottle then handed it to Robb. "I cannot argue with that. Pass that on to Jon when you're done. We should be allowed to get drunk one more time before things get serious again."

"Now that I do agree with," Robb concurred. "Tell me you have more than one bottle."

"Of course we bloody do," Jon retorted, taking the current bottle from his hands. The alcohol woke him up a little, enough to sit up and fetch another bottle. "Margaery and I are planning a betrothal party, brother."

"Am I invited?"

"I suppose so. It's going to be in a pavilion tent down by the north shore of the God's Eye," Jon explained.

"It's a spot that holds a very special memory for me," Margaery added.

Robb laughed. "You mean it's the spot you saw him skinny dipping in the lake, you mean."

"And you and my brother," she retorted, landing a playful slap on his arm. "Anyway, don't get too excited. It's where we'll be planning the war, as well as any wedding."

They had their sisters back. Their brothers were safe in Winterfell. Now it was time to advance towards victory. Jon returned to the bench with a smile on his face and another bottle in his hands. "Here's to our upcoming victory," he declared, pulling out the cork.

The dragons had outgrown their cages. Sam could scarce believe it as he shielded his eyes from the sun, looking up into the clear blue skies over Slaver's Bay. The three of them wheeled through the heavens, fast and strong. The air was filled with the music of their cries. As he continued to watch, Drogon dived sharply into the waters, bringing up a large wriggling fish which he tossed into the air, breathed fire onto and then gobbled whole all in one smooth move. Rhaegal and Viserion followed suit, with varying degrees of success. It was a wonder to behold. Enough to distract him from the swaying ship as they set sail for Astapor.

"Samwell."

Dany's voice distracted him from the circling dragons. "Your Grace."

She was smiling, her purple eyes even more dazzling in the sunshine. "They're not my babies anymore. Just look at them."

He was smiling like a fool as the dragons circled the ship. Their shadows rippled on the waves. Meanwhile, Arstan Whitebeard and Strong Belwas – newcomers who had joined them on their outward journey – approached cautiously with smiles on their faces. Lady Alysane was deep in conversation with some of the Dothraki warriors, with Ser Jorah loitering behind. All in all, despite another sea voyage ahead, Sam was a very happy man.

"They're amazing," he said, glancing up into the skies once more. "Drogon's huge."

"I still don't know how to control them," she said, also looking upwards. "That's going to become a problem soon, I think."

Sam remained pragmatic. "There has to be a way. Surely some knowledge was handed down through the generations of your family. Did Viserys tell you anything?"

She shook her head, causing a lock of silver hair to escape from behind her ear. It was growing long again now. "Nothing. We all thought they were dead and never coming back. So what was the point in handing such knowledge down?"

Sam raised a pained smile. "When I was at Castle Black I was in charge of Maester Aemon's ravens. I did rather well with them, actually. But I guess dragons are a little different to ravens, aren't they?"

Daenerys dissolved into laughter, nodding her head until she was able to speak again. "Just a tiny difference, Sam!"

Meanwhile, the sails of their ship caught the wind as they sailed outwards. The deck below Sam's feet swayed and tilted and their journey to Astapor began in earnest. Slowly, they left Qarth behind, leaving it to the blue-lipped warlocks and grasping merchant princes. Astapor promised soldiers and plenty of them. No matter how hard he tried, Sam could not convince Dany to drop everything and head straight to Westeros to join up with her nephew. Instead, they would raise and army of Unsullied, joined with their meagre Dothraki soldiers, then sail to Dragonstone. Like Aegon the Conqueror himself, they would launch a land invasion from the south, meeting with the northerners and Tyrells as they advanced from the North.

As they left civilisation behind them, Sam drew a deep breath and looked out over the endless horizon. "There's more than one war coming to Westeros, your grace."

Dany turned serious again. "What do you mean?"

"There's war coming north of the wall, too," he explained. "A war against the living and the dead. When that war comes, chances are we'll have need of your dragons."

Her brow knotted as she frowned, craning her head to look up at him. "The wall will keep any foes out of the realm. Isn't that what it's for?"

"That's so, Daenerys. But the army of the dead are rising, pushing the Wildlings south and south again. Soon, we'll not be able to contain it. All the noble houses are embroiled in the war for the iron throne. The wall, meanwhile, is defended only by a ragtag army of rapers and thieves, with the odd noble bastard thrown in. They won't hold out forever, my lady."

She was listening intently, nodding to show her understanding. The line of her gaze shifted to her dragons at their airborne play. Rhaegal breathed a stream of fire, searing at a large rolling wave and melting away the white foam.

"You say an army of the 'undead', Sam. Do you mean literally?" When he nodded, she continued. "Dragon fire will stop them."

Again, Sam nodded. "Those three- "he gestured to the skies. "They might be our only hope."

Suddenly, when he considered the task ahead, the dragons didn't look so big after all.

Thanks again for reading. As always, didn't get to cover everything I wanted. So Tyrion's in the next chapter.

Anyway, reviews welcome if you have a minute. Thank you again!