Chapter 22: Split Paths
Summary:
The Lords of the North plan their next move in the war. Jon's dreams come to him from wolves and dragons. Dany has an interesting morning at Winterfell.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter Twenty-Two: Split Paths
Ned stood around the large table in the makeshift war room at Torrhen's Square, gathered with his son, nephew, and the Lords of the North as they planned their next move.
Jon had returned nearly a moon ago from Winterfell, tenser and graver than Ned could ever remember him being. His nephew had always been a solemn boy, but there was a sadness to him now that Ned knew was because of his separation from Daenerys.
The Lord of Winterfell knew his pain well—felt it every time he had to part from Catelyn for a battle, but he knew it had to be even harder on his nephew. Leaving your beloved behind for the first time was never easy, less so when you were off to war.
Ned and Catelyn hadn't loved each other when first they wed—seven hells, they'd barely known each other—but he'd still been reluctant to leave knowing she was carrying his firstborn child in her belly all those years ago. Aye, he loved her now, loved her deep and true, and she him. But Jon and Daenerys…they were younger, and their bond was far stronger than Ned and Cat's had been in their youth.
He'd made a point to have Jon with him close most days, which was easy enough since Jon was the Head of his own House and one of the leading forces of their army. His nephew needed the support of his family right now—needed to feel beyond any doubt that he was not alone.
He could only hope his wife and children back in Winterfell were devoting time to ensure Daenerys also did not become lonely without her husband. She and Jon had become so dependent on one another in the past year.
He shook those thoughts from his head and glanced at Theon and Asha Greyjoy.
"Where do we stand on the fleet?" Ned asked.
"Everything is just about fully repaired," Theon admitted. "The Iron Victory has seen better days, though. I doubt it will be battle-ready for some moons yet. A lot of the hull was damaged when the dragon dropped it on the riverbank."
"We got Victarion for it," Asha shrugged. "It's just one ship. The others we captured are all seaworthy now. They took only minor damage for the most part."
"Good. I spoke with Ser Talhart earlier," Ned gestured to the Lord in question, who dipped his head. "Torrhen's Square is recovering well from the Ironborn siege. It should be defensible enough now for us to begin moving out without fear of a second attack taking it, but we'll leave a slightly larger garrison behind for caution's sake."
"Where do we mean to march, then?" Greatjon queried.
"We'll have to divide our forces for a time," he admitted, tapping his finger upon the map at the marker indicating Torrhen's Square. "The ships must each be manned and sailed back to the Sunset Sea, where they will join up with Lady Asha's five ships to converge on Flint's Finger. We'll retake that next before we move on to the shipyard in Ironman's Bay.
"But we've received a letter from Riverrun, as well," Ned told the Lords of the North. "It seems Tywin Lannister is marching his forces to us at a quick pace. I imagine he means to take the Twins—likely by bartering a deal with Lord Frey. We will have to march the majority of our army on-foot to meet them in order to reach the Ironborn shipyard."
"You mean to attack the Twins?" Lady Mormont asked with a raised eyebrow. "Will that not anger your goodfather, the Lord of Riverrun?"
"We might not have a choice," he replied, voice grim. "Lord Frey is an opportunistic weasel who is perhaps even more powerful than his Overlord. The strategic position of the Twins has made House Frey into an impressive power so long as they remain in their stronghold. I've little doubt that Tywin and Walder Frey will barter a deal before they commit bloodshed against one another."
A spattering of murmurs filled the air. Lord Karstark frowned deeply. "The Twins might be nigh impossible to take with the Lannisters boosting Frey's garrison. Could we not take the road through the Neck to Flint's Finger and then head south along the shore of the bay?"
"We could," Lord Bolton inclined his head. "But even with Lord Reed there to support us, such a move might leave us pinned between Tywin and Euron's forces. Our ships aren't numerous enough to conquer Euron's on their own—we will be outnumbered and outmatched at sea, where the Greyjoys have every advantage."
"What about the dragon?" Lord Manderly prompted. "It would be able to breach the defenses of the Twins, would it not?"
Jon spoke now, his voice firm. "She could, aye, but blasting them open with dragonfire might do irreparable damage to any stronghold or fortress we hit. We could destroy the gates, but the deeper fortifications, no. Not without turning the bridge into a second Harrenhal."
"What if such destruction becomes necessary?" Lady Mormont garnered their attention, her eyes stern as she watched Jon. "Your dragon is the power that balances our forces against this Greyjoy-Lannister alliance. By the time this war is over, it might be that all the enemy fortresses will be burnt down. There will be collateral damage. Do you have the spine to live with that?"
That created an uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Jon answered, and his tone was as hard as Valyrian steel. "Obviously, I'd rather not raze castles and fortresses to the ground, but this is war. We'll have to live with the choices we make, no matter how grim they might be. We win, or we die, and I did not leave my wife at Winterfell so I could die."
"Well said, lad," the Greatjon nodded approvingly. "War's not for pretty songs and fancy tales. It's blood and shit and the screams of dying men. It's never clean."
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Ned agreed, though his expression was grim. "Or burn it, if we must."
There was an undercurrent of agreement. Just about everyone here was a seasoned veteran, save for a few of the younger men. Jon even. Sometimes Ned had to remind himself that his nephew had already fought a war single-handedly and won. He'd burned Khal Drogo's Dothraki horde to ashes, dishonored the barbarian with defeat, and sent him fleeing back to Vaes Dothrak with his tail between his legs. Seven hells, Jon and his dragon had a high body count than anyone else at the table.
His nephew and his son were killers now, just like him. Though gruesome the tasks before them might be, they would not shy from what had to be done.
He was proud of them.
"For now, I mean to see our men marching out of Torrhen's square in two days time," Ned told his Bannermen. "Lord Manderly and Lady Mormont will head our fleet with Theon and Lady Asha. I will lead the rest of our army on foot to meet with Lord Reed near Moat Cailin. We must have a foothold the south cannot pierce, and the old fortress has repelled many an invasion in the past."
More agreements. Lord Karstark spoke up again. "Who will King Jaehaerys fly with when we part?"
"I'm going to sweep down the river first," Jon answered. "To ensure there aren't any Ironborn reinforcements heading our way. After that, I'll fly east and check the other waterways up to the Saltspear, then I'll head north again to rejoin Lord Stark. The flight should take us four days, perhaps five if we go check out Borrowton for Ironborn. I'll spend anywhere between a week or a fortnight with our armies at any one time unless something draws our eye. I don't want to run Frostfyre ragged—she needs all her strength to take on Euron's Ice Dragon."
"By then, we'll be clear of the river system to our east," Ned muttered. "If Borrowton is under siege or has been taken, I'll divert a force to retake the town. I don't want any Ironborn sneaking up on us from behind and making our lives more difficult than they already are."
"Agreed," Greatjon rumbled. The rest of the Lords also gave their assent.
"That's all for now," Ned told them. "We'll meet again here tomorrow morning and I'll give each of you your individual commands for the march to come. Dismissed."
The Lords all turned as one and began to leave the war room, murmuring to one another on the way out. Jon remained, studying the map with his arms crossed. Robb stayed as well, walking over to his father to stop beside him.
"Where will I be?"
"You'll ride with me," Ned answered. "I might send you to take Borrowton depending on the Greyjoy presence there. You need to get used to being in command. Should the worst happen to me, you will become Warden in the North, and the leader of our armies."
Robb nodded gravely, then looked over at Jon. "What do you think?"
Jon pursed his lips, his dark eyes scanning the map of Westeros. "I don't like this idea of an alliance between Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey. They're both conniving old bastards, and I shudder to think of what they might plan together."
"Aye. Even their minds are somewhat similar," Ned admitted. "Both seek to enhance and preserve the positions of their Houses through whatever means necessary. I have little doubt Frey will want quite the boon from Tywin, but the old lion won't accept any deal from that weasel for nothing. They're cunning, sharp veterans. Together, they might be able to hold off the entirety of the North at the Twins."
"Not me," Jon uttered, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes.
"If we must send you to attack the Twins," Ned hesitated. "Jon—"
"I think the threat of my dragon might be enough to deter them," he cut his uncle off, brow furrowing. "I can set fire to one of the bridges if I must—it'll put us back, but it wouldn't be a disaster. If…if they still refuse to submit, then…"
"I won't order you to kill women and children."
Jon bit his lip. "I know. These are the sorts of men who will use the presence of women and children as a deterrent. If they won't give in, I'll have to try something else. Burn the lands around them to nothing, leave them as Lords of naught but ash. I don't want to murder women and children and babes still at their mothers' breasts."
"Tywin especially knows you won't condone the murders of innocents," Robb pointed out to his father. "He was the one to show Robert the bodies of Elia Martell and her children. He'll remember how you reacted."
Ned grimaced. "He'll exploit it as a weakness, but you're right. We'll have to be ruthless in other ways."
Jon tapped the map thoughtfully. "What if we stop Tywin and Lord Frey from meeting at all?"
"How?"
"No," Ned stopped his nephew, fixing him with a stern look. "Even on Frostfyre, if you raid the Lannister forces that deep in the south and are wounded, you'll be days away from help. It's too risky."
"When they get closer, then."
"It's still too far, Jon. Our forces aren't nearly close enough to provide you with any kind of support."
His nephew pursed his lips, clearly thinking on the topic. Ned sighed. "I know you want this war over with as soon as possible. I don't blame you. I want to go back home as much as the rest of us. I want to see my wife again. But we must be cautious. Do not make me return home with your bones in my arms. What would I tell Daenerys?"
That had Jon's shoulders sagging and he closed his eyes to take a deep breath. "I know you're right. I'm just…"
"I know," he said gently, walking over to take Jon's shoulder and squeeze it firmly. He was almost eye-level with Ned now. Was he going through another growth spurt? Gods, by the time the war was over, Jon might be even taller than him.
An odd thought, yet a heartwarming one.
"Come," he murmured, glancing from Jon to Robb and back again. "Let us find something to eat. We still have much to do today."
Robb went with Jon to the western walls of Torrhen Square for a task that, frankly, no one had attempted in nigh over a hundred years.
Tyrion Lannister waddled alongside them with a small collection of writing tools in a case he seemed to carry everywhere. Though Robb often saw the dwarf holed up in his tent, today he left his quiet corner of the world to work on something that could prove vital to the success of the war.
They'd had to order the men near the western wall to clear away for this. There was really no other way to go about the task ahead of them.
Jon stood at the edge of the battlements and closed his eyes, focusing for a minute. Robb and Tyrion waited patiently, and before long, they heard a familiar shriek.
Frostfyre descended from the sky to the west, soaring over the Torrhen's Square and looping back around to land at the edge of the thirty foot high walls closest to them. She reared back on her legs and propped the claws of her wings against the side of the castle walls to look down on them.
Her Rider stepped forward, a smile on his face that Robb saw less of these days, and lifted a hand to stroke her muzzle. The dragon rumbled, violet eyes searching Jon as he murmured to her in a language unfamiliar to Robb, though he suspected it was Valyrian.
Robb chose not to move while Jon interacted with the dragon. She was intelligent, but she was still the deadliest predator in all of Westeros—he would much rather she didn't see him as food.
Frostfyre had eaten people before. She knew how they tasted.
He hoped she preferred other kinds of meat.
"While this is quite truly the most incredible experience of my life," Tyrion began quietly, "I still cannot see her body from here as I must."
"Shall I describe it to you?" Robb grinned. "Or would you like me to find you a box?"
The dwarf couldn't hold back his laugh and even Jon snorted in amusement. Frostfyre looked at the guests of her Rider with a slight tilt to her head, as if she was pondering their reactions.
Unfortunately, Tyrion was too short to peer over the battlements to see the dragon's back, so Robb actually had to go get him a box. They all got a good laugh out of that, even more so when Frostfyre's head tilted further like an owl's. Clearly, she did not understand humor as humans did.
They were fortunate Jon knew how to distract her, stroking her scales and pulling some of the loose ones from her face, which were usually harder for her to groom. The dragon rumbled appreciatively, a low purr in her throat, and greedily accepted her Rider's attention.
"I started doing this for her not long after our reunion beyond the Wall," he confessed. "She used to rub herself against snow and trees and rocks, but I think this is more comfortable for her."
"It makes sense," Tyrion admitted as he climbed onto the box and set his supplies on the stone slab of the battlements. "A Maester who studied the dragons on Dragonstone once wrote that some of the more sociable dragons groomed each other of their loose scales."
"Not all of them are social?" Robb queried.
"Gods, no," the dwarf remarked. "One of the untamed, wild dragons on Dragonstone was known only as 'The Cannibal'. Need I explain why?"
"No."
Tyrion extracted parchment, a quill, and the ink necessary to draw Frostfyre's body. He'd completed a rough design while Jon was away at Winterfell, but needed an accurate sketch of the dragon's back, as well as measurements before they could set the blacksmiths and tanners to work.
"Be as quick as you can manage," Jon advised the dwarf as he pulled another loose scale from Frostfyre's lower jaw. "She's a bit restless—I'll have to fly with her after this."
"Of course," Tyrion didn't take his eyes from the dragon and only made quick glances to the parchment as he continued to draw.
"How do you guide her?" Robb asked curiously. "I saw you direct her towards the Iron Victory during the battle."
"Look for the spines at the base of her neck, just behind the frills," Jon told him, as he had to focus on his dragon. "There's a pair of them I usually hold onto when we're flying. They're flexible things—I guide her by pushing and pulling on them."
"Is that so? Fascinating," Tyrion remarked, still drawing. "I was planning on the saddle being a bit further back, but I can adjust the design to position you close to the spines, I think."
"Why further back?"
"The old Targaryen Dragon Lords directed their beasts with steel-tipped whips. They needed to be further back so the whips could strike the haunches of the dragons as they flew."
"Steel-tipped?" Robb lifted an eyebrow.
"Only way for a dragon to even feel the lash of a whip," Tyrion continued his sketch, focused even as he recited his encyclopedic knowledge of dragonkind. "The armor of an adult is too thick to be pierced by anything short of another dragon's claws or teeth. A steel-tipped whip might as well be a loving tap to them. If it actually hurt, I imagine many more Targaryens would have become food for their dragons."
"Aye," Jon agreed. "Dragons are fierce and prideful creatures. Anyone who has dared prove themselves fool enough to attack Frostfyre has found themselves turned to ash. Dothraki and Ironborn both had tried, and they have died."
Robb hummed, not doubting the savagery of a dragon's fury in the slightest. "I still cannot believe her egg was hidden in Winterfell's crypts. Which dragon sired her, again? I remember few of their names, save Balerion and one or two more."
"I can only guess which dragon was her father," his brother admitted. "The female who laid her egg was Vermax, who was sired by Vermithor and Silverwing. Silverwing was born of Meraxes, and her mate was Balerion himself, or so they say. Aemon told me a story once that Aegon the Conquerer and Queen Rhaenys bonded to their dragons because they too loved each other."
"A tale that could very well have been romanticized by centuries of time," Tyrion pointed out.
"True," Jon shrugged. "But it would make sense if Vermax was the one who laid Frostfyre's egg. Her light scales are descended from the silver females before her."
Speaking of scales…
Jon ran his hands again over Frostfyre's snout. "Lord Tyrion, are you done?"
The dragon rumbled and Robb realized she was out of loose scales that needed pulling. Her patience with them would not last long, now.
Tyrion flashed one more quick glance at the dragon's back. "It will do for now."
Jon murmured something to the dragon and then rushed off from the battlements. Robb watched as Frostfyre lowered herself back to the ground, pushing away from the wall as she waited impatiently for her Rider.
His brother took only a minute to run outside the castle walls, and the dragon bowed her body low so he could climb upon her back. Robb watched as Jon settled himself at the base of her neck with practiced ease, and Tyrion was sketching something furiously on another piece of parchment.
Frostfyre let out a scream, then took two quick steps towards the river before launching her enormous body into the sky. The pounding of her wings made deep thunderclaps, tearing through wind the way a paddle drove through water.
She turned in the air, making a wide circle around the castle, and Robb could clearly see the tiny, dark shape of his brother upon the back of the dragon. It was always surreal to watch Jon ride a creature that might as well have been a god, a force of nature given life.
Frostfyre dipped low, surging directly over Robb and Tyrion such that they both ducked and were buffeted by a blast of wind. She roared again as they flew off towards the Stone Shore. They wouldn't go far, he knew, but Jon would undoubtedly wish to let his dragon work out some of her pent-up energy with a good flight.
"There flies Aegon the Conquerer come again, and his Dread White rather than Black," Tyrion murmured as they watched the dragon and her Rider leave.
Though Robb would disagree that Jon was a conquerer the same way his ancestor had been, he did not refute his dwarf companion. His brother was carving out a place in history with fire and blood, as Targaryens always did.
And Robb would be there beside him for every battle to come.
Hunting was always easiest with the pack.
White-fur twisted his head, scenting the air as Black-fur-father let out a low rumble in his throat, his great shape padding silently through the thick woods. Smoke-fur-brother's ear twitched beside him and then a friendly snout shoved at his muzzle.
Black-fur-father twisted his head to look at them and they both hurried after him, understanding his silent warning.
This was a hunt. Not a game. Playtime was for after they had eaten.
They caught the scent of their horned prey, crept silently across the forest floor until they had them in-sight. He hung back further than his father and brother—his white fur was too noticeable to hide.
But they had no intention of hiding him.
Black-fur-father looked at him again, pale yellow eyes glowing in the dark, and his soft growl was the only command White-fur needed. He slipped away from the rest of the pack at a distance, drawing a wide circle around the herd. He took his time—even in the low light of the evening, he needed to be cautious. If he failed now, the hunt might fail.
White-fur began to slowly creep closer, belly low to the ground and silent save the rustle of his thick pelt against twigs and bushes. He placed his footsteps carefully until the herd was visible again.
He made a deliberate, low grumble that penetrated the silence of the forest. The herd's attention sharpened, ears pricked and eyes scanning, on guard for a threat.
They were focused on him. He was the distraction.
White-fur burst from the foliage with a snarl, teeth bared and tongue lolling as the herd bolted in the opposite direction, towards the thicker foliage where he could not run them down.
Black-fur-father and Smoke-fur-brother were lying in wait.
An explosion of movement and a guttural growl filled White-fur's senses, and then his nose picked up the sharp, metallic scent of blood as Black-fur-father crunched through the throat of his chosen victim. Smoke-fur-brother bit into one of the kicking back legs and White-fur leapt to join them, dragging the animal down with his added body weight as his teeth sought out the spine and neck. Blood burst hot and tangy into his mouth.
Between the three of them, it was all over in seconds.
Black-fur-father shook their prey violently, and with White-fur's grip they all heard the sharp sound of bone snapping. The legs twitched, spasmed and stiffened.
Black-fur-father let go and moved to belly of their prey, growling at the excited shape of Smoke-fur-brother to back off. He licked away at the fur, then ripped stomach open so the guts spilled out. Black-fur-father rumbled then, lifting his head to guard while his growing pups tore into the carcass.
White-fur's ear twitched as Smoke-fur-brother eagerly dove into the stomach cavity, seeking out the greatest delicacies. He settled for the huge back leg, tearing through fur and meat and muscle while Smoke-fur-brother gorged himself.
The pack would eat well tonight.
Jon awoke with a gasp, sitting up and reaching for his mouth. His tongue felt thicker than normal, the taste of blood still fresh in his mouth. The return to his waking self was disorienting, and it took him a few moments to settle down.
He'd never dreamed like that before, but he realized he must have been seeing through Ghost's eyes. Although he still wasn't as closely bonded with the dire wolf as Frostfyre, it was common now for Ghost to be with him on the ground every second he wasn't with the dragon.
When he walked through the camp, he heard "Dragonwolf" being muttered around him. The moniker suited him now in more ways than one, he reflected.
As Jon's mind calmed, he wondered if his bond with Ghost was becoming strong enough to Warg. Arya was already adept at it, albeit unpracticed. He'd spoken with uncle Ned and Robb about her abilities, and although Ned had never had such dreams, Robb had shared that he sometimes dreamed he was Grey Wind. Jon wondered if all the Stark children could be Wargs.
Apparently, that included Jon. He blinked and sighed, realizing that that was a foolish assessment. Of course he was included—Lyanna Stark was his mother, and the wolf's blood ran hotter in her than any Stark save perhaps Arya. More than that, magic flowed in Jon's veins like no one else he knew. He was descended from two ancient, powerful Houses that carried old magic in their bloodlines.
He had some experience feeling for the minds of a creature bonded to him with magic. Frostfyre's connection to him was always there, always prominent. Ghost's was new, still growing, and yet there was a…tangibility to it that wasn't present with his dragon. It was slippery when he reached for it—like grasping a ledge too round and slick to grip properly, but it was there.
Something to work on, Jon decided, closing his eyes again. He'd turned in early, meaning to get some extra sleep before he flew off with Frostfyre to scout the river system tomorrow.
Warging dreams were certainly interesting, but he was hoping for a different kind of dream that night.
As he drifted off for the second time that night, his wish was granted.
He stood this time on the deck of the poleboat they'd seen in their last dream. Jon watched as the blue-haired boy he remembered as Young Griff walked to the side of the ship, standing beside the girl—Nyssa, wasn't it? She'd been scarcely noticeable in the last dream.
He cared not for them. Jon twisted his head and there she was.
Dany was throwing her arms around him before he could even turn fully to catch her, squeezing tight and pressing their lips together in a sweet kiss.
"Missed you," he whispered.
"Mm," she hummed, nuzzling into his neck.
They were probably meant to pay attention to this Dragon Dream, but Jon needed a moment to just catch up with Dany. It had only been a moon, but still. When was the last time they'd been apart for longer than a day?
"How are you?" Dany asked.
"Doing well. We're about to move out," he confessed. "I'm flying Frostfyre along the rivers tomorrow."
"I see."
"What about you?" Jon couldn't hide the anxiety in his voice, his hand resting hesitantly upon her waist.
Her lips curved up into a smile. "It's only been a moon, Jon. It's still too early to tell."
"Oh."
"Well," she looked down for a moment and he focused on her again. "I…haven't had my moon's blood yet. That doesn't necessarily mean anything since it's not been that long, but…"
Jon took her hands in his and managed a shaky smile. "We'll know for sure next time we dream, won't we?"
"Hmm," she agreed.
"…seems to think it'll take us about a year to get to Westeros," Young Griff's voice broke their little bubble, drawing the gazes of the two Targaryens. The young man had his arms crossed and was looking out over the river as they sailed at a leisurely pace. "The Magister agrees. We'll get a better ship in Volantis and sail from there. I imagine we'll be stopping in Pentos for a short time, as well—Magister Illyrio is more at home in his manse, and he can supply us for our journey across the Narrow Sea."
"We appear to be due for a long voyage at sea, Your Grace."
Jon felt his brow rise. Your Grace? Griff was a King?
"Indeed. I am anxious to meet this Dragon King…and Princess Daenerys, of course. She was meant to become my bride before Jaehaerys Targaryen emerged with his dragon."
Dany's hand tightened in his own and Jon's eyes narrowed. Young Griff would find himself rather disappointed if that was what he was coming for.
Dany was his, and Jon was hers.
"Do you think he is truly Prince Rhaegar's son, Your Grace?" Nyssa asked, appearing curious about the prospect.
Young Griff chewed on his lip in thought. "The dragon alone is evidence enough that he has the blood of Old Valyria running strong in his veins. Of course, I cannot be certain yet that he is truly my brother, but it's the only answer that makes sense."
Jon's blood froze.
Brother?
Brother?
Dany was clenching his hand, her face pale as his own as they regarded the Young Griff with new, assessing eyes. The young man in question glanced at Nyssa with a sideways smile. "As long as he submits to my authority as the eldest son, I will welcome him with open arms into my family. The Martells might be a tougher sell on the matter, but I have need of a powerful Dragon Rider like him."
Jon was still in a daze as he listened to the boy speak. Young Griff was claiming to be his older brother, and that meant he could only be one person—Aegon Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia.
Dany's mind was whirling from the moment she woke up that following morning.
Aegon Targaryen. Was it possible? Jon had once disguised himself with that name, but could the child in question have actually survived?
But then why did the Magister keep him separate from Viserys and I if he knew about him? Dany wondered, frowning. He clearly knew about us. They had planned to wed me to Aegon…and yet I would have still been sold to Drogo before that. What purpose would that have served?
What game was the Magister playing? The thoughts that plagued her were unwelcome and made her feel somewhat ill. Dany had been a bargaining chip for Viserys to get his army, but now she suspected Illyrio had a different endgame in mind. How deep did this go?
She blinked and realized she was still staring at the furs in her hands, which she had meant to change into minutes before. She'd become lost in thought. Dany shook her head to clear the fog from her mind, but it only made her feel more uncomfortable.
She needed to eat. Her stomach was growling insistently. Dany quickly changed into her clothes for the day and made her way out of her room to join the Starks for breakfast.
Dany's mood brightened when she met Sansa and Catelyn at the table. The two youngest Stark boys and Arya were not present yet, which meant the only dire wolf was Sansa's—Lady. She was the smallest of the litter, with soft gray fur and yellow eyes.
Even so, she was still a growing dire wolf, and one that was already as big as most adult wolves found more commonly in the North.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Sansa greeted her.
"Sansa," Dany raised an eyebrow, and the younger girl flushed somewhat.
"Forgive me, it's a habit," she pursed her lips awkwardly. "Daenerys."
"It is forgiven. There is no harm done," Dany replied gently as she took a seat beside the red-haired girl. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did," Sansa relaxed somewhat. "And you?"
"Jon and I had another Dragon Dream," she admitted.
Catelyn perked up. "Oh? How is he?"
"Well. They're meant to leave Torrhen's Square tomorrow," she told the woman. "Jon's flying south along the river."
"I see. Did he say anything else?"
"Just asked how I was doing," Dany murmured. "We didn't have much time. These dreams—they're not something we get to control. They're just…they're over when they're over. We never know exactly how much time we'll have."
Catelyn nodded, but she didn't look too disappointed. They'd received ravens over the past month regarding the status of the march to come.
One of the servants came in then with plates of food, and Dany caught the scent of cooked meat.
The moment it reached her nose, her stomach twisted violently, and a merciless wave of nausea came over her so suddenly that she barely clamped her mouth shut in time. Bile stung her throat, bringing tears to her eyes as she slapped a hand over her mouth. Dany staggered from the chair, ignoring the startled calls of Catelyn and Sansa as she made her way to the privy a few rooms over, rushing for a bucket.
She hadn't eaten yet, but her empty stomach turned up bitter, sour bile, making her gag and heave and gasp. Dany shivered, her body suddenly hot and flush, and she couldn't remember the last time she felt this ill. She rarely got sick growing up—certainly never so quickly.
She felt someone gathering her hair up behind her, making it easier for her to breathe and spit out whatever was left in her mouth.
"Easy," that was Catelyn speaking calmly, a hand rubbing at Dany's back. "Let it out."
Dany squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears run down her face and drip into the bucket. She felt thoroughly gross and miserable.
It took a few minutes before she felt her stomach calm, and then someone was pressing a cup of water into her hands. She hummed gratefully, not daring to speak just yet until the foul taste was out of her mouth.
While she rinsed the taste out, Catelyn kept rubbing her back. "Was it the meat?"
Dany nodded, feeling exhausted. "I think so. The smell…"
"I know. Take your time."
She shook her head slowly. The illness was passing as quickly as it came, and she slowly stood back up with Catelyn's help, keeping the cup of water in her hands.
"I don't know what happened," Dany confessed. "I've never gotten sick like that."
Catelyn was silent for a moment. "Jon left around a moon ago, and you two were here together for a week before that, yes?"
"I think so," she couldn't imagine why that was important while she was shaking off the sudden bout of nausea. "Why?"
"When did you last have your moon's blood, Daenerys?"
Dany's thoughts ground to a halt. Slowly, she lifted a hand to her belly.
"Oh."
Notes:
Short chapter, but an important one. Didn't want to fill it with too much else.
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