CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE DRAGON III
The North and The South debate on plans. Tyrion has an idea. A gift from Benjen Stark arrives at Winterfell. Daenerys tries to unpack the web, and Robb forges the way forward. A newcomer arrives in The North.
All things considered, she doesn't think she's in much of a mood to go and try and argue with The Starks again, not after how the meeting the day before went. And so, she decides simply to not to, going out to visit the dragons in the morning, with only her Bloodriders for company. Here, she knows, she will not be disturbed, and her children have missed her, she can tell, for she has missed them herself, since they got to this frozen land that is far from what her sweet children are used to, given a youth in Essos. She is far from used to it herself.
But, as she comes back to Winterfell, she knows, with a pit in her stomach, that she cannot avoid it all forever. The Great Keep is seemingly always in eternal motion, never sleeping, never resting, not with Winter so near on the horizon. Everywhere she looks, men are training, women are bustling around, and every so often, she hears the laughter of a child and the sight of one as they round the corner. Winterfell seems so very alive, this castle in the very heart of frigid The North, surrounded by snow and the cold. Despite its place in the world, it is warm and alive.
Tyrion, of course, finds her soon after she has handed her silver off to a stablehand, who looks at her in a mix of awe and fear. She smiles at him, not missing how he ducks his head with a burning face, laughing to herself. She can see her Hand, in the corner of her eye, waiting patiently, and she glances at her Bloodriders, who await her command. She nods at two of them, Jhogo and Aggo, and says in Dothraki, "Take your leave. I will be fine." They nod at her and leave, leaving only Rakharo for her guard. He smiles without teeth at her and follows her towards where Tyrion stands.
She does not know what her Bloodriders think of The North for certain, but she's not sure they're absolute fans of the cold lands that they are currently stationed in. But they are the blood of her blood, and have followed her this far already, and will follow her to the end of the world if need be. They have been some of her longest and truest companions, and she is eternally grateful for them and their steady presence at her side. Some cold weather is not the hill they will die on.
"Your Grace," Tyrion greets her as they begin to walk towards her room and the attached solar. She nods in lieu of a reply, hearing how it makes him sigh but not finding much space in her to care. He had slipped yesterday, with what he said, and they all know it. They all also know that it did little to warm The North to any of them and that it was a setback they didn't need. She hasn't forgiven him, per se, but she understands he had good intentions, and knows that they're all feeling a little backed into a corner–The Starks, included.
They had been so very on edge yesterday, and Daenerys doubts that her Hand missed that. There are so many pieces floating around, secrets and unknowns, things that they are yet to figure out. The Starks had, for one reason or another, felt clearly backed into a corner, hence the bombshell that Arya Stark had so casually dropped on them. She is the assassin of House Frey, and she'd admitted to it with so much coldness and apathy in her tone that thinking of it makes Daenerys shudder.
They reach her solar soon enough, and she is not surprised that it looks like Tyrion asked ahead for some wine. She pours herself a drink, but only takes a sip or two from it, knowing that she needs her mind to be clear. She cannot be out here drunk, making a fool of herself and further twisting things with their Northern hosts. They are, for better or for worse, at the mercy of them so long as they are in Winterfell. Her army is not made for Winter. If they are cast out, many will die.
Tyrion watches her for a long moment, his mismatched eyes bearing into her over the rim of his cup as he takes a long sip. She does not meet his gaze, choosing rather to stare out the window near the desk, at the endless blue sky. It's not snowing today, at least, and it has allowed for her to see the endless sky that reminds her of days on The Dothraki Sea. Though, she is much colder than she ever was back then. She has come to accept that she is simply not immune to the cold and that she will have to wear quite a few layers if she hopes to be anything close to comfortable.
"They're hiding something," he finally says, and she snorts. He sighs. "Yes, I know that is very obvious to everyone, but the obviousness is telling, as is how firmly they shut discussion of it down. There is something brewing between them. Whatever it is, it's something not even Varys picked up on, which means they have gone to great lengths to keep it a secret. And yet, Littlefinger somehow figured it out. And it has sent House Stark into a tizzy. A tizzy that we can use."
"We are not here to manipulate them, and bend them to our will through it," she says thinly, glancing sharply at them. "I know that is how this is done in The South, but we are their guests here, and I would rather not be cast out to die because we made the mistake of prying into things that we have no business in. I don't deny that I would like to know what has made them so worked up, but I will not endorse any efforts to squeeze or threaten it out of them. That is not how I want to treat with them. Am I understood, my lord?"
"You are not concerned about it?" He presses, something slipping into her tone. "Arya Stark murdered The Freys. She killed Littlefinger, who suggests there is some grand design we cannot see."
"I am," she hisses, turning back to him. "But, thanks to you, we now know well enough what happens when we try to pry into any of it. She revealed herself as a threat, Tyrion. The Starks are guarding this–this grand design, as you call it–furiously, and it's not a fight I want to wage right now."
He nods, sighing heavily and taking another long sip of his drink. She curls her fingers into a loose fist on the table and tries to dispel the thoughts of how viciously angry Robb Stark had looked as he hissed his cold words out at them, the threats clear as day. Whatever it is that Littlefinger has uncovered around Lyanna Stark and who knows what else will remain unconfirmed to them, will remain guarded by The Lords of The North.
She looks at him shrewdly, seeing the look in his eyes and recognising it well enough. "Though, I doubt you are not already trying to piece it all together on your own?"
He smiles at that, a tight and almost bitter thing. "Oh, but of course. I like to know things, and I like when I figure out what others wish to be kept secret. I can assure you that Varys is doing much the same. There is much that this could be about, and all of the thoughts in my mind are far from pleasant, but all could explain, in some part, the colder edges of our Northern Lords. Lyanna Stark is, after all, as Robb said, a very tender spot for many of them."
She nods along, not sure what else to say. What is there really to say, about Lyanna Stark, coming from her mouth? She never knew the woman, and her blood lies in the hands of House Targaryen, with Daenerys's own brother. It's impossible to really say otherwise. Part of her hesitation around this all, she knows, is because it's clearly something to do with Lyanna Stark, and she knows that it will be taken all the wrong ways by The North if she tries to pry into it. Lyanna Stark; kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar. Lyanna Stark; dead in The South. Lyanna Stark, whose abduction broke The House of The Dragon once and for all.
"Just be smart," is her only warning, and she sends him a look before he can make some quip about how he is always smart or something like that. He nods at her, abstaining to her rules, and she is glad for it. He'd made a mistake when he suggested there was a debt to pay to The South in The North, and he seems to know it. He also seems well aware of the fact that he'll never be given the full chance to take back his words, no matter how much he regrets them. "They are on the edge."
He nods. "I will be as careful as I need to be," he tells her, taking one more sip of his wine before setting the cup down and looking at her with an intense gaze. She straightens slightly, raising a brow at him. "At the same time, though, it would not be a bad idea for us to start and try to make sure that House Stark doesn't turn on us. Give them some incentive towards peace."
She looks at him carefully for a long moment. There is a look in her eyes, one she doesn't think she likes all that much. Raising a single brow, she sits back in her chair, silently handing the floor back to him. He clears his throat, running his thumb over the edge of the table and meeting her eyes, as he says, "I do not think it would be…a wholly bad idea to offer your hand to Robb Stark. He is of age with you, widowed, and your marriage could bring The North peacefully back into the fold. They could even keep some titles like the Dornish did. Princes and Princesses of Winterfell."
She blinks at him, the thoughts swirling in her head. They'd crossed her mind, once or twice, as she and Robb Stark kissed and as that night devolved, but she'd known, from the get-go, that it would never be. His dowry would never be The North, and she knows well enough that The North's choices have been out of a desire for Independence from The Iron Throne in its entirety, no matter who sat upon it. They don't want to be one of The Seven Kingdoms, and if Robb Stark married her and turned his back on that, there would be uproar. Of that much, she is certain.
So, she shakes her head. "The Northmen will never accept it, any of it. Me as their Queen, as his bride, or being forced back into The Seven Kingdoms by marriage. And so, Robb Stark will never agree to the match, not by happenstance." She drums her fingers on the table. "And besides, I do not seek to make a woeful groom out of him or rid the Ladies of The North of their chances. This is not the way we will win them. We will need diplomacy."
"Perhaps you don't need to marry Robb Stark," Tyrion ventures, and she raises both brows at him when she realises what he's implying. "Jon Snow is of age with you as well, and free of his oaths to The Watch. I hear Stark has legitimised him as a second son, so there won't be as much of an uproar for you marrying a bastard. As far as everyone is concerned, you'll be marrying Eddard Stark's second son, a Prince of Winter, and a man just as respected by The North as his brother, the king, is."
"I have never held a conversation with the man!" She says with an incredulous laugh. "And I do not think The South will see his legitimisation the same way as you or The Starks might. In their eyes, I will be passing up their sons and heirs for some Northern Bastard born of an unknown tavern whore, who worships the wrong Gods, and whose only title is Lord Commander of The Night's Watch. No. I will not marry either of the Stark men."
"Daenerys," Tyrion says flatly, and she glares mulishly at him, warning in her eyes. And still, he doesn't back down. "They are both good options for marriage and for the stability of the realm. Marriage has always been used to bind people together, and I am certain, with enough hammering out of treaties, there is a way to appease the Lords of The North. You are here to be Queen of The Seven Kingdoms, and the best way to get this one is by marrying their king or his brother."
She sighs heavily, holding her face in one of her hands and glaring at the table. He makes a point, she supposes, but then she starts to think of how Robb Stark looked in firelight as he talked about the woman he loved, and it all falls apart. She will always be second to the woman he loved, always be second to The North, and she doesn't know that she will be able to stomach that. Their marriage could be happy, but she doesn't think it would be what either of them wanted, and it would chafe them raw, and with it, the realm and the ties between The North and The South.
"They'll never accept it," she stresses again. "Because it doesn't matter to them that it's a way to bring them back into the fold, because they don't want to be a part of the Seven Kingdoms anymore. It will take more than offering my hand to reverse that, and you know that as much as I do. The Northmen are stubborn, and this is, I reckon, the thing that they will hold themselves to the most. And besides, there's no time for this right now. There's a war to fight."
"And by the time this war is over, Cersei will have had months to prepare her forces, knowing that our attention is not on her. I understand that you want to focus on The Dead, and I do not blame you for that, but if you entirely ignore Cersei, The South, and what comes after this, you will pay for it dearly," he says seriously, looking at her with an intense expression that makes her stomach twist her mind pulse with a weak headache. "Cersei is…the thought of you and Robb as allies will madden and terrify her. Hearing that you are engaged will only make that worse. And we can work with that."
"We are not speaking of this right now," she hisses, resting her head on one of her hands and looking at him fiercely. He simply gives her a look in reply and she sighs, standing up and going over to the window, so she can stare at the landscape of The North beyond it, and Winterfell, as well. "Because this is not our goal, right now. There are other ways to prepare for what comes next, and you know it. Work on figuring out those before you start suggesting more marriages."
"And besides, do you think that Stark will so readily make himself a groom again?" She says with a humourless laugh, thinking of the Red Wedding and the words he'd confessed to her, right before they tumbled together and probably led to this very conversation she's having right now. You cannot stop them from slitting your mother's throat as you weep, and no matter how much you hold her lifeless body and pray to the gods who have stopped listening, you cannot give your life for the woman you love. "He doesn't love me. He will not make me his bride."
"He seemed plenty willing to fuck you," Tyrion says dryly, raising a brow at her and taking another sip of his wine when she glares over her shoulder at him.
She exhales noisily, turning back to the window. "We were both drunk, and I would hazard a guess that he was feeling incredibly lonely, given the prolonged absence he had from his siblings–thanks to the meddling of your House, I'll remind you. Just because we had sex doesn't mean he loves me, doesn't mean he'll marry me, and certainly doesn't mean he'll hand The North over to me just like that. He's not like that, I don't think."
"He is a man." She looks at Tyrion, and he just smiles. "They tend to be susceptible to a certain few things."
"I will not seduce the North out of him," she says from between clenched teeth. "There are ways to our goals, ways that avoid death and forcing a marriage upon an unsuspecting and unwilling groom. That is not my way."
"You married Hizdahr, did you not?" He points out, and she sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose as her headache gets only that much worse. "And your marriage to Khal Drogo was for the reward of something. You did not know him either, had never spoken to him–just as you have never spoken to Jon Snow. It is not out of the ordinary, is what I'm saying."
"An entirely different situation, given the fact that I did hold Mereen, and we needed to appease the former masters, and he was willing enough, in the end. And I was far from willing when it came to Drogo, and it was my brother and Illyrio's meddling that led me there." She leans against the windowsill, looking at him with a sharp expression. "There was no equal standing between me and my husband in those times. I was Hizdahr's queen, and I was Drogo's prize. Unlike them, Robb Stark is as much a King as I am Queen–no matter what excuses and reasons you can make otherwise."
He closes his mouth in an instant, looking at her carefully. For a moment, neither of them speak, until he says, "Acknowledging him as King is a slippery slope, Your Grace. It weakens your claim. Cersei has refuted both your claim and Robb's, and it would be best if you did the same to her and him. Make it clear that you are the Queen."
"I am," she says, feeling her patience shorten ever so slightly. She forces herself to take a deep breath. "With Cersei, because she sits on my throne, and she has no claim to The Iron Throne–not one that can trump mine, at least. Stark is a matter of his own, because he is a descendant of Kings, just as I am, and he is ruling his lands, and he has a crown, and the support of all his lords. They are not the same. And denying him has won us no favours, and I am not trying to let us be torn apart before the end, because I know that is exactly what Cersei wants to have happen."
He nods to that, and she feels herself heave another breath, coming back over to the desk and sitting down heavily in her chair. "I know why you press, and I know that your intentions are good," she says, looking at him with all the sincerity she can mister. He is trying to help her, she knows. "But while we are in The North, while we are their guests, we have to be careful. We have done no favours to them yet, and there is nothing we can do, I'd reckon, that will erase all the blood between House Stark and our Houses."
Stark's words ring in the back of her mind, his sneer clear as day all the same. Do I need to remind you what Rhaegar Targaryen did to Lyanna Stark? He'd hissed at them. Do I need to remind you what Joffrey did to my father? Do I need to remind you once again of how the Mad King burned Rickard Stark–the Lord of Winterfell and The Warden of The North–while his son Brandon choked himself to death in a fruitless effort to reach him? Or should I remind you of how your father murdered my mother, and my wife, and my unborn child before my eyes?
It all lies between them now, at their feet, pieces that they're trying to put back together. But she doesn't know what good that endeavour really is, in the end, not with how stubborn The North is, not with how they cling to their vengeance and their simmering grief that lies just beneath the surface. She wonders for just how long Robb had been biting back those snarling accusations before they finally came spilling out of him in a rush of furious words.
"So what do you suggest?" Tyrion finally says, sounding more weary now. She sighs, having no answer, and still, she tries to wrack her mind for one. Tries to think of how to appease The North, give them what they want, make this easy, while still finishing what she started when came to these shores with her Dothraki and her Unsullied and her Three Dragons. She is here to take back what was stolen from her House. Through Fire and Blood, if need be.
But Fire and Blood is no use against The North. It will just kill her in turn, and she thinks that's exactly what Cersei would love to see happen if given the chance.
But all the same, the chances of a repeat of what Torrhen Stark did when he saw Aegon and all his armies that fateful day are so very slim. The North is not as it was back then, with so much more on their mind, so much more to demand of The South. And as they always say, Winter is Coming. They have to be as they are, she's starting to think, from all she's learned, if they have any hope of victory. But still…if not Robb Stark, Jon Snow is her second-best option towards getting what she wants.
"We'll speak more of this later," she tells him when the silence stretches on and she finds no real answers to the questions that swarm in her mind. His lips purse and she can see how he chafes at it, but he is her Hand, and she is The Queen. His will does not outstrip hers. "I know it is not what you wish to hear, but it is for the best. We cannot be divided by anything, because that will only make us weak. And that is what our enemies want. They want us divided and afraid and paranoid. So, we will speak of this later, when the dust has settled."
She does not dare to think that they will not survive. After all, if they do not survive, none of this will matter anyway, and Cersei Lannister will have a much bigger problem on her doorstep, something that nothing in The South will be able to help her against. If they die, it all fades away. So, they either fail and die, lose to The Dead, and none of it matters. Or they somehow survive, they somehow win and pull this off, and then, and only then, they face the things they've pushed aside in the name of victory. No sooner, and no later.
He nods at her, and she sees the look in his eyes, the frustration. But he nods at her and says, "Your Grace," and leaves without another word. She stares at the closed door he leaves behind him, and tries to convince herself that this is for the best, that she is doing the right thing by pushing against his ideas. She knows he means well. It's just now what is best for any of them. If I look back, I am lost.
She inhales deeply. War and Winter are coming. The Starks are hiding something. And all of it is tied together, all of it makes this game so very dangerous, makes their world so very fraught. But if they cannot push past it, if she cannot make a decision like this and hold to it, all of them will fall. That much she knows. That and the fact that The North will be a challenge no matter what, and that finding peace with them will be far from easy. But she will be ready when it comes to pass.
But for now, she must focus on the task at hand.
—
After almost a week of nothing but war preparations and an endless stream of war planning, something new comes at last. A gift, Robb calls it with a twist of his mouth, a twist that suggests that it is possibly the furthest thing from a gift, but he has no other words to explain it. And, as Daenerys watches the stream of people that mill about the courtyard in terror and confusion, she understands the grim comment.
The Starks, as she has heard, had made orders for their Lords to start sending the smallfolk Southwards, but Daenerys knows that moving that number of people is a challenge, no matter how much your people revere you. But it would seem that with The Night's Watch truly putting their fist down, aided by The Karstarks and The Umbers–who now once more have proper lords–most people are getting the hint and moving South at long last.
Daenerys had been speaking to Sansa Stark when the horns had sounded and Winterfell was thrown immediately into chaos, and she stands next to the Lady of Winterfell as she watches over the courtyard. Robb Stark is in the middle of the throng, dressed in working clothes, helping guide people, get their accounts of what is going on, and figure out what they're supposed to do with a couple thousand more people now on their doorstep. His only raiment is his sharp crown of swords.
But still, some of his people nearly begin to weep as they see him. Daenerys catches sight of many, old and young alike, clinging to his hands, whispering words to him that are swallowed by the noise of the courtyard. But, looking at their faces, and the hope and wonder in their eyes when he crouches down to level his eyes with them, Daenerys thinks she knows what they are saying to their king.
She recalls all that her councillors said about House Stark, that first day on Dragonstone. Without saying it outright, they'd made it plenty clear that The North was deeply loyal to their Lords, and that it was for, seemingly, good reason. She watches Robb Stark as he goes around the yard, and she can see why his people revere him so, she thinks. He is a proud and young king, one that anyone can see is strong and able to lead his people through the coming war.
She looks at Sansa Stark, then, seeing a colder expression on the she-wolf's face. She is far from what she expected from Tyrion's tellings of her, this Lady Sansa Stark, but Daenerys is glad for it. There's a notable edge to the woman, something cold in her that is hard to deny or ignore. She is strong, stronger than many likely know, and though Daenerys knows that the woman has no love lost for her, she is glad that she has enough wherewithal to be able to speak to Daenerys in an even tone, and with nothing but their mutual success on her mind.
She is, as Tyrion put it, incredibly decisive when it comes down to it.
But she is also, in her own, way, a little…Daenerys is not afraid of her, no, and yet, there is something intimidating about the tall, redheaded woman who dresses in furs and leathers the colour of a stormy sky, whose eyes are somehow colder than The King of Winter's. She recalls a name that Robb told her, a name of some old Stark, when they arrived in White Harbour and he was telling her about the history of The Wolf's Den. The Ice Eyes, they called him. Sansa Stark, she thinks, could easily assume that title herself, if she wanted to, with her blue eyes.
"Why are they all coming now?" Daenerys finds herself asking as voices rise in the yard. Sansa doesn't reply, carefully watching what seems to be an argument. Robb Stark looks up at them, and when Sansa jerks her chin in the direction of the quarrel, he nods at her, squares his jaw, and starts shouting orders. The crowd breaks in an instant, and still, Daenerys almost loses sight of him as he goes off to deal with whatever matter he and his sister both seemed to notice quicker than she did.
"The Gift is run by The Night's Watch," Sansa explains, her voice deceptively soft. Daenerys recalls how it had slipped, during Littlefinger's trial, how it had become thick with anger. She knows that the woman beside her hides steel under all her veneers of politeness. "As The Watch has deteriorated, so has their hold on the lands, and the smallfolk. The closest major Houses who can be of real use, and design to as well–Karstark and Umber–help some, but the Gift lies largely in the hands of The Watch. The only Lords the people of The Gift know are them."
"The Watch has little to spare towards The Gift, with their eyes always fixed Northwards," Sansa continues, her blue eyes tracking the crowd like a wolf may track its prey, "And so, the people have become used to having no Lords, really. So, when we told The Umbers and The Karstarks to send their folk South, and they tried to help The Watch and empty The Gift, they did not listen. But it would seem my uncle has remembered the lands he now controls, and has spread an Iron Fist over them. Much to their displeasure."
They both make a face at that, looking at the faces of the smallfolk in the yard. There is a deep set wariness in them, and Daenerys does not doubt that it is, in part, due to the presence of The Unsullied and even a few Dothraki in the mix, who are helping Robb and his men categorise and organise the mass of people. But there seems to be a deeper edge to it, the tumult of emotions that comes from being uprooted from your home with no warning and little time to gather yourself.
Daenerys thinks of the House in Braavos, with the red door, and The Lemon Tree. She thinks of Dragonstone. She thinks, mostly, of Viserys, and all the dreams that turned to madness within him.
"Where will they go?" Daenerys asks, after the silence stretches on again between them. Sansa Stark's eyes flicker once to her, and then she breathes deeply, seemingly considering how to answer. As she waits, Daenerys continues to look over the people in the courtyard. Many of them are looking at her and Sansa, whispering words that she cannot make out. She wonders what they say about Sansa Stark in The North. What do they say about her, The Dragon Queen, in The North? She is under no impression that she is half as beloved as any of The Starks by the smallfolk of The North.
"South," Is Sansa's first answer, and she huffs a sort of laugh at that, her mouth twisting into a shape that is half a smile, half a grimace. "The three closest keeps are Cerwyn, Tallhart Square, and Hornwood. Cerwyn will certainly help, but the best bet for any of these people is The Neck, or White Harbour. But who knows how much time we have? And if Winterfell falls…" She does not complete the thought, but Daenerys thinks she knows where she is going.
She asked Robb Stark, when they first began to scheme in Dragonstone, why he was so very insistent that the battle should happen here, in these walls. He'd said something about Starks in Winterfell, something she knows is too deeply rooted in Northern faith and superstition for her to fully understand. But, in the two weeks that she has spent in Winterfell, she has seen some glimmer of it.
She can see its age in all its stones, in the ancient scars that mark the walls that still stand. She recalls how The Starks looked, sitting at their high table, eyes on Littlefinger, their Direwolves at their feet, hungry for blood. Arya Stark had made it clear just how different they are from anyone else, just how much their differences define them. She knows now, with a pit in her stomach, that this land is almost entirely out of her hands. Robb was not making any exaggeration when he said that this fight is bound to their blood. In fact, if he's to be believed, it's always been made by it.
It is strange to realise that the chances of getting all her dreams are slim. You can burn The North, make it Fire and Blood. And then you shall die. The North Remembers and Winter is Coming. She can picture how his lips had curled into a snarl, can recall how everything he'd built up to pretend at civility had slipped in that one moment, showing the heart of the man, the heart of the matter. He is a King, yes, but he is not a politician like the people who surround her. He is a King, made of war, and born of Winter. Just as she is a queen who was made in the pyres of the dead, born of storms.
Sansa Stark, though, perhaps is more the silver-tongued politician of The North, of House Stark. She speaks rarely in their meetings of war and spends most of them sitting in her chair, eyes trained on the maps and plans, a thousand schemes behind them. More often than not, her wolf is right beside her, her hand buried in its fur, a silent reminder of all the strength that The North has, that she has. The Starks wield their wolves well, wield them as she has learned to wield her own Dragons.
Daenerys thinks of Arya Stark, of Littlefinger's slit throat, and the confession she made. I slit Walder Frey's throat.
They knew that the assassin was likely tied to House Stark. But Daenerys doesn't think any of them ever dared to believe it was one of House Stark. Indeed, as Tyrion had mentioned, it is not the way of The North to do what she did, or so any of them know. But times are changing, and wars have the tendency to create killers and monsters out of anyone.
But then again, perhaps they are wrong about The North, about House Stark. Perhaps it is perfectly within the ways of The North to take vengeance, to do what she did, to have those cold eyes. The North Remembers. The Ice Eyes, they called him.
Daenerys doubts that Robb's comments about The Wolf's Den didn't have another motivation, that they were just a history lesson. She has seen how The North is viewed by The Lords of The South, seen how readily they are dismissed for being fools and superstitious barbarians who are half animals and have no sense of the right way of things.
Perhaps that The South has deluded themselves into thinking that The North is full of fools with no real mettle behind them, because the other option is acknowledging the strength of The North and realising just how large The Sleeping Giant is. Perhaps it is The South who has decided that delusion is better than the awful fact of the matter; The North is old, The North is strong, and they have the power to make or break dynasties.
"May I ask you a question?" Sansa Stark suddenly says, turning to look at Daenerys. She raises a brow, and when she says nothing, Sansa takes a deep breath, and asks, "What does your Hand say of House Stark? What did you know of us, before you came to these lands, before you freed my brother, before you came North? What did they say to you?"
The question surprises her, really. Looking at Sansa Stark, she gets the sense that she is well aware of what the answer will be, but what Daenerys cannot piece together is why she wants to know it. She furrows her brow at the woman and sees something spark in her eyes, like she's seeing something she wants. So, Daenerys just decides to ask. "Why do you ask, Lady Stark?"
The Lady of Winterfell's laugh is humourless. "Tyrion has known Starks for a very long time. He was married to one, prisoner to one, guest of others. And his House all saw my father as a Noble Fool. And then there is Ser Barristan, who saw my father fight, who knows the man he was, who knows, better than many that for all his nobility and silence, he was as much a wolf as any of us. And then of course, there is the fact that to many who remain loyal to House Targaryen, Eddard Stark was seen as The Usurper's dog and House Stark as traitors to their lords. So…where does that put you?"
Daenerys thinks of Viserys. She thinks of all his poison and all the things he just didn't understand, and how it doomed him, how it blinded him. Her brother was a fool. He would have probably died to a Stark or to The Seven Kingdoms at some point, with a whisper of vengeance the last thing he ever heard. He'd have tried to burn The North down and would have found himself regretting it before the end. That much, she knows.
"I heard traces of all of that, yes," Daenerys agrees, for there is no use denying it. "My brother despised your father. Tyrion said there was passion in you and that your brother, Jon Snow, was a talented fighter." Sansa smiles at that, a sharp thing that Daenerys suspects has many layers to it that are wholly invisible to her. "He said you all were nearly untouchable in The Snows, and that you all love each other desperately. He said that your brother Robb's presence in my court would draw interest. That and more."
"Indeed, we did find ourselves becoming wary when the news of his freedom came to us," Sansa agrees. "And Tyrion is not wrong to say that we love one another. My uncle rode South for his sister and would have killed your brother with his own hands if given the chance. Robb waged his war not only for the vengeance of our father, but because he knew I was in chains, and thought that Arya was too. She was free, though. I can hardly imagine what he would have done had he taken King's Landing only to find that The Lannisters had lost her." Her mouth twists into a full grimace then.
Daenerys, unable to tack on one more comment, says, "And Theon Greyjoy said…how did he put it? Oh, yes: Jon Snow is the most stubborn man I know. And Sansa is, somehow, worse."
Sansa laughs outright at that, her laughter bright and twinkling, her eyes burning with a well of emotions, notably love and joy. "Theon and Jon always competed against one another in our youths. They were always fighting for the same things–for Robb's attention, for our Father's affection, for the approval of my mother. I can hardly recall them not arguing over something any time I saw them, with one of us being forced to mediate between them so they didn't murder one another."
She smiles widely. "None of us are quite sure Theon is returning home undamaged, not with Jon in reach of him. Never mind our uncle…" Sansa laughs again, and Daenerys is glad that she seems to be joking. She doesn't really want to have to explain to Yara why her brother is dead at the hands of House Stark. Neither does Robb Stark, she would hazard a guess.
"What's this about Theon?" A voice calls from behind them. They both turn to see Robb Stark coming over to them, a smile on his face, his cheeks flushed and his eyes tired. All the same, his smile is gentle, and he comes to stand next to Sansa, his hand on the small of her back. Daenerys does not miss how she leans into her brother, how her shoulders seem to lose some of their tension, how much more at ease she seems with his arm around her, his strength at her side.
"We're just discussing the non-zero chance that Jon loses his temper and throws Theon off The Wall, or that Uncle Benjen doesn't kick him off The Wall and leave him to freeze in the snow," Sansa says.
Robb laughs sharply. "No–Benjen would just loom in the shadows and terrorise him. Jon–" he laughs again, running a hand over his mouth as he looks at Daenerys. "There was this one time when we were–oh, we couldn't have been older than five and ten. Jon and Theon got into an argument about something stupid, and then one of them threw a punch, and it devolved from there. It took our father, Rodrick, Jory, and Vayon Poole to drag them away from one another. What was the damage, again?"
"Theon broke Jon's nose, and then Jon slashed him with something," Sansa says with a long-suffering sigh, sending Daenerys a reassuring look, clearly noticing the wide-eyed expression on her face. "Don't worry, they're not like that with other people. They just…they never really got along and both could have tempers when the other got them properly worked up. And they learned their lesson, then. Our father nearly murdered both of them."
"And then he went and lectured me forever about leaving them alone with one another for an hour," Robb laments with a shake of his head. Daenerys laughs along with Sansa, who smiles cheekily at her brother, making him huff and murmur something into her ear that has her laughing again. Daenerys finds herself comforted by the fact that they can indeed smile, these cold Northern Wolves and that they haven't shut her out so much that they can't laugh around her. She wants to be their ally. Maybe not their friend, for that might not ever be in the cards, but she doesn't want the water between them to be poisoned by mistrust and mistakes.
Their eyes are on her, twin blue. And now, she wonders what they have heard of her. Did Ned Stark ever speak of her, the princess in exile with her brother who was slowly descending into madness? She knows that they have no love for House Targaryen, but where does she lie in that? She thinks of that night in her tent with Robb Stark and feels something twist low within her. A mutual mistake that means nothing more. Something that cannot mean more. There is still much to take back. A marriage to House Stark, despite Tyrion's thoughts otherwise, is not what she thinks is best for any of them.
"If you'll excuse me," she says, and they nod. They both seem so at ease, seem so comforted with one another, so far from snarling wolves.
But she thinks of the whispers, thinks of it all, thinks of Littlefinger, on his knees–I know your secret! I know what you hide from this world! About Lady Lyanna–They had so swiftly nipped it in the bud, and have refused to speak any more of it. She knows Tyrion is not wrong to think that there is something more to it, something that House Stark is hiding, but she also knows that their chances of prying into it are slim. And even if they do, who knows what The Starks will do to keep it secure?
I slit Walder Frey's throat. Arya Stark did not so much as flinch as the blood splattered over the floor, as Littlefinger choked and died. None of them did, and she knows that is because they are a cold people, because this is their way. Robb Stark spoke casually of going to executions, right before they came to Winterfell together. She doesn't know how long he's been going, but she gathers it was for a very long time. And they say Sansa Stark saw her father die. And who knows where Arya Stark went?
Brandon Stark says he can see all of the history of this world, all the blood that has been split. She reckons a guess that being able to do so makes you very far from affected by blood and vengeance. And in what glimpses she has seen of the youngest of House Stark, he has been sharp-eyed, with youth to him, yes, but an edge like the rest of the siblings as well. She can gather much about them all, and has done so over the past few weeks. Which means the only real mystery left to her is Jon Snow.
She has ended up in her room without knowing it, and once there, she breathes deeply and tries to not feel like this all is so strange and dangerous to the whole of them. It all swirls around her mind like a storm. Jon Snow's absence is notable, she feels, and his absence has permeated every meeting. The Lords of The North fill his absence well, and yet, there is the maddening feeling of being well aware that a crucial piece of the puzzle before you, a crucial part of the people you are trying to understand, is out of your hands, in cold exile at the end of the world.
They say he looks like a young Eddard Stark come again. Tyrion says he is a talented fighter. Sansa and Robb have made no effort to disguise what sounds like a burgeoning temper in his actions, a fierceness that can damage quickly and easily. He ran the second he had a chance. He escaped his oaths, and no one will say why, though it is clear that all The Starks, and indeed, many of the Lords of The North know how. Why? What is there to hide? Why hide so much from her and her people when it is clear that House Stark wants them as allies, and needs them for this war?
He'd looked at her with this…this expression, when he first saw her. His eyes were the slate grey of his sister Arya's, marked by scars that made the look in them that much more unsettling. There had been an undeniable wariness to him, and as he spoke in that first war council, he'd seemed unsettled by so many things, hanging on the edge of a knife. He'd been the one to crown Robb Stark again, his voice cold with his Northern accent, his eyes burning, sword drawn, The Valyrian Steel shining in the fiery light of the room. She cannot get the image out of her head.
Try as she might, she gets no answer to her questions, no reprieve from all the curiosities of what is going on without her knowing. She feels like she is going insane, running through all of these messy thoughts, trying to find some reason, some throughline, between them all, though she knows it is a fruitless endeavour. The North will keep their secrets. And she has no way of warming them without death. A horn sounds through the keep again, and she sighs, squares her shoulders, and goes back out.
She comes upon Ser Barristan as she enters the courtyard, and he looks glad to see her. Grey Worm, Jorah, and he had been ordered by her to help with The Smallfolk, and her Bloodriders had left that morning with a contingent of Northmen to survey the fields and continue to work on battle plans. She'd felt safe enough with Sansa Stark and the guards who shadowed her, but then she'd abandoned them for her room, and–well, she can guess why he looks so relieved to have eyes on her again.
"What is it?" She asks as they come up to a collection of large wagons, the contents covered by white canvas. He just gestures to it, and she steps forward, pulling back the canvas to see piles of black glass staring back up at her. Dragonglass, she thinks, and a smile stretches slowly across her face, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. She replaces the canvas and turns to Ser Barristan. "They have been hard at work on Dragonstone, I see. Is this all of it?"
She'd placed him in charge of this, a job he'd readily accepted, with the help of some Northmen. "It's what they've gathered so far. Their estimates say it's enough for a third of the army. They're going rather quickly, all things considered, and are doing all that they can to get Dragonglass as quickly as possible. This will certainly only be the first shipment." She nods along, and sees Ser Barristan straighten, looking behind her.
It's Robb Stark, again. He's unchanged from when she last saw him, only a little bit ago, except for the fact that his wolf is behind him again. He sniffs at the dragonglass as Robb comes to them, nodding at her before addressing Ser Barristan. "This is the first shipment?" He asks, humming when the knight nods. "Good. Arya will be back from Cerwyn tomorrow, and I'll see if she wants to help with overseeing this and organising the smiths. Give her something to do. For now, I'll have the men start getting it unloaded and organised for The Smiths."
Ser Barristan nods at both of them, bowing slightly and saying, "Your Graces." And then he turns on his heel and starts shouting orders. Robb turns to her without a word, and raises a brow, as if to say shall we? She nods, and then they are walking. To where, she does not know for certain, but she trusts Robb Stark enough to know that he is not leading her to a dark corner to be murdered. And with his wolf lopping behind them, she knows she is as safe as can be in the keep.
They end up on a walkway, overlooking one of the courtyards, which is full of soldiers training. His eyes track the movements for a moment, and she finds herself watching the steel as it glints in the daylight, as it slams against wooden shields, the shouts of the master-at-arms filling the air. The snow falls around in dizzying circles, and she knows that the men in the yard must be Northmen, for they move with it easily, seemingly not bothered at all by the weather. Stark doesn't even look cold, though he is wearing at least a layer less than she is.
"I know that there are things you want to know from us," he suddenly says to break the silence, his eyes trained away from her, sharp and dark. "I know you know that there are things we are keeping from you. And I will not apologise for doing so. But know that it isn't a matter of you . It's a matter of safety, of not doing things at the wrong time…One of the women of the Household when I was growing up was a woman known as Old Nan. She'd been here as long as anyone could recall. She used to say that some things were best left till summer." He smiles softly, sadly.
"What are you afraid will happen, if these secrets come out?" She challenges, watching how his expression pinches, watching how his eyes darken and narrow into slits. A cold gale blows through the yard, and still, he doesn't even shiver in the biting cold. "I will not pry, because I know I will get no answer out of you even if I try, but is this a matter of trust?"
"Everything is a matter of trust now, Daenerys," he says, still not looking at her. His voice is soft, his accent making the words dance. "I don't know what will happen, and that is what I am afraid of. Some things in this world are larger than any of us could have imagined, go beyond anything we were ever told. Trust is a fickle thing, and it doesn't come easily to me or my siblings anymore." He turns to look at her then, his blue eyes sharp, freezing her where she stands. "You understand?"
"I suppose I do," she says, crossing her arms over her chest, and thinking of everyone who has ever betrayed her, all the ways she's learned the cruelty of the world. She remembers the scars on Robb Stark's chest, the wounds of The Red Wedding. She has her own scars, but none like that. He knows betrayal intimately. She cannot expect him to so easily recover from it. "What's it your people say? The North Remembers?"
He laughs hollowly, hands tightening on the handrail. "Aye. It's our way of understanding things, I think, our way of threatening The South. It's been a very long time since The North has been feared by The South in truth, a long time since they knew to fear us. But as long as we remember that we are strong, as long as we remember all the times we have made The South kneel, made them afraid, we will be fine. The South has forgotten already. And that makes us stronger than them."
"What are you getting at?" She says flatly. Tyrion had said that Nortmen were straight to the point, and here stands their king, circling around some vague concept as easily as a bird circles its prey. Robb's smile sharpens, and she will never not be shocked at how wolfish he looks, especially now that he wears a crown of steel swords on his brow, now that he looks so much more like a King.
"The South has rejected us, forgotten who we are. They are not told the stories of Stark Kings, not told stories of The Others. They do not whisper of Cregan Stark anymore, and know little of The Hungry Wolf. Sansa asked you what you knew of The Starks because she wanted to see if there is anyone in this world who understands what The North is. We are the oldest of the Seven Kingdoms, and we have patience that cannot be matched." His eyes meet hers. "Do you not think that is an advantage in a war such as the one Cersei wants to wage against our Houses?"
"Are you saying that I need you?"
"In the War for The Dawn, yes," he says plainly. "In the War for The Throne–who knows? All I am saying is that The North has a lot of reasons to hate The South, has a lot of reasons to want to see it bleed, to see Cersei bleed. All I am saying is that Cersei sees no distinction between the two of us, and that she is too big of a fool to know that The North despises her and that we will see her destroyed if we wish it to be so."
"You said that your men would never fight for me," she says, carefully, evenly, not wanting to face his stroking temper as Tyrion did when he suggested a debt. "Said that your men would never bleed for me, not unless I proved myself worthy of it." But had he not also said that… Perhaps, when all is said and done, The Crowned Direwolf will fly beside you, and together, we will destroy House Lannister.
"And they might not. You might not earn it for most of them," Robb says with a shrug. "I will not ever order my men to bleed for The South, and I would warn you against trying to make them. But when Winter passes over these lands, and The War for The Throne begins, do not be surprised if Northmen ride beside you. Not for you, not to see you on The Throne, but simply to answer for all the atrocities The South has done against us. Much of The North despises The South. There will be some who will ride if it means justice is delivered, regardless of what side they are on."
"I know you do not want to bend the knee," she says, and though it hurts, she pushes past it. He presses his lips together and nods. "I know you are hiding things from me for a reason. And I know that both of those chafe against me. But you said it well enough. None of it matters, when The Dead come for us. I will admit that I want The North, I want The Seven Kingdoms…but not at the cost of peace, at the cost of life. Not at the cost of losing this war because I was a fool, and could not fathom a different way."
He breathes deeply, his eyes haunted and dark as he watches the men fight. "And I am grateful for that, truly, grateful that you can do that. I know that you don't like that I'm a king, and perhaps don't even really like me all that much. I haven't been wholly kind. But kindness doesn't win wars, doesn't make any of this right, not in Winter. The strong survive The Cold, and the weak die." She nods along, remembering something he said to her on Dragonstone. But I do not like you, I do not trust you, and I sure as hell do not know you.
Things have changed since he said that, no doubt. He's grown somewhat more genial, somewhat less sharp. But that doesn't mean that the vicious man she first met is gone. His outburst toward Tyrion proved that. He, like her, has just come to understand that the war they fight right now is larger than anything else. It is larger than The Iron Throne, it is larger than the blood between their houses, larger than her hopes and her dreams. Banners do not matter, she said, when she made her decision.
She at least knows that she is different from Viserys in this matter. He'd have screamed and demanded and probably ended up dead in the snow because he sent The Dothraki North, with no idea of just how dangerous they really were. He always thought that he was untouchable, that the Blood of The Dragon made him above all else, even death. Drogo proved him wrong, in the end, and he died screaming for her, screaming for a mercy that would never come. She still misses him, misses who he was. But she is glad that he is not here to destroy them and learn that House Targaryen can be broken.
The Baratheons and The Starks proved that once. They broke the House of The Dragon and did it with more ease than they once would have been able to. And yes, she can burn out The North, make another Harrenhall out of Winterfell, if things go South. But she does not have the temperament to rule the North herself, and The North will never accept her. She can destroy The North, but conquering it through Fire and Blood will just spell the doom of perhaps The Whole of Westeros. I am not here to be Queen of The Ashes.
"We've both made mistakes," he says, turning to face her fully. She straightens as he does, her eyes locked on his. He is handsome, truly handsome, and she knows that if she married him as Tyrion suggests, she could perhaps be happy. But she does not know that The North will be happy, or that he will be happy. She's seen how happy he is here. She knows his heart belongs here, to his House. "But that does not mean that we cannot work together. I ask you to trust me, Daenerys Stormborn. Trust me and stand beside me."
He offers his hand. And she can't help but wonder if he suspects Tyrion's suggestion, if he suspects what advice she is being given by her own council of Southerners and a lone traitor to The North. She wonders if it is on his mind as well, as he thinks about their drunken mistake, thinks about the words they whispered and the warmth of that night. She wonders, and she wonders, and she wonders, with no voice to answer her questions. She knows that this will not fix everything, but she doesn't want to fear them. They are the only allies she has here, and he is, despite it all, her only equal.
So, she takes his hand and shakes it. His hand is warm, and calloused, his eyes sparkling, his crown saying more for him. She knows she must look much the same, as proud and tall in her crown and in the black and red of her house as he is with his own crown and his ice blue eyes. A King and a Queen, and an understanding between them at last. Winter on the Horizon. Wars to wage and battles to win. Vengeance to be had, fires to ignite. Their futures lie ahead.
But now, at least, they face them together.
—
Sansa Stark finds her again the next day, her wolf ever in her shadow, and her eyes like storms. Daenerys does not know fully how power has been distributed amongst the heirs of House Stark, for many have called Robb Stark The Lord of Winterfell, and yet it is Sansa Stark who seems to be really running the keep as its Lady. She doesn't doubt that they're mutually exclusive, but still, it is a curiosity that hangs ever in the back of her mind.
That, and nearly everything she knows about the woman beside her. There are whispers–there are always whispers about women like them–about marriages, about dead husbands, about a whole host of things. And there is all that Tyrion said to her about his former Lady wife, who he said was not a born liar, but brutalised by The South and my nephew. But since she has gotten here in The North, she has seen that much clearer, seen how much this Winter and this world has shaped The She-Wolf.
But all the same, Sansa is…Daenerys hesitates to call it kind, for she can sense well enough that the woman trusts her little, but she is polite, collected and well-mannered, having never bared her teeth fully at Daenerys. A true Lady in all the ways that matter. She knows not to trust it fully, knows that Sansa Stark is not one she should readily dismiss for her ladylike ways, ignore because it is easier to see her as docile and weak rather than one of the most dangerous women in this game. And, yet, at the same time, Daenerys finds that Sansa might be one of the only women who could truly understand her, and what she has suffered at other's hands.
The whispers are growing. She'd said nothing of what Varys had sung to her when Sansa had asked, for it did not need saying, and Sansa had asked of what Tyrion had said and what she knew prior to her coming to Winterfell, not what she had learned since then. And besides, she does not think Sansa would be in any mood to hear how Daenerys's Master of Whispers has sung songs about marriages and the pain of it, even if Sansa had spoken of it a little in Littlefinger's trial.
"Lady Stark," Daenerys greets her as she comes to stand next to her. Her wolf–Lady, if Daenerys recalls correctly–sniffs curiously at her, and she smiles a little, offering her hand. The wolf gives it a curious look, and when Daenerys glances up at the woman beside her, she is smiling, ever so slightly, looking at her wolf with a burning love that seems nearly out of place on the face of this cold woman of winter. Winter's beauty, some call her, this woman whose hair is the colour of weirwood trees, her eyes like ice.
"Your Grace," Sansa replies, turning her eyes over the courtyard. Daenerys has taken to watching the comings and goings of the people, stewing in the well of thoughts that seem ever ready to consume her. She sees Sansa doing much the same, sometimes, though there is a far more haunted look in her eyes when she does. "I apologise for the suddenness of my appearance, but I wish to speak to you."
Daenerys looks at her in sudden interest. The Lady of Winterfell is taller than her by perhaps half a foot, as with most of The Starks–or, indeed, most people. It does not bother her, for she is used to it, and still, sometimes it feels strange with these hard-eyed Northmen, who seem as tall as The Wall and greater still. Sansa's eyes twinkle a little, but the smile she gives her is just sad enough that it makes Daenerys's interest only deepen.
Sansa looks away from her, her eyes tracking someone's movements. Daenerys tries to follow, but there are far too many people in the yard, and she does not know any of them well enough to know who Sansa would pick out among them. Beside her, Sansa Stark's voice rings clearly, "I have heard that you were married, twice. As was I. We are women alone in Westeros. Cersei…I know her better than I like. And my eyes are not as blinded by love as your Hand's are."
"I do not think I would call what Tyrion feels love," Daenerys says softly. But then she thinks of Viserys, and the aching wound he left behind, the well of love that had very nearly run dry but the end, but had not been made barren yet. She still loves her brother…loves the man he used to be, that is. Not the man he became, who was blinded by delusions and the madness he had not the strength to fight. Her brother deserved better. Her brother is dead.
Sansa Stark makes a noise at that, a smile playing on the corner of her lips. "I loved Theon, in some sense of it, even after he took Winterfell, and he said that he killed Bran and Rickon. I loved him, and that is what made his betrayal ache so deeply. He was our brother, and we loved him, as much as we knew how to, and then…" she trails off with a darkening look and then turns to Daenerys. "I know what they whisper. You heard what I said to Baelish. I have been an unwilling bride twice." She sends her an intentional look.
Daenerys feels a smile, soft and gentle and real, come across her face, understanding blooming between them. We are women alone in Westeros. She found companionship with Robb Stark as rulers, as young monarchs trying to make a better future for the lands they love, but perhaps she could find some company with Sansa Stark as well, the bride of many a man. "As have I. Both were for power, and though the first was worse, and I chose the second, neither were happy marriages. I suppose the same could be said for you, couldn't it?"
"Tyrion and I never consummated our marriage," Sansa says with a slight smirk, "Despite that being the essence of it. Get an Heir to Winterfell off of me, have some half-bred Lannister-Tully-Stark child rule The North, as if that would ever be accepted by The North, especially once I was killed following the fulfilment of my duties. The second…" A chill seems to come through the air, and Lady whimpers softly, pressing closer to her owner. Sansa looks at her critically. "What has Theon told you of Ramsay Bolton?"
"Nothing."
Sansa seems far from surprised by that, exhaling noisily and watching the courtyard again for a moment, her eyes a thousand miles away. She says, with a hint of rawness in the back of her voice, "Then I will not speak for him, speak to all of it. But he was my second husband, and far from a good one." She snorts, her lips curling into a grim smile. "Rape, beatings, all of it. He enjoyed pain and enjoyed breaking people wholly in two. I was his bride, the key to securing The North. And then I ran away to my big brother, who Ramsay had foolishly told me was Lord Commander of The Night's Watch. Someone with the power to protect me."
And Daenerys can see it. A glimmer of hope, a promise of safety, just within reach. She does not know exactly how long it is from Winterfell to The Wall, especially with Winter, but she does not doubt that it is doable, with some luck and good timing. Who wouldn't run to the safety of someone they love, given the chance? Who wouldn't run to the arms of something as tangible as a big brother?
"Jon Snow?" She asks, and Sansa nods. Daenerys plays with one of her rings, glancing up at the endless blue sky. "My brother was never half as kind. The fall of our House broke him, and the long years we spent on the run destroyed whatever kindness was left in the wake. He was the one who helped broker my match to my first husband, Khal Drogo of The Dothraki. A warlord with more horses to him than anyone else. Dead on The Dothraki sea to an infected cut, the magic of a woman, and me." Sansa looks at her in sudden interest. "I smothered him to give him some peace."
"I fed Ramsay to his dogs," Sansa replies. And Daenerys recalls hearing that, recalls Tyrion telling her that. Even still, the shudder runs through her, imagining the screams. "He had not fed them in seven days, prior to Jon and I's arrival at Winterfell. His plan was to…if I recall correctly, to feed Rickon to them, have his soldiers rape me, all before Jon. And then, only then, would he kill him, using the dogs again. It was him, in the end, who met the dogs. They have no master when they are hungry."
"Tyrion heard whispers of that," Daenerys tells her, feeling her heart skip a beat as Sansa tilts her chin up, a strange light in her eyes that makes fear and wariness take root in her. "Said that you fed the man to his own dogs, and let your Direwolf do the rest." She glances at the wolf, then, sitting beside her master, unassuming if but for her size and the fact that she is still a wolf.
Sansa laughs outright at that, a harsh sound that seems to escape her before she can contain it. There is a wild light in her eyes as she says, "I did not feed him to Lady. He is not good enough for the likes of her, even if I know that my wolf, and my sister's, have often feasted upon the flesh of unsuspecting travellers. They were the bane of Lannisters in The Riverlands, I hear, they and the pack they found once they were separated from us."
Her smile drops at that, her eyes dark and far away. Daenerys does not pry into that, unsure as to how to really do so. She can hardly imagine being separated from her children, and from all she has heard, the bond between The Starks and their wolves is much the same, if a little deeper. They are one in the same, some say, wolf and person, Stark and Direwolf. Indeed, the only time any of them seem to be bereft of their wolves is when they are out hunting, or with one of their other siblings, for whatever reason. They are their constant shadows, like her dragons used to be, when they were smaller.
So, all she says is, "I'd reckon that Cersei is rather terrified of the fact that I am here, beside you and your House. From what I hear, she still thinks you murdered her son. Did you?" She looks at Sansa with a smile that she hopes makes her joke clear, and Sansa's clear blue eyes say enough for her, even before she smiles and shakes her head, in on the joke. "Well, that is good. All the same, I find myself hoping that Cersei is afraid of this, afraid of us. We are women shaped by the world, as is she. I'd dare say we can understand her better than some of the men and soldiers we surround ourselves with."
"My brothers are not politicians, neither is my sister, for that matter," Sansa says. "I learned from Cersei, and much like Littlefinger, she has no thought in her mind towards the idea that her lessons and her ways could possibly be turned against her. She thinks because she holds The Iron Throne, she is untouchable. But that has not stopped House Stark before. Aegon II, with Cregan, and perhaps even your father with mine, though…" she trails off, eyes turning away.
This time, Daenerys does see who Sansa is glancing at in the yard. The tall blonde woman, Brienne of Tarth, Daenerys thinks her name is. She has not spoken to the woman, but she seems to be some sort of sworn shield for both Stark girls, and Daenerys has glimpsed her training in the yard many times. Most often with Arya Stark, but she's even gone a few rounds with some of the other great fighters of The Keep. Jorah and Robb, most notably, and each had been a brutal fight. She'd won against Jorah. She'd barely lost against Robb...and she does not know if that was on purpose, to make the King's image that much better.
But Daenerys wonders, all the same, why Sansa Stark turns her eyes to Brienne of Tarth, when speaking of The Rebellion? She frowns at the woman, feeling something tug at the back of her mind, though she knows for a fact that she is missing most of the pieces. Sansa's eyes flicker to her, and Daenerys can see how she pushes it aside, her shoulders squaring a bit and her expression shifting just a degree colder.
They are alike, yes, in that they are women shaped by this world, who have been beaten and used by it. But some crucial distinctions still lie between them, and while Daenerys knows she cannot let them destroy them all, they still linger, and they still need knowing. Sansa Stark is, at the end of the day, a woman of The North, who has no love for House Targaryen and has no want of a Queen. She has been very quiet in all the meetings, but Daenerys knows there is more to her than that. But, she thinks, if she can at least find some common ground with Sansa Stark, all this will be easier.
And they have. There is some mutual understanding in between them now, a recognition of the experiences that they have shared, and the fact that they have crawled their way up to where they are. So, now, it comes back down to business and the making of the world, the nature of this game they play.
"How would you try and win against Cersei?" She asks, hands on the railing of the shaded walkway they stand in. She hears Sansa take a deep breath beside her, and when she glances at the woman from the corner of her eye, she can all but see the thoughts and schemes spinning around in the back of her mind. Tyrion is clever, yes, but Sansa Stark seems sharp in a way that cannot be denied.
"Use what she loves," Sansa finally says. "Power. Herself. She has this idea, I think, that because she sits on the Iron Throne, she is the Queen of all, and that she does not have to work for any of it. She wants the crown, she wants the titles, and nothing to do with the actual work. Ruling is not easy, and she is a player of the game, yes, but she is not a ruler. She thinks of herself as her father come again, but she is not. She could not save her sons, her daughter, and that chafes her raw, for it reveals her weakness. I'd dare say that the realm is in shambles, more than she has let spread."
"With Winter here, I'd agree," Daenerys says, furrowing her brow as she thinks of something. "Did you ask for her aide in the fight?"
"No, Winterfell hasn't," Sansa says with a snort. "For we knew that it would only enrage her. My uncle, however, has, I believe. He wrote to every House that The Watch could find and prove the continued existence of, begging for help, begging for arms and men. She has doubtless heard his plea, but no one has been spotted. Cersei is not coming to aid us, and I find I have little want for her help. She will send men, and amongst them, there will doubtless be some assassin, with plans of the grandeur he will get for killing the Stark King and Targaryen Queen who she knows will soon come for her."
"If she was smart, she'd be sending her men Northwards to prepare for when our armies turn Southwards," Daenerys says, and again, Sansa Stark snorts.
"If she was smart, yes. I don't doubt that someone will eventually run the idea by her and she'll do so, calling it her idea from the start, but we have eyes on The Neck, eyes on The South. No one knows The Neck half as well as The Crannogmen, and we have made sure that they are keeping careful watch of the comings and goings of The Neck. Nothing will slip by us, not that way, at least. And The Manderly's are watching the shores."
Daenerys thinks of Yara Greyjoy, who spent only a day in Winterfell before going westwards, to meet with those loyal to her, and start her retaking of The Iron Islands. She has heard nothing from The Ironborn Queen, but she has no fear for her. Yara is a talented woman and knows how to play it safe, as well as knowing when to go all out. That, and Daenerys has little space left in her mind for thoughts of The Iron Islands right now, with The Starks as they are, and Winter drawing nearer. Their uncle had said that there were less than three months till the end. It's already been half a month.
"There is still a chance of someone slipping by," Daenerys says carefully, for she knows that insinuating that The North cannot patrol its own borders could very well end badly. They are walking on eggshells around each other, both sides, wary of the secrets held by one and the power that lies behind the other.
"There is always a chance of that, given The North's size," Sansa says, crossing her arms over her chest and drumming her fingers over her arm as she continues to think. "But Winter is here, and that is our best defence, at the end of the day. And if Cersei hopes to send an assassin, there are always our wolves, and we are not fools enough to leave them locked away, not anymore. My elder brothers learned their lessons the hard way, and we have all learned from them." Her smile is a wane thing.
And oh, how Daenerys wants to ask. The North has been bled raw by this world, and she thinks of the sight of Eddard Stark's two eldest standing together at last. Robb Stark, with his ruddy looks, the scar on his jaw, and his kingly makings. She has seen the rawness of him, seen the sharp edges he hides, edges possessed also by Jon Snow, but far from hidden. He'd been a dark shadow against the snowy world, with his Stark looks and the oaths he'd made. The Young Wolf and The White Wolf, sons of The North, fighting ever for it.
But I am not that boy anymore; I am free of my oaths, a free and reborn man who stands in this hall before you, Jon Snow had said. None of it makes sense beyond the barest shape of it. They have both been betrayed, she is starting to think, reshaped by the forceful hands of this world and powers beyond them. All of House Stark has. Cold-eyed Sansa Stark with her lady's temperament that hides the steel underneath. Arya Stark, who sheds blood with ease and smiles like a madman and takes her vengeance cleanly and easily. Brandon Stark, a hundred miles away, all-knowing and great.
And even the youngest one, Rickon Stark. She has glimpsed him, in the shadows with his wolf, a little boy with far more innocence to him than his siblings, but no less Northernness for it. The Northmen call him The Pup, and he seems to be ever-moving through the world, young and bright, the hope left to them. She knows little about him beyond the fact that, despite his youth, he is not untouched by this world. He will grow up to be much like his older siblings, she thinks.
The Starks of Winterfell are curious indeed. No immediate cousins are to them, so much of their line having been wiped out in The Rebellion and the wars and Winters that led up to it. These six, along with their uncle, are all that is left of The Mighty House Stark. And she…she is all that is left of The House of The Dragon. Perhaps there is some understanding to be had there, perhaps that is why kinship keeps running between her and The Starks, no matter how much any of them dislike it.
"Betrayals are a good lesson," She finally says, and Sansa nods. "They have taught me to be who I am today, and I am better for them. And yet, some of them still ache, still bleed." She has taken Jorah back, and forgiven him, but nothing will undo the realisation of how deeply he'd betrayed her since the very start. And she has seen him with his House. She knows that he is far from being forgiven by everyone.
Sansa Stark does not ask for clarification, just as she didn't. The wind runs through their hair, cold and demanding, impossible to ignore. Sansa stands tall in it, seems strengthened by the gale, and seems better for it, her hair dancing like a flame when caught in the wind. Daenerys just feels cold, but she does not grieve the fact that she is not like the woman beside her. She is The Blood of The Dragon, The Blood of Old Valyria, and her strength is in fire and heat, the fury of an inferno. The Starks are Ice to her Fire, and that is how it is.
Daenerys breaks the silence again. "Do you think that they can hold it? What do you think will happen to your brother and your uncle and Theon Greyjoy when The Night King comes? I do not ask to make you fear, but simply to know what comes next for us. I want to understand what chance we have against this."
"We have whatever chance we make for ourselves," Sansa says, her voice even and her eyes cold. "I trust in Jon, Theon, and Benjen though. Jon is not one to readily abandon a fight, and Benjen will hold The Wall until he absolutely cannot. They are stubborn, all three of them. It is what makes them who they are, what has helped keep them alive this far. My uncle spent nearly three years beyond The Wall. My brother has seen The Night King. And Theon knows pain well. And yet, they all still live."
"I hope I get to meet your uncle and brother properly," Daenerys tells her, and she does not miss the expression that flashes, for just a heartbeat, across Sansa's face. It is not panic, no, but something close to it, mixed with worry born of love. She notes it, but says nothing of it, continuing without missing a beat. "They are spoken well of by Northmen. I know your brother is called The White Wolf, and I have heard many names like that for your Uncle. It seems to be a trend."
"Aye, it is," Sansa agrees. "During the rebellion, Benjen was called the young pup, much like my brother Rickon is now. My father was the Quiet Wolf of The North, and my uncle Brandon was known by many as The Wild Wolf for his more reckless habits. There is a long tradition in House Stark of being known as some sort of wolf." She tilts her eyes towards Daenerys. "As with the rest of Westeros, with their own sigils."
"I remember once, a man named Ilyrio from Pentos talked about it to me," Daenerys says, recalling the magistrate of Pentos with a lurch. "He said that the Westerosi think that just because they sew an animal onto a banner it makes them that. Perhaps that is true, for those of other houses. But for Starks and Targaryens, I'd reckon it is rather different." She sends an intentional glance towards Lady, one that makes Sansa Stark smile, a so very dangerous and a so very wolfish smile. "I'd say he knew little of what he was talking about."
"Indeed," Sansa Stark agrees.
—
Winterfell seems always consumed by the snow and storms, much like Dragonstone. But instead of rain, rolling thunder, and flashing lightning, these storms are the blinding ones of snow, so thick that they can hardly be seen through. At least the floors of Winterfell are heated, so she hasn't completely frozen to death yet.
The one that rolls through as she wakes up, a few days since she spoke with Sansa, is not all that bad, considered. She's heard of much worse, and she can actually see outside of her window. When Missandei helps her with her braids, she says that she heard some of The Northern Ladies say it was a good sign from The Gods. Daenerys doesn't know about The Gods, but she's at least glad that Winterfell hasn't been wholly swallowed by the snow. She hopes her children are well, at least, and promises herself she will see them today, and perhaps go on a ride with Drogon.
Neither she nor Missandei say much as they get ready, at least at first. They're all exhausted from the hours on end they've been spending planning and scheming and trying to prepare for what comes next. Last night alone, she and her council had spoken themselves, about a whole host of assorted things, and their business had kept them up almost to the hours of ghosts. She knows her exhaustion shows if one looks hard enough, but also that much is true for everyone.
"You are well?" She does ask her friend, though. They've had little time to themselves since getting here, with Daenerys trapped in the endless stream of meetings. Missandei accompanies her to most, but not all of them, and she knows that she's spending much of her free time trying to get to know The North better, or with Grey Worm when they both have the time. Quietly, Daenerys considers if it would be a good idea to organise for them a day alone, so they can relax. She's sure with Missandei's help, they could get him to go along with it as well.
"Yes," she says with a smile. "The Ladies of The North are quite kind, once I have gotten to know them. They all seem very curious about Essos and Slaver's Bay and listen intently when I tell them what I know of different places. In turn, they give me stories of The North. The tales are rather grim, with many people dying in them, but that seems to simply be normal to them. I've heard tales of Rat Kings, heroes from other times, and giants!"
"Any of them particularly good?" She asks, a smile playing on her lips. Missandei laughs as well, her eyes bright and warm. Daenerys is glad for her, so glad that she does have a real friend in these times. She thinks that she'd have failed a long time ago without her strength ever at her side.
"Yes," Missandei says, "Though I couldn't do any of them half the justice they deserve. The Northmen tell them better, doubtless. I'd go to them for the stories." They both laugh at that, and Daenerys thinks of how absurd that would probably look–a Queen, going to the women for some children's tales because she is curious! She is doing her best to understand The North, but not at the cost of her image–for she knows that doing so would be seen as strange to many.
They lapse into comfortable silence as Missandei finishes braiding her hair. Daenerys takes the moment to breathe deeply, to settle her heartbeat and remind herself what this is all for. She's taken to doing so every morning, so she makes sure she never forgets what she is here for, what her goals are in The North. The world is fraught as is, and her eyes must stay clear if they have any hope of victory.
She thinks of the wight, screaming and burning, how the flames danced across Robb Stark's hair, how his eyes had been narrowed and unreadable as he watched the thing's arm burn. She thinks of Beric Dondarrion, his one good eye bright with mania, his conviction sure, and his balls large enough that he could look her in the eye and do what Kings would not and beg for help, for there is nothing left to him that he can lose in doing so. She thinks of Winterfell, a silent titan on the horizon.
Other thoughts creep in, unbidden. Robb Stark's scarred chest, his bright eyes, his smile, the way his hands felt against her skin, the night they spent together. Jon Snow's dark eyes, and the way he'd looked at her. Again, she thinks of Tyrion's proposition and Mirri Maz Duur's words, her promise that has proved true thus far. Nothing can come of that night, nothing should come of it, but it is a warm and nice memory against so much blood and death. A single night of comfort, of companionship, of looking into someone's eyes and seeing herself reflected back in them for the first time.
Brandon Stark's words ring in the back of her mind. We are more alike than I think either of our Houses like to say. And indeed they are. For all the treachery and the violence that has been put on them, but the violence they have reaped as well. Other memories rise to her mind. Burning men. Robb Stark, astride his horse, covered in blood, a wild look in his eyes, The Young Wolf in his element. The Masters, crucified as they did to those they put in chains. Grey Wind, the king's wolf, his snout dripping red, and the screams of those who died under him.
"Daenerys?" Missandei calls, drawing her out of her stupor. She blinks and meets her friend's eyes through the mirror before them. Missandei's face twinges with sympathy as she sees her face, and she rests her hands on Daenerys's shoulders, crouching down so their heads are even with one another. Daenerys reaches up to rest her hands over Missandei's, and she takes a deep breath as her friend says, "You are alright. This will all work out. We will finish what we have started."
"I believe that too," she says, her voice soft, "But it is hard to see the way, sometimes. I am surrounded by strangers and many people I hardly know, and who hardly trust me. My own Hand plays his own game, and this keep we are in is ruled by a House that will not readily forgive all that has ever been done against them. Cersei sits pretty on my throne, and doubtless is trying to find a way to put a knife in my heart and all the Starks as well, for she will not have any threat to her power."
"We have gotten this far," Missandei reminds her, hugging her shoulders and resting her chin on the top of Daenerys's head. "We took Slaver's Bay, made it into Dragon's Bay. We came to Westeros, took The Rock, and tangled with The Lannisters when they tried to take Old Town and The Reach in force. And now, we sit in the heart of The North, thousands of soldiers with us, ready to face the next enemy. That means something, does it not?"
"I suppose so," she agrees with a heavy sigh, her heart growing heavy. It is all so strange, right now, fraught and confusing, and she finds herself lying awake at night, mind alight with a thousand possibilities and wonderings as to what comes next. There has still been no word from The Wall, and she knows that The Starks are chafing at the edges, wondering at where their brother could be, wondering at what is happening at the last defence. "I just cannot help but worry, help but fear the coming storm."
There is one true constant she has learned: Winter is Coming. Winter is always Coming.
Missandei does not have a carefully-said reply this time. She just sighs heavily and hugs Daenerys a little tighter. She hangs her head, resting her hands on her friend's arms around her shoulders and neck, and matches her breathing to hers. In her ear, Missandei whispers, her voice burning with all the love and sincerity that seems to exist so fully in her, "I have full faith in you. You know I always have." She can hear her smile. "Stormborn."
They call her Stormborn for the storm she was born in, the one that shook the world in its wrath and its fury. A storm is coming, one that she knows will easily compete with the one that she was born into. One is over Winterfell right now. She glances out the window, at the whirling snow, listening to the wind that howls as it breaks around the stone that makes up Winterfell. This is a castle made for storms, made for Winter, made to withstand what comes next.
She is in a foreign land to her, really. The North is not like anything she has ever known, with its cold and its unforgiving nature. She learned what an unforgiving land looked like in The Red Waste, learned hunger and fear and starvation. She is a long way from that, but she cannot help but feel like there is some mild similarity to it now, something familiar about the land that is white as far as the eye can see, something real about the clouds and the blowing wind. This is The North. This is just how it is, in these lands.
"I'm glad you're with me," she says, her voice burning with all the honesty she can muster. Missandei pulls back then, their eyes meeting again through the mirror, and the smile on her friend's face makes her smile as well. Missandei palms one of the braids, the bells ringing ever so slightly, a bright and keen light in her eyes that Daenerys is glad has survived all that she has seen.
"And I am glad to be with you," Missandei replies, her hands on Daenerys's shoulders again. "I am glad that you are my Queen, but more importantly, my friend. I am glad that I get to walk this path with you." They both smile at one another again, and her face hurts a little from how wide it is, but she would take that forever if it meant the warmth in her chest could last forever. This is what she is fighting for, this is what she wants to hold on to forever and ever.
Missandei leans forward to grab her crown, the simple golden one she'd had made when she first came to these lands. Dragons are carved into the band, flying across it, wild and free. Missandei rubs her thumb over it once before resting it on Daenerys's head, silently adjusting it and meeting her eyes in the mirror. They trade no words, but Daenerys can feel the love and the respect and the warmth all the same.
I choose you, her eyes seem to say. You are my friend, my Queen, and I will follow you to the end.
And that is so much more than she ever could have asked for. She settles the crown perfectly and leans back in her chair with a great exhale. Missandei rests her hands once again on her shoulders, and they stay there for a moment, caught in silence, caught by the comfort of a companion. She may have commonalities with The Starks, but they are not her friends as Missandei is, they are not the people she would do anything for. Missandei. Her truest friend.
"You are stronger than you know," Missandei says, her eyes burning with sincerity, her smile wide and bright. The North has not frozen her friend, and she is eternally glad that she seems to have something for her here, that she has not been entirely rejected by these lands. That alone says enough.
"So are you," she says, and her friend just smiles.
Later, as the last of the sudden snowstorm washes over Winterfell, Daenerys finds herself in The Great Hall, eating breakfast with The Starks, the rest of The Northern Lords in Winterfell and a good portion of her men there as well. Some of the newest smallfolk arrivals are being hosted as well, and they look very happy to be there, more than perhaps anyone else she can see.
Despite being Wintertime, the hall is alight with voices and laughter, and she is starting to think that this is just how The North is, how they find comfort and cheer in the hardest times. To her and Robb's left little Rickon Stark seems to be doing his very best to command the attention of everyone at the High table. Both Stark girls, who are to her right, are looking on in amusement, and she finds herself exchanging smiles and glances with Sansa as Rickon continues his youthful quest.
Tyrion is at her immediate right, and he seems to be the only one largely unaffected by the good mood. He looks tired, really, and not that pleased to be sitting between his former wife and his Queen. At her back, Grey Worm is standing guard, alongside Ser Barristan. She glances back at Grey Worm once, smiling at him when she catches his eyes. He gives her a slight smile and nods, reassuring her. She looks back over the crowd and sees Missandei, speaking to a Northern Woman, Alys Karstark, she believes.
"When I was younger," Robb says, drawing her attention to him as he leans a little closer, a cup in hand, his eyes bright as they rove over the crowd, "My parents would host feasts once or year or so. Many years, the Lords would bring their daughters for my parents to consider, and as my sisters got older, their sons. But I cared little for that. I always remember how warm it would get in here, how you could get lost in the press of the crowd. It was much the same when Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell. People laughing and talking, being happy…I'm glad that, at least, has survived."
There's a notable sadness in his eyes, and though she is not in the mood to delve into the matter that is Robert Baratheon, she does find herself wondering if Robb Stark disparages the man in his own way. He brought his father Southwards, took him from his home, and set them all upon this road, the one that has led to crowns and bloody wars and bone-deep betrayals. Perhaps Robert Baratheon should have simply left his friend in The North, in Winterfell, and all of this would be that much easier. But then again, none of them would be the same, would they?
She might not even be alive. That is a chilling thought, and she forces herself to take a deep, measured breath, so as to not betray her worry and her nerves. She still must present as The Dragon Queen to The North, even if she has shown some of her rawer edges to The Starks, and they have, in turn, done much the same. They understand one another's motivations and the things that keep them going so much better now, but that does not mean that they can all trust one another. It does not mean that she can trust The North.
She is under no impression that they love her, or her House. She's not coming here to be loved, to be welcomed into waiting arms, or even to save them. She doesn't think that they need saving. They need help, though, whatever help she has the strength to give, and that is what she will give them…even if her Hand seems to have his own opinions on the matter.
"That sounds beautiful," she says with a smile. "I would have loved to see one."
"My mother ran them mostly, and she ran them well," he says, with a slight laugh. "Once we got older, she'd have me, Theon, and Jon help the men clean up and drag the tables around. My father dealt with the organisation and the guests, but it is she who made sure the keep is in order. Sansa does much the same, now, while I do my best to get us ready for war. We're not as good as our parents, but I like to think we're managing." He takes a sip of his drink. "And at least we still have enough wine to go around."
"Indeed," she agrees with a smile, feeling her heart lighten. She is glad, really, that he seems to have warmed a bit to her, that it is not all just cold conviction and biting words. She thinks that his being home has helped much with that, helped him feel like he's where he needs to be, still, and like he's made something out of it all.
After all, as Tyrion had reminded her the night before in their meeting, this is the first time Robb Stark has ever ruled in Winterfell–truly ruled–ever. When he left Winterfell, he was still only the acting Lord and Heir to Winterfell, with his father alive but in chains in The South. He was made Lord of Winterfell, ruler of The North, while in The Riverlands.
She thinks of what it will be like to come upon The Red Keep at last, to sit The Iron Throne, to take back what was stolen from her. She knows it is all a lot more complicated than she was ever raised alongside, but she also knows that, at the end of the day, she will not let Cersei sit on her throne and call herself Queen. She is the heir to these lands, and she will take it back from, at the very least, The Lannisters. They took so much from her, and have more blood on their hands than anyone left from that time. There will be no mercy for that crime, she knows. Death will know them soon enough.
She looks around the room then, at the hard-eyed Northmen with their gruff expressions and cold eyes. They are strange and strong men, strangers to her and to the rest of Westeros, really. Almost all of them are never without swords, and many of the women bear arms with them. She can see Jorah, sitting awkwardly with his House members, no longer looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and they don't look three seconds from killing him anymore, thankfully.
Things are…not perfect, of course, because they can't be when Winter is ever on the horizon, but she can see how everyone is trying to make something good out of their shit luck and shittier circumstances. No one wants to be fighting this war, no one wants to have to make the sacrifices that are being demanded of them. But they are, because that is what war demands.
But then, suddenly, the doors are slamming open. In an instant, Selmy is at her immediate side.
"Your Grace," A voice calls over the din, and everything gets notably quieter as all eyes turn to look towards the voice. Daenerys feels herself straighten in her seat as she sees who it is. Brynden Tully is coming through the crowd, eyes wide, breathing heavily as he draws to a stop before them. She glances at Robb, who nods at his uncle, silently telling the Blackfish to continue. He does, but not before swallowing tightly and glancing once at Daenerys's Hand, a strange light in his eyes.
"Banners have been spotted. Lannister banners." The room goes completely silent. "They've raised a white flag, and the outriders are already on their way out. They must have snuck through, but I have no idea how. They've got perhaps a thousand men."
Robb is very quiet for a moment. But then he looks at some of the men at a nearby table, notably The Greatjon, and says, "Jon, Beric, Clegane, go to the yard and wait for the Outriders to return. Figure out who it is, and bring the leaders here, in chains if need be." He glances at Ser Barristan, and then at Daenerys. "Would you allow me to ask that Ser Barristan accompany them? I do not wish to have any unwelcome surprises, and I would feel more comforted if he went with them."
She glances at her sworn sword. His eyes are keen, and she knows he is willing to do whatever she tells him to do. And besides, she is with Robb Stark on the want for safety and no surprises when it comes to this force that has just shown up at their doorstep. So, she nods first at him, and then at Robb, whose face breaks in relief. The four men are off in an instant, walking quickly. The Blackfish stays for a moment though, just long enough to tell them that he will be back shortly, before he too leaves.
No one speaks as they wait, the silence hanging low in the room. She can see Sansa Stark, sitting in rapt attention, eyes on the doors like she alone can will the new arrivals here in an instant. At her side, Robb Stark has risen so he is standing tall, his and his wolf's eyes on the door as well. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him reach up and straighten his crown a bit, fingers curling into a loose fist when they rest again on the table. She fixes her crown herself and tries to not feel like her heart is hammering in her chest, confusion mixed with worry.
Finally, after what feels like centuries, the doors to the main hall slam open again. No one dares to speak as some ten men are drawn forward by the men Robb sent out and The Blackfish, along with a few others, most of them being thrown to their knees before them. All of them save for one man, dressed in muddy armour, held on one side by a particularly pale Ser Barristan Selmy and by a furious-looking Brynden Tully on the other side. His head is covered by a bag, and she sends a cursory look over the other men and the crowd.
One of them is glaring at someone, and she follows his gaze to see the man of The Night's Watch who had arrived earlier, Samwell Tarly. He is doing his best to cling to the shadows. She can see Garlan Tyrell glaring right back at the man, hand holding the pommel of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. The Lords are murmuring, but it only gets worse when Ser Barristan meets her eyes and The Blackfish rips off the bag from the head man.
She feels the breath be ripped from her lungs. The man at the centre is not one she has ever met, but his appearance, and the resemblance he holds to her Hand, who has gone completely still at her side, speaks well enough for itself. His hair is golden, greying a bit, but golden all the same, just like Tyrion's. His eyes are as green as her hand's one green eye. And she can see it now–he is missing a right hand.
Someone stands swiftly, and she turns to see Arya Stark is on her feet, chair pushed back, bloody murder in her eyes. Daenerys looks around and sees a few men have drawn their blades, but all of them are looking at…at her and Robb. And she knows why. She can feel the hate in her stomach, curling up and boiling over. Tyrion takes a very long sip of his drink, and that is finally when someone breaks the silence.
Robb's voice is colder than Winter's. His wolf is openly growling. The man–that man who doomed all of them, who they say laughed over her father's corpse–is staring at it with fear, and she can see how much effort he is putting into avoiding her piercing gaze. But it does not disguise the naked terror that is burning bright in his eyes, that is painted clearly across his face.
"Jaime Lannister," The man they call The Young Wolf, The King of Winter, says. "Kingslayer. What a surprise this is."
notes:
-for a general note on timeline, the next…five chapters with the slight exception of the next one, are happening right after another, and are going to cross about…two? and a half months? I have a timeline but who knows how good ill be at making it clear
-proof that Jon really is lyannas kid: he haunts the narrative even when he's not currently present in it. Like mother like son ig 😭
-on dany and Robb, the conversation they have while overlooking the soldiers is SO important. It builds, not only, on everything robb has said, but takes the connection that they have, and the fact that they are very similar people, and creates something genuinely productive out of it. They're kinda saying 'we do have these similarities and we do have reasons to fight together and were better off working together than killing one another'. It's a very important step.
-I know I keep going 'northmen are weird' but I hope im making it work and not overblowing it in a way that feels disingenuous. There is a reason that they are so notably different, esp from Danys and co's POV, and theres more reasons why than they realise, but im trying to make it clear that those reasons exist, even if they aren't expressly obvious
-the comment from Ilyrio that dany mentions is based off a line of his in the books: "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles." It's an interesting comment…if a little misinformed when it comes to the dragons and the wolves, that is, if you catch my drift
-hi jaime. I have nothing else to say about that, besides if you're wondering how he got past all the eyes watching the neck…there is more to come :))
Next up, it all comes to a head atop The Wall
