embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

13. THE DRAGON I

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE DRAGON I

Daenerys Targaryen makes landfall in Westeros, on the isle of Dragonstone. Her allies convene and discuss the Queen in the South, and the upheaval of the North. A turncloak finds his voice, and Daenerys plans her first move.

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Dragonstone looms in the distance, and with it, Westeros.

Daenerys Targaryen, The Mother of Dragons, stares at the isle with open apprehension, her three children soaring through the air above her, the air bright with dragon song. It was from here that Aegon The Conqueror began his conquest, it was here that The Dragonlords always ruled, and now it lies abandoned by the House that took her throne from her. Tyrion Lannister and the spidery Varys had both confirmed it–Stannis Baratheon was dead, and with him, the end of the usurper's house had come at last.

She has some swirling feelings about not being the one to see them end, and she can hear her brother Viserys's voice in the back of her mind, whispering of The Usurper and his dogs. But she shakes her head as they drop their anchors, straightening her dress and smiling at Missandei as she comes to stand next to her. Her closest friend and most trusted advisor gives the castle a critical look, and when she sees Daenerys watching, her mouth twists up with a smile. "It's not what I expected," she confesses.

"Me neither," Daenerys finds herself admitting as well, playing with one of her rings. Hizdahr zo Loraq had perished in the attack on the fighting pits, and she cannot say she has much regret surrounding her second widowing, nor she is not dreading the news of his death as much as the other news she brings with her, about a certain foolhardy Dornish prince. Hizdahr, after all, is not only unknown to any of the Lords that Varys has already brought to her cause, but he would have been quite the snag when it came to the politics of this realm. She knows that her Hand is already scheming as to what bachelors she could be offered to, what Lords she could marry to strengthen the realm.

But, Dragonstone. It is all sharp angles and insignia of her house, and she finds herself unable to look away from it as she and her retinue prepare to make landfall. Drogon sweeps over them at some point, and she can't help but smile widely. At long last, Dragons have returned to Dragonstone, and she, at even longer last, is coming home, coming for the kingdom that was stolen from her. She was Viserys's heir, once. She would have been named Princess of Dragonstone, had he taken the kingdoms like he wanted to, at least for a time. But now she is an heirless Queen.

Yara and Theon Greyjoy are the first off the little boat, getting it pulled up into the shallows with an efficiency only bought by years at sea. Grey Worm and Ser Barristan Selmy follow shortly thereafter, along with Tyrion. Ser Barristan offers her a hand, and she steps at long last onto the shores of Westeros, pulling away as Grey Worm helps Missandei off the boat. Her three blood riders from Drogo are the last off the boat, staying close but not invading her space.

"Your Grace," Tyrion says, drawing her attention away from where she is still staring at Dragonstone. She can see Rhaegal, in the distance, perching on some rocks, and roaring heartily into the air. She turns to him, and he smiles thinly at her. "Shall we go? It is quite a walk."

She nods but moves forward slowly. She pauses at one point to crouch down and feel the sand run through her fingers, a smile on her lips and a girlish laugh escaping her. This was the isle upon which she was born, and a storm like the one The Greyjoys insist is on the horizon gave her the name she carries with pride. Stormborn, they call her. She is home after so many long years. Home, home, home. She has very little attachment to that word, save for memories of a red door and a lemon tree.

But Viserys always called Dragonstone home. She cannot blame her brother for it, can not blame him for so much of how fate played out. She loved her brother, in some twisted, odd sense of the word, as much as one could love a man like that, but she does not grieve for the man he was, only for the man he could have been. He should have been allowed to come home, been allowed to see this place one more time. But only Daenerys is here, and she is the last of her House. This homecoming is singular.

Slowly, they make their way up to the main keep, following the contingent of Unsullied who'd gone ahead to announce her arrival and make sure that anyone who still resides in the castle was well aware of what it meant. She takes the head of the proceedings, with no one before her save for Grey Worm and Ser Barristan, with Grey Worm's spear being held aloft and shining in the noonday sun, and Ser Barristan's sword glimmering as well. She glances back once to see Missandei, smiling and looking around with shining eyes.

She'd heard whispers of the grand, splendid castles of Westeros during her past few years in Slaver's Bay especially. The people of Essos know little of Westeros, and the same is true, and what stories would reach places like Meeren, Yunkai, or Astapor, often seemed overdramatic to her. But the stories of great keeps of stone that reached for the sky or stretched for miles around don't seem that far off as she approaches the gates of the keep at last, black and guarded by carved dragons on either side. And from what she's heard from Tyrion, that was one thing Essos got right to some degree.

The Unsullied hold the gate, but they are not alone in the courtyard. There is a Maester, and a few other servants, who look at her warily but not coldly. She pauses before them, and after a hesitant moment, the Maester bows low and says, "Welcome to Dragonstone, Your Grace. I will see to it that your chambers are prepared."

She smiles and sweeps past them into the main keep, The Stone Drum. The song of dragons fills the air, and she makes her way to the throne room quickly, her heart hammering in her chest, a strange sense of something undeniable settling in her bones. She may not have ever considered Dragonstone her home as Viserys did, but she was born here, and there is no denying that in her bones. At some point, she runs her fingers over the wall, tracing the shape of an inlet.

But then, at long last, she reaches the topmost room of The Stone Drum, the Chamber of the Painted Table. And there it is, indeed: The Painted Table, stretching out across the room, surrounded by windows that overlook the sea and island in all four directions. Her retinue is only secondary in her mind as she pulls closer to it, circling it slowly before stopping at where Dragonstone is on the map and placing her hands gently over it. Dust covers it, but she barely notices it, looking over the map that Aegon himself planned his conquest from.

Tyrion comes to her side, staring out across the map. "The Tyrells and Martells will be here sometime tomorrow," he tells her, and she nods. For a moment his face darkens, and he knows he has plenty to say about the rumours of the death of his niece at the hands of a rogue Dornishmen, but there will be just as much The Martells can say about Quentyn's death. "I presume that you would like this chamber prepared?" He sends a pointed look to the dust on the table, raking a finger through it.

"Yes," she says, before meeting his eyes. "Leave me. I would like to speak to Missandei alone." Neither her Hand nor her friend looks surprised, and the whole of her retinue files out, although she does not miss how Theon Greyjoy's eyes linger on the table for a moment, a familiarly troubled look in his eyes. She dismisses it from her thought, though, as Missandei comes to stand next to her, loping her arm through hers, now that only Grey Worm is in attendance, standing guard at the door, Ser Barristan and at least one Blood Rider likely on the other side, outside the chamber.

"I dreamed of this day for so many years," she whispers with a smile, leaning her head on her friend's shoulder, and squeezing her hand. But her mind is years away, somewhere on The Dothraki sea. "Drogo promised that he would give me The Seven Kingdoms. But now, I have come to take them in my own right. Not at the hand of any man, but on my own terms, under my banners." She meets Missandei's eyes, before looking around at the vast room. Her friend follows her gaze.

"I never dared to dream of this day, not even when Rhaego was in my belly and Drogo was making his promises. I could never picture Dragonstone, never mind Westeros, no matter how many times Viserys tried to paint a picture of them. They seemed like nothing more than distant dreams, and I still believe that I might just be dreaming, and I'm here." She meets her friend's eyes. "Does that make me a fool?"

"No," Missandei says, glancing at Grey Worm. Daenerys smiles as she follows her gaze, although when she meets his eyes, his face betrays nothing. "It just means you're realistic. And I don't think one could ever quite picture a place like this unless they actually saw it. And to think the stories speak of castles larger than this, castles untouchable in mountains." They both have wide, almost girlish smiles on their faces, and Daenerys is not immune to the absurdity of it all.

In Essos, wealth is shown in finery and in massive cities, but while Westerosi Lords are no strangers to finery, there are only five true cities in the whole of The Seven Kingdoms. Their pride and their strength has always been shown through the keeps they erect, through stone walls that reach to the sky, or even in things like The Wall in the distant North. She'd met a handful of more critically minded Essosi people who didn't even believe The Wall existed, or at least not as the rumours said it did. After all, why would anyone need a wall of ice that was seven hundred feet tall and three hundred miles wide?

"I have to never stop thinking like that," she says after a long pause. "I can never let myself become too sure of my victory. I know my strengths, and I am the only person in the whole of Westeros and Essos alike with Dragons, but if I let myself believe I am untouchable…" she trails off awkwardly, and Missandei pulls their arms a little closer together, her eyes bright and earnest as she meets her eyes.

"I will not let you," she promises. Her eyes rake over the painted table for a long moment, and she pulls away from Daenerys to run her fingers along the table, over the carving that marks the Trident. That's where Rhaegar fell to Robert Baratheon, Daenerys thinks as she comes to stand next to Missandei. "There is so much to know. It is strange to think about how little I know of this country, of the politics and the lords. I am so very used to knowing things, knowing about Essos and the Free Cities and Slaver's Bay…"

"I know," Daenerys says quietly. "I can hardly fathom it myself. And I am well aware that there is much that I do not know, things that most in my position would. I too know more about Essos than Westeros, but that does not change the fact that I am the rightful heir, and I plan to take The Seven Kingdoms back from the people who stole it from me." She glares at King's Landing. "From the woman who sits on Aegon's throne. On my throne."

I will take back what is mine, through Fire and Blood, she thinks, and the words ring in the back of her mind like an ill omen.

She sleeps little that night, surrounded by unfamiliar noises and walls in The Lord's chamber. She spends much of the night up, staring out at the window at the storm that is growing over the sea. Yara Greyjoy had been quite vocal about it, along with her brother, saying that it was looking to be a fierce one. She'd elected to trust the sailors on that, and as she looks at it, she is glad she did. Lightning flashes, and she pulls a blanket closer around her.

Her mind slowly begins to drift to the previous holder of this castle, the late Baratheon Claimant, Stannis Baratheon, and the wars he'd fought. One of The Five Kings to rise up following the usurper's death. And now all but one of them is dead, and according to Tyrion, The Young Wolf is in chains. So all that remains is she and Cersei–and Yara too, she supposes, but she has pledged her loyalty to Daenerys, so she's of little thought as she mulls over wars and kings and claims.

When the Tyrells and Martells arrive, though, she does not let her exhaustion show, nor does she let her troubled thoughts fill her mind, choosing rather to focus on the task at hand: The Lords and Ladies who now come to follow her, and who are full of questions and sharp tongues. Tyrion had called it all The Great Game, and her choices here will be her opening moves.

Olenna Tyrell is the first to arrive, dressed in all black, and her eyes dark and stormy. She does smile, though, when she sees Daenerys, taking her hand in hers and squeezing it as she meets her eyes. "You are just as The Spider said," she tells her, and Daenerys quietly wonders what exactly Varys said of her. Olenna's eyes harden, however, when she looks at Tyrion, who stands quietly and awkwardly beside her.

"Lady Tyrell–" he begins.

"Oh, save your breath, Lannister," she says sharply, and his brows jump to his hair. "I know you had no part in your sister's madness. Doesn't mean I have that high of an opinion left in you, but I don't blame you for Maergary, Loras, and my son's deaths." For a moment, a grieving look crosses her face, but she beats it back expertly.

"We will avenge them," Daenerys promises the woman. "Cersei's atrocities will not go unanswered."

Olenna looks at her with an indecipherable look and glances once at Ser Barristan, who tilts his head in her direction. Eventually, she says, "I'm sure they will not," before starting towards The Keep. Daenerys exchanges a look with Tyrion, who makes a face of resignation and follows the woman in silence. She is glad, at least, that her Hand had the wherewithal and foresight to warn her about The Queen of Thorns and her exceptionally sharp tongue.

Tyrion's warnings about the Dornish, though, are less useful, because there are so very few, and she knows his heart is hardened by what happened to his niece. While she herself has no love for House Baratheon or either of Tyrion's siblings, she does feel something twist in her at the thought of a truly innocent girl dying as she did, so far from home. And to be the one to have sent her there…she can hardly imagine what is going through her Hand's mind, but she can glean enough when she glances at his face as The Dornish arrive to make her even more nervous for what is to come.

They'd written ahead about Quentyn, though, and she knows that Tyrion will see to it that his bones are given to them, as they saw to the return of Myrcella's bones to Cersei. But nothing can undo the death of a son by Dragons or the death of a niece at the hands of a wayward swordsman. The Martells had promised, though, that the man called Darkstar had died a painful and slow death in the sands of Dorne. And Quentyn had been put out of his misery, in the end.

But still, there is a particular chill in the air as Prince Doran Martell is helped off his boat and set upon a wheeled chair by his guard, with a woman who must be his daughter following closely behind him, along with a collection of four other women who Daenerys believes to be Ellaria Sand and her Sand Snakes. She approaches the Prince and is relieved when he graces her with a kind smile.

"Your Grace," he says, taking her hand and kissing it. He then covers her hand in his, his eyes sincere and bright as he continues, "We thank you for your hospitality. Do not regret for Quentyn's death, Your Grace, for he was out of your hands and was a fool to do what he did. And I extend the same words to you, Ser Barristan." The Knight, who has been notably quiet since their arrival, nods deeply to the Prince. The Sand Snakes, though, do not look so courteous to her.

"My Daughter, Arianne," he introduces as Daenerys pulls away, and the woman sweeps around him to take her hands in hers and kisses them too. Her eyes are dark but glimmer brightly, and she is truly beautiful. Daenerys thinks, privately, that one Yara Greyjoy will certainly find the Dornish Heiress quite…interesting.

"Your Grace," she says, and Daenerys smiles at her.

"And Ellaria Sand, paramour to my late brother, along with Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene, his three eldest." They all nod at Daenerys but say little. Doran's eyes then turn to her Hand, who has been standing quietly beside her, and again she feels the chill fill the air. The history between these two houses is cold and bloody. Daenerys feels herself tense, and in the corner of her eye, she sees Ser Barristan do much the same, his pale blue eyes missing little of the proceedings.

"My brother died in your trial," he says, voice betraying little. Daenerys does not miss how The Sand Snakes and Ellaria both tense, but none of them say anything themselves, something she notes with curiosity. Varys had suggested to her, on the way over, that perhaps Doran Martell was being pressured by The Snakes and his brother's Paramour to enact vengeance as others would have. But in all that she has heard of The Prince of Dorne, he is a patient man who is perfectly content to let time pass and plans slowly fall into place. She is grateful for it, grateful that there is someone undoubtedly not reckless in her council. "Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys died at the hands of your father's man."

"And my niece died in Dorne," Tyrion replies flatly. "By the actions of the cousin to the Late Sword of The Morning. One of yours."

"Indeed," Doran agrees, glancing once at Arianne, who bows her head and looks away. There had been little said about what Myrcella was doing in the middle of the desert when The Darkstar killed her, but she has little doubt that it has something to do with Doran's eldest. But she does not pry, for it is truly not her place. "Blood lies between us, Tyrion Lannister. But we have a common enemy, and it seems to me that you at least have seen the truth of your House. I do not like you, I admit. But we lie on the same side, and follow the same Queen." He inclines his eyes to Daenerys.

"That we do," Tyrion agrees. The two men stare at one another, before exchanging nods. Tyrion hesitates for only a moment before clearing his throat, and speaking in a more even, political tone, as one would expect of The Hand of The Queen. "We have had rooms prepared for you within The Keep. Do you need any assistance, Prince Doran, getting up to The Keep?"

"My guards and nieces will see to my arrival," he says. "Arianne will accompany you alone, Your Grace, My Lord Hand." The woman drifts forward, once again smiling at Daenerys, who matches the smile with one of her own. They take their leave then, and Daenerys finds herself almost surprised that the bright Heiress of Sunspear actually takes quite a while to break the silence.

"I was betrothed to your brother, once, did you know?" She says, her lips curling into another, new, smile when Ser Barristan pauses in surprise, close enough to have heard and unable to contain his surprise. She explains, "Viserys, not Rhaegar, of course. Nothing came of it, of course, and I didn't even know until after he'd died in The Dothraki Sea. But how interesting that might have turned out to be." She turns her glimmering eyes to Daenerys, and she is suddenly struck by the thought that in another life, this arrival on Dragonstone would have been marked by a marriage as well as a storm.

She'd be Drogo's wife, still, likely. She'd have no dragons. It would be Viserys who was coming home to take back what was his and marry a woman he did not know, and she would have only Rhaego to her own. It is strange and hard to imagine, and thinking of what Viserys would do to conquer Westeros makes her stomach twist. I am not here to be Queen of the Ashes, she tells herself, a sentiment she finds herself repeating more and more these days, the closer they get to war. Much like that storm, it will be upon them before they know it.

She cannot picture it, just as she could never picture or dream of Westeros. She is no dreamer, and she has come to live with that, come to accept what that means for her. She does not want to be a dreamer anyhow, someone lost in the clouds, in lives that are not her own. She is here to be the Queen of Westeros, not The Queen whose mind is in the clouds, who cares little for the people she will rule, as Cersei does. She has no intentions of becoming Cersei, of being Queen of The Ashes. She is The Dragon Queen.

Any further conversation is hampered by Drogon sailing overhead. All breath seems to leave Arianne, and her eyes go wide as she watches Drogon dive and spins through the air, black as the nighttime sky, a shadow against the sea and sky. She turns those eyes to Daenerys and the smile that she greets her with suddenly makes the ones from before seem like the least genuine things she has ever seen. "I had heard of your Dragons, Your Grace, but…"

"There is nothing like seeing them," she finishes. The Heiress of Sunspear nods, and she finds herself smiling a little more genuinely herself. "They are truly magnificent. That was Drogon, My Lady, and he is the one I have ridden and my eldest. Rhaegal and Viserion are my other two, and while not quite as big as Drogon, they are certainly just as fierce. I will show them to you later if you would so like."

"Perhaps," Arianne agrees evenly. Her brows furrow. "The other two–are they named for your brothers?"

"They are," she says, her voice going a little quiet, but sharpening all the same. "Rhaegar and Viserys. The brother I never knew and the brother who died before my eyes. I cannot speak to Rhaegar, but trust me, My Lady, Viserys would have been no King and certainly no Conqueror. Your marriage would have been an unhappy one, at best. He was…he never recovered from the horrors wrought upon us by The Usurper and his dogs, as he called them, in our youth. But he was still my brother, and I do not intend to let those horrors go unanswered."

"Dorne is glad to hear it, Your Grace," she tells her, looking ahead. Daenerys studies her face for a moment, studies the slight furrow of her brows, and the way her dark eyes seem to miss little. They had called the late Prince Oberyn The Red Viper, so she heard, but she thinks that all of House Martell have a sharpness to them, a dangerous poise to them. Their house words ring in the back of her mind, Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

Once Arianne has been settled in her rooms and she has made sure that Prince Doran has reached the keep, she takes a moment to herself around The Painted Table, with only Ser Barristan standing guard. She can feel his eyes on her, and after a moment, she bows her head and asks, "What comes of this all, Ser Barristan? How do I know that I am making the right choice? Cersei is obviously no queen, but…"

"You are the truest heir left to any claim and an entirely better person than Cersei is," he says, drawing nearer to stand beside her. His eyes are sad as he looks over the table. "You are not your brother though, either of them. You are not Rhaegar. You are not the People's Prince. You are not Viserys. You are not The Beggar King. And you are certainly not Aerys. You are not The Mad King. But The Lords of Westeros may not see it the same. There are many who have reason to hate your house. You know this."

"I do," she says. "And I am not here to be Queen of the Ashes. I want to take the Seven Kingdoms, but I have no intention of starting every game with fire and death. I will get what is mine, through fire and blood, but I am not going to become a butcher, not like she is. My fight is not with the Small Folk–it is with Cersei and The Lords who have backed her. Ours will be The War of Two Queens."

"You and her are not the only rulers left," he reminds her, and both their eyes drift North, to Winterfell. "If Robb Stark does indeed live, he is the last of The Five Kings. And I remember what The North did during that War. I remember how Ned Stark looked upon the Trident. Certainly, he did not bellow like Robert did, but he was just as vicious. His sons and daughters will be no different. You cannot forget The North, Your Grace. Nor the blood they have. Nor the betrayals they have suffered."

"Theon Greyjoy," she says after a moment. He nods.

Tyrion had spoken at length about the man, about the turn cloak. About how he betrayed Robb Stark, murdering his younger brothers–a crippled child and a boy of no more than six–in cold blood, and although Greyjoy had professed his innocence in that crime when they met in Mereen, it does not undo all the other crimes he has certainly committed. Treason, the theft of Winterfell, the murder of innocents, betrayal and so much more. Daenerys trusts and maybe even likes Yara Greyjoy, but Theon unsettles her, for lack of a better word. He and his dark eyes and haunted expressions.

"Yes. Theon Greyjoy indeed," Selmy agrees darkly. "The Turncloak. Should we treat with The North, you have to prepare for one of The Lords, if not whoever rules House Stark, demanding his head if they are to ever swear allegiance to you. Yara Greyjoy is a sensible woman, but I cannot see her allowing her brother to bend his head for a waiting sword, no matter his opinion." He turns his eyes onto her. "You will have to be the mediator Daenerys. You cannot have your heart on one side, and if you hope to have The North, you cannot dismiss them offhand like so many have done before. The Lord of Winterfell controls over a third of your kingdom."

She nods mutely, going again to The North. "Viserys called Eddard Stark The Usurper's Dog. He likely thought himself terribly clever for calling a Stark a Dog. But Tyrion and you both have never spoken of him coldly. All I have heard of him calls him a lordly and noble man." She meets his eyes. "Was he? What was Eddard Stark like in truth, Ser Barristan?"

"All of those things," He says. He tilts his head, his expression and voice darkening. "And now he is dead, his head cleaved from his shoulders. I am forever grateful I was not there. I have heard that they made his daughter watch and that she screamed so loud one could hear her clearly from a street over. Eddard Stark was an honourable man, yes, a good man. He rode to war because it was what honour demanded, and I think he did truly disparage what happened to Elia and her children. But it is no matter. He is dead. What matters are the heirs to the War his death caused."

"And what of these heirs?"

"Robb Stark was named King in The North, the first since Torrhen Stark. Tywin Lannister, one of the greatest military minds of our time, had to turn to treachery of the highest kind to even break him. He is much his father's son, from all I have ever heard of him, but fiercer too. It is no small feat, gaining the victories he did. But even he is secondary to Cersei."

"She is mad, and she is cruel. Tyrion's eyes are blinded by his love, however twisted it may be. He will never be a neutral council on her, as with all those who now surround and counsel me. Even I disparage the woman who dismissed me from The King's Guard and made a mummer's farce of it. Once, it was a great order and now…" he scoffs and meets her eyes. They soften. "You are not her, Daenerys. But you will be forced to prove that to the whole of Westeros."

"We stand upon an edge. You know this. What comes of this war will shape Westeros for generations to come, and the actions you take will determine who you become in the songs." His eyes darken. "Your Father was The Mad King. You are The Mother of Dragons, The Breaker of Chains to many. You must prove this to Westeros. Show them who you are. Why the throne is yours."

—

Come the next morning, as the storm the Greyjoys had ominously spoken of as they drew closer to the isle at last rolls in, she sits in The Chamber of the Painted Table of Dragonstone, around the titular table, feeling uneasy as Tyrion slowly dispenses sigils of her allies and enemies alike across the board. Missandei is at her side, Grey Worm at the other, but they are the only two she trusts in full, the rest all being Lord with their own intentions and desires.

Doran Martell, his eldest Arianne, and his guard Areo Hotah sit on the Southern end of the table, near Dorne. Olenna Tyrell is to their right, close to where the Reach and Westerlands are. The Greyjoys are opposite her, near the Vale and Crownlands. She stands at the head, at The North, and her hand comes to stand close to her, around the western shore of The North. Varys looms in the Southern Corner, near the Isle of Tarth. And then, of course, Ser Barristan Selmy stands just behind her.

Her eyes rove over the map. Three lion heads sit upon King's Landing and spiked helms representing the Unsullied sit on Dragonstone, beside the horses carved for The Dothraki. The Iron Islands Kraken is not far from them, and spears representing Dorne and roses for The Reach are accordingly situated in their lands. And in The North, upon Winterfell, three Wolf Heads and a Bird for The Vale face the South.

"So," she begins, splaying her hands out upon the table. She meets Tyrion's eyes. "What does it look like?"

"The combined armies of The Reach and Dorne give us just under 20,000 men. The Unsullied add another seven thousand or so, and the Dothraki…well I am not sure, but more than either of those combined. Cersei has strength too–she has contacted many of the sellsword groups in Essos. With the exception of The Golden Company, and The Second Sons with Daario in Mereen, I believe she has most of them with her."

"Why not the Golden Company?"

Varys cuts in at this moment, drawing closer to King's Landing's place on the map. "My birds tell me that when she attempted to contact them, she received no reply. That, and The Golden Company has been quite silent, at least since you left Mereen. They have been hard to reach, by all accounts. But even then, with the other companies and the armies of The Westerlands and Crownlands, she has at least 40,000."

She nods, trying to hide her frustration. Tyrion continues. "The Stormlands are as of yet undecided, as are The Riverlands. We will have more luck with the prior, I'd say, and they would give another…three to four thousand, maybe."

"Why so little?" She asks with a furrowed brow.

"Because most of them went North with Stannis Baratheon and froze to death outside Winterfell's walls," Tyrion says gravely. "Which brings me to them. The North is…an interesting case. Reports say that Jon Snow and Sansa Stark–Eddard Stark's bastard and eldest daughter–rode south with an army of Wildlings, Northmen, and Valemen, and took Winterfell back from Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton's legitimised bastard. They're calling it The Battle of The Bastards, or so I hear. They have some fifteen to twenty thousand men behind them, and hold no enemies, with House Bolton gone."

In the corner of her eye, she sees Theon Greyjoy go still.

"But the pressing issue is that Robb Stark is a prisoner to Cersei, along with most of the heirs and bannermen to The Northern Houses." Tyrion drums his fingers against the table. "She has leverage on them, and I would not put it past her to have a repeat of old Ned's death, once she captures Snow and Stark, as I don't doubt she is hoping to do. She'd have all their heads being called for, before long."

"Robb Stark was moved from The Black Cells of The Red Keep following Joffrey's death," Varys tells her, folding his fingers together before him. It is unsettling, how smoothly and almost softly he speaks, all the while holding so much dangerous information. "I believe he was moved to Casterly Rock, following the Purple Wedding, but I am not certain. It is just as likely he is in some other prison in Lannisport."

"Or dead," Olenna Tyrell adds on ominously, her eyes alight with a look that makes Daenerys nervous. She is surrounded by schemers and near strangers, with only Missandei and Grey Worm as her true friends. She glances at Missandei and sees a curious light in her eyes. Many of these names and politics and histories are lost on her armies from Essos, but perhaps that is not entirely a bad thing. Someone neutral on this council is looking more appealing with every moment.

"Or dead," Tyrion agrees with a grimace. "But I see that to be less likely. She wants an edge against The North, and will only execute him when it serves her, and where she can make it clear that he is certainly dead. But if my sister has learned anything from The War of the Five Kings, I hope that she exercises some caution before broadcasting the death of the Head of House Stark to the whole of Westeros. She wants him dead, but she will be smarter about it than Joffrey ever was."

"Why would Cersei want their heads?" She asks, with a furrowed brow. "Well, I understand taking Robb Stark's head–he rebelled against her usurping son, and humiliated her father on the field time and time again. And she would make a spectacle of it, that I understand as well. But why Lord Snow and The Lady Stark?"

"Because they haven't paid her lip service, nor bent their knees," Tyrion says darkly. "The North has declared that Robb Stark is their king still, and neither has made moves to say otherwise. The North remains in open rebellion; Not only against Cersei. But against you, Your Grace." She nods, pursing her lips together with a frown.

"Tell me about them: this Jon Snow and Sansa Stark." She tilts her head at her hand. "Your former Lady Wife, no?"

"Indeed," Tyrion says with yet another grimace. "The terrified child bride in a cage of my House's making. Quite the marriage that was!" He shakes his head, eyes darting briefly to where The Greyjoys stand. She follows his gaze and sees Theon Greyjoy is looking away, shaking slightly where he stands. His sister rests her hand on his back and says something only he can hear.

"Sansa is unlikely to be the girl I knew anymore, but I will tell you this: There was a passion in her. Lady Tyrell can likely attest," he says, nodding to Olenna, who tilts her head in agreement. "Not a born liar, but brutalised by The South and my nephew. She was no helpless maid and was certainly more Northern than any of us could quite see. She disappeared following Joff's death, and I have heard little of her since. Nothing, actually, until the news of The Battle of The Bastards came South."

"And this…Jon Snow?"

"Aye," Tyrion agrees. "A bastard born of Eddard Stark and some nameless woman. Do not ask who. That was the one secret that old Ned Stark seemed content to take to the grave. A man of the Night's Watch, last I heard, although how he escaped his vows I cannot say. And a talented fighter at that, with a Direwolf at his steps at all hours. If he truly managed to root The Bolton's out of Winterfell, it will be nigh impossible for us to do the same in kind to him."

"The North is in open rebellion, as you said," she says after a moment, glaring at the three wolf heads on the map. "They still see Robb Stark to be their king, and they control the largest swath of land in Westeros, by far, especially with The Vale. We need to root them out and get them and the numbers they control to our side before long, whether through battles or bent knees."

"The Unsullied can do this," Grey Worm pipes up, but Tyrion, and none of the other Westerosi Lords look convinced.

"Baring The Dragons for a moment," Tyrion says, sounding tired as he rubs his brow. "I fail to think of a single army that can root out Northmen, in the North, during Winter. House Stark's words aren't just words, they are a promise, or so I've heard. The snows are deep, and no one can cross them like Northmen. Stannis Baratheon lost to Winter before he lost to the Boltons. Have you ever even seen snow?" Grey Worm has no reply to that, and Tyrion gestures as if to say, you see?

"The North is going to be a challenge, no matter what," Doran Martell pipes up for the first time, looking across the map with a critical eye. "I say we focus on something less…large. Let The North find itself, and its strength. They may be in rebellion, but they have made no moves against anyone save for The Boltons, which I dare say is justified, given the butchery that was The Red Wedding." He sends a look towards Tyrion, who squares his jaw and looks away.

He continues. "They will return to the Game before long; they have too much blood to answer for to do anything else. Then, we deal with them, whether that be for blood or through a treaty. But for now, we must look to Cersei, reveal a weakness, and begin to break her spirit. She sits The Iron Throne, and will not wait to strike."

"Casterly Rock," Daenerys decides after a moment, tapping it on the map. Her advisors perk up, interest in their eyes and plots already spinning. "Home of House Lannister. I know you have said that Cersei is not one for sentiment, but your House's seat being stolen from you from right under your nose…it reveals weakness." She does not look at the Greyjoys, knowing already that Theon Greyjoy has his own experience with what she speaks of. Tyrion had spoken in length about that, after all.

Her Hand seems to realise something in that moment, as well, looking at the map. His eyes linger on the three wolf heads in The North, and then he rakes his gaze towards Casterly Rock, and to her, standing over it. Frowning, he takes a sip of his wine, before turning to their resident Master of Whispers, and asking, "Lord Varys, where did you say you believed Robb Stark to be held?"

The Eunuch pauses, reeling back as if realising what her Hand has. Daenerys looks around her council and sees the confusion on all their faces, save for Theon Greyjoy, who looks like he's come to the same conclusion as the other two. He looks, more importantly, terrified out of his mind. "Casterly Rock…" Varys says, and Daenerys can see how Greyjoy closes his eyes, looking withdrawn, and the realisation slams itself over her head not a moment later.

"Robb Stark, the key to the North, is most likely at The Rock, Your Grace," Tyrion says, and she nods, curling her fingers into a fist on the table. "Prince Doran is not wrong to say that they will return to the game, but we need to be prepared for when that happens. The North has already proven its strength once, and they will be no easy foe. You don't want them to be your foe."

"If you want the North, you must seize it while you still have the chance. If we march upon The Rock, not only do we have the chance to rip at least some of the Lords of the Westerlands from Cersei, we win the most valuable prisoner in this war. The North will want their brother and Liege Lord back, and will find sympathy with the queen who gives him to them."

Daenerys considers her options for a long moment. The North may be turned in on itself right now, but there's no saying what the Wolves of Winterfell will do to get their brother and King back. Robb Stark has not been denounced by any of his court, but rather reaffirmed and revered all the same. The North is still in open rebellion, but if she can win the central figurehead to her side…

But then again, how will the North take her making Robb Stark her political prisoner? The North, as Tyrion has begun to paint it, is not the type to answer well to that sort of thing, and they are already distrusting of others, having been betrayed before. And this is how the whole mess called The War of the Five Kings began, with the imprisonment and eventual execution of Ned Stark. Trapping someone so important to The North as Robb Stark could very well end up with a sword at or maybe even in her throat.

"We cannot linger too long at The Rock," She finally says. "But we can do damage. Cersei has been keeping Robb Stark alive for one reason or another, and if we steal her home, her most valuable prisoner, and whatever else we can take from the Westerlands while we're there, I see it as a victory. Strike her close to home, revealing the weakest spot of the Lions. We retrieve Lord Stark and find the men we can. But we do not linger. The Unsullied, my Dragons, and I will be enough for this, I'd say, with the Iron Fleet backing us."

Yara Greyjoy nods, a smile on her face. The woman is no politician, Daenerys thinks, not really, but she is most certainly a great fighter and an even better leader to her people. Daenerys is truly glad to have her running her fleet and to have one Westerosi leader on her side who isn't hiding their true intentions behind seven layers of subterfuge and innuendo. Grateful that someone has a sharp tongue and enough boldness to use it in truth.

"Cersei will use The Unsullied against you," Olenna Tyrell warns, tapping her fingers against the table. "They're not Westerosi. That will be a sticking point for many. And when you do retrieve the young Robb Stark, what do you intend to do with him? Make him your most valuable prisoner? Execute him and start this whole mess all over again, with The North even angrier and damn near untouchable in the snows?"

"Robb Stark is still the rightful Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell," She says, glancing at Theon Greyjoy once again. His face is pained, his expression aching with age-old wounds. I need the Greyjoy fleet, and that means Theon, she reminds herself, but she's not looking forward to the moment Stark sees Greyjoy again. "The North might be in open rebellion, but I hope to make loyal men and allies out of the North, not enemies. He will not be my prisoner. Of this I am sure of."

"Good," Tyrion says, grabbing one of the wolf heads and running his fingers over it, looking contemplative. "And I would send word to the North and Winterfell, once we have Robb Stark. It is Sansa Stark and Jon Snow who run Winterfell now, and if there is anything I know about the pair of them, it is that they both love their brother." He asks, glancing at Varys, who nods. "Do you have any idea Jon Snow got released from his vows?"

"Not for certain, and what little I know is…tenuous and strange, at best," Varys begins. "I have never been able to keep birds on The Wall for long, but I have heard whispers. Of death and fire, of a Red Witch, and resurrections. There is only one way to be released from the vows to the Night's Watch…but I would not put stock in it. Northerners like their flights of fancy."

"But a flight of fancy would not make every single living and free Northern Bannermen rally around him," Doran Martell says, leaning back in his chair with a troubled look. His daughter Arianne matches this expression, her dark eyes roving over the board. "They take it very seriously. But there has been precedent, now," everyone glances at Barristan Selmy, who purses his lips, staying silent. "Sansa Stark appears to be the acting Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. She has the power to release her brother from his oaths if she so desires."

Why does everything come back to the North, and House Stark? Daenerys wonders, sighing heavily as she once more looks to the Northern section of Aegon's map, to where Winterfell is written in bold lettering, and then to The Wall and further, and its three marked castles. Shadow Tower. Castle Black. Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. She begins to circle the table, running her fingers over the markings that distinguish The Wall. How does one get released from oaths for life if but through death or someone with power releasing them?

"Would they be willing to parley?" She asks instead, sighing when she sees the looks on the faces of her bannermen. "I'll take that as a no."

"It is not so simple, Your Grace," Tyrion explains. "For better or for worse, this is a council made up of Houses that The Starks have no reason to trust. The Tyrells sided with The Lannisters, at least for a time, and that will not go unforgiven by The Starks. Dorne and The North are like oil and water, at best. My House has wrought devastation and brutality onto them, as have the Greyjoys. And you are the daughter of the man who burned Rickard Stark alive while his son choked to death. They will not be quick to forget that, nevermind answer the summons of another Targaryen Monarch."

"I am not my father," she says sharply, and Tyrion nods.

"They won't care about that," A new voice pipes up and all eyes turn slowly to Theon Greyjoy, who looks almost terrified by the number of eyes that are suddenly on him. His sister is looking at him incredulously, but he clears his throat and steps closer to the map, picking up one of the carved Wolf heads himself and staring intently at Winterfell on The Map. "There is a saying, amongst The Northmen: The North Remembers. Any Northman will be far from willing to treat with you, and Jon and Sansa…"

He sighs again, and she feels something twist in her stomach. There is no one in this room who knows The North or the heirs to House Stark half as well as he does, and he is the one who betrayed them. And paid for it in turn, she thinks, her eyes roving over the man. Yara is quite protective of him, allowing none to ask what happened to him, to ask what broke the proud and arrogant man Tyrion described him as to her and made him the gaunt and quiet man who stands before her now, looking thousands of miles away. But then, where do his own loyalties now lie?

"Jon Snow is the most stubborn man I know. And Sansa is, somehow, worse." For a moment, a hint of a smile crosses his face, but it's gone so quickly she almost thinks she imagined it. "The second they hear you have Robb, they will be on the defensive. No matter what, they will view you as having taken him prisoner. Not because they believe he is in chains but because they know what horrors have befallen their house before, and will be looking for signs of it coming again. If you want The North, you have to convince them, chiefly, that Robb is not your prisoner, and that your intention is true. They won't care about what you think is your right. You need to convince them you deserve the throne. They follow strength, The Northmen. And their own."

"We know no King, but The King in The North, whose name is Stark. That's what they said after they crowned him. I was there that day. I remember why they crowned Robb–because they were done with playing catspaw to The South. The North will not bend easily."

He meets her eyes, for what she is almost certain is the first time. His eyes are like storms, like cold caverns, like a hundred haunted dreams. There is a fragility to the man before her, a crack that runs through him, something that was broken wholly and completely. But there is also, amongst all those jagged edges, something true and horribly honest. A warning lies deep in him, and she feels her stomach twist at his words. Deserve the Throne.

"And still, you betrayed the Young Wolf, did you not?" Olenna says, leaning back in her chair and analysing Theon with sharp, cold eyes. The room goes silent as they wait for his reply, but he looks at none of them, his eyes on Winterfell, and probably half a hundred memories.

"I did," he says softly, fingers curling into a fist as he sets the Wolf Head back on the map. "And because of that, because of what I did to their House, knowing that I am here will not…at least for Jon, it will win you no favours, Your Grace." He looks back at her.

"And The Lady Sansa?" Varys asks, having caught his omission of Lady Stark. Theon freezes, glancing at his sister, who glares at them all. Daenerys is almost wholly certain that Yara Greyjoy is the only one who knows most of what broke Theon so completely and obviously, but she does not seem to be inclined to share. Varys leans back, unwarned by The Queen of The Iron Islands' icy glare. "What will news of your presence stir in her?"

"Sansa…" Theon says, but no further words come over him. The room is so quiet one could hear a pin drop, and Daenerys watches the man carefully and closely, watching as his face is racked with half a hundred mixed emotions. There is more, there, she thinks nervously, And until I know what lies between them, his loyalty is not assured. He shakes his head, and clears his throat, "Is allowed to forgive what is in her right to forgive."

"One would forgive me for thinking there is something you are not saying, Theon Greyjoy," Arianne Martell pipes up, and he looks sideways at her, desperation in his eyes. The Dornish Heiress just raises a single brow, and it is then that Yara Greyjoy steps in.

"Leave him alone," she says sharply, grabbing Theon by the arm and sitting him down. Daenerys watches carefully as he leans forward and buries his gloved hands in his hair, staring despondently at the floor. For a moment, no one says anything, and The Queen of The Iron Islands glares ferociously at anyone who dares try much of anything.

"Lord Varys," Daenerys says at last, and he straightens as he's addressed. "You have birds in The North and within Winterfell, I suppose? What news have they brought of The North, and Lord Stark's siblings?" Children of the Usurper's Dog, Viserys's voice whispers in the back of her mind, causing her to curl her fingers into a fist, nails digging into her palm as she takes a measured breath and beats back the memory of her late brother. There was much he did not know. Far too much.

Varys's face is grave, though. "Very little, Your Grace. Many of my birds went silent following Eddard Stark's death, and even more following the Red Wedding and The Bolton's hold of Winterfell. What their fates were, I cannot know for certain, but what few remain speak of a North that is turned in on itself, focused on some threat from The Wall. They are quite…secluded, now, focused on themselves and their issues. I suspect that without you bridging the gap, they would have it so The North never meets another ruler again. But there does seem to be whispers of them searching for Robb Stark."

"Good," she says. "Then we will continue as planned, and retrieve Robb Stark from Casterly Rock, thus undermining Cersei's rule of the Westerlands, while also winning some Northern sympathy. Do you know what this threat from The Wall might be?"

"I would think the Wildlings," Tyrion says. "But during my retinue at Hand to the King, the late Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont–Ser Jorah's father, I may add–sent a knight by the name of Alliser Thorne to petition the King for my men upon The Wall. He spoke of snarks and grumpkins, some Northern flight of fancy. I cannot quite recall. I suspect that Lord Commander Mormont was trying to get Ser Alliser away from The Wall and Jon Snow, and that was part of the reason for the man's travels."

"He knew Snow?" She asks with a raised brow.

"From what I remember of them from when I travelled to The Wall with Jon Snow, Ser Alliser thought him to be an arrogant, upjumped, bastard, and Jon Snow thought him to be a miserable old cunt." He takes a long sip of his drink, raising his brows when it sounds like Theon Greyjoy snorts at the description. "Neither of them was completely wrong about the other, I'd say."

"Arrogant, upjumped, bastard?" Doran Martell repeats, a solitary brow raised. Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys sees Ollena Tyrell hide a smile behind her drink. He glances at the Greyjoys. "Is that so?"

Theon clears his throat awkwardly at the indirectly aimed question. "Jon and I…were not particularly civil or courteous with one another in our youths," he begins awkwardly. Tyrion snorts as if he is in on the jape. "We were both vying for the same attention, and if I am to call him arrogant, I'd also have to say I was exactly the same and gave as good as I got. But he is a good man. I would not put arrogance past him, but I always found, begrudgingly, that it was often warranted. He's good at what he does. Better than many."

Daenerys nods and is about to ask more, when the Maester of Dragonstone, a nervous man by the name of Pylos, clears his throat. She turns to the man, who according to him stayed behind to man the keep's welfare following Stannis Baratheon's abandonment of the Castle and the death of his predecessor waiting until a suitable lord returned, at which point he would simply be the Maester again. She is that suitable Lord, and so she raises her brow at him, gesturing for him to continue.

"I actually received a request from Winterfell, oh, a day's past. I did not think much of it at the time, but I suppose you would like to hear it, Your Grace?" She straightens in interest and nods, and he procures a letter from one of the pockets of his robe, unfurling it and clearing his throat before reading the words in a steady, clear voice.

"To whoever holds Dragonstone," he begins, "I write to request that The North and Winterfell be allowed to mine upon the island. Dragonstone sits upon a mound of Dragonglass, or Obsidian as it is called in the records of The Citadel. Dragonglass is a crucial weapon needed within The North, and while I do not trust the nature of the weapon and our enemy on paper to a stranger, I will explain more upon a reply to this letter, and only if confirmation is given. Winter is Coming. Signed, Jon Snow…and with no titles." He hands it to her, and she scans it, seeing all his words as he said them.

"Then indeed, something is happening in The North," Doran Martell warns, voice betraying nothing, but the uneasy look in his eyes says enough for him. His hands tighten on the armrests of his chair, and his daughter looks no less at ease, her eyes trained on the Northern section of Aegon's map. The silence hangs following his declaration, at least until Ollena Tyrell rises, setting her cup loudly on the table.

"Cersei murdered my son and two of my Grandchildren. Her bastard son killed Eddard Stark before his own daughter. I remember Sansa Stark well enough, the wolf in a cage. Her father…" She trails off and when she glances upon the Dornish, her face darkens. "Cersei is our chief enemy. Whatever is happening in The North is their own concern, at least for now. Let us not forget what House has sundered us all." She sends another, much more venomous, look towards Daenerys's Hand, but she makes no move to stop it and Tyrion simply sips at his drink in silence.

"We take The Rock from her, and then what? We have Robb Stark in hand, and then what? Greyjoy and your Hand have made it plenty clear as to the nature of those who hold Winterfell. Do you hope to win the Lords of The Westerlands to you?"

"I hope to take Casterly Rock, and free the most valuable prisoner in the whole of this continent," she says, from between gritted teeth. "Perhaps some Lords will come to me, making Cersei's hold on the three Kingdoms she does hold tenuous. If I can get The North behind me, she will have only The Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands in truth. We are near to The Stormlands, too. We can gain their allegiance next. Then The Riverlands, so Cersei only holds in whole, The Crownlands."

"Edmure Tully will not turn against The Lannisters," Tyrion warns. "Not for any love lost to them, but because he is terrified of them, or so I hear. He has seen the cruelty of this bloody War first-hand, Your Grace, for he was The Groom of The Red Wedding. He will remain, most likely, neutral, playing service to whoever sits The Iron Throne, just to keep himself out of what has occurred."

"And I do not expect him to," she says, honestly enough. "And I hope to mend the horror that was wrought that day–for both The North and The Riverlands. But that is secondary. We need to surround Cersei and make the hold she has on The Westerlands and Stormlands alike tenuous, at best. They may be Lannister Bannermen, but it is hard to ignore her actions. Tyrion, what is the likelihood of turnover in The Westerlands?"

"Higher than Cersei thinks and lower than you think. But I have some faith in it, and more in The Stormlands. The Baratheons are gone, and you hold Dragonstone, the seat of their last Lord. We may not be within The Stormlands, but you have three dragons, and they have been in disarray following the fall of their Lord Paramount and the upheaval of The War of The Five Kings. Come through with strength, and you might just win them over."

She nods mutely, her eyes raking over the map. Cersei, holding The Crownlands, Westerlands, and Riverlands most certainly. The Stormlands, up in the air. She, with The Reach and Dorne behind her. And The North and The Vale, secluded in the early days of Winter, whispering of some great threat. She glances back to Maester Pylos. "Send word to Winterfell. Say that Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms now holds Dragonstone, and will permit the mining of Dragonglass if they speak of what they are so afraid of. Make no mention of Robb Stark or The Greyjoys."

He nods and turns to leave. She looks around at her assembled Lords and Banners. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, a woman whose son and two of her grandchildren were ripped from her by Cersei. Willas and Garlan still live, as far as she's heard, but the loss of their siblings was devastating, by all reports. Then to Dorne, to Arianne and Doran Martell. She thinks with a bitter edge of her niece and nephew and sister-in-law, brutalised by The Lannister armies. For Aegon, Rhaenys, and Elia.

And then to her hand and the Greyjoys. Enemies of many. Her own Hand is brother to The False Queen, the man who murdered his own father, breaking all ties with his House. And yet, he served them for years, and she knows he still holds some love for them, a dangerous sentiment. And then there is the issue of the Greyjoys, the issue of the unknown loyalties of Theon Greyjoy. He was one of Robb Stark's most trusted. He betrayed him. And now, here he stands. Her stomach twists and she feels something colder than worry or fear settle deep in her.

—

"You seem troubled, Your Grace," Tyrion says later, when the council is dismissed and it is just them and Ser Barristan and Grey Worm standing guard. He pours her a drink, but she takes only a delicate sip of it, her eyes trained outwards, to the storm that wracks the castle, a storm like the one she was born in. Stormborn. Sitting across from her, his green and black eyes track her carefully, and he speaks again, "What gnaws at your mind?"

"I am surrounded by strangers and those who all have their own goals. One of my chief advisor's brother is one of the most famous turn cloaks in the whole of Westeros. Everyone has spent the past two hours praising The North, making them a mythic figure. I have no sense of truth from lies, and no idea what to do with the Greyjoys." She meets his eyes. "So, tell me, my Lord Hand, should I trust Theon Greyjoy? And what of The North? What makes them the one thing this all comes back to?"

He sighs heavily, looking away with an odd look, something that holds a shade of grief and old memories. "I don't know quite why The Gods have seen to making The North so central to the wars of the past two centuries, but I will say that I have always sensed there is something different about them. I'd dare say it is The Blood of the First Men, but I don't know. The Starks, especially, have been here for a very long time. Winterfell is the oldest continuously inhabited keep in the whole of Westeros, if not the world. And it was the murder of two Starks that started The Rebellion."

"I thought it was because Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark," she says, her brows furrowing in confusion. Viserys had always hated that narrative, called Lyanna Stark a whole host of cruel names, but Daenerys always found something in her that twisted at his words. She was but a girl. But a girl in a world that seeks to harm them, in a world that takes everything from them. A girl who died thousands of miles from home.

"Certainly, that was when Robert always said it began in force, and that is when he in his heart began to hate your house, but in truth…Your father murdered Rickard and Brandon Stark. There is no denying it, no matter what came before it, what justification one could maybe make. And as rumour holds, he then demanded Ned and Robert's heads alike from Jon Arryn. That was when the war truly began, Daenerys. With their murders. With the spilling of Northern Blood, of Stark Blood. Just like The War of The Five Kings at least began when Ned was put in chains, and sparked into an inferno with his death." His eyes are dark, far away. "Murdered in the South. Just like his brother and father."

"The North is still angry, still hurt, I'd say," he continues. "I mean, what reason do they even have to trust any of us, anymore? The Maesters call them backwards savages, The Faith spits on their Gods, and everyone and their mother made japes at Ned Stark's honour whenever they got the chance. And I remember Robb Stark well enough. A young lord, thrust into a cold seat, with vengeance needed and Winter coming. Perhaps they are not the mythic beasts many paint them as, but House Stark is no small force. Do not think them asunder because all you have heard is half-baked myths."

"Everyone has blood to answer for, though," she pushes back on it, taking a longer sip of her drink, her eyes on the storm again. Stormborn. "The North is not unique in being torn apart by this war. And just because they're an Old House does not mean that they deserve special treatment, nor that I should give it to them. Torrehn Stark bent the knee. His heirs are bound by his oaths to me. To The House of the Dragon."

She can feel Tyrion's eyes on her, and she slowly meets them. He shakes his head, and says in a grave voice, "No, they're not unique because they suffered in this war. They're unique because they hold a third of your Kingdom, because The North is the only Kingdom that successfully repelled The Andals in force, because they were Kings long before The Targaryens or The Lannisters. They have been here for eight thousand years, and I bargain that they'll be here for at least another eight thousand years."

"You do it too," she says from between clenched teeth. "Paint The North as a mythic beast, an unconquerable enemy. But they have their oaths, they have their honour, do they not. Torrehn Stark swore himself to Aegon The Conqueror, and I would hate to see those oaths broken now."

"Your father broke those oaths, Your Grace," he says, voice tightening. "He burned Rickard Stark alive, and Brandon Stark choked himself to death trying to reach him. There was no justice in what he did, and if you ever hope to have The North, do not insinuate that House Stark broke their oaths first, or speak of oaths at all, unless you are suggesting new ones. You must start anew with House Stark, and from all I know of Lord Snow and Lady Stark, they will be harsh in their judgments, as with all Northmen. They are not a people of gilded words and subterfuge. They will be blunt, whoever you meet, in any and every circumstance."

She sighs heavily, rubbing her brow, feeling the beginnings of a headache. She has heard plenty of pieces about Jon Snow and Sansa Stark from both Tyrion and Theon Greyjoy, but how can she trust either of their words about the pair? The Lannisters and Starks have been intertwined in a bloody feud for years now, and his house helped destroy theirs, on top of him marrying Sansa in what he has always called a sham marriage. And Greyjoy…

"And Theon Greyjoy?" She asks, her voice soft and far away. She remembers the look on Tyrion's face after they'd first met with her in Meereen, the way he'd seemed utterly puzzled by the man and his presence. She remembers how he stilled at the news of the ending of House Bolton, all the questions and scars he has left unanswered. Something happened to him, something that broke him wholly and completely, and the fact that she has no idea what is maddening and terrifying at the same time. She has no idea who he is, what he wants, how he plays this game. Where his heart now lies.

Tyrion sighs and takes another long sip of his drink. Again and yet again she looks at the rain, at the never-ending storm, the thing he and his sister had been so sure of. He'd seemed like nothing dangerous to her when she first saw him in Meereen, but when Tyrion told her of his atrocities she'd been unable to look past that, despite all the sharp edges that seemed to consume the whole of the man.

"He is certainly not the man I met in Winterfell," he begins, something he has already said before, but this time he continues. "He is no longer the ward, chafing at his captors, no longer the boy who did what he did. That does not undo what he did and does not give back young Bran and Rickon Stark, no matter what innocence he professes in their deaths. He is changed, and he is hurt, I see that. But do not trust him, Daenerys, only his sister. He has not proved to be someone who can hold trust, someone who will not turn his cloak. I don't know his reasons and do not pretend to. But I remember the boys he said he murdered. I remember the whispers of how their mother took it…I remember their mother."

"She took you captive, once, I recall," she says flatly.

"Indeed, but because she believed I had ordered her sons murdered. I did not, of course, but the heart can rule the head more than we would like. Catelyn Stark was a woman of passion. And The Freys murdered her before her son." He meets her eyes. "House Stark has bled as much as anyone, yes. But they're the only ones who saw their mother and men butchered like that. That betrayal will only serve to harden them further against us. What happened to her, and to Robb Stark and all of The Northern forces was wrong. And I…you should understand that, Your Grace. Understand how they have bled."

"You don't need to give special allowance or let them think that just because they have suffered that you will give them a pass. We have all suffered. We have all bled for senseless violence. And do not back out on wanting to have The North in your fold, either, but understand and sympathise. Make them know that you feel their pain, and want to see justice enacted, just as much as they do. Do what no one else has done for them and find common ground."

"I am not here to excuse rebellions or reward lords who call themselves Kings," she says from between clenched teeth. "I am here to take back what is mine. I am not a girl who will treat with my enemies over tea and stroke their fragile egos until they bend the knee to me. I will not make Robb Stark my prisoner, but I will make it clear what I expect. His knee will bend to the rightful queen."

His sigh is one of exasperation. "You don't know the North well, none of us do." He tacks on the second half when she sends him a look, face screwing up awkwardly. "None of us do, Your Grace. My council, I know, is skewed. I respected both Lady Catelyn and Ned Stark deeply, and I certainly found myself impressed by the military prowess of Robb Stark's campaign. And my suggestions are not me trying to make you find peace or excuse rebellions. I am trying to counsel you on how to win and keep The North. It is not ego that fuels them, I'd say, but they are proud and blunt. Expect that of Lord Stark when we arrive at The Rock."

She sighs, feeling some of her curling and simmering anger rising up in her. It is no fault of Tyrion's that The North has the reputation it does nor that he's finding it so necessary to drive in the same three points over and over again. And she knows there is much she does not understand about what happened within The War, nor about The Northern House, but she remembers all the promises Viserys made, remembers being a girl alone in exile, remembers the day she realised that his dreams could not pass onto her, and how she felt dread as she registered how'd they'd destroyed him. She'd promised herself she would not fall down his path, and diving heedlessly into this war would go against that oath she made to herself.

"What of Stark?" She asks at last, running her fingers over the edge of the table. "You have spoken plenty about his sister and brother, but what of Robb Stark? What is it they called him?"

"The Young Wolf," Tyrion says with a wry smile. "A fitting name, I'd say. He, as with all his siblings, have Great Direwolves, you see. They're the size of horses, last I'd heard of any of them. The courtiers would whisper that Stark would turn into a wolf in the middle of battle and tear the throats out of the faithless. And even when in chains, he was certainly a fiery man. I don't know what happened to his wolf, following The Red Wedding, but as far as anyone knows, the beast is out terrorising unsuspecting chattel and woodland animals. I never actually met his wolf properly, but I remember his half-brother's well enough. Ghost, Lord Snow called him. A fitting name indeed. Never have I seen a beast so quiet."

She nods along, and Tyrion continues, voice far away and twinged with some bitterness. "I was there when Stark was brought before Joffrey. He made a valiant effort, I'll give him that, fighting his guards the whole way in, and I heard he did tell my father to go fuck himself. But his sister was there, and…" he takes a deep breath, and she glances at him. "He loves her. Desperately. He screamed for her as he was dragged away, that and his house words. It was the first they'd seen of each other in years and the first family member she'd seen since Joffrey killed her father right before her. I won't ever forget it, I think."

"He killed her father right before him?" She echoes, her voice softer and hollow. She'd heard that before, but only now does it really register. She saw Viserys die, but she has a distinct impression that it was nothing like that for The Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. By all reports of her Westerosi lords and councillors, he was a good man, an honourable man. Varys had even told her that he'd protested sending killers after her, and while she knows better than to trust every word that comes from The Spider's mouth, her mind is unable to quite let that go. One of the Usurper's Dogs, defending her?

Why would the man that Tyrion says has the most rightful blood with her House defend her life? Something nags in the back of her mind, strange memories from The House of The Undying, but she gives them little thought. Even then, she hears her dead brother's voice ring in the back of her head, like an ill omen and a dead drum, The Dragon has Three Heads. She shakes the thoughts away when Tyrion speaks again, voice a little raw and angrier.

"He did," he agrees. "A girl of three and ten, forced to watch her father be killed, forced to call her whole family traitors. He had her stripped and beaten before the Court because it pleased him to do so. She was not a traitor. She was a good girl, a naïve one too, but she was learning. She had to, if she wanted to survive. I could never rue her for how much she despised me or my House. I would, if I was her. And when her brother was brought before The Court, Joffrey made sure she saw what had become of him." Again, he shakes his head, and he looks angry. Properly, truly, angry.

"I visited him that night, you know? Went down to The Black Cells to see what the Young Wolf had to say to his beloved sister, to try and give them both some comfort before we all expected him to die at Joffrey's Wedding. And all he asked of me was to tell her that he loved her. That he was sorry for all he failed to do." He takes another sip of his drink. "I never loved mine own sister like that. I could not imagine begging a stranger and an enemy to say those words. And yet…the heart of the matter when it comes to The Starks, Your Grace, is their love. You understand?"

"I do," she agrees carefully, not certain as to how truly those words are really ringing in her. But she understands what Tyrion is saying, about having a sibling and never loving them like one would expect, about having love but it being complicated and dangerous and fraught. But she was all Viserys had, and he was all she had, and it's impossible to undo all that they were, forget the days that were good, silent hugs and the fact that he alone kept her safe and alive for so long. And then he sold her to a Dothraki Horse Lord.

Tyrion's face goes ashen, and for a moment, they both stare at the storm. Stormborn, she thinks, not for the first time. Viserys always hated storms. He hated the memories they brought. He would never have won the crown, too cruel, too proud, too unable to ever forgive or listen to council. He'd have called for Robb Stark's head the second he had him in hand. He never could have ruled, and she remembers, with a pit in her stomach, the grim warning from Theon Greyjoy's mouth. They won't care about what you think is your right. You need to convince them you deserve the throne.

"Obviously we have no intentions of arresting nor imprisoning Robb Stark," Tyrion begins after a moment, and she feels apprehension rise up in her at the tone. She can sense the but coming even before he continues. "But that love he has for his family will not serve us, in some regards. You asked about Theon Greyjoy. And while the man has changed, I don't expect Robb Stark to have changed his opinion of him. It's as he said: The North Remembers. Stark might just try to kill Greyjoy, and then we have a whole other mess on our hands, and that's not even accounting for any other Northern Lords he may be imprisoned with."

"What are you suggesting?" She asks coldly, but she knows her apprehension and nerves are shining through on her face, try as she might to quell them.

"I am simply saying that you cannot hesitate to put Stark down and away if he becomes a nuisance on the return journey to Dragonstone. Not because he's a prisoner but because he will be angry and he will be volatile, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to lose The Iron Fleet before we can ever properly utilise them. But then again, this is all dependent on the choices Stark himself makes. I could be worrying for nothing, and Stark could be far too exhausted and confused to care about Greyjoy's presence."

Somehow, Daenerys does not think that is likely to occur, but she reserves her judgment in silence. Tyrion, though, does not do the same, sighing heavily once more, and running a hand over his face. "Gods above, this is bound to be a mess. On one hand, we have a rightfully angry lord who controls a third of the Kingdom and who we're trying to not put back in chains, and on the other, the brother to the Queen who controls half our fleet, who we're trying to keep alive so everyone is happy on their end. And from what I remember of Stark, he's not one for patience or forgiveness."

"But Greyjoy did not kill his brothers, or so he says," she reminds him. "Does that not count for something?"

"He still sacked and took Winterfell, murdered a man of Stark's household, and betrayed them all. All the news of his brothers' survival will do, most likely, is shock Stark for a time, perhaps enough time for us to get him away from Greyjoy. I know it will be nigh impossible to separate the two, but we should tell the men who retrieve Lord Stark to do their best to keep him away from both the Greyjoys. I do not think Yara will take kindly to a man who wants her brother's head, just like he won't take well to the woman who helped reap and rave his shores."

Is there any house, any person who I simply must hold the council of who does not have history with at least one other person? Are there truly no eternal allies here in Westeros? She wonders, and then she thinks of her own childhood in Essos, all the Free Cities and the feuding men who ran them, and especially of the greed of Slaver's Bay, and realises that hoping for that is fruitless. And The North, as so many have pointed out, is old. They've had eight thousand years to wage war and form blood feuds and feel hatred for one another. But then again…

"The North is loyal to The Starks," she says carefully, and her Hand nods. "And there is no one in there who does not like them? No chafed House, no petty Lord with ambitions above their station? I don't seek to undermine the Starks, mind you, but I want to know what The North looks like. I suspect I will hear plenty about the feuds of The South in due time, but less of The North's."

"There was a house like that," Tyrion says dryly. "They were called the Bolton's, and now they're gone." He works his lip between his teeth for a moment, looking troubled. "We did not speak of this in the council due to the nature of it, but Varys passed on something more about their fall and how it pertains to my former Lady Wife. A whisper he's heard coming South from Winterfell."

She raises a brow at him. "Yes?"

"As it goes, Lady Sansa was married to The Bolton Bastard following her escape from King's Landing. He was said to be cruel, deeply so, and when Stannis Baratheon launched her attack against Winterfell she escaped in the fray. How, I cannot say, but she came to The Wall and her brother, and they rode South, got the help of The North and The Vale, and won. But rumours are saying that she killed the Bastard." His eyes darken, something nervous in them. "They're saying she fed him to his own dogs, and that her own Direwolf fed on what was left."

She feels something drop in her stomach, and she looks at him in cold horror. He nods silently, and she runs a hand over her face, wringing her hands in her lap, trying to process the news. Fed him to his own dogs, she thinks, over and over again, her mind conjuring up image after image, none of which fit with the picture of the bride he once had that he has painted. She sends him a shrewd look. "You called her naïve. A good girl, was it?"

"She was," he agrees. "But she is home now, and The North is a cold place, a place where justice is served to the guilty just as injustice was doled out by their hands. I am more interested in the wolf, myself. Last I heard of her wolf, she'd been sent away on The King's Road because she'd bitten Joffrey and he whined about it all. She and her sister's wolves, but it would appear that they have once more found one another." He shudders. "What a sight that must be!"

"They all have wolves?" She asks, tapping her fingers against her knee, trying to imagine what they might look like, but all she gets is a gruesome picture of a bloody muzzle and a hungry mouth. He nods. "Six children and six wolves. And me, with three dragons. It would appear your sister is the only one without a mythic beast following in her footsteps. That must grate her."

Tyrion snorts. "My sweet sister is a lion enough in her own right, Your Grace. She needs not one to dog her step to remind everyone of just how cruel she can be, I will give her that. But then again, I do think she will rue the absence of one when your dragons burn her alive, or maybe when one of the Stark wolves latch their jaws around her pretty neck. Then again, I don't put it past the wolves going slower than that. They certainly will hold no more love for her than their owners do."

Daenerys nods and looks again to The Storm. I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, of the Blood of Old Valyria. Robb Stark is a Lord with The Blood of The First Men within him, an heir to a dynasty just as old as the lands from which her house once came, if not older. They are older and prouder than the Lannister Lions of Casterly Rock, who won their home in a swindle and a cheat, just like Cersei won the throne she now sits upon. What right does she have, to any of it? To Westeros?

"Go and prepare the fleet," she says at last to Tyrion, whose brows raise as he nods. "Euron Greyjoy will be hunting us, but I do not intend to give him the time to find us. You shall sail under false banners, and I will come upon The Rock in a few weeks time, once I have word that you have reached it, or are in sight. One fight at a time. Let Cersei see what we can do, let us wear down her resolve as she searches needlessly for us. She will not have Dragonstone, and she will not have my fleet."

"You will be leaving thousands of your men with nothing to do," Tyrion warns her. "The armies of The Reach and Dorne will be anxious to move. And The Dothraki will not settle for long."

"I am their Khaleesi," she reminds him. "They have followed me this far and will want time to prepare their horses before we come upon the mainland. This is a land unlike any they have seen, and they have never fought the people of Westeros. And let the Reach and Dorne gather their strength. Send letters to the surviving Lords of The Stormlands, though, and see where their intentions lie. I am patient enough to take this slowly. I do not believe Cersei to hold the same virtue." She sips at her wine, a smile on her lips as she stares at the storm. This is what I was born into, this is what created me. Storms are not patient. The Dragon takes what it wants.

"And once we have The North, she will be surrounded," she continues on, settling back in her chair, straight-backed and proud. She should probably forge another crown. Not the one she wore in Mereen and in Slaver's Bay, with her three dragons. But a crown for a Queen of Westeros, for The Dragon Queen, not the Queen of Slaver's Bay and Mereen, The Breaker of Chains. She makes a note of it. "Let Cersei worry, and see shadows at every turn. Let her hear of what we have stolen, and let her feel fear. Let her madness consume her long before I come to her gates and see her dead."

She meets her Hand's eyes and stands slowly. He stands as well, following her to the window as she stares out at the bay, remembering all the stories Viserys told her. Of the Queens who came before her, The Queens who also had their thrones stolen from her. Of Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, and of Rhaenyra, The Black Queen. Rhaenyra ruled from Dragonstone, but Daenerys does not plan to fall as she did, to treachery and deceit and in fire. The Unburnt. She will take what is hers, and rule in Truth. She will have The Iron Throne.

"They call me Stormborn," she says at last, her chin held high. Tyrion nods. "My brother called himself The Last Dragon, but I know now that he was not. But you will be the Last Lannister, know that Lord Tyrion. I do not seek to punish you for the love you might hold, for man cannot control what he loves, but know if you ever let that get in our way, you will no longer be my Hand, and House Lannister will fall with Cersei. Your brother will die, too, for what he did. Do you understand?"

He meets her eyes, green and black meet Valyrian Purple. She sees something deep and painful in him, but no matter what love he holds for Jaime Lannister, she has no intentions of letting the man who stabbed her father in the back live in her world, not if she has any say in it. He swallows tightly, and bows his head, his voice lacking some of its normal confidence as she says, "I understand."

"Good," she says, turning back to the storm and the world ahead. Tyrion leaves her after a moment, and she does not watch him go, does not let herself think of whatever thoughts might be swirling in his head. Although, it would not be uncouth to let him say goodbye to The Kingslayer. Tyrion had credited him in his survival, and she did not miss the look in his eyes at that. He may not love his sweet sister, but he does love his brother, in whatever way he can. And to never get to say goodbye to the one you love is cruel, she knows that.

She thinks of The Starks, then. Of Rickard Stark, burned alive in his own armour by her father. Of Brandon, his son and heir, forced to watch and dying because he was just a boy, trying to reach his father. Of Sansa Stark, nothing more than a little girl, watching her father die before her. Of the whispers of the butchery that was The Red Wedding, and all that The North has suffered at the hands of the rest of Westeros.

And then she sighs, breathing deeply and letting her mind clear. Dwelling too long in the past will not serve her. She is at long last in Westeros, and she has a throne to take back from those who stole it from her. She is Daenerys Stormborn of The House Targaryen, and that means the Iron Throne is hers, and hers alone.

---

notes:

-realism is an important factor in warfare, and unlike a certain lannister queen, dany doesn't strike me as the type to be so entirely self assured that she thinks nothing can touch her. my version of dany, at the least. anyway.

-obvi I did have to get Myrcella out of the picture, but if there is anything I hate more than s8's absurdity its how the whole of the show handled dorne and doran and ellaria. so, i mixed in some (read: a shit ton) of book Cannon, reworked it a bit for funsies, and still had Quentyn 'i am the blood of the dragon' Martell burning to a crisp because i actually do find his death to be hilarious, despite the gruesome nature of it.

-Arianne Martell is my wife. Oh my god do I adore her. I still don't fully know how I want Dorne to play out, and yes that Golden Company conversation is pointed, but *that* plot point will not be a part of this fic specifically, but I'm not above leaving breadcrumbs and hints at The Dornish having a few other tricks up their sleeves, along with a few other ties that they're not mentioning...

-one of the massive issues i had w/ s8 is danys complete aloofness and her advisors' negligence in the issues and politics of the north. none of them ever take a moment to even think about why the north might just be frustrated and understand the issues they have w house targ especially. I am gonna try and rewrite that some what, or at least have someone be like 'yeah lol we all fucked up w the north and they don't really have any reason to trust any of us'.

-(then again, THE most infuriating line in the whole of s7 is dany, daughter of the mad king, telling jon, rickard starks grandson and Brandon starks nephew, 'have you come here to break faith w house targaryen' or something like that. like. dany. love. do you have any idea why the starks hate the targs so much?)

-which leads me, of course, to theon. i am really excited for where his arc goes over the next few chapters, as he and robb start crashing back towards one another, and he faces his mistakes. now, he is NOT one of Dany's trusted or principal advisors. but he, as i said, is the person who knows House Stark better than anyone else around her, and as Dany notes, his loyalties are already fraught...

-is the north special? Is the north deserving of more because of their unique scars? Thats part of what I'm going to unpack over the course of her arc (and robbs) and kinda delve into why the answer is yes and no for both questions. I will admit i am deffo biased with the north, but i want to give a reason as to why I talk about them why I do, and have moments where people kinda take a step back and analyse how they look at The North, and everything w it.

next up, a wolf is freed...and a turn cloak finds his past catching up to him