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)

21. THE LION II

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: THE LION II

Tyrion Lannister stands at Daenerys's side as she continues to win more and more, the might of her army and Dragons going unopposed. The King in the North looks towards home even more and more, and upon the arrival of something new, he makes the decision to go home. The Dragon Queen's council debates their next move.

---

As the day breaks over the horizon, Tyrion Lannister watches his Queen and her three dragons approach The Island of Dragonstone from atop a shaded pavilion, wine already in hand and his heart stirring with exhaustion.

She's been here only off and on, ever since the sack of Highgarden and her subsequent revenge against the forces of House Lannister. Whispers are already spreading, and he's seen the suspicious looks that their Northern guests now give her, so he knows that they have reached this island as well. She and her three dragons descended, Dothraki at their heels, and for the first time in recorded history, Westerosi Soldiers met A Dothraki Horde in the field. The victor was clear, even from the start, and now Cersei's victory is only more pyrrhic.

Most recently, though, she'd been in Dorne for a few days, helping Doran Martell's armies bolster their borders with The Reach, against what Houses remain with Cersei. Olenna Tyrell has made it clear that she lives, and just a few days ago, Tyrion received word from Doran Martell and his men that have remained in Sunspear that her grandsons and heirs–Garland and Willas–are safely in Dornish hands, and headed to Dragonstone now. Tyrion would not be surprised if they show up today, only a few hours after Daenerys does.

Drogon swoops over the castle, Viserion and Rhaegal behind them. It is a rare clear day on Dragonstone, with the sky as blue as a robin's egg, and the clouds constrained only to the distant horizon. But The Greyjoys say yet another storm is coming, and in the almost two months since their arrival, Tyrion has learned to trust The Ironborn Queen and her flinty-eyed brother when it comes to their prophecies of storms. Dragonstone is a volatile land, it would seem, storms ever coming and going, as wild as the House who first settled here.

But in the daylight, the dragons look beautiful. Drogon is back as coal and red as blood. Rhaegal is the same green as glimmering jade and his hints of bronze look like the armour Tyrion has seen some men of House Royce wear. And Viserion is white like fresh snow, and gold like Tyrion and his sibling's hair. They're all beautiful creatures. Beautiful and deadly and terrifying, yes, but he's beginning to see why Daenerys considers them chiefly beautiful.

She is smiling when she finally finds him, and he is glad that she is in good humour for the day. Tyrion knows well enough how long wars can run, and knows that they have barely scratched the surface of this one, but he hopes she keeps her bright outlook for as long as possible. Especially as it seems that all her contemporaries are either cold men with Northern dreariness, or his own sister, who is mad as can be, and crueller still. Daenerys will be a Good Queen, that Tyrion must believe–A good Queen, once they win The Iron Throne, that is.

"You seem pleased, today," he says to her in lieu of a greeting, and she nods.

"Our victory was easy and we barely lost anything. The same cannot be said for them, and we have sworn a few more Houses to our cause or plunged them into forced abstinence." Her purple eyes rove over the water that surrounds Dragonstone, the sunlight catching on them and reminding Tyrion of the lilacs that grew in some of the gardens of The Red Keep. In the depths of summer, they would look so beautiful on a clear day, amidst a sea of green.

"Cersei's will and resolve will crumble slowly, but we are starting to get there," Tyrion says.

Daenerys shoots him a curious look. "Has there been more from King's Landing, then?"

"Nothing expressly new," Tyrion says. "Though she reaffirmed her former letter and named a few more whom she believes to be serving the wrong side. It would seem she has heard of Benjen Stark's ascension on The Wall, and learned that Ser Barristan serves you and that Ser Jorah does as well. She has also gathered the names of Stark's men he has here. Grey Worm, Missandei, and your bloodriders were named as well. Varys is already working on rooting out her spies, thankfully."

She nods, some of her good humour sliding away, but not completely. "I heard about The Tyrell Heirs, as well. I do believe I might have spotted their ships as we flew home, and I have little doubt that they will be intercepted by The Ironborn before long. They should be here by lunchtime, and then we shall all discuss."

Tyrion nods and takes a long sip of her wine. She follows the movement with narrowed eyes but does not comment on it, thankfully. Wine is nice, Tyrion knows. After all, it keeps memories that are less than pleasant to think about away and allows him to actually sleep at night. It's quite a wonder, he's beginning to think, that a certain Northern Lord, or King, or whatever he will become, has not taken up the habit himself, given all that he has experienced.

But Robb Stark is a hardy man, that much is clear. Tyrion has caught him, and that wolf of his, more than once, staring out across the sea, face caught in tens of emotions. Sometimes there is a grief so deeply etched into his face that it suffocates the very air around them, sometimes he looks at peace, as if caught in a happy memory, and once, Tyrion saw a cold and dangerous look on his face that had him walking away before politeness could demand a conversation.

House Frey and House Bolton are gone, but Tyrion knows there is plenty of revenge left for Robb Stark to take. Against Tyrion's own House, especially. Against Cersei, the woman who bore Joffrey, who twisted and used Sansa, who probably first suggested his sham marriage with the girl. Tyrion is still not sure he's even in the clear, given that marriage. He suspects the judgement will be left to Sansa Stark herself, and he hopes that they parted on good enough terms that he won't be the next man to lose his head in this war that has gone on for so very long.

The day passes as most do, and right after he and Daenerys finish eating around The Painted Table, discussing some of their next moves while they wait to see how Cersei will react to this round, in comes a messenger. Tyrion eyes the serving girl carefully–she's one of the ones who was already here upon Daenerys's arrival, and he does recall seeing her a handful of times. His suspicion is probably unwarranted, but it is concerning to think that Cersei may have ears in Dragonstone.

The girl says that The Ironborn are here, and that one other ship is with them, one that is not like the rest. Its main sails are Yellow and Orange–Dornish colours–but she also says that a green flag flies above the main mast, with a golden rose adorned on it. The Tyrells, then, and Tyrion doesn't even have to ask before Daenerys is on her feet and headed out the door. Tyrion nods at the girl and follows his Queen, sparing just a quick glance back to make sure that the girl is scampering off.

Olenna Tyrell is already there when they get there, and so are The Greyjoys and two other men. Both are dressed in plain but well-made clothing and though they look exhausted, they do not look too worse for wear. They both have brown hair that curls ever so slightly and brown eyes that seem to miss little. One carries a cane, the other a sword, and they both are speaking in low tones to The Queen of Thorns, who looks relieved beyond words. Willas and Garlan Tyrell, then, the last of their family, and one now not only The Lord of Highgarden and of The Reach alike but Warden of The South all the same.

They both straighten as they see Daenerys approaching and exchange a look as they see Tyrion. The one with the cane, Willas, eyes him especially shrewdly, his grip on his cane tightening ever so slightly, though neither he nor his brother says anything to Tyrion. Instead, Willas bows low, a hand over his heart, and says, "My Queen. We thank you for your swiftness in aiding us following Cersei's attack."

Garlan follows his brother, but says nothing beyond, "My Queen." His sword still glimmers in the daylight, despite all their toils, and Tyrion wonders just how much the one they call Garlan The Gallant used that blade in defence of his brother, the now Lord of Highgarden with their father's death. He recalls the man and the stories he heard during The Blackwater, and also how quickly he returned to Highgarden following Tyrion's marriage and his sister's betrothal to stay with both his brother and his own bride, waiting back in Highgarden for him.

"It was only natural," Daenerys says with an easy smile, her hands folded together before her. "House Tyrell has stood beside me since I first came to these shores, and I will not let Cersei destroy more of your House. Your brother, your sister, and your father will be avenged, as I have told your Grandmother. I will see to it, if it is the last thing I do. Every Westerosi Man on this island has blood with her. We all want to see her dead."

"Indeed," Willas agrees with an easy smile, though Tyrion isn't fully convinced of its genuineness. Beside him, Garlan looks wary of all of them, indeed, his brown eyes narrowed and his face haggard. Though, Tyrion is certain that your home being sacked without warning and being forced to flee from both The Seat of your House and your wife is nothing short of taxing on one's mind. Reserving his judgement, Tyrion steps forward.

"We will convene tomorrow to speak more of our next moves, but for now, we have had rooms prepared for you, My Lords." He turns to Missandei, who he noted arriving just a moment after he and Daenerys did, and she steps forward, a smile on her face. Both men look at her with some interest, and she begins speaking in her natural and so very kind voice.

"I am Missandei of Naath," she greets, and both of them incline their heads, the very pictures of Southern Decorum. Tyrion cannot help but think of the bluntness of their Northern guests, and the differences between Willas Tyrell and Robb Stark. Both first sons, raised to be The Lord Paramount of massive swaths of land, but so very different. Willas's eyes are bright and keen, but he is also easy on the eyes and carries himself with openness and kindness. Whereas Stark is all sharp edges, and handsome in a Northern way, cut from a chunk of ice and acting like it.

Willas nods at her, but before he can say anything, Garlan speaks his first, looking at Tyrion critically. He recalls the man dancing with Sansa at the wedding, and he thinks he spoke of him nicely to his terrified bride, but much has happened since then. "Is it true you serve The Queen, that you have turned against your sister?" Tyrion nods, and the man sets his jaw. "Good. Otherwise, I would have a brother for a sister and a brother both."

"And Cersei would thank you for that, you reckless fool," Olenna says snidely, though there is something softer in it than Tyrion has heard to anyone else. A ghost of a smile comes across Garlan's face, and he nods at his grandmother, clearly conceding. Glancing at Daenerys, he sees that she too is smiling, ever so slightly, her eyes bright.

"Also," Garlan continues, his face a little more open, but not vulnerable, "I hear that we are not the only guests upon this Island? I know House Martell and House Greyjoy are here, along with an army made up of Unsullied and Dothraki alike, but whispers state that Robb Stark is here as well–though, as your prisoner or ally, I do not know. Is that true?"

"Robb Stark is on this island, indeed," Daenerys says, her face closing off. The Tyrell men exchange a weighty look that Tyrion doesn't even try to decipher, and Daenerys seems to note with a slight narrowing of her eyes. "He is not my prisoner, know that. He and I are still working out the nature of what lies between us, seeing as he has not bent his knee, and remains The King in The North to his bannermen, but," she waves her hand through the air, "We will speak more on that, later. For now, let us get inside."

Willas and Garlan both nod and thus begins the long trek upwards. The three Tyrells lag behind a bit, on account of Willas's bad leg, but two Unsullied still walk behind them, and Missandei seems to be speaking to the three of them, getting smiles out of both men. Even Olenna seems to like her, though Tyrion cannot blame her; Missandei of Naath is quite the agreeable woman, anyone could probably agree. It is good, then, that she stands beside Daenerys in all matters. Good that Daenerys has her, in the first place.

When they reach the top, though, to the company's surprise Grey Worm is waiting for them. Tyrion sees Daenerys glance at Missandei as she comes over the steps, and neither woman seems to know why he is there, which is odd. Grey Worm glances at The Tyrells as they come, and nods at The Unsullied who salute him, before speaking to Daenerys. "There is a Red Priestess of R'hllor here. She is waiting for you in The Throne Room. She wishes to speak to you, my Queen. Should I dismiss her?"

She glances at Tyrion at that, and he asks the man, "Did she give her name?" The man shakes his head, and Tyrion feels himself frown as his interest suddenly piques. He weighs their options for a moment before saying, "It can't do us much harm, can it? I say we go and speak to this Red Woman."

"I am inclined to agree," Daenerys says, turning to look at The Tyrells. "I apologise; I have to meet with someone else, My Lords, My Lady. Missandei will see you to your rooms, and I will make sure that we speak later tonight. Be welcome in Dragonstone, My Lords."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Willas says, and then the three Tyrells are following after Missandei, the two Unsullied following when Grey Worm jerks his head in silent order to do so, leaving Tyrion alone with The Commander of The Unsullied and His Queen. They exchange a single glance and then make their way to the Throne Room, where this mystery woman waits for them.

When they get there though, the priestess is not alone.

Robb Stark stands alone in the centre of the room, in a rare moment of separation from his wolf. He is eyeing the newcomer, who stands a few paces away, warily, and Tyrion follows his gaze with his own healthy amount of trepidation. The newcomer is a woman dressed entirely in red, unsurprising considering her profession, but there is more to it, still.

She is all red, a horrible and terrible red. Even her hair, which falls out from a hood she has drawn over her head, is red as glimmering copper, and her eyes are even red, red as blood and flames. Around her pale throat, a choker lies, with a single ruby glimmering in its centre. When her eyes meet Tyrions, he feels something cold run through him, fear mixed with the uncanny sense of something unnatural.

And then she smiles, and it is a terrible smile, though he cannot say why. The woman is gorgeous, dauntless, but something about her mere presence unsettles Tyrion down to his very core. When he looks at Daenerys, he sees a trepidation much like his own creeping slowly over her, though she hides it well. But when he looks at this strange new arrival, he knows that his Queen's unsettled countenance has not been missed by her.

"Daenerys Targaryen," she says in a low, melodic voice, that is marked by an accent he cannot quite discern. The woman nods "The Mother of Dragons." The woman tilts her head at The Queen and then begins to speak in what Tyrion recognises as Valyrian, though he cannot make out the words. As they exchange words, Tyrion finds himself exchanging a glance with Stark, whose tense stance and firmly set jaw says enough for him, even before he sends Tyrion an intentional look with those blue eyes of his that makes Tyrion think of two women with the same eyes and the same hair.

When Daenerys seems to ask something of the woman, she smiles again and pulls back her hood and nods at not only Daenerys but to Robb Stark as well. "I am Melisandre of Asshai. I once served another who wanted The Iron Throne: Stannis Baratheon. I believed him to be the man who would bring the dawn, but now Stannis's bones lie outside of Winterfell, swallowed by the snows or reduced to nothing more than ashes."

"You are The Red Woman," Stark cuts in, incredulity in every inch of his voice. His eyes are wide and wild and Tyrion can see something dawning over his expression, an unknown realisation. The Red Woman–Melisandre–regards him carefully as his eyes rake over her. "My brother Jon spoke of you to me." Stark licks his lips, clearly considering something, and when he speaks, his words seem very deliberately chosen. "I hear that House Stark owes you a debt. Did my brother send you here?"

She shakes her head. "Lord Snow and I did not part on good terms, Your Grace. I will leave the story to him, and the judgement of my crimes to you. It is not he who sent me here. I come, instead, on behalf of The One True God." Her eyes glimmer, and once again, she smiles, and Tyrion feels no less used to it. If anything, it is that much more terrifying. "You know that your brother has seen the work of The Lord of Light. He knows his miracles just as much as his judgement. And soon, all of us will see."

"The Lord of Light does not have many followers in Westeros, does he?" Daenerys asks as Robb Stark falls silent, face growing pale and a grave expression crossing his face. Tyrion can sense well enough that something lies between Melisandre of Asshai and Robb Stark, something that doubtless has to do with Jon Snow, something no one else knows. The work of The Lord of Light. The words linger in the back of his mind, gnawing at his consciousness and all his thoughts.

"Not yet," Melisandre agrees, glancing towards Tyrion and Robb both. "But even those who do not worship the Lord can still help his cause."

Daenerys tilts her head at The Red Woman, a strange tone creeping into her voice. "What does your Lord expect of me? I have spoken to Priestesses and Priests alike from His worship, and they have said many things. Said things of promises of The Lord of Light, of a fate that they believe for me. Long since have they been in my following, since my children were born in The Dothraki Sea."

There is a strange look on Melisandre's face, a careful one. When she speaks, she does not smile, and her tone loses some of its mystical quality. In fact, Tyrion almost thinks it is grief he hears in her voice. "I do not come here to speak of prophecy or The Saviour our Lord promised. I come with warnings and what council I have left to give. When I heard Robb Stark lay here, alongside you, I knew I had to come. For I asked for both your presences, My Queen, My King, for there is much that is yet to be revealed."

Tyrion does not miss the bewildered look that Stark and Daenerys share, nor does he miss how they both straighten imperceptibly, eyes trained carefully on The Red Woman. Her mouth curls into a slight smile, and she folds her hands before her, her red eyes dancing with an unnatural light like a flame lives inside her very body. He remembers the woman who came to Mereen, in Daenerys's absence, The Flame of Truth, the woman who had called herself Kinvara. She'd been unearthly, but there is something almost terrifying about This Red Priestess.

"The prophecies in the flame speak of much yet to come. Of Ice and Fire, of blood running over snow and betrayals and treachery. Boys die, wolves howl, and dragons screech." Stark stiffens, a cold expression on her face. Slowly, a smile inches its way over her face, and the intonation creeps back into her voice like a slow-moving plague. "You know of what I speak, Robb Stark. But there are secrets yet to be uncovered, secrets thought left behind by those who have died, secrets that even I do not know. But it is, I suppose, as The Ironborn say: 'What is Dead may never die.'"

"And you, My Queen," she says, turning back to Daenerys, leaving Stark to gape at her. "You have a role to play in The Wars to Come. The War for The Throne, yes, but also The Great War, the one that will demand all our blood before the end." When Tyrion glances at Stark, he looks downright afraid, his eyes wide and wild, hand gripping the pommel of the blade he'd scrounged up a few days ago in a white knuckle grip. His unrest seems to amuse Melisandre of Asshai.

"What war?" Daenerys asks. Tyrion's heart is like a hammer against steel, beating furiously as his mind spins and tries to draw together all that he has heard. But the cords are severed and too short and missing pieces, and so he is left confused, which only births a low, creeping fear in his stomach.

Again, Melisandre sends an intentional look towards Robb, one Tyrion follows. But Stark is stubbornly and pointedly not meeting their eyes, his Tully blue eyes as cold as the ice that makes up the brunt of The Wall as they dig into The Red Woman, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Next to The Red Woman and all her unnaturalness, his red hair looks almost dull, his face cold and shut away.

"You will learn of it, in time," Melisandre finally says, looking back to Tyrion and meeting his eyes. "We will all be called to serve The Lord of Light, and all I know is that we will all be needed, we all must be undivided, unbroken, and our faith must stand true. Perhaps the fact that the three of you–A Targaryen, A Lannister, and A Stark–standing here together is enough to think that it is possible. Or maybe not. All will come to pass, one way or another."

Stark shakes his head, eyes dark and expression pained. When he speaks, speaks again of the shadowy shape of some connection between them that Tyrion cannot make out, his voice is rough and raw, like the edge of an open and gaping wound. "Why did Jon banish you? That must be what it is, no? He spoke only a line about you, kept you unnamed, and never anything more. You say that you parted on cold terms, and I ask you now: Why? What drove my brother to that, considering what you did?"

"I have made a great many mistakes, Your Grace," she says, and that grief seeps back into her voice. "I have been wrong about things I could not afford to be wrong about. I do not grieve your brother for the choice he made. But I will leave the answers you seek to him."

"If you cannot answer a simple question, then why should I trust you? Why should anyone here take your word?"

The Red Woman pauses for a moment, and Tyrion finds himself grateful to not be in Stark's position as he watches the man hesitate under her gaze. Fire and Ice, those two seem to be, and Yurion thinks that they might just be the type of horrible combination that is bound to end in both their destructions. "You know why. You know that what I speak of is true. Your brother has spoken to you of it. Your uncle has. And soon, you will speak to them about it, and all will be laid bare." Her smile sharpens.

She draws nearer to him, and Tyrion just has to tense with Stark as she lays a hand on his cheek. "Well, almost everything," she whispers. The man is nearly shaking, his eyes locked on her, but in a flash, it all seems to be shoved aside, and Melisandre's eyes narrow. She grabs her arm, and the world seems to fade away for the two of them as they stare at one another.

"Winter is Coming, Robb Stark. You know what rides on its tail. When I look into the flames, I see Snow, covering it all." She leans forward and whispers something to Stark, her grip on his arm tightening. Still, he manages to escape her grip, wrenching away with a low sound, his teeth bared at her and his eyes flashing.

Daenerys's brows raise at the show, and she looks at Stark expectantly, asking, "What does she speak of?" Tyrion keeps his eyes on The Red Woman and her eternally dancing eyes. Catching his gaze, she looks at him knowingly, and though it lasts only a heartbeat, he feels as if he has been turned inside out, and every inch of him has been laid bare for her unnatural eyes to rove over and pick apart.

Stark's voice is cold and dangerously close to haughty as he speaks. "My Uncle has sent something South, and if it is what I believe it to be, there will be a discussion that needs to be had. But the ship will not arrive for a few more days, and I will not speak of its contents until then. Winter is Coming, your Grace. That is all you need to know."

Tyrion's eyes snap between them both, the tension thick in the air. Daenerys's eyes are alight, and Stark's are colder still, and in the corner of his eye, Tyrion can see The Red Woman standing there, her eyes unnatural, too perfect to be real, just like the rest of her. He waits with a bated breath to see what his Queen will say, if she says anything at all.

Finally, she speaks. "Well, then, if there is nothing more to discuss, I wish you good luck, Robb Stark."

Stark's grin is wolfish, dangerous and unsettling in its own way. The man is not as eldritch as The Red Woman has proven to be, but there is something about him that makes Tyrion pause, something that makes him so different from all the rest. He's spent the past few weeks trying to figure out what exactly it is, but all he does is keep on drawing up blanks, or just getting more and more wary of the lonesome Wolf King who stalks the halls of Dragonstone. And with the shadow of some secret now lying between them, looking at Stark is like looking at a shifting reflection in the surface of an unsteady pond.

"The same goes to you, Daenerys Targaryen," he says, leaving without another word.

After a breath, The Red Woman leaves as well, without anything to say for it. Tyrion watches her go, and the second the doors close, he turns to Daenerys, who stands tall and proud, her face distant and too calm to be believed. "When the ship he spoke of is spotted, I want to be told immediately. There is something he is not saying, something even beyond what lies on that ship. Something The Red Woman knew innately. I want to know what it is."

"I'd reckon it has something to do with The Bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow," Tyrion says. Now that he thinks about it, had The Red Woman's eyes brightened with interest when Stark first mentioned his half-brother or is he just imagining things? Tyrion wishes he knew for sure, but he's lived long enough to know he never will. The mind does what it will do, and nothing can stop that. When I look into the flames, I see Snow, covering it all.

"I will do what I can, though."

"Good," she replies, and Tyrion takes the dismissal for what it is.

His mind swirls with thoughts, each darker than the last. But the one that does not leave him alike, the one that does not abate its restless hounding in his mind, it is the one that has nagged at him since he first learned of Jon Snow and The Battle of The Bastards: How in all the seven hells did he manage to escape his vows?

—

Tyrion and Daenerys both stand on the parapets overlooking The Island of Dragonstone, watching the ship and its all-black flag and sails draw ever close to the island, a storm just behind it. If he had better eyesight, he knows he would see one Robb Stark waiting on the beach, waiting for whatever boon he'd so mysteriously spoken of to arrive. Snarks and Grumpkins, Robb had said he'd call them, but Tyrion thinks his practicality is warranted. Though the look that has ever been in Stark's eyes is beginning to trouble him, he won't deny it.

"What do you think it is?" Daenerys asks him, her hands folded together before her and her strange Valyrian eyes trained on the ship. Tyrion considers for a moment, considers everything he has heard out of The North in the past decade. Rangers missing, Wildlings gathering, and a Knight turned Black Brother carrying a decrepit hand. And all that the Red Woman had said, looking at Robb Stark like she knew a truth larger than all of them.

"The North has long since held to myths and legends," he begins, speaking as carefully as he can. "They believe in things that the rest of The Seven Kingdom believes to be dead or to have never existed, in the first place. I don't know what it is, but I know that whatever it is, it is enough to unsettle Robb Stark and to perhaps even worry him. And that is no small feat. Whatever he hopes to show us today is important, that's for sure."

She nods, her lips pressing together into a thin line that makes her look displeased, but she doesn't say why. Tyrion can guess well enough though, for it is the same reason that The North has been so dismissed over the past few years. Their whispers and their legends are strange, cold, and dark, but also half mad when heard by someone who hasn't been raised on them. But every Northman he's met, every Black Brother he spoke to about it, they seemed to have some belief in it, some knowledge of the truth.

People used to think Direwolves were dead, that reports of them beyond The Wall had been exaggerated by distance and the overactive imaginations of The Black Brothers. And now, six Direwolves, beasts of legend, roam the lands South of The Wall, as real as Tyrion, Daenerys, and her Dragons. People used to say the Dragons were dead. They've all been proved wrong, on both accounts. What's to say that there isn't more that they are wrong about?

The ship docks. Tyrion can just barely make out the shapes on the beach far below, men in shapeless black and a few others that don't seem to be black brothers, though it is hard to tell. Tyrion glances at Daenerys, and she meets his eyes after only a moment. They say nothing, but he can feel the understanding pass between the both of them. She nods mutely at him and turns to go, Tyrion at her side.

They beat Robb and The Black Brothers to the throne room, which is filled with tense silence, anticipation thick in the air. All of her councillors are here, along with Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah, who flank either side of the steps leading to The Throne of Dragonstone. Grey Worm stands to the left of The Throne, the head guard for the day. Missandei is on the right, along with Tyrion, who cannot keep his eyes off the large doors that lead into the main throne room. Daenerys sits in silence upon The Throne, her face a cool mask of indifference.

Finally, the door opens, and whatever men Tyrion had first expected to come in through that door is immediately tossed aside. He doesn't recognise the first two men, really, the ones standing at either side of Stark. One is a Black Brother with a grim face, and the other, a man with only one eye, has a familiar look, but Tyrion cannot draw up a name. There are a few other black brothers and a few other men who do not appear to be men of The Watch, and then–

He sees the man in red first, and he recognises Thoros of Myr with a shock. Glancing at Ser Barristan and Jorah Mormont, he sees the same recognition in their eyes. But even that is secondary to the man who comes in behind them all, hauling a great wooden crate. Tyrion's stomach bottoms out as the man straightens and he sees the familiar grey eyes and half-burned face of one Sandor Clegane, The goddamn Hound.

Someone, though he's not sure who makes a choked noise.

What in the world? Tyrion thinks with incredulity, glancing at The Martells, who are staring at the brother to The Mountain with enough venom to kill the man right where he stands. The Hound pauses for a moment, resting his hand on the crate in a strange movement, staring right back at them. Then a grim smile comes over his face, and he steps away, close to Robb Stark–who, to his credit, also looks semi-surprised by The Hound's presence, though he is hiding it better.

"Sandor Clegane," Tyrion drawls, breaking the silence at long last. The Hound turns his eyes onto him, and Tyrion does not miss the look in his eyes. Daenerys glances at him, and he continues. "I believe the last time we spoke was at The Blackwater. What was it you said?" He takes a moment, pretending to think, though he remembers it clear as day. "Oh, yes: fuck the kingsguard, fuck the city, and fuck the king. And here you are, following another king."

"He's not my fucking King," he says, at the exact same time as Robb Stark says, "He is not my man, Lannister." They exchange an odd look, full of emotions that Tyrion can hardly decipher. He clears his throat, and they both look back at him and by extension, Daenerys. The Hound's eyes narrow as he sees her, but he doesn't say anything to her personally, for which Tyrion is supremely glad.

Tyrion glances at Daenerys himself, just in time to see her lips press together again, and to see her settle back in her throne, opening the floor up without a single word being spoken by her. And the opportunity is not wasted on The Martells, as Arianne Martell pipes up in an instant, her voice as flat and as sharp as a blade, her eyes dark with fury, "Your brother murdered my uncle. He raped my aunt and murdered her and her babe before her."

The Hound turns to her, an indecipherable expression on his face. For a moment, Tyrion thinks that he won't rise to the accusation, but then he is swiftly reminded of who Sandor Clegane is, as the man all but sneers at her, eyes dark. "You hate my brother? Well, so do I, and I've hated him for far more years than you, Princess. I'm not him. Don't go getting it fucking twisted."

"Me and the men you see before you were once sent out in pursuit of The Mountain, my princess, and now, we have his brother in our ranks," The man with one eye says, a smile playing on his lips even as The Hound snorts and mutters something. The man bows towards The Martells, "I know you must not recognise me, but I am Beric Dondarrion, as I live and breathe."

That shocks the Martells, and Tyrion as well. He'd thought The Dondarrion Lord long since dead, and yet, here he stands before Tyrion, almost unrecognisable, but living and breathing. Doran Martell's face passes through a complicated mix of emotions, but when he speaks, his voice is even. "You are engaged to Lady Allyria Dayne, and last I heard, Lord Edric Dayne was your squire. But I heard that Edric had returned to Starfall a year or so ago…what removed him from your company, Lord Dondarrion?"

Dondarrion's smile grows grim, and he glances once at the crate that still lies ominously in the centre of the room. "Edric is a good lad, and does not need to be caught in what follows. Me and The Brotherhood Without Banners–the company here before you now–went North, and Edric returned to his Aunt, my betrothed, to further serve Dorne and House Dayne. It was a hard parting, but, as The Starks say…Winter is coming." He glances at Robb Stark.

"You lead the Brotherhood Without Banners?" Tyrion cuts back in, feeling as shocked as almost everyone looks. Everyone has heard of the outlaw group that ran wild in The Riverlands for years on end, but he never expected that it would be led by a Lord of The Stormlands and a follower of The Red God known for his love of a good drink. Tyrion looks to Thoros of Myr, who grins and raises a wine flask in his direction.

Finally, Daenerys speaks, her voice cutting through the room easily. "I have heard of The Brotherhood Without Banners, but only in passing. You have been called outlaws who betrayed their king, bannerless knights who protect the small folk, or sometimes the vengeful spirits of the long-since dead that terrorise all who stand in their way. I did not think to meet The Brotherhood amongst men of The Night's Watch, nor to see them standing beside The Northern King."

That gets a plethora of exchanged looks. Glancing at Olenna Tyrell, Tyrion can see the gears turning in her mind, and he knows well enough to be wary of her silences. The Tyrell heirs are silent at her side, eyes missing little, and The Dornish seem cautiously intrigued by the story that is slowly unspooling before them. The Night's Watch Men are grim-faced and silent, much like the man Daenerys has just called King in his own right.

But Daenerys remains unfazed. Her fingers curl slightly on the throne, the rings on her fingers glinting in the light, and her voice is that of a Queen as she continues. "So, I ask you now, Lord Dondarrion, what has led you here? And what is it that you bring to show me?"

Dondarrion glances at Stark then, who nods. Tyrion is just as wary of The Young Wolf's silence, but the true concern is the hard look in his blue eyes. He seems certain of something, and Tyrion is not sure he wants to know exactly what he is so very sure of. Clearing his throat, the man who was once called The Lord of Lightning begins his tale, voice rough around the edges, but even and measured all the same.

"When I went after The Mountain, on the orders of Lord Eddard Stark, me and my men found ourselves at the receiving end of a butchery. I did not survive the massacre," he smiles, truly, then, as that gets incredulous looks. "But The Lord of Light was not done with me. Thoros of Myr, here, brought me back using the power of our God, and it is under His influence that we created The Brotherhood. But our quest has turned from The Riverlands in the past few years."

"There is a great evil coming for these lands, and The Lord of Light revealed it to me," he says, his smile fading just a bit as the news still digests in the room. Tyrion feels his mind spinning with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, a pit growing in the bottom of his stomach as he remembers The Red Woman's words to Robb. You know that your brother has seen the work of The Lord of Light. He knows his miracles just as much as his judgement. Dondarrion's eyes flick again to the crate.

Now, Robb Stark takes over, voice deceptively soft and even, eyes bearing into the crate like it is the source of all his problems. "I, along with all my siblings, was raised on stories of the founding of our House, and The Others–creatures made by The Old Gods, but to what end, no one knows. How, after The Last Hero destroyed The Others and their Army of The Dead, House Stark rose from the ashes, led by Brandon The Builder. How he then raised The Wall and Winterfell, made The Watch so they could guard The Realm for all eternity, how he was the first King of Winter." The emphasis is lost on Tyrion, but he is no less unsettled by Stark's words and how calm he seems. Unnaturally calm, like a frozen lake in a silent vale.

Suddenly, Stark kicks the crate, and then a horrid screech breaks through the throne room, deafening and enough to make Tyrion's stomach twist. All of Daenerys's protectors–Ser Barristan, Jorah Mormont, and Grey Worm–tense, hands holding the hilts of their blades in white-knuckled grips or clenched around a spear, eyes never leaving the crate that now shakes. But all of this is secondary as Stark turns to look at Daenerys and Tyrion, his Tully blue eyes colder than ice.

"They are not stories, though," he finally says, voice rising over the cacophony, like a rising storm, like a horn that sounds out even the fiercest howl of wind. "Winter is Coming. The Army of The Dead marches upon these lands, and if The Living do not make at least some attempt, we will all die, and it will not matter how many dragons, wolves, or Iron Thrones we hold in our possession. All men are the same to death. They are creatures of my gods, The Old Gods, but they are the enemy of everyone."

And then Stark rips open the crate. Tyrion can only stare in horror at the strange creature that comes crawling out. He remembers Ser Alliser Thorne and the warnings he gave and how they'd all dismissed him, with utter regret in his heart. Staring at this strange creature and its unnatural blue eyes that seem to gleam in the room, he knows that they were all fools. It is a strange feeling for Tyrion, to feel like he has been duped by a player that he did not even know of until Robb Stark unveiled it.

He glances at Daenerys, who is staring at the creature in a mix of apprehension and fear and something like fascination, and then at the occupants of the room. The Black Brothers look the least fazed, their eyes dark as they regard the creature, hands resting carefully on their blades. The Brotherhood are tense and silent, but Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and The Hound simply regard it cooly.

The Martells have been shocked into near silence, although Tyrion does see two of The Sand Snakes whispering to one another, eyes trained on it. Prince Doran regards the thing with curiosity, while his daughter's eyes are bright like flames. The Tyrells look just as shocked, but the expression on Olenna's face is noticeably neutral. Yara and Theon Greyjoy look the least surprised, especially the latter, who simply stares at it in mounting fear. Tyrion supposes that is natural; Greyjoy is the only one of Daenerys's lords to have heard these stories, time and time again.

Grey Worm and Missandei simply look confused, and Ser Barristan is hesitant, but Jorah Mormont has outright fear on his face. And that is not surprising as Tyrion realises that he also must have been raised on these stories, stories of The Dead and The Long Night. Finally, Tyrion looks again to Robb Stark, The King in The North, The Young Wolf.

"There is only one sure way to kill wight like this," Stark says, as Thoros of Myr approaches, a wooden stake in hand. The Red Priest mutters something under his breath, and then the thing is alight with flames whose light dances across The Young Wolf's flaming hair, making him look as if he has been crowned by a wreath of flame. Stark glances at the flames, hesitation in his eyes, though he says nothing, and Tyrion thinks of Rickard Stark and the fate he met, thinks of Aery's Champion. "Fire."

Saying nothing, The Hound stalks forward and cleaves one of the wight's arms off. To Tyrion's horror, it keeps moving even after it's dismemberment, but Robb Stark is quick, and soon, the air is thick with the smell of rotting flesh, and the arm is burning away into nothing more than ash. Silence falls as the last embers die, a silence that is only broken by the rattling of the chains that keep the wight in place, bound to the box, and the distant sound of lightly falling rain.

The storm has come in, then.

"So, what then?" Olenna Tyrell finally says a strain in her voice. "We abandon The South and let Cersei think she has us on the run? Send all of our men to The North to die, and then hope there is enough left over for Cersei's war? She will not wait nor will she rest, even if we abandon the fight. Indeed, if she's half as clever as she thinks she is, she'll find a way to burn down Winterfell with us all in it."

"Men have already tried to burn Winterfell," Robb says and sends a notable glance towards Theon Greyjoy, "And yet, it still stands. Cersei has not the strength to take Winterfell from House Stark, trust in that. And I do not ask anything of you. I am not showing this to you for any reason but for you to understand what is truly at stake. I will not ask for armies. All I ask for is dragonglass and your consideration. This doom does not just belong to The North. It belongs to every man in this room."

Robb glances back at the wight, eyes still so ice-like it is frightening. The King of Winter, he'd said, and Tyrion is beginning to think he might understand the purpose of his emphasis. That suggests that a King like that rules Winter itself, and perhaps that is what Robb is hoping he can do. Rule and defeat these creatures of the longest and coldest winters. When he speaks again, there is a distinctive rasp to his voice.

"Wights are created by The White Walkers, who are led by a creature my brother, Jon Snow, calls The Night King. Jon said that The Night King has the power to raise the dead from their very graves, meaning every man lost adds to his army. Even if you do not join my war, I beg of you to burn your dead, so that there is some hope." His mouth pulls into a frown. "They cannot cross water, a small mercy but even then, that does not dismiss the real issue, The True Walkers. They cannot be killed by fire–only Dragonglass, which The Maesters call Obsidian, and Valyrian Steel. Only one we can easily gain."

Daenerys straightens, eyes brightening with interest as the pieces finally come together. "That is why your brother wrote to me asking for leave to mine Dragonglass!"

"Aye," Stark agrees, his hand holding the pommel of his blade tightly as he eyes the wight again. He seems unable to keep his eyes off it, but to be fair, that seems to be the case with most everyone in the room. "It is our last hope against the dead and The White Walkers. I do not dare to ask that you spend your men against this enemy, but I beg of you, give us this weapon. I will write to The Manderlys of White Harbour soon and will go home soon after. My duty lies with my people, not with Southern wars."

He looks at Daenerys then, and Tyrion watches him carefully. Robb Stark stands tall, his hair like flame, and though he is uncrowned, Tyrion can easily imagine one sitting upon the brow of the man they call The Young Wolf. He looks a king, in a hundred and one ways, eyes cold and shoulders squared. And King he is, King and Heir to a hundred generations of cold and wolfish men who come from a single man, who lived during the first The Long Night. This fight is in Robb Stark's very blood.

Dondarrion steps forward then, hands clasped behind his back and his one remaining eye dancing with a half-manic light as he regards them all, not just Daenerys and Tyrion. Many straighten under his gaze, and his words are cut through with the passion and certainty of faith. "We have all been called to this fight. Despite the blood, deceit, and treachery," he glances towards both The Hound and Theon Greyjoy, "All of us stand now in this room. We have all been led to this very moment, and the choices we make here determine the fate of this world."

He meets Tyrion's eyes, then, for just a moment, and Tyrion feels a jolt run through him. Beric Dondarion's one eye carries a sort of insanity in it, born of desperation, and the fervour of his belief in his God, his certainty about what is to come. He looks like a madman. He looks like a man who knows a truth that the rest of them are far too blind to see, and the contradiction is nigh terrifying. And then there is his one good eye, brown as rusted over steel, and harder still.

"The Lord of Light calls us all to serve, Your Grace," he says, and though he does not carry the soft intonations that resided in the Red Woman's voice in his own, his conviction is not made duller by it. If anything, the steelyness of it, the hard edge that breaks off into a low rasp draws just that much more attention, hooks them all onto his words. "Tyrell, Martell, Lannister, Greyjoy, Targaryen, Stark, even Clegane–it does not matter. I have flown under no banner for many years, now, and only when the sky is clear of sigils, only when the only banner we follow is as black as night, can we be bound together."

"Robb Stark does not ask you to follow him Northwards, for you are two rulers on already unsteady ground, and he knows what the price might be." Beric Dondarrion smiles again, with all his teeth, but it is not reassuring. It is more a bearing of teeth, a challenge to a mighty god to look upon the mortal man who has cheated death again and again and listen. Glancing at Daenerys, Tyrion knows that the man has what he wants: her attention.

"But I am not a king. I am a marching lord who has not seen his home in many long years, and whose Lord Paramount died in The Northern Winter. Stannis Baratheon knew of this enemy, and I have heard his Red Woman has come to Dragonstone." Tyrion is not surprised; Stark likely mentioned her presence when he met Thoros and Dondarrion. "And so, in the name of my God, and all the Gods, I will beg for what no other man can: fight for this. Fight and die, fight and live–it matters not what the outcome is if we all give it our best."

He begins to circle the crate, his sole eye trained on the wight, and though Tyrion knows that Daenerys must be chafing at the mention of Stannis Baratheon, she is given no chance to speak of it by The Lightning Lord. "I spoke to Benjen Stark upon The Wall, and he called himself one of the only fuckers left in this world who's mad enough to try and win. But if that is madness, I say so be it. I would rather be a madman fighting creatures from Northern Legend than be dead because I refused to try and win, refused to do something."

Tyrion sees Daenerys tense from the corner of his eye, and he knows the same thought is on all their minds. The thought of Aerys, and the blood that flows in her. The saying seems to hang in the air like a leaden weight, suffocating and giving a particular chill to the room. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin…

Dondarrion has stopped speaking and pacing and now stands beside a silent and eerily calm Robb Stark. Standing next to the Cold Winter King that The Young Wolf has become, Beric Dondarrion looks positively alight with a fierce and fiery devotion to this cause. He seems to burn, burn brighter than a thousand stars, buzzing with his energy and faith.

In the silence of the room, broken only by the rainfall that is slowly growing outside, it is like the world stands still. Even the wight has quieted, and Tyrion knows he is not the only one who is waiting with a bated breath for what The Dragon Queen says next. He glances, briefly, at her, and sees that an unbreachable mask has fallen over her face, and her eyes are full of a strange and unfamiliar emotion. Her fingers have curled around the edges of her throne, and she looks caught in a moment, frozen in thought. This decision lies in her alone. She will take no counsel.

Finally, she stands slowly, looking over the assembled company of Southern Lords, Outlaws, Black Brothers, and The Northern King who stands in the heart of it all. Her eyes are hard, and when she speaks, it is even and almost detached, Queenly to the end. "I will permit the mining of the Dragonglass." Stark's only reaction is a slight lift of his chin, his eyes as hard as hers. "And I will inform you of my decision come nightfall. Now–leave me and My Hand to discuss."

And before Tyrion knows it, they are alone, save for the wight. Daenerys does not approach it, but she does leave her throne to sit on the steps that lead up to it, staring at the creature and its unnatural blue eyes. When Tyrion comes to stand next to her, he sees a nearly hopeless look in her eyes, and fear, both for the first time. Tyrion likes to think that he is not easily shocked, and yet, he feels it course freely through him as he realises that's what he is seeing.

"I have fought for The Iron Throne for years now, fought to be the right ruler, to gain allies to my side, and to destroy those who stand in my way. And now, a man I do not know, a once outlaw, comes in her and begs me to join a fight I had no inkling of an hour ago. And beside him is a King who seeks to keep a third of this Kingdom I have always been told was stolen from my House to himself. I have been told this war I have dedicated myself to hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things." She looks at Tyrion again, her eyes bright with confusion and vulnerability.

A dangerous choice, indeed. Dangerous in the wrong hands, destructive in others. Tyrion does not know what her vulnerability can be shaped into by his hands, and he does not know if he has the courage to try anything, either. Daenerys Targaryen, the one they call Stormborn, is not a woman who can be easily bent or broken. Perhaps that is why her turmoil is so unsettling to him, why the confirmation that something real does lie behind the name, the crown, and the Dragons is so jarring.

"You do not have to follow Stark North," Tyrion says, voice measured and careful.

But Daenerys shakes her head. "What Queen am I if I do not try and defend the people I hope to rule from an unspeakable evil?" She looks at the wight again, and Tyrion thinks that evil is not quite the right word. There is something deeply unsettling about those blue eyes, something that makes his stomach curl into knots and makes him feel like he is lost in an ocean far larger than he is. "Cersei will not, and Stark stands alone. Choosing neutrality is choosing Cersei, and I do not want to further divide the already severed North from us! But what of it? How do I know that what I am doing is what is needed of me?"

"I do not believe in Gods," she continues. "Many faithful people have spoken to me, schemed around me, made me their beacon, their saviour. But The Gods did not answer me when my brother's cruelty turned to me, when I was sold to a Dothraki Khal, nor when my son was stolen from my belly. And yet, Beric Dondarrion and The Red Woman both speak of The Lord of Light, and Robb Stark calls our enemy creatures of The Old Gods. Faith has not saved me, and yet, they both fall back on it in the darkest hour ever seen by Westeros."

"The Hour of The Wolf," Tyrion says quietly, recalling the name for the darkest hour of the day. The irony is not lost on him, and it's almost amusing to him, but the connection makes Daenerys look only more disturbed. "What a jape this all is! The Dead and Dragons and Direwolves have returned to Westeros, my sister sits on The Iron Throne, and a half-dead Lord of the Stormlands comes to court and begs in the name of a God from the far reaches of Essos."

She stands slowly, crossing the room towards one of the great windows that overlook Dragonstone, her eyes narrowed. He comes to stand beside her, both their backs to the wight, which is perhaps foolish, but he trusts in the chains that hold it. Together, they stare at the gathering storm. "When I first asked you of House Stark, and why they have been so central to the wars of this land," she says, her eyes so very far away, "You said that you did not know why The Gods have tied it all back to them."

He nods, remembering. "But perhaps that is why. It must not be no small chance that our name for the darkest Hour of the night is called The Hour of The Wolf, the sigil that adorns the banners of The House founded after a Long and Dark Night. And Stark accentuated the fact that the Old Kings called themselves Kings of Winter. Their blood is tied to this fight, and if Beric Dondarrion is to be believed, all our fates have drawn us to this fight, to them, to the legacy that lies within them."

"And what do you think that legacy is?" He asks her. "And why now?"

She sighs heavily, fidgeting with her rings. "The Red Woman said that Stark's half-brother had seen The Work of The Lord of Light. But that was not all she said, was it? She spoke of treachery and snow covered in blood, and snow covering it all, and of secrets left behind." Daenerys shakes her head. "I do not know why the time is now, but I know it has something to do with what she spoke of, and House Stark. I know it in my very heart that there is something more to Robb Stark, and all of them, more to the birth of my Dragons, and the return of Direwolves and The Dead alike."

"And I am inclined to believe you," Tyrion says, though other thoughts spin in his head, thoughts he will not speak aloud. Daenerys perhaps cannot see that she is just as eldritch and strange as The Starks, that both she and Robb Stark have an unnatural air about them. They both hold themselves as rulers, as forces of pure might and power, and both of them have a distance about them that makes them seem godly. The Red Woman had asked to speak to both of them, after all.

And for Stark, perhaps that is the skin-changing ability that he has heard whispers of, an ability that is said to be quite strong within the man. Certainly, the connection between Robb Stark and his wolf reeks of something more, something innate, but Tyrion does not dare ask if the rumours are true. And Daenerys. The Mother of Dragons. They say that she birthed three Dragons upon The Dothraki sea, say that fire cannot touch her, say that she is born of a storm made through the fury of The Gods. Both have magic in their bones.

Tyrion had never been one to believe in magic, but that was before he met The Dragons for themselves, before he saw Robb Stark standing tall, his wolf at his feet, looking like a King even as he stood in the kennels of Casterly Rock, exhausted and worn down. Before a man who claims to have died time and time again travelled south with a creature straight out of Northern Legends, speaking of Red Gods and prophecies revealed by flame.

Daenerys sighs, hanging her head. Upon her brow, a simple diadem glitters ever so slightly, a gift from some Lord in Mereen. With the movement, the light catches just that much more, dancing in the metal. "We have no other choice but to ride North alongside Robb Stark. Though, if we do so, there is much that we need to hammer out when it comes to treaties and what this alliance entails. For that is what I will make sure it is–an alliance. I am not serving him." And he is not serving you, they both must think, though neither says it.

"You know this is not your only option? You do not have to ride North, not necessarily," He says, thinking out loud. "Perhaps we can send half our army North, and leave the other half–"

"No," she cuts him off before he can finish, looking over her shoulder at the wight. He follows her gaze, and he knows that it is fear that makes his stomach turn so much as he looks upon the horrid beast. "There is no other option. Lord Dondarrion was right–my war is nothing against this. Cersei will not be able to touch us in Winterfell, Stark seemed certain of it, and I am inclined to believe him. If I abandon The North to this enemy, what hope do I have to rule these lands if I can so easily leave a third of my land to The Dead?"

She shakes her head, looking back at the storm. It almost seems to Tyrion that as soon as one storm leaves Dragonstone, another comes crashing down. They may not be within The Stormlands, but he thinks that Dragonstone would sit perfectly fine upon those shores with how temperamental the weather has been the deeper Winter permeates the lands. He can only imagine what the storms in The North look like now. Stormborn, he thinks as he sees her standing there, tall and queenly and proud.

"We will ride North, ride alongside Robb Stark of Winterfell and fight for the living. I will bring The Dothraki, The Unsullied and any man who will follow me from The South." Her mouth curls into a slight smile. "And Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion will come too. Let this Night King meet Fire and Blood. Let him see that it is not just House Stark he should fear."

And Tyrion can see it all in picture-perfect detail: the shadows of the dragons falling over Winterfell, their fire scorching the earth and laying waste to the fields of the dead. Their screeches filling the air in horrid harmony with the howling of wolves, the blowing of horns, and the screams of the dying. Boys die, wolves howl, and dragons screech. Seldom did The Dragonlords bring them and their dragons North, and now The Dragon Queen brings herself and her three children, born of magic and a thousand shifting fates.

Three Hundred Years ago, Torrhen Stark looked upon the force led by Aegon the Conqueror and bent the knee. Aegon took The Seven Kingdoms with his sister wives and their three Dragons, and now their names are cemented in memory forever. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. But what of them now, what of the woman some whisper to be Aegon the Conqueror reborn, the Conqueror with teats and her dragon they say is Balerion come again? Will they be remembered or fall to The Dead? Will there be anyone left to know of how Daenerys Stormborn flew North when all is said and done and the dust and ash has settled back over the earth?

When he looks at her though, and sees the firmness of her eyes, the assurance of her choices, he thinks he has his answer. They will be remembered if they win. And they have to win if they ever hope to finish what they came here for, in the first place. And Daenerys Targaryen has done everything for The Iron Throne. It will take more than perhaps anyone knows to kill her.

—

Over twenty people end up piling into the room that hosts the Painted Table, and with Robb Stark's direwolf here as well, it is quite a crowded space. The Lords are sticking near to their respective locations on the map, all in varying shades of discontent or nervousness, though Robb Stark is still remarkably calm. Everyone else looks at least worried, but there he stands over The North, calm, cool, and collected.

Tyrion takes a sip of his wine, and when he sets it down on the table, he does so loudly, so as to draw attention to him. All eyes snap to him and he clears his throat, resting his hands on the table as he begins to speak. "We have all seen what Robb Stark, along with Lord Dondarrion and The Brothers of The Night's Watch have presented us, and the evidence of an enemy that lies to The North. Now, all that is left is to understand what this means for everyone in this room's goals."

Glances are exchanged amongst each group. The only men sitting are two of The Night's Watch Men, two Rangers named Matthar and Emmett, the senior leaders of the few crows that have flown South on their Lord Commander's orders. They are both grim-faced and stand out in their all-black clothes, their swords at their sides and their general countenance. If they are floored by being invited to counsel with the Great Lords of Westeros, it does not show against the exhaustion.

"How many does The Night King have in his following?" Jorah Mormont breaks the silence, addressing the two young Rangers. Tyrion glances towards the Knight's cousin, Dacey, and sees, to little surprise, an open glare being sent to the man. At least she isn't trying to gut him where he stands. Small victories indeed, but Tyrion will take what he can, given the circumstances.

The rangers exchange a look between themselves, and when Emmett speaks, even his voice sounds like it has been made rougher by the toil of life upon The Wall. And most of all, his eyes are hard, hard as steel, hard as a wall. "Anything left North of The Wall is with him now. And he's getting close to The Wall, closer than anyone likes. Lord Commander Stark tussled with one of The Walkers 'bout a week before we left. He's a hell of a fighter, and still got his shit rocked."

Robb Stark sends the Ranger a startled look, some of his calmness slipping. "Is he alright?"

"The Walker is Dead, and he's not, so I'd say so," Emmett says with a shrug. "The Walker had some wights come out, first. We killed the things, and The Lord Commander stayed behind for just a minute, and then there The Walker is. He found the one we brought because it came up on him randomly in The Godswood. The Night King is testing us, and worse off, we can't send anyone North for too long, lest they find themselves The Night King's new best friend." The Ranger makes a face, and Tyrion can imagine how maddening that would be for any man, especially a Ranger who is used to travelling and fighting.

"And what is Lord Commander Stark's plan for when The Night King comes in force with all his soldiers and all his Walkers?" Doran Martell asks, eyeing the two Rangers carefully.

Another glance between the men, and this time, Matthar speaks. Tyrion vaguely recalls him being in Jon Snow's training group, though he cannot be certain. "Hold it as long as we can, and once it falls, the survivors run like hell." He stands then, splaying his hands on the table and glaring at The Wall on the map. "Lord Commanders Snow and Stark, along with The Wildlings, all say that there is a horn that can bring down The Wall. No one has found it, and with The Far North in the hands of The Night King now, there's little doubt he has it. We are, to put it shortly, fucked."

The curt language gets a few more looks being exchanged, but no one seems to care about the propriety of it all, least of all either Ranger or Robb Stark, who just smirks for just a moment. Matthar sits down when Stark nods at him, clearing his throat before taking over. "There are just under a thousand men left at Castle Black. My Lords have sent orders for everyone North of Winterfell to make for The South, with haste. The Battle must happen at Winterfell. Only there do we have a chance of holding out long enough to win."

Stark accentuates his point by tapping the castle's place on the map. Tyrion does not miss, though, the brief moment in which his fingers linger over it, tracing the carved letters for just a heartbeat before he pulls away. When Tyrion looks at his face, he still looks so unnaturally calm and collected, and Tyrion has little doubt, now, that it's just his way of trying to hold it together in the face of certain doom.

Daenerys purses her lips, and for a moment, everyone waits for her. Her voice is careful, guarded, like she is walking on eggshells. "What makes you say that? What makes Winterfell the best place for this battle? Why not send all your forces to The Wall, to reinforce behind something that already has natural warding against these creatures?"

Robb Stark seems to glance at Theon Greyjoy, a silent agreement passing between them. Tyrion does not know what the men said to one another before Stark came crashing in demanding answers from Tyrion's Queen, but he knows the ground between them is at least somewhat smoother now. Theon's words ring in the back of his mind, maddening and interesting beyond measure. Sansa Stark is in Winterfell. I would give my life for her, easily, without a second thought.

All the unanswered questions spin in the back of his mind, his constant companion through it all. Questions of Jon Snow's release, questions of what Theon Greyjoy experienced, questions of where his once wife disappeared to in the aftermath of it all. Questions of what really led to the fight they are calling The Battle of The Bastards, and Ramsay Bolton getting murdered by his own hounds, the hounds that were set upon him by one Sansa Stark.

"Winterfell is the seat of House Stark, and we are bound to this fight, have always been," Stark says, bracing his hands against the table, leaning over it slightly as he glares at the map. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. That is something that has been passed on from generation to generation, and I have to think there is some reason why. Winterfell and The Wall were built by the same man, my ancestor, the first man to be The King of Winter." He lifts his eyes from the table, his eyes bearing into Daenerys like two spikes of ice. Tyrion sees her shudder, ever so slightly.

"Wyman Manderly's ship will likely be here within a week and a half," Stark says as he straightens, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing at where White Harbour lies. "Likely, the ships he sends will only be enough for me and my men, but should you choose to follow, Daenerys Stormborn, I have little doubt that you can supply your own ships. But know this; I am leaving Dragonstone for Winterfell and for my war. I wish you luck in yours, should you choose it. Otherwise," he smirks, ever so slightly, "I would start gathering some furs."

"And if I follow you Northwards and fight your war, what shall you do in return? I recall you telling me once that you would not expend Northern Blood for Southern Wars." Her smile is sharp as knives, but Stark looks like he expected it, which is unsurprising in and of itself. They're both sharp people, these two monarchs, but very different in how they use it. Daenerys is like an inferno, undeniable and ravaging, while Stark is more like frostbite–slow to come in, but just as deadly when it strikes true.

"I actually said that they wouldn't bleed for you unless you showed that you deserved it," Stark corrects, and the room suddenly grows just that much more tense. Tyrion takes a long sip of his drink, exchanging a glance with Varys. He also catches the eyes of Beric Dondarrion, standing silently beside Stark, who smiles ever so slightly and tilts his head at Tyrion. "That is how it has always been. The North rewards loyalty, Stormborn. Perhaps, when all is said and done, The Crowned Direwolf will fly beside you, and together, we will destroy House Lannister. Or perhaps they will both lay in the mud, covered by The Snow, and it will all be for naught."

Daenerys's eyes narrow imperceptibly. "So, you still refuse to Bend the Knee?"

"There is perhaps nothing that will make you deserve a bent knee. No blood, no loss, no grief will undo all that lies between our Houses, between The North and The South. I have told you before that I am open to trade and to treaties, but I will not give up my crown to The South. I will not lay The North in undeserving Southern hands. Perhaps you could earn it, earn my loyalty, but The South as a whole never will. Not after my father. Not after Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna." His voice sharpens, his eyes glimmering with grief. "Not after what they did to my mother and my wife and my unborn child."

Tyrion can feel the awkwardness that settles in the room like a noose around his throat, suffocating and demanding all thought put to it. Stark's eyes are bright, his calm demeanour slowly slipping out of his hands, though Tyrion cannot say it is surprising. Stark has spoken much of his uncle, his aunt, and his grandfather, never mind his father, whenever they've spoken, but seldom of his mother and his wife, the woman butchered right before his very eyes.

Daenerys, though, looks surprisingly understanding. And Tyrion recalls the stories of what led to her dragons birth upon The Dothraki Sea. A son, stolen from her. Her husband, a proud and dangerous warrior, reduced to nothing by the very same force that took her son from her belly and left her with nothing to her name anymore. Both Robb Stark and Daenerys Targaryen lost their children before their time. Tyrion cannot imagine how that tears one in two. Perhaps…

Looking between this Winter King and Tyrion's own Fire Born Queen, there seems to be something like understanding between them now. Neither is saying anything, simply gauging the other in tense silence, but Tyrion learned a long time ago how to read people and what they aren't saying. So, yes, it would seem that something that perhaps resembles an understanding lies between them now.

"We can discuss this later, when all is said and done and The Night King is gone," Daenerys finally says. Stark exchanges a look with his men, before nodding at her. Smiling ever so slightly, she continues. "Lord Dondarrion was right in what he said. Banners do not matter. My own pride and ambition cannot get in the way of the simple facts: Winter is Coming, and every man will be needed for this war. I will ride beside you, Robb Stark, through snow and ash, over land and sea, to Winterfell. And there, my armies and The Men of The North will fight for Winterfell and all of our survival."

And Stark does smile at that, nothing more than just a slight grin, but it makes his eyes light up and his body relax slightly. His men still look wary, and The Night's Watch Men exhausted all the same, but he at least looks relieved. He dips his head at her, leaning over to whisper to the man to his immediate right, The Greatjon Umber, whose face is stormy but not hostile. At his left, Beric Dondarrion looks suspiciously close to being smug.

"Well then," Stark says once he's done muttering to the Greatjon. "What next? How many can we expect in Winterfell? My sister Sansa is in charge of Winterfell, and thus, our stores right now, and will need to know how many Winterfell is hosting and feeding for the foreseeable future. Winter Town is likely being evacuated, and I will make sure that it's underway before we get to Winterfell, but we will still need to find a place for all our armies."

"How many does The North already have?" Tyrion asks.

Stark pulls a face, thinking for a moment. "Including The Vale and The Wildlings my siblings brought South from The Wall," He says carefully, "I believe the number is within thirty-five thousand or so, but that is generous. And many belong to the forces of my banners, and I know some of that number belongs to the Bolton Soldiers who were captured following The Reclamation of Winterfell. That is my best guess, though, from the letters I have traded with my siblings in Winterfell, though they were careful to not give full numbers, lest they be intercepted by unfriendly eyes."

Tyrion does not miss the glance that Stark sends towards Varys, who just dips his head in seeming acknowledgement of his reputation and how exactly he got it in the first place. Daenerys, who had been nodding along as he explained, considers a moment before speaking. "The Unsullied and The Dothraki are what I can guarantee. The Unsullied number with eight thousand, and I must apologise, but I do not know the numbers for The Dothraki. I will likely have to keep some of them in The South, to ward off any ideas Cersei may get."

Stark gestures towards where Moat Cailin and The Neck lie. "Moat Cailin may be a ruin, but could perhaps be serviceable. The Neck is in the hands of Lord Howland Reed, an old friend of my father." Stark circles the table and taps a spot on the map. "His seat, Greywater Watch, lies around here. With the Crannogmen and The Houses of The Neck aiding them, your leftover Dothraki Forces could act not only as a shield against Cersei but could also act as reinforcements if we are forced South."

Daenerys nods. "I will speak to the Dothraki leaders and my blood riders. Grey Worm," she turns to the man in question, who straightens when addressed. "What will The Unsullied need? Beside warmer clothes." Her lip quirks a bit, and that gets slight laughs out of both Robb Stark and The Greatjon Umber. Both The Mormonts snicker, Tyrion notices, though neither does so loudly.

"All we will need is a place to stay, and a place where we can be useful," Grey Worm says, and Stark nods, running a hand over his mouth and going silent for a moment. Tyrion can all but see the gears spinning in the back of Stark's mind as he takes a sip of his wine. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daenerys give him an odd look.

"I will see to it, and once we are in Winterfell, I will have you speak to my brother Jon. Last I heard, he was the one overseeing the defences, and no one in Winterfell knows this threat better than he does. He will be your best bet when it comes to weaponry and placement," Stark tells the Unsullied leader, who nods, a stern look on his face.

Then, silence falls. Tyrion glances around the room, at all the Lord and Ladies and Princes and Princesses and wayward Kings and Queens, and feels something settle low in his gut. Four kingdoms are not represented here, but The Vale is behind House Stark, The Riverlands will fight no war, and The Stormlands are torn between Cersei and Daenerys. Though he knows it should not be his chief concern, he cannot help but think that, perhaps, his sweet sister has bitten off far more than she can chew or that she's finally pissed off one too many Lords of Westeros.

"And what of your Lords?" Stark finally says to Daenerys, sending a meaningful glance around the room. "What have they chosen?"

Willas Tyrell pipes up first. "The Reach and our Banners are in too much disarray for me to think that I will be able to assemble a proper army that can ride North in time, and even if I could, I do not know what use a bunch of Southern Knights will be in the cold. I can say, though, that I will write to those who are still loyal, tell them what we know, and say that if they ride to Winterfell, they will be rewarded. I will especially speak to the Houses with Valyrian Steel, or to those with known warriors."

Stark already looks surprised, but The Lord of Highgarden is not done, it would seem. "More so, I will write to your sister about food for The North. The Reach's wealth is in our grain, and with Winter here, perhaps we can form something with Winterfell, something that benefits the both of us. Your sister, from all that I heard of her from my own sister, was a kind girl, and I would hate to let The North starve if I had the power to do something about it." He glances at his grandmother, who eyes Stark critically.

"Your sister was a clever girl–a caged girl, but a clever one," She says, snorting when Stark sends her a look. "Oh, don't go glaring at me like you want me to say otherwise. She was a prisoner in King's Landing–after all, isn't that half the reason you set out to terrorise The Riverlands and your mother released the Kingslayer? So you could get your sisters back?" Stark presses his lips together into a thin line but nods. Olenna Tyrell makes a noise of vague approval.

"I'm not doing this because I have some lost love for House Stark. But Sansa Stark was clever, and I think it might be for the good of Westeros if she lives," Olenna continues, tapping her fingers against the table. "She's smarter than many have given her credit for. I'd half reckon that's why she survived King's Landing. And tell her that while Willas here might be the one saying it, it was my idea." The man nods, and Stark looks truly floored, now, but he regains his composure with a surprising amount of speed.

"The North Remembers, Lady Tyrell," he says, and though she snorts, she does not cut him off. "We will remember that House Tyrell helped us when most needed. As it will be for any man who comes to Winterfell to fight."

Doran Martell comes in then, sounding apologetic but not regretful. "I cannot abandon our Northern Borders, not with Cersei out for blood against us for her daughter." He shakes his head, eyes dark with rolling emotions, and Tyrion feels his heart clench at the thought of poor, sweet, good Myrcella, and the role he had in her death. The thought is like a pit in his stomach, a chasm of unfathomable size and depth. She did not deserve what happened to her, despite her mother and her birth and her older brother, and they all know it.

"I will see what I can do, though, and offer counsel while I still can. Arianne and I will return to Dorne, to rule our lands and keep Cersei from destroying us in her madness, but The Sand Snakes will go North." They all glance at the three Sand Snakes present. The eldest, brash Obara, elegant and just as vengeful Nymeria, and finally the unassuming but perhaps even more dangerous than the rest Tyene. They all nod, and Tyrion does not miss the rightful wariness in Stark's eyes. And neither do The Sand Snakes, if their sly grins are anything to go by.

"I thank you for any and all help, Prince Doran," Stark finally says, before turning to the last of Daenerys's main councillors, the two Greyjoys. Yara Greyjoy and he stare at one another in open and undeniable hostility for a moment, saying nothing between them as they silently gauge the other's resolve and motivation. Tyrion takes a long sip of his wine, and prepares himself for the worst. Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy may be able to stand in the same room together, now, but there's no saying what one wrong word could cause to spark between the two.

"We will be no help on land," she finally says, and Stark nods, face pulling into a slight sneer that Yara replies to with a glare of her own. "But you say that the dead cannot swim. I will take The Iron Islands from my uncle, then, so that if something goes truly sideways, there is one friendly place left for this cause." She glances at Theon Greyjoy then, and Tyrion knows he is not alone in following her gaze to the turncloak, to Robb Stark's first betrayer.

"I took Winterfell from you and your brothers," Theon Greyjoy finally says, his voice rough with emotion. Something burns in Stark's eyes as well, regret and remorse beyond words, coupled with half a hundred other swirling emotions that Tyrion is unable to name, even as he watches the man's face. "I have a debt to pay. I want to fight for Winterfell, my king, my lord…"

He hesitates, swallowing with an audible click. "My brother." Stark's eyes close and a shudder rips through him, his inhale shaky. Theon continues, his own voice warbling. "And die for it if need be. But only if you will have me."

For a long time, neither speaks. Eventually, Stark peels his blue eyes open to stare at Theon Greyjoy, only one emotion on his face: an uncrossable chasm of grief. "You know Winterfell as well as Jon or I," Robb Stark finally manages to say, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he takes stock of the man. "Can you still shoot straight?"

"I can shoot better than Bran ever could," Greyjoy says with a slight smirk, and though Tyrion does not get the joke, it's clearly funny, seeing as both men smile at it, laughing slightly. Greyjoy sobers. "But not as well as I used to shoot."

Stark raises a brow. "Better than me?"

"Probably," comes Theon Greyjoy's reply, his head canted a bit.

And it is strange, this camaraderie that seems to burn between them as they exchange sharp grins, understanding beyond everyone else in the room in their eyes. Tyrion will not ever pretend to know what they have spoken of, or what the nature of this sudden agreement between them is. All he knows is that he is grateful for it, grateful that one thing is going smoothly. But, when Stark's face morphs into something so very calm again, Tyrion also finds he knows that it doesn't mean all is easy between them.

"Well, then, that's answer enough. Winterfell will have you, Theon Greyjoy. And you will help defend it, help guard it, and honour the oaths you made to me," Stark says, his voice taking on a kingly tone that makes the hairs on the back of Tyrion's neck stand straight up. The more time he spends with the King of The North (The King of Winter, a voice in the back of his mind supplies), the more the man begins to unsettle him. "Through blood, death, and honour, you are now bound to Winterfell."

Stark's wolf is beside him, his eyes like two knives. There is an intelligence in those eyes, like the intelligence Tyrion has spied in the eyes of Daenerys's dragons, a hint of something more behind the fur or scales. It's perhaps even more unsettling than Robb Stark's strange temperament and the way the air seems to freeze around him, or the frigid burr of his voice. The King of Winter, his mind keeps repeating, on a loop that never ceases.

"You are my King," Theon Greyjoy says firmly, meeting Stark's eyes with a straight back and a level chin. Yara sends him a look, and Tyrion feels Daenerys tense beside him, but no one dares to correct Theon Greyjoy–not when they see the spark in his eyes, the defiance in how he stands, and the firmness of his voice. He nods at Stark, who nods in reply. "And as I said, when I helped make you that–My sword is yours, in victory and defeat, from this day until my last day. I did not uphold that oath the first time. And now, I will, even if it spells my end."

—

"You were quite quiet," Daenerys says when she sees him come dawn the next morning. All around, Dragonstone bursts with life and activity as they all gather themselves and get ready for all that comes next. Tyrion nods silently, flexing his hand for lack of anything in his hand, and His Queen openly frowns at him, her voice dropping a bit into a serious air as she says, "What's wrong?"

"Are you not…" he pauses, pursing his lips and trying to figure out how to put all the thoughts that are spinning in his head into words, trying to figure out how to try and make sense. Finally, he says, "There's more things I don't know than I like. How did Jon Snow escape his oaths? What is Robb Stark not saying? What deal did he make with Theon Greyjoy, and why aren't they at one another's throats now? And why is this enemy coming now?"

Daenerys's silence following his stream of questions is a sort of answer itself, and when he turns to look at her, her brows are furrowed. "I…I don't remember the birth of my Dragons, not entirely." Her voice comes out as a whisper like the words she is saying are a secret more valuable than all the rest. Tyrion nods at her as they begin to walk through the empty halls of Dragonstone, footsteps echoing like distant drums. "I recall walking into the pyre. And then I woke up, unburnt, and with three Dragons with me. But I do not recall anything between those two moments."

"There is something strange in the air, something ill and dark," she says as they come upon a terrace. They stop there together, and he watches as she plays with her glimmering rings, her eyes carefully trained on the distance. "Perhaps it is The Night King that Robb Stark speaks of. Perhaps it is my mind simply playing tricks on me and making me see things that are not there. Perhaps it is even something more than both of those."

"The Winds of Winter," Tyrion supplies, and when he sends her a curious look, he draws forward to lean against the wall of the terrace. The sun stretches its light across the sea, orange and red and gold, and he thinks of the clothes he left behind, red as blood with golden lions all over. Now he only wears red when it is paired with the black of The Dragon Lords. What is the line, though, from The Rains of Castamere? In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion is still a lion.

"A Northern turn of phrase," he explains. "I do not quite know the full meaning, but from what I know, it can be used to reference a dark spirit that comes for either vengeance or justice, or winds that herald the arrival of something unstoppable, such as Winter. When someone says The Winds of Winter came from them, as far as I've seen, it tends to mean that justice came crashing down on someone. It's quite a Northern thought."

She nods, her face troubled. He glances down at her hands, and the rings she plays with between her fingers, and wonders at how it must feel to be her, to be a Queen who is torn between a need for vengeance and justice that is in her very blood and something that exists beyond all those concepts, something older than anything she's ever known. And to be the last of her House, as well, with one brother a poet who died for his mistakes, and the other halfway to mad with his crown of molten gold.

Tyrion knows that when all is said and done, he will likely be the last Lannister of Casterly Rock. Jaime and Cersei will die, and who knows what will happen to his scattered aunts, uncles, and cousins when Daenerys Targaryen takes The Iron Throne? The thought makes something curl up in the base of Tyrion's stomach, and he wishes for wine with enough conscious thought left in him to know that wine will only be a temporary balm, but enough foolishness to want it anyway.

"What do you think of Robb Stark?" She breaks the silence, standing beside him now, her hands braced on the wall. He startles, caught off guard by the question. "I have not stopped thinking about The Red Woman, and our conversation we had after Stark showed us the wight. It eats at my mind at all hours: Why now? Why me? Why Stark? What has bound us together to this fight, and why have both of our houses been forced through so much adversity at the moment where we gain living sigils of our Houses?"

"Stark told me that they found The Direwolves right before his father heard that Jon Arryn was dead. My Dragons were born right around when Robert Baratheon died. As the realm crumbled in on itself, as we were both betrayed, our families destroyed or scattered to the winds, their Wolves and my Dragons only grew stronger. The wheel has spun over us all, broken us all in more ways than one, but the Wolves and Dragons have remained as they are. Why?"

And isn't that the question? Why? Every time Tyrion starts drawing pieces together, lining up the timelines he's heard from Daenerys against what he knows of The War of The Five Kings, his stomach ties itself into knots. As Daenerys freed the slaves of Yunkaii, Robb Stark was beaten and betrayed and put in chains. As Daenerys birthed her dragons, Robert Baratheon died, and war engulfed the continent, heralded by bastards, wolves, and squabbling brothers and the banners behind them.

And as Ned Stark's children found their Direwolves, dark wings carried dark words that would end with his head being severed from his neck in front of his own daughter, as she screamed and begged and cried. He recalls how blank Sansa's expression would go whenever someone whispered of her father in her earshot, how she would seem frozen to the spot, unmoving in her grief. He can hardly imagine. He can't say he blames Robb Stark for his war. Any loving son would do the same.

Tyrion killed his own father. He flexes his hand, remembering those final hours, and all the regrets from it. His mind turns, for just a heartbeat, to Shae, and he pushes the thoughts aside furiously, refusing to let them take root and send him spiralling into madness and grief. His hands ache, and he wonders if one day he'll look down at them and see all the blood that he knows is on them dripping down from between his fingers, staining the floor below him.

"They're creatures of powers far beyond either of us," Tyrion says, feeling a little foolish. He's never been one to put stock in whispers of magic and others and creatures that have crawled from stories told from the mouth of a crone to real life, but he knows where he stands. He is The Hand of The Queen to The Mother of Dragons, a woman who has three dragons behind her, sharing the colours of the Dragons of The Conquerors. They once said The Dragons were gone. He knows they are not.

And Stark…he'd been almost casual in his showing of the wight, like casualness was the only way to keep himself together, to get himself through it. Robb Stark with his wolf almost always in his shadow, both their eyes like shifting shadows, both more Northern than Tyrion ever thought possible. The North is a strange place, a cold place, an old place. He remembers The Godswood of Winterfell. He remembers how foreign it had felt. Even The Wall had seemed so distant to him, like he knew it would never accept men like him.

They said Direwolves were not real, or that they only lived beyond The Wall. Ned Stark's sons came upon them all the same, came upon the perfect number of pups for Ned's children, whether baseborn or trueborn, to each get one. The coincidence is too perfect to really feel like one. All of these coincidences are like that; too perfect to be believed, too aligned for Tyrion to not be beginning to feel like he's a pawn in a much larger game played by perhaps The Gods or something else.

The Red Woman's voice rings in the back of his mind, her accent and how her voice seemed to seep into every corner of his mind still making him shudder ever so slightly. Even those who do not worship the Lord can still help his cause. She'd been so sure of all she'd been saying and looked at the three of them like they were the pieces in a puzzle she hadn't even realised she'd been missing. Tyrion is used to being a player, not a pawn.

"The Hour of The Wolf," Daenerys says softly. "I looked through the records in Dragonstone's library, to see what they had on The Long Night. There were only two books, both very old, and both coming from The Citadel, detailing Northern Legends. Once I pushed past the endless amount of bias against Northmen, there was hardly anything left. But…there is a story, the story of The Last Hero."

"They say he travelled with a company of his twelve friends, seeking aid from The Children of The Forest, who had long since retreated to The Deep North, in order to defeat the others. One by one, they fell to the creatures of the darkest parts of The North, and even his dog fell. But he found The Children and Formed The Night's Watch, and together, they won. But…when Robb Stark spoke of The Watch, he said that Brandon The Builder formed The Watch."

And Tyrion remembers. It had sounded like just an afterthought when Stark had said it early, talking about The Northern Legends of The Long Night, but now it's like a shot through the head. Stiffening, he looks at Daenerys, who continues on, her eyes dark. "But the story of a single hero saving The World is not unique to The North. The Red God has Azor Azhai, and they whisper of a Prince That Was Promised. Their God, they say, is always locked in battle with a God of Ice and Cold and Death. I am coming to think that these stories are intertwined, and it all comes back to The North."

"To House Stark," he finishes for her. She nods, and the thought is confounding, the more he unravels it. He only knows a little of the beliefs of The Red God, but what he does know is enough to make his stomach twist into a thousand knots. Perhaps that is why Melisandre of Asshai has been so clearly interested in Jon Snow, though she said nothing of it. But then, where does Daenerys and House Targaryen come into it? And why Jon Snow, not Robb Stark, the eldest trueborn son? "And to, for some reason it would seem, Jon Snow?"

"And what do you think of Jon Snow?" She asks. "Of all The Starks?"

"Jon Snow is a smart man and a terrific fighter from all I recall and all that I have heard. Some Northmen say he is the greatest sword to ever live in The North, though I cannot confirm that, for it has been many years since I saw him fight. He is brash, though, and quick to anger when it pleases him. But he was always genial to me, and wasn't so proud he couldn't listen." Close to it, though.

"Robb…what more is there to say that you do not know?" He asks, and she smiles in concession there. "He loves his family. He loves his people. And he's defending them at all times, that much is clear. As for Sansa, she was a good girl, a kind girl who deserved better than she got. I regret how it all turned out, but Lady Tyrell was right. If she's lived this long, it's because she's stronger than anyone realised. I do not know the rest of them well, but…they all seemed like good people. As good as one could be."

Tyrion recalls a boy in chains, voice breaking as he passes on words of comfort. He remembers a girl with tears in her eyes, raw and wounded and unable to do much about it. But he also remembers a boy with an icy stare, sitting in his Home, The Lord of Winterfell while his father was away trying to hold a crumbling realm together. He remembers a girl, on the eve of battle, and the words she said. I pray for your safe return, just as I pray for the kings.

"And Ned Stark?"

"A good man in a cruel world," Is all Tyrion says, for what else can he say? Eddard Stark may have been a fool in the end, but he was an honourable fool, and a good man from all Tyrion can recall. Everything he did, even during The Rebellion, was on grounds that could be justified. Protecting his people. Doing his duty to His King. Avenging the deaths of the family that had been ripped from his hands without a second thought by Aerys and Rhaegar alike.

He wonders what Stark would have done, had he survived to this point. Would he have courted Daenerys, begging for her aid? Would he have grovelled at the feet of anyone who would listen to him for aid against the coming storm? Or would he have stood alone, The Quiet Wolf of The North, the one everyone always assumed so much of, and never saw anything else of. Once, Jaime said that Ned Stark had told him that he didn't fight in tourneys because he didn't want others to know what he could do, and Tyrion doesn't doubt it. It sounds so perfectly Stark , after all.

Footsteps draw their attention away, and Tyrion turns in tandem with Daenerys to see Jorah Mormont standing there, looking nervous. "My Queen," he says he draws near, and Tyrion doesn't even have to look at Daenerys to know she is smiling. "I wanted to speak with you."

She gestures for him to continue, and he does, his voice laced through with remorse. "I would like to go North to Winterfell with you to fight The Night King and fight for my first home. I am going to speak with Robb Stark and my cousin Dacey, and I want you there if you are willing. So we can both know what he says and both know his judgement." He breathes deeply. "My sword will always be yours. But The North is my home, and I want to defend it."

She frowns, just a bit, lifting her chin. But when she speaks, her voice is sure. "I know that, Jorah, and I also know that you have every right to want to defend The North. I will go with you, and we will see what Robb Stark has to say about this." She glances at Tyrion who nods once, and together, she and Jorah begin to walk, Tyrion a half step behind them.

Tyrion spends the walk thinking about Jorah Mormont and all the mistakes he has made. Mormont, he recalls, never liked Ned Stark, deeming him to be the man who upended his life. Stark, on the other hand, seemed to reciprocate the feeling and also passed it on to at least his eldest son. Robb Stark had been undoubtedly cold to Jorah Mormont when they met, or so Daenerys says it. But now, Jorah Mormont goes to Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, to ask for some scrap of forgiveness. How strange the world has become.

Stark and Jorah's cousin are waiting on the bluffs, the wind whistling around them all, and the air is noticeably cold. Stark and Dacey Mormont do not look surprised that Tyrion and Daenerys are there to see this meeting as well, but Stark does narrow his eyes in Tyrion's direction, a strange wariness in his eyes now.

Jorah approaches Robb Stark slowly, and to Tyrion's surprise, bends his knee before him. But when he glances at Daenerys, she herself does not look surprised, her Valyrian eyes carrying a new assuredness. Stark glances at Dacey Mormont, but she does not meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on her cousin, digging into the man like two blades of ice.

"I left Westeros a traitor. I betrayed The North, I betrayed my House, I betrayed my father, and I betrayed My Lord–your father. And now I come to these shores again, standing beside the Queen I believe in, The Queen I choose. I come to these shores and the son of a man I have hated for my own mistakes says that the stories of my youth are not stories, and that they crawl towards us all, now. He tells me that Winter is Coming, and now…my heart yearns to fight for my home. But only if you will have me, Your Grace."

"I cannot undo the damage I have caused, undo the grief I put upon my Father and the shame I gave My House. I know I will never repent in the eyes of The North, but I still want to fight for the home of my youth. I still love The North, and I still remember where I come from, and the stories that you and I were both raised on. I give my sword to this cause, should you have me."

Stark is silent, his Tully blue eyes digging into Jorah Mormont for a long moment. When he speaks, there is a noticeable edge to his voice. "The decision does not lie solely in me, Ser Jorah of The House Mormont," he says, and Tyrion can see how Jorah's throat bobs as Stark glances at the deathly silent Dacey Mormont who stands beside him. Stark tilts his head towards the only other Mormont on the island. "Lady Mormont?"

And for a time, all that Tyrion can hear is the whistling wind and his own heartbeat. Dacey and Jorah Mormont, with their twin dark eyes, latched onto one another, seem caught in their own silent battle, and it stretches on so long that Tyrion almost wonders if time itself has suddenly stopped. He glances at Daenerys and sees her breaths, and knows that, no, they are simply just caught in the silence.

At long last, Dacey Mormont speaks, her Northern Accent thick and sharp. "Our words are Here We Stand, cousin. Get off your fucking knee."

Jorah Mormont rises to his feet, and Tyrion is used to being shorter than everyone, of course, but both Dacey and Jorah seem so very tall now, tall and proud. Tyrion recalls the Old Bear of The Wall with a pang of remorse, and remembers the large and bold man who ran The Night's Watch with an iron fist. Tyrion had been the one to break the news to Jorah Mormont about his father's death. House Mormont, the rulers of Bear Island, the bears of The North, did not die with Jeor, though.

"Here We Stand," she whispers, her voice a hiss, her eyes brimming with half a hundred swirling emotions that Tyrion can hardly understand. But what he at least understands in some sense of the word, is Northern loyalties and how deep they run. Northern Houses are tightly knit–to both themselves and all the other houses of The North. They've all been here for centuries on end, all have bent to House Stark or died at their hands, and they are deeply loyal to them for that.

"Here We Stand," Jorah Mormont replies, his accent thickening. After a brief hesitation, Dacey Mormont offers a hand and Jorah takes after a moment of his own hesitation.

"I do not forgive you," Dacey says between clenched teeth, and Tyrion breathes deeply. The North Remembers, indeed. "I will never forgive you. Winter is Coming, though, and I'd feel half a fool if I let a willing soldier be kept from the fight. You fight for The North, though, cousin. Not for House Mormont, for you do not deserve to do so. You fight for The North, and for the people you betrayed. Understood?"

Jorah nods mutely, pulling away to stand next to Daenerys, who Tyrion sees squeeze his hand once. Stark clears his throat, the wind making his cloak flow loosely around him, pressing his hair to his face and making his steady blue eyes stand out just that much more. "I said that if you ever came North again, I would kill you. This is your only exception, Ser Jorah of Bear Island. If you survive, you will go South as soon as possible, and never again will you return to The North, for if you do, I will make good on my word. Do you understand?"

"I do," Jorah says after a beat, bowing his head and resting his hand over his heart. "My desire is only to defend The North from its enemies. My father swore himself to this fight, took The Black and dedicated himself to this war. And he died by mutiny. So, all I ask is that I be allowed to finish what he started. All I ask is that I am allowed to be the son my father always deserved."

"We'll all have to be," Robb Stark says, looking at Tyrion with a look in his blue eyes that makes his skin crawl. "No one here is their father. No one here is bound by his mistakes and his death, only their own."

And Tyrion looks around at the assembled company. Jorah Mormont, son of Jeor Mormont, who broke his father's heart but still left his sword behind. Dacey Mormont, whose father is unknown but who is the daughter of Maege Mormont, the She-Bear of The North. Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, the boy who went to war for his father and spilled gallons of blood in response to his death. Himself, Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, who killed his father on the toilet and who is more like him than he thinks he still knows. And…

Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys Targaryen, daughter of The Mad King. No one here is their father. And that is a good thing, Tyrion knows. Stark is not bound by honour as his father was, and as for Daenerys, she is not the madman her father was. They are more than both of them and have reached further than Aerys Targaryen or Eddard Stark ever did, achieved higher than them. The Mother of Dragons. The Young Wolf. The Breaker of Chains. The King of Winter.

But where does Tyrion lie in that? He is going North, to the unforgiven lands of Winter. His father never would have lifted a finger for The North if it didn't help him. But Tyrion knows how alike he is to his father and all the ways that might just end up damning him. Cersei thinks herself Tywin come again. But Tyrion knows the truth.

He just wishes it didn't strike so much fear in his heart.

---

notes:

-i cant quite do all the tyrell shenanigans from the books, because time and word counts do not agree, but i still had fun meshing willas and garlan into the story. they both get more and more interesting the more i think of them, and i am very excited to see how much i can have robb and willas act as counter balances to one another...

-the funniest scene in s7 is when jon and co meet up with the brotherhood and you begin to realise how many weird ass connections these guys have. it just gets weirder the more you think of it, lol. that initial scene with them is kinda my version of that lol, and trust, there will be more of it once we're all partying in winterfell.

-tyrion is starting to really question wtf is going on with jon and it was so fun to hint at the fact that he's kinda starting to put the pieces together. its gonna come slowly, but I'm excited to see how one of the two big jon things (that being the circumstances around him leaving the wall) unfolds. the other is r+l=j but that's a beast in its own way.

-i love asoiaf (esp first men) magic and was sorely dissapointed when the show just didn't develop it. but I'm so scared to try and do it so i think i just need to get over my fear of doing it and just commit to it for real because I've been playing at it for so long lmao 😭. dany and tyrions last convo is me stating to pull on that thread, and I'm prob gonna spend the next week or so really figuring out what my plan is there.

-and here we go, on our way to Winterfell. reunions are within touching distance, and god am i excited to see the kids back together...

next up, dragons fly north.