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)

22. THE DRAGON II

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE DRAGON II

Daenerys Targaryen travels North with Robb Stark and his Bannermen, encountering enemies and deceit in the night, along with allies. She begins to understand the Young Wolf, and wonders at the North. Daenerys encounters The Wolves of Winterfell.

---

She stands on the prow of her ship, the Targaryen banner flapping high in the morning breeze behind her, heralding her arrival, her eyes locked on the city that they draw nearer to with every moment. White Harbour. She is on the ship at the front of their fleet, a ship that doesn't just fly the Three-Headed Targaryen Dragon. She glances back and feels something pull at her as she sees the Stark Banner flapping in the breeze, just below her own banner. The Crowned Direwolf says so much, does it not? The King in The North.

They are sailing just behind two slim schooners that are guiding them into the port, and she sees their flags clearly as well. A Manderly Mermaid, and above them they too fly The Stark Direwolf. But theirs is not crowned. For the King does not reside on their ships. The King is coming home to his lands on this ship, through these seas, to this strange city that is nothing like the ones from Essos.

She thinks of Meeren, the city in her rearview. Unlike Yunkai'i or Astapor, the bricks that made it up were made of many colours, and it always reminded her of the thousands of colours that one grain of sand could be. Meeren had been a golden labyrinth, marked by scale and majesty. The size of Yunkai'i and Astapor put together, and with The Great Pyramids that seemed to reach ever to the sky, it had been a glimmering jewel in Essos's crown, beaten only by Qarth, she thinks.

Qarth had been a beast in and of itself. Whereas Meereen was golden all around, Qarth had been like a thousand bolts of silk pressed together into one city. Everything about it had been opulence and finery at its best, and she recalls what The Qartheen called it: The Greatest City that Ever Was or Will Be. There were cracks in Qarth–cracks in all the cities she visited, absolutely–but still, it had been impossible to deny all its beauty and all its finery.

And then there is the city before her. White Harbour, The City of The North.

Though smaller than any other city in this continent, never mind any in Essos, there is a strength to it too. Against the blue-grey sea, the white walls of the city seem to shine, and it is only made clearer by the bright shine of the winter sun that hangs overhead, surrounded by clear blue skies. From all he has heard, it is as orderly as Qarth ever was, but it reminds her more of Mereen, in how its buildings slowly rise to a single point that lifts high above the city and the sea both. The New Castle, likely.

She glances to her side, to where Robb Stark stands silently beside her, his wolf, Grey Wind, ever at his side. The sea breeze carries the sharp scent of salt in the air, and makes both their hair flutter in the gale. For her, it adds a particular chill, but beside her, Robb Stark seems to be perfectly content with the weather, unbothered by the salty chill in the air. Mereen, despite sitting on the water much like this city, was not chilled by The Winds of Winter, nor even just the general location.

She has lived her life in the Southern reaches of this world. Dragonstone is certainly not a tropical seat like Meeren, where the nights are still warm and comfortable and every breeze from the sea is savoured for the relief it brings against heat. The Waters of Slaver's Bay–or, to use its newer name, Dragon's Bay–and maybe even the ones around Dragonstone, would probably seem absolutely hot compared to the seas that lap under their ship now. But Dragonstone and all its storms have no candle to hold against The North, something she is quickly realising as they draw nearer to The City of The North.

She glances again at Robb Stark, and then back at the Lords who also mill around on the deck of the ship. All of them are dressed as Robb Stark is–in cloaks with fur on their shoulders, and in shades of grey and black and brown, with little finery to their name. For many, the brightest part of their whole ensemble is their belt buckle and the hilt of their sheathed swords. Even Dacey Mormont–the only woman amongst them–is dressed the same, with just a hint of femininity to it. Many are also wearing fur-lined hats that make their rugged faces and beards look that much rougher.

Daenerys, comparatively, is dressed for the weather, but in a very different way. She has no fur-lined cloak, and while her dress has furs and layers to keep her warm through the cold, it is nothing like the clothes of the Northmen, which seem to conceal much of their shape through their bulkiness. She is dressed like a Southerner who knows nothing of Northern weather or wear, she almost feels, though her tailors had asked Dacey Mormont for some advice on clothing, apparently.

"White Harbour is beautiful," she tells Stark as they pass into the main harbour. Most of their ships have peeled away with The Northern fleet, to regroup in another port and go from there, so there is no worry of space as they draw nearer. She'd left that to Jorah and The Greyjoys, on Tyrion's suggestion, knowing that it would be best to have as few Northern Turncloaks in her following as possible when meeting The Lords of White Harbour and whoever else has come to see their King return to his lands.

"It is," he agrees, a smile on his face. "My father once took us here, when I was about fourteen, and Rickon was but a babe. My poor parents had to corral us through the whole of the city, and my uncle found a convenient excuse to be off The Wall for two weeks so the castellan of Winterfell wasn't a fourteen-year-old who would be mighty displeased that he didn't get to go with the rest of his family to the city." He points to her right as she laughs, and she follows his gaze as they pull into the inner harbour, seeing a great black building looming above their ship.

"That is the Wolf's Den," he tells her, a smile in his voice and his excitement clear. "It was built by Jon Stark, a King in The North. He raised it so as to defend the White Knife against raiders, and was passed through younger sons, cousins, and uncles of Kings for generations. It was held by The Greystarks for the longest until they broke their oaths of kinship and allied with The Boltons." His smile sharpens, and for not the first time, she thinks that he is particularly wolfish when he smiles like that.

"The Greystarks were destroyed by The Starks, and so it passed through other hands. Flint, Locke, Holts, Ashwood, and more still. At some point, Slavers even took the den, for Edrick Stark had grown too feeble to defend his own realm. But his great-grandson took it back from them in a bloody conquest. The Ice Eyes, they called him. But when House Manderly came North seeking refuge, it was them who received The Den and them who built The Harbour around it."

"They eventually built The New Castle as the main keep, for The Wolf's Den was quite old by the time they received it, making it no more than a prison, but still. For over a thousand years they have held the White Knife–they are some of my most loyal banners. My father always spoke well of them." His smile has not left his face, and he looks around the city in near-giddy excitement.

The anchor drops, and she looks at Stark curiously. "You recall all of this from mere memory?" He nods, still smiling with all the joy of someone who is speaking of something that is near and dear to their heart and mind.

"My brothers and I have all since loved the stories of our House. Jon and I used to drag Father down to the crypts and have him tell the story of any statue we pleased. And when Theon came to Winterfell, we'd drag him down and tell him those stories ourselves. He particularly liked the one of his namesake–Theon The Hungry Wolf, who not only beat back The Andals, but sailed to Andalos after, their leader his figurehead on his ship, and raided their lands until he had made it clear that The North would never be held by The Andals." His eyes glimmer, and she gets the distinct impression that there is a layer underneath his words, a clear reference. She purses her lips and gets ready to disembark, leaving the story hanging in the air between them.

The breeze continues to cut through her clothes as the ship becomes a whirlwind of activity. Though Yara and Theon Greyjoy are not aboard, the ship is still manned by a trusted captain of theirs, and his Ironborn rush around, preparing to deboard. Stark and her separate then, as he goes to his Bannermen to speak to them, and she finds herself standing with Missandei, Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Ser Barristan, the brunt of her council who has come with her on this part of the voyage. The other Lords are coming their own ways and in their own time, if they are even coming, that is.

She can hear the murmurs of a crowd growing around the ship, but she does not let herself glance over to see what awaits them when they get off. She wears a simple crown today, but she cannot help but note that Stark does not wear one himself. She'd guess it is because he has not yet had the chance to make one, but as she recalls the simplicity of The Northern outfits, and as she looks at her own group in their finely made Winter wear, she cannot be certain. They are playing a delicate game here, all of them.

Finally, patience is rewarded as the gangplank slams down. Stark is the first off, with her following just behind, Missandei and Tyrion flanking her. Stark's only companion is Grey Wind, who yaps loudly when Stark approaches the man at the front of the receiving crowd. Daenerys eyes the man with a critical eye, trying to place him through the descriptions Tyrion and Jorah had managed to scrounge up about House Manderly.

The Lord (there is no doubt in her mind that he is one) is a large man with clear blue eyes and a great white beard. He is not dressed as the other Northern Lords are; he wears rich cloth coloured in shades of blue and green that remind her of the sea, and on his doublet, the merman of House Manderly stands proudly. Lord Wyman Manderly, then, she is almost certain.

His voice is loud and amiable as he talks to Robb Stark, who seems to be smiling kindly at the shorter man, his hand on The Lord's shoulder. They both turn to Daenerys as she approaches, and the lord gives her a slight nod, though he does not bow. "Your Grace, you are welcomed to White Harbour, and thanked for your aid in bringing our King home," he says, his voice warm and rich, even with his distinct Northern inflexions. "I am Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour. It has been a long time since Dragons came here."

And just like that, a harder edge comes into his eyes, a wary one that only gets worse when he sends a pointed glance to Tyrion. She knows that The North will perhaps warm to her, but to a Lannister such as the one she has named her Hand…Tyrion's face remains perfectly neutral, and when she glances back at Lord Manderly, there seems to be a cold understanding in his eyes. But when he speaks, his voice carries none of his eyes's edge and is still perfectly polite and amiable.

"You have had a long journey. Let us go to The New Castle, and there we will dine, and celebrate the return of The Young Wolf to the Lands of The North, and take cheer in good company and hope for all!" He turns over his shoulder and yells something, and in a near instant, fine horses are being drawn through her crowd. She mounts hers as Stark does, his wolf pressing his nose against his legs, which makes him laugh slightly.

She thinks of her own horse, the Silver given to her all those years ago by Khal Drogo during their wedding, travelling with the army. She will take the journey North on her Silver, but for today, she travels to The New Castle on the white horse she is given, the twenty unsullied she's taken with her, her Bloodriders, the Lords of The North, along with Tyrion, Missandei, Ser Barristan, and Grey Worm following.

She and Stark ride alongside one another, her Bloodriders at their back, accompanied by Stark's closest advisors–The Greatjon Umber and hard-eyed Dacey Mormont. Tyrion and Varys, who she knows stuck to the shadows during their disembarkment, are doubtless travelling in carriages, along with Wyman Manderly, who Stark tells her has not been able to ride a horse for years, a sly grin on his face. A contingent of soldiers from White Harbour led them through the city and to the Keep, The Stark, Manderly, and Targaryen banners held aloft.

She glances around as they pass through the city, looking at the faces of the people of The White City. They look much like their Lords in a lot of ways–the dark eyes and darker hair, the stern faces that seem carved from ice itself as they regard her carefully. There is wariness and perhaps even fear in their eyes, and some carry hostility in them as they watch her go. But she keeps her back straight, and her chin held up. She knows what she is, and what she is here to do. In the distance, she can just about hear the shriek of her dragons as they dance together over the sea.

Stark points out the man leading their company to her, saying, "That there is Marlon Manderly, cousin to Lord Wyman by his father. His helm is said to harken back to the head of The Merling king, and if you look at his armour, it is made to look like flowing seaweed." His blue eyes harden as they regard the man. "He is the commander of The New Castle's garrison. My father liked him well enough, but once said he considered the man to be unduly arrogant on occasion. A loyal man though, one who trusts little in those he considers to have betrayed our people."

Stark says nothing else for the rest of the ride, leaving her to think and watch Marlon Manderly through careful eyes. Tyrion and Jorah had both warned her that The North would not immediately open their arms to her, having far too much blood with her House, but they'd both been sure that she herself would be at least considered, and not immediately thrown out. But what could they know of The North, with one a member of a hated House in these lands, and the other a once Northman who forsook his people and turned his back on them all? The North Remembers, they all say.

She thinks of House Frey, destroyed by some mystery assassin who spoke those three words before leaving. She thinks of Robb Stark's stories of The Wolf's Den, and the edge in his voice as he spoke of House Greystark and the fate that befell them. The Greystarks were destroyed by The Starks. And what had he said, of The Hungry Wolf, a man who made another man the figurehead of his ship? She feels a pit settle deep in her stomach, and she swallows tightly around the lump in her throat as they pass through the main gate of The New Castle.

But before long, her discontent is swept away by the life and energy of The Mermaid Court, the great hall of The New Castle. The Northern Lords look more at home than she has ever seen while they were in The South, laughing with the men of House Manderly and the other vassal Lords who fill out the hall alongside Daenerys and her own men.

Fires roar in hearths, and women dance and sing, voices rising over one another in the deafening din. She is seated to the left of Robb Stark, who has taken the head of the great table in the hall, given his status. At his right is Lord Manderly, who is speaking brightly to the young king, the both of them laughing. Stark's laugh is a rough thing, more a chuckle than anything else, but Wyman Manderly is possessed with a booming and hawking laugh that fills the room and makes everything seem that much brighter around her.

Again, she thinks of all the cities and all the castles she has lived in and ruled from. The Throne Room of Dragonstone was a large and cold place, meant to be the ruling seat of The Heir to The Iron Throne. She can recall the ebony seat that she made her throne in Mereen following the destruction of the prior, harpy-shaped one, well enough. It had been uncomfortable for a reason but had not lent any warmth or comfort to that grand hall.

This hall is different, in a strange sense of the word. Everywhere she looks, it is like the sea has been stolen and injected into the very make of the room. The wood-panelled walls are adorned with carvings depicting the creatures of the sea as if they sit beneath the waves in the true Merling King's court. The floor depicts a grim sight–black ropes of seaweed cover most of it, with sea creatures and the bones of drowned soldiers alike interspersed through it. Wars of great creatures and the ruins of ships are depicted all throughout, and nets hang from the rafters, which are made to look like the surface of the sea.

It is ornate in a strange and particularly Northern way, she thinks.

At some point, she is roped into the conversation happening between the two men to her right, and she finds two notable things. Firstly, Wyman Manderly is a keen man, with eyes that remind her of Tyrion's–never missing much–though they are both protected by their appearances and all the assumptions that come with it. Secondly, and perhaps more interestingly, Robb Stark seems far more at home than he has at any point before, in a Northern Court, surrounded by his Lords and his people and things he knows.

He is home, in some part. The ground they stand on is now unbalanced, for he is now the man in his own territory, and she is the stranger on foreign lands. When she looks around, it seems like The Northmen are doing their best to rope The Unsullied into their festivities, making what seems like a concerted effort to ally themselves. She glimpses Missandei and Ser Barristan for a brief moment, the latter speaking to The Greatjon and Marlon Manderly while Missandei appears to be conversing brightly with some of the women of the court, her eyes glimmering.

Only Tyrion seems alone in his festivities, but she cannot find it within herself to be surprised. He will always be a Lannister, a Lion in the court of Winter, a traitor and a decided outsider amongst these Lords and men who have known each other for longer than she has lived, in most cases. Men who have hated House Lannister for almost a decade, or perhaps even longer in some cases, and who will not quickly warm up to the one who sits amongst them all. A Lion in the Court of Wolves, she thinks, fingers curling into a loose fist upon the table.

As the festivities bleed into the night, the tone of the room gets strange. She feels like there is something that is warring in the mind of The Northmen, and it takes her a long moment to remember that for most of the men in this room, the last time they were at a feast, it was The Red Wedding. And suddenly, it all makes sense, and she feels her own heart strain in her chest at how much this is probably bringing up a whole host of unwelcome memories in these men.

She's heard enough to make her feel sick at the horror of that day. But to live it, and to be the one betrayed…she cants her eyes towards Robb Stark, who sits silently, watching the proceedings through narrowed eyes, his wolf at his feet, eyes just as wary. It would harden any man, and beside her is living proof of that fact. The King of Winter. The Young Wolf. Blood of The First Men.

Robb Stark suddenly stands, drawing her from her reverie and silencing the hall when he slams his cup down a few times. She looks over the faces of the lords and ladies who sit before him and sees grins on their faces, their eyes dancing with light and pride at the sight of their king. No one speaks as he roves his eyes over the crowd, twin beams of blue, wolfish and missing nothing that is laid out before him. All of them wait patiently for him to speak his mind.

"My Lords, My Ladies, members of the Great House Manderly," he begins, smiling ever so slightly when the Manderlys cheer a little at their mentioning. "At long last, I have returned to The North. After treachery and betrayal from those who were once our allies, and being put in chains by a Bastard King, I am at last, returned to the Lands of My Father, The Lands of The North, The Lands that hold the Heirs of Winter and The First Men alike!"

That gets a roar of outstanding approval, cups slamming down over and over as the crowd voices their assent. But when Robb speaks again, his voice carrying strength and pride befitting of a king, they quickly silence, eyes watching him so intently, with so much love and respect for their king. "I have been betrayed, I have been beaten, I have been put in chains by those who have long since desired to see The North on their knees. I was paraded before the bastard king who killed my father and beat my sister, the ones who we rode to war for. And still, I live. I was freed, and now I return to you as the hour grows dark, as Winter settles over these lands and digs her claws into our flesh and blood."

His voice rises as he continues. "Winter is Coming. The Dead seek to end us, and no longer rest in their shallow graves. Dragons have come to these lands again, and Cersei Lannister sits The Iron Throne and declares every man who sits here a traitor to the throne she stole." Stark, as with many, glances over at her at the mention of The Iron Throne, and she forces herself to keep her expression neutral. "Still, The North remains. The North Remembers."

No one cheers, but many slam their cups down on the table in assent, letting Stark continue. "Our betrayers are gone! House Frey is nothing more than scared girls, the men massacred in their hall as they massacred ours. Walder Frey's throat was slit as Raymun Frey, his cunt son, slit the throat of my mother! Joffrey Baratheon, dead at his wedding. And Roose Bolton, and all of House Frey, traitors to The North and to every man who stands in this room, have been broken and destroyed by my own siblings."

"I do not fear Cersei Lannister," he snarls, a wild and wolfish look on his face. "For I know the justice of our gods prevails, and I have seen all those who have ever dared to stand against us fall into madness and ruin." He glances at her again, an unreadable expression on his face. "There is more to come, more bloody wars to rage. But The North will never fall to The South again, and all those who have sought us broken will burn in their pyres, with nothing left of them but ash before the end. The North Remembers and The Winds of Winter will swallow our enemies whole before Winter's turn!"

—

They are about a day out of White Harbour, setting up camp on the banks of the White Knife, the sun setting in the Western sky when Robb Stark's Direwolf perks up. She and Robb Stark are standing next to each other on the banks, watching the sunset as their horses lap at the currents of the river, and thus, she can see how he tenses, his hand inching towards the sword at his side.

Grey Wind is then suddenly snarling into the too-still air, his ears pressed back and his hackles raised. Ser Barristan, who had been standing nearby, is already walking over to them, and it is he who asks Robb Stark, in a sharp voice, "What is it? What is he sensing?"

Stark doesn't answer, just raises his hand to silence the man, eyes flicking between his growling wolf and something in the distance, to their North West, but more westward than anything. She follows his gaze, half blinded by the setting sun, and raises her hand to shield her eyes against the light. They crossed the White Knife just an hour ago, leaving the river to their backs as they turned westwards towards The King's Road. She frowns, narrowing her eyes as she tries to make out whatever it is Stark is looking for and the wolf has sensed.

And, right as she hears Stark swear loudly and viciously, does she see what is approaching. A line of riders, perhaps two or three hundred strong, are riding furiously towards their camp, which only boasts about fifty, predominately made up of Northern Lords, The Unsullied, and her courtiers–including Missandei, Varys, and Tyrion, who are in a wheelhouse for the day. The rest of her forces will not meet with them for perhaps another hour, which means…

"Get your Queen out of here," Stark says, already half in the saddle of his horse, his wolf prowling around him. Ser Barristan simply nods, and she goes to her own horse without comment, not needing to know that Stark knows who is coming for them, and has done the math about what it means for them. She's not looking for answers, but still, he gives them, voice decidedly cold as he says, "Those fuckers have Bolton banners."

She feels her stomach bottom out, all that she has ever heard about them in the front of her mind. Ser Barristan takes that chance to swear himself, and she gets on her horse quickly after that, riding after Stark as he takes off to the main encampment, voice rising above it all as he shouts to his men and tells them to get moving. She hears a flurry of swears follow their proclamations, and before she knows it, they are all saddled, and The Unsullied are rallied around Grey Worm, who is speaking to Robb Stark with a murderous expression on his face.

"...want their leaders alive," Stark is saying to him, and they both glance at her when she draws near to them. "Rest you can kill, and make it slow if you want. Any man who flies The Bolton Banner is going to die today, but not before I figure out who these madmen are." He looks at her then. "Are your dragons available by chance? Not to lay waste to them, but to perhaps act as a necessary fear factor?"

She tilts her head, listening for them. They've been few and far between, all of them, finding their quarry elsewhere, and she last saw them around lunchtime today, when they flew a bit lower and nearer to her, screeching happily. "I could not easily make them of use to you," she says apologetically, and Stark's jaw clenches, but he nods in understanding. She looks at Grey Worm, who nods at her. "Ser Barristan will stay with me. Follow Stark through this."

Grey Worm nods, pulling on his spiked helmet not a moment later. She glances at the men who draw nearer, who are far too close to comfort. Ser Barristan draws up beside her, saying, "We will cross the river and ride towards where the rest of the army should be. Then we'll loop back with them and reinforce as necessary." He looks at Stark. "How long can you hold out?"

Stark's expression says enough for him–dark and wholly murderous as it is–but still, he speaks, saying, "Those men fly the banner of the House that betrayed me, that helped to murder my mother and put half the men here in chains. We will hold those fuckers off for as long as we need to, through whatever end. The North Remembers." He all but spits the final words, looking cold and furious and pained all the same, his eyes dancing with grief and the wrath of a betrayed King. The Northmen roar their assent.

And so they go their separate ways.

Her silver is a Dothraki Horse, and the one Ser Barristan rides she knows belonged to a Dothraki once, having been given to him at some point in the last few years. They are swift as the wind, carrying them through the snow and hard-packed dirt with surprising ease. Her body aches from how hard she is moving her beloved silver, and when she glances at Ser Barristan, she sees the toil of their ride in his face too. But still, they ride.

But the screams and the shrieks of battle follow them. When she glances back, she hears Ser Barristan swear again. "The Boltons are driving our men back towards us!" He shouts over the rush of the wind, and she grits her teeth, spurring her horse on faster as the horns of war echo across the silent and near desolate lands of The North. Everywhere she looks, she sees snow, covering it all, swallowing the world in its icy maw.

But before she knows it, she sees hope grow on the horizon. Her banners, and with them, the sight of The Dothraki and the gleaming helmets of the rest of The Unsullied. Horns roar through the land as they are doubtless spotted, and when she comes upon the front of the host, it is to the confused expressions of Jorah Mormont and The Greyjoys both. Wheezing for breath, Ser Barristan is the one who speaks, his voice as sharp as a sword and colder still.

"Boltons–an ambush. Perhaps six miles back, but they have our men swamped and caught off guard, and likely on the run, if not pressed against the White Knife. We need reinforcements, lest we come to Winterfell with Robb Stark's bones."

The world is silent. Jorah looks already ready to go and looks at her for confirmation. She nods, and without another moment, he is riding back and shouting to the Dothraki, who immediately kick into gear without a second thought. But her attention is on The Greyjoys–Yara Greyjoy, who is looking at her brother with open and unmistakable worry, and Theon Greyjoy who is…

The man is shaking, his eyes wide and wild. When Yara says his name, her voice softer and more gentle than Daenerys has ever heard from the Ironborn woman, her brother flinches noticeably, which makes the woman sigh and then swear. She meets Daenerys's eyes, no humour in her own, just coldness and silent dare to comment on what she says next, "I'm going to get my brother to safety–"

"No," Theon Greyjoy cuts her off. "I have to face this." And without another word, his face slips into a mask of cold resolve, and he's spurring his horse forward, black bow already in one hand. Daenerys glances at The Queen of The Iron Islands. Her lips are pursed together in a thin line, and when she finally speaks, Daenerys does not miss the tight thread of tension that pulls her voice apart.

"He needs this. I will take up the rear guard because that is where our men are–so look out for my brother," She hardly seems to care who she is speaking to. Her eyes are dark and hard, the look of an older sister who knows that she must let her brother face this, as much as she does not want to. "I will find him. Go!"

And so they do, riding after Theon Greyjoy, The Dothraki thundering behind her. They catch him soon enough, and not a moment later, they come upon the forces. She hears shouts of panic and screams of fear rise from The Bolton men as they realise their mistake, realise that the random band they'd decided to attack was the exact wrong band to attack. She doubts that they had any idea who they were really attacking–they just saw The Stark banner, or perhaps even The Targaryen banner, and went from there, despite better and wiser thoughts.

In the fray, she can make out Robb Stark, astride his horse, bloody, muddy, and soaked to the bone from the fight and the river, his wolf a raging beast around him. The Young Wolf, she thinks, as she forces her silver to move away from some men who are pursuing her. She is no soldier, but she cannot quite avoid the fight, much to her displeasure. And certainly Ser Barristan's, she thinks as he catches a man with his sword. Blood spurts as his sword impales itself in the Bolton soldier's throat, and she feels her stomach churn at the sound of the man choking on his own blood as he falls to the floor dead.

They seem drawn to her, this random woman who is clearly a foreigner, sitting in the middle of the fight. Even though The Dothraki are tearing through them like a knife through water, a few manage to clamour towards her, more than Ser Barristan can hold off on her own, and she grits her teeth as one of them tries to grab her reins, pulling away just in time. But the man is not assuaged, and he makes another move towards her, and Barristan is swamped and too far away–

She sees the blur of grey a second before she hears the singing steel and the voice that roars, "Duck!" She does just that, feeling something whoosh right by her, followed by the scream of a man and the thud of something falling to the ground. The screaming grows to a fever pitch, and she straightens to see a man dying on the floor, a large slash across his chest, Grey Wind snarling over him. She looks away as the wolf bites down, looking to her right, where Robb Stark holds a bloody sword in hand.

"Thank you," she says, and he nods mutely, drawing his horse forward, towards where there seems to be further commotion. She follows after a moment, leaving the man to die by the wolf, following the blood-soaked king who breaks the crowd with ease. The battle seems to be over, but still, she can hear shouts resonating through the world.

They break through the crowd together to see some four men on their knees, Northern swords to their backs. Grey Worm is standing before them, spear in hand, eyes murderous. And Daenerys sees why after a second, glimpsing Missandei, who had been with Tyrion and Varys in the carriage for the day. There is a scratch on her face, and Grey Worm is holding her by the shoulder, eyes black behind his helmet. The Bolton men are swearing up a storm, one that is silenced when they see Stark and her.

She feels her own fury rise, dismounting her silver as Stark dismounts his own horse. Both are taken away by some of the Dothraki who surround the crowd. The whole of the crowd follows the Bolton soldier's examples and lapses into silence as Robb Stark comes to stand before the four men, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, his eyes roving over the four of them for a moment that seems to stretch on and on and grow colder with every breath that fills her lungs.

"Do you know who I am?" He asks them, finally, and though none of them speak, they all nod, expressions dark and murderous. But she recalls how he looked in the throng of battle–The Young Wolf, crowned in blood, a vicious Direwolf in his shadow. She understands not only all the stories she has heard and all that Tyrion said of him, but also while these men who had been so loud before are now staying their tongues. She knows it has absolutely nothing to do with her.

"Good," he says, opening his mouth to say something, but he is cut off by one of the men, the second from the left, straightening in interest at something behind them. A lecherous smile crosses his face and the rest of theirs when they spy it, and she turns to see Theon Greyjoy standing still, The Greatjon a looming shadow at his back.

"Reek," one of them whispers, and the world is so silent she thinks you could hear a pin drop, hear the sound of a single snowflake falling. Theon Greyjoy is pale and still where he stands, and she can see the tremors that rock his body clear as day. She glances first at Stark and sees that he has his sword in a white-knuckled grip, and then back at the prisoners to see a manic smile on the soldier's face. "You remember me, Reek?"

Theon draws closer, stopped only by Stark grabbing his arm and making him. Daenerys glares at the Bolton soldier, but he continues, seemingly well aware of every eye on him and how the sword at his back is pressing closer with each word he says. "Yeah, you do, fucking freak. Finally, found another master whose dick you can suck because you don't have one yourself? Poor, poor Reek. Always mewling after that Stark bitch."

"Stay your tongue about my sister," Stark snarls. The soldier smiles at him.

"The whore? Did little Reek tell you about the wedding night? Or how Lord Bolton was plenty fine with the idea of some of us taking turns with her–once he got an heir, of course. He and I talked about it plenty–"

Two things happen in a near instant. Stark draws his sword, and with that the whole Northern delegation tenses, eyes drilling holes into the man who seems half mad. But he probably knows he is dead, and is trying to get Stark and Greyjoy both riled up, to show the cracks in their facade because it's entertaining to men like him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Grey Worm tense, and she makes sure to meet his eyes and silently mouth, be ready. He nods.

The soldier laughs at the sight. "Come to defend her honour? I remember how you wailed, Stark when your mommy died and your foreign whore did too. The King in The North!" He laughs and then spits on the floor. "Go on, ask Reek here about it all. About all he has seen, and all the ways he served Ramsay Bolton as much as I did. Go on, tell him, Reek."

Everyone looks at Theon, then, standing still, face cold and far away. But he is saved from an answer as Robb Stark whistles softly and slowly. The crowd breaks slowly to reveal the hulking form of his great Direwolf, whose muzzle drips with half-dried blood as he approaches. She sees Stark smirk, wolfish and cruel, as the wolf presses next to him, and his voice is rough as he says, "I will repeat my earlier words: stay your tongue about my sister…or else I will feed you living to my wolf and laugh as you scream."

She feels fear take her throat and seize it then, terror at how simply this man says it. He is not a cruel man, from all she has seen, and while certainly he is a man with an impressive temper, this is nothing like she's ever seen from him. But then again, what had Tyrion's one warning about this king, before her been? About all of House Stark? He has said that there is nothing they hold dearer than one another. And this fool has run his mouth about the sister Tyrion said that Robb Stark desperately loves.

But Theon Greyjoy finds his voice, rough and quiet as it is. "No," he says, looking at Stark with an expression she cannot decipher. She watches Stark's face as it passes through a well of emotions, before finally settling on a cold mask. He nods, and his wolf relaxes at his side, finally allowing Theon Greyjoy to pull closer to the smirking soldier who stands before him.

A bow is in one of his hands, and there's a half-full quiver at his side, and she's glimpsed him shoot once or twice. He's not half bad, all things considered. He slowly draws an arrow and she hears it rasp against the leather quiver, even as the soldier starts laughing and goading him on. Theon and his blue eyes do not leave the soldier as he slowly draws his bow, arrow pointed straight at the soldier. Stark stands beside him, sword in hand, still red with blood. The Northmen and Grey Worm wait with bated breaths for what comes next.

"Ramsay Bolton is dead. Sansa Stark killed him," Theon says, voice noticeably even. At his side, she can see how Stark swallows tightly and flexes the hand that holds his blade in a white-knuckled grip. "And my name is Theon Greyjoy. Not Reek. Not freak. Not turncloak, traitor–though I am both. I am Theon of The House Greyjoy, and Ramsay–Ramsay Snow is dead. So, in the name of my King, in the name of Robb of the House Stark, I sentence you to die."

His arrow flies. This close, it would be impossible to miss. Daenerys watches as the man falls dead to an arrow in the eye, and without a word, Stark stalks forward takes a knife from one of the men, and says, right before he slits the throats of the other three, in a rushed way, "I, Robb of The House Stark, King of The North and Lord of Winterfell, sentence you to die for treason against The North."

And so, four men lay dead and no one speaks, and she hardly dares to breathe, struggling to put all the pieces together. She recalls what Theon Greyjoy once said of Sansa Stark with a feeling that makes her feel as if her whole body is lead and her stomach has completely left her body. Sansa Stark is in Winterfell. I would give my life for her, easily, without a second thought. And then, when Tyrion asked what the she-wolf meant to him…Everything, he'd said.

The pieces are drawing together, and the picture is horrible. She glances at Stark and sees he is shaking, his blue eyes wide with half-feral madness. "Take their bodies away," he says to no one in particular, but the men rush to do so, The Dothraki dispersing. Only once they are gone does he turn to Theon Greyjoy, standing still and staring listlessly at the ground. Carefully, he asks, "...Theon?"

Greyjoy flinches, and before anyone can move to him, his knees give out from under him and he collapses to the floor before throwing up. Stark and she both come to his side then, Stark resting a hand on his back as Daenerys turns to where Grey Worm and Missandei still stand. "Find Yara," she tells them, before glancing at Missandei, her eyes narrowing on the wound. Missandei gives her a comforting smile, but still–"And then get patched up."

Once they are gone, it leaves only Daenerys, Robb, Ser Barristan, and The Greatjon Umber standing there. Theon has stopped throwing up but now he is hollowly sobbing, resisting against Stark as he tries to pull him away from the pile of sick, to no avail. He sends her a tense look, and she can see the searching and desperate look in his eyes. She nods, sensing what he is silently asking, and at that, his jaw clenches and he nods, a hard edge coming over his expression.

"Jon," he says, and The Greatjon is there in a moment, crouching between her and Robb, expression betraying nothing. Stark's fingers curl into a fist in the back of Greyjoy's shirt, and he and his Lord stare at one another for a moment, before they both nod at one another.

"Get him out of here and to his sister," Stark says, rising to his feet and dusting himself off. She follows suit, stepping back as The Greatjon throws Theon Greyjoy's arm over his and starts hauling the halfway-to-unconscious man away. She studies Stark's face as he watches the pair of them go, noting the sad edge to his eyes and how his mouth presses into a thin line. He looks at her when he catches her looking, holding her gaze for a moment before nodding and saying, "Your Grace." He is gone not a moment later, leaving her to watch him leave.

But he finds her again, later that night, when all the dust has settled and their camp has been made. She sits in her tent, on a portable couch, a fire crackling before her, warming the whole room. She is nursing a cup of warm wine, her mind caught on thoughts of Missandei, who had been separated from Tyrion and Varys at the start, hence her getting injured while they weren't when she hears the tent flap open, and Aggo, one of her Bloodriders, comes in.

"Yes?" She asks in Dothraki.

"The Stark King and his wolf," he replies.

"Let him in," she tells him, and before she can think secondly of it, she says, "And leave us be, if you will. I trust his wolf will keep the both of us safe, and it has been an exciting night for all of us. Any guards can patrol around, but need not be stationed at the door."

He looks troubled and unsure but nods when she makes it clear that she isn't going to back out. Stark follows in after a moment, Grey Wind dogging his steps, looking far from dressed from the weather in nought but a pair of pants, a loose shirt, a jacket, and the mud-caked boots he was wearing earlier. "I was hoping we could speak?" He asks, and she nods, glad she said what she did to Aggo. Stark, she thinks, will enjoy the relative privacy.

She pours him some wine, and he takes it gratefully, making a pleased face at the taste. Voice a little rough, he says, "Theon is alright and with Yara. The Boltons didn't know it was us, or that I was there, they just thought that we were some random travelling company. Most of them are dead, and what ones aren't are under Grey Worm and His Unsullied's watch. The Greatjon is keeping an eye on them, as well. I figured you'd like to know."

"I would," she says, smiling at him. "Thank you."

He bows his head in acknowledgement but says nothing more about it, swirling his wine and taking a sip of it. He seems strange in this setting–devoid of furs and in an undeniably domestic environment, compared to everything else. He looks more at ease than she thinks she has ever seen him, and even Grey Wind seems to not be on edge, looking half asleep at his feet, a large mass of grey fur. She knows that she will likely never see the wolf the same again, never mind Robb Stark, following all that happened earlier. The Young Wolf.

They sit in silence for some time, with night but the crackling fire for company. She draws a fur-lined blanket closer around her, feeling a chill in the air, glancing at Stark as she does. He does not even seem close to cold, and she almost asks if he is not cold, if this is cold to a Northman, but she stays her tongue, choosing to simply look at him, and all his strange idiosyncrasies. How in the world, really, is he not cold? He's thrown his jacket off and placed it over the back of the settee he's sat on, and he's further from the flame than she is…

"You were married, weren't you?" He suddenly breaks the silence, looking at her strangely. "I feel like I remember hearing that once, hearing that you had wed someone, but I cannot recall when or who. Were you?"

"I was," she agrees, surprised that this is what he's moved to, "Twice. And there was a lover in there, as well." She smiles when his brows raise in surprise at the comment, thinking of Daario with a strange pang. That day on The Dothraki Sea changed so much, changed everything. She left Daario behind, and she thinks of him with a sort of regret for it all, but not enough to think twice. If I look back, I am lost.

"A lover?" He repeats, sending a meaningful glance around the tent. She cannot help but laugh, and he snickers too, looking younger as he does. "I take it he did not come West with you?"

"No," she agrees, sipping at her wine. "You probably heard of my marriage to my first husband, The Dothraki Khal Drogo. The match was arranged for me by my brother and a magister of Pentos by the name of Illyrio Mopatis." She rests her hand on her stomach, thinking of how it all ended, of golden crowns and shifting shadows and the life that paid for another.

"I forgot you had another brother, besides Rhaegar," Stark says softly, almost kindly. She glances at him and sees something odd in his expression. Doubtless because of the thought of Rhaegar and all that he did, all the blood and pain he heaped upon House Stark's shoulders, a weight whose echoes they both now bear. "Viserys, was it?"

She nods, her throat closing up as she thinks of him, a lump in her stomach and a painful note in her chest. She does not miss the man he became, the man consumed by madness and the whispers of Illyiro Mopatis and all the grief of their House, but rather the brother she'd known. Who'd hold her close to him as they slept through the cold, who taught her Valyrian, whose smile used to seem like a thousand suns. And sometimes he'd sing and kiss her head and tell her how they'd avenge it all–father and the mother he used to call mama, and Rhaegar and their nieces and nephews and aunt Elia.

He was a broken man, she knows. Broken by tragedy and pain and the ruin of their House. He'd have hated Robb, killed him in the courtyard of Casterly Rock, and never forgiven him for the sins of his father. He never would have entertained the thought of Stark being a king, never mind the idea that they actually might have had a reason to rebel against The Throne that split their blood and kidnapped one of their own, leaving her to die thousands of miles from home.

"He was a fool. Drogo killed him for it, in the end," she finally manages to say as she finds her voice again. She can feel Stark's eyes bearing into her, a weighty and unforgettable gaze. She glances at the walls and remembers how the shadows of Mirri Maz Duur danced over the tent walls, when she stole Rhaego and doomed Drogo. "There was a witch. Drogo had been injured in an argument around her, for I had ordered her saved. She told me that she could save him, but that only death could pay for life."

She rests her hand on her belly, feeling Stark's eyes follow. "She stole the life of the babe from my belly, and left Drogo alive but as a shell of a man who could not ride, could not lead. The Dothraki abandoned us, save for only a few. In the end, I smothered Drogo to put him out of his misery and burned the witch in his pyre. It is there my dragons were born, there I walked into the flames and came out The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt."

She glances at him and sees grief in his eyes, and she knows without even having to ask what he is thinking of. He is doubtless thinking of the wife stolen from him, and the babe taken by dark forces as well. Mirri Maz Duur had said that her son would have destroyed the world, and perhaps he would have, but when she stole him, he was no more than an innocent child in her belly, just like the child that was taken from Robb Stark before his very eyes. And here they sit, two widows.

"The other groom?" He breaks the silence, a rough edge in his voice. She says nothing of it.

"A man of Mereen, named Hizdahr zo Loraq. Handsome enough, I suppose, but not an outstanding husband, all things considered."

Stark laughs sharply at that, "Hence the lover?"

"Hence the lover," she agrees, Daario's face swimming in her mind. She supposes she could write to him, tell him where she is, and that she lives, and that she hopes he is well. She loved him once, she knows, and some part of her heart will always belong to him. "He died when I left Mereen for the first time. There was a group, The Sons of the Harpy. They hated that I had destroyed the slave trade, and attacked me. I flew atop Drogon to The Dothraki Sea, where I was found by a Dothraki horde."

"In the tradition of The Dothraki, widows of Khals must go to Vaes Dothrak, the city of The Dothraki people, to join the dosh khaleen, who rule the city. I did not go when Drogo died, and so they took me there, in order to see to it. Instead, I killed the Khals and took the Dothraki as my own. I am their Khaleesi, now, and that is why they have followed me over the sea thus far."

He nods along, a question clear in his eyes, but he does not ask. There is a shallow scar on his jaw, going from what appears to be his collarbone, up the side of his throat, to his jaw. It is doubtless from the fight only a few hours ago, and if she looks closely, she knows she will be able to see traces of blood that were not quite washed from him in the corners of his face. His hair is like a flame in the light of the room, and she cannot help but think of all the men she has loved and known and how she has always been above or below them.

She was Drogo's Khaleesi, his prize that was sold to him. She was Daario and Hizdahr's queen. But what is she to Robb Stark, King in his own right? An equal, perhaps? Cersei is not her equal, she is a pretender, a mad woman who Daenerys knows will fall beneath it all before the end. But Robb Stark is a stronger man, that much is clear. A survivor, a man who has lost so much like she has, whose House has suffered. A king of a dynasty that makes hers look young.

After a few moments of silence save for the crack of the flame, he tilts his head back and asks. "Do you consider them your people?" He glances at her, at the distance between them, taking a generous sip of his wine. In the firelight, she cannot help but think he is handsome, and his own eyes rove over her in a familiar way. "The Dothraki?"

"Yes," she says. "For The Valyrians are gone, and I am the last of House Targaryen. They are my Khalasar, my people, the ones who took me in and made me their own. I have my Bloodriders who will follow me through the darkest end, who have followed me over land and sea and now ride with me to face a darkening evil. They are the closest thing I have to a people, to a community." She looks away from him. "In that, I envy you. Your people follow you for you are a Stark, and you share blood with them."

His laugh is grim. "It is not a kind place to be, always. Aye, they follow me because I am a Stark and because they made me King, but I am not above folly." He takes another generous sip of his wine, his eyes darkening and his voice tightening as he continues. "The Freys and The Boltons proved that well enough. You never recover from a treason like that, can never mend your heart after being so wholly betrayed." His mouth curls, and she knows she thinks of Greyjoy even before he speaks. "And you cannot undo all the mistakes that lead your best friend to putting a knife in your heart and destroying what peace you thought you had left. You beg and you scream and wail, and yet, you cannot raise the dead."

His voice continues to rise, becoming thick with tears. "You howl and you barter and you beg the gods, but you cannot sew your father's head back to his corpse and breathe life into him. You cannot save your sister from being raped, cannot save your brother from near death. You cannot stop them from slitting your mother's throat as you weep, and no matter how much you hold her lifeless body and pray to the gods who have stopped listening, you cannot give your life for the woman you love. You cannot keep the last brother left to you from betraying you. You cannot turn back time and undo it all, stay in Winterfell and let Winter swallow you whole."

There are tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and she looks away, contributing her own side, for lack of better things to say. "You cannot stop a witch from ripping the son from your stomach. You cannot stop the madness from stealing your brother from you, cannot stop your husband from killing him before you. You cannot stop that same husband from raping you on your wedding night, even as you wept. You cannot avenge your mother, you cannot raise your brother from the dead and beg him to turn back, show him the folly of his ways, and ask him the questions you need to know. You cannot turn back time. You are forced by the gods to live with the blood and the grief and the pain."

And so, the silence lingers. He has drawn closer as they spoke and she can feel her throat closing up, all that has been left unsaid hanging between them. If she just brushes out with her hand slightly, her hand will come to his shoulder, and she thinks he'd probably be warmer than she, though he wears nought but a shirt and pants, his boots having been kicked off a while ago. She wears a sleep dress, her hair hanging around, and he is closer to the fire, and a Northerner still, and…

Handsome, too, she supposes. He glances at her when he realises she is looking, and their gazes hold, and she realises that this is all a very, very bad idea when she watches his throat bob and realises she can almost count the scars on his face from how near he is now. When did he get this close? When did they start circling one another?

It is like there is a band, pulling her to him, making her lose all her thoughts and all her inhibitions. She remembers this once, with Daario, a long time ago. It feels like nothing more than a distant memory now, here in this tent in the heart of The North, in the dead of Winter, staring at its king.

He draws closer, and his eyes are locked on hers and she can feel the heat of her body unspooling in her stomach, drawing him closer, making her feel half a fool and twice as mad. This is a mistake, she knows, even before she reaches up to rest a hand on his shoulder and feels the warmth of his body through his thin shirt. Even before his hands find a place on her hips, and they both bend to desire. They're both drunk.

Robb Stark's dowry cannot and will not be The North, and she has never expected to wed The Northern King to get his kingdom, buying it with sex and titles. She will not get The North through this madness and this folly and she knows that, knows that intrinsically and naturally, even as they draw closer and as the thoughts bleed away. She knows she is making a mistake, and she bets he does well, but the conjecture remains, and neither of them are stopping, and he's kissing her, and–

He is handsome. He is a King, the only equal to her left in this vast world. Handsome, young, and a king with lands to hold and a kingdom to win. A man with something to his name, something that matters in Westeros. She left Daario behind so that any groom she took here in these strange lands would not be in contention with her lover. And yet, here she is, taking another, losing her thoughts and all her wisdom as they turn themselves over to foolish and witless desires that are unbecoming of kings and queens, wolves and dragons.

But he smiles against her mouth and they both laugh like foolish lovers, and for just one moment, all of it fades away. The Thrones, the wars, Winter and its cold grip. She meets his eyes at one point, and she knows he is lost in that same delusion, caught by the beauty of this dream. Both of them were born as the war ended, and he has spent all of his adult life fighting a war or sitting in prison for his role in it. She has been marked by war since she was but a baby in her brother's arms. Would the chance at peace not be so beautiful to people like them?

She starts to work on his shirt as she pulls him closer, half undoing the laces and allowing it to fall away slightly. His chest is scarred, and she can see the wounds of The Red Wedding clear as day. Red and ugly and gruesome, they hurt to look at. She cannot imagine how much they hurt back then. How much would a wound like that hurt, in the dark of the night? Does it hurt still? She wonders.

So they intertwine and make a mistake and both know that they're teetering close to falling apart, but for one moment, none of it matters. His hands are on his hips, his lips trace her body, and her hands are in his hair, her legs pressed to his. There is no war, there is no cold, there is no Iron Throne or Army of The Dead. There are heartbeats under skin and breaths that run over bodies and mingle as they kiss, and there's skin on skin and laughs that are half hidden by their heady breaths. There is nothing and everything and so much more than she's ever thought to know, thought to see.

Here they are, bound by the same fates, intertwined by the same wars and the same grievances and the same pain and the same arms. She does not love him, and he does not love her. They hardly know one another, but the one thing they both know, she thinks, is that they are the only other true ruler of Westeros's lands, the only peer they might ever know. And that is tantalising and maddening and something she knows that they are both clinging to.

Robb Stark spent three years a prisoner. She spent over five years following Drogo's death…not alone, but without a true equal. She has Missandei for a friend and someone to trust, and had Daario for a lover, and Ser Barristan for a councillor, and Jorah for a loyal man, and Hizdahr for a husband, but she was alone. She has been the last of her House since Viserys died. Robb has been torn from his family since the day he called the banners to answer for the imprisonment of his father.

They are lonely people, the both of them. Lonely and young and reckless and foolish, and all that they can be, when their only peer is the other and stubborn as sin. She will not buy The North through this. But she finds she does not care, as the night bleeds on and The Hour of The Wolf draws near, and all of it blends together into nothing more than warmth and this one comfort she has left to her, as a lonesome Queen. Nothing more than the King who smiles down at her, eyes so far away, grief in every inch of him.

Lonely, broken, people. Who does he see? What does she know? She lost her maidenhead to a husband under the stars. His wife was taken from him by men he trusted. She killed her first husband. They whisper that Robb Stark cradled the corpse of his wife and wept over it, wept until all the tears in his body were gone and there was nothing left of him but a shell and a ghost. The Red Wedding spelt his doom. It broke The North in two, and many of her own–people of Essos who have no concept of the Guest Right–have expressed horror at the events that happened there.

His body moves with her. He kisses her, and he tastes like wine, and he's so warm. Perhaps it simply is not cold for him, This Northern King.

The Dothraki call him samva ver in conversations she overhears sometimes, The Broken Wolf. Some of The Unsullied who were there at Casterly Rock when he tried to murder Theon Greyjoy and wept on his knees when the truth of his brothers' lives was revealed call him The Wolf Who Cried, se zokla qilōni limatan. They have all seen it, seen the edges in him, the cracks in The King of The North. But he is not fragile. He is a king and he is broken, yes, but he has been allowed to live, and that was the mistake that they all made when it came to Robb Stark, King in The North, King of Winter.

He should have died. She knows it, and he must know it too. But against all odds, now he lives, and they're sitting on this couch, kissing and undressing and pressing as close as bodies will allow, making a mistake, but too far gone to stop. She has enough thought left in her to know that they will not, should not do this again, but now, for just this single moment…she gives herself over to it and lets the thoughts become no more than wind.

—

The next morning, as she is helping Daenerys braid her hair, Missandei spots the mark on her collarbone and pauses. Daenerys is sad that there is no mirror before her through which she can meet Missandei's eyes and smile at her in a way she knows will be far from innocent, leaving her to just smile at the wall as Missandei blinks at her.

Finally, after a long, long moment, Missandei says, voice tight in a way that Daenerys knows means she is in for it, "Daenerys." It's odd. The last time she heard that tone of voice, it was in Mereen and because of a certain sellsword her friend never seemed fully sold on, never mind Ser Barristan or Jorah. And now it is about a Northern King whom Missandei seems to have a fine enough opinion of.

"Missandei," she replies with a light smile as her friend sighs, leaning forward to rest her forehead on the top of Daenerys's head, hair still half braided between her fingers. "It wasn't on purpose, I'll have you know. We were speaking of the battle, and then we started talking about Marriages and families and betrayals and the like, and before I knew it–" she cuts herself off with a wave of her hand that has her closest friend and advisor making a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

"You're serious?" She whisper-hisses, continuing on the braid she'd been halfway through all the same. Daenerys cannot help but smile.

"Yes, I am," she says, shrugging as he does. "We were both being foolish and were both most certainly somewhat drunk and missing home. And he's quite handsome, all things considered." She makes a face, and Missandei hums in contemplation at the thought, though she sounds unsure. Then Daenerys recalls why Missandei might not have noticed the attractiveness of The Northern King. "And I have not hung Grey Worm above your head, and this is most certainly a one-time thing, so…"

"That is what they all say," Missandei replies curtly as she finishes the braid, and Daenerys looks back at her with a single raised brow that has her friend smiling in faux innocence. She puts on an airy voice, "I swear, it was only once! If you do not count all the times we kissed, exchanged amorous letters, or sensual looks across a room, it was only once!"

"Do you have something to say about this principle that I am yet to hear?" Daenerys asks, thoroughly getting the point. She doesn't have to look at Missandei's face to know she is smirking, and it makes her smile as well. "And besides, it is. One of the first things he said…after, was that his sister was going to murder him when she found out. He sounded rather terrified of the prospect, though I would be too, given the fact that she too has a Direwolf."

They both sober at the reminder of the wolf, and Daenerys glances back at her friend for a moment, looking at her with all the seriousness at the reminder of yesterday. There's still a thin cut on her cheek, and Daenerys frowns as she sees it. "I should have been there. I am sorry that you got hurt for others' actions."

Missandei takes her hand as it reaches up to the scar before it can make contact. "I am fine," she tells her, her voice warm with sincerity and with kindness and respect. "The men are dead, and I am not. We are in the middle of the war, and I knew I would get caught in something before long. But I am fine, and I swear to it. Stark's Direwolf saw to my safety well enough." Her eyes darken at that comment though, and she finishes the last braids in silence.

She takes Daenerys's seat as she gets dressed, glad for the high collar that hides what many dresses would not. Her stomach swirls as she remembers the foolishness born of intoxication that swarmed between her and a man she hardly knows, a man whose loyalty is so very fraught. Missandei fixes her own dress as she does, tugging on the fur-lined sleeves with a little discomfort in her face. Daenerys understands–fur is hardly common in the clothes of Essos, after all.

"And to think there are six of them," Missandei finally breaks the silence, her fingers curled into a loose fist in her lap. Daenerys nods mutely, the images filling her mind. Grey Wind's bloody snout and his all-seeing yellow eyes, Stark's murderous expression and his naked blade, still dripping with blood. The way that one soldier had screamed as his flesh was feasted upon by the great Direwolf while he still lived. But that brings up other memories, memories of her own children.

The corpse of a little girl burned beyond recognition. The fear in people's eyes as they see their shadows. That day on the plains of the reach, The Dothraki before her and The Lannister forces fucked beyond all comprehension. She has tried to think little of the screams of the dead and dying, tried to remember that this is just what war is, but every time she does, every time she thinks of the smell of burning flesh, her mind turns elsewhere. To The North, and the grief that lies in them.

She did not miss how Stark looked at the burning flesh of the wight, did not miss all the weight of it. She has let herself think little of the horror of that creature, refused to let it take her by the throat and impale her heart with a stake of fear. She cannot be afraid of what comes next, cannot let it rule her, or else it will win. But in that, she cannot be afraid of The Northmen, cannot let them seem so strange to her that it turns her heart against them. She knows she does not walk to warmth and welcome. She is the daughter of The Mad King, and even now, she can hear Stark's Northern voice repeating those three words, the words of an assassin and of the North's lifeblood: The North Remembers.

"I have horrible creatures of my own," She says, and it makes her heart twist to think of her children, the only ones she will ever have, as monsters, but she has a point. "They are not monsters, not to me, of course. They are my children. And to the Wolves of Winterfell, to Robb Stark, their wolves are a part of who they are, intrinsic to their blood and bone. You cannot despise something that is so wholly central to who you are, not without destroying yourself. And what good is hating a dragon for its flame or a wolf for its jaws? There is no path in hating someone for what they cannot help."

But still, the images last in her mind. A dripping snout, red blood making white teeth and grey fur look red as the dawn, as the colour of the dragon upon her banners. A snarling beast, hackles raised to danger that was yet unknown to the rest of them. And Grey Wind as she first saw him, a shadow in the back of the kennel, large as a horse and thrice as dangerous. He was the first of The Direwolves she ever saw, and the image of his yellow eyes and snarling maw will not leave her, not for a long time.

Missandei nods, and with Daenerys dressed, they go out to face the rest of the day and the journey that lies ahead. They have perhaps a week until they reach the first and last real keep before Winterfell, that being Castle Cerwyn, which will be a day or two's ride from Winterfell for them, given their size and speed. All her forces are with her now–including the brotherhood and The Nights Watchmen who had skipped the festivities of White Harbour and gone with Jorah and the likes.

She sees Robb Stark across the way as they both mount their horses and get ready for the journey ahead, and she feels an awkward lump rise in his throat as he stares at her. Finally, he nods at her once and turns away, shouting orders to his men before taking off at the front of the column, his Lords fanning out behind him. She and Missandei follow close behind, a guard around them at all times.

They spend the day laughing and talking, roping Ser Barristan and Jorah into it whenever they get the chance. At lunch, they sit with Robb Stark and his lords, and she finds herself talking to The Greatjon Umber. She cannot discern what his opinion of her is, but he's genial enough and has a whole host of stories about the young king who sits across from her, growing progressively more embarrassed as his men pitch in with stories about him and his siblings visiting their keeps with their father.

It is all clearly in good humour, though, and she finds herself laughing as one of them starts talking about Stark's father and his uncle, Benjen Stark. The Lord is one of the ones of the more Northern keeps, and tells her all about the First Ranger of The Night's Watch and each and every excuse that ever passed the Lord's ears about why he was heading South this time. Her favourite, she privately thinks, is the excuse that Benjen Stark left his favourite horse at Winterfell and simply had to get it back before it forgot who he was, or worse, was stolen by one of his nephews.

The two rangers of The Night's Watch, who had sat down with the group at some point, start snickering uncontrollably at that, and she thinks she hears them whispering about their First Ranger turned Lord Commander from over there, though the details she cannot quite make out. They seem mighty amused, that much is certain, and she catches the grin Stark sends to them with a slight twinge in her at the sight of how comfortable all of them are around one another.

The North and the Lords of it seem to have such an easy camaraderie and trust in one another. Much like Robb Stark, nearly all of them had fought against The Unsullied who dragged them from their cells, simply on the principle that they held no trust for these strangers with their spears and spiked caps. But then they'd all turned around and held one another in such easy company and trust, despite having been betrayed by one of their own, with marks of shackles still on their wrists.

They keep moving, and she cannot help but watch them as they ride ahead, laughter flowing free in the air. They all seem shadowed by the mention and reminder of what led to them being gone from their homes for so long, and still, it is nearly impossible to see it now, in the snow and with the sun shining down upon their shoulders. In their home, they seem far from troubled by much of anything. She remembers how Robb Stark had not been cold, and she wonders, wonders at all of it.

That night, her visitor is Tyrion Lannister.

She has not seen much of her Hand in the journey Northwards, not by her own full choice, she may add. It had been he who had gently suggested that perhaps he avoid much contact with whoever might have dragged themselves to White Harbour, given the name he still holds. No matter what Queen or what side he serves, he will always be a Lannister, be the man who married Eddard Stark's eldest daughter and did who knows what else to her. Daenerys knows that Tyrion did not take the girl's maidenhead–he hardly touched her. It does not mean that The North will be much warmer to him, given everything else.

So, it is nice to see him, even if he does seem disgruntled by something, even with wine in his hand. It takes her a moment to realise what it might be until she recalls the sleep dress she is wearing at the fact that the cloak she is wearing over it does not fully hide the mark left on her collarbone by a certain Northern King. She meets his eyes, and he raises a sole brow at her that has her looking away with a flush in her cheeks and a growing pit in her stomach.

"It was a mutual mistake," she tells him, for lack of anything better to say in introduction, and he snorts softly at that, sipping his wine slowly. "We both have silently agreed to not speak of it, it would seem. The first words out of his mouth when we finally came back to our senses was that Sansa Stark was going to murder him. So, I believe the both of us have found it in our interest to not speak of any of this, lest we face the wrath of little sisters and loyal men alike."

Jorah does not know. She is glad for it, not wanting to give Dacey Mormont a reason to really try and murder her sworn sword because he tried to murder her King.

"I do not doubt that," he says after a pause, setting his wine down on his knee and regarding her carefully as he continues in a measured voice. "Stark is certainly handsome, of age with you, and with a sizable crown upon his head. Perhaps it does not need to be consigned only to horrified confessions that make you blush like a maiden…"

She glares at him for that final comment, and he smiles wryly behind his cup. She rolls her eyes with a loud scoff, running a hand over his face. "I am not going to buy his kingdom through marriage or through incessantly bedding him until he makes the same mistake for a second time. I do not think The North will take well to me as their Bride, and I want to respect, in some way, all the reasons he has not yet bent his knee. They have a genuine grievance with The South–you know this."

"But if you let them run wild and free as their own kingdom, do you not think that it will give other Houses and Lords ideas that could serve to destroy all that you are trying to build in a generation? You spoke to me of breaking the wheel, and what good is a broken wheel if a whole part of it has been disregarded? Though they may pretend to be above it all, House Stark plays this game of thrones as much as any of us–"

"You belong to the House that nearly destroyed them," she snaps at him, harsher than she means to. His mismatched eyes bare into her, wide with barely concealed surprise. She exhales noisily, bowing her head. "I know of what you speak, and why you say what you do, Tyrion. But The Northmen are in this war because of our fathers, or do you not see that? Eddard Stark spent nearly twenty years in Winterfell following Robert's Rebellion, only leaving when The Greyjoy Rebellion occurred."

"But then he was ripped from it, and lost his head in the end–by the actions of your bastard nephew, I may remind you," she looks at him sharply then, and he looks away, shame evident in his face. "I cannot expect them to be like the rest of the Houses of Westeros, for they are not. Robb Stark's mother, wife, and unborn child were murdered before him, by order of your father. My father murdered Brandon and Rickard Stark. My brother kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, and brought destruction onto all of us as a result. And your nephew murdered The Lord Paramount of The North before his daughter, or so you tell me."

"I want the Seven Kingdoms," she whispers, her voice shaking. "I want to take back what Robert Baratheon stole from me. But I see what my brother could not when it comes to House Stark. They alone had a true reason to want him dead, to want my House gone. And still, the head of that same House treats with me as best he can and brings me into a fight that I could easily ignore. Because he believes in life and he believes in Honour and Decency. I cannot abandon The North, not with what comes. But I cannot pretend like this undoes everything that came before."

His voice still lingers in the back of his mind, the words of a grieving and angry boy who was forced to be a Lord as the world burned around him. 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. And more still… 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. Not after what they did to my mother and my wife and my unborn child.

"So is that why you fucked Robb Stark?" Tyrion asks flatly, his eyes, one green, one black, digging a hole into her. "Because you take pity on the poor Young Wolf?"

"I did that because we were both drunk, he is handsome, and I think that the both of us are missing things that we cannot have. I am the last of my House, and he has not been home in years. I pity him, yes, but not as you think. I want to break the wheel so boys like him do not have to become the man he was forced to become by this world, so that people like us–girls and boys who once had hopes and families and dreams–are not crushed underfoot by that wheel. Not because I want to make a new world in my image. But because I don't want one more innocent girl or boy to be broken by this world!"

Her voice is rising unconsciously, and she breathes heavily as she finishes, tears in her eyes. Does Tyrion not really see what she does? Stark is not her enemy and does not need to be. She meant what she said to him when she pledged herself to this fight on Dragonstone. 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. She is Queen, yes, but what is a Queen to death? Valar Morghulis. All men must die.

Tyrion bows out before long, leaving her lonely in her tent, a chill in her body. She tilts her head back and stares at the ceiling, silently praying that she has not just doomed them all, praying that Tyrion will understand that this changes nothing crucial. She still wants The Iron Throne. She still will take back what is hers, through fire and blood, if need be. But she will not be the tyrant her father was. She will not break this realm because she doesn't have a heart, as Cersei might just end up doing.

These thoughts plague her for the rest of the journey, and by the time they arrive at Castle Cerwyn a week later, she feels unsettled beyond thought. She has hardly spoken to Robb Stark, and Tyrion has not discussed that lapse of judgment again, and it would seem that they are all trying to pretend, rather aggressively, that all is normal. And normal it must be, she thinks as they ride through the gates of Castle Cerwyn, as she prepares to face the first Northern lord since Wyman Manderly, well over a week ago.

Cley Cerwyn is a younger Lord, perhaps even slightly younger than Robb Stark himself. The two men greet one another warmly enough, and he smiles kindly at her when she is introduced by Missandei, kissing her hand. His eyes are wary though, and he seems unsettled by it all. Though, as Tyrion whispers to her as they head to the Great Hall, this is likely the first time Lord Cerwyn is hosting guests such as them, given the fact that he only inherited the seat from his father within the last few years.

They are hosted again that night, and this is a far more boisterous one than the one at White Harbour, somehow. Grey Worm and Ser Barristan get themselves roped into some sort of competition amongst some soldiers and Lords alike, while Jorah does his very best impression of a statue or perhaps a shadow, sitting as far away as humanly possible from his cousin as he does. He is certainly recognised, though, if the dirty looks being sent his way are anything to go by.

Accompanying Jorah are The Greyjoys and The Ironborn, and it is Theon who looks the most uncomfortable with it all. She can imagine why, especially when she hears someone heckle turncloak towards the Ironborn and sees Stark stiffen out of the corner of his eye, exhaling sharply and noisily, but he makes no move either way. Daenerys glances at Theon and sees an ashen look on his face, but he is forgotten as well as the night continues to bleed on.

She still wonders, privately, what words Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark traded before Stark came to her with his teeth bared and his accusations on his lips, gifted to him by Theon Greyjoy. She cannot help but still feel slightly betrayed by the whole thing, but she is also trying to understand why. Theon Greyjoy was raised in The North, raised in Winterfell, and has a lot of debts to pay still, when it comes to The North and House Stark. Perhaps that is part of the penance he is trying to achieve. Perhaps that is why he does not try and raise his tongue against the people who call him turncloak, because what use is there denying it? They all know what they did. They can all see how he suffered.

But there is more to it, she thinks, between Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, something rawer, yes, but truer all the same. Stark had held him back against The Bolton soldier, risen to his defence in his own way, done what he could to get him out. But more still, he'd listened when Greyjoy had told him to hold off, and said no. He'd listened to the man, and that says more than any words or revealed conversations ever could.

None of them are as they were, when this all began. All the men in this room are marked by The War of The Five Kings, save for perhaps those she brought from Essos. But for The Northmen especially, those wounds still bleed, still tear them in two, still continue to reshape them as a whole. And these wars are far from over, and there is still a lot of space for change and for growth and for those scars to heal over or be replaced by other ones.

They are far from the end of this all. They have hardly begun, after all. They have not reached Winterfell. She has not taken The Iron Throne. Cersei Lannister still lives. The dead still rove these lands. House Stark and House Targaryen still dance on the edge of a mutual knife, scoping one another out, trying to understand what can be made of all the grievances that have so defined them for the past decades.

So, as she looks around the room, at these hard-eyed Northern Lords and the traitors to The North who bow their heads and cling to the shadows, all she can see are things that still need to change, histories that still must be evened out if they have any hope of survival. Plenty are glaring at Tyrion, as well. The Northmen have long memories, longer than many.

She just hopes that it will not be their doom.

—

It is as she is finishing getting dressed in the cold rooms given to her by Lord Cley Cerwyn that she hears the horns blow, and she straightens. Missandei, who had just been about to leave, having finished helping with Daenerys's braids, pauses halfway to the door, glancing at Daenerys. "Help me get my cloak on," she says, and Missandei nods, handing it to her right before she pulls on her own cloak. Together, they go out and face the Northern Winter.

Men are assembled in the courtyard as they get there, and she spots the Stark banner carried by one of them even before they seem to notice her with a sudden and intense interest. The banner that they carry is not the banner of Their King, rather the main one seems to be the principal Stark Banner, a snarling grey Direwolf over a field of white. There is no crown, and nothing else to make it a personal banner, which means…she's not actually certain.

She comes to stand next to Robb Stark, and the lead man of the group nods at her, but he does not bow, nor does he take his hand off the pommel of his sword. He is short, with sharp green eyes that bear deeply into her. "Your Grace. My name is Howland, of the House Reed, and I am the Lord of Greywater Watch." She frowns, recognition ringing in the back of her mind, but she doesn't know why. It's a memory, just out of her reach…

"Me and my men are sent from Winterfell, by order of Princess Sansa and Lord Snow, to see you safely through the snow. My king," he turns to the man in question, "What are your numbers? There is a storm coming, and we will need to get moving soon, lest I face your sister's ire."

"I am not certain," Robb says with a distinct frown. "But we will doubtless be slowed down by the men and the snow, for most of our company comes from the reaches of Essos, where snow is nothing more than a myth. Did Sansa or Jon give you any specific orders?" At the last question, his mouth quirks a bit, as if he has a sneaking suspicion of the answer.

The Lord matches it with one his own. "I believe Lady Sansa's orders were along the lines of making sure that her brother does not get frostbite and that ensuring my king has not forgotten the way home. And to, of course, make sure that our company does not freeze in this unfamiliar climate." His smile widens as Robb laughs loudly, shaking his head in seemingly mock offence. Daenerys just smiles politely and exchanges a glance with Missandei, who is at her elbow, looking over the hard-eyed Northmen with a critical eye.

She realises, with a start, that this is the first proper Northern fighting force she has ever seen. The Lords are soldiers, as were the men of White Harbour who escorted them, but there is something subtly but notably different about these men. Most of the men are dark-eyed and with even darker eyes, and most of them sport thick winter beards, as bushy as the furs around their shoulders. There is no silk or gleaming plate on these men, and the pommels of their swords are simply but strongly made. Indeed, most of their clothes seem to be a mix of dark leather and dark and heavy furs, with hats that shadow their faces and make their already stormy countenances that much darker.

They are a hardened force, likely some of the more loyal men to Sansa Stark and Jon Snow, if they're the ones chosen to be the outriders. Many of them carry scars on their faces and seem lean and hardened from the toils of winter and warfare alike. Thinking of The Southern Lords she has met, and the men they had as their guards and their soldiers and the men they scrounged up to send North, she can understand why The North is so very different from The South on such an innate level.

There is no finery amongst these men, just simple and completely practical clothes. Even next to her, Robb Stark is far less flashy, in his furs and his shades of brown that make his red hair stand out. In the presence of his men, it is like a beacon, a clear sign of his Kingliness and separation from them all, in the same way her own silver hair sets apart from all those she has surrounded herself with.

Stark has been speaking as she thought, and she catches only the trail end of his words, as he addresses her. "The Dothraki and The Unsullied Numbers would be better known by Daenerys, here." He turns to her slightly, a new light dancing in his eyes as he regards her. "Lord Reed is wondering how many you have, approximately."

"There are some eight thousand Unsullied behind me," she tells him, not missing how that makes the men murmur behind him in particular interest. "They will be less trouble than you may think, though. They have been trained to withstand all punishment, and suffer through any conditions."

Lord Reed's smile is grim. "That may be true of all that Essos, and indeed, most of Westeros, can provide, Your Grace, but we are in a Northern Winter. Even our own coming here took almost a day, whereas we normally can reach Cerwyn from Winterfell in a half day. And there are only thirty of us, compared to eight thousand of them. I would rather take this slowly than lose one more man to the cold before we are ready for our doom." That gets a round of assent from the men. "What of The Dothraki? I have heard some have been sent to the Neck, from my king here, but…" There is a very strange light in his eyes as he trails off, one that makes her skin prickle.

"About half of them are with me, now," she tells him, and he nods. "Most of them are men with a horse and a pack to them only. I cannot say for certain their numbers, but they are more than the force you have at Winterfell and my Unsullied combined, likely. However, I have also given orders to my Bloodriders to see to a slower arrival for them. They will be able to manage themselves perfectly fine."

Lord Reed glances at Robb, who nods silently. His lips purse, and then he turns back to her, a simple smile on his face. "That is good to know," he says, voice carefully polite, and she wonders what this Northman's opinion of all these strangers and people from distant lands being in his homeland is. Whatever it is, though, he does not make it known. "I will have my men speak to your leaders, and then hopefully, we can be out of here by lunchtime, and at Winterfell by morning tomorrow."

He glances up and mutters something to Robb that has the king laughing darkly. She glances up at the sky herself, and sees only the snow, falling slowly around them, settling on hats and hair and the furs on everyone's shoulders. Lord Reed exchanges a few more words with Robb that she does not catch, bowing slightly, before turning to her and resting a hand over his heart with a slight nod. "Let me welcome you to The North before I forget, Your Grace. We saw your dragons as we came in." His expression sharpens. "Let us hope that they are enough to defeat this evil."

And then he is gone, shouting orders to his men in a surprisingly strong voice for someone who is so short in stature. Robb disappears with Lord Reed shortly thereafter, leaving Daenerys standing there with Missandei, who stares after the man with a pinched expression. In Valyrian, Missandei whispers to her, "The Northmen are uneasy with us being here." Daenerys nods mutely, pursing her lips as the realisation that has sunk lowly into her stomach is put to words.

She begins to walk back to the castle, and as she ascends to one of the upper walkways, she sees Tyrion coming towards the two of them from inside the keep. He greets them both, and they all pause on the walkway, overlooking the courtyard as it begins to ignite with activity. His brows raise as he sees Lord Reed, standing and talking to Robb in a corner, a dark expression on his face. "Did that man introduce himself?" He asks, voice laced through with a tone she does not know.

"He did," She says, watching the short man carefully. "Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch."

Tyrion makes a strange noise. "How interesting," he mutters, mostly to himself she'd guess, but she still hears it. She frowns at him.

"You know him?"

"Only by reputation. Lord Howland Reed controls The Neck," he says, and she finally realises why she'd recognised the name. "Yes, he is the Lord who controls where half your Dothraki are. He is one of the Crannogmem, the hunters of The Neck, and he himself was one of Lord Eddard Stark's longest friends, and the only other survivor of the Tower of Joy."

She looks at him oddly, the name ringing a bell, but she cannot be sure why. "The Tower of Joy?"

Another voice rings out before Tyrion can answer, the voice of Ser Barristan. "That is where Lord Eddard found his sister, The Lady Lyanna, and where three of my brothers of the King's Guard's lives ended." There is a dark look on the old knight's face, but she doesn't think it is because of the loss of life, but rather, the presence of the man. "Howland travelled North with Ned, I recall. He was there when Ned came upon The Capital before he went South to find Lady Lyanna, and then back Northwards. But he has not left The North since."

"You have a good memory, Ser Barristan," Yet another voice calls from the top of the steps, and they all startle, turning towards where Howland Reed stands, half hidden by shadow. There is a slight smirk on his face, and his green eyes dance with mirth as he comes nearer to them. She does not miss the look he sends her, but this close to him, something tells her that there is more to it than the mistrust of a stranger. "Not many would recall that a Crannogmen was there, certainly not in the shadow of Ned's wrath towards Robert. Especially a man who was not there himself."

"I rue that day every day," Selmy says, and Howland Reed dips his head in acknowledgement. "I have forgotten none of what I heard of it."

"As do many," he says, before looking at Daenerys. "I apologise for my coolness, Your Grace. This is a hard Winter for all of us, and things have grown tense. But you are welcome in The North, you and your armies, if it means that we have some hope of victory." He glances at Tyrion, and Daenerys sees a flash of something, but the Crannongmen says nothing. He turns instead to Missandei and says, "I did not catch your name, My Lady."

"I am Missandei of Naath, an advisor to The Queen," she says, and he nods at her. "I apologise, I do not know much of your people. I am a translator, though, and like to learn about everyone I meet."

"Then I will make sure to speak to you as we travel Northwards, Missandei of Naath," he says, glancing up. "But for now, we only have so much sunlight left, and I have duties to attend to. Your Grace, My Lords, My Lady." He nods at them all, and he is gone as quick as he came, leaving them all to simply follow in his lead and start to get ready to travel Northwards.

And by lunchtime, she is astride her silver, and they have begun moving again, the snow falling gently around them, coating the world in a wash of endless white, as far as one can see. The whole of the world seems consumed by it, indeed, swallowed by the snow and the cold bite of winter, but every time she looks at any of The Northmen, they look far from bothered. In fact, she'd almost say they seem delighted by the storm.

Eventually, Winterfell begins to loom on the distant horizon, a smudge that slowly shapes out as they draw nearer. Though they are only a half day's ride by Northmen's Standards, it will be perhaps another day, with the speed of The Dothraki and The Unsullied through the snowfall that Robb and all The Northmen are all saying is only going to get worse, but one day is starting to feel like nothing compared to all the distance that they have already travelled. So, they keep on going, through snow and through wind and through all that The North can offer.

As they stop for what will doubtless be the final night, she finally finds herself sitting again with Robb Stark in her tent, around a fire that crackles. Grey Wind is at his feet, and she recalls how this all turned out the last time with a flush in her cheeks and a lurch of her stomach. That had been unbecoming of the both of them, and she's glad for the silent agreement that seems to exist between them to not speak of it. It doesn't change anything, she knows, and she's going to hold to what she told Tyrion. She's not going to seduce The North from Robb Stark.

Outside, the wind howls like a wolf, and she feels a shudder course through her. This land is so innately foreign to her, and she is a stranger to all of it. The wind and the cold and the snow that falls outside do not belong to her. And if they could ever truly belong to anyone, it would be the man who sits across from her now, staring into the fire with a troubled look in his blue eyes that makes her feel like she is staring at an unmoving and silent statue.

She looks away from him when it begins to feel awkward, looking around her tent. There is something familiar about it, reminding her of nights on The Dothraki Sea, and all the days under the sun. She is a long way from those days and from The Dothraki Sea, but she is the Khaleesi all the same, and The Dothraki still follow her, even without a Khal in her bed beside her. Grey Wind blinks up at her.

"I have not seen Winterfell since I was seven and ten," he says, breaking the silence and startling her slightly. She glances at him and sees a sadness in his eyes, a longing for something that makes her think of a red door and a lemon tree outside her window. "Last time I was there, my mother lived. My father lived, and I was calling the banners. I said goodbye to Bran, and though I had to track down Rickon to say goodbye, I said goodbye. And now, it has been seven years. Bran is the same age I was. I am a King, not a son defending his father, a lord. And I have been made an orphan."

"Are you excited to go home?" She asks, for lack of a better question. He tilts his head back, revealing the bare column of his throat, and she watches as it bobs when he swallows with an audible click. His chest rises and falls in a measured tempo, his eyes fixed on the roof of her tent as the question hangs in the air.

"I am excited to see my sisters and my brothers," he replies, after a moment. "I am excited to walk the Godswood, to feel the familiar stones under my feet, to sleep in my bed again. Gods, I am excited for that bed. I'd dream of it, sometimes, when I was beginning to feel particularly homesick in my captivity. The furs on it, and how when I forgot to close the curtains before I slept, the sun would wake me up, because it streamed right into my eyes." He's smiling, she knows, for she can hear it in his voice.

But she is not looking at him. She is watching the crackling flame, watching how it dances, watching how it seems to breathe. She is going to Winterfell, seat of The Cold House Stark, heart of The North, in the very dead of Winter. Her blood has been set aflame by the fire and the heat of a Dragon just as Robb Stark's is frozen over by ice and the cold. Ice and Fire, equals and opposites, the two true rulers of Westeros. Lions have no place against them, no dominion that they can hold forever. She will prove that to its fullest, before the end.

"You might not be used to such a bed, after so long away," she ventures, smiling when he cants his eyes towards her. Again, he is in nothing more than a long-sleeved shirt and his pants, his boots still on all the same, and she wants to ask if he's not cold, but look how that line of thought turned out last time. "First a few years of war, then captivity, then a ship, then a guest room on Dragonstone. None, I venture, were quite as nice as your one at home."

"The right company could make up for it," he says, and she knows, from how his eyes sadden and how his throat bobs, that he is not thinking of her. He is thinking of the wife he lost, the lover who she knows will always stay first in her heart. They can have their foolish nights, but perhaps part of the reason she does not wish to win The North like that is because she knows it will not be possible. Robb Stark still loves the woman The Freys murdered right before his eyes, and she gathers it will be some time before he considers a new wife and a new heir.

"Tell me of her," she says, voice softer. And she thinks she's made a mistake, when he looks at her with an unreadable expression, but still, she holds his gaze. His blue eyes are sharp, hard as ice and colder still, and when he sighs, remorse seeps into them, like rushing water.

"I met her after a battle. She was operating on a Lannister soldier and had to take his foot, 'else he'd die. I held him down, and she did her work." His voice is soft, softer than she's ever heard it, and there's a young look on his face. And she is reminded, with a sudden stab of pain, that they are both only three and twenty or thereabouts. Not children, no, but younger than most who are around them. "We just kept running into each other. One thing led to another, and…" he shakes his head.

"She'd have liked you, you know? Breaker of Chains and all that." She straightens in interest, and he smiles tightly, grabbing the yet untouched wine and pouring them both some. He takes a long sip of his before continuing. "She came from Volantis. Saw all the horrors of the slavery and Essos, and promised herself that she would never live in a city that had slaves as soon as she was old enough."

His voice breaks on the last word, and Daenerys knows this time that it is time to go, and he realises it too, as well. His eyes are shining with unshed tears as he grabs his cloak and leaves without another word, leaving her to the fire and his barely touched cup of wine. When she is certain he is gone, she deflates on the couch, rubbing her brow and staring into the flames.

Priests and Priestesses of R'hllor can look into the flame and see images of what is to come. And a Priestess looked into the flames and saw Snow and saw her and the only King who survived The War of The Five Kings and all that came of it. She once said that her war with Cersei would be a war of Two Queens, harkening back to the war that was dying as she arrived, but with Robb Stark in the equation now, she does not know what to call it. A war of lions, wolves, and dragons, perhaps?

She sleeps eventually, and rises with dawn, feeling tired but refusing to show it. They are on their way barely a scant hour past dawn, The Unsullied marching in a line behind her and Robb Stark. They follow just behind two riders, one who carries the sigil of House Targaryen and the other The Crowned Direwolf that Stark has made his own. His bannermen and The Outriders are between them and The Unsullied, with The Dothraki at the very end. Her hand and the carriage he travels in is somewhere in the mix, but she thinks little of it as they draw ever closer to Winterfell and the town around it.

When they are perhaps a half hour from Winterfell, though, Stark pauses on his horse, staring at Grey Wind with a furrowed brow. His wolf is alert, his yellow eyes flickering around, his body pressed low as if waiting to pounce. Everything halts behind them as they wait, and she can do nothing but stare at the king beside her, watching as he tilts his head, as if listening for something, waiting for something.

And then they all hear it: through the silence, howls sound. His face breaks out into a wide grin, and Daenerys does not have to wait long before shapes rush out of the woods that are to their left, headed straight towards them. Someone shouts in panic, but Robb seems perfectly content where he sits. After a moment, Grey Wind bounds away from her, just as she recognises the shapes to indeed be five massive wolves.

They collide with Grey Wind about thirty feet from where she and Robb have paused, and he barely waits until one of the outriders pulls up beside him to hand the man his reins and dismount his horse. She stays where she is, watching as he walks through the snow, bringing his fingers to his lips and whistling a sharp tune that has all the wolves who play in the snow snapping their attention to him. She sees a smile stretch across his face, and then the wolves are rushing him.

Her heart softens with an unnameable feeling as she watches the wolves smother Robb Stark, as she hears his laughter ring out through the world. The Northmen are chatting amiably, commenting on Starks and their wolves and the like, and she thinks she gets it. Her own children are sweeping through the sky above, hidden by the clouds, but she knows they are there. She'd think she'd be much the same if she'd been separated from them for so long.

Eventually, he gets back to his horse, surrounded by wolves. Most of them are grey like Grey Wind, but one is black as night with eyes that look at her with as much wariness as she's ever seen in a wolf, and the other is an albino with red eyes. The wolf seems to half disappear into the snow, and the only reason she can make him out as they continue on is because he's right next to Grey Wind.

They continue on. At some point, he murmurs to her, "The execution spot for deserters is just past this rise." She raises a brow at him as he smirks slightly, eyes trained away from her "Jon and I used to race back home after executions."

"And who won, more often than not?"

"When Jon didn't cheat?" He asks, and she laughs at it. "Then, me. But Jon would often call the race right before he spurred his horse on, leaving me to eat his dust. We found The Direwolves on the way back from one of the executions, actually, and it was because we were racing that we were the first to come upon them." His expression goes distant, and she does not miss the furrow in his brows.

"Why were you at an execution?" She asks, for lack of anything better to say.

"Night Watch Deserter," he says, grip tightening on his reigns. "Gods, he spoke of all this, actually. Of the dead and the fact that he'd seen White Walkers, or so he said. We all dismissed him as a madman, but we should have listened. Especially with the direwolves' mother being…"

But Robb trails off as he once again draws up short on his horse, and as Daenerys comes beside him on her silver, her longest and truest companion, she does not see why for a long moment. She will admit much of her mind is caught on the sight of the North around her, the snow that stretches far as one can see, white and beautiful and untouched, and the trouble from what he'd been saying.

But then she sees it: a shadow on the horizon in the shape of a man, a banner flapping in the breeze beside him. He's astride a horse, it would seem, waiting on the edge of the woods that curve around before them, the last barrier before they reach Wintertown from the King's Road. She looks at the King astride his horse beside her and sees a smile that belongs to a boy, not a king.

His brother, she realises. Robb exhales shakily beside her, looking up at the snow that is falling gently around him. She is just about to ask him something, to confirm her suspicions, when he suddenly spurs his horse forward, streaking across the plain before she can call after him, the wolves blurs of grey and white and black all around him. She stays where she is, watching him hurtle towards his home. Towards Winterfell, a titan on the horizon, stretching towards the sky, older than anything she has ever known and stronger yet.

They are, at long last, almost there. Northern lords, Dothraki, Unsullied, and The Stray Ironborn, all of them, all now stand on the precipice. She looks at Winterfell again, standing above it all, and she feels her heartbeat settle and something deep within her understands that she is right where she needs to be.

---

notes:

-oh. oh. oh you thought i would be nice and give the reunion this chapter? Nope! This is what we call a classic TheTenthSunrise move. pls don't kill me lols. Next chapter yall, and i am. unbearably excited for it. i think you all will like it. hopefully.

-ive probably said this before somewhere, but i am not trying to winds of winter/dream of spring for grrm. hence where i take the manderlys, and why i don't delve into the grand northern conspiracy (aka my fave book theory), any of the stuff around the manderlys and davos, or even just the details of them and the red wedding. along with all of that just not working in the confines of my story, with robb alive and rickon accounted for, i have to take them a different way, one that means they're a little less present...at least from what dany is seeing. the next two or so chapters will establish a lot of what is going on in the north, so just keep a pin in that, i guess

-it was fun just putting a random battle in the middle of this chapter and stuff. more to come once we get to winterfell about what was really going on but in the context of this chapter its really funny bc its so different from everything else. i lowkey kept forgetting i needed to write a fight as i was jumping around with writing this one LMAO

-quick fyi: i am not a great romance writer IMO. there's only been one ship I've really dedicated fics to, and its not in asoiaf. that being said, a lot ppl kept either referencing robb and dany hooking up/getting together in the last few chaps and it was too funny not to pass up. bc at the end of the day, they're both attractive 20-something-year-olds who share a lot of similarities and have the most unhealthy coping mechanism known to man. so there, that's the bone I'm throwing to you all, but I'm still figuring out the impact (esp when one considers jons reaction to the whole affair (i say this so often but really poor jon) because all i know is he's just gonna loose it (again))

-at the same time, the introspection she has is so important to where she goes with the north. that bit about what he is called by the dothraki and the unsullied is really telling, you know, and will definitely be built upon as she continues to navigate all the politics around him and why he is the way he is.

-i know a lot of this chapter is description/introspection, but that's really one of my fave things and i hope it works for this chapter that is both very slow and very fast. its literally just a meet people and have this one fight chapter, but the slower pace at points is meant to help you see where dany is as a ruler and a stranger to these lands. does that make sense?

-you can probably tell by now, but i have a massive soft spot for howland and just love the literal idea of him. in the interest of time and bc i don't think anyone wants to hear me blather on about him, the main things are, yes, there is a reason he was sent by jon and sansa, and yes, there is a reason he seems so weird around dany. we ofc know what that is. but how that comes out with her is where it gets really fun...

next up, robb finally-finally-goes home.