CHAPTER 7

A DRAGON RIDING GODDESS

THE MANDER BATTLEFIELD

Daenery's POV

Daenerys plummeted down upon the Lannister host, fully aware of the entrance she was making. Yet her target was clear: the heavy cavalry racing to meet Olenna's soldiers. She couldn't afford to lose more of her allies.

As Drogon closed in on the riders, Daenerys could see they were unaware of the shadow of death closing over them. A pang of pity stirred in her for the beasts beneath the riders, but pity couldn't save the Tyrell forces. Here, on this field, there were no innocents—only soldiers.

She took a slow, steady breath.
"Dracarys."
Her voice held no rage, only cold determination.

Liquid fire poured from Drogon's mouth, a torrent that tore through the rear ranks of the charging cavalry, ripping through metal, flesh, and bone, leaving a blackened, smoking scar across the field. Without looking back, she knew a single column of flame was enough to stop their charge; any surviving riders or horses would break away, desperate to escape for their lives.

Daenerys nudged Drogon forward, guiding him to land heavily between the Tyrell soldiers and the advancing Tarly host. Drogon turned towards the traitors and let out a piercing roar, his fangs bared, the heat of his blazing maw casting shadows over the wide-eyed soldiers.

The men bearing the red archer sigil of House Tarly stumbled backward, terror draining the color from their faces. Only Randyll Tarly held his ground.
"Hold your line, you shameful maggots!" he barked.

Drogon shifted, giving them all a clear view of Daenerys atop his broad nape.
"Shame?" she echoed, her voice ringing with the authority of a warrior queen. "You've brought shame upon them by breaking faith with their sworn liege!"

Tarly straightened, defiant, and Daenerys almost admired the steel in his spine.
"There are no easy choices in war," he shot back.

"Your liege lady witnesses you atop Highgarden's walls," Daenerys replied sharply, her gaze unwavering. "The city you swore to defend, my lord. Bend the knee as she has done, and join her ranks. You and your men will be spared."

Randyll Tarly lifted his chin, the lines in his face hard as iron.

"I will never bend the knee to a foreign invader."

Daenerys held his gaze, breathing deeply, steadying her resolve. She had no time for a drawn-out defiance.

"So be it, my lord." She then raised her voice, addressing his soldiers.

"Those of you who would rather live, cross over now to the Tyrell banners and restore your fealty to your true liege lady!"

The men looked to one another, hesitant, and then, one by one, a large number broke ranks and passed by Daenerys and Drogon, moving cautiously to the Tyrell lines, who stood watching, wide-eyed and in awe.

Randyll Tarly tried to push his youngest son to follow them, but the boy wouldn't budge. He held his father's hand, while the few who had chosen to remain huddled close around the two men, their eyes resigned to their fate. Daenerys felt a flicker of respect for their choice; and felt satisfied to have given it.

"Dracarys," she whispered.

Without a moment's hesitation, Daenerys urged Drogon to pivot, the dragon's immense form swinging to face the battlefield where the brutal clash between Lannisters and Vikings raged on. Before taking flight, she turned toward the gathered Tyrell bannermen, who stood wide-eyed and ready.

"Delay no more! March forward—to battle and victory! I go before you to secure it!"

A chorus of shouts rose from the Tyrell ranks as Drogon launched into the sky, his vast wings churning the air. In seconds, they were over the melee, the field strewn with bodies—the gleaming armor of fallen knights outnumbering the scattered Viking dead. They landed heavily upon the flank facing the city, ground rumbling underneath the dragon't weight.

As if reading her intent, Drogon repeated the fearsome ritual: a flash of fangs and fiery throat, punctuated by a roar so powerful it sent ripples across the blood-soaked ground. The Viking warriors took up the sound, their voices swelling into a fierce cry that challenged even the dragon's own. The clamor filled the battlefield like a tangible force.

The fighting stilled, every soldier frozen in the grip of terror or awe. Some Lannister soldiers turned, thinking to flee, only to find themselves trapped by an unyielding wall of Viking shields, held fast by towering, battle-hardened warriors. For the Lannisters, there would be no retreat.

THE MANDER BATTLEFIELD
Jaime's POV

All day, he had struggled to cling to a string of hope, a dwindling cord that thinned with every defeat, even when he saw the fallen shields bearing the golden lion littering the field, red cloaks soaked in mud and blood. Still he pushed forward, urging his men to continue fighting.

But, as the winged beast finally settled onto the battlefield, casting its shadow over the bloodied earth, Jaime felt the strength leave him altogether.

When the soldiers under his command dropped their swords in surrender, his chest burned—not from the wound beneath his ribs, but from the familiar ghost of his missing hand. This is how I die.

He imagined what it would have been like to stand whole and defiant, to fell this brutal horde with his sword arm at full strength, taking as many of the brutes with him as he could. But he gripped Widow's Wail in his left hand, vowing that he'd never let go of it unless they cut off his other hand.

His men had already given up; they no longer hindered the barbarians' advance. He was alone, utterly alone.

He let out a lion's snarl, hacking with Widow's Wail, ignoring how the sword's weight dragged against his awkward grip. His left arm swung through the air, slicing at any who dared to come close, but his captors laughed, watching with mockery in their eyes.

One of the barbarian women sidestepped his wild swings with ease and snatched his sword arm, bending it with a strength that startled him. Jaime's breath caught—she was as tall as Brienne, with a face roughened by battle but striking, her gaze relentless.

As he sank to his knees, she held his arm tight, unyielding, not letting him relinquish his sword, even as the chant rose from the victorious ranks.

"Ubbe! Ubbe! Ubbe!" The sound thundered across the field, low and guttural, each name punctuated by the steady, primal beat of fists against shields.

The man he had locked eyes with earlier strode forward, calm and composed, cutting through his own men's ranks as if they parted by instinct.

His eyes like winter steel were fixed on Jaime, unblinking, cutting through the distance as he approached, scars lining his forearms, entwined with the intricate design of his tattoos, no doubt testament of glory earned in past wars. The commander crouched before him, eyes sharp with intelligence Jaime hadn't expected. "You fought well. I'd have liked to have met you when you had two hands."

It caught Jaime off guard—they speak our tongue. It hadn't seemed possible.

Through gritted teeth, Jaime managed, "If I had both hands, you'd be missing a head."

The leader's lips twitched, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps. But we'll never know now, will we?" He held out a hand. "Give me your sword. Prisoner."

Jaime set his jaw, shaking his head. "No."

It was better to die here, his own life taken on his terms, than to be thrown into chains like an animal like he had been by the Starks and the Boltons. Better the darkness of death than the mocking chains of imprisonment… not again.

The large man beside him wrenched Widow's Wail from his grip, Jaime's arm trembling with the pain of resistance. As the warrior woman held him firm, the other took his blade, handing it up to Ubbe.

For a moment, the loosened grip on his arm gave Jaime the freedom he needed. In one swift movement, he pulled the vial from his belt, his thumb flicking the cork, and he brought it to his lips, longing for the relief of oblivion.

But before he could drink, a strong hand struck the vial from his grasp, the blow sending a stinging echo through his skull. Ubbe's voice was a low growl, his face close enough that Jaime could see the scars crossing his cheek.

"Your life isn't yours to take, Lannister."

Wasting no more words, Ubbe rose and turned, carrying Widow's Wail with a casual disdain. The Vikings' chant resumed, louder still.

"Ubbe! Ubbe! Ubbe!"

THE MANDER BATTLEFIELD

Daenerys's POV

It was her choice to remain silent and observe as Drogon's arrival shattered the tension across the battlefield, arresting the attention of Lannisters and Vikings alike.

She felt no need to intervene and, perhaps for the first time, simply wanted to watch. Why should she take all the glory? This battle had not been of her planning, nor was it her strategy. She was here in answer to Olenna's summons, a powerful piece on a vast chessboard.

Her curiosity stirred as she scanned the field, her eyes drawn to the Viking warriors as they fought. Their armor was an unpredictable array—scraps of leather, rugged furs, glinting chainmail—yet the lack of uniformity only added to their ferocity. Broad-shouldered and towering, they wielded heavy axes, broadswords, and broad shields painted with symbols in deep reds and blacks, glyphs she didn't recognize but sensed were steeped in ritual. Their faces bore scars like ancient runes, and many had painted streaks across their skin, lending their features a grim and ancient power.

She was oddly pleased to see women among them, fighting with the same lethal strength and grace as their male counterparts. Each Viking fought as though watched by gods, as if every blow struck and every wound received was a sacred offering—a living prayer. She saw in their unwavering intensity a mystic devotion, a rawness that reminded her of her Unsullied, yet these warriors were bound not by the chains of duty but by faith.

When the last Lannister had surrendered or been subdued, the Vikings' focus shifted to her. Despite her calm, she felt her heart quicken. They knelt, but their faces lifted to Drogon first, then to her. Bloodied and triumphant, they regarded her with unrestrained adoration. There was no fear in their eyes, no trace of hesitation—only awe.

It brought her back to the days of Meereen, to the slaves who had named her Mhysa. She had never expected such reverence on this side of the Narrow Sea. The Tyrells acknowledged her as a savior, a queen who had come to their aid. But these men gazed at her as though she were something far more divine.

Through the line of kneeling warriors, a man strode forward with purpose. She knew at once that he was their leader. Despite his battle-worn appearance, he seemed young to lead such a formidable host. As he approached, she noticed the gleam in his eyes—joy, pride, and something unreadable that made her pulse thrum with both intrigue and caution. She heard him speaking to his warriors as he passed, his words met with the chant that pulsed through the Viking ranks.

"Ubbe, Ubbe, Ubbe."

Is that your name?

Guided by instinct, she motioned to dismount, and Drogon, sensing her intention, lowered his massive head, allowing her to slide down easily. As her boots sank into the blood-soaked earth, she moved forward to meet Ubbe, her curiosity unmasked, her gaze never leaving his face.

The man's build was almost as imposing as the great Khal's had been—lithe, more refined beneath his simple battle garb. As he approached, her focus shifted to his face. Though splattered with blood, his features lacked the harsh menace Khal Drogo's had held; instead, they held a restrained energy, and though his mouth was set, his eyes sparkled with a lively intensity.

Then, Drogon's massive head swept between them, protective and unyielding. The Viking warrior met Drogon's fierce gaze with a broad smile, holding his ground as the dragon's snout came close, sniffing him with deep, metallic growls rumbling from its throat.

"Ao issi gevie, zaldrīzes," he said carefully in High Valyrian, extending a hand toward the beast, though he stopped just shy of touching Drogon, as if not wishing to defile the dragon's scales with his bloodstained hand. Daenerys sensed Drogon's acceptance; the dragon lifted his head and stepped aside, granting the Viking access.

You're full of surprises, aren't you?

"Ao ȳzaldrīzes valyrīha?" she inquired, coming to stand directly before him.

His gaze lingered on Drogon as he laughed, throwing his head back before looking into her eyes.

"No, Mother of Dragons. But I have tried to learn a few words."

The battlefield around them had fallen silent except for the soft whimpers of the wounded. The kneeling Viking warriors watched the two of them with reverent awe.

Ubbe then joined them, striding forward and dropping to one knee. Holding an ornate Valyrian steel sword in both hands, he offered it to her with bowed head. The blade had been wiped clean, its dark metal gleaming as she took it from him and raised it above her head, drawing thunderous cheers from the Vikings.

"Please stand… Ubbe?" she said, the name spoken softly yet with command.

Ubbe rose and placed a hand to his chest. "Ubbe Ragnarsson, yours to command," he announced, and the other Vikings followed suit, each pledging in their rough language.

"Your people are fierce," Daenerys noted, her voice cool with curiosity. "It seems they would gladly die for you."

"They would," he replied "Because my promise was kept."

"And what did you promise them, Ubbe Ragnarsson?" she asked.

He smiled, his gaze holding a quiet pride. "I told them that if they followed me, they would go to battle alongside the goddess who rides a Flogdreka."