CHAPTER 11

DRAGONSTONE

Blackwater Bay
Ubbe's POV

The sail from the Reach to Dragonstone had been mercifully uneventful. The Vikings' light ships cut through the waters with ease, their crews accustomed to far rougher seas. Word of Euron Greyjoy's fleet lingering at Lannisport had given them a vital head start, and for now, the voyage felt secure.

Ubbe stood at the bow, gripping the downhull as the ship glided toward the mouth of Blackwater Bay. The horizon stretched before him, but his gaze was fixed beyond it, his thoughts heavy with what awaited.

Though the battle for the Reach had been a victory—one of his making, no less—it had been won with the advantage of secrecy and surprise. Here, at Dragonstone, there would be no such edge.

The ancient Targaryen stronghold loomed ahead, a jagged sentinel of stone rising from the sea. Here, in the heart of Daenerys's power, Ubbe would face his true test. He would either secure her favor and see the fate he had dared to dream made real, or he would falter, undone by the schemes of men who served only themselves. He could already feel their skepticism and veiled hostility waiting for him, ready to pounce on any mistake.

Far above, three dragons circled the castle's spiked peaks, their screeches carrying over the wind. Ubbe's eyes followed their flight, and his heart swelled at the sight of them—living proof that his dream was still alive. Their magnificence filled him with a Viking's hope, fierce and unyielding. He would not falter.

Dragonstone Beach

Ubbe's boots splashed heavily as he stepped onto the black sands. Behind him, 1,500 Viking warriors followed, their disciplined strides muted only by the rhythmic crash of waves. As a gesture of goodwill, their weapons had been left behind on the ships. It was a symbolic surrender to Daenerys's authority, but Ubbe knew well the danger of walking unarmed into another's domain.

The group awaiting them stood stark against the dark shoreline. At the center, unmistakable even from a distance, was the Dragon Queen herself. She was flanked by the Spider, but her Lannister Lion was missing. Ubbe's sharp eyes picked out Missandei of Naath, the Unsullied commander Grey Worm, and Kovarro, the head of her bloodriders. His gaze lingered briefly on another tall, dark figure he didn't immediately recognize, but he pressed on with purpose.

The stares of Daenerys's court bore down on him as he approached, laden with apprehension and doubt. Their scrutiny weighed heavily on his shoulders, a palpable reminder of the opposition he would face. Yet as his eyes met Daenerys's, he found no hostility—only a genuine regard that softened into a smile.

Her warmth lightened his burden, and he allowed a small, grateful smile to break through his stoic exterior.

"Welcome, Ubbe Ragnarsson," she said, her voice carrying easily over the sound of the surf. Her smile broadened. "I trust the sea was kind?"

Ubbe bowed, his right hand pressed firmly to his chest in a gesture of respect. Behind him, his Vikings followed suit, their movements disciplined and reverent.

"Thank you, Your Grace. Our ships encountered no issues," he replied.

Daenerys nodded, her expression shifting to one of composed authority as she began the formal introductions.

"This is Greyworm; the head of my army; Kovarro, my bloodrider; and my advisors, Missandei of Naath and Lord Varys."

Each of them acknowledged Ubbe in turn—some with measured bows, others with lingering, appraising stares. Their caution was palpable, though tempered by veiled admiration.

"And this," Daenerys continued, gesturing to the tall figure beside her, "is Ser Jorah Mormont, a most beloved knight who has recently returned to me."

Ubbe's eyes flicked to the man, and recognition dawned. The bear. He remembered Jorah Mormont from the fighting pits of Meereen, risking his life to win the Queen's favor. A rare ally, he thought, one who could prove valuable.

"Well met," Ubbe said simply, his tone carrying an undercurrent of genuine respect.

Daenerys motioned for the group to follow her toward the castle. Ubbe could sense his Vikings' apprehension as they moved across the black sands in disciplined silence, their wary eyes taking in the foreign landscape.

The Queen slowed her pace, falling in step beside him.

"Quarters have been prepared for your warriors," she said. "My Dothraki will see to them. I expect they'll get along nicely—though I imagine communication will be... challenging."

Ubbe allowed himself a small smile, amused at her assumption. No doubt, in her eyes, his Vikings and the Dothraki appeared cut from the same cloth—fierce, untamed, bound by honor and blood.

"Helgi Forkbeard has been learning some Common Tongue," Ubbe replied. "He'll manage to keep them from killing each other."

Behind them, Missandei's voice chimed in, soft but curious. "Apologies, Lord Ubbe. I'm intrigued by your language."

Daenerys glanced back, gesturing for her trusted advisor to join them. The Queen slipped her arm through Missandei's, a gesture that spoke to their closeness.

"Missandei is an expert in many tongues," Daenerys said warmly. "Would you speak a few words for her?"

Ubbe regarded the pair with quiet admiration. He could see the importance of the Naathi girl in Daenerys's life—a steadying presence, someone who kept the Queen grounded in her humanity.

After a brief hesitation, Ubbe spoke in his native tongue:

"Þú eru dýrr til dróttningrinn. Ek munu guarð þú."

Missandei's wide, perplexed eyes showed she hadn't grasped the meaning, though she caught a familiar sound.

"Guard?" she ventured, brow furrowed.

Ubbe nodded. "Yes. It means the same, though protect would be closer."

He watched as her mind worked behind her inquisitive gaze, already dissecting the language. She wouldn't rest until she understood it.

Hi attention fell back to Daenerys and more pressing matters.

"What happens now?" he asked, his tone shifting to business.

Daenerys's lips curved into a wry smile. "Always in a hurry, Ubbe Ragnarsson."

"You know my thoughts. Time slips through our fingers."

"We wait for my Hand to return," she said. "Then we'll decide on our next move. He should arrive shortly. In the meantime, you should acquaint yourself with my allies—and with me." Her gaze lingered on him, measuring. "Since you remain little more than a mystery to us."

Ubbe couldn't hide his impatience, and Daenerys noticed.

"You will learn," she continued, "that wars are also fought in halls and behind closed doors."

"Words are fine," Ubbe said dryly. "But they don't win battles."

Daenerys's expression shifted slightly. There was no anger—just curiosity, laced with frustration. "While I'm pleased you're finally speaking your mind, I wish you'd also share why you're so impatient."

Ubbe's jaw clenched, a flicker of tension crossing his face. He knew he was overstepping.

"I apologize, Your Grace," he said. "In my experience, wasted time only gives one's enemies more opportunity to strike."

Daenerys's tone softened, but it carried an edge of warning. "And a rushed strategy could be just as deadly, Ubbe."

The subtle rebuke hit its mark. Ubbe lowered his gaze briefly before meeting hers again, offering a faint, rueful smile.

"You're right," he conceded. "I'm not used to the ways of Westeros."

"For now, Ubbe Ragnarsson, we'll see that you and your warriors are well fed and rested after your long journey," Daenerys said, her tone softening, kindness returning to her voice.

The Viking host parted from the main group, following the Dothraki toward the camp prepared for them. The rhythmic sound of footsteps and distant voices mingled with the crash of waves on the black shore.

Daenerys and her council began the climb up the winding steps to the keep. As they ascended, Ubbe lingered for a moment before calling over his shoulder.

"Gunhild. Walk with us."

The imposing shield maiden fell into step beside him without hesitation, her quiet strength radiating with every movement. Daenerys cast a glance at her, curiosity flickering in her eyes, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"I'm glad you've brought her," Daenerys said. "There are very few women warriors in our lands."

Ubbe nodded, a trace of pride in his expression. "I know. In our home, a Queen is never without her shield maidens. No one fights fiercer to protect her."

Daenerys raised a brow. "There are many queens in your land?"

"One great Queen ruled over our homeland when we departed," Ubbe said, his voice steady with reverence. "May she still keep it when we return."

"A warrior Queen?" Daenerys asked, intrigued.

"The greatest of shield maidens," Gunhild answered, her words slow but firm. "She is the mother of our people."

Daenerys's smile widened, her gaze flickering between them. "I would like to meet her."

Ubbe stopped in his tracks, turning to face Daenerys fully. His eyes held a solemn intensity, and his voice was quiet but resolute.

"May Odin grant me life to see such a meeting," he said.

The moment hung between them, heavy with possibility. Daenerys held his gaze, unblinking, sensing the weight of the unspoken promises behind his words. Then, with a subtle nod, she continued up the steps, the wind tugging at her silver hair as it danced against the dark sky, where her dragons circled above, their shadows flickering across the jagged cliffs like living myths brought to life. Their distant roars echoed across the sea, a reminder of the power she wielded—and the destiny that awaited them all.

Ubbe and Gunhild followed in silence, each step echoing on the ancient stones.

The Dragonstone Keep

Daenerys's POV

"Please, be seated. I hope you enjoy the food. It is not as luxurious as the feast at Olenna's hall, but it was prepared with care," Daenerys said from her place at the head of the dining hall. Her voice carried the warmth of a host but the authority of a queen.

She gestured for Ubbe and Gunhild to sit at her left, while Ser Jorah took the seat at her right, his usual position in the absence of Tyrion. The rest of her council settled in their places around the table, exchanging glances of curiosity and wariness toward the newcomers.

Daenerys sat back, eager to observe the interactions that would soon unfold.

The first to break the silence was Varys.

"I am curious," he began, his tone polite but probing. "Is it Lord Ubbe, King Ubbe...?"

Daenerys's eyes flicked toward the Viking leader. Ubbe was finally enjoying a proper meal, eating heartily and without ceremony. He took a long swig of mead before answering, clearly in no rush to satisfy Varys's curiosity.

"Just Ubbe," he said simply, resuming his meal with a focus on the roasted chicken before him.

Daenerys smirked faintly. Direct, unbothered by titles. She found it refreshing.

Varys, ever composed, continued as if unperturbed by the curt reply. "Your people hold no titles?"

Ubbe paused, taking his time again, a subtle reminder that he would not be rushed.

"There are Jarls, Earls, and Kings," Ubbe said between bites. "But I am none of those."

"Surely there is a reason why so many warriors follow you to such a distant land," Varys pressed, swirling his wine as he spoke. "How distant is your land, anyway?"

Daenerys noted the tightening of Ubbe's jaw. He was not enjoying The Spider's questions.

Gunhild was the one to break the tension. Her voice, heavily accented but firm, cut through the air like a blade. "Ubbe is the son of a great king. But that is not why we follow him."

Daenerys tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued. A prince, then.

"Then you are a prince," Varys said, mirroring her thoughts.

Ubbe exhaled, clearly weary of the persistent questions. "Titles are not passed down in our lands, Lord Varys, and my father is no longer King. My brothers and I are famous because of our father, but each of us has chosen his own path and earned his own fate."

Daenerys glanced at Ser Jorah, who had been silent until now, his sharp eyes observing every movement and word.

"And why do you follow Ubbe, shield maiden?" Jorah asked, his voice low but steady, his gaze resting on Gunhild.

Gunhild offered a small smile to the knight, her demeanor softening. "Because the Gods fated it so."

Daenerys leaned in slightly, intrigued by the shield maiden's calm confidence. There was no hesitation in her words—no doubt.

"I had two choices before me," Gunhild continued. "Stay back and bear children to my husband, or follow Ubbe to see and fight with the Flogdreka."

Daenerys's brow furrowed slightly. Flogdreka. The unfamiliar word rolled through her mind, its sound strange yet evocative.

"Flogdreka?" Daenerys asked, turning to Ubbe.

Ubbe met her gaze with quiet intensity. "It means 'flying dragons.'"

Daenerys felt a shiver run down her spine. The word seemed ancient, powerful—one that transcended borders and language.

"Flying dragons," she repeated softly, tasting the words on her tongue. Her expression grew thoughtful. It was no coincidence that their gods had shown them visions of dragons. No coincidence at all.

Gunhild's voice, steady as ever, broke through her thoughts.

"The sound of mighty wings and fire beckoned me in my sleep," she said. "So I kissed my husband goodbye and followed Ubbe."

Daenerys glanced at Varys, who was quick to jump back into the conversation. His interest was clearly piqued.

"Such a decision," Varys said smoothly. "To leave a loving husband behind to follow a famous prince."

Ubbe laughed, a low, ironic chuckle that echoed through the hall.

"Gunhild is wife to Bjorn Ironside," Ubbe said, wiping mouth his with the back of his hand. "He is my elder brother and my childhood hero. He is still my hero."

"Such a man would just let his wife go away?" Varys asked in disbelief.

Gunhild snorted loudly. "He knew better than trying to stop me."

Missandei let out a soft chuckle, amused by the shieldmaiden's bluntness .

"And how come your illustrious brother and hero is not here with us?" Varys continued to press on.

Daenerys felt her patience thinning. She admired Varys's ability to gather information, but his methods could wear on even the most tolerant of guests. Perhaps it is time to rein him in.

Before she could speak, Ubbe answered. His tone had shifted—calmer, but commanding.

"Because his fate and glory are elsewhere," he said.

Daenerys studied him carefully. He spoke with quiet certainty, the kind that came only from someone who believed wholeheartedly in destiny.

"Every Viking man and woman who camps today in Dragonstone is here by their own will and belief," Ubbe continued. "Not one is here out of duty, nor allegiance to a lord or a house."

Varys leaned forward slightly. "And pray tell, why did you decide to join our Queen's cause?"

The question hung in the air, the weight of it palpable.

Daenerys's gaze flicked to Ubbe. She wanted to know the answer too. Why had he chosen her? What did he seek in her cause?

Before Ubbe could respond, the heavy doors of the hall creaked open. Tyrion entered, flanked by his Unsullied guard. His return cut through the tension, his presence a stark reminder that the conversation would soon turn to strategy—and war.

Varys's question remained unanswered. But Daenerys knew it would not stay that way for long.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. I came back as soon as I was able," Tyrion said, bowing slightly as he entered the hall.

Jorah Mormont instinctively stood, offering his seat to the returning Hand of the Queen.

Tyrion's gaze lingered on the knight, his expression one of disbelief.

"Mormont?" His brows lifted, recognition dawning. His eyes traveled to Jorah's hand, where the greyscale had once taken hold.

"You are..."

"Fully healed, Lord Hand," Jorah said with quiet pride.

Tyrion let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Remarkable. You truly are a tough bone to chew, Mormont." He smiled genuinely. "It's good to see you."

Jorah offered a respectful nod, stepping aside as Tyrion took his seat beside Daenerys.

As he settled in, Daenerys leaned in slightly, her voice lowered for his ears alone. "Are you well?"

Tyrion's expression softened at the concern in her tone. "As well as can be expected. Lady Olenna was as gracious as she could manage."

"And your brother?"

Tyrion's gaze darkened slightly. "Still among the living, though only the Seven know for how long. Thank you... for allowing our meeting."

Daenerys gave a subtle nod. "Do you need time to process?"

He paused, as if weighing his own state of mind. Then he shook his head. "No. I imagine many here are anxious for next steps." His gaze wandered to the Vikings seated across from them.

"Of course," Daenerys said, straightening in her chair to address them. "Ubbe, Gunhild, this is Tyrion Lannister—my Hand."

Ubbe's sharp, ice-blue stare fixed on Tyrion with an intensity that could make lesser men squirm. Gunhild's gaze was equally piercing, unblinking and appraising.

Tyrion tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ah, the heroes of Highgarden." His voice carried a tone of admiration, though Daenerys caught the hint of irony lurking beneath.

The table fell into an awkward silence. Tension thickened, like a storm cloud gathering over the room. The Vikings remained eerily still, their expressions unreadable.

Then, slowly, Ubbe rose from his seat. His imposing stature drew every eye in the hall. Even the Unsullied guards seemed to shift their grips on their spears.

For a moment, it felt as though the very air had stopped moving.

Then, Ubbe raised his cup, his expression steady, a faint smile breaking through his stoic demeanor.

"Skol!" he called, his voice ringing through the hall. His gaze locked on Tyrion, the toast directed squarely at him.

"To the Queen's friends."

The tension shattered like glass. A collective breath was released as those gathered around the table raised their cups in understanding.

Gunhild grinned, lifting her own cup high. "Skol!" she echoed, her voice bright with cheer.

Tyrion chuckled, raising his cup in return. "To friends," he said, his tone lighter. "May we all remain on such terms."

The hall warmed with the sound of clinking cups and laughter, but Daenerys's mind lingered on Tyrion's words—and on the silence that had preceded Ubbe's toast.

She glanced toward her Hand, who was now leaning back in his chair, watching the Vikings with curiosity.

"Curious people, aren't they?" Tyrion murmured to her, sotto voce.

"Curious," Daenerys agreed. Her gaze shifted back to Ubbe, who was now seated once more, calmly exchanging words between Gunhild and Missandei, who could not contain her curiosity for their foreign language.

"Worry not," Tyrion added. "They may look like they've crawled straight out of a saga, but they bleed like the rest of us."

Daenerys gave him a sidelong glance, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Let's hope it never comes to that."

Tyrion arched a brow, swirling the wine in his cup. "Let's."

As the meal continued, the tension gradually melted into something resembling camaraderie. Conversations picked up, laughter echoed through the hall, and for a moment, it seemed as though alliances were truly being forged.

But Daenerys knew better.

Wars were never won in a single battle—or a single meal. Trust would take time to build, and time was a luxury they did not have.

Her eyes lingered on Ubbe. His unwavering confidence and quiet command intrigued her. He spoke of destiny, of gods and fate, with a conviction that reminded her of herself.

She wondered if he saw her as a part of that fate—or as a means to an end.

Her reverie was interrupted by a page in the service of Varys, who entered the hall and beelined to the ear of the eunuch.

"What is it?" the Queen asked inquisitevely.

"A crow, your Grace, from Winterfell. A message for the King in the North."

She had all but fogotten about her other guest, yet her jaw set with determination.

"Summon Jon Snow to the Keep." She requested to Greyworm.

"Bring him to the Painted Table. We will all meet him there."