CHAPTER 12

The Painted Table

Ubbe's POV

Ubbe followed Daenerys through the towering stone doors into the throne hall. The space was cavernous and imposing, with jagged walls of dark rock that seemed to absorb the dim light filtering in through geometric windows. The air carried the scent of salt and stone, and every step echoed like a distant drumbeat. It was unlike any hall he had known—no roaring fires or carved beams adorned with tales of gods and heroes. Yet, it possessed a stark beauty, its sharp lines and austere grandeur a reflection of the island's volcanic heart.

It was foreign to him, yet strangely comforting. Like the woman who walked before him.

He watched Daenerys move with regal purpose, her silver hair gleaming in the muted light. Her expressions often seemed guarded—cool, distant—but he had come to see the warmth beneath them. To him, she was not an unyielding queen of ice, but a beacon of fire, her quiet regard a source of steady reassurance.

His gaze drifted to the empty throne that loomed at the far end of the hall. Carved from volcanic rock, it jutted from the floor like a natural formation, angular and jagged. It was not a seat of comfort but of power—an extension of the land itself. Ubbe imagined Daenerys seated upon it, it would be a sight worthy of song.

They passed the throne without pause, their footsteps leading toward a smaller chamber beyond. Tyrion, Varys, and Ser Jorah followed in their wake, the rest of the council remaining behind in the dining hall. The walls of the corridor narrowed before opening into a well-aired room with wide windows facing the sea. A strong breeze swept through, carrying the scent of salt and the shrill song of the seagulls.

In the center of the room stood the Painted Table.

Ubbe stepped closer, drawn to the massive slab of wood. It dominated the space, carved meticulously to depict the continent of Westeros in intricate detail. Mountains rose from the wood in jagged peaks, rivers wound their way across valleys, and tiny keeps dotted the landscape. He traced his fingers over the rough surface, feeling the artistry—the labor of hands that had shaped it long before his time. The dragons carved into the walls seemed to watch him, their stone eyes filled with ancient, silent wisdom.

"Do you like it?" Daenerys's voice was soft, yet it broke the reverent silence like a chime.

Ubbe turned, his hand still resting on the table. "I am stunned," he admitted, his words coming slowly, as if he struggled to grasp their weight.

He glanced at Daenerys, seeing not just a queen, but a dream made flesh—the embodiment of stories whispered in the long nights of his youth.

"My father would have loved it," he added, his voice quieter now, tinged with melancholy. "It is worthy of a great ruler." He paused, correcting himself with a soft smile. "Worthy of a great Queen."

Daenerys stepped closer, her gaze steady. She placed a hand on his arm—a simple gesture, but one that grounded him, pulling him from his wandering thoughts.

"And what of your father, Ubbe Ragnarsson?" she asked, her voice gentle. "Would he approve of your quest?"

Ubbe nodded, a flicker of pride warming his chest. "He would. He taught me that a man must seek his own fate, carve his own path. And I have found mine here."

Daenerys held his gaze a moment longer before moving to the head of the table. She seated herself with the grace of one born to rule, her hands resting lightly on the carved edges. The others remained standing, their expressions somber.

A knock echoed from the door. It opened to reveal a Dothraki warrior, his dark hair braided and adorned with bells.

"Anhaan vekhatjin vekhat jin azantys," the warrior announced before bowing slightly and stepping aside.

"Anho kash". Responded Daenerys, signaling the Blood Rider to leave.

Two figures entered the room.

The first was a young man with dark hair and a somber expression. His stride was purposeful, though the weight of concern marked his every step. Behind him followed an older man with a weathered face, his gaze sharp with vigilance.

Ubbe's eyes locked onto the younger man. The white wolf, he thought, taking in the sight of Jon Snow.

The man's presence filled the room with quiet intensity. There was no mistaking the warrior in him—a man hardened by battle and grief, bearing scars both visible and unseen. Yet there was kindness in his gaze, a quiet strength born from loss.

"Welcome, Jon Snow," Daenerys greeted, her voice warm yet regal.

Jon inclined his head. "Your Grace."

Daenerys's expression softened slightly. "How has your mining gone?"

"Good," Jon replied. His words were curt, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Ubbe studied him intently, noting the tension in his shoulders and the subtle flicker of emotion in his eyes. This was not a man concerned with pleasantries. His thoughts were heavy with matters far graver.

The man's eyes settled upon him, and Ubbe met his gaze intently.

"This is Ubbe Ragnarsson, the warrior who defeated the Lannisters at the Battle for the Reach," Daenerys said ceremoniously, her tone regal and composed as the two men measured each other.

"I heard of it," Jon said, his voice steady and leveled.

"This is Jon Snow, Ubbe. He rules in the North," Daenerys added, her gaze shifting to the Northern King.

Ubbe bowed slightly, his eyes never leaving Jon's. "And I have heard about the White Wolf. Well met."

Jon gave a curt nod. "You sent for me."

There was a subtle tension in Jon's posture, and Ubbe noticed how his eyes avoided Daenerys, as if he were holding back unspoken thoughts. In contrast, Daenerys's gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering and intent.

"A raven arrived from Winterfell with a message for the King in the North," Daenerys said, her voice softening as she nodded toward Varys.

The Master of Whispers stepped forward and handed Jon the sealed scroll. Jon regarded it for a moment, his fingers lingering on the wax seal before breaking it with a resolute snap. His expression remained composed, but there was a tension in his shoulders, as though bracing for impact.

The room fell into a heavy silence as Jon read, the only sounds the distant crash of waves and the occasional call of seagulls. The Painted Table, with its carved landscapes and winding rivers, stretched before them like a map of fates yet to be decided.

Jon lowered the scroll, his features shadowed by a maelstrom of emotions. "I thought Arya was dead... I thought Bran was dead."

Ubbe felt a strange heaviness settle over him—a foreboding weight that made his body feel weary and his mind clouded. He struggled to follow the conversation, the distant sound of crashing waves mingling with the pounding of his heart.

"I am happy for you," Daenerys said softly, her tone genuine.

Jon fiddled with the scroll, his gaze downcast. "You don't look happy," Daenerys observed, concern creeping into her voice.

Jon glanced up, his eyes dark with worry. "Bran saw the Night King and his army marching toward Eastwatch."

A chill ran up Ubbe's spine, a coldness that seemed to seep into his very bones. He fought to keep his composure, his hands tightening into fists.

"The dead..." Daenerys murmured, her disbelief evident.

Jon's frustration flared, his voice rising with urgency. "I know you don't believe in them, but they are coming! With respect, Your Grace, I am a king. And I came here, against all my people's advice, knowing that you could have your men behead me or your dragons burn me alive."

His words hung in the air like a challenge, raw and unyielding. "I put my trust in you, a stranger, because I knew it was the best chance for my people—for all our people. Do you truly believe I would risk everything for a delusion?"

Before anyone could respond, Ubbe stepped forward. His measured breaths filled the silence as he regarded each person in the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm yet heavy with conviction.

"It is true."

Daenerys's eyes widened in shock. "Ubbe?"

Ubbe met her gaze steadily, though his mind churned with memories long buried. "My people call them Fossegrimmen. In my land, they haunt the frozen creeks and lakes in the heart of winter."

Tyrion stepped closer, his expression skeptical but curious. "You're telling us that the threat Jon Snow has warned us about is real?"

Ubbe continued, ignoring Tyrion's question. "Our gods protect us from them. The All-Father forbade them from harming those who are faithful. Only the wicked fall prey to them. But this land..." He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on the carved dragons on the walls. "This land has forsaken its gods. Or perhaps your gods are too weak—or too evil—to protect you from the Fossegrimmen. So they have grown strong."

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air. Ubbe felt the room spinning, a growing dizziness overtaking him. He reached out to steady himself, his hand landing on the rough surface of the Painted Table.

Daenerys rose from her seat, her concern evident. "Are you all right, Ubbe?"

Her voice was soft, but it pierced through the fog clouding his mind. She approached him, her eyes searching his face for answers he could not yet give.

Jon's voice cut through the tension, drawing their attention back to him. "If they make it past the Wall..."

"The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years. Presumably," Varys interjected, ever the voice of reason.

Jon shook his head, his frustration mounting. "I need to go home."

Daenerys's gaze sharpened. "You don't have enough men."

"We fight with the men we have!" Jon's voice rang with defiance. "Unless you'll join us."

Daenerys's expression hardened. "And give the country to Cersei? As soon as I march away, she will take control."

Ubbe struggled to find his voice, but the fog pressing against his mind refused to relent. He lowered his head, his thoughts consumed by dark wings and the distant cawing of ravens.

"Perhaps not..." Tyrion murmured, his tone thoughtful, as if a plan were beginning to form in his mind.

"Cersei thinks the army of the dead is nothing but a story, made by wet nurses to frighten children," Tyrion said softly, though his voice held a quiet command that filled the room.

"What if we prove her wrong?"

Jon Snow's patience was wearing thin. His eyes flicked toward Tyrion. "I don't think she'll come see the dead at my invitation."

Tyrion took a measured step toward him. "So bring the dead to her."

Daenerys' brow furrowed. "You want us to bring the dead into King's Landing? I thought that was exactly what you were trying to avoid."

"Not the whole army," Tyrion clarified. "Just one soldier."

Ubbe followed the conversation, though the voices seemed distant and veiled, as if he were caught in a dream from which he could not wake. The words drifted through the room like echoes in a cavern—important, yet slipping from his grasp.

"Is that possible?" the older man accompanying Jon asked, his voice steady but curious.

Jon nodded, his tone softening. "The first wight I ever saw was brought into Castle Black from beyond the Wall."

Tyrion gestured to the map before them, his fingers tracing a path toward the capital. "Bring one of these things into the Red Keep. Let her see it with her own eyes."

Varys, ever the realist, interjected with a wary tone. "Anything you bring back will be useless unless Cersei grants us an audience. And somehow, we must also convince her not to murder us the moment we set foot in the capital."

Tyrion's gaze sharpened as an idea took root. "The only person she truly listens to is Jaime. We could use him to negotiate a truce and show her the threat."

Daenerys's expression hardened at the mention of Jaime Lannister. "Out of the question. I gave your brother to Olenna. I will not go back on my word."

Tyrion pressed on, unwilling to relinquish the opportunity. "Then summon Olenna. Let her decide if Jaime can be used to save the realm."

Daenerys's eyes flickered with weariness as the complications of the day's revelations piled upon her shoulders. She exhaled slowly. "And how will you procure one of these... wights?"

The room fell into silence, each person weighing the risks and implications of the task. Ubbe's mind swirled with dark thoughts. He fought desperately to shake himself free of the invisible weight pressing down on him. His thoughts spiraled to his father, his home, and the Gods he had left behind. Everything he had worked toward seemed to be slipping through his fingers, crumbling like sand in the tide.

It was Jorah Mormont who broke the silence, his strong voice resonating in the chamber. "With the Queen's permission, I will go north and take one."

Daenerys's head snapped toward the seasoned knight, her gaze sharp. Jorah met her eyes and smiled faintly, a quiet determination etched in his weathered face.

"You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you," Jorah said. "Allow me to serve you."

Jon's gaze softened with quiet admiration as he regarded the knight. "The Free Folk will help us. They know the real North better than anyone."

The older man accompanying Jon shook his head. "They won't follow Ser Jorah."

Jon's tone turned resolute. "They won't have to."

Before anyone could respond, the room jumped as Ubbe slammed his fist against the Painted Table. The impact reverberated through the chamber like a drumbeat, silencing all conversation. He straightened, his wide blue eyes blazing with frustration and clarity.

"Fools," he growled, his voice cutting through the heavy air like a blade. His ears rang from the strain it had taken to break free from the oppressive fog clouding his mind.

All eyes turned to him, the weight of his outburst pressing upon the room. The distant crash of waves seemed to echo his fury, a reminder of the storm brewing both outside and within.

Ubbe faced Jon squarely, his posture rigid, his gaze unwavering. The air between them was charged, the tension palpable as two warriors measured each other's resolve.

"You would walk into the Fossegrimmen's realm, where they are almighty, hoping to deceive them, to outwit them?" Ubbe's voice carried both incredulity and disdain.

Jon's jaw set, his expression hardening. "It is the only way."

Ubbe interrupted with a growl. "And while you lay yourself—and other powerful warriors—at the mercy of the Fosse Konungr, what do you expect Queen Daenerys to do?" His words were not a question but a statement of condemnation.

Jon held his ground, but Ubbe pressed forward, his voice cold as winter steel. "Wait? You expect her to wait idly while you swell the ranks of the dead with your arm holding a Valyrian sword and the knight who should be protecting her?" His gaze shifted sharply to Ser Jorah, who met his glare with silent resolve. Ubbe's lips curled in resentment. "And when you are surrounded by thousands of them, when you see no way out of your foolish snare, you would call upon her, wouldn't you?"

He took another step forward, towering over Jon, his steely blue eyes boring into the Northern King's brown ones. "You would hope that she flies her dragons north of The Wall to save you; to risk her life—and that of her children."

Ubbe turned to Daenerys, his expression fierce. "No!" he thundered. His voice echoed through the chamber, veins bulging in his neck. The intensity of his outburst made everyone recoil, but none dared to challenge him.

"What use is bringing Cersei to your cause? So she can double-cross you and stab your back later?" Ubbe spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

Tyrion stepped forward cautiously, his tone calm and measured. "You were the one who confirmed that the threat of the dead is real. We must address that threat."

Ubbe's gaze snapped to Tyrion. For a moment, he looked as though he might wring the smaller man's neck. Instead, he spoke with chilling finality. "Bad things come from bad plans."

Daenerys's voice cut through the tension, commanding and authoritative. "Ubbe."

At her call, the Viking's fury subsided slightly. His shoulders relaxed, and he bowed his head, acknowledging her authority. "Forgive me, my Queen. I cannot allow the madness that was taking shape here to come to pass."

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices as everyone reacted to Ubbe's violent dismissal of their plans. The heated arguments spiraled, each voice rising above the other in a chaotic clash of opinions.

Daenerys raised her hand, and the room fell into silence at her command. All eyes turned to her as she began to speak, her tone calm but resolute.

"Ubbe has proved himself priceless to me," she said, her gaze sweeping over the gathered council. "Even if I don't completely approve of his blunt ways, I trust that he speaks from a place of wisdom. He has earned my trust, and I will heed his counsel as much as I have listened to yours."

Jon stepped forward, his expression grim. His gaze met Ubbe's once more, but this time, there was no challenge in his eyes—only sincerity.

"How, then, do you propose we fight them?" Jon asked.

Ubbe felt the rage drain from his veins. The oppressive fog that had threatened to consume him was gone from the room, and clarity seemed to return to all those gathered there. He could see Jon's earnestness, his willingness to put aside pride for the sake of his people.

Ubbe placed a strong hand on Jon's shoulder. "Man the Wall."

Jon blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of the suggestion. Ubbe continued, his voice steady and commanding.

"Make your glass weapons. Prepare traps of fire. You know how to kill them. You know where they are headed. And you know how to defend the Wall. The Spider is right—the Wall has been the best defense for your people for thousands of years. Take every able man and woman under your command and hold Eastwatch."

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a whisper meant only for Jon's ears. "Beware of who you take counsel from, White Wolf. If you believe a crippled boy returned unharmed and unchanged from beyond the Wall, then you truly know nothing. Whoever returned to you is not your brother anymore."

Jon's eyes darkened with the weight of those words, but he nodded, acknowledging the warning.

Tyrion, still standing near the Painted Table, sighed. "And what will we do? Will we not help?"

Daenerys stepped to Tyrion's side, her expression resolute. "We will unite the Seven Kingdoms under one banner, by whatever means are necessary. Then we will march north to help Jon Snow to make all of Westeros safe."

Ubbe stepped forward once more, his gaze locking with Daenerys's. "I will send a clutch of my best warriors to aid the White Wolf. Vikings are not afraid of the dead."

Daenerys held his gaze, and in her eyes, Ubbe saw the fire of determination—a queen ready to claim her destiny. He relished the connection, the unspoken understanding passing between them.

The day was his once more. He had prevailed.