Hi all, There has been a minor update to chapter 56, in relation to Roslin's sister Tyta who is currently married to Roose Bolton. It's a little update that impacts something that happens in this chapter, so go back and read from when the Bolton's enter in that chapter to be 100% on the same page as me.
Daenerys II
Winterfell below her looked like a doll's house, a patchwork of snow-covered stone walls and thatched rooftops nestled amidst the vast, icy expanse of the North. Daenerys had never quite grown accustomed to the sight of the world from Drogon's back, even after all these years. The wind whipped through her hair, stinging her cheeks despite the heavy fur-lined cloak she wore, but she had long learned to ignore the discomfort. From this height, she could see everything: the swarming masses of her army trudging through the snow, their formations spreading out like dark veins against the whitened ground; the narrow, frost-dusted roads leading to Winterfell's gates; and the tiny figures of Northerners huddled at the walls, waiting to see if the arrival of a foreign queen would bring salvation—or doom.
Besides her, Viserion and Rhaegal circled the keep like restless shadows against the pale winter sky, their scales catching the faint sunlight. The sight of her dragons over Winterfell was still surreal to her. Dragons over the North—a land as old and unyielding as the Wall itself. The people below had likely never seen anything like it, not in centuries. Some craned their necks upward, shielding their eyes from the sun to glimpse the beasts. Others recoiled, scurrying back to the safety of the walls or whispering hurried prayers.
Far below, her army pressed forward. The Unsullied marched in perfect formation despite the cold, their discipline unbroken even by the bitter winds. The Dothraki were less reserved, whooping and calling out to one another as they rode, their breath forming great clouds in the frozen air. The journey from White Harbour to Winterfell had been hard on them all, especially her eastern soldiers. The icy Northern climate was a far cry from the warmth of Essos or even Dragonstone, and she had seen the toll it took in their shivering forms and frostbitten hands. Yet they pressed on, their loyalty unwavering, their belief in her absolute.
Daenerys tightened her grip on Drogon's reins and scanned the keep below. The gates of Winterfell stood open, flanked by watchful guards. At least Lady Stark's promise of a warm welcome had proven true. She had been sceptical, despite the letters exchanged between her Hand and Robb Stark. The North was known for its stubbornness, its distrust of outsiders. The arrival of a foreign queen with dragons and armies in tow might have been met with hostility or worse. But the gates were open, and the banners of House Stark flew high on the ramparts, their direwolf sigil snapping in the wind. The sight stirred something in her—a small flicker of hope.
She urged Drogon lower, descending gradually toward the courtyard. The soldiers below began to cheer as the dragons' shadows swept over them, their voices rising in a cacophony of awe and fear. Daenerys allowed herself a moment to feel the weight of it—the majesty of her arrival, the significance of this moment. She had crossed the Narrow Sea to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms, but this... this was something else. Winterfell was no southern castle of gold and marble; it was a fortress of stone and steel, built for survival in a harsh world. Its people were not courtiers or sycophants; they were fighters, hardened by endless winters and battles fought in the snow. Winning their loyalty would not be easy, but it was necessary. When the time came The North was the key to winning back her throne.
As Drogon's claws touched down in the courtyard, his great wings folding against his sides, Daenerys felt a surge of nerves she hadn't expected. The Northerners gathered in the yard looked up at her with wide eyes, their faces a mixture of fear, awe, and scepticism. She slid from Drogon's back with practiced ease, landing lightly on the frozen ground. The chill bit through her boots, but she stood tall, her head held high, her cloak billowing behind her.
Missandei approached her quickly, wrapping her in a heavy woollen scarf as Grey Worm dismounted nearby, his expression stoic. Tyrion was next to join her, his face half-hidden by his fur-lined hood. He took in the scene with sharp, calculating eyes, his breath clouding in the air.
"Winterfell," Tyrion said, his voice tinged with both admiration and doubt. "A fortress as cold as the people who built it. Let's hope they've warmed to the idea of your dragons."
Daenerys didn't reply. Her gaze had fixed on the figures emerging from the castle's doors to greet her. At the forefront was Robb Stark, tall and broad-shouldered, his Stark grey cloak trimmed with wolf fur. His expression was neutral, guarded, but his eyes betrayed curiosity and perhaps a hint of respect. Beside him stood Sansa Stark, her red hair a beacon in the pale courtyard, her face unreadable. And slightly behind them, Jon Snow.
Jon stood apart, his dark eyes locked on her as she approached. He looked different from how Tyrion had described him—taller, more formidable, though there was an unmistakable sadness etched into his features. Daenerys felt a sudden pang of something she couldn't name, an odd pull as their eyes met.
The sound of Rhaegal and Viserion landing behind her broke the spell, their massive wings stirring the snow. She tore her gaze from Jon and turned to greet her Northern hosts. Whatever warmth they had promised in their letters would need to be earned in person, and Daenerys was determined to prove herself worthy of their trust.
From behind her, Roslin Stark surged forward, the air of formality vanishing in an instant as Robb Stark stepped toward her, gathering his wife into a tight embrace. The weight of Winterfell's stoic traditions seemed to lift as he kissed her, his affection unguarded and unashamed. Roslin melted into him, her face lighting up with an unrestrained smile. Robb took a moment to stroke her cheek with his gloved hand, his touch tender despite the leather between them. His expression held a depth of love so profound that Daenerys felt a pang in her chest—a sharp reminder of what she had once known with Khal Drogo. That kind of love, unyielding and all-consuming, had only graced her life once, and she doubted she would ever feel it again.
Before Daenerys could linger on the thought, movement caught her eye. From behind Robb and Roslin, a small boy broke free from the arms of a slender, brown-haired girl. His laughter rang out across the courtyard as he darted forward, unbothered by the snow that crunched underfoot. Roslin crouched instinctively, catching him in her arms and lifting him with a delighted laugh. She held him tightly, pressing her cheek against his small head, and for a moment, mother and son were in their own world. This, Daenerys reasoned, must be Torrhen, the young Stark heir.
Daenerys observed the scene with quiet admiration, feeling the warmth of it despite the frigid air. It was a sight she had never truly known—family, whole and intact, brimming with love despite the shadows of war that loomed over them.
To her right, Tyrion shifted awkwardly, his gaze fixed on the reunion before them. He glanced toward Daenerys, his sharp eyes holding a question. Daenerys met his look and gave a small nod of approval, understanding the unspoken request. Without hesitation, Tyrion stepped forward, his measured gait carrying him across the courtyard to where Sansa stood.
Sansa was radiant despite the cold, her auburn hair catching the weak winter sunlight as it cascaded over her shoulders. She stood beside a young boy with golden-blonde hair, his small face turned up toward her, and at Tyrion's approach, she bent down and murmured something in the boy's ear. With a nudge of encouragement, the child broke into a smile and sprinted toward Tyrion, calling out, "Papa!" The single word echoed like a burst of joy amidst the frost. Tyrion crouched low to catch him, wrapping his arms around the boy in a fierce, protective hug. His face softened, and for a brief moment, the usually guarded Hand of the Queen seemed utterly disarmed.
Hand in hand with the boy, whom Daenerys reasoned must be Damon, Tyrion walked back toward Sansa. She had a small, content smile on her lips as she stooped slightly to meet them. Tyrion placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, and though the gesture was reserved, it spoke volumes of their bond. Sansa's hand briefly brushed Tyrion's shoulder, a subtle but deliberate act of reassurance.
"Your Grace," Robb Stark's voice broke through Daenerys's thoughts. She turned to find him standing tall once more, his wife now at his side. Roslin's son sat perched on her hip, his tiny arms wrapped securely around her neck as he peered at the scene with wide, curious eyes. "You must forgive our informality," Robb said, his tone warm and apologetic. "I'm afraid here in Winterfell, we are family first and lords second. I am Lord Robb Stark, and this is my son, Torrhen. My wife's letters have spoken so highly of you that I've been eager to meet you."
Roslin's expression softened as she stood by her husband, her cheeks still faintly flushed from the cold and their earlier embrace. Torrhen buried his face shyly in her neck, peeking out at Daenerys with the timid curiosity of a child.
"Lady Roslin is too kind," Daenerys replied, her voice measured but sincere. She stepped forward, the fur-lined cloak trailing behind her as she regarded the Stark family before her. "I fear I may not live up to such high praise, though I will do my best. Your hospitality is already greatly appreciated."
Robb smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "You've come a long way to be here, Your Grace, and Winterfell honours that. You are welcome here as an ally and—if the gods will it—as a friend."
Daenerys inclined her head in thanks, though her mind raced. The Starks' warmth and sincerity were disarming, but she knew well that alliances built on trust could be fragile. Still, for the first time in a long while, standing amidst the echoes of family and laughter, she felt the faint stirrings of hope.
"This is my brother," Robb Stark said, his voice steady with a mix of pride and deference. He gestured to the man standing at the end of the line, his dark cloak billowing faintly in the wind. "Jon Snow. He has faced the threat we now prepare for and survived. He will lead our army in the battles to come."
Daenerys's gaze shifted to the man in question. Jon Snow stood apart from the others, his posture composed yet unassuming. His dark eyes, framed by thick brows, met hers with a flicker of curiosity, though there was a guardedness behind them, as if he carried the weight of too many burdens. His cloak, lined with fur, seemed more practical than ceremonial, and the faint scar that encircled his throat caught her eye. It was pale against the rough stubble on his jaw, and though it was partially obscured by the angle of his stance, she couldn't discern where it began or ended.
"You don't intend to lead yourself?" Daenerys asked, her tone even but inquisitive as her gaze flicked back to Robb.
"Your Grace," Robb began, straightening slightly as he addressed her, "I am simply the Lord of this keep. While that grants me authority over the North, it doesn't make me the most experienced or skilled commander for the fight ahead. I have fought men and won; I have stood on battlefields and faced armies intent on taking my life. But what I have not done," he paused, his tone sharpening with grim honesty, "is kill a man and then watch him rise again. Jon has. He's seen what lies beyond the Wall, what we face. He's the right person to lead us."
Daenerys's gaze returned to Jon, studying him more intently now. There was something about him—an unspoken resilience, a quiet strength that seemed to hum beneath his skin. Yet, there was also something else, something heavier, like he carried secrets no one else could understand. Her eyes flicked briefly to the scar again, and a faint shiver passed through her. Whatever had caused that mark, it hadn't been a simple wound; it had been something brutal, something that perhaps should have killed him. And yet, here he stood.
Jon met her stare, unflinching. "Your Grace," he said simply, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of a man who had seen more than his share of death.
Before Daenerys could respond, Roslin stepped forward, her voice breaking the moment. "Let us move inside, Your Grace," she said, her tone warm but insistent. "I'm sure you're not accustomed to this cold." She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her cheeks tinged pink from the biting wind.
Daenerys glanced at the woman, her smile softening. "You're right, Lady Stark," she said. "Though I have grown somewhat used to the winds at sea, this northern chill is… unique."
Roslin chuckled lightly, gesturing for Daenerys to follow her. "Unique is a kind word for it," she replied, her smile momentarily lifting the sombreness of the moment. "But Winterfell's halls are warm, and we've prepared everything for your arrival."
As they began to move toward the keep, Daenerys felt the tension ease slightly. Yet, as her footsteps crunched against the snow, she couldn't shake the feeling that Jon Snow's presence carried a story that she wasn't yet privy to. She glanced back over her shoulder briefly, catching one last glimpse of him as he exchanged quiet words with Robb.
Her dragons circled above, their shadows flickering across the snowy courtyard, a reminder of her own power and the war that lay ahead. For now, there was warmth and conversation to be had within Winterfell's walls, but soon, very soon, the North would face a reckoning that no fire or blade alone could stave off. And Daenerys couldn't help but wonder if Jon Snow truly was the key to it all.
Inside the Great Hall of Winterfell, the air was thick with anticipation and tension. The lords and ladies of every assembled House stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces reflecting a mixture of determination and dread. The North had gathered its strength, every man and woman rugged and resilient, embodying the unforgiving land they called home. At the forefront stood Robb Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, his presence commanding, his arm draped protectively over Roslin, who stood proudly beside him. Her soft features belied the steel within her, forged by years of survival and steadfast devotion to her husband and their people.
To their left, the Riverlords stood united under the banner of House Tully. Edmure Tully, broad-shouldered and proud, bore the weight of his house as he stood with his beautiful wife, Alyx, at his side. Her sharp eyes swept the room, filled with quiet resolve. Her hands rested on the back of a chair, gripping it tightly as if willing herself to stand taller under the heavy burden they all shared.
Further along, the knights of the Vale stood in orderly ranks, their gleaming armour a stark contrast to the rough-hewn furs of the Northern men. They were led by Ser Harrold Hardyng, Harry the Heir, who carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His keen eyes betrayed an underlying awareness of the immense task ahead. Lord Robin Arryn, however, was conspicuously absent, his mother having chosen to keep him in the Eyrie, far from the dangers that loomed. The Vale knights stood as a testament to their loyalty, even without their lord present.
The Ironborn contingent was notably small, their grim demeanours reflecting the hard lives they had lived. Yara Greyjoy and her husband had returned to Pyke to oversee their fleet, a mighty armada poised on the North Western coast, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Though their absence was felt, the threat of their naval power was a comfort, a sharp blade ready to cut through their enemies when the time came.
Further south, Trystane Martell had returned to Dorne, his departure a strategic necessity. He had promised aid if they triumphed, though his quiet return to the Sunspear revealed his pragmatism. If they failed, Dorne would have no choice but to bow before the Lannisters and beg for mercy. The weight of such a gamble hung heavily in the air, but the Dornish had never been ones to fight battles they couldn't win.
As Daenerys surveyed the room, she couldn't help but feel the enormity of what had been assembled. Every corner of the realm, from the frigid North to the sun-drenched South, was represented here in some capacity. Yet for all their strength, she knew the reality they faced. If the combined forces of these great houses could not stop the dead, nothing would stand between the White Walkers and King's Landing. The thought chilled her to her very core.
The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the faces of the assembled lords and ladies. Some whispered quietly amongst themselves, while others stood silently, their gazes fixed on the Stark banners that hung from the walls. There was a solemnity to the gathering, an unspoken understanding that this alliance—so tenuous and unprecedented—was their last hope.
Jon Snow entered the hall from a side door, his presence immediately commanding attention. He moved through the gathered nobles with an ease that spoke of his years as both a warrior and a leader. Though he was now technically just a guest in Winterfell, every eye in the room turned to him with a mix of respect and curiosity. They had heard the stories of his resurrection, of his battles beyond the Wall, and of the countless dead he had faced. Jon carried himself with the weight of that knowledge, his dark cloak billowing slightly as he approached Daenerys.
The room seemed to still as Jon and Daenerys exchanged a brief glance. Two leaders, each bearing the burden of prophecy and destiny, stood side by side amidst the gathered forces of the living. The weight of expectation pressed down on both of them, but neither faltered.
"Shall we begin?" Jon asked, his voice low but firm as he turned to Daenerys. For a moment, her gaze lingered on his. There was something in his eyes—an unspoken connection. She wasn't sure if it was born of this life or another, but it was undeniable. With a steadying breath, she nodded and stepped aside, granting him the floor.
Jon strode to the centre of the hall, his presence commanding the attention of every lord, lady, and soldier in the room. The crackling of the fire in the great hearth seemed to hush as all eyes turned to him.
"You all know why we're here," he began, his voice strong, carrying the weight of the moment. "The dead have risen, and they are coming for us."
The room fell utterly silent as his words settled over them like a heavy frost.
"Our men on the Wall have confirmed what we feared. The dead are no longer a distant threat—they're here. By tomorrow night, they will reach the Wall." His words were sharp, cutting through any lingering doubts. "The Night's Watch will do everything they can to hold them back, but the reality is this: they will break through. And when they do, they will come for us."
Daenerys watched in awe as Jon spoke. It wasn't just his words—it was the way he carried himself, the gravity in his tone, the quiet strength that made every person in the room hang on his every syllable. It was the kind of command she had dreamed of her entire life, the kind of respect that could not be demanded, only earned.
"We are grateful to Queen Daenerys for her support," Jon continued, gesturing to her. "Her men, her Unsullied, and her dragons could be the thing that turns the tide in our favour."
Daenerys stepped forward, her voice clear and steady. "We have also brought all the dragonglass we could mine in such short time."
Jon gave her a brief nod, seamlessly picking up her point. "We need to turn that dragonglass into weapons as quickly as possible. Arrowheads, daggers, spears—anything that can be forged fast and put into a soldier's hand. Focus on simple designs: sharp points and sturdy hilts. Speed is our ally here."
Robb stepped in, his tone firm yet practical. "We are expecting a siege. Those unable to fight—children, the elderly—will be sheltered in the crypts. We must be prepared for the possibility that this siege could last for days, even weeks. This is not a normal army we face—they do not tire, they do not need food or sleep. We will work in shifts, allowing everyone to rest when possible. And when the moment comes, when the dead falter, we will launch a final, decisive attack."
The room buzzed with murmurs, the weight of Robb's words sinking in. The lords exchanged glances, the enormity of the challenge before them dawning on each face.
Jon's voice cut through the murmur. "From now until the dead arrive, there will be daily drills in the yard. Everyone who can hold a weapon must train—men and women alike. Ultimately, the choice to fight is yours," he said, his voice softening, "but know this: I speak to you not just as a commander, but as a brother." His eyes met Robb's. "As an uncle." His gaze flickered to Torrhen, who clung to Roslin's side. "And as a man of honour. I swear to you, I will not let anyone take this castle."
For a moment, there was silence. Then the men in the room erupted into a roar of agreement, their voices filling the Great Hall like a storm crashing against the walls. The sound of their determination was almost deafening, a stark contrast to the doom that loomed beyond the Wall.
Robb raised a hand to quiet them. "Now go and rest," he said. "We begin at first light."
The lords and soldiers began to shuffle out, their expressions set with grim determination. But before they could fully disperse, Daenerys stepped forward. Her voice, clear and regal, carried across the room.
"Wait."
The men paused, turning back to her with confusion. Daenerys's gaze swept the hall, landing on the women still gathered among them. "All of the ladies in the room," she said, her tone commanding yet warm, "please remain."
The lords exchanged glances, clearly perplexed. Robb, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Of course, Your Grace." He turned to Roslin, placing a kiss on her cheek, before scooping Torrhen into his arms. With a nod to Daenerys, he led the men out of the hall, the heavy wooden doors creaking shut behind them.
As the room emptied, Daenerys turned her full attention to the women who remained. Their faces were a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Sansa stood among them, her face calm and unreadable, though her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Alyx Tully lingered near the edge of the group, her fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her sleeve. Tyta Bolton stood apart, her posture stiff, her eyes darting toward the doors as if expecting Roose to barge back in.
Daenerys stepped forward, her voice softer now but no less commanding. "I have called you here because I believe you deserve a voice in what happens next. Too often, women are expected to stay silent, to wait in the shadows while men decide their fate. That will not happen here. Not under my watch."
The women looked at one another, some nodding tentatively, others still wary.
"You are mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters," Daenerys continued. "But you are also the backbone of this kingdom. You carry its future. If we are to survive, it will be because of all of us—men and women alike. I will not ask you to fight if you do not wish to, but I will ask you to be honest. Tell me your fears, your hopes, your needs. Together, we will find a way to protect what matters most."
Alyx stepped forward, her voice trembling but steady. "I'm afraid," she admitted. "Not just of the dead, but of what comes after. If we win, what kind of world will be left for us? For our children?"
Tyta's voice cut through the room, sharp and brittle. "Some of us are more afraid of the men standing beside us than the dead coming for us."
The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the air. Daenerys met Tyta's gaze, her expression one of quiet understanding. "You have my word," Daenerys said, her voice firm. "I will not let anyone harm you. When I take the Iron Throne, the days of fear and abuse will end."
"Please, my lady," Daenerys said gently, her voice warm and inviting. She extended a hand, motioning for the woman who stood hesitantly near the edge of the gathering to step forward. "Tell me of your fears, Lady...?"
"Alyx," the woman replied softly, her voice laced with both pride and hesitation. She took a small step forward, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her dark blue gown. "Alyx Tully, Lady of Riverrun."
Daenerys' expression softened, and she offered a small nod of recognition. "Of course," she said with a kind smile. "Lady Roslin's niece?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Alyx confirmed, her cheeks colouring slightly at being addressed so directly. "Edmure is no warrior—he never has been. But he will fight for us, for his family, for our children." Her voice faltered, and she glanced down, unable to meet Daenerys' gaze. "And if he should fall…" She paused, swallowing hard, her composure threatening to break. "I have three children, Your Grace. My eldest son, Roderick, has not yet seen his third name day. If anything should happen to his father…" She trailed off, her voice cracking under the weight of her words. "He is too young. They are all too young."
Alyx's words hung in the air, and for a moment, the room was silent. The other women glanced at one another, their own fears reflected in Alyx's trembling voice. Daenerys stepped closer, her gaze steady and full of compassion.
"Lady Alyx," Daenerys said softly, "your fears are not unfounded, and I will not dismiss them. No mother should have to worry for the safety of her children, nor for what will become of them should the worst happen." She placed a hand on Alyx's arm, a small gesture of solidarity. "But hear me when I say this: your children are the future of this kingdom. Their safety, their survival—this is what we fight for. And I promise you, we will do everything in our power to protect them."
Alyx looked up, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered. "But what if—what if we cannot stop them? The dead… they do not care for oaths or promises."
Daenerys's expression hardened with determination. "You are right, my lady. The dead do not care for oaths, nor for crowns or thrones. But we who still draw breath—we care. We fight not just with swords and shields, but with love, with hope, and with resolve. And that is something the dead can never take from us."
Alyx nodded, her shoulders straightening slightly, as though Daenerys' words had lifted some of the weight she carried. Daenerys turned to address the rest of the women, her voice clear and strong.
"Every one of us has a part to play in the battles to come," she said, her gaze sweeping the room. "Some will fight on the front lines. Others will fight by protecting those who cannot defend themselves—our children, our wounded, our future. We are all warriors in this fight, whether we wield a blade or cradle a child. And together, we will stand. Together, we will survive."
The women in the hall murmured their agreement, their fear giving way to a quiet but growing resolve. Daenerys' words had sparked something in them, a sense of purpose that had been buried beneath their terror. She turned back to Alyx, her hand still resting gently on the young woman's arm.
"Your children will be safe," Daenerys said firmly, her voice carrying a weight of reassurance that filled the Great Hall. Her violet eyes moved from face to face, taking in the tension, fear, and hope etched into the expressions of the women gathered before her. "I offer you all a choice—a choice that is yours alone to make."
The hall fell silent, the crackle of the hearths the only sound as Daenerys stepped forward, commanding the space with an air of quiet authority. "Tomorrow, at first light, I will be sending carts back to White Harbour. These carts will carry supplies and messages, but they can also carry you and your children to safety. Dragonstone will act as a haven, a sanctuary for those who cannot or should not remain here. Princess Myrcella Martell holds the castle in my name and is prepared to receive you. She has made ready the halls and chambers of Dragonstone to house all who need refuge until the fighting is done."
A ripple of whispers passed through the room, some women turning to their neighbours with wide eyes. Daenerys continued, her tone steady and unwavering. "Some of you will choose to remain here and fight," she said. "You may stand alongside your husbands, brothers, or kin, or wield a blade in your own right. Others among you may choose to stay as healers, tending to the wounded and keeping our strength alive. Both choices are noble and brave, and both are essential to our survival. But for those of you who wish to see your children safe from harm, who cannot bear the thought of them caught in the path of the dead… the choice is yours to make."
She paused, letting her words settle. The firelight flickered across the women's faces, illuminating their turmoil and contemplation. "I do not expect an answer now," Daenerys added. "The carts will leave at first light. No one will judge your decision, whatever it may be. But know this: your courage is not measured by where you stand. It is measured by the love you hold for your families, for your people, and for this land."
From the crowd, Alyx Tully stepped forward again, her face pale but resolute. "Your Grace," she said softly, her voice trembling only slightly, "If I choose to stay, if I choose to send my children to Dragonstone but remain myself, who will protect them? How can I be sure they'll be safe?"
Daenerys turned to Alyx, her expression warm but serious. "I understand your fears, Lady Alyx," she said. "But I have placed Dragonstone in the hands of Princess Myrcella, who is both kind and strong. She has her own child to protect, and she understands the weight of this responsibility. The castle is well-fortified and isolated by the sea. Your children will be as safe there as anywhere in the known world."
Alyx nodded slowly, her shoulders relaxing a fraction. Others in the room began murmuring, their voices low but increasingly confident. A few women exchanged glances, silently debating their options.
"Please," Daenerys continued, addressing the room once more, "do not let pride or fear of judgement weigh on your hearts. There is no shame in seeking safety for your children. There is no shame in choosing to fight here. The only shame is in doing nothing at all. Whatever you choose, you are still a part of this fight. You are still the heart of the North."
From the back of the hall, Maege Mormont, stepped forward with an unyielding look in her eyes. "I'll stay and fight, my daughters too" she declared. "The dead have no mercy, and I'll not sit idle while others face them."
Daenerys smiled faintly but shifted her gaze to the gathered women. "Lady Mormont has chosen her path," she said, her tone regal yet measured. "Now, each of you must decide your own. Take the evening to think on it—speak to your husbands, your families, and one another. By dawn, let your choice be made."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the group as the ladies curtsied and began to filter out, their whispers hushed as they exchanged quiet words. Some glanced back at the Queen as if searching for further reassurance, while others walked with resolute determination.
Eventually, the great hall was nearly empty, save for Daenerys, Roslin, Missandei, Sansa, and Arya. Sansa and Arya exchanged knowing glances before stepping forward to bid their formal farewells.
"Your Grace," Sansa said with a slight bow of her head, her voice as poised as ever. "Thank you for allowing us to be part of this."
"We'll see you in the morning," Arya added, her tone more casual but no less respectful.
Daenerys nodded, offering them a gracious smile. "Goodnight, Lady Lannister. Lady Umber."
The two sisters turned to leave, their cloaks trailing softly behind them. As they reached the doorway, they passed a figure stepping inside—a woman dressed in black and deep crimson, her presence striking yet subdued.
"Tyta," Roslin said warmly, her expression softening as she recognized her sister. "Are you all right?"
Tyta hesitated for a moment, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though she were steeling herself for what she was about to say. "I was hoping," she began timidly, her voice barely above a whisper, "to be granted an audience with you and the Queen."
Roslin exchanged a brief look with Daenerys, who inclined her head slightly. "Of course," Roslin said gently. "How can we help, Lady Tyta?..."
Daenerys regarded her with calm curiosity, her violet eyes studying Tyta carefully.
"Bolton," Tyta answered, the name falling from her lips like a stone dropping into still water. "Though I was born Tyta Frey."
Roslin stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on Tyta's arm. "My sister," she added softly to Daenerys.
Tyta swallowed hard, the weight of her words threatening to choke her. Her gaze dropped to the floor for a brief moment as if she were gathering the courage to continue, but then she forced herself to meet Daenerys's eyes again. "I've heard tales of you, Your Grace," she began, her voice trembling at first, then steadily growing stronger. "That you were sold to your first husband like a piece of property. I was the same."
Daenerys's expression softened instantly, her violet eyes filled with a quiet understanding. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I was lucky," she said, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet sorrow. "My first marriage grew into something far greater than I ever expected. But I know not all women are so fortunate. For many, marriage is nothing but a cage, and their husbands nothing but their jailers. I know the horrors that many women face." Her eyes darkened for a moment, and then she looked back at Tyta, a flicker of something fierce behind her calm demeanor.
Tyta nodded, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her gown as the words from the past echoed in her mind. "I've lived them, Your Grace. I was sold to Roose Bolton, a man twice my age, with no say in the matter. He wasn't just a husband; he was a stranger to me—cruel, calculating, a man who saw me as nothing but a means to an end. For years, I endured his cruelty, his manipulations… his games." Her voice quivered slightly, but she held herself together. She couldn't afford to crumble now. Not when she had come this far. "I endured, and I had a daughter, but now…" Her eyes clouded, her throat tightening with emotion. "Now, I'm afraid of what happens when the fighting is done. I've survived the Dreadfort, but what comes after? If my husband survives this war, what becomes of me? Of my children?"
Daenerys's gaze hardened as she listened, the pain in Tyta's voice not lost on her. She took a step closer, her presence steadying, and gave Tyta a look of deep sympathy. "I understand your fear, Lady Tyta," she said softly, her voice full of empathy. "For so many of us, survival is not just a matter of battle—it's about surviving after the battle. Surviving in a world that has seen us broken and crushed beneath the weight of men like Roose Bolton."
Tyta let out a slow, shaky breath. The walls she had built for so long—walls of stoicism and coldness—were beginning to crack, and the vulnerability she had tried to keep hidden for so many years surfaced. She took a step forward, her eyes meeting Daenerys's, and her voice was barely a whisper. "I cannot go back. My father is dead. But my daughter… she knows no life outside of the Dreadfort. She will be bound to the legacy of her father, to the name that she bears. And the thought of her living the life I did, under his shadow, it—" Tyta's voice broke, and she had to stop herself from crying, her throat tight with emotion. "It terrifies me, Your Grace. I don't know how to protect her from that. I don't even know if I can protect myself."
Daenerys's expression remained calm, but there was a fire in her eyes now—a fire that had burned in her heart for many years. "You are not alone anymore, Lady Tyta," she said, her voice steady and unwavering. "You don't have to fight this battle alone. There is strength in numbers, in allies who understand your plight. If Roose Bolton falls, if this war turns in our favor, you will have a choice. You can leave the Dreadfort behind. You can leave the chains of that place and build a life for yourself. And for your daughter."
Tyta blinked rapidly, a tear slipping down her cheek that she quickly wiped away. She had lived so long in fear, in silence, never daring to hope for anything beyond mere survival. But here, in this moment, with Daenerys's quiet promise ringing in her ears, something inside her stirred. Something she hadn't felt in years. Hope.
"I… I want to believe that," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But how do I begin again? How do I build a life when everything I know is tied to that cursed place? My daughter…" She placed a hand over her stomach, her fingers splayed out across the small bump that had barely begun to show. "She'll never know freedom. She will always be tied to Roose's name, to his house. Even if I leave, she will never be free of that."
Daenerys looked at Tyta for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful, calculating, yet filled with a deep sense of conviction. "You will be free, Tyta. You will decide what your daughter's name will mean. If you choose to leave the Dreadfort, you choose a new path. And if you choose to protect your children from the past, you have the strength to do so. Do not let the name you were born with dictate the life you are meant to lead."
She paused, her voice lowering as she spoke with quiet authority. "You are not defined by Roose Bolton. You are defined by what you choose to become. And I swear to you, Lady Tyta, I will help you every step of the way."
"Valar Morghulis," Missandei said softly, her gaze steady as she spoke the ancient words.
"All men must die," Daenerys finished, her voice calm, but there was something resolute in it as she met Missandei's eyes.
Missandei nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Yes, Your Grace. It is the way of the world."
"But," Daenerys replied, her gaze hardening with determination, "we are not men."
I'm happy to announce a spin-off mini series to this story based on Tyta, following her time at the Dreadfort. It's called Shadows of the Dreadfort and I'm hoping to have the first chapter up to tomorrow. It will be 10 chapters and is mostly written, I just need to review each chapter before posting. I had no plans to write this but once I started, I literally couldn't stop and wrote the whole thing in 2 days. Hoping to be back on the main story soon!