THE ROSE ROAD

Daenerys' POV

Traversing the Rose Road toward Highgarden would have normally been a long and tedious endeavor, but Daenerys found herself thoroughly entertained by Gunhild's antics and Missandei's cleverness.

The Naathi girl, usually so composed, became more lively, more mischievous around the towering Shieldmaiden. Their banter was sharp, clever, and in Norse, as Missandei had already mastered much of the language.

The three of them rode in a private carriage, as Daenerys had refused to simply fly upon Drogon. She wished to march with her army, to be among her people.

News of Ubbe's battle would not reach them until they arrived in Highgarden, so she forced herself to push aside her growing concern and focus on the present.

"Grey Worm," Gunhild said suddenly, a bemused look on her face. "That's an interesting name for a man."

Missandei's coy smile betrayed her feelings before she could speak.

"He takes pride in it," she said softly. "It is the name he bore when our Queen freed us from slavery."

Gunhild considered this for a moment, nodding thoughtfully.

"He seems kind." A pause. Then, without hesitation— "Do you love him?"

Missandei's dark cheeks flushed crimson at the Viking woman's bluntness.

"He is kind. And I do..."

Gunhild tilted her head, measuring her carefully.

"I admire that you see his kindness and good heart... above all else."

There was something layered in Gunhild's tone, something unspoken but understood.

Daenerys interjected, her lips curving into a playful smile, her violet eyes glinting with mischief.

"Pleasure and love take many shapes, Shieldmaiden."

Gunhild smirked. "I know that, Your Grace..." Then, her expression hardened, though not unkindly. "But you can never bear children with him."

A flicker of sadness passed through Missandei's eyes—brief but undeniable.

But just as swiftly, she squared her shoulders, her voice steady, resolved.

"Both of us were given a second chance at life, after being condemned to servitude. We deserve happiness, however it comes to us. And when the war is over, there will be many orphaned children who deserve a second chance as well."

Gunhild regarded her for a long moment, then, with unexpected tenderness, took Missandei's hands into her own.

"I pray to the gods that this future comes true—for both of you."

Daenerys, sensing the need for lighter conversation, leaned forward.

"Tell us about the Viking's... unique choices in hairstyles."

Gunhild snorted. "The braids? The shaved sides?"

"And the markings?" Daenerys pressed.

Gunhild shrugged. "It is a matter of preference and homage. Only two of Ragnar's sons chose to wear their hair as he did in his youth, when he became a legend: Ubbe and my husband. Although Bjorn... well, he shaved it after we married. I mourned for that braid."

Daenerys caught the flicker of amusement and fondness in Gunhild's voice.

"Tell us about your husband," she said, a playful glint in her eyes.

Gunhild's expression shifted, as though transported to a place far away, to another life entirely.

"Bjorn Ironside is... a force of nature."

Her voice softened, but the weight of her words settled heavily in the air.

"He walks into a room, and the air changes. He doesn't command attention—he simply has it. You feel his presence before you even see him."

A faint smile ghosted her lips, the memory warming her expression.

"He was born to roam, to fight, to carve his name into the world. He cannot stay in one place for long—not even for me."*

There was no bitterness in her voice, only understanding, perhaps resignation.

Her fingers traced the hilt of her seax idly, her thoughts drifting in the rickety sound of the carriage.

"And yet, when he is with me, I have never felt safer. Not because he is the mightiest warrior—though he is—but because in his arms, the world feels... small. As if nothing beyond us could touch me."

Her piercing blue gaze lifted to Daenerys, clear, but unreadable.

"He is fire and fury on the battlefield. But in the quiet, in the dark, he is... something else."

Daenerys arched a brow. "Something else?"

Gunhild's smirk turned knowing, almost playful.

"He is not gentle, if that is what you ask."

Missandei coughed, cheeks reddening again.

Daenerys merely smirked, amused, letting Gunhild continue.

"He does not whisper sweet words, nor does he make love like a bard. But gods, he makes me feel alive."

The words hung in the air—raw, unashamed.

Daenerys tilted her head. "You said he is restless, even to the point of forsaking you. Are Vikings not monogamous?"

Gunhild's expression remained unreadable.

"Bjorn was not made to love only one woman. I accepted that truth the day I met him."

Daenerys studied her. "He must be quite the man, for you to accept sharing him."

Gunhild met her gaze without hesitation.

"He is."

That single answer was final. And Daenerys knew better than to press further.

Taking a deep breath, she finally dared to ask what was foremost in her mind.

"And what of Ubbe?"

Gunhild's hand, which had been idly resting on her blade, stilled.

She hesitated, then exhaled, shaking her head slightly, as if the words refused to come easily.

"Ubbe is... not like Bjorn."

Her tone carried a weight Daenerys could not yet place.

"Bjorn is a fire that devours, a storm that cannot be caged. But Ubbe... Ubbe is the kind of fire that keeps you warm in the winter."

She paused.

"He is steady. Thoughtful. He listens."

She let out a quiet chuckle, but there was no humor in it.

"And that, I think, is what makes him more dangerous than all of us. He does not act on impulse. He watches. He waits. And when he strikes, it is not with reckless abandon—it is with precision, purpose. And gods help whoever stands in his way."

Missandei glanced at Daenerys. "You admire him."

Gunhild scoffed. "Of course I do... and so do you."

Daenerys said nothing, but her eyes widened.

Gunhild's gaze sharpened. "He has ever loved only one woman."

Daenerys' lips pressed into a thin line.

Missandei, sensing the tension, quickly asked—

"Is Lord Ubbe married then?"

Gunhild's playfulness vanished.

"He was... to a great Shield maiden. A woman I loved and looked up to."

She exhaled, her voice steady, but weighed with emotion.

"Her name was Torvi. She was carrying Ubbe's first child when he told us he would go away to search for his visions... alone. Ubbe insisted that she stay behind, but she was stubborn—fierce—and deeply in love with the only man who could make her happy in a life full of sorrows."

Gunhild's eyes flickered with memory, with grief.

"She told him, 'I am not some weak, helpless woman you must protect. Wherever you go, I go. Whatever you do, I do, even to the ends of the earth and endurance.'"

The shield maiden's voice grew quieter.

"He respected her too much to say no. And that... that was the decision that killed her."

A heavy silence fell over the carriage.

Gunhild inhaled sharply, forcing herself to continue.

"During a storm on the great water, she miscarried the child. Ragnar, they were going to call him."

Daenerys felt her chest tighten.

Gunhild's gaze hardened, her tone thick with restrained emotion.

"She died days later, from the bleeding. There was nobody to help her, they were alone in the boat."

Missandei's voice was small, hesitant.

"And Lord Ubbe?"

Gunhild gave a small, hollow smile.

"He has never forgiven himself."

Daenerys' breath felt shallow.

The image of Ubbe, kneeling before her, speaking of protection, of war, of fate, flashed in her mind.

He did not want to control her. He wanted to save her.

"I think she sees her in you."

Daenerys looked up sharply.

Gunhild's gaze was steady, unwavering.

"And that terrifies him."

Daenerys had no response.

For the first time since meeting the Viking, she truly understood him—his stubbornness, his unwavering will—but most of all, she understood the sacrifices he had made and the grief he had endured to stand by her side.

And now, she wished she didn't.

...

The caravan halted on a grassy plain as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold. The army moved like clockwork, setting up camp, lighting torches, and securing their positions for the night.

While the soldiers settled in, Gunhild began Daenerys' first lesson.

The wooden sparring sword Ser Jorah had procured felt heavy and foreign in Daenerys' grip. She grasped it with both hands, instinctively seeking control—

Gunhild clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"You're not ready for a longsword yet." The Viking woman's brow furrowed. "We need to make your arm strong first."

She unsheathed her seax—a sleek, beautifully crafted blade, shorter and lighter than a sword. With a respectful nod, she offered it to Daenerys and took the wooden weapon herself.

Daenerys turned the seax in her grip, testing its weight.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, admiring the craftsmanship.

She barely had time to lift her eyes before Gunhild struck.

The wooden sword sliced through the air toward her, fast and unannounced.

Daenerys reacted on instinct, raising the seax just in time. Wood met steel with a sharp crack. Gunhild had held back, but the force still sent a jolt up Daenerys' arm.

Ser Jorah moved forward, alarmed, but Daenerys raised a hand to stop him.

"Why don't you sit with Missandei, Jorah?" Her voice was calm but firm.

The knight hesitated, reluctant to leave her unguarded, but after a long pause, he stepped back to join Missandei by the fire.

Above them, the dragons circled in the darkening sky.

Their cries were unusual—sharper, restless.

Daenerys' gaze flickered upward. Viserion—normally the calmest of her children—was agitated, snapping at Rhaegal, twisting in the air as if something unseen tormented him.

Gunhild snapped her fingers.

Daenerys' attention fell back to the lesson.

She adjusted her stance, gripping the seax tighter. Gunhild waited, patient, watching.

They exchanged several slow strikes, the Viking correcting her defenses, adjusting her parries. She had expected the warrior to be overly cautious with her training, but Gunhild did not coddle.

Yet, there was no cruelty in her instruction.

She pushed Daenerys steadily, methodically. At first, slow movements, careful adjustments—then, gradually, she built the pressure.

Faster.

Harder.

Daenerys' breathing deepened, her muscles burned, but she refused to stop.

She was sweating now, but the exertion was exhilarating. This was not a game. This was not a staged match between lords.

This was a warrior teaching another how to survive.

The sun dipped completely, leaving them in the fading light of dusk. Still, Daenerys did not want to stop.

Then—

Gunhild cried out and collapsed.

A harsh, choked gasp escaped her lips, her body hitting the ground like a felled tree.

At that exact moment, Viserion let out a piercing roar—one unlike anything Daenerys had ever heard.

A wailing, agonized scream, a sound thick with pain.

The Queen dropped the seax and fell to her knees beside Gunhild.

"Gunhild!"

Missandei rushed to her side, shouting for the army's healers.

Gunhild struggled to breathe, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven gasps. Her hands clawed at her throat, as if something unseen was squeezing the life from her.

Daenerys looked up frantically—Viserion was wheeling through the sky, his wings beating violently. Then, suddenly, he turned eastward and shot off into the night, shrieking as he vanished beyond the horizon.

Gunhild's hand shot up, gripping Daenerys by the collar.

She pulled her close, her lips trembling as she forced out a single, labored whisper—

"U...bb.e."

Her wide, frantic eyes followed the fleeing dragon.

Daenerys understood immediately.

Her blood ran cold.

She stumbled back, shaking, then turned sharply towards the fire where Drogon rested.

"Drogon!"

The black beast lifted his massive head, his eyes fixing on her, sensing the urgency.

Ser Jorah and Tyrion moved to stop her.

She barely heard them.

Their voices became nothing but distant noise, drowned beneath the thunderous roar of her own heartbeat.

Ubbe was in danger.

And nothing—not Jorah, not Tyrion, not an entire army—was going to keep her from reaching him.

With a surging command, she leapt onto Drogon's back, and together, they vanished into the blackness of the night.

...

The cold wind howled as Drogon's mighty wings carved through the night sky. The world below was a black void, broken only by the distant glow of campfires and the raging sea.

Daenerys leaned forward, urging Drogon faster, the faint drops of a receding storm biting on her face like needles.

Ahead of her, Viserion streaked through the darkness like a pale comet, his golden form glowing against the stormy clouds. He moved with purpose, desperation— as if something unseen was calling him to Shipbreaker Bay.

She barely noticed her fingers digging into Drogon's scales, her heart hammering in her chest. Whatever hope she had that her dragon was acting strange out of a different cause melted away and she was sure of whom they were pursuing.

Ubbe.

Gunhild's voice still echoed in her mind, that one hoarse, agonized whisper.

She had barely understood at the time. But now—now she knew.

As she crested the cliffs and castle of Storm's End, she could see the faint flicker of fire in the middle of the misty bay beyond, and both Dragons dove down closer to the water, thus gaining vertiginous speed, flying just above the tossing waves.

Daenery's breath caught upon the sight as the sea churned like an angry beast, tossing shattered ships and broken bodies between jagged rocks. Flames still flickered on some of the wreckage, casting an orange glow on the water. On the remains of a few viking ships, surviving warriors cheered desperately at her sight, raising their arms in victory. Cheering on her, the one who had let them fight alone.

So much death.

As Drogon's wings flapped, hovering above the survivors, her eyes darted across the chaos, searching—searching for any sign of him, but she could not see him, and her heart sunk even deeply into her chest.

Then, Viserion roared and out of the corner of her eyes he saw him folding his wings, diving straight down—toward the water.

Daenerys gasped.

No.

The golden dragon hit the surface with a thunderous crash, vanishing beneath the waves.

The sea swallowed him whole.

...

The Silence

Ubbe's POV

Darkness.

Cold, endless, crushing darkness.

Ubbe floated in the abyss, weightless, his body pulled downward with the sinking wreckage of The Silence.

The blast had hurled him into the depths, his shoulder burning, bleeding, his limbs weak from exhaustion.

He had tried to climb, to swim, but the ship had dragged him down with it, its massive wooden carcass trapping him inside a prison of sinking death.

His lungs screamed for air.

A flash of light—reflected from above, flickering through the water. Fire on the waves.

But down here, there was nothing.

His hand brushed against wood—an air pocket trapped beneath broken beams.

With the last of his strength, he pushed himself toward it, his fingers breaking the surface.

Air.

Ubbe gasped, sucking in whatever shallow breath he could and coughing painfully. He felt no relief, knowing that the precious space would only delay his passing for a bit.

This was his grave.

His vision blurred, his mind drifting to indistinct images of Ragnar and then Torvi.

Would he see them soon? Would the Valkiries come to claim him for Valhalla?

Or would the gods abandon him, leaving him to rot in the black abyss?

The hull of the Silence shook with an unexpected tremor, and Ubbe thought the ship had reached the bottom of the sea, but then, something moved in the darkness.

Something huge.

A shadow cut through the water, massive and silent.

His heart pounded.

For a fleeting moment, his mind raced to tales of Jörmungander, the great sea snake, and he was terrified, feeling like a child. But as the water gained upon him and he was fully submerged under water, he witnessed Viserion's golden eyes piercing the void through the shipwreck.

The dragon tore off the hull of the ship like it was dry bark, and time seemed to slow down as Ubbe finally saw him whole, moving like a serpent through the deep, his massive form elegant, unnatural in the water. Ubbe thought it was the vision of a dying man, and raised his hand to the beast, wanting to tell apart vision from reality.

Then, the golden beast struck , moving to close it's massive claw around the Viking's broken body.

Ubbe felt the impossible force pulling him away for certain death, crushed under the weight of the water against the pull of the dragon, almost loosing conciusness under the strain.

Then, he was floating in the air, and the distant shouts of his comarades sounded a world away. He was so winded, he could not make himself breathe or move again, so he hung limp in the dragon's grasp.

Shipbreaker's Bay

Daenery's POV

The sea exploded.

Viserion burst from the waves, his massive golden wings shedding water in a great, sweeping arc. In the darkness, she strived to discern what the Dragon carried in it's claw, and she gasped as she could make out the shape of Ubbe, hanging face down, dripping with seawater, his head tilted to the side and unmoving.

For one horrifying moment, she thought—he's dead.

Then—a sharp cough.

Ubbe's body jerked, a choked, strangled gasp leaving his lips as he vomited seawater.

Relief hit her so hard, it nearly knocked the breath from her chest.

She barely realized she guided Drogon to follow Viserion as he glided toward the shore.

Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, her hands trembling against the dragon's sharp horns.

She had never felt this before.

Not when she had lost Khal Drogo.

Not even when she had held her stillborn son.

It terrified her more than anything she had ever experienced.

Viserion landed on the wet sand, gently lowering Ubbe onto the shore.

Daenerys was already making her way down Drogon's massive neck before his claws touched the ground.

She ran.

Her legs felt weak, foreign beneath her.

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands shaking as she touched his face.

He was warm. Alive.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, but he looked at her.

Daenerys let out a shaky breath.

For a moment, she could not speak.

She had been ready to lose him.

And now, the very thought of it unsettled her to her core.

SShe turned away, forcing her expression into cold neutrality.

Ubbe groaned, voice hoarse—"I thought Valkyries would be taller"

Daenerys let out a sharp, breathless laugh, one she had not meant to give.

Her voice was quiet when she answered.

"Not yet. Ubbe Ragnarsson, not yet."