Chapter Text
By the time Brienne and Tormund reached White Harbor, the city was prepared for battle. Bells rang, doors slammed and wagons rolled by with tall vats of water. The gates of the New Castle walls grinded as they were drawn closed– futile, of course, if a dragon chose to fly over them.
The Lady Commander nodded grimly to see their defensive plans were in motion. The Queen would be in the tunnels below, evacuating to the forest. As safe as Brienne could keep her.
They rode to Wolf’s Den, built into the outermost City Walls, and dismounted near a long set of stairs. With long strides of her massive legs, Brienne climbed the steep steps up toward a crowd gathered above. She did not need to ask where the dragon was: everyone faced a single direction, out to sea. The terror and awe on every face was the same.
General Davos Seaworth was there with the Southern Kingsguard and House Manderly’s own guard captain. Bannermen and guards of other great houses, still in the city for the feasting, were lined up along the ramparts: Cley Cerwyn with his soldiers, and the fighting men and women of Houses Hornwood and Gabhar. Even the vassals of Skagos stood at attention in their furs, their daggers at the ready.
Behind them was Maester Ryam, unarmed, with a cluster of onlookers peeking for a view of the dragon. The Volantene Triarch, her swinging silk trousers studded with crystals, looked through a brass telescope toward the seashore. The barrel-chested Pentoshi Magister with his braided beard had not taken the time to button his burgundy coat. The Braavosi Vizier was nowhere to be seen, and Brienne was glad. This was a battle front. Civilians needed to stay safely out of the way.
General Davos saw her and nodded with a sigh of gratitude that she had arrived. “No aggression yet,” he said, his voice plain and direct, looking down toward the seashore. “We standby. We will not provoke him.” Brienne followed his gaze with her eyes.
Right below them, outside the City Walls on the gravelly shore of the harbor, crouched a dragon.
Drogon, that day in White Harbor, was the largest living creature in the known world. His black leathery wings spread the width of the beach. His head, sharp with shining red scales, was larger than the height of a man; when he yawned, each spindly tooth was the height of a child. His body was larger than a ship; his tail, a caravan of wagons.
But, for the moment, he caused no harm. He had landed on a stretch of the shore that disturbed no docks or ships. He only sat, swishing his tail in the water, blinking up at the crowd atop the wall with large orange eyes.
Brienne had to remind herself not to cower. She had faced death countless times. She had seen live men amputated and watched dead men kill her friends. Only days earlier, she had seen her own daughter at knife point.
And Drogon was the worst.
“He has shown no inclination of attack,” reported Maester Ryam in an official voice. “Only a minimal amount of flame on his breath that appears normal to his respiration. His behaviors present as feral, perhaps searching for food. He has no rider to direct him to attack.” He stretched his neck to look over the rampart. At the base of the City Walls, a hundred feet below them, Drogon looked almost close enough to touch. “All my research suggests he cannot attack unless commanded.” Below them, Drogon’s tail twitched like a cat looking up at a table-top, ready to leap up with an easy pounce. Maester Ryam shrunk away to hide behind the rampart. “At least, my research suggests he cannot attack.”
Next to him, an assistant held a cloak, rough-surfaced like chain mail, so heavy he nearly staggered under its weight. “We have been working on this with an alchemist from Pentos,” Maester Ryam said to Brienne. “It is fireproof for up to two minutes. At least in the blacksmith’s forge. We don’t know how it would withstand dragon fire, because –”
“Because it has not been tested,” Brienne said with a nod. She realized he was handing it to her.
“Everything will be ready at the base of the wall,” said General Davos. “We are fortunate the dragon has landed where it did. And as I have said before, My Lady,” he looked at her with brave and serious eyes, “I will ask to do this myself. You are too valuable to your people.”
“No,” Ser Brienne shook her head. “This is the North and I serve the Queen.” She let the Maester’s assistant buckle the fireproof cape over her shoulders. “Someday I will be gone,” she said quietly to Davos. “If it is today, I leave behind an army well-trained and a Queen well-protected. I cannot ask this sacrifice of anyone else.”
“Your legacy will always be honor, My Lady,” General Davos said, bowing his head with a sober look in his eyes. “You can go back down the stairs and pass through the tunnels of the Wolf’s Den, or there’s a ladder –”
Brienne swung a leg over the rampart and set off down a ladder hung on the outer side of the City Wall, directly to the beach below. To her surprise, Tormund began to climb down above her.
“What are you doing? You hate dragons,” she called up at him.
“I hate horses too,” Tormund called back. “But I like you.”
They climbed down slowly, the fireproof cloak heavy around Brienne’s shoulders. Drogon watched them lazily, his tail twitching. As they reached the level of the dragon’s head, Brienne realized he was even larger than she remembered. Around his face fluttered massive red and black leathery frills as big as barn doors. Brienne and Tormund reached the beach, cold in the shadowed valley between the City Wall and the body of the dragon towering above them. Still at least fifty feet away, Drogon was so large they could see his nostrils flare, tiny sparks flying with each breath.
Drogon looked directly at them with fiery orange eyes.
If I die today, what will happen to Ada? thought Brienne. She pushed the fear out of her head. Tormund reached out to steady her, his hand on his dagger. A dagger is foolish against a dragon, Brienne thought. But her heart swelled with courage to have him by her side.
Drogon looked at them curiously, but did not advance. He stayed back with his legs in the water of the harbor like the pilings of a wharf. Brienne remembered what Jaime Lannister had told her – he had once escaped Drogon’s flames by diving into a river. If Drogon attacked, there was a faint chance they might survive.
She prayed he would not attack. Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger .
At the base of the ladder was a heavy oak door in the City Wall. Brienne knocked on the door and, unbelievably, it creaked open. She sighed with relief. The plans were in place.
From the darkness of the doorway, a tin bell jangled. A large pair of eyes shimmered in the shadows. And then, as if pushed from behind, a massive beef cow emerged into the daylight of the seashore. It looked about, doe-eyed and unbothered. A simple leash hung from its neck.
“Oh shit,” said Tormund. “I like cows.”
A cynical voice came from the darkness in the wall. “We all like cows. But what we’d really like is for the dragon to leave us alone.”
It was Tyrion Lannister, stepping out to squint at the bright light of the sea. He took the leash and tugged.
“Lord Tyrion!” said Brienne. “Why are you here? We have a plan to follow. This fireproof cloak –”
“The cloak will likely melt under dragonfire, and you with it,” said Tyrion. “I have spent more time with dragons than both of you put together. And I would rather my niece not be left an orphan.”
He tugged the cow which followed him, patiently, as if it did not see the dragon. Had it been fed milk of the poppy? Brienne prayed it would not collapse before they could get away. She watched, realizing she had often forgot how small Tyrion Lannister truly was. A massive cow dwarfed him just as the dragon dwarfed them all.
Finally Tyrion and the cow reached the water’s edge, as close as they dared. Tyrion led it carefully as far as he could into the water, then dropped the leash and slowly backed away.
Drogon turned to watch curiously, his nostrils twitching as he noticed the cow. As he turned his huge head, Brienne could feel the heat of his breath. He arched his neck forward toward the cow and nudged the animal with his snout. He pushed it again, almost playfully.
Brienne turned back toward the wall, pushing Tyrion and Tormund toward the ladder, just as she felt a blast of heat behind her. Brienne reached her arms wide, spreading the metallic cloak out as far as she could, while the men sheltered close.
With a roaring blast of flame, Drogon killed his prey. The heat seared the back of Brienne’s neck and head.
FatherSmithWarriorMotherMaidenCroneStranger , she prayed.
But the cloak felt only warm. A cloud of smoke rose behind them with the dark odor of burning meat. They could hear the terrible noises of rending and tearing as Drogon took his meal.
“He’s done,” said Tormund, peeking out toward Drogon.
As they staggered toward the oak door, Drogon turned to look at them and opened his giant maw. From deep in his throat they could see the flame wink like a pit of fire.
Brienne reached for her sword with one arm and stretched out her other to spread the flameproof cloak.
But Drogon only looked sleepy, as if he had enjoyed his meal. Then suddenly, a flicker passed over his ugly face – a dead pale white, as if his eyes went completely blank.
For an instant Brienne almost fell to her knees in horror. But this was not the terrible ice-blue eyes of the Dead. It was only a white emptiness, and it was already gone.
“Good Gods,” said Tyrion. “That looks exactly like –”
Drogon twisted his tail. He crouched, he looked up at them. And then, unbelievably, he seemed to nod. Then the massive black dragon, like a flying ship with wings like mountains, lifted off the beach and flew into the sky.
Brienne breathed a great sigh, leaning against Tormund shamelessly in relief.
“What luck,” she said. “He was only hungry. It is possible, he could be trained –”
“No!” Tormund said. “It’s like I was telling you.” He shook his head, as wide-eyed and accepting as only a Wildling could be. “Her brother will steer it.”
“Her brother? Jon Snow can ride a dragon, but he is miles away.”
“Not ride it. Steer it.” Tormund nodded up at the dragon. “Those white eyes. The cross-eyed brother in the wheelchair is a warg.”
Brienne looked at him in amazement, finally understanding. “Bran can warg into a dragon?
“Why not?” Tormund shrugged. “He’s the Three-Eyed Raven.”
“I never did understand what that means,” Brienne said.
“It means we’re safe,” said Tyrion. “Probably. King Bran has never known how well he could control such a large beast at such a long distance. And there is always the danger that Drogon could become agitated by the process.”
They watched the dragon circle in the sky above them. It seemed they were right. Drogon was not Bran, but Bran might have looked out from behind his eyes. He had calmed him – steered him, even – and after the dragon had fed, he launched him into the sky.
Far above them, the vast black wings flapped until their shadows on the City Wall grew small. And finally Drogon flew north into nothingness.
“The City survived,” said Lady Eddara to Queen Sansa, who sat at her writing-desk with a parchment and quill. The Queen’s ladies looked out the tall glass windows over White Harbor. “The Final Night’s Feast might be a riotous one.”
The Queen understood. She could feel the revelry of an entire city’s relief rising up from the streets outside, as bells and music rang out from the people. “I will make an announcement tonight,” she said. She waved her hand over the parchment to dry the ink, then handed the message to Lady Eddara.
Lady Eddara read it, nodded, and passed it to Jeyne Poole, who happily read it aloud to the room.
I, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, decree that I will follow all Stark Monarchs before me: all children borne of my body will be Starks.
My domicile has always been, and will always be, in Winterfell.
My choices in marriage will be private ones, known only between myself, my family and my gods.
“It sounds lovely. And fierce. But what does it mean?” asked Jeyne.
“It means that she might marry for love, but that’s nobody’s business,” said Lady Wylla.
Lady Eddara nodded. “It means that her bannermen – and her cousin Robin Arryn – should stop pestering her to wed. She will never leave to live as a wife of another house, and her children will never bear another’s name.”
Queen Sansa nodded. “Which should be obvious by the fact that I am Queen. And should be possible for any woman who marries.”
Jeyne Poole rolled her eyes. “Not all women want that, Sansa,” she said. “For example, when I marry Cley, I will be Lady Cerwyn and our children will be Cerwyns!” She looked around the little group proudly as she announced it. The ladies all smiled. This was not a surprise. But then Jeyne’s eyes grew narrow as the thought occurred to her: “Wait, Sansa!” She said, looking suspicious. “Does this mean you are married to Podrick Payne?”
The Queen in the North answered only with a smile.
She dressed that night in her coronation gown. Jeyne braided a wreath of riverstones into her hair, pearly-white agates brought from the Riverlands.
Just as they finished, she was surprised by the arrival of Mistress Bootse. The woman carried a great fur cape buckled with a silver wolf.
“I’d been working on the wolf for weeks,” she said. “The furs are from the Sisterhood.”
Sansa looked at the cape with amazement. “From them? But they cannot – they do not have enough for themselves to be so generous, do they?”
“Poor in some ways, rich in others,” she said. “Many have received gifts over the years, as did their mothers before them. All kinds of furs and finery are stowed away in brothels. The real treasure is in the craft – they took turns sewing day and night when they decided you needed it. You can see where the stitches are only basting. And they warn there might still be pins in it.”
Sansa smiled. Pins and basting were a language she spoke well. Then she shook her head. “I cannot accept it. They do not even have stockings.”
“They are your subjects, and you are their Queen,” said Mistress Bootse. “It is a rule of your realm, Your Majesty. They honor you with a tribute, no less than your own bannermen.”
Sansa nodded as Mistress Bootse draped it about her shoulders.
The cape was a quilt of many pelts, arranged from light to dark. White rabbit at the neck, then soft ermine and the brown of a wolf. Heavy dark bear fur held down the hem. It was a glorious mosaic of craftwork that seemed to tell dozens of stories.
“They want you to wear it at the feast tonight, over your coronation gown,” said Mistress Bootse. Then her tone changed and she turned toward the door. “Seven Heavens! The Lady Knight – you really are as big as they say!”
It was Brienne of Tarth, bearing a large parcel wrapped in leather. Sansa looked worriedly at her Lady Commander. “What is it?” Brienne never interfered with the Queen’s dressing room.
“This is a state dinner, My Lady,” said Brienne. “By tradition, a monarch wears ceremonial arms. I brought you Daughter of Ice, your longsword, and Lady Poole has prepared a scabbard for it. But I also have something else.”
It was the Valyrian steel dagger, its antler-shaped handle gilded with gold.
Sansa recognized it immediately. “Arya’s dagger!” She froze. “Has my sister fallen into danger? Wait, is my sister here?” Those who knew Sansa well could see that she was not eager for either situation.
“A dagger much like Arya’s, yes. But it is not identical — Winterfell’s armorer was able to describe differences in the blade and hilt. This was found in the Ash Ridge. It suggests, like we discussed, there is great treasure there that you should take care to properly store.”
Queen Sansa took the dagger. Remembering Brienne’s lessons she gripped the hilt carefully, first out, and then flipped it, and aimed down. She had still never stabbed someone, but she had practiced enough that the gesture looked expert. “It is too large to conceal,” she said. “It will not replace the silver knife in my stocking.”
Lady Poole frowned. “You’ve been hiding a knife in your stocking?”
“For weeks now,” said Sansa.
“All ladies hide a knife these days, Mother,” said Jeyne Poole with a sigh.
“I know you disdain Daughter of Ice,” said Brienne. “It has a dark history, and the dagger does too. But they are powerful and magnificent weapons, and they are yours. You have inherited them and you are responsible for them. It is right to display them.”
“It would look well with the fur cape this evening,” said Lady Poole. “The longsword would look very fine too – but it is so heavy.”
“They are not too heavy for me,” said Sansa Stark. “I will wear them both.”
The crowd in the Merman’s Court was raucous before the feast even started.
Her Majesty Sansa, Queen in the North, whose name is Stark
Queen of Winter and Lady of Winterfell
Daughter of the Last Warden.
Queen Sansa Stark stepped on the dais. The silver direwolf crown sparkled atop her head and the white riverstones dripped from her hair like snow. From her shoulders to the floor hung a magnificent cape of many furs. At her left hip, a scabbard held Daughter of Ice. And the dagger from the Ash Ridge – already becoming known simply as the Queen's Dagger – was buckled at her right.
On either side of her stood a young direwolf. One with fur cast in blue, the other gray with dappled white. They stood proud and fierce, and when the Queen lifted a finger both sat at attention, looking out at the assembly and sniffing the air.
She was magnificent. The crowd, as festive as they had been moments before, fell quiet. After weeks of politics and feasting, weeks of fear and triumph, they were dumbfounded like silly children at the sight of their own queen.
Brienne of Tarth sighed. Sometimes, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. She turned, stomped her foot, and declared over the silence in her sparkling voice, as clear as sapphires.
"Queen. In. The. North,” she demanded.
Queen in the North! they called in response.
Queen in the North.
Queen in the North.