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Chapter Text

Tyrion staggered into his room in the newly-built Blue Hold, wine streaking from his lips to his neck as he drank deeply from a bottle of Arbor Gold.

"Good wine, good wine," he uttered under his breath.

Under the rebuilding efforts, King's Landing was slowly starting to reclaim a semblance of its former self. The brothels and taverns had swiftly reopened, lifting the spirits of the men working tirelessly to restore the capital. Tyrion would have preferred to have a whore or two in his arms right now as well, but the rebuilding efforts kept him too busy and distracted to indulge, though the same cannot be said for his dear friend Bronn.

So busy.

Because of damn Daenerys and her dragon.

Why did she have to go mad like her father did, Tyrion asked himself for the umpteenth time since her passing three years ago.

Might as well, he thought. The rebuild efforts would not have gone so swimmingly had she been in charge. Too opinionated to take the advice of her advisors (what's the point of making them advisors if she wouldn't listen?!) and too stupidly idealistic with delusions of grandeur supported by nothing but brute force.

The best things she was good at were speeches to her bloodthirsty army and riding her damned dragon, wherever that thing is right now.

"What a mess...of all things you had to become just like your father..." Tyrion mumbled.

"Is this how you comfort yourself into sleeping soundly at night, Lord Tyrion?"

The familiar voice jolted Tyrion, snapping him out of his drunken haze. He spun around, but the room was empty, save for himself.

"Here, Lord Tyrion," the voice sounded amused.

A flame flickered from the candlestick nearest his bedside, catching his eye. He staggered towards it but froze, recoiling at the sight of a face within the fire. It was the face of a graceful woman, her expression calm yet unnerving. Her aura exuded serenity, but her intense eyes and the hooded deep red cloak, concealing most of her long dark hair, made her presence unsettling.

It was Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Temple of R'hllor, the same woman he and Varys had spoken with in Meereen years ago.

"How are you enjoying your new life after killing your liege?" Kinvara spoke with a calm tone, though a mocking curl played at her lips.

"Last I checked, King Bran is alive and doing pretty well," Tyrion snorted, "What do you want?"

"Do you remember what I said the last time we met, Lord Tyrion? Do you recall how the Spider died?"

Tyrion's stomach tied a knot and he bit his lower lip. 

"...Varys died by dragonfire, not divine consequences. Daenerys… Daenerys died because she was becoming...no, because she had become a tyrant." Tyrion glared at the near-expressionless face in the fire. Even speaking her name made him feel ill.

"You said she was the Prince That Was Promised and that she would bring peace and balance. I call bullshit. She murdered innocents, Kinvara. Men, women, and children, none were spared from her madness. They surrendered and she still burnt them. Is that the peace and balance you spoke of? It looks a lot more like darkness and destruction, all built upon the blood and tears of innocents!"

If that is your peace and balance, then your god is evil, Tyrion wanted to say, but decided to hold his tongue. 

"Is that what you truly believed, Lord Tyrion?" Kinvara asked smilingly, unfazed by Tyrion's fury and accusations. "Divine punishments come in many forms. Do you know what comes after destruction? Have you even seen true destruction?"

Tyrion inhaled deeply. "I will no longer entertain your riddles and games, sorceress. Begone!"

Kinvara chuckled.

"I've heard that Lannisters always pay their debts. That's good."

Kinvara seemed to have leaned forward as her face grows larger in the flame.

"But remember this, Lord Tyrion, the Lord of Light shall too, collect his debts in no time."

She smiled, then the flame flickered out, leaving only a burnt candle wick and dark smoke.

Tyrion's heart pounded as he fell onto his bed, his mind returning to the Pyramid of Meereen.

Tyrion sat at the steps waiting for Daenerys, who appeared by the archway above and slowly made her way down the stairs, looking slightly tired and without any sign of positive emotions. She was leaving Daario behind at Meereen to sail to Westeros with her army. He knew Daenerys was fond of the sellsword but this was a necessary step for her to take if she were to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"You turned away from the man who truly loves you because he would be a liability in the Seven Kingdoms. That's the kind of self-sacrifice that makes for a good ruler, if it's any consolation," he said, hoping that his heartfelt compliment could lift her spirits. 

"It's not,
" Daenerys said dryly. 

"I suppose not. I'm terrible at consoling," Tyrion replied.

"Yes, you really are," a small smile broke on her face as she sat down next to him on the steps. 

That was what she was like, casual and approachable, even to the lowest of society, very unlike what he had heard and known of her father Aerys II, and the two Kings he had served - Robert and Joffrey. 

Robert had a distaste for House Lannister and this distaste carried over to his relationship with him and his sister Cersei. Robert was not interested in being a King, while Joffrey was a spoilt brat, who predictably became a cruel and foolish tyrant. Tommen had become King after Joffrey, but Tyrion knew the boy was too soft to be an effective King and the Crown's power would no sooner land onto Cersei's greedy hands.

Daenerys was none of that. She was interested, invested, willing to listen and learn, kind and gentle of heart but has the tenacity and determination to do whatever was necessary, especially if it was for the better good. Who best to sit on the Iron Throne? 

"All right. How about the fact that this is actually happening? You have your armies, you have your ships, you have your dragons. Everything you've wanted, since you are old enough to want, it's all yours for the taking. Are you afraid?"

Daenerys merely looked at him before she turned away. Her hesitation to reply and the slight quivering of her lips that she failed to conceal made him feel relieved. 

"Good. You are in the great game now, and the great game is terrifying. The only people who aren't afraid of failure are madmen like your father," Tyrion warned her gently, half wondering if she would be upset at his words. She may have a powerful advantage on her side, but no one knows what's going to happen the moment she lands in Westeros. Although born in Dragonstone, she had spent her entire life in Essos, and could easily be seen as a foreign invader, especially since she was bringing in a foreign army. Tyrion also knew many lords remembered the best and the worst of Targaryen rule, and that could either be in their favour or not. He needs to prepare her for that. 

Daenerys turned to look at him immediately at the mention of her father, but there was no anger, only contemplation. 

"Do you know what frightens me? I said farewell to a man who loves me, a man I thought I cared for and I felt nothing, just impatient to get on with it," she said quietly. 

She is afraid this lack of empathy and care meant she could be spiralling towards the madness of her father, he realised. 

"He wasn't the first to love you and he won't be the last," he consoled as kindly as he could. He didn't fully understand her feelings for Daario, but he certainly wasn't fit for her and she certainly didn't love him the way books, plays and ballads sing of love. Not to mention he would be an obstacle to her clinching a beneficial political marriage. It was actually good she didn't feel too bad about leaving Daario behind, but this wasn't something he could say to her face, at least not now. Even though he was bad at consoling people, he could still read people pretty well and he knew she felt worse than she was admitting to.

"Well, you have completely failed to console me," Daenerys declared as she stood up and turned to face Tyrion with a serious expression. 

Tyrion stood up and stared into her violet eyes, his own eyes steel-like with conviction yet soft and gentle.

"For what it's worth, I've been a cynic as long as I can remember. Everyone's always asking me to believe in things - family, gods, kings, myself. It was often tempting, until I saw where belief got people so I said no thank you to belief. And yet, here I am... I believe in you," Tyrion said. 

His words were heartfelt, but right after it spilled out of his mouth, he felt his face burn hot. It has been a long time since he met someone he could spill his guts out to, and he didn't think it would be a Targaryen of all people. "It's embarrassing, really. I'd swear you my sword but I don't actually own a sword," he joked. 

Daenerys' lips curled in amusement. "It's your counsel I need."

"It's yours, now and always," Tyrion swore.

"Good," Daenerys nodded and smiled, pleased, and he smiled too. 

"I, umm, had something made for you. I'm not sure if it's right," Daenerys said almost shyly, her hands slightly fidgety as she drew out a brooch and carefully pinned it onto his shirt. He looked at her blankly and she looked back at him reassuringly. 

"Tyrion Lannister, I name you Hand of the Queen."

He blinked, then he stared at her.

Are you sure? Are you for real? Are you serious? He wanted to ask her. But the look on her sweet face, eyes ever so kind and gentle and reassuring, already gave him the answers. 

This kindness to him and faith in him, was beyond anything his so-called family and the Kings he had loyally served before had given him. He knelt down on a knee and bowed to her, head lowered as he called her his queen. He was glad he could do that, for she was everything he had wished for in a monarch, and also because he didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes. He knew sweet Daenerys would wipe his tears away but he did not want to show weakness to her. He wanted to be strong in her eyes, and be strong for her. 

Tyrion blinked and a tear fell. He dug his hand into his shirt and pulled out a necklace, from which the brooch now hung at. 

His heart sickened as he stared at the brooch. He had tried to dispose of it so many times before, but whenever he did so he would always find it back as though he was possessed. 

Belief. It was his belief that led him to where he is today, and also Daenerys' belief that led her down the road of self-destruction. 

"If you ever have the chance to be born again, I wish you to be born in a peaceful place with a happy family," he whispered, stroking the brooch gently as his eyes gradually closed, drifting into a deep sleep.

********

Large blue eyes stare dead at her, an excruciating pain and panic grasping her heart as if toying with it.

More coldness. 

The stares. 

The whispers. 

The silence. 

The schemes. 

Chains around a body and a falling head. 

Whispers of dracarys swirl around her, some harsh, some soft, some giggly. 

Ashes float down onto her cold palms as she stood in a decimated room where the Iron Throne stood still and silent.

Wake up, child. 

“……”

So strong yet so soft. Full of fire yet your flames blow cold. You are the last of us, you have to march on no matter what.

“……”

You are called Stormborn? Use your dragon to bring down a storm of fire and blood upon your enemies.

“……”

Looks like it has to be me after all. Fine. I will help you. Come, child. It’s time for you to break from the chains of your nightmare and wake. 

She looks down and sees a dagger stuck in her chest. 

Shocked, she screams but no sound comes out of her as she falls. 

And falls and falls......

********

Daenerys gasped as her eyes snapped open. 

Her hands went to her chest, which was heaving with rapid breaths, but the dagger was gone.

She ripped open her robe and saw what looked like a burnt scar spread across her chest, the centre of which was where the dagger had stabbed her. Memories of her last moments rushed in and she broke into tears. Her hands clawed at the scar and she struggled to breathe in between tears, a throbbing pain tugging at a broken heart.

"Oh good, you are finally awake."

Daenerys’ head snapped towards the sound of the voice. Standing there was a woman in a deep red robe, watching her intently with a subtle smile. She approached but halted a few steps away, gazing down at the crouching Daenerys with the look of a passive stranger observing a child who had just lost her mother.

Daenerys’ eyes flickered around the room. Clad in nothing but a thin white robe, she stood in a dimly lit circular chamber, surrounded by tall candle stands with flames that flickered and danced in the shadows.

"Who are you? Where am I?"

"You are at the Grand Temple of R'hllor at Volantis, Mother of Dragons. I am Kinvara, the High Priestess of the Lord of Light," Kinvara’s smile widened, but Daenerys felt only the coldness that had a firm grasp in her chest. 

"Temple of R'hllor? Volantis...? How..." 

"Do you remember what happened?"

A sharp pain pierced Daenerys' chest as a barrage of unwanted images flooded her mind. She clutched her head with both hands, trembling uncontrollably.

Kinvara stared into the dancing flame behind Daenerys.

"......Would you like to know what happened after your death three years ago?" 

"Three years ago?" Daenerys was astounded. She touched her face and examined her body.

It's still her. The same silver hair too. 

But if she had been dead for three years, how is she not a rotting carcass or a pile of bones by now? And how is she even still alive?

"Yes, three years ago," Kinvara nodded lightly, "We brought you back to life not long after your passing but it may be that you preferred to remain asleep, so we let you sleep until you are ready to wake."

Daenerys stared at her, not sure what to think or say of this.

"Where is my dragon?" 

"Do not worry about your child, Mother of Dragons. He is safe and sound. In fact, it was he who brought you to us," Kinvara smiled, before repeating her question, "Would you like to know what happened after your death three years ago?"

Without waiting for Daenerys' response, she started, "Bran Stark became the King of Westeros shortly after your passing. The North had become independent. Alas, your promise to the Iron Islands was not adhered to, and it remains firmly in Westeros' clutches. Tyrion Lannister who orchestrated your death, became Hand of the King. As for Jon Snow..." 

She observed Daenerys, whose face was obscured in shadows, but her increasingly rapid breathing, visible trembling, and clenched fists revealed everything Kinvara wanted to know.

"He was exiled to the Night's Watch, but he had since went to beyond the Wall with the Free Folk, embracing a new life away from politics. As for you... You are the tyrant who needed to die. Some would call you the Queen of Ashes, or, the Mad Queen..."

"Urgh!" Daenerys screamed as she slammed her balled fists onto the hard ground. "This is unfair! After all I had done for them, all I had lost, all I had gone through, they betray me?! And calls me the Mad Queen?!”

After her initial burst of rage, Daenerys began to laugh - a hollow, bitter sound that echoed through the room. She laughed until her sides ached, but soon the laughter gave way to tears, and she crumbled, sobbing uncontrollably.

Kinvara watched, but did not move or intervene. She stood there for as long as Daenerys wept. 

After an untold amount of time had passed, Daenerys wiped her tears away, stood up and faced Kinvara.

"How's my people?" Daenerys breathed deeply. She had lost everything. She hated to think what could befall her people should the news of her downfall spread, and it must have been known throughout Essos by now. Afterall, it's been three years.

"Rest assured your people remains free, Mother of Dragons," Kinvara said with a tinge of warmth, "Daario Naharis still rules as Lord Regent with a council of advisors chosen by the Meereenese. Your Unsullied led by Grey Worm sailed for Naath, though some stayed at Dragonstone, guarding the remains of your legacy. Your Khalasar had mostly returned to where they belonged. They continue as they were, but they do not infringe upon the Bay of Dragons."

Daenerys shut her eyes and sighed in relief. 

It would appear that Daario had remained loyal. Not only did he continue to stay and protect the Bay of Dragons, her people had not fallen back into slavery as well. She would prefer the Unsullied to have returned to the Bay to protect the cities but she understood they had chosen their own path. 

Naath. 

A tear fell. 

It's good that they chose Naath. 

She was about to relax when her heart tightened.

Tyrion and Jon remained well and alive, while her army left Westeros. 

Something wasn't right.

"Did no one avenge me?"

Daenerys couldn't believe it. Grey Worm lived, so did her thousands of Unsullied and tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers. She understood why the Dothraki might not have done so, but the Unsullied? They were absolutely loyal to her. It didn't make sense that they didn't tear her murderers and usurpers apart. 

"Did they...not know who did it?" She asked softly with a quiet hope, but it was dashed with the silence she met from Kinvara, an answer in itself.

A grin, wild with disbelief and hurt, spread across Daenerys' face. 

This must be some kind of a ridiculous joke. What else to respond to an unbelievable joke with, except with a wide-eyed grin?

"Are you angry at them?"

Daenerys stared blankly at the ground, each pore and every imperfection of the stone tiles seared into her mind.

"They are free men who can make their own decision. I have no cause and reason to be angry at them for exercising their rights. But I am disappointed because I believed they were loyal to me and would at least avenge me."

"Your men were loyal, but they were also weary of the long journey, constant warring, the loss of countless brother-in-arms... and the loss of you," Kinvara said evenly. "They saw what the wars cost them, and your death killed the last of their fighting spirits. Without you, they know not what to do except to seek for peace. They were slaves, after all."

The coldness that had gripped Daenerys' heart slowly crawled away as Kinvara spoke. Finally able to relax and breathe well again, Daenerys lifted her head and looked into Kinvara's eyes.

“Why do you help me?”

Kinvara's smile returned. “Because you are the champion chosen by the Lord of Light. You may have accomplished your prophesied purpose, but it was not his intention for you to go the way you did.” She furrowed her eyebrows, “The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. Even I do not know what he intends for you moving forward.”

“I am his champion? But you did not watch over me the first time round,” Daenerys muttered. 

“We did,” Kinvara smiled faintly, “But the Lord had his plans, and all of your sufferings, victories, pain and joy were a part of it. We were not to over-intervene.”

Daenerys said nothing as she looked away.

"I want to leave."

"Very well. Please follow me, Mother of Dragons."

Daenerys hesitated for a moment before following Kinvara through a door, which revealed what looked like a neverending brightly lit stone corridor. 

"There must be a price for all this," Daenerys frowned.

"No. Take it as a...reward from the Lord of Light."

"It does not bother him if I intend to use this reward to harm others?" 

"Would you be bothered?" 

Daenerys fell silent. 

Daenerys and Kinvara walked side by side down the brightly lit stone corridor, the flames from torches along the walls casting sharp shadows in the brilliant light, their footsteps echoing. The passage, straight at first, began to curve gently, winding into what seemed like an endless spiral that sloped upward. 

As they ascended for what felt like an eternity, Daenerys grew weary, her breath coming in short gasps, while Kinvara moved effortlessly, unfazed by the climb. 

Finally, the slope leveled, and Kinvara pushed open a heavy stone door at the corridor's end. Beyond it lay a vast, open field of lush green grass dotted with wildflowers, their petals swaying gently in the breeze. Not far off, a sleek silver horse stood tethered to a tree, waiting. 

Kinvara turned and beckoned to Daenerys, her eyes gleaming, urging her to follow towards the horse.

"Looks like the one Khal Drogo gave you, doesn't it?" Kinvara said as she rubbed and patted the horse's head. 

Daenerys stroked the horse, memories flooding back. 

She shook her head.

No, I must only look forward.

Kinvara unfastened a long sword from the horse's side and, with a solemn grace, placed it carefully into Daenerys' hands.

Daenerys was startled by how light the sword felt in her hand, as though it were an extension of herself. The grip, forged from blackened steel, was adorned with intricate lines that coiled like a dragon wrapping itself around a pillar. The pommel was shaped like flickering flames, while the crossguard resembled dragon scales, with a gleaming ruby set at its centre, giving the sword a regal yet dangerous air.

She drew the blade from its leather scabbard, revealing a slender, razor-sharp edge that tapered to a lethal point, with faint silver patterns swirling across the steel like smoke drifting in the wind.

“What is this?” Daenerys whispered, her gaze fixed on the blade as her heart raced with an odd pleasure and joy. 

The name almost escaped her lips, but how could it be? This blade had been lost for years.

"You know the name," Kinvara smiled faintly, "We found and secured it two years ago. The Lord of Light sees it fit to return the blade to its true owner.”

"There is another one," Daenerys touched the silver patterns on the blade, mesmerised.

"Perhaps one day it will reappear, when the time is right," Kinvara replied.

Kinvara reached into her robe and drew out a delicate, thin bracelet. Its design was subtle, with a smooth, almost unremarkable band of dark metal that seemed to blend into her hand. But at its centre was a striking red ruby, small yet vivid, catching the light and glowing with an inner fire. The gemstone, though modest in size, gave the bracelet an air of quiet power and mystery.

"Take this too, Mother of Dragons. You'd need this, for safe travels."

"This is many gifts in a day, Kinvara."

Is there really no price to all these, Daenerys wondered. Whenever she received something, she always needed to pay, and the prices were usually heavy. 

Kinvara laughed softly. 

"The price had already been paid for, so you need not pay any further, Mother of Dragons."

"It has? What is it?" Daenerys narrowed her eyes. 

"You will know in time to come. Rest assure that the Lord of Light will not harm his champion," was all Kinvara was willing to say.

Kinvara's voice dropped low as she taught Daenerys how to use the bracelet. She claimed it has the ability to shroud its user to hide their presence, or to change its user’s appearance. It seemed complex at first, but the words soon seared into Daenerys' mind and she very nearly collapsed from a sudden pain in her head. By the time she recovered and looked up, Kinvara was gone. 

Kinvara had not provided any guidance or clues as to what she must do, but she understood this was very much like the time when she first led her khalasar into the Red Waste - the choice and the road ahead was hers alone. 

She unfastened the bag strapped to the horse's side and found more items: a fresh set of clothes, a black robe fastened with a silver dragon brooch, a water skin, a small supply of rations, and a map that marked her current location just outside the city of Volantis.

"Thank you," Daenerys whispered. 

She dressed quickly, fastening the cloak with a snap of the brooch. Mounting the horse, she cast one last glance at the Temple before riding away. 

Her new life had begun.

Chapter Text

As dawn broke, the members of the Small Council gathered in their stone chamber.

Tyrion was the last to enter, and all eyes turned to him as he stepped inside.

“Well, my apologies. Slight hangover, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to sound casual as he took his seat at the table. “The King?”

Brienne tensed slightly.

“The King is indisposed at the moment.”

“I see. Let’s proceed, then,” Tyrion nodded.

“I have an important matter to discuss,” said the man seated at the far end of the table, drawing Tyrion’s attention.

Aldric, the Master of Whisperers, was personally appointed by King Bran two years ago. Unlike Varys, he had a full head of hair, neatly tied into a ponytail. His thick brows were perpetually furrowed, giving him a troubled look. Despite his thin and frail appearance, King Bran must have had his reasons for selecting this mysterious unknown figure for such a vital position. Rumours swirled that Aldric had taken over Varys' spy network, though no one knew for certain if it was true. What was undeniable, however, was that his information was rarely ever wrong.

"As you all may recall, after the fall of Daenerys Targaryen, her Unsullied and Dothraki forces were granted safe passage back to their homelands. However, a number of Dothraki had remained behind."

"Ah yes, those savages," Edmure Tully, the Master of War, grunted grimly. "They’ve been marauding across the realm as if they own it. Recently, they even raided my lands. They don’t just raid and burn, they’ve violated countless women too. The lords and smallfolk have rightfully become angry and fearful.”

"The same horrors happen wherever they go,” Yohn Royce, the Master of Laws, added. "They’ve been nomadic since their unwelcome stay, but I’ve just received word that they’ve established base at Harrenhal."

All eyes turned to Edmure, whose face turned red.

"My hands are already full dealing with the Dothraki plundering the Riverlands. I have limited resources dealing with Harrenhal," Edmure retorted weakly. 

"But you have to get it back. Harrenhal is of strategic importance," Davos Seaworth, the Master of Ships, stressed. 

"Haven’t we tried negotiating with them?" Grand Maester Samwell Tarly interjected, and Edmure looked at him gratefully.

"Negotiate? The Dothraki don’t negotiate! Every time we send an envoy, the only thing that comes back is the envoy’s head!" Bronn exclaimed, clearly agitated. "They’re nothing but savages."

"We’ve tolerated them far too long," Bronn continued, his voice hard. "It’s time we put an end to this."

"I agree. We can’t allow them to continue ravaging our lands and people," said Davos.

Tyrion glanced around the room, then turned to Aldric. "Aldric, what’s your take on this?"

Aldric’s gaze moved across the faces of his fellow councillors before he spoke softly. "You’re all speaking of them as if they’re one group, but in truth, there are two distinct Dothraki factions in Westeros right now. The one based at Harrenhal is 5,000 strong, led by a Khal Aggo. The other group, numbering 8,000, is a roaming force led by a Khal Morokos."

Recognition flashed across Tyrion’s face. "Aggo? He was Daenerys' bloodrider, a key leader in her horde."

"Well, he’s the ‘kinder’ one," Aldric remarked dryly, the sarcasm unmistakable. "His horde plunders but doesn’t rape, claiming it was forbidden by Daenerys Targaryen. He refuses to leave because he believes she’ll return."

"A fool, then," Yohn muttered.

"It’s Khal Morokos’ horde that Lord Tully and Lord Stokeworth are complaining about," Aldric continued. "He commands the larger, more aggressive force. He’s the one we must deal with first."

"The realm is still reeling from the past years of political instability and wars. The lords won't easily agree to another conflict," Samwell cautioned.

"It's been three years, more than enough time for any decent lord to get their shit together. Or are we supposed to keep letting those savages run wild?" Bronn scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Of course not! I’m just..." Samwell began, but Tyrion silenced him with a raised hand.

"Enough. I’ve heard all your concerns. I’m well aware that the lords will hesitate at the prospect of fighting the Dothraki, given their reputation. But who said we have to fight them?"

Everyone turned their eyes to Tyrion, intrigued. He smirked, pleased to have their attention.

"The Dothraki only follow a Khal as long as he stays on his horse, or, to put it bluntly, as long as he’s well and alive. Now we have two factions with opposing loyalties: one still clinging to a fallen queen, and another that no longer follows her..."

Edmure grinned, catching on. "Ah, you sly little imp. You plan to set them against each other."

Tyrion gave a mock bow. "I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you, Lord Tully."

Aldric gave a rare smile, albeit a thin one, "Leave this to me then. My spies will find opportune moments to whisper the right words to their ears, then all we have to do is to sit and wait for them to rip each other apart like rabid dogs."

Davos frowned. 

"I don't care about that Khal Morokos and his horde for they had committed atrocities. But after their internal fight have concluded, I propose to offer Khal Aggo and his men safe passage one last time, in return for them leaving peacefully."

"If they survive at all," Aldric raised a brow, "And what if they refuse to leave?"

"Then we make a move to forcibly remove them," Davos replied, his brow twitching.

"You are being soft with them," Bronn snorted.

Davos scowled at Bronn. "I simply do not wish to further the conflict. It's also one last mercy for those who once fought for our lives."

Bronn snorted in derision but was quickly interrupted by Tyrion, "We will do what's necessary to reduce casualties, of course. It would be for the best if we can avoid going to war again."

"Sounds great. Now the second issue I want to discuss is Highgarden," Bronn huffed. 

"What about Highgarden?" Tyrion asked, surprised. The Tyrells had always managed the lands well. If Bronn had maintained their systemic methods of running the territory, there shouldn’t be any management issues.

"It has been three years since I was appointed as Lord of Highgarden, but House Florent, House Redwyne and House Hightower continue to refuse showing me the proper respect as such. They do not answer my calls and when they do, they do so with disrespect. They would either not show up or send a mere bannerman," Bronn growled. 

"Lord of Highgarden, but not Lord Paramount of the Reach. It is not unusual they would not respond to your calls as vassals. Particularly House Florent, who always felt they had a greater claim to Highgarden, even over the Tyrells," Yohn said quietly, yet the words rang loud and clear in the chambers. 

"Excuse me? What did you say?" Bronn scowled. 

"What I'm saying is you should get your own business in line, Lord Stokeworth," Yohn said, his brows furrowed in barely concealed annoyance, "It is not the Small Council's business to manage a Lord's lands and their neighbours."

"I'd say it is the Small Council's business because this is affecting regional diplomacy," Bronn retorted, his eyes flashing dangerously at Yohn. "They had never shown such disrespect to those turncoats House Tyrell before.”

"House Tyrell was the Lord Paramount of the Reach," Yohn repeated, saying nothing more as it was not needed.

Bronn gritted his teeth. 

"I am Lord of Highgarden. Should I not be the Lord Paramount of the Reach?" he muttered in displeasure. He looked up at Tyrion, "This must be fixed."

Tyrion sighed inwardly. This would be difficult to push, even if King Bran was never one to reject the Small Council's proposals. Although Bronn had only named the Florents, Redwynes and the Hightowers, Tyrion knew few noble houses in the Reach truly took to Bronn. If he or even King Bran tried to officially name Bronn as Lord Paramount, the Reach's nobles would surely fight it, especially House Florent and House Redwyne, with the former always feeling they had a stronger claim to the Reach than the Tyrells, and the latter's relation with the Tyrells such as the late Lady Olenna.

The nobles already hated it when Bronn was made both the Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin. Even as the Hand, Tyrion did not fully call the shots and he knew there would be more than one voice within the Small Council objecting to the appointment should it come to pass. 

"Well, I will consult with the King," Tyrion finally said. 

Bronn eyed him suspiciously but relented, "All right. Keep me updated."

Yohn rolled his eyes but said nothing, turning his face away when Bronn glowered at him in response. 

"Next on the agenda is something we had not spoken of but should have a long time ago," Yohn's eyes swept across the room, "What of Dragonstone?"

Tyrion rubbed his temples. As with the Dothraki, not all of the Unsullied had left with Grey Worm. A small garrison of Unsullied, said to be around a thousand men, had remained at Dragonstone, guarding it and repelling any attempts from the Small Council to retake it. Preoccupied with the rebuilding efforts, Tyrion had allowed the matter to slide but had repeatedly sent an envoy requesting for them to vacate Dragonstone under the promise of safe passage, all of which were refused. The last communication was three months ago, with yet another refusal by the Unsullied to leave. 

"It's a godforsaken place," Bronn said loudly and in derision, "Now word has it that it's cursed. Those who occupied it since the Rebellion had not fared well in it."

"Has the Unsullied bothered any ships sailing past?" Tyrion asked.

"No, they have not," Davos replied, "But we never know if they will ever do anything, especially with the Velaryons involved."

"The Velaryons?" Samwell looked at Davos, surprised.

"Don't act so surprised, Maester Tarly," Yohn said dryly, "The Targaryens and the Velaryons were Valyrian houses with friendly relationships and had intermarried for generations. The Unsullied are soldiers, not traders or fishermen. They are doing well mostly because they are well supported by the Velaryons who provide for them in the guise of trade."

"Which is very interesting," Aldric tapped his fingers on the table, with the sound unnerving Tyrion. "They do so even after the extinction of House Targaryen with Daenerys Targaryen's death. Do they have some foolish sentiments and hopes like Khal Aggo, or do they know something we don't know of?"

"Like what?" Edmure asked.

"We never did see her body..."

"Jon would not lie," Samwell cuts in tartly. 

"I'm not suggesting that, Maester Tarly," Aldric held his gaze, and Samwell turned away uncomfortably. "I'm just saying we need to know if these people are just delusional or is there something deeper."

"Well there’s your job then," Tyrion interjected.

"Of course," Aldric agreed.

"We should stop the Velaryons. Cut off the supplies and the Unsullied will either die or be forced to evict," Yohn said as he turned to look at Tyrion.

Tyrion nodded his head. "I will draft a letter demanding the Velaryons to cease and desist. Once the Unsullied is gone, we shall station a small garrison there until the King decides to appoint someone to oversee it."

The council members nodded in approval.  

The rest of the meeting went well and elicited none of the emotions as the first two topics did, though Bronn was clearly in a foul mood as he left the chambers hurriedly after the conclusion of the meeting. 

Tyrion watched Bronn stomp away and considered approaching him, but decided that discussing the matter with him after he had vented his frustrations at the taverns and pleasure houses would be more beneficial. He too, needed a break, though his cannot be relieved with alcohol and whores. Kinvara's sneer and taunting words from two moons ago continue to haunt him. And there was the matter of Bran. He may not have been the most enthusiastic King, but missing three council meetings in a row was uncharacteristic even for him.

"Lord Tyrion," Brienne called out.

Good, just the person to speak to, Tyrion thought. 

"Lady Brienne, you said the King was indisposed. Is he well?"

Brienne stiffened at Tyrion's question. 

"His Grace is well, Lord Tyrion," was all Brienne said and Tyrion knew when not to push. But if Bran misses the next meeting...

"Lord Tyrion, surely you are not seriously considering to propose to the King to appoint Lord Bronn as Lord Paramount of the Reach?" Brienne suddenly questioned, surprising him. He knew there would be objections but he had not expected Brienne to be the first to approach him about the matter, and so quickly too.

Tyrion smiled in amusement. "Well, I gave my word in the meeting. I have to." 

Brienne frowned.

"You know Lord Bronn is not the best person for that position."

When Tyrion did not say anything, Brienne continued, "Putting Highgarden aside, Lord Bronn is barely doing his part as the Master of Coin. It is known that most of his coins went to local taverns and pleasure houses..."

"I didn't know you took such a personal interest in Lord Bronn's private life, Lady Brienne," Tyrion snorted. 

Brienne frowned at Tyrion's suggestion. 


"It's not a matter of interest, but a fact that everyone knows but does not voice out of respect for you and the King, Lord Tyrion," Brienne scoffed, "He may be your friend but you cannot protect him forever." 

Her voice dropped low, "The next time this topic comes up, know that Lord Royce may no longer hold his tongue, as do the other Council members." 

"Thank you for your warning, Lady Brienne," Tyrion said frostily, "But I know what I'm doing."

"I really hope you do," Brienne grimaced as she turned to walk away. But she halted midway, spun around and glowered at Tyrion, "By the way, I want to ask... the men working on the rebuilding have taverns and pleasure houses as "rewards", what of the women working on the rebuilding of King's Landing?"

"What? The women are paid for their work," Tyrion stared blankly at Brienne. Her straw-coloured hair looked much lighter than it usually was as the sunlight shone on it. Despite wearing armour, she had also began to look smaller, and her voice pitch higher than it was... 

"So are the men. I just find it strange that only the men have women, actual people, as additional rewards, for carnal desires for the men are one of the first needs to be met."

Tyrion looked away for a moment before stealing a gaze at Brienne.

Tall, strong, straw-haired and looking as... unique as ever. 

He exhaled deeply. 

"It worked, didn't it? The men worked extra hard for their rewards. That's how we have a nice meeting chamber and why you have a comfortable bedroom to sleep in," Tyrion managed.

Brienne stared at him long and hard.

"The women worked equally as hard too. But I suppose you don't care."

"I understand where you are coming from, but those are paid services, not slavery. The taverns also serve women," Tyrion argued, anger rising in him. Just what did Brienne take him for? Some slaver? Even he has some standards.

"Sure. Whatever helps you sleep better at night," Brienne scoffed in derision as she turned and stalked away. 

The moment Brienne left his sight, Tyrion gasped a breath in relief. It felt suffocating, that accusatory look and tone, the near hostile line of questioning and doubt, and sharp words that could make lesser men flinch.

She’s dead, she’s dead. Get a grip, Tyrion Lannister. Let not the sorceress or memories of the mad queen haunt you!

Tyrion straightened his back, patted his clothes and walked down the corridor. 

Time for some arbor gold. 

*******

Daenerys arrived at the outskirts of Meereen in the dead of night. Even in the darkness, the towering Great Pyramid stood tall, visible to all who passed, a testament to the city’s grandeur.

Tearing her gaze from the monumental structure, she focused on securing her silver to the trunk of a dead tree before making her way toward the city gates.

She was a woman believed to be dead. Not wanting to attract attention, she activated the bracelet given to her by Kinvara, cloaking herself in an unseen shroud. Invisible and silent, she approached the looming gates with bold determination.

The gates were shut, watched by a few guards. But if things hadn't changed, they would soon open for the routine guard change.

All she had to do was wait.

Patiently, she stood in the shadows until the gates creaked open. Daenerys snapped to attention as a group of guards exited, chatting with their replacements, who looked relieved to finally get some rest. She slipped unnoticed among the off-duty guards, quietly following them into the city just as the gates slammed shut behind her.

Meereen was silent under the cover of night, save for a few establishments still open.

She didn’t stay with the guards for long, her violet eyes drifting once again to the Great Pyramid. As she walked through the quiet streets, a heaviness settled in her chest. It had been years since she last set foot in this city, yet it felt as though she had never left.

The feeling deepened as she slipped into the Great Pyramid.

Every corner, every decoration remained unchanged from the day she departed. She even recognised some of the guards.

Is Daario still in the same room, she wondered. 

Her question was soon answered, as she found Daario fast asleep on the bed in the room he was housed in even before she left. 

The ruby dimmed and the shroud shimmered, revealing her in the flesh. 

Standing over the sleeping Daario, she inhaled sharply at the sight of his face. In just a few years, he had become almost unrecognisable. The once rugged handsomeness was now marred by deep lines, his expression locked in a frown even in sleep, as if burdened by endless sleepless nights. His thick, dark hair had also begun to show streaks of grey. 

“Daario…” she whispered, tears brimming. She lowered her head and gently kissed his forehead.

The instant they touched, Daario's eyes flew open. He seized Daenerys by her shoulders and pulled her onto the bed. In a blur of movement, he was on top of her, a dagger suddenly in his hand, its sharp edge pressed lightly against her neck.

“Daario, stop! It’s me!” Daenerys exclaimed, startled by his reaction.

Daario’s eyes widened when he saw her face.

“You… what the fuck…? What sorcery is this?” Daario hissed, pressing the blade harder against her neck, “Just who the fuck are you? How dare you wear her face?” 

“I’m Daenerys,” She smiled weakly, not sure what else to say, “I’m…not dead.”

“Either you are lying or I’m dreaming,” Daario muttered, staring hard at her as though trying to catch a glimpse of any flaws in the “imposter”. 

“It’s really me, Daario. I’m not dead. Or rather, I was dead, but the High Priestess of the Temple of R’hllor revived me,” Daenerys explained, though she wasn’t sure if he would buy it. It sounded ludicrous when Kinvara told her, but even more so when she heard herself saying it.

“That’s fucking insane,” Daario continued to stare, “This must be a dream. I’ve dreamt of you so many times I’ve lost count. This…yes, it must be another dream. You are dead.”

His eyes flashed in anger, “You are a real piece of work, Daenerys Targaryen. You dumped me here only to die in a fucking ridiculous manner. And now you haunt my dreams. Why do you torment me so? Are you a sadist?”

Her heart ached upon hearing his words and the pained sorrow in his voice. 

He could have declared himself King if he wanted to. But he did not. 

He could have moved into her room or to a better one. But he did not. 

He could have even restarted the slave trade to make his rule easier, and it’s not like anyone could stop him if he wanted to do that. But he did not. 

It was as if he was waiting for his Queen to return from her wilful sojourn in Westeros, even when he knew she was never coming back.

She had hurt him so much yet here he is, still mourning and waiting for her.

Yet the men she did trusted, loved, cherished, and took with her, betrayed her to her death.

“Ah, fuck this. I don’t care anymore,” Daario muttered.

He pressed his lips onto hers and kissed her hard. 

Daenerys’ eyes widened in surprise, but softened when a familiar warmth spreads from his mouth to throughout her body.

Yes… it is this feeling. The feeling of unbridled passion, of being wanted and loved. She shut her eyes and returned his kisses with equal passion, their tongues locked in a battle for dominance as they explored and tasted each other’s mouths. She would have embraced him too, had it not been the awkward position he had placed her in. 

Daario blinked and pulled away. He breathed heavily as he stared at Daenerys, his face pale and contorted in shock.

“What the hell?” He cursed. 

Daenerys stared at him blankly, wanting to ask the same.

“You never used to respond in my dreams; you would just ignore me and turn your back to me. Why are you suddenly being so kind, knowing I’ll never see you, hear you, speak to you, or even hold you again in life? Is this your new way of tormenting me because I didn’t avenge you? I swear, it’s not that I didn’t want to - I just couldn’t afford it!” He swore as a single bead of cold sweat slid down his forehead.

It was a sad confession, but upon hearing he couldn't afford revenge, Daenerys couldn't help but laugh as she sat up to address him seriously. 

“Daario, this isn’t a dream and I am not a ghost. I am real. I am here.”

Daenerys moved closer, but he frowned and stepped back.

With a sigh, she gently took his hand. He tried to pull away, but she held on firmly.

Bringing his hand to her cheek, she pressed it there and smiled at him.

“Can’t you feel it, Daario? How could a ghost or a dream feel like this?” 

Daario's eyes widened. His free hand reached out and stroked her silver hair, his fingers streaking down her cheek to her jawline, then to her neck and shoulder. Then he pinched himself hard. 

"Ow. What the... you are real?!" Daario exclaimed, but then pulled back quickly, "This must be sorcery... yes. There's no other explanation."

Daenerys sighed. 

"Question me and I shall answer you. My answers will prove I am who I claim to be."

Daario began to shoot countless questions at her to verify her identity... for example did she recall what it was like when they first met, what they said to each other when he had sneaked into her room offering his "services", what she had said to him on certain occasions... and the decisions she made only known to her council...

It took a long time, but Daario was finally convinced she was none other than Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen in the flesh. He stared at her in disbelief, then pulled her into a tight embrace and they began to kiss feverishly, resuming from where they had stopped earlier.

*******

"We should announce to the people that you are well and alive. You must reclaim your rightful place," Daario uttered breathlessly as he laid on the bed.

Daenerys twirled her finger around her silver tresses which lay sprawled across the soft pillows and on her chest. 

Reclaim her rightful place, he says. Her expression darkened but Daario did not notice it.

She placed a hand on his arm.


"No."

"No?" Daario looked at her, puzzled.

"Do not tell anyone that I am alive," she asserted. 

Words will spread. Westeros will come to know. Her enemies will be on high alert, and they might even send assassins after her just like Robert Baratheon had. Or worse, they may send an invasion force to the Bay of Dragons.

Daario frowned, "Your people will be over the moon if they know you are alive."

Daenerys almost smiled at Daario's confusion.

"I know, but I do not wish to risk my enemies bringing their armies here and harm the people," she explained. 

That will complicate your vengeance. 

Daenerys flinched at that fleeting thought. 

"But you will, one day?" Daario asked almost hesitatingly.

"I will see," Daenerys turned away.

Sometimes, some things and people should stay dead.

Daario looked like he was about to say something, but Daenerys placed a finger on his lips.

"It's about time for you to go to court. I want to see how you do."

Daario took her finger into his mouth and twirled his tongue around it, his gaze kept on her.

"Are you sure? You might...get turned on by how good I am at it," Daario grinned rogueishly and Daenerys chuckled. 

"Well well, shall we make a bet then, Lord Regent Daario?"

*******

Daario’s day started simple enough with a breakfast.

He ordered an extra set of breakfast, confusing his attendants for he never ate more than his usual amount. But the attendants noticed that he had ordered all foods that their former Queen loved. Their eyes were filled with sadness and pity as they looked at Daario, even if briefly.

Poor thing, Daenerys heard them whisper as they walked down the corridor past the door, the Lord Regent still grieves for the Queen. 

After eating, Daario dressed and left the room to attend court. Daenerys followed him like a shadow, shrouded invisible with magic. He had dismissed his guards and attendants so he could speak to her on the way, filling her in on what had happened and what he had done in the past few years since she left for Westeros. He spoke in a low voice and never addressed her by any name or term. Had he been seen by anyone, at the most they would think he's mumbling to himself. 

Not a great look for sure, but still better than getting caught talking to a "dead person".

Daenerys stood next to him in the throne room but he did not sit on the throne. Rather, he sat on a gilded chair on the right of the steps leading up to the throne which sits empty. 

As the councillors shuffled in, she noted many new faces that she did not recognise. She watched as Daario managed the discussions and their demands with relative ease, impressing her. She did not interfere or give any sort of input, even though Daario paused every now and then and tapped his fingers on the chair's arm she was standing next to, a move she understood as him seeking her opinion. He did it so many times the councillors were starting to get impatient and even suspicious, so she traced a "no" on his forearm, only then did he stop.

After the councillors left following the conclusion of the court meeting, Daenerys was about to speak to him when men carrying large trays entered the throne hall.

She looked at the trays incredulously - they were filled with all sorts of items from fabric and metals to precious gemstones. She even caught sight of a few spoons and knives!

“Handle it as per usual," Daario ordered as he tapped his fingers on his chair's arm.

Daenerys glanced at him curiously. So it wasn’t the first time such trays were delivered. 

“Yes, my Lord.”

After the men had left with the trays, only Daario and the guards remained. Daenerys touched his arm and he dismissed the guards. 

Once the guards had left, Daenerys removed the shroud. 

“What are those?” She questioned.

“Donations and contributions,” Daario grasped onto the hand that had touched him. “The people grieved at the news of your passing. They mourned for months, and held vigils on your, ahem, death anniversary each year. But last year, words finally spread around about how you died and they’ve been crying for blood since then. They know we cannot fight Westeros, but they want the traitors to be brought to justice. Those are their attempts to contribute to the cost of justice.”

Daenerys’ gaze drifted to the empty throne. 

“……They should just forget about me and move on. They should be ready to rule over the city on their own by now.”

"I wish they are," Daario said dryly, "As you can see there is a self-governing council, yet they come to me everyday. There is also a volunteer army which I personally trained, but they never seemed to be ready. The people are also banking on me to avenge you. Should I attempt to leave before accomplishing that, I doubt they'd ever let me hear the end of it."

Daario gazed at Daenerys. "But those are all excuses, of course. The people are still waiting for you, even though they thought you dead."

It was hard to bear his gaze, so filled with desire and hope. She turned to leave but Daario grabbed her hand and gently pulled her back. 

“It’s not just Meereen. Astapor and Yunkai did the same.”

“They did?” Daenerys was genuinely surprised.

Daario smiled faintly at Daenerys. 

“Why are you acting so surprised? Even though you did not rule them, you were still the breaker of their chains.”

“I just…” Daenerys lowered her gaze.

“Didn’t think you deserve it?” Daario probed gently.

“I killed countless innocents.”

Daario sighed. “Yes, that treacherous imp said so to me.”

A fire lit in the depths of her cold heart at the mention of the “treacherous imp”.

“He told you?”

“He sent a letter after your passing.”

“What did the letter say?” 

Daario looked at Daenerys, hurt and anger flashing in his eyes as he recalled the letter’s content.

“It was a short one. He said you went mad, burnt King’s Landing, killing countless innocents and got yourself killed, and that he’s staying at Westeros.”

Daenerys balled her fists tightly and gritted her teeth. 

How dare he? 

“I sent spies to Westeros to investigate the truth of his words, especially when the Unsullied did not return. Then the Dothraki returned and I learnt from them what happened. The spies sent back the same story.”

“Are you disappointed in me?” Daenerys asked softly, trying hard not to cry as the sound of the tower bells rang in her mind, “I talked about liberation and freedom, but all I did was slaughter people like pigs.”

Daario shrugged. “I don’t know what I am supposed to be disappointed at. Saving the world from the undead? Killing treasonous spiders and snakes? Killing enemies who slandered you, betrayed their liege, slaughtered your allies, and refused to surrender in a war? When you were grieving, who was there for you? What did they do for you aside from telling you pretty words and offering useless advice? Instead they plotted and schemed against you.”

Daario gazed into Daenerys’ flashing violet eyes. “…..You were betrayed and murdered, and the imp and this other man were responsible.”

“Jon.”

Daenerys’ heart hurts when the name escaped from her lips. But it wasn’t the same kind of hurt when he had plunged the dagger into her chest.

An angry fire burns her from the inside and she felt like screaming and smashing things up at the mere thought of Jon Snow.

“He pretended to love me, only to use my love and trust for him against me.” 

Every word alighted a new fire in her. 

Daenerys pulled her hand out from Daario’s grasp and turned away.

“Turn the donations into currency. Give me a portion and keep the rest to help the people,” Daenerys’ eyes hardened, “And tell the people… they shall have the justice that they seek.”

“What? How?” 

“Revenge is best served by the betrayed, don’t you think so?” Daenerys replied coldly as she shrouded herself and left Daario alone in the throne room.

Those who betrayed her, wronged her, and maligned her, she shall rain down fire and blood upon them.

Chapter Text

Four scaly eggs lie in a mound. One red, one grey, one black, one blue.

The ashened grounds cracked open with a thunderous clap, fire and ash spewing out from like a volcano.

Villages and farmland on fire, people screaming as they ran around helplessly while on fire.

Silver hair and dilating violet eyes.

Bran Stark opened his eyes and stared at the concerned-looking woman standing in front of his desk. 

"Your Grace?" Brienne asked.

Bran breathed in deeply and Brienne knew the young King was having one of his headache episodes again. It had become increasingly severe in the past few moons, causing him to skip one Small Council meeting after another. 

"Brienne," Bran said softly, "Send a letter to Sansa."

"Yes."

"Write it in my stead," Bran held a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes. 

"Your Grace, shall I call the maester?" 

"The letter comes first," Bran rubbed his temples. "Tell Sansa... tell her to stock up on supplies enough to last three winters and to prepare scorpions. Also tell her to seek out Jon and ask him if he had checked for Daenerys Targaryen's pulse after killing her. She is to use force if need be."

Brienne looked at Bran in alarm. 

It was rare that he spoke so much in one day, but the content was much more shocking. 

"Your Grace, that may be too much to ask of Queen Sansa, and, and it sounds like..." she swallowed thickly. Sounds like a preparation of impending war with Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon. Except that Daenerys Targaryen was dead and her dragon long gone to who knows where. 

"Wasn't Daenerys Targaryen already dead? Or has someone claimed her dragon?" She was almost afraid to ask. The prospect of having to face a dragon at war was much, much worse than having to face thousands of Dothraki. 

"That's what Jon needs to tell us," Bran said softly. Jon wouldn't lie but it wouldn't be the first time someone chooses love over duty.

"Yes, Your Grace. I will have the letter penned and sent to Queen Sansa at the earliest hour."

Bran nodded before adding, "Oh, and please get me a bucket. I'm about to throw up."

*******

Location: Royal Stable at the Great Pyramid, Meereen

After staying at Meereen for a few days, Daenerys decided it was time to go. She had seen how Daario and his council runs Meereen and was satisfied at their performance, relieved that Meereen was in good hands and that she at least had not chosen the wrong person for the city. The Councillor of Economics was particularly eye-catching - she was eloquent and had a good grasp of Essosi trade and economics, having opened five new industries and sealed six trade agreements with neighbouring cities and cultures, bringing in more new wealth for Meereen and its people. 

Daario was not at all surprised when she told him she's leaving, but he almost flipped the table when she told him her destination was Valyria.

That's a most dangerous and unwise decision, he warned her, who knows what horrors that place harbours.

But Drogon is there, she told him. Even though she had died and rised from the dead, she still felt their bond and it's calling her to Valyria. She had thought of going to Valyria first, especially when Drogon did not come for her at Volantis but their shared bond told her it wasn't time.

And now is? Daario had asked.

Yes, she replied without hesitation.

How could you know that? He asked.

She did not reply, for the bond between a dragon and its rider was hard to explain to someone who had not and would never experience it. 

Daario asked her not to go, for the place was cursed and dangerous. But upon her insistence, he knew he had no choice but to let her go. 

So here they are, at the stable where her silver had been housed at after Daario had men retrieve it on the day he confirmed Daenerys' identity. She was cloaked and hooded, hiding her face as Daario's men come and go, replenishing her stocks into her horse's bag. 

Daario himself had insisted on Daenerys putting on a set of light armour under her clothes for protection, and she saw daggers, knives and other forms of small weapons stuffed into her bag.

"Is this at all necessary? That's too many arms for one person," Daenerys whispered as she saw a third dagger stuffed into the bag.

Daario dismissed his men with a wave of his hand. Once they were alone, Daario looked at Daenerys and said seriously, "Weapons can get lost and wear and tear. I don't know how long you will be gone. This is just extra protection.

"

His eyes narrowed, and the words he spat out next were bitter, "... Since you still would not have me, and refused to let me go with you."

Daenerys shifted her eyes away uncomfortably. "Meereen needs you."

"No, it needs you."

Silence fell between them, before Daario broke the awkward tension by speaking again.

"It is unsafe for you to travel alone, despite with all your newly found magic," Daario waved his hands in exaggerating motion. "So I am attaching a guard to you."

"What? No, I don't need a guard," Daenerys was taken aback at this sudden decision made without her consent.

"We don't know what danger lies in Valyria. It is also dangerous for you to travel alone. Don't worry, he is the only person other than me who knows you are still alive and he's got really tight lips."

"What?! You told someone about me already?!" Daenerys was peeved. She wondered what other decisions had Daario made for her behind her back. But before she could stop him, he had called out.

"Rian! Come on in!"

Daenerys' fury took a pause when a strapping young man, dressed in simple leather armour, boots with a sword strapped to his side, stepped in.

"His name is Rian Runestar. Rian, come introduce yourself to our Queen," Daario motioned him to come forward.

The man known as Rian Runestar stepped forward and knelt on one knee before Daenerys, his head lowered.

"My Queen, I am honoured," he said in a soft but steady voice.

"Rian hails from Lys, but serves as a Lieutenant in Meereen's volunteer army," Daario said. 

Daenerys stared.

This man had short wavy silvery hair and violet eyes just like hers. 

Valyrian blood runs strong in him.

Not an entire surprise, for it was known that Lys had many descendants of old Valyria. 

Rian's handsome face featured a long scar running from his forehead across his eye to the cheek, yet it only served to enhance his attractiveness rather than mar it. His exposed arms also had scars of differing sizes. Some healed well, some did not. Some, Daenerys recognised as scars left behind by whips, the others probably from deep cuts and gashes from blades. She wondered how many more such scars were left on his body. 

Noticing that Daenerys was taking a much longer look than she should, Daario said, "My Queen, while Rian had never seen a battle, he is a well-trained warrior known as the First Sword in the volunteer army," he leaned over and whispered into her ear, "And he was a skilful bedslave too, should you have needs on your travels."

Daenerys' head snapped up and she glared at Daario. 

"Even though you do not want me, I shall still ensure your needs are met, no matter what they are," Daario said with a self-deprecating smirk. 

"Daario!" she warned him but he simply laughed.

She returned her attention to Rian who showed no signs of embarrassment over what he had just heard. 

"Stand, Rian," she said. 

"Thank you, my Queen." 

Rian was getting up when Daario reminded him, "Your oath, Rian."

"Oh!
" Rian went down on his knee again.

"I swear my eternal fealty to you, my Queen," Rian said, his ears turning red.

"Eternal is a long time," Daenerys smiled. 

"As long as it's you Daenerys Targaryen, I am willing to serve no matter how long that may be," Rian swore. 

Daario rolled his eyes. He stepped in between Daenerys and Rian, then said loudly, "Rian, go pack your stuff. Once the Queen is ready, escort her safely to Valyria."

"Yes, Lord Regent!"

Daario went in close and whispered into his ears, words that Daenerys couldn't hear, but it didn't seem like anything good since Rian went red in the face. 

As Rian went to pack, Daenerys approached Daario. 

"What did you tell him?"

"Hmm? Oh. I just told him not to have designs on you or I will spill his guts," Daario said with an air of nonchalance. 

Daenerys couldn't help but feel irritated and amused at the same time. 

"Yet you told me to use him."

"Well, that's a separate matter. You ought to know this very well, since you had experience in this," Daario said bitingly as he looked away.

"You are still mad at me," Daenerys sighed. She held his chin and turned his head towards her. "But I thought we... What made you angry again? Is it because I am going to Valyria against your advice?"

She couldn't read his expression as they stared at each other. A slow panic gripped her. What is it that turned his temper so foul that he spoke so sharply? 

What is it? What is it?!

"Daario..." Daenerys touched his arm, and was stunned when he pulled away.

"Despite my loyalty, you are holding out on me."

The sudden accusation hits Daenerys like a pile of bricks just dropped on her.

"What? What are you saying? I'm not..." 

But Daario cuts her off swiftly, "I am tired of being treated as nothing, Daenerys. I shall be loyal always, but I will not pine for you any longer."

He sighed, "I am just happy you are well and alive."

Daenerys stared at him, confused, lost and hurt. After they reunited, their days spent together had been nothing but sweet. She was starting to feel closer to him than she ever did before, and she thought he might have felt the same. A heaviness weighed on her as he continued to avoid her gaze. 

"No words can convey how much I appreciate your love and loyalty, Daario. But I do not understand why you say I'm holding out on you. I've told you everything."

Daario finally looked at her, but he gave her a stare that looked so strange her hairs stood on ends. 

It wasn't the look of disdain and distrust like the Northerners. It wasn't the look of disapproval and coldness like Tyrion's and Varys'. It also wasn't the look of disappointment and pain like Jon's.

It was as if he was staring right through her, and looking at anyone else but her, even as she heard nothing but the truth and sincerity when he swore his loyalty to her. 

Who? Just who was he looking at? 

She followed his line of sight and saw...

Rian Runestar. 

Was it because of him? I didn't even ask for this! You foisted him on me! Daenerys thought grudgingly. 

"Well, Daario. I need no bedslave," she declared, "Besides, do you really think I have the mood after getting killed by a man I thought had loved me?" 

"You didn't have problems bedding me since your first day back here," Daario reminded grumpily.

"Because, because that was you!" Daenerys couldn't believe the ridiculous argument she had somehow gotten into, "And, and he's some random man I just met...!"

"Well, he's your problem now anyway, no matter what you choose to do with him," Daario turned away. 

"Wait. Problem? What problem???" Daenerys demanded to know but Daario had left. 

What in the... Daenerys stared dumbfoundedly at the stable door where Daario had quickly left from. 

She felt eyes on her and she turned, only to see Rian quickly returning his attention to packing his strapped bag on the horse. He's pretending, she realised, and he had probably heard everything. But surely Daario wouldn't give her an untrustworthy guard, right? 

Right??? 

*******

Daenerys, Rian and their horses boarded a ship named Brave Sons, arranged by Daario to sail to Valyria. The mid-sized ship looked like an ordinary merchant ship, but it was built to be fast and sturdy, suitable for withstanding harsh conditions.

The crew were still apprehensive about the trip but Rian quieted them down easily with a few commands. Daenerys hid behind her cloak and a mask, ignoring the curious stares thrown her way by the crew.

She settled down in a small private cabin next to Rian's, where she removed her mask to have a breather. 

Her heart trembled as the ship rocked gently and the songs of the seawaves drifted into her ears.

The last time she sailed from Meereen, she had a large army and all three of her dragons. 

Then she was down to two dragons. Her sweet, sweet Viserion killed and taken by the dead.

Then down to one. Her fierce and protective Rhaegal mercilessly shot down by an ambush on the seas. 

Daenerys balled her fists tightly, tearing up as Viserion and Rhaegal's death cries rang in her mind. 

Viserion's blue eyes glared at her, and Rhaegal screaming as though crying out for his mother. 

She collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath as her tears flowed endlessly.

Only Drogon had remained. She must get him back. No matter what.

The cabin's door flew open as she gasped for breath.

"Your Grace!" Rian rushed to her side. 

Get a grip on yourself, child. This is embarrassing.

Daenerys gasped in shock. 

"Your Grace!" Rian held tightly on Daenerys who looked like she was about to lose her mind. 

Daenerys felt Rian dragging her onto her bed, forced her mouth open and fed her something. She tried to push him away but he dumped water into her mouth and forced her mouth shut until she swallowed. 

Fury rose as she kicked at him. 

"Get off me!" 

Rian quickly moved away, dodging her clumsy kick. She was going to sit up and yell at him but her body went soft and all energy seemed sucked out of her.

"What...what did you give me?" she whispered, glaring at Rian.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. It's just something to calm you down," Rian looked almost as if he was about to cry. Daenerys wondered why. 

"Rest well, Your Grace. I will come back to check in on you again," Rian said as he quickly exited the cabin, shutting the door gently. 

Daenerys didn't want to sleep. Her nights had seldom been peaceful as she was plagued with nightmares of the dead and fire. She had tried to distract herself by making love with Daario, but it was only a temporary solution and eventually she would fall asleep. She dared not stay awake for too long either, as it always felt like she was about to lose her mind. 

But even as she resisted, her eyes closed against her will once more, just like the many previous nights...

*******

Daenerys' eyes snapped open.

Her eyes darted around, and she relaxed upon finding herself still in her cabin. 

The ship continued to rock, but she was so well-rested it did not bother her at all. In fact, this was the first time she had slept so well since she first woke in the Temple of R'hllor. 

As she sat up on her bed, she noticed a plate of food on the table.

"Rian," she called.

"...Your Grace?" Rian replied hesitatingly. 

"Come in."

There was a pause before the cabin door open with a soft creak. 

"Your Grace," he greeted, eyes lowered.

"Have you eaten?" Daenerys sat down at the table.

"No, Your Grace."

"Get some food and come eat with me."

"I... I can't."

"I insist."

Rian hesitated for a moment before he bowed and left the cabin. He returned sooner than expected with a plate of food, but even so he did not sit down at the table but stood at the door.

Daenerys sighed. 

"Sit down."

Rian sat and quietly placed his plate onto the table. Before she could say a word, Rian had spoken up, "I apologise for offending you yesterday, Your Grace. I will accept any punishment you deem fit."

Daenerys looked at him and sighed again. 

"You have nothing to apologise for, Rian. Actually, you did good by me. I simply wish to thank you for helping me," Daenerys said. If it wasn't for him...who knows how long she would continue to suffer from her crippling memories? Would she even have a good night's sleep? 

Rian's eyes looked up at her and a small smile broke on his handsome face. 

"No thanks is needed, Your Grace. I was only doing my duty."

They ate quietly after that. It was so quiet it became awkward, especially when Daenerys felt Rian's eyes boring through her head. 

She looked up at him and asked, "What is it? Do you have something to say?"

As if a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar, Rian's face turned red, though he boldly held her gaze.

"I apologise if I've offended you, Your Grace. It's... it's just that... it's miraculous that you are alive and that I could see you in the flesh and be your personal guard," he sputtered. 

Before Daenerys could say anything else, he continued excitedly, "I've heard so much about you even back in Lys. I studied the Targaryens..."

He started talking about House Targaryen, his facial expression and hands highly animated. He was excited and happy when he talked about Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys the Conquerors, indignant when he spoke about the Dance of the Dragons, and forlorn about the extinction of dragons.

Daenerys felt surreal watching and listening to him. She had never come across someone this invested in her family history and who seemed to hold admiration not just for her but for House Targaryen as well. It did feel somewhat refreshing, after having faced despise and disrespect all her life after House Targaryen's downfall. 

"And then, Your Grace brought dragons back into this world," Rian's face glowed, "It was said that it wasn't just dragons you brought back, but also magic."

"It seems like you know more about my ancestors than I do," Daenerys chuckled, though sorrow tugged at her heart. 

Viserys often regaled her with tales of their ancestors' greatness and achievements, but he was much less inclined to speak of those he considered as "lesser", especially if they were women, and Rian had name-dropped many Targaryens she didn't know of. Perhaps Viserys had not known of them either, for he was a young child when his world collapsed.

"Tell me more about Saera Targaryen. You mentioned she came to Essos?" 

Interesting. A Targaryen princess who lived in Essos too. 

"She went to Lys first, to be more accurate," Rian beamed. 

Ah-hah, she must be one of his favourite Targaryens, Daenerys thought. 

The more he talked, the more mixed feelings Daenerys had for this Targaryen princess.

She certainly was an intriguing figure, this rebel princess. She went against social norms expected of a lady of her times, resisted all attempts to change her, attempted to steal a dragon then fled to Lys on a ship before taking up service at a pleasure house. Very unexpected of a princess. 

Daenerys had wondered before if a pleasure house would be where she ended up at had she not been sold to Khal Drogo and Viserys running out of options after Magister Ilyrio inevitably lost his patience with them as did so many of their wealthy benefactors had before. Even with Khal Drogo, she knew her fate could be much worse had she lost favour with him. Either way, she'd hated to have those fates befall on her. She'd rather die than suffer them. 

Yet Saera was never enslaved. She willingly chose that path for herself. 

Viserys had always told her that Westeros was home, and that they had to go home at all cost. But Saera's path had her abandon her family, home, friends and material comfort all at once. 

A princess lost to her family forever. 

Two Targaryen princesses born more than two hundred years apart, both without family. One lost hers by choice, one lost hers by force. 

Even so, Daenerys suspected there was little regret in Saera if any, for she never showed up to any of her parents and siblings' funerals. 

Perhaps she found solace in her lovers and children as I once did, Daenerys thought. 

Daenerys wondered what went on in Saera's mind. If only she could speak to her! 

"I'm sorry. I've said too much, didn't I?" Rian smiled nervously.

Daenerys realised she had not spoken for a while and that she had been frowning in deep thought. 

"No. I'm happy to listen to stories about my ancestors. Thank you, Rian," she said earnestly. Now him rambling on about her family got her curious... what about him and his story?

"Tell me more about yourself and your family, Rian. It doesn't seem fair that you know everything about me and my house yet I know nothing about you," Daenerys said, her eyes twinkling. 

"Oh," Rian was surprised, but then soon started to talk about his family.

"Actually...my family used to own pleasure houses in Volantis and Lys," he started. "My family was wealthy for several generations, in control of no less than eight pleasure houses across Volantis and Lys..."

Daenerys paused at the revelation even as Rian continued to talk. 

Pleasurehouses in Volantis and Lys were known to have engaged slaves for their services. 

"Did your family engage slaves?" Daenerys narrowed her eyes.

Did Daario send an ex-slaver to travel with me as a guard? Daenerys thought, perplexed.

"No no, my Queen, I am no slaver," Rian explained hurriedly, his face flushed as he realised the implication, "My family were indeed slavers for generations, right till my great-grandparents when they started incurring losses. Then my grandparents lost all their fortune and my parents were enslaved. I myself was born into slavery. I... I supposed what goes around comes around. My family were slavers, then we became slaves."

Daenerys' face softened. 

"My parents died when I was young. After that I was trained to become a bedslave... believe it or not, in a pleasurehouse my family used to own," he smiled sadly, "I escaped a few times but I was always recaptured, except for that one time when I finally managed to sneak onto a ship and sail to Meereen," his face started to brighten. 

"I was captured and re-enslaved in Meereen, but it was only a few days after when you arrived at the gates of Meereen and freed us all. After I was freed, I started to work odd jobs before joining the volunteer army to serve Your Grace's will. Unfortunately you departed for Westeros before I could complete my training or I would have gone with your army."

Rian lowered his gaze as he continued softly, "I understand the pain my family had inflicted upon so many through the generations. I regret it, but there's nothing I can do about the past. What I can do is to change the present and the future. That's why I volunteered to be in the army. It is not enough to be a freed man. I wish to partake in the breaking of chains, if only to make up for the sins of my family."

"Just so you know, I'm not currently on a campaign to break chains," Daenerys said carefully. She noticed Rian's expression tensing considerably at her words, and she wondered if he had changed his mind about her and this journey he had agreed to.

"In you I trust, my Queen. I shall follow you wherever you go and do," Rian swore.

Daenerys' stomach tied knots at his words. 

"No, I expect you to have your own mind, and to counsel me when I do wrong," Daenerys sighed before she added sharply, "You may leave whenever you no longer wish to be in my service for any reason, but do not betray or harm me. That is all that I ask of you."

Rian's eyes widened. "I would never betray you, much less harm you, Your Grace."

That's what you say now, Daenerys thought bitterly, but she nodded in response.

Men lie and break oaths, and she had no way of knowing if and when Rian would do that, but she'd have to trust Daario's judgment and Rian's words for now.

"But..." She heard him say softly, "You will resume breaking chains after you have done what you intend to do?"

Daenerys paused. 

Would she?

She knows she wants to find Drogon and take vengeance on those who wronged her... but what's next? She doesn't even know what lies in her future.

Would she succeed in her path of vengeance or would she die in the traitors' hands again? If she won, would she sit on the throne in Westeros? If she decides to reclaim her birthright, would she even have the capacity to continue breaking chains in Essos? 

Or would she return to Essos, to Meereen, and live in peace?

Could she even live in peace? 

She closed her eyes.

What a sorry, sorry life.

"I don't know..." Daenerys admitted with a soft sigh. She looked at Rian and saw that he had a frozen expression.

"Are you disappointed? Your Queen has no answer for you," Daenerys chuckled sadly.

"No one has all the answers, Your Grace," Rian replied quietly with a thin smile, "I admire that you are brave and honest to admit that."

"Flattery gets you nowhere. I'm Queen of nothing now," Daenerys smiled. 

Rian looked at Daenerys, his violet eyes soft and gentle. "You will always be the Queen of Meereen, and my Queen as well."

Daenerys turned away and said nothing more.

It's really better if Daario had not attached anyone to her. 

*******

They sailed for days and soon they were close to disembarking. 

Daenerys stood on the deck, cloaked and masked, staring out at the strip of land ahead that was becoming clearer in view. There were worries of a storm due to looming grey clouds, but they began to clear as the ship sailed further. 

Daenerys felt her heart beating fast. Was she the first Targaryen to come here since the Doom? The first Targaryen to "return home"? 

What does it look like onland? What would she find apart from Drogon? Did Drogon come here because he was naturally drawn to it? So many questions but no answers. Yet.

"I'm sorry," Rian suddenly said, after he had become increasingly quiet for a day or two.

Daenerys sighed softly. She was really starting to enjoy the silence. 

She turned to look at him, her brows furrowed.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," He repeated, before quickly adding, "I had offended you."

Daenerys hardly spoke to Rian after their last conversation about their family histories. It was all him talking about his life in Volantis, Lys and Meereen, the people he had met and his time in Meereen's volunteer army. 

She would nod her head in acknowledgement and ask a few questions but never did she engage in any deep conversation with him. She was tired as her mind kept replaying memories she did not wish to review and she had to work hard to distract herself all the hurt and anger that threatened to consume her.

He had done nothing wrong, yet she felt increasingly uncomfortable with his presence. The amount of expectation he had for her. The warmth in his eyes that were once reflected in Jon's eyes. His claims of loyalty spoken by those who had betrayed her. 

She had spent nights half-asleep with her fingers grasped around the hilt of her sword. She knew she could not win if Rian truly meant her harm, but she would at least have a fighting chance and not be stabbed in her sleep if she was alert. If she was to go, she would not make it easy for him. 

She knew it was an insult to doubt a loyal man, even more so when said man had helped her before. She didn't want to, but she just couldn't fully put down her guard. 

Missandei's face flashed in her mind again and she shut her eyes tightly as her heart thumped in pain. 

"You have not offended me, Rian,
" she said after a moment of silence.

Rian looked at her for a few seconds before lowering his gaze and said nothing. 

Soon, the ship came to a stop and the captain threw down the ship anchor. Daenerys disembarked and stared at the vast, boundless ashened field with no signs of life. 

"Cursed land. We shouldn't be here," she heard the captain complain as he spat out a mouthful of saliva. 

Rian led the horses off the ship and went to Daenerys.

"Ignore them."

"I know," she said quietly. 

"Wait here," Rian told the captain. "We shall be back in..." he turned to look at Daenerys.

"Three days at the most," Daenerys answered. 

"And if you are not back by then?" the Captain raised a brow.

"We will be back," Daenerys said sternly as she mounted her silver. "Let's go, Rian."

*******

They continued on. As they travelled further in, crumbled buildings and debris made of marble were seen scattered all over. Most of the buildings were decimated beyond use, but some still stood tall and proud, like the dried white marble fountain they just passed by. 

There was a civilisation here, but it was so completely obliterated there was barely anything left. 

The further they went the darker the clouds became. Until suddenly, their horses stopped dead in their tracks and refused to go on, snorting loudly and stomping agitatedly. 

"It looks like we have to go on foot if we want to continue the journey," Rian called out. 

"Fine, let's travel on foot," Daenerys relented.

After dismounting, Rian repacked the necessities into a single bag and carried it as they continued their journey.

"So... where is your dragon, Your Grace? It's the black one, right?" Rian asked.

"You've seen my dragons before," Daenerys smiled sadly. "Yes... the one I ride is the black one. His name is Drogon. The other two.." she took in a deep breathe and fought back the tears, "...The white one is Viserion and the green one is Rhaegal. They are my beautiful children..."

Silence falls between them. 

They continued silently until a sharp cry pierced through the air, immediately seizing Daenerys' attention.

"Drogon... DROGON!" Daenerys called out excitedly. 

There was a pause of silence before another scream rang through the skies. Rian shivered when he lifted his head and saw a looming dark shadow approaching, the screams getting louder.

He almost screamed when two large red eyes, glowing like molten coals, glared at him.

In contrast, Daenerys was smiling tearfully and waving her arms.

"Drogon!" She called, "Drogon!"

The ground shook and they covered their eyes from the flying dust and small rocks when Drogon landed. Rian's heart almost stopped when he saw the dragon. 

It was already large when he last saw it in Meereen a few years ago and in the sky above them earlier on. But now it looks like a massive juggernaut of a monstrosity. It had glared at him, but once its eyes shifted to Daenerys, its fiery red eyes seemed to shimmer gently as the dragon tucked in its vast wings.

Daenerys rushed forward and hugged Drogon, wrapping her arms on his snout. Drogon rumbled softly as he gently pushed his snout against her face and chest, his fiery red eyes glistering. 

"Drogon... my child... I've missed you so much..." Daenerys whispered, a tear falling onto his snout as she kissed him and stroked him lovingly.

Drogon rumbled in response. They stayed in that position for a while before Drogon spread out a wing and lowered himself to the ground. 

Daenerys laughed as she turned to Rian.

"Rian, would you like to ride a dragon?"

Chapter Text

Daenerys felt pure exhilaration as Drogon soared through the sky with her on his back, holding onto his warm, rough scales tightly. The wind lashes against her skin and clothes, and roared in her ears, drowning out all but the thunderous beat of wings. 

She had rode Drogon many times before, but riding him again after dying and being separated from him was quite an experience - she felt unstoppable and utterly alive. 

Every lurch and turn Drogon makes, she heard Rian screaming and his grip around her waist tightened so much she could hardly breathe. 

Daenerys did not guide Drogon but let him decide where to go instead, but she knew every turn, lurch, dive and soar he was going to make ahead and had shifted her body accordingly. Such was the connection a rider has with their dragon. Rian seemed to have taken the cue as he moved his body along with hers, though much slower and had grabbed at her in panic a few times, but he grew accustomed to it much sooner than she expected and he was soon screaming again, though not in fear and panic but in excitement.

"So how is it?" 

"What?!" 

"I said: how does it feel?!" Daenerys shouted. 

"Scaaary but so exciiiiiiitiiiiiiing!" Rian yelled before screaming a 
"woooooaah!" when Drogon took a sudden dive. 

Daenerys laughed. 

Drogon landed gently on a mountain top, and spread its wings down to the ground. Daenerys walked down easily but was startled by a suddenly crashing sound and an annoyed rumble from Drogon. She turned only to see Rian had fallen onto the reddish soil and Drogon had tucked his wings in, glaring at Rian in displeasure.

"What happened?" she asked as she helped him up, only for him to fall onto his buttocks. 

It was then she noticed his legs quivering.

She snorted with laughter. 

"It's my first time riding a dragon," Rian said defensively, his face a bashful red, "I'm not scared. I just used too much leg strength trying to hold on tight."

"I know," Daenerys smiled.

"May I speak freely, Your Grace?"

"Yes."

"Your dragon's neck is too thick and our legs have to stretch out too much, so falling off is a real risk. I read that the Targaryens used to have saddles for their dragons for better control and safety. Perhaps you can consider having a saddle made for your dragon?" 

Daenerys considered Rian's suggestion but found herself quickly rejecting the idea. She loved the skin contact when flying on Drogon, as it always felt soothing and reassuring. Yes, the scales were rough and tough on the skin, but it can be easily solved with thick pants and even gloves. 

"I understand your concern, Rian, but that is not needed. Drogon and I are used to riding without a saddle, and he will never let me fall," Daenerys smiled faintly. 

"I'm sure he wouldn't, Your Grace."

"Can you stand now, Rian?" Daenerys extended a hand to him.

Rian grasped Daenerys' hand and pulled himself to his feet.

Drogon shuffled his feet and grumbled impatiently. He huffed and strided towards the mountain mound. Upon reaching the mound, he sat down there and rumbled, looking at Daenerys.

He wants me to go there, Daenerys realised. She hiked up to the mound and Rian followed her. When they reached the mound, they held their breaths. 

Within the mound lie three dragon eggs - one red, one grey, and one blue.

"Are, are these..." Rian breathed deeply.

"Yes. Dragon eggs," Daenerys whispered, staring at the three eggs. She stared at them in awe for a few moments before looking at Drogon in disbelief. 

"Are these... Your Grace's dragon's eggs?" Rian asked in amazement. 

"I think so..."

"I thought Your Grace's dragon is a he..."

"Maybe he isn't.... or maybe there's just a lot about dragons that we don't know of."

Daenerys turned to look at Drogon again but he simply looked away in utter disinterest. She returned her attention to the three eggs and reached out, touching them. The eggs were warm to the touch, and she thought she felt them pulsing gently. 

Suddenly, the eggs cracked and Daenerys withdrew her hands sharply in surprise. 

The tiny fissures spread the fastest on the blue egg. When the shell finally gave way, a small, glistering head poked out from within, screeching. It opened its eyes for the first time and stared into Daenerys' wide eyes. 

The red egg's shell snapped apart and a reddish hatchling emerged crawling weakly, crying out helplessly before opening its eyes and stared at Daenerys. 

Then finally, the grey egg cracked open... but no hatchling emerged. 

"Oh no..." Daenerys gasped. She pulled the shell apart, only to find a grey hatchling lying inside, staring up at her lazily. She burst out laughing as relief washed over her. 

"Drogon, Drogon! Your eggs have hatched!" Daenerys picked up the three hatchlings and held them gently, showing them to Drogon who briefly glanced at them before looking away once again.

"Wow... they are so cute..." Rian mumbled, amazed at what he had just witnessed.

The blue hatchling shrieked; the red one tried crawling up Daenerys' arm while the grey one laid comfortably on her palm. 

"Your Grace..."

"Yes?"

"So... these are your dragon's children, and your dragon is your child. Does this mean you are now a grandmama?"

Daenerys paused for a second then laughed when she finally digested his words. 

"I guess you are right!" 

Daenerys looked at the red hatchling and smiled, "You are beautiful and gentle... I shall name you Missara for my dear friend Missandei. May you live long in her stead, and be as wise and sweet as she was."

She gazed at the blue hatchling, "You come out fighting like a warrior, just like my bear was. You shall be named Joragon, and may you become as fierce and protective as he was."

She paused for a moment at the lazing grey hatchling, "Now what do I make of you, little one? You do not fight, you do not cry. You are an unknown. But I shall name you Aerax for my father, and I wish that you may be everything he wasn't and everything that he should have been."

Aerax looked into her eyes and huffed before shrieking weakly. Missara and Joragon seemed to have already made friends as they curled around each other. 

Daenerys spent the next hour feeding the hatchlings food and water. Once the hatchlings were fed, one by one they closed their eyes and fell asleep. Daenerys held up the sleeping hatchlings to Drogon once more but he huffed in distaste before looking away again.

"Maybe it's not his," Rian suggested.

"Then whose can they be? They were living eggs, and Drogon is the only dragon around," Daenerys reasoned.

"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. You hatched them, you named them, they are yours now," Rian shrugged. 

Daenerys looked at the sleeping hatchlings, silently agreeing with Rian.

Who else but her, the Mother of Dragons, could care for these little hatchlings, especially when Drogon appeared to be completely disinterested in them? She was not about to leave them defenseless in Valyria, or risk having them taken away and be abused by people with ill intentions.

And of course, she did not want the risk of having someone else having dragons. That would become unpleasantly inconvenient. 

*******

Daenerys and Rian rested overnight at the mountain top. Drogon flew off briefly but returned with a goat, roasting it before throwing to their feet, and the three ate together. 

The next day, Daenerys hid the squealing hatchlings under her cloak before mounting Drogon with Rian.

At her instructions, Drogon dropped them near where they last left their horses, keeping a distance so that his presence does not spook them into running off. 

Daenerys lovingly rubbed Drogon's snout.

"I will take good care of your children," she promised.

Drogon nudged her gently and she smiled.

"Thank you for saving me, Drogon," she whispered, "I'm sorry you had to see and experience what you did... It won't happen again, I promise." 

She kissed him and he rumbled gently. "Go now and do what you must do. I shall call you when it's time."

Daenerys stepped back. Drogon took a long look at her before he spreads his wings and took off into the skies, disappearing into the horizon.

"Your Grace, is it really all right for you to leave without him?" Rian asked in concern.

"This is only temporary. Drogon and I are bonded. Wherever I am, and however I am, he can feel me and will come to me when I call," Daenerys said softly, her heart already aching for Drogon and the desire to ride him once more. 

"I see... this bond between the two of you... is like nothing else I've known of," Rian said, staring at Daenerys in amazement. 

She forced a smile, "Do not tell anyone what you have seen and heard in Valyria."

"Yes, Your Grace."

As they trotted towards their horses, Daenerys suddenly winced. 

"What's wrong? Are you all right?" Rian's hand immediately went to the bag for medicine.

Daenerys held up her hand to stop him. "No, it's all right. One of them is just trying to crawl up my arm. It will leave nothing more than scratches."

Missara poked her head out and cried softly at Daenerys who smiled and scratched her chin and rubbed her little head. Missara chuffed in satisfaction as she rubbed against Daenerys' fingers.

Daenerys giggled. She remembered the time when she would do the same to Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion when they were little. Her heart trembled at the thought of Rhaegal and Viserion.

A shriek from Missara pulled Daenerys' attention back. She looked at Missara who had ducked back into her cloak. Beneath her cloak, she could feel Aerax squirming and hear Joragon hissing.

She quickened her footsteps.

"To our horses, Rian. Something's not right."

They hurried to their horses, but as they approached closer, the horses looked up as if startled. 

The ground began to rumble. 

A loud cracking sound boomed and the ground splits open, with the fissure right behind and fast approaching them. Ash and lava spurted out from the cracked open ground.

The two horses neighed and took off without Daenerys and Rian, leaving them stunned. 

"RUN!" 

Daenerys and Rian ran as fast as they could as the fissure continued to chase them. 

"Would be useful to have a dragon to fly on right now!" Rian shouted. 

"I know!" Daenerys shouted back, but as she ducked another shot of lava that ended up landing just right next to her, she couldn't help but felt relieved that Drogon was not here. The ash and lava could very well had hit him. 

Suddenly, Rian ran over to her side and shoved her aside. 

A cloud of fiery ash flew over and hits him on the back, setting him on fire. Rian screamed as he dropped and started rolling on the ground. 

Shocked, Daenerys quickly pulled off her cloak. Exposed to the smoky atmosphere and thunderous rumbling of the ground, the hatchlings clung tightly onto Daenerys' top and shrieked. 

Having wet the cloak with all the water in her waterskin, Daenerys started smacking Rian with it with all her strength. 

The fissure approached increasingly close and Rian screamed, "JUST RUN!"

"NO! I will not leave my people to die!" 

Having extinguished the fire on Rian, she puts his arm around her shoulders, helped him up and they started to move as quickly as they could. Rian bit his lower lip as he pushed through the pain that burns him with every step. 

He turned his head and saw that the fissure was almost at their heel. 

"You have to leave me and run," he tells Daenerys urgently. "I am just no one, but there is only one you. Please, go on without me!" 

Daenerys took a glance at the approaching fissure, fear and panic gripping her like a cold, hard fist. Yet even as the danger of death loomed over her head and she perspired under the intense heat, her determination only became stronger. 

"What sort of Queen leaves her people to die, even if it's just one person?" She huffed, hastening her steps and dragging Rian along. She laboured breathlessly, thinking how he's much heavier than he looks.

As the ground cracks open wider, an awful-sounding howl escaped from the chasm, striking fear into Daenerys and Rian's hearts. 

Before they could run any further, the fissure had reached them. 

Daenerys felt Rian pull himself out of her grasp and shove her away from the fissure. She steadied herself and was relieved when she saw the fissure had stopped right at Rian's feet. 

They stared at each other in wide-eyed surprise when the ground rumbled and cracked wide open just right under her feet. 

Daenerys was gone before Rian could react.

"NO!" 

*******

She's dead she's dead she's dead she's dead SHE'S DEAD!

I KILLED HER! 

Rian stood where he was, rooted to the ground in shock as these thoughts ran through his mind nonstop, driving him to the point of insane despair. 

Blood red veins bulged around his dilated purple eyes. 

One job. I had one job yet I failed. How could I have let her die? 

Rian pulled out a dagger. He held it tightly with both his hands and turned the blade facing him, before shoving it towards his throat. 

*******

"Argh...!" Daenerys huffed.

She was lucky, for there was an outcrop close to the surface and she had managed to grab onto it when falling. She clung desperately to it, her fingers digging in. She dared not look down, but she could feel the heat that threatened to swallow her whole right at the bottom should she lose grip.

"Rian! Rian!" she called out, hoping that her guard was still safe and could hear her. 

She heard metal clinking and rushing footsteps. 

Rian's face appeared over the fissure, and relief washed over him. 

"Thank god... thank god...!" Rian whispered as he reached out and grabbed one of Daenerys' hands. With much effort, Rian managed to pull her up and out of the chasm. 

Exhausted, they collapsed onto the ground panting. Missara clung tightly onto Daenerys' chest, while Joragon and Aerax clung onto each of her shoulders. The hatchlings stayed still and snuggled against her skin warmly, not making a sound. 

The ground had stopped all movements.

After taking in a few deep breathes, Daenerys started to laugh. Rian looked at her quizzically, but started to laugh too.

"I had faced many dangers in my life and had even been killed, but when the ground opened right under my feet, it was my first time feeling such doom and dread. I felt certain I was going to die, again," Daenerys sighed deeply in relief, "Which I'm not really eager to go through again, at least not so soon when I've barely just returned to the world of the living." 

Rian sat up and went on his knees before her.

"I am ashamed, Your Grace. I meant to protect you, but I nearly killed you instead. I beg your forgiveness."

Daenerys turned to regard Rian. Her heart softened at the sight of his bloodshot eyes glistering with tears. 

He must have truly thought I was dead and that he's responsible for it.

He cried when he thought her dead. She wondered how many of her men and people cried when she died the first time.

And the traitors...

Did Jon cry for her? 

Did Tyrion? 

Yara was the only one who defended her.

She didn't have as many friends and allies as she thought. 

She spotted a dagger a few steps away. 

Daenerys sat up and wiped his tears away with her finger. She touched his face. 

"You have nothing to apologise for, Rian Runestar. You did your best to protect me and to save my life. You saved me from the ash fire. You saved me from the chasm. You have done right by me." 

She kissed his forehead.

"Thank you, Rian Runestar."

He stared at her wondrously.

"I... uhh... thank you, my Queen. I am honoured. I, I am glad you are alive," he stammered, his face turning red.

Daenerys smiled as she released Rian, "I am glad we are alive." 

A smile broke on Rian's face. 

"Yes of course, Your Grace."

"Let me look at your wounds, Rian," Daenerys said. She was about to reach into their bag for medicine when she recalled they had tossed it away to lighten their load when running away from the fissure. 

"The crew will help with that once we reach the ship," Rian replied, "It's too dangerous for us to stay here."

Daenerys nodded in agreement. The ground had stopped for now, but who knows when it will start cracking up again? 

As they trekked their way back to the shore, Rian glanced at her and asked cautiously, "...Your Grace, were you really dead or were you speaking metaphorically?" 

Daenerys glanced at him with a thin smile, not answering. 

"Daario said you are good at the sword," she said. 

Rian smiled sheepishly, "Lord Regent Daario told me I am a natural talent. There are many who thinks bedslaves are only good at one thing, but even among slaves there are competition," He lowered his gaze and touched the scars on his arms, "Bedslaves compete for the attention of wealthier and kinder customers in hopes for a better life and treatment, while some people are simply mean hence even bedslaves have to learn how to defend ourselves in time of need."

Daenerys watched his expression turn sombre and recalled his enthusiasm for breaking chains. 

Westeros or Essos? One didn't need her and perhaps never did, while the other...

"Rian, do you think you can teach me how to use the sword?" she asked, deciding to take her mind off Westeros for a moment. 

She gestured to the sword strapped to her waist, "I've got a good sword here but I'm terrible at using it. I had never learnt how to wield a sword before."

Rian beamed. "I am happy to teach Your Grace, but you must know this will not be easy and it will take years before you can master the weapon. I myself is not yet a master at it."

Daenerys smiled understandingly, "Nothing is ever easy and I understand it will take time. But my goal is to learn self-defence to keep myself alive rather than becoming some swordsmaster."

Yes, self-defence. The last time she picked up a sword was to defend herself from the White Walkers and it was a disaster. Her heart thumped hard and she stroked Joragon absent-mindedly. If she had learnt self-defence, could she had been more alert and quick that Jon would fail in his murder attempt?

Without my dragons I am defenceless and easy to kill. I must be able to protect myself. 

"That is a great goal, Your Grace. I will work with you on that," Rian smiled. 

After a long hike, they finally reached the shores where they saw the captain shouting commands and the crew preparing the ship for departure. They jumped in surprise when they saw Daenerys and Rian. 

"Oh my... the ground was shaking so badly just now and when the horses came back without the both of you, I thought..." the captain's words trailed off when he saw Daenerys' face and the hatchlings clinging onto her.

His eyes widened, his expression flickering from shock to wonder and to awe. 

"Mhy...mhysa?" the captain whispered before falling to his knees. The crew, equally stunned when they saw Daenerys, fell to their knees as well.

"Mhysa... our Queen! You... you are alive!" the captain's voice quivered in joyful shock. 

"Mhysa!" the crew marvelled in delighted surprise. 

"Please stand, my good people," Daenerys stepped forward and tried to pull up the captain but he refused.

"Forgive me, my Queen! I had been insolent to you!" 

"You've done no wrong, captain. You did not know who I was. You have also waited here for us faithfully when you could have fled. I thank you all for your faith," Daenerys said with a faint smile. "Please stand."

The captain and the crew stood up at her command and stared at her in amazement. 

"Dra...dragons?" the captain whispered, staring at the hatchlings. 

Aerax had somehow crawled up to Daenerys' head and decided to lay down on her silver hair to rest. 

Daenerys smiled.

"Everyone, I have a favour to ask..."

"No, no, not a favour. Just tell us what you need and we will do it!" a crew member yelled out. The captain and the rest of the crew nodded in agreement. 

"Thank you... I just want you to keep the existence of me and these little ones a secret for the timebeing. When the time is right, either Lord Regent Daario or I will make it known. But for now... it is to be a secret."

The captain and the crew's look of confusion were soon replaced by steely resolve.

"Please be assured that your secret is safe with us, our sweet Queen," the captain promised. He turned to the crew, "Right?"

"Right!" the crew shouted in unison.

"Thank you all," Daenerys could not help but smile, touched at their loyalty. She does not know if anyone would love or even welcome her in Westeros, but one thing for sure, her people in Essos would never turn her away. 

"Now our next destination is..."

Daenerys was interrupted by a sudden loud 'thud'. She turned and saw Rian had collapsed. He perspired profusely, his eyes tightly shut. It was then she saw that his back had blistering wounds that seeped bloodied pus.

Dread overcame Daenerys.

"Help him, captain... NOW!"

Chapter Text

A youth wearing thick rugged tunics sang as he played with his crook while he watched his herd of sheep grazing in the grass field just below the small hill he was sitting at.

"We were once great and free
The dragons came and took it all from us
Shackled slaves to dragons we became
Serve we promised
We kept to it, protecting the crown
But the dragons took it all from us again
Lions, stags and dragons bear no difference
They took and they took
Kill the wicked Kings!
Kill the wicked Queens!
Dogs we are no longer
Wolves again we are
Great and free we are once more
Long live the Queen of the North!"

As the song ended, he noticed his herd flocking tightly together and calling out in distress. He stood up and stared out into the field, but saw no predators. As he slids down the hill to get to his herd, he saw a blot from the corner of his eyes.

"Huh...? What's that?" He mumbled as he squinted his eyes to get a better look at something he had just spotted in the sky. 

A black blot on the bright blue sky. A black blot that became increasingly large. 

The herd began to stampede and bleat in distress. 

The youth widened his eyes as a bolt of black with red swirls struck him. Fire engulfed him and he screamed, though he soon went silent.

The sheep herd screamed but soon they too were doused in black fire.

The fields burnt in smoky silence and the earth shook as a black winged beast landed and began to feast. 

*******

Location: Winterfell
Time: Morning

Sansa Stark sat still on the uncomfortable stone chair in the council room, staring into the faces of the Lords and Ladies who made up her council. She wondered if Bran's throne was as uncomfortable, and how it compared to the Iron Throne. 

Her mind drifted as they talked and talked and talked......

Not her intention, of course, but hearing them repeat the same topic for the umpteenth time is dreary. Every council meeting they bring up the much-loathed subject of her marriage without fail. Bringing forward proposals of suitable men, pushing and drumming into her the need of producing heirs, then arguing among themselves who suit her and the North best. 

With Arya away and not interested, and Bran being King of Westeros and unable to have children, the responsibility of having heirs now fall solely onto her shoulders. 

"How goes the supply stocks and the preparation of the scorpions?" she questioned loudly, silencing her arguing council. She suppressed the feeling of disgust when all eyes turned to settle on her. She felt like some kind of livestock being paraded on the market, just like her time at King's Landing and when she was delivered to Ramsay Bolton. 

The only comfort was that her council was made up of mostly women. Not a deliberate choice, simply that most of the remaining great houses of the North had either no sons or had lost their sons to wars the North had found itself embroiled in since her father Ned Stark's unjust death. Just like how she had so many brothers yet she's the one leading House Stark and the North now.

"We have completed the construction of ten Scorpions and had lined them up in Winterfell, with sufficient bolts for twelve shots per Scorpion," Lady Alysane Mormont reported.

Sansa nodded. The progress was slow, but this was the first time they were constructing the Scorpions with nothing more than blueprints sent from the Crownlands, so it was good enough they had made progress.

"We have secured stocks sufficient for three winters. We are still negotiating with Highgarden but... Lord Stokeworth do not seem receptive selling more unless we pay a higher price," said Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, the Steward and the Mistress of Food and Supplies. Jonelle's brows were knitted tight and her lips pursed, clearly stressed and vexed at the tall order. 

"I have sent more traders to the Riverlands, the Stormlands and to the closest cities in Essos such as Braavos to secure supplies... but supplies sufficient to last ten winters may be too high a bar to meet."

"I understand. Just do your best," Sansa said as comfortingly as possible. Jonelle looked at Sansa gratefully.

"I'm afraid the Riverlands may not be able to supply us with much. They have been busy dealing with raids from both the Iron Islands and the Dothraki," remarked Lady Alys Karstark, the Warden of the Eastern Marches.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. The Ironborn, once again, a thorn by their side. While the Ironborn had always raided the North and the Riverlands, except during the time when Theon was a hostage, in recent years the raids had a particular venom in them. Apparently the North and the Riverlands were the only places where House Greyjoy permitted their men to take salt wives from, hence the rabid behaviour of the Ironborn during their raids on the North and the Riverlands. 

"What is this all about anyway? Why are we building scorpions and stockpiling like we are going to be in another war?" Lord Galbart Glover questioned in annoyance. "These requests... are from the Crownlands. Are we not independent now? Why are we obeying like we are dogs again?" 

All eyes turned to Sansa again.

"This is not an order from King Bran," Sansa asserted, her hardened eyes sweeping across the room. "And let's not forget that King Bran is my brother. He too, is a Northerner."

Is he still? a small voice asked in the corner of Sansa's mind. The way he refused her request for him to help restrain the Ironborn and the way he had told her she was beautiful on her wedding night to Ramsay Bolton...

Sansa's jaws clenched. 

"I get it, Your Grace, and I mean no insult to your House," Galbart said gruffly, his tone softening. "But we had received no explanation."

"Surely no explanation is needed," Sansa replied icily, "Have everyone here forgotten that Daenerys Targaryen's dragon is still out there somewhere?" 

The room went silent. 

"The dragon is a beast unlike any other beast known to men. We do not know how it may act in the future even when it had taken no action thus far. Its brother died here and its rider died in the hands of a Northerner. Who's to say this dragon would not return to the North someday?" Sansa looked at her quiet councillors then said, with a softer tone, "Even as we rebuild, it is right that we should not neglect our defences."

"Then what about Jon Snow? Why is he needed?" Lord Wyman Manderly asked, disapproval glimmering in his eyes. Even his stomach turned at the mention of the bastard's name. They had bent their knees to him, a mere bastard, only for him to surrender their freedom to Daenerys Targaryen without consulting them. 

Sansa's fingers on her grasped hands tightened. This was one thing that she had not shared with her council.

Bran had asked that Jon be questioned, sternly, if necessary, about Daenerys Targaryen. 

But Jon would never lie about what he did.

Or, would he?

Why would he lie about something like that? And if Daenerys Targaryen wasn't dead, where was she and why would she stay silent for three years? 

Sansa turned to Meera Reed, the Mistress of Scouts and the heir of House Reed. She had returned to Winterfell after the official independence of the North and the ascendence of Bran as King of Westeros. Sansa had originally invited both her and her father Howland Reed, hoping to appoint Howland Reed to a position in her council but only Meera showed up, with a message of gratitude and congratulations from her father's friend whom she had never met. 

"Our scouts are still looking," Meera replied without emotion. "We have engaged the wildlings and they had agreed to carry our message to him if they do see him. We had also left marks that he can recognise as a summon sign to Winterfell."

The council gradually moved on to other subjects - diplomacy with the various regions in Westeros, and the strategies of dealing with the Ironborn and the potential raids of the Dothraki should they decide to move up north from the Riverlands.

"Oh, Your Grace, have you heard of this song called 'The Call of the North'?" Lady Alys Karstark asked.

Sansa's face finally had a faint hint of a smile. 

Of course she did. The words strung by a nameless bard, had made its way from a tavern in White Harbour to Winterfell, and perhaps farther. 

"Hah, this song is sung whenever there's a feast or celebration somewhere," Wyman laughed. 

"We were once great and free, the dragons came and took it all from us," Wyman started singing with a twinkle in his eyes. 

Galbart smirked and continued, "Shackled slaves to dragons we became, serve we promised..."

The ladies chuckled but joined in nonetheless, each carrying on the next lyric. 

"Wolves again we are, great and free we are once more," Alysane Mormont sang. 

All stomped their feet, clapped their hands and shouted, "Long live the Queen of the....!"

The council room's doors suddenly burst open with a resounding crash and a messenger rushed in breathlessly. 

"State your name and your station! How dare you barge into the council room like this!" Wyman reprimanded.

"Your Grace!" the messenger ignored Wyman and instead made an immediate plea to Sansa, "The black monster is here and is burning towns and villages!"

"What black monster?" Alysane Mormont questioned.

Sansa stood up, her hairs standing on ends, the image of a black dragon and a past conversation arising from her memories.

"What do dragons eat, anyway?" Sansa asked, out of curiosity but also from wariness. After all, it was said that Rhaenyra Targaryen was herself eaten by a dragon. Would Daenerys' dragons hunt Northerners as food too? 

Daenerys Targaryen looked at Sansa and smiled smugly, which reminded her uncomfortably of Joffrey Baratheon. It did not help that her answer was less than reassuring.

"Whatever they want," Daenerys had replied. 

Sansa never saw Daenerys' dragons eating men. Only sheep, goats, pigs and horses. But if Daenerys gave the order... would they? Would she?

Bran's warning.

"The dragon," Sansa's eyes narrowed and her fists balled, "Daenerys Targaryen's dragon is back."

Her words shocked the room into silence, but she wasted no time as she gazed at the messenger and probed him for more information, "Did the dragon burn entire towns and villages, or was it simply hunting for food? Does the dragon have a rider?" 

"No, Your Grace! No rider has been spotted, and that monster wasn't just hunting for food! It razed entire towns and villages to the ground, and burns anyone it sees! It's as if it wants us dead!" the messenger replied agitatedly, though he had tried hard to stay calm and put up a strong front. 

Sansa turned to her council and commanded, "Lady Cerwyn, prepare aid supplies and get a legion of men ready to deliver aid. Lady Mormont, hasten the production of the scorpions and ready the army in Winterfell to bunker down in the event of a dragon attack. Lady Karstark, Lord Manderly and Lord Glover, I need all of you Wardens to return to your lands and start preparing for evacuation and aid on your end as well. As for you, Lady Reed, hurry your scouts to locate Jon, and come with me to survey the lands for damages and to help our people."

"Your Grace, I alone shall suffice. Please stay here for your safety and for any sudden decision-making should the need arises," Meera petitioned. 

"Yes, you have to stay here," Wyman said grimly. "You are the only Stark we've got left."

Sansa's stomach tied knots at Wyman's words as she sat down slowly and silently while her councillors hurriedly shuffled out of the room to see to their duties. 

*******

Meera trembled as she surveyed the damage on horseback.

This was the third village she had surveyed, and like the others, it was so completely razed that there were no signs of life left. Vultures did not visit for there were no corpses for them to feed but ash. Even the buildings had not survived, similarly incinerated into ash or reduced to rubble. 

The air smells of smoke, ash and cooked flesh and she so nearly retched in disgust. As her horse trotted in the village, she had no idea if the ash it stepped on belonged to an animal or person. 

The assault had stopped twenty miles away from Winterfell and there had been no known movements since. 

So this was the power of dragonfire. 

Meera felt her blood boiling, even as she shuddered from the cold whispering winds. 

A sharp bloodcurdling scream pierced through the skies, alarming Meera and her men. Their horses shrieked and neighed shrilly while rearing and stomping in response, causing a few of the men falling off. Meera and the rest held on tightly onto the reins as they attempt to calm their horses. 

Meera pulled the reins and turned her horse around. "This is enough. We return to Winterfell now!" 

*******

When Meera returned to Winterfell, the tension in the atmosphere was thick. As she and her men rode into the castle grounds, she noticed the people looking at her, faces and eyes filled with questions and fear. 

She caught a glimpse of Jonelle Cerwyn who was preparing aid supplies with her men. 

Sansa, pacing nervously in the throne room, looked up with a gleam in her eyes when Meera entered.

"Meera," Sansa called, "Tell me what you saw."

Meera told her exactly what she had seen – ashened villages razed to the ground with not a single living soul in sight. She also told Sansa about the scream that had echoed through the skies, and Sansa's face paled considerably, worry and fear flickering in her eyes.

"Is that the dragon, Your Grace?" Meera asked. She had heard about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons but had never seen or heard them before, unlike Sansa. 

"I'm afraid so," Sansa said, her voice slightly shaky. 

"What do we do now?"

"We can only prepare as much as possible," Sansa replied, but in her heart she wondered if any amount of preparation would be sufficient. Among three of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons, the black one was the largest and the most formidable. It had lived even after its brothers and rider died, a testament to its strength. And now it's back, perhaps for vengeance. 

Bran had asked her to question Jon about Daenerys Targaryen, but Sansa believed there was another more important question for him.

Why did the black one not kill him?

Was it because of his Targaryen blood?

Targaryen blood... 

The panic in Sansa's eyes faded, replaced by a flicker of hope.

"Meera, I want you to stop whatever you are doing right now, and put all your resources into finding Jon. If necessary, you too shall go beyond the Wall to find him," Sansa ordered. 

Meera looked at Sansa in stunned surprise, but she soon bowed.

"Yes, Your Grace! I shall get to it now, then."

Sansa watched as Meera turned and left the throne room. She grasped her hands anxiously. 

Jon, come back soon. There is no greater need for you than now.

*******

Location: King's Landing
Time: Night

A rush of nervous and fearful letters had arrived at King's Landing, forcing the Small Council to meet at late night. What's also unusual was that Bran also showed up, seated at the head of the table. 

"Two cities, six towns and ten villages razed to the ground. Thousands dead and hundreds missing. We must do something," Edmure Tully said hoarsely, fatigue and worry casting a shadow on his face. 

"Do what? The North is an independent queendom," Bronn rolled his eyes.

Edmure glared at him. "Do you not realise the Riverlands sits at their feet? That damned dragon could well fly to Highgarden and burn your precious castle to ashes as well! By the way, why have you raised grain prices so much that the North could no longer afford them?"

Bronn scowled. "What? You think only the Northerners need food on their table? Just because the North needs supplies, Highgarden and the rest of Westeros who depend on the Reach for food should go hungry? What is this? Special treatment? They are not even a goddamn part of our realm anymore!" 

"Bronn!" Tyrion warned. "I understand your point, but a dragon is a beast and I doubt it knows or cares that the North is independent or not. We are in this together."

"Well, the dragon was last spotted flying past the Vale before disappearing," Yohn Royce quickly interrupted, much to Tyrion's relief. "We can't be sure, but it doesn't seem like it's got a rider."

"My spies tell me that the dragon is closing in to Dragonstone," Aldric informed. 

"Hah! Maybe it will burn that damned place down," Bronn scoffed, before adding, "We should prepare the scorpions."

"Yes," came Bran's voice softly and all attention landed on him. Bran eyed Bronn. "Lord Stokeworth, I know this is a difficult ask, but spare the North any supplies that you can. There is no telling the dragon would not return to the North."

"Lord Tully and Lord Seaworth, please work together to get the scorpions ready. The city's defences against the dragon shall be our focus for now. However, there is also something I feel that everyone here should know."

"Your Grace?" Brienne's voice was tinged with worry as she addressed Bran. 

The other council members shared her concern, casting anxious glances at the young king. Bran always seemed distant and detached, but today it was even more pronounced even though he had spoken more than usual.

"...The bond between a dragon and its rider is as strong, or stronger than any other bond in the world. This series of actions is not without cause. The dragon is either reacting to its rider or is being commanded to do so."

Tyrion swallowed thickly at Bran's suggestion. 

"Drogon has no rider, not since she died. The North and the Vale also reported that no rider has been spotted," Tyrion said, though he felt dreaded with a sinking feeling in his alcohol-filled stomach. 

Bran looked at him silently for a moment.

"...It has a rider."

"What? No, it can't..."

Bran raised his gaze to meet his councillors' and spoke plainly, "Daenerys Targaryen is alive."

The air in the small council chamber grew heavy with tension. The councillors exchanged looks of disbelief, shock freezing their expressions. Bronn was the first to react, jumping to his feet.

"What?!" he exclaimed. "Impossible! Jon Snow confessed to killing her!"

"We never saw the body, though..." Yohn echoed the words of Aldric from their last meeting, only to be cut off by a disturbed-looking Samwell.

"Jon said she was dead, and her dragon took her body away. Jon wouldn't lie."

"Yes, but he was her lover," Yohn retorted, irritated by Samwell's interruption. "Even if he didn't lie, maybe he was too distraught to properly check her pulse."

"I trust Jon," Bran replied, his voice steady as he interlaced his fingers. "But it's true we never saw her body, and we have no idea where her dragon took her. It's possible something happened, something that brought her back. Death has been cheated before."

"What? You’re saying she’s like a wight or a White Walker now? Instead of a Night King, we’ve now got a Night Queen on our hands?" Bronn questioned, his tone incredulous.

"Watch your words, Lord Stokeworth," Brienne warned sharply.

"To the Seven Hells with your warnings, Lady Tarth," Bronn snapped, frustration in his voice. "The Dothraki horde are running wild across the land, Dragonstone is occupied and House Velaryon is working with them, and now Daenerys Targaryen is alive? What kind of madness is this?!"

"This gives the Dothraki situation a new urgency," Edmure said, his brows knitted tightly, "We cannot have her return to Westeros and gain control over them on top of her coming back with that blasted dragon. And the Ironborn..." Edmure gritted his teeth at the mention of them, "They have increased their raids on us, taking numerous women as salt wives. They had refused all cease and desist demands, claiming that was a similar agreement they had with Daenerys Targaryen who is a mad and illegitimate queen hence they will not follow her directives. But we know what this is about..."

Edmure slammed his fist on the table angrily. "To the Seven Hells with their excuses! The Iron Islands are traitors in cahoots with the remnants of Daenerys Targaryen's forces!"

"Whether we like it or not, war is at our doorstep," Yohn Royce closed his eyes. 

"Then the lords should be notified and prepared. Lord Royce, I leave that and the Ironborn to you, and Lord Seaworth shall work with you on that. Aldric, Lord Tully, please work together to remove the Dothraki as soon as possible," Bran said.

"I..." Tyrion started but was cut off by Bran. 

"I have nothing for you, Lord Lannister."

Tyrion's face burnt red as he stared blankly at Bran.

"Have a good rest, Lord Lannister... you need it," Bran said softly, not sparing him any further looks. 

The meeting ended with that awkward note.

"Bronn..." Tyrion approached his friend outside the chamber, but he stopped upon the sight of Bronn's frustrated look.

"Tyrion, one whole stupid meeting and not a mention of me being Lord Paramount of the Reach," Bronn seethed. 

Tyrion frowned. "Is that what you should be worried about now?"

"I'm not worried, I'm angry and upset that you, my dear friend, lied to me," Bronn hissed. "You also spoke against me during the meeting."

"Bronn, I was thinking of the bigger picture," Tyrion bit his lip, swallowing the quiet frustration that had been eating away at him.

"Or sucking up to the King who happens to be a Stark," Bronn sneered. 

"Bronn! Do you truly think that is who I am?" Tyrion demanded, aggrieved at the accusation. 

"Honestly, I don't care anymore. I have my plate full of stupid Reach issues that I have to deal with, and now I'm forced to sell my stocks to the North when other buyers are offering better prices and the insolent Reach houses are breathing down my neck! And now I have to deal with this Targaryen bitch who can't stay dead! So please, Tyrion, while I am solving these real and hard problems, leave me alone unless you have some good news for me!" 

Tyrion watched as Bronn turned and stomped off. 

Things had changed much after Bronn became the Lord of Highgarden and the Master of Coin. They spent less time together as they busied with their duties, and the struggles and court dynamics Bronn had to face changed him. 

Now, are they even still friends? 

All this, after Bran humiliated him in front of the full council. 

Am I doomed to lose everyone around me? Tyrion wondered, his eyes stinging. He stared out of the window next to him. It was a moonless night, stars blocked by the clouds and the sky as dark as the weight on his heart.

Arbor gold. I need more arbor gold, Tyrion decided. 

As he turned his back to the window, a pair of hands shot through from outside, clamped over his mouth, and yanked him backward. Tyrion's eyes widened in shock and fear as he was dragged out into the darkness beyond the tower.

*******

Location: Dragonstone
Time: Dawn

The first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, painting the sky in gentle hues of pale pink and soft gold. The surface of the sea rippled gently, the waves rolling towards the shore with a soothing melody harmonised with the cries of seabirds.

A cool breeze brushed across the shore and on the face of a woman, whose face was etched with lines of sorrow. 

On this island, the world felt peaceful and serene, but the woman's heart was anything but that. 

As she stared out at the seawaves repeating its cycle of rolling and retreating, memories came flooding back into her mind.

She hurried towards the young man in grey armour who was making his way to the ship alongside many of his comrades. He had come to Dragonstone from the Westerosi mainland to pick up the rest of the garrison Daenerys had left guarding here, for he had agreed to leaving Westeros in return for safe passage to wherever he wished. 

She grabbed his wrist. "Where are you going?! Where are all of you going?!"

The man stopped, and everyone else stopped too, as they turned to look at her.

"How could you just leave? Khaleesi is dead, and all of you are just leaving?!" she screamed. She had not intended to, but she could not help it. The anger and the pain was too much. 

She pulled at the wrist of the man she had just grabbed, glaring fiercely at him, 
"You especially... how could you leave without exacting vengeance for her? She trusted you, Grey Worm!" 

Grey Worm looked at her blankly, his expression faraway. 

"...Her killer has been punished."

"NO! You should have seen to the traitors' execution right there and then! How could you leave their punishment to those who are their friends and family!" she screamed. 

"It's over, Jhiqui..." Grey Worm lowered his head, eyes downcast. Then he forcefully pulled his wrist out of her grasp and stepped up the ship. Many others followed him.

"You... you... COWARD! FOOL! TRAITOR!" Jhiqui raged. 

Grey Worm stopped for a moment before he resumed his footsteps and disappeared into the ship. Though she could not see his face, Jhiqui knew her words had wounded him.

Good! He deserved it! She told herself. 

It was then she noticed many Unsullied had not stepped up onto the ship. They stared at her, anger and sorrowful shame carved into their eyes and faces. 

"What? You all going to leave as well?! Well, I'm not leaving! Even if it's just me alone, I'm going to stay here and guard this place with my life! I may be a woman and not a soldier, but I am braver and more loyal than any of you!" 

She paused, before gritting her teeth, "If any of you... if any of you still have any loyalty left for Khaleesi, stay!"

The Unsullied looked at each other. 

By the time the ships sailed away, a thousand spears had chosen to stay behind with her. 

Jhiqui's eyes brimmed with hot tears as she stared into the horizon where the ships had sailed into years ago. 

Fools and traitors, she cursed in her heart, how could they leave without a fight? Her people, the Dothraki, are just like that. But the Unsullied were different. Or at least she used to think so. But they too, had abandoned Daenerys. 

It was a bitter pill to swallow, given that she had faded into the background after Missandei and Grey Worm had gained prominence and Daenerys' favour over her.

Both Missandei and Grey Worm were gone, but so was Daenerys. Tears streamed down her face as she recalled the times she had spent with Daenerys many years ago. On their way from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak, their deadly journey through the Red Waste, the respite and danger in Qarth... 

Perhaps it was in Qarth where everything started to change. Doreah betrayed Daenerys and Irri died. That was when Daenerys started drifting apart from her. She was never ill-treated, and in fact, was treated with much respect as Daenerys' handmaiden, but she knew their relationship was never quite the same again. 

"If only this was all a dream... and we are all back in Khal Drogo's khalasar..." she wept. 

Sniffing and wiping her tears away, Jhiqui opened the first of three letters she had in her hands.

Her jaws clenched and her eyes flew open in anger as she read the letter. Signed by Tyrion Lannister, it warned her to vacate Dragonstone in return for safe passage or else. 

"That treacherous imp!" 

Jhiqui ripped the letter into shreds and flung the pieces away.

The second letter was from the Velaryons, informing her of the impending blockade and that they would not be able to provide supplies much longer. Jhiqui inhaled deeply, hoping to steady the storm of emotions boiling within her.

"This must be the work of the treacherous imp!" Jhiqui cursed, her heart burning with black hatred. Oh, how she wished Daenerys had not saved them all. 

"Khaleesi should have burnt them all," she muttered angrily. 

Jhiqui paused at the third letter. It had come with a seal of a kraken. 

Before she could open it, she heard a familiar scream and loud batting wings. Her eyes widened and she stared in disbelief as she watched Drogon descending from the skies and landing onto the dragon pit. 

The Unsullied nearby shouted in amazement and shock. 

Drogon tucked in his wings and laid down on the pit. He spared her and the Unsullied a lazy glance before turning away, not paying them any further attention.

Jhiqui lets out a laugh of shock and wonder as she stared at Drogon, her eyes filled with glee.

"Khaleesi... your child has returned to avenge you."

Chapter Text

Tyrion's eyes slowly opened, his head hurting. 

At first, he could only see a blurred brown surface, but once his eyes focused, he could tell he was in a small, empty, windowless room.

He tried to get up but found it difficult, with his hands and legs bounded tightly with thick ropes. Despite these, it was the familiar rocking, the harmonised melody of waves and wind, and the unmistakeable smell of sea salt that sent him a rush of panicked emotions. 

To where was he going? Dragonstone? Or perhaps... Meereen? 

His heart sank at the thought of going back to Meereen. He'd rather be thrown out of a window from Dragonstone's castle. 

Daario had never replied to his letter three years ago and had never sent any communications to him or to the court. But who else would dare, or even want to, kidnap him? 

He tensed up when the door creaked open.

A man with unkempt hair and a twirled mustache, dressed in cotton sailor attire and thick leather boots, stepped in. He raised a brow when he noticed Tyrion was up and alert. 

“Hah! Should have known it was too good to be true when that Braavosi merchant said the drug would last for three days!” the man cursed in a thick Essosi accent. 

“Who are you and where are you taking me? Do you know who I am?” Tyrion questioned, panic slowing arising in him as he realised he may not be going to Dragonstone after all. 

“Of course I know who you are. Tyrion Lannister, the treacherous imp with the forked tongue. Everyone knows who you are,” the man said with a smirk. “Oh, and I am the captain of this ship. So, speak to me with respect if you wish to make it to shore safely. As to where we are going… I guess you will know once we get there.”

“We are going to Meereen, aren’t we?” Tyrion stared dead into the captain’s eyes, but the captain only laughed in return.

"Unbound me! I'm not a slave and will not be one!"

Tyrion's face was soon met with the back of the captain's hand, stunning him. The struck landed hard with a loud crack, whipping Tyrion's head to the side, a jewelled ring on the captain's hand leaving a cut on his reddened cheek. 

"Of course you are not a slave and won't be one. The Queen freed us all and ruled that there shall be no more slaves, remember?" the captain snarled. 

Tyrion recalled the claims of Bran during the council meeting. 

If there's anything he learnt about Bran in the last three years they knew each other and worked together, he spoke nothing but the truth. He may speak little and rarely intervenes when it comes to making decisions for Westeros, but each time he speaks, his words weigh true and heavy. 

"Did Daenerys tell you to do this?" 

A loud smack filled the room and Tyrion staggered backwards before falling on his butt. 

The captain's eyes flashed in anger as he sneered coldly, "Have you gone mad now, imp? The Queen died three years ago." 

The captain squatted down to get to Tyrion’s eye level. “Let me give you a piece of friendly advice, traitor - do not sully the Queen’s name with your filthy forked tongue. My crew are not as good-tempered as I am. Speak her name and of her again and you might find yourself missing a body part or two before we even reached port and that would be incredibly unfortunate, don’t you think?”

The captain tapped Tyrion’s cheek twice and grinned chillingly.

"Have a good rest, Lord Lannister... you need it.”

The captain chuckled as he left the room and slammed the heavy wooden door shut. Tyrion’s heart went cold as he heard the rattling of chains and the click of a lock. 

*******

Location: The Haunted Forest, Beyond the Wall
Time: Day

In the wintry lands of the deep north, snow was thick and the winds bleak and loud. 

Yet through the whistling of the cold winds, the sounds of clashing metals were unmistakeable. 

A spear was sliced clean in half, and a sickening wet sound drifted in the still air. A bloodied sword was pulled out from the spear wielder's guts and he fell onto the snow. He laid there motionless as his blood poured out and turned the snow red. 

"So who is it this time?" Tormund Giantsbane asked with a spat. 

Jon Snow knelt and pulled off the thick face mask of the man who had tried to attack him. He stared at the man's face for a moment. 

This was a man he had briefly spoke with before. Then they fought the Night King and the army of undead, before fighting yet again at
King's Landing. 

Brief as their time together was, but they were both survivors and for a time, comrades. Jon remembered that his name was Zalgrio. His dream was to become his Queen's Spear. 

And now he lays here dead. 

Jon drew his hand down and closed the Unsullied's glaring eyes. 

"The closer we are to Castle Black, the more of them we run into. This is the third one this month alone," Tormund frowned. "What is the Night's Watch doing? Are their guards down because the undead are dead? Maybe they need some raiding from us to do better." 

Tormund burst out laughing but Jon did not laugh. 

"I am concerned. The Night's Watch's defences are not what they used to be, and there are marks left behind by Northerners calling for my presence. Something must have happened." 

"It's none of your business now. I have no idea why you still care," Tormund shrugged. 

"Thank you for accompanying me, Tormund," Jon said sincerely, a thin smile on his lips. 

The other Wildlings had not been as receptive at travelling with him down to the Wall. They had founded a new settlement and preferred to stay to continue building and secure it. But Tormund and a few others had decided to follow him south once he made the decision to go to Winterfell, for he had seen a scout’s marking during a hunt. 

The mark was simple to understand – retreat to Winterfell.

The mark was relatively fresh, and beside it was another mark that he recognised – a wolf’s head. He used to carve this into his wooden swords, dreaming of himself as a trueborn Stark. Then one day Catelyn found out, pulled it out from his hands and threw it into the fire as she gave him a stare so cold he never did anything like that again. 

The mark was for him. Only him. Only someone who knew him and his history well would leave this mark. 

Sansa. 

He has to go to her.

*******

Location: Pyke Castle
Time: Nightfall

Yara retreated to her chambers after returning from a raid. 

She stripped her clothes off and entered a tub of hot water near a hearth. She groaned in pleasure as her muscles relaxed and the grime on her started to wear off from the heated water. 

Yara took the first of the letters piled neatly on a tall wooden stool next to the tub.

When she was it was addressed from Riverrun, she scoffed and threw it straight into the fire. The next one was from… her eyes narrowed. Queen Sansa of the North. Another scoff, and another unopened letter into the fire. 

She read the rest as a servant girl scrubbed her body clean with soap and cloth.

The only interesting letter was from House Blacktyde, which informed her of a dragon’s attack on the North, with the last reports stating it was seen flying to the Vale. Due to concerns of potential dragon attacks, the Blacktydes advised against raiding the eastern shores of Westeros for the time being, lest their fleet be embroiled. 

The dragon was said to be black. Yara wondered if it was Daenerys’ dragon. 

Yara made her way back to her bedroom clothed in a simple bathrobe, pondering how she could use the dragon’s attacks to seize advantage in upcoming raids.

As she shuts the door to her bedchamber, she sensed something different in the air. Her hand went to her sidearm as she maintained a nonchalant and ignorant appearance. 

She pulled out her dagger when a cloaked figure walked out from the shadows. Before Yara could call for help, the cloaked stranger had pulled off their hood, revealing their face.

At the sight of the person's face, Yara froze, her eyes widening as she stared in stunned silence and utter disbelief. 

"What the...! You were dead!" 

Daenerys smiled. 

"Do I still look dead to you?" 

Yara stared at her for a silent moment before charging towards her, but Daenerys did not move or even blink an eye. 

Yara threw her arms around Daenerys, pulling her into a tight embrace. 

"I'm glad you are back." 

Daenerys stood still in a daze. 

Kinvara had told her that Yara was the only person who defended her. Despite so, she had wondered for a moment if Yara would choose to betray her too. She never fulfilled her promise to Yara and had been a dead woman for three years after all. Instead, she found herself in a welcoming embrace.

Daenerys lightly wrapped her arms around Yara and closed her eyes to feel the long-awaited warmth that was seeping into her lost, shattered heart, a glimmer of hope that lifted a weight off her. 

After they separated, Yara invited her to sit down at the table where she poured them each a mug of ale. After sipping a mouthful of the bitter drink, Daenerys decided to cut to the chase. 

"I know I was dead and did not fulfill my promise and obligations to you. So I would like to ask, do I still have your support?" she asked. 

Yara froze for a split second. 

"You have not given up on Westeros?" Yara looked at her almost awkwardly, "Your army......" 

"I still have a dragon." 

"Oh," Yara paused, looking at Daenerys meaningfully, "So... have you heard what your dragon was up to? Was that you?"

Daenerys shrugged smilingly.

"Fine, keep your secrets, but you cannot possibly hope to retake Westeros with just one dragon.“ 

"Can't I? When Aegon the Conqueror first came to Westeros, he only had about 2000 soldiers..." 

"And three dragons, a few allies here and there and a disunited Westeros," Yara sighed. 

Daenerys smiled again.

"I am aware. But all I need to do is to take down King's Landing. Even if the other lords decide to move against me, it makes little difference. Tell me, Yara. What is the mood in Westeros right now?" Daenerys asked.

Yara glanced at Daenerys, a thoughtful look in her eyes. 

She is wondering where the dragon's fury is. Anyone who went through what you did would be furious. I am curious too. Where is your dragon fire?

Silence, Daenerys willed as she blinked slowly. The voice did not speak again.

"I hear I've gained some names. The Queen of Ashes, the Mad Queen..."

Yara snorted. "Only your enemies call you that."

"And the smallfolk?" 

"They call you what they know of you, mostly from your enemies."

After a moment of clarity, Yara looked deeply into Daenerys' eyes. 

"Tell me, Your Grace..." 

"Dany will do, Yara." 

Yara took Daenerys' hands and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

"Then tell me, Dany. Why do you still want Westeros? What are your plans for Westeros? Despite everything, it is now in peace. It requires no liberation." 

Daenerys chuckled and squeezed Yara's hands too. Her hands were rough and cold, yet they transmitted such warmth and gentleness. A raider who's gentler than a lady such as Sansa Stark. If she told anyone that, no doubt people would laugh and call her mad all over again, even if they did not know who she was. 

"Is it in peace?" Daenerys asked, her head cocking to one side thoughtfully. The ship captain and the shipcrew which she travelled with had fed her information of whatever they knew of Essos and Westeros from the past three years. "Last I heard, the Ironborn are raiding heavily, taking countless salt wives, and the Dothraki are rampaging through the Riverlands." 

Yara blushed. 

"In my defence, I only allowed the taking of salt wives from the North and the Riverlands. The North betrayed you, and the Riverlands... well, House Tully is closely related to the North and is their ardent supporter even as the North has become independent."

Daenerys laughed softly. 

"I'm not here to question you, Yara. I do have plans. For one, I know there are two Dothraki hordes in Westeros right now and I intend to reclaim my khalasar."

"Well, if you do intend that, I'd advise you to reclaim the horde at Harrenhal, for they are still loyal to you. The other horde is moving towards the Westerlands; you can leave them to do their work at the Westerlands to mess with the Lannisters."

Daenerys shook her head. "The smallfolk do not deserve to suffer ire in place for the Lannisters."

Yara looked at her, frowning. "If you fail to reclaim this second horde, you will only waste men fighting them."

"I won't. I have a dragon after all," Daenerys reminded gently. 

"So it looks set you are retaking Westeros from the Starks?" 

Daenerys smiled. "Yes, Yara. And I'm sure you will find my basis interesting."

Yara looked at her, puzzled but also full of expectation.

Daenerys sipped the ale calmly and when she looked into Yara's eyes again, Yara saw the fire in her violet eyes. 

"My reason is rather similar to why you came to me. The throne is mine; I worked for it, my brother even died for it. I'm not letting anyone sit on it on my expense. I want what's mine back, it's just that simple."

Yara laughed.

Yes, it is indeed simple and fully acceptable. It's time to relieve Westeros from the stuffy, power-grabbing Starks and their minions. 

*******

"That fucking imp was the most ridiculous shit I've seen in my life," Yara cussed as she downed a mug of ale. "I can't believe he not only walked free, but is on the Council as the Hand of the King! It's nonsensical!” 

She slammed the mug onto the table and the candlestand nearly toppled. 

"He ran away from Westeros with charges of regicide, seeking refuge from you which you gave him. You appointed him as your Hand but he betrayed you to your death, regicide once again! Yet they let him live and gave him power for the third time! Who's the mad one, eh? Tell me, sweet one. Who the hell is the one who lost their mind? If you were mad, then they are mad insane lunatics!" 

Daenerys smiled at the term "sweet one". That was...new. She lets Yara vent without interruption, and vent she did, for she raged on continuously, spitting on the names of those who now sat in the council, criticising their persons, and cussing them as a bunch of snivelling, cowardly and self-interested wastrel of scumbags sitting at a table discussing how to rip off the next who or what. That was apparently the discussion topic, after they had reaffirmed their alliance and aligned their goals. 

"And don't get me started on that Stark bitch...!"

Daenerys listened quietly, not saying a word. She knew how important it was to be heard, to felt heard. 

Daenerys did not know how long it was, but after she had her fill of criticism, Yara fell asleep drunk on the table. Daenerys lifted Yara's arm over her shoulder and dragged her laboriously from the table to the bed.

She eased Yara onto the bed, removed her boots and set them neatly to one side, then covered her with the blankets. 

She was about to leave when she lost her balance and fell... right into Yara's arms. She turned, only to see Yara smiling slyly at her.

"So our alliance is not over," Yara mumbled.

"Yes," Daenerys replied smilingly.

"I'm still up for anything, you know," Yara said as a mischievous gleam shone in her eyes. 

Daenerys laughed as she stroked Yara's head. 

"
Go to sleep, Lord Reaper."

*******

Location: Brave Sons

It was nearly dawn by the time Daenerys returned to the ship Brave Sons. 

She came across a crew member but dismissed his service. As she pushed open the cabin door, she heard a groan.

"Is that you, Noroquo? You are late," Rian complained as he lay chest-down on his bed. "My back hurts so much I'm going crazy. I need a new application of that ointment NOW."

A smile of amusement cracked on Daenerys' lips as she stifled a laughter. She took the bottle of ointment from the table, sat down on the edge of the bed and unscrewed the lid. The faint scent of herbs filled the air as she dabbed her fingers into the bottle of the pale-coloure curative cream.

"Hurry up! I’d rather not be writhing in pain when the Queen arrives," Rian urged.

Daenerys pursed her lips tightly as her smile widened. 

She smoothed the cream over his burns with gentle pressure. Rian tensed involuntarily and hissed sharply as the coolness of the cream bit at his inflamed skin. Her hands spread the cream in even strokes, her fingers steady and deliberate, but she couldn't help but tremble slightly at the sight of his burnt back. The blisters were gone and the burns were much better than they were, but in their place were terrible burn scars that would remain for the rest of his life. 

If he hadn't pushed her out of the way, this could be her. 

Sure, she had been unburnt before, but Valyrian fire could be different. It certainly felt much hotter than the other fires which had left her unscathed before.

As she continuously rubbed the cream on Rian's back, it began to work its magic, as his body and facial muscles gradually relaxed.

"Hmm... ahh..." Rian sighed in relief, clearly enjoying the massage, "This feels so good, Noroque. But what happened? Your hands feel so soft today and you are much more gentle than usual. Oooof...! That really hits the spot! Gosh, your style has really improved!"

Daenerys couldn't hold it in anymore. She lets out a chuckle and Rian froze. He turned his head and his face paled when he saw her.

In an instant he's up on his feet and he crashed onto his knees before Daenerys could stop him.

"Forgive my insolence, Your Grace!" 

"There's nothing to forgive," Daenerys smiled as she pulled him up to his feet.

"I... I’m ashamed," Rian murmured, his head slightly turned away, eyes squeezed shut, his face flushed with embarrassment, "I do not deserve this treatment."

"You saved my life, Rian. But if you do not like it, I will not do it again," Daenerys screwed the bottle lid and placed the bottle back onto the table.

Rian lowered his head and did not respond. After a moment, he asked, "How goes the talk with the Lord Reaper, Your Grace?"

"It went well," Daenerys said with a pleased hum. 

"Do we now go to Dragonstone?"

"Yes."

Rian smiled and Daenerys felt pleased. She gently pushed him back onto the bed.

"Rest well and recover quickly, Rian," Daenerys said softly. Only then could her worries be eased. He was one of her own, and nothing would please her more than seeing all her people healthy and content.

"Yes, I will, Your Grace," Rian nodded. 

I have to make a full recovery soon. Only then am I able to avenge my Queen and help to reclaim her birthright!

Chapter Text

Location: Winterfell
Time: Nightfall

Sansa sat on the throne in the throne room, awaiting with bated breath.

When the throne room’s doors creaked open heavily, Sansa stood up immediately. 

Jon stepped in gingerly, glancing at Sansa briefly before he proceeded to go down on a knee when Sansa rushed forward and stopped him.

"Jon."

"Sansa."

An awkward silence falls between them briefly before Jon broke the silence.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Jon. Please take a seat," Sansa gestured to a nearby chair.

Jon sat down and Sansa took a seat beside him.

"I called for you for two reasons. The first reason is because Bran asked me to. The second is because I have a request for you."

Jon looked at Sansa quizzically. 

"Bran wants you to see me?"

Sansa inhaled deeply. There was no easy to put this. To ask the question was to doubt Jon, despite all that he had done for the North and for Westeros.

"He wants to know if you had verified that Daenerys Targaryen was dead."

Confusion flickered across Jon's face before a hurt disbelief settled in.

"Things have happened in the past few years, Jon," Sansa quickly explained, "Her old allies and armies - the Ironborn, the Dothraki and the Unsullied garrison on Dragonstone have been antagonistic to the Lords of Westeros. While the garrison on Dragonstone had yet to do anything, but they are in league with House Velaryon, traditional allies of House Targaryen, and they could potentially use their positioning at the Gullet against Westeros. The Ironborn are exerting immense pressure on the North and the Riverlands, and the Dothraki have been attacking the Riverlands relentlessly."

She paused and held Jon's gaze, "...And Daenerys Targaryen's dragon has returned to the North. It has razed two cities, six towns and ten villages so far. Thousands of our people are dead."

Jon stared at Sansa, horrified. 

"Drogon did what?" he uttered in shocked disbelief.

So the black dragon's name is Drogon, Sansa thought.

"Bran thinks Daenerys is still alive, which is why all these happened?" Jon inhaled deeply, "Did he think I was lying about...about her?"

Jon had seen firsthand what dragons could do. The flames and screams of King's Landing burning forever seared in his mind. He pulled his eyes away from Sansa, as he imagined the people of the North set on fire and turning into ashes. Those who lived had to watch their homes, livestock and family burn. They would always dream of burning flesh and the ashes left in the wake of the dragon's wilful destruction.

And now he's being suspected of being a part of this. 

Did Bran, Sansa, and the others really think he was capable of this?

"He simply wishes to clarify if you had checked that she was truly dead," Sansa said quickly, "Perhaps in your grief you did not..."

"She was dead, Sansa," Jon cuts in curtly. He gazed at her, eyes simmering with strained emotions, "I stabbed her in the chest."

Sansa said no more. Even as Jon turned his face away, the flicker of hurt in his eyes did not escape her. 

"All right, Jon. I believe you," Sansa finally said, for she sensed no lies and she did not want to push him further regarding Daenerys Targaryen's death or non-death. 

"But like I said, I have a request for you, and I hope you'd accept it."

"What is it?" Jon asked softly, his eyes still staring at the floor, his expression faraway.

"Claim the dragon, Jon. This is how you can help us."

Jon's jaw slacked when he heard Sansa's words. For a moment he thought he might have heard wrong, but one look at Sansa's grave expression and he knew she was serious.

"I... I can't, Sansa," Jon averted his eyes, returning his gaze to the floor. 

"Why not? You are a Targaryen..."


"I am NOT a Targaryen," Jon interrupted sharply, his head whipping toward her. 

If the North burned, it wouldn’t be by his hand. But would it matter? To the Northern Lords, he would be Targaryen enough. A dragon in human flesh. A threat. Perhaps a threat they would believe that needed to be neutralised, just like Daenerys.

"All right, you have Targaryen blood," Sansa corrected herself, "Perhaps your dragon blood can claim the dragon. You've claimed the green one before."

"I did not claim him," Jon said intensely, "It didn't even feel like I had him for real." He lowered his head slightly as he tried to recall the brief moments he had spent with Rhaegal. "...He probably only let me ride him because Daenerys allowed it."

He couldn't explain it otherwise. Dragons and their riders were said to have a magical bond but Jon had felt nothing special with Rhaegal, even when Rhaegal died. Yes, it did feel amazing to fly on a dragon, but who wouldn't feel that way? But to say he had a bond with Rhaegal was an overstatement. He felt sorrow when Rhaegal died, not because of the bond he never felt, but because of what Rhaegal had meant to Daenerys. If Rhaegal wasn't a dragon he may well be just another horse to him. 

But now, he felt a creeping relief that Rhaegal died. If he had not died, there would have been two dragons burning King's Landing then and two dragons burning the North today. 

"But there is still a chance, isn't it?" Sansa pressed. "If you are successful in claiming the dragon and become its rider, you can make it stop its attacks on the North and any potential attacks in Westeros or anywhere else. You can save hundreds of thousands of lives."

Sansa leaned forward and touched Jon's arm. "...With that you will also achieve true freedom. You can ride the dragon and go anywhere you wish to be. Essos, Yi Ti... anywhere."

Jon pulled away from Sansa. 

“I was where I wish to be, until you called for me.”

"Do you have a better idea then, Jon?" Sansa pressed. "We have scorpions but so did King's Landing. Do you remember what happened to it? How many lives must the North and the rest of Westeros lose before that dragon is put to a stop?"

Sansa grabbed his arm. "You are our only true solution now, Jon."

Jon turned away. "I don't think I can, Sansa..."

"Why? You haven't even tried."

Jon leapt to his feet and snapped, "Because he is her dragon! I already took her life, how could I take away anything else that was hers?"

Sansa exhaled a shocked scoff. 

"She's no longer alive, Jon. Besides, everything that was hers should have been yours. Had she not done what she did, you would have been the rightful King of Westeros.”

Jon gritted his teeth and turned away. 

"You are wrong, Sansa. I was not, and I did not wish to be King." 

"You'd rather her be on the throne then?" Sansa demanded.

Jon spurned around and glared hard at Sansa. 

"I killed her and you say this? How could you, Sansa?" Jon balled his fists as his body trembled. 

He had tried hard not to think about it, but his dreams wouldn't let him be. 

He would dream of the day he first met her, when his heart trembled at her poised beauty, and the first time they opened their hearts to each other and shared a kiss. But soon the dreams turned darker. He dreamt of the horror when he learned the truth of who he really was, of how his love for her became tainted with the knowledge that she was his aunt. He approached her with the truth, uncertain of what it meant for them. He still loved her, but he had become unsure if he could ever truly be with her. He wanted reassurance, but her silence and her demand for him to be silent, only deepened his confusion and hurt.

The dreams would then shift to her suffering pain and anguish over her losses, the deep hurt he felt in response, and the insecurity gnawing at him when he was unable to comfort her. Then he would dream of the horror of King's Landing, that very moment he plunged the dagger into her chest and the look of hurt and disbelief on her breathtakingly beautiful face. His heart would beat furiously in a sharp, burning pain when he held her and gazed into her lifeless violet eyes.

The nightmares repeated day after day. The joy, then the horror, then the pain. His heart would race, his hands would shake, and every night it felt like he was reliving it all again. For three years.

He would work to stave off sleep. Many of the free folk thought he was hardworking, eager to prove himself, but in truth, he simply feared the dreams.

He never regretted what he did, but he regretted she became someone so unrecognisable he had to end her. If only they had met under different circumstances...

“Do you know what it was like? To kill her? The woman I loved, the family I always dreamed of?”

Sansa stared at Jon. "We are your family, Jon."

"You just said I am a Targaryen," Jon scoffed. 

Sansa took a deep breathe, "That's not what I mean. You are still..."

Jon held up his hand and said curtly, "It's not the same and you know it, Sansa."

Sansa paused, before asking softly, "...Do you regret it?"

Jon stared blankly at the room, a past vision of him and Robb running across screaming and laughing in their childhood fleeting by. Then it was replaced by the ghost vision of him and Daenerys walking side by side, sharing loving gazes and warm smiles at each other. He turned away painfully when the visions embraced and kissed. 

When he slowly casted his glance back at where the visions were, they were no longer there. Only the cold, hard stones of Winterfell castle remain. He felt relieved, but also cold and empty.

"No. I did what was right. But it doesn't mean it didn't hurt," Jon muttered. He looked down at his hands. "Twice, Sansa..."

"What?"

"Twice. The two women I ever loved died in my arms. Because of me. I still remember the way they looked at me when they died..." Jon shut his eyes. Ygritte's body went cold in his arms; Drogon took Daenerys away while she was still warm. Ice and fire. The fire in him killed Ygritte, and the ice in him killed Daenerys. It was never meant to be. 

He was never meant to be. 

His true father Rhaegar Targaryen killed duty for love, and he as his father's son would pay for it. He would have love, but never be able to hold onto it. 

"Daenerys loved her dragons as her own children. How could I claim the last of her children when I am her killer? I can't do what you want me to do."

"This is not to spite her or to insult her memory, Jon. But simply that if you do not do this, the North... no, Westeros will always be living in fear under the threat of a dragon left unclaimed or worse, claimed by someone we cannot trust," Sansa tried again.

Jon laughed softly, his laughter tainted by strained despair and anger. "...Had you not been forced and tricked, would you have accepted Joffrey Baratheon, Tyrion Lannister and Ramsay Bolton as your husband?"

Sansa recoiled. "A dragon is a beast, Jon. I am a person!"

"Ah, but a dragon is no ordinary beast, and its bonds with its rider are extraordinary. As far as I know, the bond between Daenerys and her dragons transcends that of extraordinary."

Jon's head was lowered, but the odd smile on his strained face sent chills down her spine.

"And what if I fail to claim Drogon? Have you thought about that?"

"Jon, I..."

They fall into a silence, thick with uncomfortable tension. 

Perhaps she had never thought about that, or if she had she didn't care, Jon thought bitterly. Maybe he was just another Targaryen to her and the Northern Lords, only worthy enough to be sacrificed.

He thought of the burning villages and the weeping Northerners once more and he smiled sadly. 

Even if Sansa did not care for him, he knew she was right. A successful claim would end the destruction and threat. What could an unsuccessful claim cost him anyway? At best Drogon would spurn him and he could return to beyond the wall where he now belonged. At worse Drogon would kill him.

Or maybe Drogon killing him would be for the best. 

At least the nightmares and the forced sleepless nights would end.

Jon lifted his head, "I accept your request, Sansa."

Sansa blinked in surprise. So taken aback by his sudden shift in tone and decision that she couldn't say a word.

"I doubt I will ever return, so do not bother with a funeral," Jon said curtly as he turned and left the throne room without once looking back. 

As Jon walked down the dim and damp corridors of the castle he grew up in, he could not help but wonder - would Drogon eat him alive or would he roast him before eating him?

*******

Location: King's Landing

Bronn paced anxiously in his room. 

His head snapped up when someone knocked on his door. He rushed over and slammed the door open, then grabbed the stunned guard by his neck.

"WHERE IS THE HAND!"

"We... we have yet to find him, Lord Stokeworth," the poor guard stammered.

"And the King?" Bronn snarled.

"The King..." the guard's voice drifted as he looked away, his body trembling. Bronn hissed sharply as he shoved the guard away.

"Away with you!" 

The guard scrambled away. 

"Fuck you, Tyrion! Fuck you, Bran Stark! Fuck that blasted dragon! Fuck that Targaryen bitch! Fuck fuck fuck!" Bronn muttered angrily as he kicked over a stool.

He hated the arrogance and entitlement of the Reach's nobles; he hated these tiresome council meetings; he hated the deadness of Bran Stark; he hated the snobbish attitude of the council members; he hated how Tyrion lied to him.

Most of all, he hated how Tyrion was missing and Bran didn't seem to care. Sure, the guards were looking for him as quietly as possible so as to not cause any panic, but it just didn't feel like anyone really cared. 

Except for him. 

While Bronn did enjoyed the power and wealth of his position, its appeal had evaporated with the dreary administrative tasks he had to deal with, and having to face the stuck-up nobles whose faces he can't just punch. 

Life used to be more fun when he was a mere mercenary. 

If he were still a mercenary, he could just pick up his sword right now and leave this stupid place to search for Tyrion and drag him out of whichever whore hole he found himself stuck in. 

But no... he's doomed to look through papers, stamp his seal on the papers and talk to people he didn't care about. 

*******

Location: Brave Sons

The ship glided across the shimmering waves, its sails billowing in the brisk sea breeze. 

On the deck was Daenerys, dressed in a simple linen top and pants, gripping onto a sword as her feet stood shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent with her right foot slightly forward. A few ship crew working on the deck appeared to work hard, but their glances occasionally flicking to her with a mix of curiosity, amusement and awe. 

Rian stood three metres away from her. 

"Move forward like how I taught you."

Daenerys moved forward, biting her lower lip as she ignored the ache in her lower legs. 

Rian did not forget the training he promised Daenerys. While he was bedridden, he still instructed her to exercise daily to build her body strength and endurance. 

Now that he is almost fully recovered, he wasted no time to teach her the basic stance and footwork every serious swordsperson should know. They practice an hour twice per day. This was the first session of the second day they are practising, and Daenerys was nearly exhausted. She knew it was going to be hard, but did not expect it to be this hard.

It reminded her of the days when she travelled on horseback from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak. 

The thought pushed her lower legs' growing ache further to the back of her mind. What is this little practice compared to the months of tough travelling on horseback? What is this compared to the sufferings and the betrayals she had endured? What is this compared to gaining the ability to protect herself and those she cared about?

"If you are tired we can stop for a short rest..." she heard Rian saying but she shook her head and replied sharply, "No, I'm good."

After almost reaching Rian, he said, "Now move back to your original position."

Daenerys breathed deeply and did as she was told. Her feet slides as she maintained her posture and guard. After she repeated the exercise for another three times, Rian said, "Now come and circle around me and try to stab me whenever you deem fit."

"Attack you?" Daenerys stared at him blankly, her chest heaving. "But this is a real sword..."

Rian chuckled. "Trust me, Your Grace. Your teacher isn't going to get hit so easily. Not by a beginner." 

Daenerys felt slightly pricked. She resumed her guard and began to circle Rian in small, slow and deliberate steps. Rian turns with her, his sword raised in a guarding position. She searched for an opening but did not see any. His lips curled and she stabbed out in irritation. 

In a split moment Rian had knocked her sword aside and placed his blade on her shoulder.

"Again." 

Daenerys reeled from the ache at her wrist, but puts up her guard and begins circling Rian once more. 

Patience, she told herself as she kept her eyes fixed on Rian. As she circled him for the third time, his sword arm seemed to slack... 

She moved in as fast as she could. 

There was a loud clang as metal hits metal, and Daenerys' sword flew out of her grasp and fell a few steps away. Stun turned to horror when she saw the smug grin on Rian's face.

"You did that on purpose," she said wryly. 

"Fighting can be like politics; full of strategems and trickery. If you do it well enough, it is possible to overcome a more powerful opponent," Rian looked at her meaningfully, "Besides, you don't really have to attack if there's no opening. In a fight, surviving is just as important as subduing the enemy. Attacking when there's no opening is risky and could lead to death."

"I'm being lectured," Daenerys laughed softly in amusement.

"Just trying my best to teach you, Your Grace," Rian grinned, his violet eyes twinkling.

He laughs, but he's easy. Work on your strength and endurance and I will show you how to beat that smug grin out of his face.

Not again, Daenerys thought and the voice went silent. 

They went for another couple of rounds. Only in the last round did Daenerys get a succcessful strike but it so nearly made her heart stop. Thankfully, only his sleeve was cut. 

Upon returning the sword to the weapons rack, Daenerys felt relieved as a weight was finally off her sore arms. 

"You let me win," Daenerys glanced at Rian.

Rian smiled. "Have to keep your spirit and confidence up, Your Grace."

"Then you shouldn't have admitted it."

"I just thought Your Grace would prefer not to be lied to. Besides, you already knew."

Daenerys lets out a chuckle. 

She sat on the deck, wiped her perspire with a cloth and drank her waterskin empty. A crew brought another waterskin to her dutifully and she took it with a smile and "thank you", sending the crew into a giddy mood. She would have loved to watch the sea and its foamy waves, but she felt exhausted, her body aching and legs feeling so weak she felt sure she would fall if she had attempted to even walk without first taking a break.

Rian sat down beside her and drank from his own waterskin. She turned to him.

"The sword is too heavy. My sword is lighter."

Rian smiled, his gaze soft and gentle. "There are always accidents and emergencies. Your Grace should not take your sword for granted as there may be a time where you may have to use any other weapons or swords and they are not going to give you the advantage of being light and easy to wield. In any case, a heavier sword will help to build up Your Grace's arm muscles and stamina, which can help increase your attack strength and endure longer and harder fights."

Daenerys lowered her head. Memories came rushing back to her, of that one time she was forced to pick up a heavy sword to defend herself and how Jorah had died protecting her. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that the memories stay longer so she can remember the pain so it may drive her forward. Most of all, she was afraid if she didn't do so, she might forget about it one day... even forget how he looked like. 

Already Khal Drogo's face had become a little blurred in her mind. He and their time together barely felt real anymore. 

In some ways, she felt grateful. But there were people and memories she didn’t want to let go of. 

Do you think I will feel better… after I’ve destroyed my enemies and taken the throne back?

The voice did not answer. 

*******

Location: Banefort, Westerlands

It was a hot afternoon when Brave Sons reached the docks of Banefort, a port city in the Westerlands merely two days’ sail from Pyke. 

This place was far from Casterly Rock, but the familiar building style gave her mixed emotions over the memories when she was last in the Westerlands. She clenched her fists as she pulled her hood over her head. The red gem on her bracelet glowed gently and her body wobbled before entering the shroud. 

Missara whined under her cloak and she petted her. “Please stay quiet, my sweetlings. We cannot afford to be discovered yet.”

The hatchlings quiet down and rested comfortably in her bosoms and on her shoulders. 

The crew already knew she can do this, but hearing her speak while she was invisible still felt unsettling even when they had seen it a few times before. Seeing that she had hidden herself completely, the crew prepared for the disembarkation inspection.

A gruff-looking port inspector looked at the papers the captain had provided, then looked at the crew. Daenerys calmly stroked the hatchlings as they too kept quiet. 

“So you are merchants from Myr? That’s a long way from home,” the inspector said as he regarded the captain suspiciously.

“We do what we can to make a living,” the captain smiled humbly. 

The inspector did not respond but continued to flip through the papers.

“So you sailed from Faircastle, and you have twenty crates of fresh fruit, fifteen crates of cotton, thirty barrels of Myrish nectar and another thirty barrels of Myrish fire wines?” The inspector looked up from the papers, a slight hint of a smirk at his lips. “I see your local produce aren’t selling well in the other ports.” 

The captain bit his lip and gave a deferential smile. 

“I’m sure they will find more appreciative buyers in Banefort.”

“I doubt it,” the inspector replied as he shoved the papers onto the captain’s chest. “Check the cargo!”

Three port guards entered the Brave Sons and were led to the cargo hold by a ship crew member. 

The inspector glanced at the crew but paused when he saw Rian, standing still under the hot sun as a bead of perspire trickled down his forehead. He had shaved his hair, but it did nothing to shield onlookers from his good looks, with the silver stubbles on his head and violet eyes being even more eye-catching. 

“He’s from Lys,” the captain quickly explained. 

Rian lowered his eyes meekly. His shoulders were hunched, his right hand clasping at his left wrist. He looked timid, and smaller than usual, very unlike the bold guard with an easy smile that Daenerys had come to know. His posture and demeanour was that of a person born into a life of misfortune and suffering without pride. 

She reached out and touched his lower back and he stiffened. 

The inspector stared long and hard at Rian, his expression flickering from suspicion to amusement.

“You picked a good pet.”

The captain nodded and smiled appeasingly. 

“There was a crazy bitch who looked like him a few years ago. Tried to conquer us. We could have given her a good time letting her conquer us on the bed, but too bad she got killed,” the inspector burst into laughter as did the other guards with him.

Remember their faces. Once you have retaken the throne, cut their tongues and have them gelded, the voice growled.

I have heard worse. If I am to kill everyone who insults me I will have no one to rule over, Daenerys thought. 

But she knew the voice wasn’t the only one who thought that. Even without looking at Rian, the captain and the crew, she could acutely feel their anger, no matter how well-restrained they are.

“Oh I forgot. She’s one of you, isn’t she? An Essosi whore,” the inspector grinned provocatively. “Maybe she’s from Lys too. Who knows, they all look the same as Targaryens.”

Daenerys took Rian’s balled fist and she felt his fist relax. She held his hand and squeezed it gently. 

“She’s not one of us,” the captain said coolly, the servile smile still on his face, “We have never even met her before.” 

The guards returned from their inspection. 

“We have verified the goods, Ser,” a guard reported, “Everything is in order.”

“I guess that means you get to enter our port,” the inspector glanced at the captain. “You may enter now, but remember to abide by our laws.”

“Yes, of course,” the captain nodded.

“And oh, stay alert at all times. A blasted dragon had been spotted flying over Lychester,” the inspector added. 

“Ser, do you think the dragon would come?” one of the guards asked in mock fear.

“Well, we will just have to kill it then, don’t we?”

The inspector and the guards laughed, though some of them sounded nervous. 

The crew returned to the ship to unload the cargo while the captain and Rian waited at a shadowy lonesome corner. 

The facade crumbled, revealing faces twisted with palpable fury the moment they were alone.

“How dare they?” the captain hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “How dare they?”

Rian squeezed Daenerys’ hand tightly, his grip firm and unwavering. He hadn’t let go since earlier. “We’ll return for their tongues, won’t we?” he murmured, his tone soft, but the murderous fire in his eyes was unmistakable.

“We do not have time to deal with every insult thrown our way,” Daenerys said calmly.

Their words were meaningless, as hollow as their boasts of slaying Drogon – laughable bravado from frightened men. She felt no anger, no sting from their jeers. She had endured far worse in her life, and these insults were like whispers against a storm.

“They are afraid,” Daenerys continued, her voice steady. “Frightened men hide behind bravado and empty boasts.”

"True. They are foolish to think they have a chance against the Black Terror," the capain huffed. 

"The Black Terror?" Daenerys quizzed. 

"Because he's huge, black and fearsome. But of course, only your enemies need fear him. The terror is not ours," the captain quickly clarified.

Daenerys chuckled. 

"My ancestors had a dragon named Balerion. He was called the Black Dread because he was so large his shadow blanketed entire cities, his scales so black it was like peering into the abyss, and so fearsome everyone dreaded his coming."

"What happened to him?" 

"He died of old age."

"He must have been magnificent in his time," the captain said thoughtfully, "The Black Terror is every bit as magnificent as your ancestor's dragon."

"Thank you, captain," Daenerys said with a faint smile. It didn't matter that the captain's words weren't entirely true, that Drogon wasn't even half of Balerion's size and it wasn't clear if he would even reach that size, but powerful and magnificent Drogon still was, especially in her eyes. 

"Is the Black Terror coming?" the captain asked, his tone expectant, almost eager.

Daeners closed her eyes and reached out to Drogon. Almost immediately she felt her heart warmed with a low rumble only she could hear. She opened her eyes and smiled.

"He's almost here," she whispered.

"How do you know that?" Rian asked.

"We are bonded. We can feel each other. Wherever I go, he follows."

"That's... amazing!" the captain said, his eyes wide with wonder.

Soon, the crew showed up with their cargo load and the captain left with them, leaving Rian and Daenerys alone to conduct their business. 

As soon as the captain and crew were out of sight and earshot, Daenerys spoke, her voice soft but firm.

"...You aren't letting go of my hand?"

She had tried to gently pull away twice, but each time Rian only tightened his grip, his fingers warm but insistent, as if unwilling to let go. 

Daenerys wasn't blind to his feelings for her. Respect and devotion, even reverence to the Breaker of Chains. But it was mixed in with an emotion that felt familiar, even dangerous. She knew its name but refused to speak it or acknowledge it. Not because she didn’t understand it, but because she wasn’t sure if she could untangle it. Or if she wanted to.

At the same time, she did not wish to encourage him. Betrayals had taught her to be cautious, to keep a distance from men who felt this way for her. Men like this often wanted to own her, to shape her into something that fit their vision, all while rejecting who and what she truly was. She couldn’t afford another mistake, another betrayal. 

She pulled her hand slightly again, this time more firmly, and Rian released her almost reluctantly. His gaze flickered to his hand before looking at where he thought she was with an apologetic look.

Daenerys held her breath. Relief flooded her knowing the magic shrouding her form also hid the emotions that might have betrayed her to him.

*******

While the captain went off with the crew to sell their cargo at the local market, Daenerys and Rian explored the city to familiarise with the place and scout for routes. They did not attract too much attention in the port city, as Daenerys maintained her shroud while Rian hid his Valyrian looks by wearing a hood.

By evening, Daenerys and Rian returned to Brave Sons where they met up with the captain in the captain's room. There, Rian drew up two maps of Banefort, one of which he gave to the captain. Then they bade farewell to the captain.

"Wait, Your Grace," the captain took out a pouch and placed it into her hands. "This is for you."

Daenerys opened the pouch and was surprised to find it full of coins.

"Ahem, contrary to what that dastardly inspector said, we did manage to sell our nectar and fire wines," the captain coughed proudly. 

"Keep it, kind captain," Daenerys returned the pouch smilingly, "I have coins on me and you need them to continue your journey."

"Oh no, Your Grace, I have sailed with much less before, and this is a mere portion of the profits, so please do keep it," the captain pushed back the pouch into Daenerys' hands. "Please, Your Grace. I cannot help you on the battlefield and in politics, so please do accept this tiny contribution from your loyal subject."

Daenerys gripped onto the pouch, touched by the captain's plea. 

"Very well. I thank you, kind captain," Daenerys said earnestly.

The captain smiled. 

"I wish Your Grace good luck and victory. We shall await your return at Meereen."

Daenerys and Rian left Brave Sons quietly as the sun sets and drifting dark clouds began to block what little sunlight was left. 

They were on their way to the west gate - where they knew was the least guarded - when darkness loomed over the city, and a fierce and deafening roar boomed from above. 

The earth seemingly shook and the air vibrated among them, and the people started shouting in shock and confusion.

"Ahh... monster, monster!" a woman screamed as she pointed to the sky.

In the skies above was a black monstrosity, its wings spanning metres, its shadows casted over the city and blocking what little light remained from the setting sun.

As if responding to Drogon's roar, the hatchlings hiding in Daenerys' cloak started shrieking, though no one noticed as everyone ran in panic and fear. 

As they approached the west gate, a guard yelled out, "You! In the hood! Where are you going!"

The guard stomped towards Rian but he turned in alarm when the distant sound of Ironborn ships' warhorns howled through the air already thick in panic and fear from Drogon's appearance.  

"IRONBORN! The raiders are coming!" 

The city erupted into frantic movement as the civilians shrieked and fled for cover. The sight of Drogon soaring above them in the sky was frightening enough, but the Ironborn's arrival had added to the panic. In their minds, doom is imminent - either by dragonfire or the brutal blades of the Ironborn's. 

The guards had no time to care for Rian as they rushed to defend the ports and to guide the civilians to safety. Amidst the chaos, lost children screamed and wailed, and Daenerys paused. 

"Let's go! We cannot stay!" Rian whispered as he took to his feet. Daenerys nodded, her heart racing in her chest as she followed Rian. This was her chance to act, to flee the city unseen and undetected. The children’s cries echoed in her mind, but there was nothing she could do. She had to go. She hoped they'd find their way back to their mothers' safe arms. 

Rian led Daenerys down narrow alleyways, staying close to the shadows. The clamour from the city grew louder behind them, but ahead, the west gate stood empty, the guards distracted by the chaos.

As they neared the open field beyond the gate, Daenerys inhaled sharply.

Drogon was there, waiting. 

The great black dragon circled above, his massive wings casting shadows over the land. His molten red eyes locked onto Daenerys and she felt their bond flare as he dived down and landed in the field with a thunderous impact, causing the earth to tremble and sending a gust of wind so strong it nearly knocked Daenerys and Rian off their feet. 

Daenerys ran towards Drogon without hesitation and threw her arms around Drogon's thick neck, pressing her face into his black scales. 

Drogon huffed a deep rumble that vibrated through her body and warmed her spirits. He gently nudged her with his snout, his hot breath brushing against her skin comfortingly. In that moment, it felt like she had no worries and that there were only her and Drogon, living in peace despite the fire and blood in their veins. 

“Let’s go,” Rian urged.

Daenerys lets go of Drogon's neck and climbed onto his back, followed by Rian. Gripping tightly onto Drogon's scales, they soared into the sky. 

Daenerys looked back at Banefort, the screams and cries drowned by the roaring winds and distance as the city disappeared from sight. She closed her eyes and sighed. 

The Ironborn's assault was timely and strategic. The distraction had worked perfectly. It was a mere distraction, Yara had promised that casualties would be as low as possible and no salt wives would be taken. But in a raid, who could truly guarantee that? 

"It was necessary," she heard Rian say from behind her. 

Daenerys paused, her chest tightening. The words felt all too familiar. She had said the same thing to Jon when he had confronted her about the sacking of King’s Landing.

She bit her lower lip and tightened her grip on Drogon's scales. As if responding to her, Drogon rumbled and the hatchlings squealed and whimpered. 

"You cannot save everyone in a conflict," Rian said.

"But I can reduce the losses..." Daenerys muttered.

‘Yes, you can. I believe you can.’

Daenerys shut her eyes, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She could only hope that she could be the leader she aspired to be - that she could save more than she lost. But in the end, hope was all she had left.

Chapter Text

A ship docked in Meereen in the dead of the night and seven men stepped off the ship. The captain showed the port guard some papers and whispered words only they could hear. The port guard nodded and turned, walking into the city hurriedly but not the captain.

Instead, the captain and six of his men discreetly left the port from the sideway. Two men flanked the captain with torches; two men transporting a cargo crate right behind them, and another two men trailed behind to watch their backs. 

They did not enter the city, but made their way to the sewers which reeked of human waste. They walked fast, the footsteps of their boots echoing through the sewers. Eventually, they entered a brick passage way and reached a thick wooden door locked from the inside.

The captain rapped the door thrice, paused, then rapped twice. 

"It's here," the captain whispered. 

The door swung open with a Meereenese guard staring at them cautiously. 

The captain and his men walked past the guard without saying a word. They passed another passage way and reached another door, this time guarded by two men. 

"A gift for the Lord Regent," the captain said, gesturing to the cargo crate. 

The two men let them in wordlessly. 

The captain and his men passed the door, which slammed shut behind them, and the slam echoed in the huge underground cavern they now find themselves in.

The air was stale with slight moisture. 

The infamous dragon pit of Meereen, the captain thought in amazement as his eyes wandered around the dark dungeon, now eerily empty. 

It used to house two of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons, but it had been empty since they broke free of their prison then left with her to Westeros. 

The two dragons died in Westeros and their mother soon shared their fate.

The captain spat onto the ground with that bitter thought. He was a slave whose master worked him to skin and bones at the port and on the ships. His life, and the lives of all the slaves in Meereen changed the moment Daenerys Targaryen marched up to the gates of Meereen and brought fire and blood to the slavers. 

The captain knew perfectly well that he's not a good man. But he knew what gratitude was, and he very much intended to repay the debt of life and freedom he owed to the dragon queen, even if she's now nothing more than bones deep in the ground in Westeros. 

The cargo crate slammed into the ground with a dull crash, the sound of splintering wood and jarring impact reverberating around the dungeon.

The captain scowled at his careless men. "Careful there. You don't want to damage the goods," he growled.

The two men shrugged and said nothing.

The sounds of clinking locks and creaking of a heavy wooden door attracted their attention. 

Daario hurried down the stairs, with two guards right behind him.

"You brought the cargo," Daario was pleased. 

After a hard day at work, such a great piece of news was music to his ears. 

"Of course I did. You paid good money for this," the captain grinned rogueishly. 

"Well then, let's open it," Daario rubbed his hands gleefully.

The captain nodded his head at his men who stepped forward and cracked open the cargo crate with a crowbar. But the moment it opened, a putrid stench assaulted Daario's nose and he recoiled with a scowl. 

He stared at the curled up, swollen bag of meat which was supposed to be a person in the crate and his frown deepened. He looked up at the captain who had just brought this to him.

"I thought I said I want him alive,
" Daario hissed. 

"He is alive," the captain smirked, "But you did not say we can't do anything else to him."

"What in the world..." Daario swore angrily, "If you had him this tormented, how is he going to stand for trial?"

The captain frowned, worry creasing his eyes.

"I apologise, Lord Regent."

"Ugh, he's going to make this whole place stink," Daario muttered in displeasure. 

"You are keeping him here?" the captain was surprised.

"Yes. I'm going to lock him up here," Daario replied as he gave the cargo another look of utter distaste.

The captain hesitated for a moment, then he leaned forward and spoke in a slightly agitated tone, his jaws clenched, "This isn't right, Lord Regent. The people would want to know we got him."

"Sure they do," Daario nodded, "But then we would have to put him on trial immediately."

"And what's wrong with that? I thought we brought him here for that very purpose," the captain said, suspicion and unhappiness flickering across his hardened face. 

"It's not the right time," Daario replied coolly. 

Daenerys must be here for this, he wanted to say, but the damn woman had wanted him to stay quiet about her. Why does she always make him do the hardest things? Stay and rule Meereen, keep quiet about her, help her sail to Valyria, give her Rian Runestar. And now he has to explain himself to the man who took a great risk to kidnap and transport the cargo.

"When is the right time?" the captain questioned, the suspicion in his eyes deepening. 

"After I've worn him out, of course," Daario said smoothly with a sly smile, "Someone as smart and influential as him would hate uncertainty and the inability to do anything about his circumstances. Keeping him locked up with no hope of escape with an impending trial that he knows he cannot win will make him rot from within and drive him insane. Only then will we show this clown as who he exactly is to the people of Meereen."

The captain listened with a frown, but his face gradually relaxed into a grin as he heard Daario explain his plans.

"That sounds excellent. I shall await for that day with much excitement, Lord Regent."

"Of course. But remember..."

"Yes yes, do not tell anyone. I know, you can trust that my lips are sealed," the captain waved dismissively. 

The captain and his men left the dragonpit from where they came in from. After the door slammed behind them, Daario motioned his fingers and a guard came forward and splashed a bucket of water into the crate. 

Tyrion’s eyes fluttered open, at first dazed, but became clear once they focused on Daario’s sneering face. 

Tyrion scoffed weakly. 

“Looks like you knew you were coming to me," Daario sneered as he peered down at Tyrion, who had been cruelly stuffed into the crate for transport and is now stuck inside. 

“I’d be a fool not to know,” Tyrion retorted before pausing to ask, “I expect I’m now in Meereen?”

“Of course you are,” Daario’s response came fast mockingly. 

The journey had felt like forever. Tyrion had drifted in and out of consciousness, and was only given food when he was conscious. Only that the food was stale, sometimes with a sourish smell and taste. No one would feed him, and his hands were bounded to his back, forcing him to eat like a dog. If he refused to eat or vomited, he would be struck by whoever was watching over him on that day. He was not allowed out of his prison, but was also not provided with any waste bucket and cleaning water. Not that he could wash himself anyway, since he was tightly bounded by thick ropes he had no hope of cutting. 

He could still smell the stench of his own piss and shit, feel the thick grime clinging to every inch of his skin. Even Cersei, with all her venom, had never subjected him to such indignity when she sought retribution upon him for Joffrey's death.

“Ugh,” Daario turned his nose up in disgust. He turned to the guards next to him, “Wash and feed him later. Give him medicine if needed. I’d have your heads if he ends up dying before the trial.”

“Trial?” Tyrion’s heart skipped a beat. He knew the trial would be one to make him pay for Daenerys' death. It would be a mockery of a trial, as Daario had most certainly already reached a verdict. 

"Am I allowed to a defence?" Tyrion scoffed.

"You can, but I doubt there's anyone in Meereen who would defend you or care to hear about your defence," Daario smirked. 

Tyrion rolled his eyes, stealing glances at his location. His stomach sank when he realised he was at the dragon pit. What an irony to be trapped in a place once inhabited by Rhaegal and Viserion, both of which were dead. Was he to die like they did?

Of course, Tyrion could not think of any other ending Daario and the Meereenese would want for him.

"Have you been dreaming of this day since three years ago?" Tyrion glanced mockingly at his captive, "You still pine over a woman who used and dumped you like a dirty rag."

Daario chuckled upon hearing his taunts. "Oh no, that's not it. It's mostly because I can't leave until the Meereenese's demand for justice is met. I'm really dying to get the fuck out of this stupid city."

Tyrion stared at Daario dead in the eyes. "We both know what she became. You know I was right to do what I did."

"Save your words for the Meereenese," Daario rolled his eyes.

"If they knew what she became..."

"You can try," Daario cuts him off, his expression mocking though the mirth on his lips did not reach his eyes, "But you know, the Meereenese aren't stupid or ignorant. They know who you are, and they know what you are. Even in Essos, no one will trust a kinslayer who has a history of betraying those he swore allegiance to."

Tyrion went silent as he looked away. His hand went to his necklace, hidden beneath his filthy shirt. He clasped his fingers around it and squeezed as tightly as possible.

"...When will I go on trial?"

"When she's back."

Tyrion froze for a moment before he whipped his head towards Daario who's smiling cockily. Daario did not mention who the "she" is, but Tyrion knew who it was, and his heart trembled at the answer that is plain but left unsaid. 

"So it's true? Daenerys... she's still alive?" Tyrion's voice quivered. 

Daario said something, but it just sounded like muffled words to Tyrion. His eyes lost focus and the surroundings looked like a blur of black shadows, and he smells the ash and smoke of the aftermath of dragonfire. By the time he came around, Daario was already gone and he was left all alone in the looming dragon pit, so dark and ominous it felt like it was going to swallow him whole.

He slumped as distress and fear gripped his heart.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Day

When Drogon landed in Harrenhal, the horses neighed and stomped in panic, while the Dothraki shouted and pointed as they got out of his way to prevent being crushed under his razor-sharp black claws or being swiped by his flicking tail. He was a familiar sight - the majestic mount of their great Khaleesi the Silver Queen, a woman yet stronger and more powerful than any other Khal they ever knew, and which had blown their enemies apart with his fiery breaths at her command. They had not seen him for years since their Silver Queen went missing.

But they fell into a silenced shock and awe when they saw the silver-haired figure dismount from Drogon.

Daenerys walked down to the ground on Drogon's spread out wing, and she stood there tall and strong as her violet eyes swept across the stunned men. Rian stood next to her protectively, gazing at the Dothraki with caution. His arms are slack and his pose relaxed, but that is an illusion; he could draw his sword in less than a second if they dare to lay a finger on her. 

"It's been a long time," she said coolly, "Who leads you now?"

"It is I."

The Dothraki parted sideways, revealing a tall strapping man who steppd forward, his gaze firmly on Daenerys. 

She did not flinch when he stepped close enough to grab her, but stared back into his eyes. The man's expression is unreadable, but his quivering lips and frantic eyes had long betrayed his emotions.

Daenerys recognised the man. How could she not? He had been a longtime companion of hers, starting from the days when she married Khal Drogo. He was one of the few who stayed behind with her after Drogo's death, when he could have left with the rest, which certainly was a much better option than staying with her who at the time had nothing but a claim to a throne at a faraway land she had no power to press for. He had been a part of her journey through the Red Waste, Qarth, Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, then taking on command of a significant part of her khalasar when she crossed over to Westeros. 

"Aggo," she uttered his name with a faint smile. 

Aggo knelt to her. 

"My queen," he said, his voice strained with emotions.

The entire khalasar knelt.

"Khal Aggo. It has a nice ring to it," Daenerys smiled. 

Aggo stiffened. "I only lead in your absence. Now that you are back, we are yours to command," his expression hardened, "We will kill all your enemies and whoever dares stand in your way."

Daenerys' expression softened at Aggo's swear of allegiance. She took in the sight of the kneeling men and her heart thumped strongly as it absorbed the power in the air. 

"Please stand, my good men. You have done well in my absence. And to your loyalty, I swear I will not rest until I have defeated our enemies and lead us all to victory," she said, her voice reverberating through the khalasar.

The Dothraki stood, their eyes blazing with bloodlust at her words. They gave up the opportunities to return home time and again for this very moment. Long have they waited for their dragon queen to return and to give them the promised victories, to see her wear the crown. Lowly thieves and traitors stole the crown from her, and they will now get it back for her and refulfil their promise to her. 

*******

"My queen, you came back at the opportune time. There is someone you must meet," Aggo urged as he led Daenerys and Rian into the war room at Harrenhal. 

As Aggo pushed the doors open, a Dothraki warrior inside the room bowed.

"My queen," the warrior said, his voice shaking slightly.

Daenerys recognised him immediately. He too, was a Dothraki warrior who had stayed with her since Drogo's death. He was young then, even when he crossed over to Westeros with her, but now he looks much more matured imposing, with two new braids. 

"Kovarro," Daenerys smiled as she stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder, "It's good to see you again. You must tell me about your victories."

"Yes, of course," Kovarro nodded, his eyes wet with unshed tears. 

"Before that, my queen, this is Elie Dori," Aggo gestured to a man standing at the table. The man was dark-skinned, appeared to be at least in his 50s, had a slim frame and a slightly hunched back. He stared at Daenerys in wonder.

"So it's true, all the stories and legends..." he muttered, "You are truly... as beautiful and magnificent as they say..."

"He is from Naath," Aggo added. 

Daenerys' heart throbbed with a dull pain when she heard the name "Naath". But uncertainly clouded her mind. What was someone from Naath doing all the way here?

Elie bowed to her, "I thought you might come here so I travelled here disguised as a merchant, to discuss plans moving forward."

"Plans? What plans?" Daenerys questioned as she scrutinised Elie's face. 

"I am a Naathi elder and I represent both the Unsullied and the people of Naath to submit to the Dragon Queen," Elie looked up at her, "Daario Naharis of Meereen had sent a letter to us, asking the Unsullied to return to Dragonstone to prepare for war, for the Dragon Queen has returned. Five hundred spears had since left Naath for Dragonstone. And I have been told to come here to seek cooperation with Khal Aggo."

Daenerys was surprised. She had not asked or expected Daario to contact the Unsullied at Naath, for she did not intend to take them into war again since they chose their path three years ago. 

"My queen, the Unsullied have remained fiercely loyal to you. A thousand spears had remained at Dragonstone after your...disappearance, led by a Dothraki girl called Jhiqui," Elie informed. 

"Jhiqui?" Daenerys' head snapped up. 

That was a name she had not thought of for a long time. Her only surviving handmaiden from her marriage to Drogo. She had delegated Jhiqui to take charge of the logistics since they left Qarth and her army grew with the addition of the Unsullied. Jhiqui faded into the background as she busied with work while Daenerys made plans with her council of advisors. She had assumed Jhiqui had stayed behind at Meereen where she would be safe. But to think she would be at Dragonstone and leading the Unsullied who remained there? It was inconceivable. 

"She led Dragonstone?" Daenerys whispered, trying to wrap it around her head.

"Aye, she's got guts and a fiery spirit, that one," Kovarro nodded, "Because of her, Dragonstone has not been retaken."

Daenerys nodded, her heart trembling ever so slightly. She took in a deep breath and gazed into Elie's grey eyes. "Naath shall stay free, beholden to no one, Elder Elie. But I promise to you that as long as I live, I shall always assist Naath should there be a need, in honour of my friend Missandei and the Unsullied."

The corners of Elie's eyes crinkled with emotion, and he lowered his head, "I thank you for my people, Dragon Queen," he said, lips trembling with the hint of a smile. 

Daenerys nodded. She pulled out a chair and took a seat and gestured for Elie to take a seat too. Rian stood next to her, while Kovarro and Aggo stood at the table. 

"Tell me, Elder Elie, how is Grey Worm? Is he doing well? Has he gone to Dragonstone?" Daenerys asked quietly. Her former Unsullied commander's absence was not missed, and it was strange, for he would have been the perfect person to come forward for both the Unsullied and Naath. Instead, an elder had been sent. 

Elie looked at her in surprise. "Grey Worm and many others left Naath three years ago, I thought you knew."

*******

As the moon hangs in the night sky, Daenerys stared into the flickering flame on the table in her bedroom. 

"The Red Priestesses came three years ago and spoke to Grey Worm. After that, Grey Worm had an internal meeting with his men. He and many others then left with the Red Priestesses the next morning and had not been seen since. The Red Priestesses said they came in your name, so... I thought you knew," Elie Dori had said, his eyes widened in surprise.

Daenerys squeezed her eyes shut. 

"They... looked and acted like they would not return. And they did not..." Elie added, sorrow in his eyes. 

Her heart had sickened at Elie's words, for pieces were starting to come together. But without confirmation, she could still hope. 

"No... I don't... I don't know anything... not anymore..." she muttered.

Since she woke, she had been asking herself one question - why had no one avenge her? Why did Grey Worm just walk away? Turns out a number of people had their own plans. 

"What was your plan, Grey Worm?" she whispered, "Where are you? What happened to you?" 

Daenerys' eyes snapped open at a shriek. On the floor were her three growing hatchlings. Joragon had stolen Missara's food and Missara was screaming at him angrily while Aerax had scampered to one corner with his food. Daenerys chuckled. She reached out and grabbed Joragon by the neck and he protested by furiously flapping his wings. 

"No, you already had your share. That one belongs to Missara," she told him sternly. Joragon shrieked in protest for a few more times but when Daenerys showed no signs of letting go and Missara was quickly finishing the meal, Joragon's wings sagged and he stopped struggling, instead he started to growl mournfully. Daenerys shook her head with a smile as she held Joragon and stroked him lovingly. Joragon wrapped his tail around her arm while continuing his complaints.

They had grown so much since they hatched at Valyria, she thought. Not only had they become larger, their scales had also become more brilliant and beautiful. Missara, which she thought was just red, was starting to sport golden highlights. Aerax wasn't just smoky grey anymore, some of his "grey" scales were starting to show as silver or white. Joragon's blue scales had darkened so much he now looked purplish with bronze highlights. 

Someone knocked on her door, breaking the peace in the room.

"Your Grace, there is a visitor," Rian, who had been standing guard outside her room, spoke in a low voice.

"Who is it?" Daenerys asked.

But instead of Rian, a woman's voice that had long seared into Daenerys' memories, spoke.

"It is I, Kinvara. I hope you still remember me, Mother of Dragons."

Daenerys stood up immediately, the legs of her chair scraping the floor with a loud screech. 

"Rian, let her in. I want to speak to her," Daenerys commanded. 

The door opened and Kinvara walked in, smiling under her deep red cloak. Daenerys narrowed her eyes, her gaze fixed on Kinvara. Rian looked on, concerned. 

"Rian, guard the door and let no one approach."

"Yes, Your Grace."

As the door shuts with a soft click, Kinvara smiled. "I am thankful you still trust me."

But Daenerys had no wish to engage in small talk and riddles with the Red Priestess. She have questions and she wants the answers right away.

"The last time we spoke, I asked about the price for my life and the gifts which I received. You told me they had been paid for. Tell me, Kinvara," Daenerys whispered, her hand on Dark Sister's hilt. Joragon stared straight at Kinvara, while Missara had flew atop the closet behind Kinvara and was staring at her head. Aerax had somehow dragged his food to the door and was munching there as if nothing else mattered. 

"Who paid the price?" Daenerys finally asked the question, her tone hardening as her eyes blazed with a silent fury. 

With the same smile on her face, Kinvara replied, "You know."

Kinvara's reply cuts through Daenerys like a blade. She trembled, and tears brimmed at her eyes. Despite her best efforts, they fell. Joragon looked at her and placed a claw on her shoulder. 

"They know the price and had gladly paid for it," Kinvara added, but the word brought no comfort to Daenerys, only more sorrow. 

"Is that all? Tell me the truth," Daenerys demanded. 

Kinvara stared into Daenerys' violet eyes unwaveringly. "The lives of a few inferior men were not enough to bring you back..."

Daenerys glared at Kinvara. "My Unsullied are not inferior men and you are not to call them that, EVER," she seethed. 

"All men are inferior to you, the Lord of Light's champion, but I understand. I shall not call them that again," Kinvara said calmly, not flinching once at Daenerys' anger. 

Daenerys gazed at Kinvara, suddenly feeling a rush of desire to pull Dark Sister from its sheath and cut her head off. But she suppressed her anger and dark desire, and asked in a low voice, "Did anyone else pay?"

The answer came swift. 

"Yes."

Daenerys held her breath. 

"Who?"

"Your child, Drogon."

Daenerys stared at Kinvara in shock and disbelief. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and her lips quivered.

"What do you mean?" she questioned, her voice shaky. As soon as she asked that, she could no longer withold her emotions as dread and fury descended upon her. “You said he was safe!” she seethed, her voice harsh and fiery. "How? I found him safe and he is with me right now!" 

"Your child had a clutch of eggs," Kinvara glanced at Joragon, who hissed at her, "The Unsullied gave you vitality, but only a dragon can revive a dragon. Drogon allowed us to take an egg from his clutch to breathe the final breath of life in you and to destroy the decay." 

Daenerys stared at Kinvara, her vision blurred with tears that now fall freely. Her hand trembled on Dark Sister's hilt, but she let go.

"So many deaths, just for one life..." she muttered as she turned away. "How can this be worth it?"

Joragon crawled up to her shoulder and rubbed his face on her cheek. Missara spreads her wings and flew over, perching on Daenerys' other shoulder. Aerax hopped over to her feet then flew up to her chest, snuggling as he grabs hold of her top. Their warmth and comforting actions steadied her trembling and calmed the turmoil in her. 

Daenerys inhaled sharply and turned back to Kinvara. 

"Anything else you have not told me?"

"No."

Daenerys nodded then turned her gaze to the moonlit landscape. It is so beautiful it hurts. 

"I cannot change what has been done. All I can do now is to not waste their sacrifice. I will reclaim what was stolen from me, and from them. I will rule and see this world with my eyes, for them. Their deaths will not be meaningless." 

Daenerys turned back to Kinvara and looked at her in the eyes, her expression hardening. "But do not presume to do this in my name again, Kinvara. Never again. Should I die again, let me stay dead. Do you understand?"

Kinvara's smile faltered, but she looked unbothered all the same. "As you wish."

"Now leave, while I still allow you to keep your head," Daenerys pointed at the door. 

Kinvara bowed, turned, opened the door and left as quietly as she had shown up. 
 
The moment Kinvara left, Daenerys very nearly collapsed. She gripped tightly onto the edge of the table, her chest tightening as the weight of the conversation crushed her heart. Every word echoed in her mind relentlessly, a sharp pain pounding away at her chest. 

Grey Worm's face flashed in her mind - stoic, loyal, unyielding. She imagined him kneeling before her one last time, his head bowed, before he turned and marched to an unknown future. 

All of them. Her Unsullied, her khalasar, Missandei, and even Jhiqui, had left with her to Westeros, a foreign land to them, just to win her crown for her. So many of them died for her at a single command of hers when she decided to fight the undead, then they continued to march on for her all the way to King's Landing, and were prepared to fight on. 

They were never disloyal. They had done enough. 

It was she who failed them. 

She failed to be the dragon that she needed to be until it was too late, and it cost her everything. 

She inhaled sharply. 

"Rian."

The door opened and her loyal Lyseni guard stepped in. 

"Your Grace... are you all right?" he asked, his violet eyes fixed on her in concern. 

The moment their eyes meet, Daenerys felt an urge to run into his arms and cry, but she pushed back that overwhelming desire and straightened her back.

"Prepare the war council," she said, her voice steady. "Summon Aggo and Kovarro."

*******

Daenerys swept her eyes across the three men who sat in the war room, with her sitting at the head of the table. 

"We are going to war," she said with a quiet authority. 

Aggo leaned forward while Kovarro tightened his fists in anticipation.

"Our first goal will be to cripple the North and the Riverlands, both of which will be the Usurper's strongest supporters. Seeing as to where we are right now, our battle will most likely be at the Riverlands," Daenerys analysed calmly. 

"Let them bring it on!" Kovarro snarled, "The Rivermen are soft and weak! Aren't they, Aggo?"

"Aye, easy to beat and kill. Cowardly too. Haven't made a sound ever since we made camp here, and I hear this place is important," Aggo agreed. 

"Good. But before that, we need to make preparations," Daenerys turned to Rian, "Can you write the common tongue of Westeros?"

"Yes. I've learnt it before, back in Lys," Rian replied.

"Good. Send out a public missive to all the Lords of Westeros. Tell them I am alive."

Rian widened his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, concerned and unsure of why Daenerys had a change of mind. Previously she had wanted to keep her survival a secret.

Sensing his concern, Daenerys explained, "It's time to discard the pretense. I cannot move forward if I keep hiding."

"I see," Rian nodded in understanding.

"On the missive, tell the Lords to bend their knee to me, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the rightful ruler of Westeros. Call them to raise their banners for me. Should they choose not to, I will leave them untouched as long as they do not raise banners for the Usurper. But if they raise their banners for the Usurper," Daenerys' violet eyes blazed with a fiece fire, "Be prepared to meet dragonfire."

Good, your fire is back.

Daenerys ignored the voice. 

She turned to Aggo, "I hear there is another khalasar in Westeros. Summon them. I wish to speak to them and reclaim them."

Aggo's smile faltered at the mention of the second khalasar. 

"My queen... that one is led by Morokos, a turncoat. He believes you dead, had fallen off your horse. He and his men will not submit to you," Aggo warned. 

Daenerys smiled knowingly, "They are either a friend or a threat. If they are a threat, then I have to remove them anyway."

Aggo and Kovarro exchanged glances. 

"I shall send Morokos an invitation then," Aggo said. 

"Good," Daenerys leaned back on her chair, "All these will take time. Rian, stay here to complete your task and to hold the fort with Aggo and Kovarro. I shall be going to Dragonstone."

Rian's head whipped towards her sharply. "Alone?" 

"Yes."

"I'm your guard, I should go with you," Rian insisted. 

"No, stay here," Daenerys asserted, but not unkindly. "I have Drogon with me. He will protect me well." 

Rian opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. He shuts his mouth and looked away, his jaws tightened. "Yes, my Queen."

*******

"Your Grace," Rian jogged towards Daenerys, who did not look up at him as she prepared to mount Drogon. Joragon clung to her and stared at Rian curiously, while Missara and Aerax were hopping excitedly on Drogon, who rumbled in dissatisfaction. 

"Please take me along," he asked, trying his best to withhold the pleading tone. 

"You need to prepare the missives," Daenerys said without looking at him, as she stepped up Drogon's spread out wing and climbed onto his back. 

"I've spoken to Mister Dori. He knows the common tongue too, and he has offered to write the missives instead," Rian said hurriedly. He stood at Drogon's spread out wing but did not step up, instead looking at Daenerys for permission to mount.

"Good. Two will make it faster," Daenerys nodded in approval.

A shadow casts over Rian's bright violet eyes.

"...Have I done something wrong?" Rian asked quietly. 

"You have done nothing wrong, Rian," Daenerys said calmly as she fixed her gaze at Rian. "I just need you to stay here to complete your task. I trust you to do this."

She paused, feeling a dull ache in her chest when she saw the shadows on Rian's face. 

"Don't worry about me," she smiled softly, "Wait for me patiently. I will be back before you know it." 

With that, she leaned forward and whispered for Drogon to take flight. Drogon stood up and spreads his wings. The hatchlings shrieked in delight as they clung on.

With a powerful leap, Drogon took to the skies, his wings cutting through the air as they soared higher and higher.

Rian watched Drogon disappear from sight, and with him Daenerys. 

They had never been apart since he was assigned to her at Meereen. Will she be well without him, he wondered. But he knew she would be, and somehow that stung. 

Wait for her patiently, she had told him. But what am I to do now, when I miss you already, Rian thought, as a sense of yearning gripped his heart. 

"Yes, the missives. I have to prepare the missives. It must be done before she's back. I must not disappoint her," he muttered as he turned to return to office to join Elie Dori at work.

*******

Time: Night

Time passes swiftly as Rian buried himself in work. He looked up when he heard a cough and the scrapping of a chair on the floor.

Elie had stood up from his seat at the table. He looked at Rian apologetically. 

"It's late, Master Rian. Please excuse me while I return to my room to rest."

Rian looked at the pile of papers that Elie had completed. He nodded at the elderly man.

"Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, Elder," Rian said.

Elie smiled and nodded. He had only just placed his hand on the door handle when the sounds of excited shouts and galloping horses cuts through the air, attracting both his and Rian's attention.

"Ah. I believe... Khal Aggo sent a team of raiders a few days ago. Perhaps they are back," Elie said. His voice was calm, but there was a layer of concerned emotion in his eyes. Rian understood why - the Dothraki had a horrible reputation. The Dothraki do not simply plunder, they kill, destroy, rape and took captives as slaves. 

Daenerys had banned all that after absorbing the Dothraki, but in the three years she was gone, had they reverted to their old ways? There had been no dragon to oversee and enforce their obedience. 

Rian stood up and hurried down the tower. As he exited the castle, his eyes widened and his heart clenched. The raid team had not come back with just loot - a group of civilians were being dragged behind the horses. The civilians' hands were bounded by thick ropes, their bodies and faces bruised with expressions of fear and sheer terror. 

Anger rose in Rian and he marched over to Kovarro who was shouting instructions to the men in Dothraki. What a horrible and ugly language, Rian thought. 

"What is this?" he questioned sharply. 

Kovarro looked at him coolly. 

"Captured civilians from our raid."

Captured civilians, how harmless he made it sound, Rian thought, his mind racing. The captives were all young and many were children, with some on the cusp of adulthood.

"There is more you are not telling. Spill, Kovarro," Rian seethed. 

Kovarro averted his gaze. "You heard what the Queen said. We are going to war. We need money and supplies. So..." 

The truth hits Rian like a ton of rocks and anger flared. 

"No, don't you dare push this onto her. This raid occurred before we... she arrived. And clearly this isn't your first time," Rian accused. He would have struck Kovarro had he not have the restrain. But no, he must not start a fight and cause disharmony within the ranks. He must not cause his queen any trouble. 

"Have you been selling civilians into slavery? Despite her ban?" Rian demanded as he stepped closer to Kovarro. 

"We harmed no civilians. See, they are well and alive," Kovarro argued, but his voice was low and soft.

"Do you think they still will be after you sell them? You have disobeyed our Queen. How do you think she will feel when she learns what you've done, and that her path back to power is built on the very system that she loathes?" Rian raged. Kovarro said nothing, but his figure seemed to become smaller at each of Rian's accusation. 

"What's wrong?" Aggo questioned as he strode over. 

"This, is the problem," Rian pointed at the civilians, his violet eyes flashing in anger. "The Queen will not stand for this. Release them at once!" 

Aggo glanced at the civilians before returning his gaze to Rian.

"You do not command us," Aggo said, his tone low but sharp. "If the Queen does not like this, let her tell us that, not you, an outsider and a nobody." 

"You..." Rian seethed, but found no words to throw back at Aggo for he knew Aggo was right. Without Daenerys, he hold no authority with the Dothraki. He was but an untested stranger among them. 

"The queen shall be back soon. Be prepared to face her wrath," Rian swore as he stalked away. But as he walked away, he turned his head and took another look at the captured civilians.

Fear. Terror. Sorrow. Distress. Hopelessness. All written into their eyes and faces. 

He tore his eyes away from them and stormed back to his office. He tried to return to work but in his fury, he could not focus. The words won't come and his shaking hands won't write. He could only think of Daenerys, the Silver Queen and the Breaker of Chains who delivered slaves and who had delivered him from a hellish fate. 

He slammed his fists onto the table. 

He inhaled sharply. 

"Give the word and I shall have their heads," he whispered. "Come back soon, my queen. Please. Those people need you... I need you."

Chapter Text

Daenerys's heart beats fiercely when Dragonstone castle emerged into her sight, a glooming but magnificent black citadel with numerous dragon carvings and motifs, unmistakably the home of House Targaryen.

I'm finally home, Daenerys and the voice thought in unison.

She willed Drogon to descend. Receiving her command, Drogon roared as he dived towards Dragonstone's dragon pit.

*******

Jhiqui twist and turn on her bed. She had not slept well for the whole night. No, she had not had a good sleep ever since Drogon left in the middle of the night a few days ago.

She couldn't understand why.

What she also couldn't understand how two thousand Unsullied had sailed from Naath to Dragonstone under the cover of the night in disguised merchant ships a few nights ago.

They had left. They left Dragonstone, left their allegiance to Daenerys three years ago.

They did not explain why they were here, just like how they had said nothing when they decided to leave with Grey Worm.

But still, Jhiqui had taken them in. Grudgingly, but still, she took them in.

A familiar roar cuts through the air, piercing through the walls of Dragonstone castle and reached Jhiqui's ears. She sat up sharply.

She dressed quickly and dashed out of her room.

*******

Daenerys held on tight as Drogon continued his descend, the winds roaring in her ears.

As they closed in to the dragon pit, she could see many what look like villages that did not exist on Dragonstone the last time she was here. On the coast was several what look like merchant ships.

Did Jhiqui do this, Daenerys wondered as she swallowed hard.

Drogon slowed down as they approached the the dragon pit. He landed with a thunderous thump and the ground shook.

Daenerys inhaled sharply as she released her grip on Drogon.

Home, we are home, the voice whispered.

Yes, we are home, Daenerys thought. She stood up and calmly strode down Drogon's wing.

As she lifted her eyes, she fixed her gaze onto the astonished, bewildered faces of the numerous men gathered at the dragon pit - unmistakeably Unsullied - who stared at her in silent disbelief.

“Dovaogēdys…” Her voice was soft, but it cuts through the air like a knife. Without hesitation, the Unsullied knelt before her.

She had barely taken a step forward to address the Unsullied when a familiar voice cried out.

“Khaleesi!”

She looked up sharply to see Jhiqui rushing toward her, clad in little more than a flowing nightdress. Her tearful eyes were wide with shock, disbelief, and relief, her steps unsteady but swift.

Daenerys parted her lips in a soft gasp as Jhiqui rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight, trembling embrace. For a moment, a sharp wariness flared inside her, a reflex that almost had her push Jhiqui away. But she clenched her fists, fighting the instinct and stopped herself.

No, she isn’t Jon Snow, Daenerys told herself.

“I knew you were alive! I knew you would come back!” Jhiqui sobbed, her voice cracking with raw emotions as she clung on tightly to Daenerys.

Daenerys blinked, a single tear rolling down her cheek as her heart swelled with warmth, gratitude and guilt. Even as time passed by mercilessly, there were still those who believed in her, waited for her.

Slowly, she raised her trembling hand and gently stroked Jhiqui’s back.

“Yes, Jhiqui, I am back,” she murmured softly.

More loyal followers. Good. You will need them when you bring fire and blood to those who dared betray and defy you, the voice whispered.

Daenerys closed her eyes, not responding to the voice’s cold and calculative remark. For now, she wanted only to feel the warmth and the unshakeable faith and devotion of her people.

*******

Location: Chamber of the Painted Table

Daenerys ran her finger across the Painted Table, her eyes lingering on the map of Westeros, lost in thought. On the map she could see the lands she had conquered, and the lands that had yet to bend their knee upon her untimely demise three years ago.

I’m really doing this, she realised, finally feeling the weight of her decision.

Of course you are. It’s your birthright, Daenerys. You are the last Targaryen, it is your responsibility to restore our House, the voice responded, its cold presence slipping into her thoughts once again.

“You have done well, Jhiqui,” Daenerys said softly. “Not only have you safeguarded Dragonstone in my absence, you have also built new villages, maintained the castle well, and had merchant ships return, ensuring survival.”

She turned to face Jhiqui, her gaze warm and appreciative but with a tinge of sadness, as she thought of the sacrifices Jhiqui must have made to make this possible. Her former handmaiden had discarded all new possibilities in her own life to safeguard a legacy that wasn’t hers.

“I am deeply grateful, Jhiqui.”

Jhiqui’s eyes brimmed with tears as she shook her head. “I couldn’t have done it alone, Khaleesi. The Unsullied, those who stayed, built those villages and protected Dragonstone.”

“But it’s your leadership that enabled all that,” Daenerys reached out and took Jhiqui’s hands. “Thank you for guarding my ancestral home and keeping it afloat, Jhiqui.” Daenerys whispered softly as she warmly squeezed Jhiqui’s hands.

Tears rolled down Jhiqui’s cheeks. “I…I’ve always believed you would come back, Khaleesi,” she choked, lowering her head.

Feeling an ache in her heart, Daenerys wrapped her arms around Jhiqui and gently stroked her back, quietly comforting the woman who had gone through so much to hold onto her, who would have been a ghost of the past had the Temple of R’hllor not resurrected her. Daenerys swallowed thickly as her heart thumped. Westeros would not have allowed this to go on forever. It would have been a matter of time they took action against Dragonstone and the khalasars.

But now that she’s back, she can stop that. She can save Dragonstone and what remained of her khalasar in Westeros.

“Jhiqui,” Daenerys started, her voice trembling slightly. The more she knows, the more resolved she is to seize back the throne that was stolen from her. So many deaths and sacrifices on her account, and there would be more to come should she fail to restore her House once more. “I am preparing to send out a public missive to all the Lords in Westeros to raise their flags. I am declaring war on the usurpers.”

Jhiqui’s head jerked up with a start, her eyes widening in surprise but also in ecstasy. “This is great news! I’ve been waiting for this day!” Jhiqui pulled away from Daenerys and began pacing around in the chamber.

“Khaleesi, we have more Unsullied now. Many of those who left for Naath have come back in recent days. They have finally realised the error of their ways and are committed to doing what they should have done from the beginning – tear your enemies and the traitors apart,” Jhiqui muttered under her breath, her voice quivering in agitation.

“Khaleesi, I believe you have at least two powerful allies that will answer to your call,” Jhiqui continued, barely concealing her excitement. “Part of the reason we are surviving so well is because of House Velaryon. They have been secretly assisting us for the past three years, trading with us and providing us with supplies. I heard they are old allies of your House so they will definitely raise flags for you.”

Jhiqui continued to pace. Daenerys tried to reach out but Jhiqui was moving too quickly.

“And then there’s the Iron Islands. They have consistently kept the traitors off our backs with their raids. They used to be your ally, and the traitors did not honour your promise to let them go independent so they will raise flags for you too.”

Jhiqui turned to Daenerys, determination edged into her eyes. “And then there’s House Baratheon. Khaleesi legitimised the current Lord of House Baratheon. He had not taken any action against us in the past few years, so he may still be grateful enough to raise flags for you.”

Daenerys touched Jhiqui’s arm, her brows furrowing in concern. “Are you all right, Jhiqui?” she asked softly.

“Yes, of course I am, Khaleesi,” Jhiqui replied, looking puzzled at her question. But the puzzlement was quickly replaced by a pensive expression. “Khaleesi, it would perhaps be good to speak to House Velaryon.”

“Why?” Daenerys asked as she watched Jhiqui.

“They may offer you some insight into the mindset of the Lords of Westeros.”

Daenerys nodded. “I see.”

This is sound advice but be careful. While House Velaryon was a strong ally of our House, times have changed. We cannot guarantee they would be willing to commit to your cause. It would not be wise to go alone like you did for Dragonstone, the voice warned.

Daenerys considered for a moment. “Jhiqui, prepare a ship of Unsullied to sail to Driftmark. A small contingent will do,” she instructed.

Jhiqui’s eyes brightened up. “Khaleesi, you are taking my advice to go to Driftmark?”

Daenerys nodded with a faint smile. “Yes, Jhiqui. I shall speak to House Velaryon personally to secure their support. They are an old ally of my House and deserve the respect to be spoken to directly instead of through intermediaries. Especially since they have been supporting Dragonstone for the past three years.”

“I shall make preparations immediately. I will pick the best warriors.” Jhiqui said as she bowed respectfully to Daenerys, before turning and hurried out of the chamber.

Daenerys returned her attention to the Painted Table. She gently touched the island of Driftmark.

Old friends with whom we have inter-married with for generations, Daenerys thought quietly.

Yes. It would be wise to marry a Velaryon if they have a suitable match. That will strengthen the old alliance, the voice whispered.

Daenerys’ heart shuddered at the suggestion.

I…I’d prefer someone I love and who loves me.

And how did that turn out for you the last time? I believe his name is Jon Snow? the voice questioned sharply.

Daenerys gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her eyes wide with terror, yet burning with a mix of anger and hurt.

Love is a good thing, but it should not blind you and get in the way of your goals. Remember who you are – you are fire and blood, the voice reminded coldly.

Daenerys turned away from the Painted Table and breathed heavily.

I am fire and blood. I am a dragon. Be a dragon.

Daenerys inhaled deeply, lifted her head high and left the chamber. It’s time for action.

*******

Location: Driftmark
Time: Night

A ship of fifty Unsullied sailed a day ago. Only then did Daenerys mount Drogon and fly to Driftmark. Missara, Joragon and Aerax were left in Dragonstone where they would be well-cared for in her absence.

As Drogon began his slow descent toward Driftmark Castle, Daenerys spotted a black flag fluttering on a vast open field - a signal from her Unsullied marking the landing zone. She gently guided Drogon toward the spot.

Drogon spiralled gently toward the field and landed with a thunderous thud. Daenerys dismounted from Drogon with ease and grace, as a squad of Unsullied stepped forward, bowing in unison.

A man dressed in dark green silks moved forward to greet her.

“Welcome, Your Grace. I am Cormund Lonmouth, Regent of House Velaryon.” His gaze flickered briefly to Drogon, awe flashing across his face before he refocused on Daenerys. “We are honoured by your decision to personally visit Driftmark.”

“The honour is mine,” Daenerys replied graciously. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a youth, no older than sixteen, standing beside Cormund, his wide eyes fixed in wonder on Drogon.

Cormund cleared his throat and gently nudged him forward with a hand on his back. The youth stumbled slightly, tearing his gaze from the dragon.

“This is Monterys Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark,” Cormund introduced.

Monterys glanced at Daenerys and froze. His violet eyes widened, and his jaw dropped as he stared at her, utterly entranced. When their eyes met, his cheeks turned deep red, and he quickly lowered his eyes to the ground.

“H-hello… I… I’m Monteria… I mean, Monterys Velaryon. You… Your Grace, you… you’re very beautiful, more…more beautiful than…than anyone I’ve ever seen…” he stammered, tripping over his words in a fluster.

Cormund winced as he inhaled deeply to mask his embarrassment.

Daenerys smiled warmly at Monterys. She drew a dagger in a finely crafted leather scabbard, the black hilt intricately carved with elegant patterns.

Taking Monterys’s trembling hand, she gently placed the dagger onto his sweaty palm.

“A small gift for you, Lord Monterys,” she said softly. “A dagger forged by Meereen’s finest artisans – to keep you safe always.”

Monterys glanced at Daenerys and his ears turned red. He gripped the dagger tightly and nodded stiffly. “Thank…thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured.

I can see why he still needs a Regent at his age, the voice quipped in amusement. He will be easy to control should you marry him, and House Velaryon will be completely yours.

No, he’s too young, Daenerys immediately shot back in her thoughts.

Cormund’s expression brightened as he turned back to Daenerys. “Please, Your Grace, join us in the hall for warmth and refreshments.”

*******

Driftmark Castle’s hall was small but welcoming. Its stone walls are lined with rich tapestries, and a massive fireplace at the far end warmed the chilly hall.

A long wooden table stood at the centre of the hall, laden with platters of food and goblets of wine, awaiting the guests.

Daenerys’s eyes swept through the tapestries. She paused at one particular tapestry that depicted a wedding that resulted in a three-headed dragon.

Aerion Targaryen and Valaena Velaryon. Their union birthed the Conquerors, the voice whispered softly in a rare sentimental tone.

Noticing Daenerys’s focus on the tapestry, Cormund smiled. “Ah, that tapestry is about the union of Aerion Targaryen and Valaena Velaryon. Together they had Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys the Conquerors, hence the three-headed dragon.”

“The union was strong,” Daenerys said softly with a nod.

“Yes, it was! House Velaryon has blood of the dragon and House Targaryen has Velaryon blood too!” Monterys said excitedly, eager to please. But a grim look from Cormund and he quickly lowered his head.

Daenerys smiled softly at Monterys before she addressed both him and Cormund. “I would like to thank House Velaryon for your aid to Dragonstone in the past three years. It couldn’t have been easy to aid Dragonstone, since it operated outside of the Crown’s jurisdiction.”

Cormund’s dark eyes gleamed with derision. “It's only right. Not only is House Targaryen an old ally of House Velaryon, to have to obey Bran Stark is an insult.” Cormund scoffed, his contempt barely concealed. “The Starks wear a skin of honour, but we know exactly what they are – schemers, murderers and usurpers, who reward treachery instead of punishing it. So no, Your Grace, deciding to assist Dragonstone was not a difficult decision at all.”

Daenerys’s heart thumped and her blood pulsed fiercely at Cormund’s words. There are people who didn’t think they were in the right. There are people who believes what happened to me is an injustice.

That makes them valuable allies. Do not lose them, the voice whispered.

“Your Grace is amazing… why, why would they even do that to you…?” Monterys muttered as he stole glances at Daenerys. “I…uh, it’s good you are alive, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’s expression softened and she smiled gently at Monterys. “Thank you, Lord Monterys. I am glad to be alive too.”

Monterys nodded before lowering his gaze to the floor.

Daenerys returned her focus to Cormund. “And thank you, Lord Cormund. It’s good that there are still men who knows the value of loyalty and honour. I’ve long heard that the North and House Stark were honourable… I never did expected to be assassinated by their former King who swore fealty to me.”

Cormund exhaled sharply. “Perhaps their honour died with Ned Stark.” He fixed his gaze at Daenerys and asked cautiously, “Your Grace, about the North, it’s said that it was recently attacked by a dragon…”

Daenerys smiled faintly. “It seems like Drogon…my dragon, was angry on my behalf. I hope it didn’t cause House Velaryon any trouble?”

Cormund burst into laughter. “Of course not. I’m just…rather stunned.” He continued, with a tinge of bitterness in his tone, “Bran Stark had recently given special treatment to the North, having Highgarden sell most of their grain stocks to the North, driving up food prices throughout Westeros and disregarding the needs of other regions. The North is an independent Kingdom now, yet they are allowed to drain us dry. I’d say Your Grace’s dragon did a great job.”

He inhaled sharply, “But, we have to finish the job.” His expression turned sombre and serious. “Your Grace, I’m sure you are not just here to express your gratitude regarding Dragonstone. You wish to secure us as an ally, is it not?”

Daenerys’s violet eyes held Cormund’s dark eyes.

“Yes, Lord Cormund.” She replied calmly. “I intend to reclaim my stolen throne and to exact fitting punishments on the traitors. I am, in fact, preparing to send out a public missive to all the Lords in Westeros, declaring my claim and to have them support me in my upcoming war with the usurper.”

Cormund’s eyes widened in surprise, but there was a mix of admiration and respect in them.

“There are some… who may not support you.” Cormund cautioned.

“That’s fine, as long as they do not support the usurper either. But if they do decide to support the usurper…” Daenerys narrowed her eyes as her gaze sharpened. “They will have to face dragonfire on the battlefield.

Monterys looked at Daenerys in awe. “So I will get to see Your Grace’s dragon on the battlefield?” he asked, his wide eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Daenerys chuckled softly. “Lord Monterys, you may be still too young to go to war.”

Monterys frowned. “I’m fifteen,” he protested.

Daenerys suppressed a chuckle. Monterys stared at her for a moment before tugging at Cormund’s sleeve and whispered into his ear. Cormund blinked, first in surprise, then in embarrassment. He shook his head at Monterys who then glowered at him. Monterys stole another glance at Daenerys and moved to whisper into Cormund’s ear again.

Daenerys raised a brow. “Is there something I should be concerned about?” she asked curiously.

Cormund straightened his back and cleared his throat. “No, nothing to be concerned about, Your Grace,” he replied almost too stiffly.

“That’s not true!” Monterys raised his voice as he glared at Cormund. Monterys turned to Daenerys and his face turned red again. “Uh, uh… I… I want a marriage alliance! With, with you!” he blurted out, his voice rising nearly to a shout.

Daenerys widened her eyes.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha… the voice couldn’t seem to stop laughing.

Cormund’s face had gone completely red too, but his expression was of a man wanting to hide himself in a hole.

“I…I don’t have a younger sister or a child around Lord Monterys’s age…” Daenerys said softly, as her mind scrambled to find the right words to turn him down without hurting his feelings.

“No, I mean with you,” Monterys persisted. “As in, I MARRY YOU.”

Hah, now he speaks well, the voice mused.

“Ahem,” Cormund cleared his throat as he chuckled nervously. “Please do not mind Lord Monterys, Your Grace. He’s just a bit mischievous.”

“I’m not!” Monterys blurted out, bewildered and flustered at Cormund’s remark. He turned to Daenerys and stammered anxiously, “I… I will give you whatever you want, Your Grace! My fleet, my coins… whatever you need! It’s traditional for Targaryens and Velaryons to marry anyway! And… and I will be a good and gentle husband, I swear! You won’t regret it!”

Look at how sincere he is. Are you really going to turn down the poor boy? The voice asked almost mockingly.

Daenerys ignored the voice and gazed gently at Monterys.

“Lord Monterys,” she said softly, her tone warm yet firm. “I understand your offer and I am flattered, but I’m afraid I am not the right person for such an alliance. However, I agree it is traditional for our houses to be united in marriage. Perhaps one day, our children might marry.”

Monterys stared at her in confusion. “Our children? That… that sounds so far away…” he muttered in disbelief. “We really can’t marry now?”

“I’m sorry, Lord Monterys,” Daenerys said quietly.

Monterys frowned and scratched his head, disappointment written on his face. Meanwhile, Cormund placed a hand to his chest, his expression one of subtle relief.

Daenerys smiled faintly. He is loyal; he is stern to Lord Monterys but means him no harm, she observed.

As the tension in the hall eased, Cormund placed his hand on Monterys’ shoulder, and the two exchanged a knowing glance.

Cormund knelt on one knee, and Monterys followed suit. “You are the rightful Queen, Your Grace,” Cormund declared firmly. “House Velaryon has always stood by House Targaryen, and we will do it again. The Velaryon fleet is yours, to fight your war and reclaim what was stolen.”

Monterys nodded, his eyes determined. “I swear it too, Your Grace! The Velaryons will march with the Targaryens again, just like during the Conquest!”

This boy is sure spirited. A pity he’s too young for you, the voice said, clearly amused by Monterys’ enthusiasm.

“And…uh…Your Grace can consider marrying me once you won the throne…” Monterys mumbled. Cormund gave him a look of quiet pity.  

“Thank you, Lord Monterys, Lord Cormund. Your loyalty is noted and will not be forgotten. With your fleet and my dragon, we shall rule the sea and the sky,” she said, her voice steady yet firm.

She placed her hands on their shoulder as her violet eyes burnt in determination. “Raise your flag for me when the missive arrives. We will remind the world who the true Queen is, and that treachery will not go unpunished.”

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Night

Rian stood at the windows from his office, watching at the Dothraki who were watching over the smallfolk. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, restraining the anger that threatened to explode. The Dothraki had remained here for three years. Rian couldn’t help but wonder how many times had they done this, and how many smallfolk had they sold into slavery?

Rian had watched them closely in the past few days. Yes, the Dothraki had not hurt the smallfolk. Instead, the smallfolk were well-fed and unspoiled, other than the injuries they had received when captured. But it seemed more like the Dothraki were fattening them so they could sell for a better price.

“She will not like this,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “She will stop this once she’s back.”

Elie Dori, who had been sitting in the same office with Rian for the past days assisting with his duties, looked up at Rian, his eyes weary from age and work. “Take a seat, Master Rian,” he said softly. “There is no point worrying like this.”

Rian gripped the edge of the table tightly, his knuckles turning white. “They are going to sell those people into slavery, and I cannot stop them.”

“I understand. My people used to be taken and sold into slavery,” Elie said quietly, sorrow edged into his expression and eyes. “But if the stories about Her Grace are true, she will stop this once she’s back. So do not worry and focus on your other tasks, Master Rian.”

Rian turned to look at Elie, his expression softened. “You are stronger than I am, Elder…” he muttered almost in shame.

Elie laughed softly. “I’m just older and more experienced. You will get there someday, Master Rian.”

Rian exhaled deeply, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thank you, Elder,” Rian said earnestly. For the past few days, the elderly man’s calmness, kindness and help had been a balm for his heart, bruised by the Dothraki’s insults and from missing Daenerys’s presence. “How much do we have left?”

“Actually, we are done,” Elie replied with a faint smile, his eyes twinkling. “We just need to get them sent out.”

“Good.” Rian nodded. There had been more noble houses in Westeros than he had expected. But thankfully the Dothraki, having been in Westeros in the past three years, knew the houses well enough for them to draft the missives.

At least the Dothraki are of some positive use, Rian thought grudgingly.

The sound of beating wings and a thunderous thud caught Rian’s attention. He jumped to his feet and bolted out of his office, running along the corridors to the outside.

His mind raced and his heart thumped madly.

She’s back. She’s back!

*******

Missara, Joragon and Aerax screamed and shrieked as they flew around Harrenhal, occasionally stunning the Dothraki they nearly flew into. Daenerys smiled, watching the hatchlings flying freely as she descends from Drogon’s massive form.

She was weary, having barely rested. After departing from Driftmark, she had returned to Dragonstone to pick up the hatchlings and left instructions with Jhiqui and the Unsullied before coming back to Harrenhal. Even so, her gaze was sharp and her expression neutral. She will not look weak.

“Your Grace!” Rian’s voice called out from behind her, his tone tight and hurried.

Daenerys turned. His voice was a balm to her fatigued spirit, but the tension in his tone and facial expression weighed heavily on her.

Something had gone wrong.

“What is it, Rian? Did something happen?” Daenerys asked, concerned.

“Your Grace, please come with me. I have something to show you,” Rian said, his tone low but urgent. He turned and walked to another direction of the camp.

“Missara, Joragon, Aerax,” Daenerys called. Missara flew straight into Daenerys’s arms, Aerax flew down closer to her, while Joragon continued to fly high above but Daenerys could feel his eyes locked on her. Content, she followed Rian.

Rian brought her to a clearing where a large tent stood, separate from the khalasar, but guarded by four Dothraki warriors. Daenerys looked at Rian questioningly.

“Your Grace, Aggo and Kovarro,” Rian breathed deeply, as he prepared to expose Aggo and Kovarro’s actions. “They have been taking smallfolk from their raids and selling them to slavers from Essos. They keep the smallfolk in that tent.”

Daenerys’s lips parted slightly, her violet eyes widening in horror then flashed in anger. “Are you sure?” Daenerys asked in a low and dangerous voice that restrained her fury.

“Yes, Your Grace. They admitted it. They refused to let the smallfolk go, saying it needs to be done by your orders.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened. She turned to the tent and strode to it. The four Dothraki warriors were surprised to see her. They did not stop her when she pulled the tent flaps apart.

Inside the tent were about three dozen of young men and women, and children, their hands and feet bounded with ropes. Their eyes widened and flickered between amazement, awe and fear when they saw Daenerys and Missara.

Anger rose in Daenerys’s chest and she turned to the Dothraki warriors.

“Get Aggo and Kovarro here. NOW,” she ordered.

The Dothraki warriors bowed and immediately left. Daenerys turned to look at the captives again, but this time there were only fear in their eyes. Daenerys knew why. She had commanded the warriors in Dothraki language. In their eyes, she was no more different from their captors, and they did not know if her command to the warriors were meant to harm them or worse.

Daenerys turned and stepped away from the tent.

The Dothraki warriors soon returned with Aggo and Kovarro. 

Kovarro looked worried, while Aggo took a glance at Rian and scoffed.

“Aggo, Kovarro, explain this,” Daenerys pointed to the tent.

Aggo did not answer but stared at Rian who ignored him. In the end, it was Kovarro who broke the silence.

“My Queen…” Kovarro said quietly, his voice tinged with shame. “They are…captives from our recent raid.”

“Is it true they are going to be sold as slaves?” Daenerys questioned sharply.

Kovarro lowered his head, not saying a word but that was answer enough. Daenerys’s lips quivered in silent fury. She clasped her hands tightly. “And here I thought Morokos was the only turncoat,” she seethed.

Aggo flinched. “That’s not fair, my Queen,” Aggo said quietly, the anger in his voice almost perfectly concealed. “We waited for you for three years, while Morokos believed you dead and immediately broke all of your rules.”

Sensing a story, Daenerys looked at Aggo and nodded. “Go on.”

“Morokos does not only raid, but he also actively participates in slavery and had taken many women by force,” Aggo said, his voice steady. “We raid but we did not participate in slavery or took any women by force. But the recent one year had been difficult – the Riverlands and Westerlands joined hands to attack us. We had a growing need for supplies and coins to continue.”

Daenerys said nothing. She gazed emotionlessly at Aggo as she waited for him to continue.

“We have kept to your rule,” Aggo continued. “We did not harm smallfolk whenever possible. We had not taken any women by force. Even the ones we capture, they are safe and well-fed.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Safe until they are sold into slavery,” she hissed coldly.

“We need the coin to stay in Westeros. Living and raiding in Westeros is different from in Essos,” Aggo argued.

Daenerys stared hard at Aggo. “There is no need for this anymore now that I’m here.” She turned to Kovarro. “Contact the slavers to get back the smallfolk you had sold before. Tell them the Breaker of Chains is back, and I demand that they return the people unspoiled or be prepared to face the dragon’s wrath,” she commanded harshly.

Kovarro shook his head. “The slavers will expect their coins back but half of it has already been spent.”

“I don’t care,” Daenerys said dismissively. “They can choose between coins or dragonfire. Go now.”

Kovarro nodded, turned and left.

Daenerys turned her attention to Aggo. “Aggo, I do not wish a repeat of this. Do not force my hand, do you understand?” she said, brows furrowed, her eyes burning with a simmering fire.

Aggo bowed. “I understand.”

“Bring food, water and coins here, packed separately into sacks, waterskins and pouches the number of captives. These people need supplies to go home and rebuild,” Daenerys ordered.

Aggo uttered orders at the four Dothraki warriors and left to prepare the supplies.

Rian sighed in relief. Finally, the matter was resolved. But a dark cloud continues to cast shadows over Daenerys’s face as she paced around.

“Your Grace?”

“This is outrageous…to think that the khalasar most loyal to me would commit such terrible acts,” Daenerys murmured. “It might as well had been done in my name.”

“It’s not your fault, Your Grace,” Rian said firmly. “They are Dothraki. This is their way. Without a dragon to oversee them and enforce leadership, it is inevitable they fall back to their old ways.”

Daenerys stopped pacing and gazed at him. “You know the Dothraki well.”

Rian nodded. “Their reputation is…notorious.”

“I take it you tried, but Aggo and Kovarro refused to release the captives,” Daenerys said, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

Rian lowered his eyes. “…I am not one of them and holds no authority over them.”

Daenerys’s gaze stayed on him for a moment before she looked away. “Well, I suppose it’s good then that I returned on time. I just hope it’s not too late to get the other smallfolk back.”

Aggo and the Dothraki warriors soon returned with the supplies. At Daenerys’s orders, Rian went into the hut to release them from their bondage. The smallfolk came out, their faces bewildered, eyes uncertain.

Daenerys stepped forward. “I am Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, the rightful Queen of Westeros.” Her voice rang out loud and clear. “I apologise for the harm and trauma caused to you by my khalasar. I assure you this shall not happen again. You are free to go now. Please take a bag of food, a waterskin and a pouch of coins before you leave.” Daenerys placed a hand on her chest and bowed slightly. “This cannot erase the harm done to you, but I hope it offers you some comfort.”

Daenerys scanned the faces of the smallfolk before her.

Their bodies were tensed, eyes wide and darting with a mix of fear and awe, their gazes flickering between her and the chirping Missara in her arms, and Joragon and Aerax circling above. Some shivered visibly and paled, and grabbed hold of each other when Joragon and Aerax let out shrill screams.

They were understandably confused when she declared herself the rightful Queen of Westeros, as they most likely only knew Bran Stark to be their King. These smallfolk were young, perhaps even younger than she was, which means they had never lived under the rule of House Targaryen, which may well only exist in stories to them.

Yet, they could not look away from her and Missara.

Daenerys straightened her back. It’s time to go. Best to let them have their space, she thought, sticking around would only make them uncomfortable.

She gently stroked Missara’s head and she chirped happily, snuggling into her chest. She turned to Rian. “See to it they are given what they need before they leave, and ensure they leave safely. Come to me after you are done,” she said quietly.

Without waiting for a response, Daenerys turned and left, Joragon and Aerax swooping low to follow her, their cries fading into the distance.

Daenerys didn’t look back, but she could feel the smallfolk’s eyes on her until she was gone.

I’ve done all I can for now. This wound may never heal, but as Queen, it is my duty and responsibility to care for them. I shall make sure this doesn’t happen again.

*******

Rian saw off the last of the smallfolk after each of them took their share of coins and supplies. He returned to the camp only to find Aggo waiting for him with his arms crossed.

Aggo’s arms slid to his side as he slowly walked towards Rian, an intense energy radiating from him, a predatory glare in his eyes which was fixed on Rian’s face.

Rian’s expression hardened as he met Aggo’s glare unwaveringly. He maintained his relaxed pose but his muscles were tensed, ready for action any time.

Aggo stopped right in front of him, towering over him by half a head.

Rian thought Aggo might pull out his arakh to attack him, so he was surprised when Aggo spat on his face instead.

“You worthless tattletale,” Aggo growled. “The Queen has eyes and ears, yet you can’t wait to tell her all about it, as if you are eager to please.”

Rian wiped the spit away with his sleeve and glared fiercely at Aggo. But before he could response, Aggo snarled at him. “You try too hard, whatever-your-name-is. The Queen isn’t going to sleep with you just because you are pretty. You are just another spineless bootlicker.”

Rian bristled at the accusation. “How dare you…”

But Aggo did not intend to give him the opportunity to respond as he spat out another taunt. “I’ve seen how you look at her, boy. And you follow her around like a dog wagging its tail. You are no man. You are…” Aggo jabbed a finger at Rian’s chest. “Just a dog. And Queens do not sleep with dogs.”

The fire in Rian’s eyes died and he stared speechlessly at Aggo who scoffed as he left.

Rian stood there, red-faced and silent, his body shaking, fists clenched and teeth gritting. Aggo’s face and words kept replaying in his mind: You are eager to please…you are just another spineless bootlicker…you are no man…you are just a dog…Queens do not sleep with dogs.

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. His eyes blazed with fury and shame. I will show you…I will show all of you…I’m not a dog. I will be her most trusted Sword.

Chapter Text

Rian inhaled deeply as he stood in front of Daenerys's chamber door. He calmed his emotions before he raised his fist and rapped on the door.

"Come in."

Rian opened the door, which swung open with a loud creak. Daenerys was sitting on a chair next to the window, gazing out to the moonlit landscape as her fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk. Of the three hatchlings, Missara was still clinging to Daenerys's chest, Aerax appeared to be sleeping on Daenerys's bed, while Joragon was lying on the desk, whipping his tail restlessly.

"You told me to come and see you."

Daenerys turned to face Rian. It was only then Rian saw the fatigue in her expression. His chest tightened as he wondered if he could have helped her more.

"How are the people?" Daenerys asked.

"I distributed the food, water and coins to them and saw them leave safely as instructed," Rian reported.

Daenerys nodded. "Good." She gazed into his eyes. "I appreciate that you reported to me about the captured civilians. It would have been easier to keep silent."

Rian lowered his head. "It's the right thing to do."

Daenerys gazed at Rian - the chatty Lyseni guard was unusually quiet and there was a shadow in his eyes unseen before. Was he tired, or was there something bothering him?

"Rian, do you have something on your mind?" Daenerys asked gently.

"What?" Rian looked up, startled.

"You seem bothered," she commented.

"I'm just... nervous about the upcoming war," Rian said quietly, "I've never been in a war before."

Daenerys nodded as she laced her fingers. "Understandable." Her lips curled as an amusing idea came to her mind. "If you are scared, how about riding on Drogon with me into battle?"

"What? Really?" Rian was surprised, wondering if he had heard wrong. But Daenerys giggled and laughed, and his face flushed red. "This is not very nice of you, Your Grace," he murmured, embarrassed.

Daenerys's laughter softened into a warm smile as she leaned back on her chair. "I'm sorry, Rian. I couldn't resist. But you are braver than you think. You stood up for the innocent when it would have been easier to look away. I have confidence in you, Rian."

Rian blinked before quickly lowering his head. "Thank you, Your Grace," he whispered.

Daenerys paused as she recalled Rian suggesting to have a saddle for Drogon a while ago. She had rejected the suggestion back then, but now she's thinking - if there was a saddle, she would be able to carry at least one more person with her. She wondered if there would be any use for that. She gazed at Missara who's rubbing her face on her chin and smiled.

"Rian, do you remember suggesting to have a saddle for Drogon?"

"Yes. But you said..." Rian's voice drifted off.

"You know a lot about Targaryen history," Daenerys remarked with a soft smile. "Perhaps you know how my ancestors made their saddles? I want you to make a saddle and rein for Drogon. Preferably light but secure, and have the option to sit a few people."

Rian's eyes lit up. "Me? Your Grace is trusting me to... do this?"

Daenerys raised a brow. "Should I not?"

Rian shook his head furiously. "No no, I mean you can absolutely trust me to do this. I will make the best and safest saddle for you."

Daenerys smiled warmly. "I know you will."

*******

The next morning, Daenerys met up with Elie Dori, Rian, Aggo and Kovarro in the war room.

"We have sent a rider to Morokos asking to meet. Without incident, we should be receiving his response soon," Kovarro said, his head held high but his eyes gazing right past Daenerys.

"Kovarro, look at me when you are talking," Daenerys said sternly, but not unkindly. "If you are upset at me..."

"No..." Kovarro cuts her off, but still not meeting her eyes. "I'm too ashamed of myself."

Daenerys's expression softened at his confession. "Then do not make the same mistake again. Now, look at me."

Kovarro slowly raised his eyes and met her eyes. She smiled warmly at him. "Much better." Kovarro bowed his head in gratitude.

Daenerys turned to Aggo. "Aggo, what do you think will be Morokos' response?"

"Hmpf, Morokos knows not to challenge a dragon. He will most likely issue a personal combat," Aggo said gruffly.

Daenerys tapped her fingers thoughtfully. "A personal combat. Are you or Kovarro confident of beating him?"

Aggo and Kovarro exchanged glances. "Morokos is a powerful warrior," Aggo admitted. "I shall volunteer to fight him should he issue a combat challenge."

He's not very confident, the voice cautioned.

A glint flickered across Daenerys's eyes. Rian was about to open his mouth to say something when Daenerys raised her hand. "We will see about that once we meet Morokos," she turned to Rian and Elie, "Rian, Elder Elie, please do tell me about the progress regarding the missives."

Disappointment flashed across Rian's face but Daenerys pretended not to have seen it.

"We have completed all the missives, Your Grace," Elie said as he pushed forward a stack of papers. "We have minimally covered all the major houses and any houses that may muster forces, thanks to Aggo and Kovarro's intel."

Daenerys flipped through the missive papers, reading it. She had flipped through about ten when she paused at one particular piece. She removed that piece from the stack, and to everyone's surprise, ripped it into pieces.

"Your Grace?" Elie was unsure what just happened.

"That one," Daenerys narrowed her eyes, "was addressed to Sansa Stark of the North."

The war room went silent.

"Her bastard brother put a dagger into my heart, and another brother of hers sits on a throne that is mine." Daenerys's eyes swept across the room. Kovarro was frowning; Aggo had crossed his arms, his brows twitched and eyes murderous; Rian's expression flashed in restrained fury; while Elie looked stunned. On Daenerys's part, she was surprisingly calm when recounting the betrayals, though she still felt a bitter sting on her chest where she had been stabbed.

"The North swore fealty to me. They should have avenged me. But no, they rewarded the traitors and murderers instead, took the throne I fought for, broke my promises to the Iron Islands but did not forget to reward themselves with independence. They gave everything to themselves. But my Unsullied and khalasar, who sacrificed the most in the wars in Westeros," Daenerys laced her fingers tightly as she restrained her growing fury. "tell me, Aggo, Kovarro, just what exactly were you and the Unsullied rewarded with? Free passage back home or wherever you wish to go? Compared to the riches the North rewarded themselves with?"

Aggo scoffed. "We got nothing. That's why we refused to leave," he muttered under his breath.

"That's right. Those who were loyal and bled the most were discarded in favour of treachery. So no, I do not intend to send this missive to the North." Daenerys gazed sharply at Elie, Rian, Aggo and Kovarro. "I do not care for their support or surrender. Not yet. I intend to break the North so hard they won't have a spine for the next 100 years. I will make them learn the hard way what it means to betray a dragon."

"I... I see," Elie said, his eyes slightly wide as he grappled with the politics.

Daenerys flipped through the rest of the missives. She pulled out another one and ripped it too.

Elie's eyes widened again.

"I assume that one was written for House Lannister?" Aggo smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes.

"Yes. Tyrion Lannister orchestrated my assassination. He's the head of his house now, so naturally there will be no mercy for House Lannister," Daenerys said matter-of-factly.

Daenerys pushed the rest of the stack towards Aggo and Kovarro. "The rest are fine. Arrange to deliver all of them with the best riders and fastest horses, two riders per missive."

"Yes, my queen," Aggo said as he took the missives from her.

"Elder Elie," Daenerys's expression and voice softened as she addressed the Naathi elder. "Thank you for your assistance so far. You may rest. And if you like, I'd have an escort send you to Dragonstone and back to Naath. Since war is coming soon, I do not know how much longer Harrenhal would be safe."

Elie smiled softly at Daenerys's offer. "You have my gratitude, Your Grace," he began. "I knew from the moment we heard of you that you were not like other rulers. Naath will remember your kindness and your promise of protection. I have accomplished my goals here and I shall now make my leave with the comfort that you have given us a rare gift - freedom with the promise of safety. For that, my people will never forget you."

Daenerys smiled faintly, her violet eyes softening. "Thank you, Elder Elie. My word shall remain true - so long as I live, Naath will not fall to slavers or war. Kovarro shall ensure you travel swiftly and safely." She turned to Kovarro, her tone sharpening slightly as she issued him a new order. "Kovarro, arrange for Elder Elie to travel to Dragonstone where he shall switch to transport to Naath if he so wishes. Ensure his safety every step of the way."

"Yes, as you command," Kovarro said.

Elie stood up from his seat and bowed deeply to Daenerys before he turned and left the room with Kovarro. After watching him leave, Daenerys shifted her focus back to the table.

Her eyes settled on Aggo. "Aggo, have the riders out by today."

"I will get to it now," Aggo said gruffly as he rose to his feet.

As he strode past Rian, his shoulder collided heavily with Rian's. Rian frowned but said nothing, though his eyes briefly followed Aggo as the Dothraki warrior left the war room. His fingers twitched but he quickly clenched them.

None of these escaped Daenerys's attention. She leaned back on her chair and smiled faintly. "Not getting along with Aggo?"

Rian grasped his fingers. "Nothing I can do about people not liking me," he muttered, though more to himself than to Daenerys. Then as if remembering something, he looked up at her almost grudgingly. "I'm the only one you did not assign any work to."

Daenerys let out a soft laughter. "What do you mean I did not assign you any work, Rian? I just assigned you to come up with a saddle and rein for my dragon last night, didn't I? Have you also forgotten you are supposed to be my swordsmanship teacher? I believe you already have enough on your plate."

Rian’s eyes widened slightly at her words, and a faint flush crept up his neck to his cheeks. He quickly looked down, fumbling to gather his composure. “I… I suppose you’re right, Your Grace,” he mumbled, his voice softer now, tinged with embarrassment. His fingers clenched briefly before he forced himself to relax, glancing back up at her with a sheepish expression. “I’ll get started on the saddle right away.”

"Wait, I'm not done." Daenerys's smile widened. "Since you complain about not being assigned work, I will give you another job." Daenerys leaned forward. "How confident are you at defeating Morokos?"

Rian inhaled sharply as he drew slightly away from Daenerys. She's too close for his comfort, and this question had his heart thumping. "Do you mean...?"

Daenerys pulled back slightly with a smile. "If you are confident enough, challenge Morokos before Aggo does, should Morokos ask for a personal combat. If you win, you'd earn the respect you deserve from the khalasar."

"But if I lose?" Rian asked in a low tone.

The smile on Daenerys's face vanished and her expression turned solemn. "I hope not, Rian. If Morokos doesn't kill you, you will lose respect in my khalasar. Seeing as to how you are the only one who defended the innocents, I need you to be in a position where you can command respect in my khalasar."

Daenerys paused. Daario had praised Rian back then, and he had trained her in the basics of swordsfighting, but in truth she had never seen him fight anyone. There was the possibility that asking him to fight Morokos could be sending him to his death. Morokos would be an excellent opportunity for Rian to prove himself to both Aggo and Morokos' khalasars, but there would be other proving opportunities that would be less...risky.

She hesitated. "Are you confident, Rian?" she questioned again, her tone careful. "If you're not," she leaned back on her chair, "I can find other opportunities for you."

Rian's lips parted in surprise, but his violet eyes hardened with a steel-like edge as soon as she offered to find him other opportunities. He knew there were no better opportunity than an open victory against a recognised Dothraki warrior in full view of both khalasars. What's more, he would be seizing this challenge when Aggo was expecting himself to be the challenger. In a single fight, he could prove his worth to the Dothraki, particularly Aggo and Kovarro, and to Daenerys. He could show her that she was right to put her faith in him, that he's more than a pretty face, that he's a warrior who could serve her as well as anyone else. Not a dog.

"I will fight Morokos, Your Grace," Rian said, his voice firm and resolute.

Daenerys gazed at him for a moment, as if trying to ascertain how serious and confident he was. She saw no hint of hesitation and fear in his eyes.

"Very well," she said with a faint smile. "I look forward to your victory, Rian."

*******

Location: Blue Hold, King's Landing
Time: Noon

Edmure Tully's footsteps echoed loudly against the cold stone floors in the Blue Hold, as he stormed towards the council room. He threw the heavy oak doors to the council chamber wide open and stormed in with an expression as dark as the grey clouds that loomed over the palace.

Without caring for decorum or courtesy, he slammed a piece of missive onto the long wooden table in the room.

"I just received this from a raven dispatched from Riverrun," Edmure gasped, his breath coming in heavy bursts. "It was originally delivered by two Dothraki riders so I don't think it's a prank."

The council members crowded around the table, their eyes scanning the missive as their faces shifted with shock, or drained of all colour.

The contents were clear. It was a call to arms, urging the Lords of Westeros to pledge allegiance to Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, branding Bran Stark an usurper. The terms offered forgiveness for neutral Houses who chose neither sides, but promises dragonfire to those who pledge allegiance to Bran Stark after receiving the missive.

It was a call for loyalty and a declaration of war at the same time.

"And guess where these were sent from?" Edmure’s voice trembled with frustration. "From Harrenhal! My territories! The enemy is right under my nose!"

"You should have taken care of those Dothraki savages a long time ago!" Bronn shot back angrily. "Now it looks like the Targaryen bitch got back her dragon, her Dothraki horde and has Harrenhal as her bloody base to boot!"

"Who in the Seven Hells knew she was alive?! She was dead! Well, she was supposed to be dead!" Edmure said defensively. He turned to Aldric, the Master of Whisperers. "And the hordes. The plan was to make them fight each other yet nothing happened. Had they destroyed each other, Daenerys Targaryen would have no army to claim in Westeros," he said in an accusatory tone.

Aldric shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but his expression remained composed. "I cannot control how the Dothraki choose to respond to the whispers. Apparently Khal Morokos chose to move his horde westward instead of confronting Khal Aggo. But... their recent movements show that they are moving back eastward... towards Harrenhal."

Bronn placed his hand on his forehead. "Of course. Maybe they are now on their way to rejoin the Targaryen bitch," he said in exasperation.

"But she had already fallen before," Sam said, his voice laced with an unmistakeble anxiety. "The Dothraki do not swear fealty to someone who had fallen before, right?"

Bronn rolled his eyes. "Well yes but guess what? The Targaryen bitch has a dragon. Fight her dragon or rejoin her, hmm what a difficult choice for them!"

The council members looked at each other in unease, the tension in the room palpable.

"Stop fighting among ourselves or we will lose the war before we even begin to fight," Brienne snapped, bringing attention to her. "If she would send this missive to House Tully, it's unlikely she will ignore other Houses, especially given the content. If this is the case, we must call for the Lords to rise for His Grace too."

She looked at Bran, who was seated at the head of the table but had remained silent so far. "Your Grace, what do you say?"

Bran laced his fingers tightly, staring straight ahead but remaining silent. Nothing in the past could help him. As for the present and the future, his vision sees only blood red mist with endless screamings. He closed his eyes. Someone, or something, was blocking his vision.

"Let me travel to Harrenhal," Davos said. His words were so sudden that everyone turned to look at him. "Missandei..." his voice softened at the mention of the name, "she spoke highly of Daenerys Targaryen. And Daenerys Targaryen did contribute much to the wars fighting against the White Walkers and Cersei Lannister. I'd like to believe that the woman Missandei described is still there. Let me travel to Harrenhal and negotiate with her."

The council chamber held a tensed silence, until Bronn broke it with a scoff.

"Even if Daenerys Targaryen was some kind of a saint, did you forget what she ended up to be? The Mad Queen. The Queen of Ashes. She burnt King's Landing and killed countless innocents, and would have continued to do so had she not been stopped," Bronn said coldly. "Do you think she's here in Westeros to talk? To play? And your solution is to...talk?"

"I just want to try and avoid casualties," Davos said quietly but firmly.

"Read her missive again, Seaworth. War is at our feet, casualties cannot be avoided," Bronn seethed. He turned to Bran. "The south has to be more united to fight this bitch. Appoint me as the Lord Paramount of the Reach so I can command the Reach Houses and armies to march against her. With me as Lord Paramount, the Lords cannot surrender to her or stay neutral," he said aggressively, yet also full of fiery conviction.

"This is not the time for you to push forward your own agenda," Yohn Royce clenched his fists as his jaws tightened in restrained fury.

"My own agenda?" Bronn snapped his attention towards Yohn, his tone bitter and angry. "My agenda is to do what I do best and fight this Targaryen bitch and defend our King! I've fought her and her dragon before and I will do it again! But how am I supposed to do that now if the Reach houses are allowed to continue to undermine and disrespect me! And might I remind all of you, our Hand is still missing and no one cares! Tyrion knew her best and he could have provided us with the strategies we need!"

"Stop."

The room sank into silence and all eyes turned to Bran.

Clasping his fingers tighter, he started slowly, "Brienne is correct. We must call for the Lords to prepare for war. But this does not mean we should leave out the diplomatic option." He turned to Davos. "Lord Seaworth, go to Harrenhal and negotiate with Daenerys Targaryen. Ask her what she wants in return for a retreat, to leave Westeros alone. If she wants Dragonstone, she shall have it. But we need to know her full terms."

He shifted his gaze to Bronn. "I cannot appoint you as Lord Paramount."

Bronn's face fell, but it soon gave way to a flashing anger. He was about to say something when Bran cuts in. "Appointing you as Lord Paramount now will only risk further alienation of Reach Houses. I shall issue orders for the Reach Lords to rise against Daenerys Targaryen and appoint you as the commander for Reach forces." He fixed his gaze onto a stunned Bronn. "Should we win the war and your performance didn't disappoint, I shall appoint you as Lord Paramount of the Reach, and no one will have cause to object."

Bronn opened his mouth then shuts it. He gritted his teeth and muttered an "all right" under his breathe.

"Lord Royce, please liaise with the Vale. And Uncle..." Bran turned to Edmure, but neither his eyes nor his expression lose its coolness. "Return to Riverrun to muster your forces."

"Of course," Edmure bowed. "I shall ensure no Riverlands lords will bend their knee to her."

"Aldric, Lord Stokeworth brought up a good point... please step up on efforts to find Lord Lannister. We'd need his insights and strategies, especially if Daenerys Targaryen refuses to negotiate and leave Westeros peacefully," Bran instructed with a chilling calmness.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Let's all attend to your duties in preparation for Daenerys Targaryen then. Dismissed." Bran waved his hand.

Bran remained in the council room long after everyone left. He shuts his eyes.

Still a haze of blood red mist and agonised screams.

Except there's more this time.

A regal, austere-looking woman with braided silver hair and piercing violet eyes. Dressed in black armour emblazoned with the Targaryen dragon, she stood in front of the Iron Throne, her expression cold and disdainful. Her lips curled derisively as she raised a sword and pointed it at him.

His eyes snapped open, his breath sharp and shallow.

It is already night fall, and he is all alone in the council chamber in the dark.

His stomach was tied in cold knots, as he felt that death might truly not be too far away from him this time.

*******

Location: Training Yard, Harrenhal
Time: Noon

"Hyah!"

Rian shouted as his blade struck down yet another training dummy. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his chest heaved with exertion. Breathing hard, he grabbed his waterskin and drank deeply, the cool liquid spilling slightly as it trickled down his lips and over his bare chest.

It had been a week since the council meeting, and every waking moment had been devoted to preparing for his duel with Khal Morokos, said to be a formidable warrior who could cleave dozens of men on his own. Rian hadn’t seen Aggo since that day, but he suspected the seasoned warrior was likely training just as hard, if not harder, somewhere in the sprawling camp.

Harrenhal was alive with activity. Riders came and went, reporting to either Kovarro or to Daenerys. The atmosphere at Harrenhal had become charged, with the khalasar steeped in drills as they prepare for war.

Even now, as they trained, Rian could not shake the thought that Morokos and his khalasar were closing in, inching closer with each passing day, and war could break out at any moment.

Rian lifted his waterskin for another sip when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He lowered the waterskin and turned his head.

It was Daenerys, dressed in her training gear as she approached with purposeful steps and grace.

“How’s your training going?” she asked lightly, her voice laced with a touch of curiosity, a faint curl playing on her lips.

“It’s great,” Rian said, his face red as he grabbed his shirt and slipped it on as quickly as he could.

Daenerys gazed at the weapon Rian had used. It looked smaller and thinner than the other swords in the weapons rack.

“Hmm. Is that a light sword? I had no idea you use light swords,” Daenerys remarked. A glint flashed in her violet eyes. “How good are you at light swords?”

“Rather good. I trained with different sword types so I can become more versatile,” Rian said with a tinge of pride.

Daenerys nodded in approval. “No wonder you are called the First Sword.”

She picked up a practice sword from the rack. “Come, fight me.”

“Excuse me?” Rian blinked in surprise, wondering if he had heard wrong.

“Did you think you were the only one training?” Daenerys teased as she picked up another practice sword and threw it at Rian.

Rian caught the sword by the hilt and smiled mischievously. “Ah, my Queen. If you think some training can make you go toe-to-toe with your teacher, you are going to get a wake-up call soon.”

“Then be nice and go easy on me,” Daenerys laughed lightly as she took her position and held her practice sword at a perfect angle.

“Looking good. Seems like you really did some work when I wasn’t looking,” Rian grinned.

Daenerys smiled, then began to slowly circle Rian, waiting and looking for an exploit. When Rian started moving, a fire seemed to alight in her heart as it started to beat faster than usual. The voice that only spoke to her in her mind on occasion, suddenly raised its volume and its tone became sharp and commanding, so much that Daenerys could not help but listen.

Move left.

Daenerys shifted to the left.

Down.

She bent downwards...

Now stab at his rib!

Rian widened his eyes when he saw Daenerys stabbing towards his rib. He took a quick step backward...

Trip him.

Daenerys stuck out a foot and Rian tripped, falling onto his buttocks rather unglamorously.

Now!

With a swift swipe of her practice sword, she took out Rian's from his hand then pointed hers at his throat. She panted heavily from the exercise, as shell-shocked as Rian was at her unexpected victory.

"Woah... you are good...! No, better than good. When did you get this good? And…and how?" Rian gapped, face red from shock and embarrassment. He couldn’t believe it. He could count the number of times he taught Daenerys with one hand, and he hadn’t really seen her practice but she took him out… just like this?

"You didn't give it your all," Daenerys panted. Yes, why else would she have won? She had told him to play nice and Daario had sworn that Rian was good.

“Why would I go all out with someone new to the sword?" Rian stared at her in disbelief. "But… you move like a wily fox, strike like a viper and has an eye for openings. Dare I say, you fight like someone who had a wealth of sword training and fighting experience."

"That can't be..." Daenerys muttered.

Aside from the few training sessions she scrapped out time for in the past few weeks, the only other time she held a sword was when she fought the White Walkers. She didn't know how to wield one and was clumsy with it. The experience and result were disastrous.

But this time, she seemed to know what moves to make and her body had moved on its own as if she was engaging in a routine exercise.

Was this another gift from R'hllor, one that Kinvara had failed to inform her of?

R’hllor? Please. Wasn’t I the one directing you what to do and how to move? the voice rang out loud in Daenerys’s mind. I told you before I could show you how to beat that smug grin out of his face.

No, did you control me? Daenerys questioned in her mind.

She felt a chill down her spine when the voice did not answer. Her grip on the practice sword tightened, her eyes widened slightly, and anxiety crept into her heart.

Then finally, the voice spoke.

I do not have the ability to control you. But your health has improved, and you listen well.

Daenerys did not feel comforted. She listens well? What did that even mean? It did not sound like a compliment.

But she has a new worry now. If Rian couldn’t even beat her, would he be able to defeat Morokos? She gazed at Rian, whose face had turned crimson as his violet eyes dimmed in confusion.

She considered her options – if Rian is out of the question, that leaves Aggo as her only choice should Morokos demand a personal combat. But of course, she did not have to indulge Morokos as she could simply have her dragons deal with him and his khalasar if they refuse to surrender. Still, she preferred to settle Morokos’s problem in the Dothraki way as this could help her to better re-absorb Morokos’s khalasar instead of losing them to dragonfire.

Rian got up from the floor, his movements pulling her out from her thoughts. He patted the dust off him as he said quietly, “I will train harder. I won’t disappoint you.”

I know you think you are helping me, but I believe you just hurt Rian’s confidence, Daenerys reprimanded the voice in her thoughts, her frustration boiling over in quiet defiance as Rian avoided her gaze.

Then he needs more fire and blood. What use is he if he feels down and out so easily? The voice replied in a cold and unbothered tone, as if Daenerys’s defiance was inconsequential. You need loyal men with strength, not just loyal men. Loyalty does nothing for you if they are going to fail you, the voice added, its tone serious but laced with a tinge of dismissiveness.

Daenerys closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. I don’t disagree… but I believe strength can be nurtured.

Then nurture it, the voice responded evenly, just know that time may not be on your side.

Daenerys gazed at Rian who was still avoiding her eyes.

“Rian, are you all right?” she asked in concern, her voice soft and gentle. Look at him. Now you’ve done it.

Get over it, child. He should, too, the voice said with a tinge of annoyance.

“I’m all right, Your Grace. I just… need some time to think,” Rian said quietly. “Please excuse me.”

Daenerys’s jaw dropped as she watched Rian turn and walk away. Her face flushed in embarrassment and shame. Beating and crumbling the confidence of a loyal man with strength that did not belong to her was not what she had intended. For a moment she felt tempted to go after Rian to explain what happened but she stopped herself. What would he think if she told him there was a voice in her head talking to her, and that it directed her on how to fight and beat him?

“He would either feel more embarrassed, thinking I’m coming up with some strange reason to spare his feelings, or he’d think I’m mad…” she murmured.

She sighed as she buried her face in her hands.

*******

Daenerys did not see Rian for the next three days. She did not see him even as she and her khalasar started moving towards the meeting location with Morokos that’s five miles away from Harrenhal.

Aggo rode on her left, looking fresher and more vigorous than ever. Kovarro rode on her right, looking in far less better shape with bruises all over his body. Missara, Joragon and Aerax flew overhead, shrieking as they competed on speed and strength.

Daenerys glanced at the hatchlings with a faint smile before she turned to Aggo.

“How do you feel, Aggo? Are you confident?” she asked cautiously.

Aggo straightened his back and replied in his usual gruff and self-assured voice. “Yes, my queen. That is without question. Should Morokos be foolish enough to defy you, I shall present his head to you personally.”

Daenerys nodded, feeling reassured by Aggo’s confidence. She shifted her attention to the bruised Kovarro. “And you, Kovarro? What happened to you?” she asked in quiet concern.

Kovarro rubbed his bruised forearm carelessly. “It’s your guard, Khaleesi,” he grumbled.

“My guard? Rian?” Daenerys was surprised.

“Yes, Khaleesi. He’s been insisting on training with me,” Kovarro said, though there was a gleam in his eyes that hinted at being impressed, “But he hits harder than he needs to. I feel like he’s taking out some unhappiness on me.”

Daenerys laughed nervously. She looked around but saw no signs of her loyal guard, which felt disturbing. He had never been far from her except for the time she left for Dragonstone.

“Where is he now?” Daenerys asked curiously, her brows furrowed. He shouldn’t be hiding from me. I’m his Queen. If he’s got a problem he should speak up, not hide away. He’s got duties.

“That soft-bellied pretty boy is probably hiding somewhere he won’t have to fight,” Aggo scoffed, his disdain for Rian clear as day.

Daenerys said nothing, but she made a silent decision to speak to Rian once the matter with Morokos was settled. She can’t have her subjects and guards disappearing on her just because they were unhappy. She had told him before if he was unhappy with her or had disagreements, he could talk to her or even leave her service. But she was fully expecting him to at least inform her instead of disappearing. The more she thought about it the angrier and more disappointed she felt.

When they reached the meeting location, Morokos’s khalasar had already arrived, their riders riding around with their gazes fixed on Daenerys’s approaching khalasar as though they were prey.

The hatchlings flew over and screamed, and Morokos’s riders were startled, their horses starting to huff and stampede.

Daenerys smiled and her riders laughed at the disarray the opposite camp was in.

“Enough!” a loud voice boomed across the field.

A huge, imposing figure on a black stallion rode out, his beady eyes sweeping across Daenerys’s khalasar fiercely. His eyes stopped on her small frame and they widened. “You…? Truly not dead?” he shouted in disbelief.

“That’s Morokos, Khaleesi,” Kovarro offered helpfully.

“Best to take him down in a personal combat. His khalasar has 3000 more riders than ours. Even if we win, our damage will be significant,” Aggo grunted.

Daenerys nodded as she rode forward.

Morokos lifted his gaze to the squabbling hatchlings flying overhead before returning his focus to Daenerys, his face taut and cautious. His khalasar, upon spotting Daenerys, began to stare and murmur among themselves in disbelief. Taking a brief glance at his khalasar, Morokos’s expression hardened. “We did as we promised and delivered the throne to you, Daenerys Targaryen. Then you fell. You have no more hold over us.” He spoke loudly, his voice reverberating over the field.  

“How dare…” Aggo bristled, but Daenerys held up her hand, silencing him. “And which eye of yours saw me fall, exactly?” she challenged. “None of you ever saw my body. All you had was a man’s word - a man whose actions made him a traitor, not only to me, but to all of you. And you choose to believe the words of a traitor?”

Her eyes swept disdainfully over Morokos’s khalasar. “Am I not here right now? Do I look like someone who’s fallen?” she thundered.

Morokos’s riders mumbled as they considered Daenerys’s words, the unrest becoming clearer. Morokos scowled and shouted, “Then where were you in the past three years? If you weren’t dead, then you abandoned us! And now you expect us to follow you again just because you show your face?”

Morokos’s words stoked the fire in Daenerys’s heart.

This is what you cost me, Jon. My life, my love, my trust, my army, my people and their trust in me.

She narrowed her eyes where fury simmered.

“The traitor Jon Snow attempted an assassination! Where were you then! You allowed the traitors to walk free and to steal our victory from all of us! But I refuse to allow that! I am here to reclaim my khalasar, to fulfil the promise to liberate Westeros, and to let the traitors know they are not, and will never be free from justice and retribution!” Daenerys bellowed, her rage palpable as Jon Snow’s face flashed in her mind. “Follow me now to reclaim the victories that are ours!”

Morokos’s khalasar stirred. Noticing the change of atmosphere, Morokos hissed furiously.

“The fact is you still fell to Jon Snow! That’s why you were away! I will not surrender to a loser!” Morokos roared as he drew his arakh. “I challenge you to a personal combat, Daenerys Targaryen!”

“Here it comes,” Aggo growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his arakh, ready to accept the challenge in place of Daenerys. He moved to ride up beside Daenerys, but before he could, a horse galloped past him, startling him. The rider pulled to a sudden halt next to a visibly surprised Daenerys.

“I apologise for my tardiness, Your Grace,” Rian said, bowing his head respectfully to Daenerys. Drawing his sword, he shifted his focus to Morokos and called out sharply, “I am Rian Runestar, Queen Daenerys Targaryen’s sword, and it is I you shall face!”

Relief swarmed Daenerys when Rian showed up and proclaimed his challenge. He appeared confident and assured, unlike the person he was three days ago.

“Are you sure, Rian?” she asked in a low voice.

Rian smiled at her. “Yes, you can trust me, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nodded without another word.

“Heh, what is this?” Morokos sneered. “Never mind, I will just cut off your pretty head after I’m done with your toyboy.”

Rian’s jaws tightened in fury. He was about to ride forward to meet Morokos when Daenerys stopped him. He looked at her, puzzled.

She drew her sword and hands it over to Rian. Her eyes swept through both khalasars as she spoke loud and clear, “This is my House's ancestral sword, Dark Sister. Represent me with this sword and deliver me the traitor Morokos’s head.”

Rian sheathed his own sword and accepted Dark Sister with both hands, the weight of the ancestral sword settling comfortably in his grip. His eyes locked onto Daenerys’s, a silent promise passing between them. "I will honour you, Your Grace," he said, his voice low but firm. "By cutting off Morokos's head and presenting it to you."

Without another word, he spurred his horse forward and galloped towards the still sneering Morokos.

As Rian closed the distance, both he and Morokos dismounted, their gazes locking in a tense and unyielding stare. Morokos’s arakh gleamed in the sunlight, ready to strike, while Rian gripped tightly onto Dark Sister, the ancient Valyrian blade reflecting the fierce sunlight. The tension in the air grew thicker with each breath, with the clash about the start in a heartbeat.

Both men understood this battle would determine far more than their own lives - it would decide Daenerys’s hold over the khalasars and her claim to leadership.

And in his heart, Rian knew he could not, and would not, fail his Queen.

Above them, the skies came alive with the piercing cries of Missara, Joragon, and Aerax, their wings slicing through the air like heralds of fire and blood.

Chapter Text

Morokos glared hard at Rian who stood tall and unflinching. It surprised him – Rian had lean muscles but he looked soft, just like those bedslaves he had seen and taken before. He wondered how well Rian could fight, that the dragon queen would send him and even bestow her House’s ancestral sword to him to use.

They are just making a show out of this. She should have sent Aggo, not this soft toy. I will teach them. Teach her. Morokos sneered in his mind.

With a thunderous roar that could shake the will of lesser men, he charged forward and swung his arakh in a forceful slash. Rian’s eyes narrowed, and he evaded the slash and Morokos’s follow up chops and slashes with skilful footwork.

The fight went on with Morokos either missing hits or nearly stumbling as Rian danced around him. Their blades did not even touch each other. 

As the fight dragged on, Morokos became increasingly frustrated. His slashes and chops became more forceful, but also more erratic.

“Stop your cowardice and fight me like a man!” Morokos roared when Rian deftly evaded another one of his slashes.

Rian smiled calmly. “Why? Are you already getting tired, great Khal?” he teased.

Before Morokos could retort, Rian circled around him, made a quick spin to his back then stabbed out with Dark Sister.

Morokos blocked Dark Sister with his arakh, but his eyes widened as the blade’s tip shattered the contact point and broke the arakh in two. Stunned, Morokos stumbled back three hurried steps in a desperate attempt to evade the ancient Valyrian steel’s deadly thrust.

But Rian did not press the attack immediately. He stood tall, sword poised at his side, his violet eyes fixed on Morokos, who stared at the broken edge of his arakh in disbelief. He then glanced at Dark Sister, which gleamed under the sunlight, its tip barely damaged. Morokos inhaled sharply as his confidence faltered.

“Surely the great Khal Morokos isn’t hindered by a broken blade?” Rian smiled, his voice cool with a taunting edge.

Morokos clenched his teeth in anger, his pride stung. “Even with just half a blade, I will crush you all the same!” he spat.

The enraged Morokos switched tactics – he goes down and swept at Rian’s legs so quickly his blade became blurred. But Rian was faster – he danced back, then drove forward with sudden aggression, Dark Sister slicing through the air with a whistle.

Morokos paused and he stared in disbelief as Rian was suddenly ten steps away from him. Then twenty steps…

And he realised what happened when he saw his headless body collapsing to the ground.

The field was silent as Rian flicked the blood off Dark Sister. He calmly strode forward and picked up Morokos’s head by its braids, then turned to approach Daenerys. Her face betrayed no emotion, though her violet eyes gleamed intensely.

Rian carefully placed Dark Sister on his palms and knelt to Daenerys. She took the Valyrian blade and slid it back into its sheath.

“Well done,” she said softly.

Rian smiled faintly before presenting Morokos’s head to her just as he had promised.

Daenerys seized the head by its braids and raised it high, so that all may see it, with its blood still dripping onto the grass.

“Morokos held me in contempt, and my champion has defeated him in fair combat,” she declared sharply. “Now bend the knee, or face fire and blood!”

As if responding to her fury, Missara, Joragon and Aerax shrieked as they continued to circle above Morokos’s khalasar, their cries piercing through the air.

Morokos’s khalasar was in disarray having just witnessed Morokos’s loss and death. The riders muttered in fear as they struggle to calm their mounts.

Aggo spat at the ground. “If they refuse to surrender, we’d just have to finish them off. It should be easier now, with them losing their Khal and their morale hitting a low,” he growled in a low voice.

But Aggo’s prediction did not come to pass. Morokos’s riders glanced at each other and nodded. One by one, they dismounted and knelt in submission.

Daenerys smiled at the sight of the thousands of kneeling riders. She dropped Morokos’s head unceremoniously, turned her horse around and rode away. Rian mounted onto his horse and followed her.

The submitted riders stood, mounted their horses and unleashed fierce cries in Dothraki as they rode after her. Their loyalty to their dragon queen has been rekindled, and she would once again lead them to their promised victories.

Daenerys rode on as the two khalasars merged into one unstoppable force behind her, following her back toward Harrenhal.

Finally, she has reunited her Dothraki army in Westeros. Soon, they shall be unleashed upon the traitors.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Afternoon

Back at Harrenhal, while Aggo and Kovarro busied with settling the thousands of riders who had returned with them, Daenerys summoned Rian to the war room.

Rian stood silently as Daenerys paced in the room slowly.

"You've done well," she said in a measured tone. "You seized the opportunity for personal combat and defeated Morokos. Because of that victory, none in the khalasar will question your strength or your place among us any further, including Aggo.”

She stopped pacing and fixed Rian with a cold gaze. “However,” her voice sharpened, “I do not like that you disappeared on me without a word. You are my guard, my sword, and my shield. To vanish without leave is a dereliction of duty.”

Rian flinched and his body stiffened as the words struck him hard.

“And I made it clear before, if you are unhappy about anything, even with me, you can speak to me. But to vanish for three days and then beat Kovarro?” Daenerys’s voice went low with an edge of coldness. “Explain yourself, Rian. I want to know your intention.”

Rian lowered his head, his face red in shame. “I apologise, Your Grace. I am not unhappy with you. Never,” he said, as he tried to keep his voice steady as guilt washed over him. “I’m just…too ashamed and embarrassed to face you after… after what happened at the training yard.”

Daenerys blinked, not entirely in surprise but out of a mix of exasperation and resignation. “That was an accident, Rian. It wasn’t even a serious fight where you went all out. If I was that good, I wouldn’t have needed you or Aggo to face Morokos in my place. And had it been me facing Morokos, the result would have been very different.”

Silence fell between them, but Daenerys could see the cloud dissipating from Rian’s eyes.

“In any case, you did well defeating Morokos. But I need you to apologise to Kovarro for your unnecessary violence towards him,” she asserted, “Do you understand me, Rian?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rian answered, his head held high.

“Good,” Daenerys nodded slightly. “I have decided – Aggo and Kovarro shall continue to lead their riders, as for Morokos’s riders…” she paused, a soft light shimmering in her eyes. “I shall lead them, with you as my second-in-command. When I am in the air with Drogon, you shall take charge of their command. Do not disappoint me.”

Rian’s lips parted as though to say something, but the moment was interrupted by a rapping on the door. The door swung open and a Dothraki warrior bowed respectfully. “A man who calls himself Davos Seaworth has come, claiming to have come to negotiate with Khaleesi.”

Daenerys’s brows furrowed.

Davos Seaworth.

She recognised this name, of course. This man had gone to Dragonstone with Jon Snow to seek an alliance with her so they could gain her dragons and army to fight the White Walkers.

A loyal retainer to a traitor.

Is a traitor, the voice whispered, completing the thought in Daenerys’s mind.

Daenerys sat down on the chair at the head of the war table.

“Bring him in,” she instructed the Dothraki warrior. Nevertheless, I shall hear what he has to say.

Usually nothing worth listening to, the voice said coldly. Too bad you don’t have one of the hatchlings in here with you, or you could roast him on the spot if he steps out of line ever so slightly.

Rian can still cut off his head for me.

The voice laughed almost cheerfully. You do you, child. As long as you let them know what it means to betray a dragon.

“Rian, stay here with me,” Daenerys said quietly. Rian stepped next to her without hesitation, standing tall like a sentinel. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The Dothraki warrior soon led Davos into the war room. His eyes widened slightly, and his jaws slacked when he saw Daenerys, but he quickly collected himself and regained his composure.

Daenerys gazed at him coolly. It had only been three years, but the man looked much more weathered than the last time she saw him. Perhaps life had not been too well to him, she thought.

“Ser Davos,” Daenerys greeted pleasantly, though there was little warmth in her voice. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Your Grace,” Davos bowed politely, his eyes betraying his wonder and puzzlement. “Life has been… hectic. I must say, it is a surprise that you are alive. We were told otherwise.”

Daenerys smiled knowingly. “Life always has a way to surprise us.”

“Indeed,” Davos’s eyes narrowed. “…When I arrived, I saw three small dragons flying above the castle. Yours?”

“Of course. To whom else can they belong?” Daenerys leaned back on her chair. “I’m the Mother of Dragons after all.” Her tone sharpened. “Now, Ser Davos, what are you here for? Something tells me you are not here to bend your knee.”

“Indeed, I am not,” Davos said, his voice calm. “I am here to negotiate for peace.”

“Oh?” Daenerys raised a brow.

“Some of our Lords have received your missive,” Davos explained pointedly, “It is a declaration of war, Your Grace.”

Daenerys chuckled. “Only to those who wish to become my enemies, Ser Davos. The missive clearly stated that neutral Lords shall suffer no repercussions from me.”

Davos’s expression hardened. “It is a clever move, Your Grace. You cow the Lords into inaction, costing His Grace, King Bran, allies and armies.”

“Then they are being smart,” Daenerys said dismissively. “They know it’s not worth facing dragonfire for a usurper who claimed the throne through treachery.”

“Treachery?” Davos whispered in shock. “How…”

“But you are not here to argue about these details, are you?” Daenerys cuts him off. “So let’s cut to the chase – what do you want, Ser Davos? You claim to be here to negotiate for peace. How do you intend to negotiate that?”

Davos inhaled sharply as he collected his thoughts. “…We wish to know what it would take for you to retreat from Westeros. We had not acted against Meereen in the past three years, and as a show of goodwill, we promise we shall not ever act against Meereen. And we offer you Dragonstone.”

Daenerys paused as she stared at Davos incredulously.

I have an adult dragon and three young dragons, a few thousand Unsullied and a khalasar with at least five thousand riders, and this is the offer?

I’d told you traitors are not worth listening to. They’d look at a dragon in the eye and still think you as a foolish girl, the voice replied with a tone that sounded like a mix of anger and smugness.

Daenerys couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. “Who came up with this offer, Ser Davos?”

“Excuse me?” Davos blinked, uncertain where the discussion was heading to.

Daenerys leaned forward, her expression smiling but her gaze was so sharp that Davos could feel his hairs standing on their ends.

“Meereen is not defenceless and the people there knows and values loyalty much more than those in your circle,” Daenerys said bitingly. Her voice then dropped low. “As for Dragonstone, it had never stopped being mine. Who are you to make me an offer with what belongs to me?” she questioned icily.

Davos lowered his gaze, his feet shifting uncomfortably. "Gold. How about gold? Name your price," he tried again.

But the offer only stirred the fire in Daenerys, and she had to clench her fists on her lap to withhold her anger.

"Gold," Daenerys scoffed bitterly. "Tell me, Ser Davos, have you even considered how much I lost in my last campaign in Westeros?" Daenerys said quietly, her voice cold and steely. "I defended this realm at the cost of one of my children and half my army, only to be met with scorn and insults. Then I lost another child, was betrayed, assassinated, and usurped... And you think you can pay me off with gold?"

Her gaze sharpened into daggers of fury. "No amount of gold can pay for the losses and pain I suffered, Ser Davos. And it is an insult to even suggest that."

Before Davos could respond, she added cuttingly, “And what I want is nothing the usurper can ever accept or give me.”

Davos felt his blood run cold at Daenerys’s words. But still, he steeled himself to continue. “Please list your terms and we shall see.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Well, you asked.”

Her tone turned razor-sharp, rising in intensity. “First of all, I must clarify that I will not retreat from Westeros. But to have peace, I want these three conditions to be met. First, surrender my throne back to me, for it is I who won it, and I am the rightful queen with the rightful claim to the throne. Second, deliver the traitors Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister and Bran Stark to me. Third and last of all, the North must renounce their independence and bend its knee to me.”

Davos’s jaws slacked. His heart trembled and he shook his head in resignation. “These terms are impossible, Your Grace.”

Daenerys laced her fingers on the table. “I’ve told you, what I want is nothing that can be given to me,” she said coldly. “Now that we are done, you may leave, Ser Davos. But should your side wish to negotiate again, remember the terms I just gave you, and do not offer insulting terms as you just did. This time, you shall have the benefit of the doubt, but the next one who do the same as you did, may not leave with their head intact.”

Davos’s face turned ashen with resignation as he bowed, turned and left.

As he leaves, his mind focused on one detail – Daenerys Targaryen demanded for Tyrion Lannister. Did that mean she had nothing to do with his disappearance? Then who did it? Surely the imp couldn’t have disappeared on his own? As he stepped out of the castle, he inhaled sharply at the sight of the three young dragons chasing each other for sport above the castle. And then there was the looming shadow of Drogon, whose molten eyes are fixed upon him. He shuddered, feeling less like a man and more of a prey at that moment. Daenerys Targaryen had gained three more dragons. They may be small, but who knows how much damage they can still wreak upon the realm?

Davos shut his eyes and sighed in dismay at the thought that Westeros may not escape dragonfire after all.

Daenerys watched Davos leave with his shoulders slumped in defeat, but she felt neither pity nor regret. Her fingers tightened as she restrained the fury for the insults that were just thrown in her face.

“They call this negotiation? They offered me nothing,” she whispered. “They disregarded my power, authority and birthright. They must truly think me a fool.”

Daenerys turned to Rian. “And they call me a Mad Queen. Can you believe them? Insulting someone they think as mad? And this Mad Queen has four dragons and an army. You’d think they want to approach me with more caution and respect.”

“Maybe because they are the mad ones, Your Grace,” Rian replied, his fists tightly clenched in silent fury. Had she given the command, he would have cut off Davos Seaworth’s head in an instant for the insult he delivered to her. But she had not, so he held back.

He paused, then offered, “…Madness and greatness have a line of difference. Greatness that cannot be understood may be called mad. Just because you are called mad does not make it true.”

Daenerys’s expression softened at his words. “I do not think I am mad, Rian. But I’m not sure about greatness either,” she murmured, as the tower bells of King’s Landing rang in her mind once again.

“If the Conquerors are great after burning so many, why not you? You killed a lot less, are much more merciful, and are the Breaker of Chains,” Rian said, his voice gentle but resolute. “Your Grace… perhaps it’s time to stop focusing on the past.”

Daenerys held her head in her hands, her heart torn at the mental images of King’s Landing that refused to go away. “I fear I may repeat past mistakes,” she whispered.

Rian’s heart hurts at the sight of Daenerys’s pain. He held out his hand, wanting to rest on her shoulder reassuringly but his hand hovered in the air hesitatingly. He quietly moved his hand back to his side and said softly, “Your Grace told me I may speak to you if I find anything disagreeable. I will do that so Your Grace will not repeat any past mistakes. If you’d let me.”

Daenerys turned and looked at Rian, her violet eyes gleaming in amusement. “...Sure, if you don’t run away again,” she said with a hint of smile.

“I won’t run away again,” Rian promised. “At least not without telling you in advance.”

Daenerys laughed.

Rian smiled faintly at the sound of her laughter, which dissipated the heaviness in his heart and in the war room.

Daenerys turned and looked out of the window, her expression thoughtful as she pondered about the delicate line between greatness and madness. It was then Rian’s voice reached her, seemingly from afar, though he was standing right next to her.

“Your Grace…”

She turned her head to meet his eyes. “Yes, Rian?”

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze in silence, until finally Rian broke the silence.

“Whatever happens, you don’t have to face it alone. I will be here. I won’t run away again.”

His voice was soft, but Daenerys can hear the strength and determination in it. They are not mere words, but a promise, an oath.

She wanted to believe him. She really wanted to. But an ache in her chest reminded her of how fickle men can be, and how promises and oaths can be broken and turn into betrayals the moment she’s no longer deemed as worthy in the eyes of those who swore fealty and promised the world to her.

Where would Rian draw the line with her?

But these are not thoughts she would share with him, or with anyone else. She will not show weakness.

“Thank you, Rian,” she said with a small smile.

Rian nodded silently.

Daenerys took a steady breath and rose from her chair. “Come with me, Rian. I shall announce the leadership of the khalasar to everyone.”

As Daenerys walked out of the war room, with Rian trailing behind her, the bells continued to ring in her mind, and the smell of fire and ash in her nose.

Heat surges in her veins as she hardened herself for the upcoming wars and confrontations.

This time, she shall not fail.

*******

After ensuring that Davos had gone far from Harrenhal, Daenerys stood in front of her khalasar. At their front stood Aggo and Kovarro, while Rian stood next to her.

“I summoned all of you here,” she began slowly, “is to let you know some of the key decisions I have made.”

The khalasar quietened and waited. Aggo stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, ready for Daenerys’s command, while Kovarro stood next to him with a resolute expression.

“Aggo shall continue to lead his riders, with Kovarro as his second. As for those who were under Morokos, you shall be under my command from now on,” she paused, her gaze flickering to Rian, “Rian Runestar here, which all of you should recognise, shall be my second.”

Murmurs rippled through the riders, but none opposed Daenerys’s decision.

“Should I be in the skies with my dragon, Rian shall take command of my riders.” She paused again, giving it time for her words to sink in. “Should Rian not be available, Aggo shall take command.”

Another ripple of murmurs, but most of the riders nodded in agreement. Aggo’s eyes flickered to Rian for a second before he returned his gaze to Daenerys and nodded too.

“Any questions?” Daenerys probed.

Some riders looked at each other, but otherwise no one posed any questions.

Daenerys nodded. “Good. You are dismissed. Return to your duties.” She gazed at Aggo and Kovarro. “Come with me.”

Aggo and Kovarro followed Daenerys into the war room, with Rian trailing behind her as always. Rian closed the doors once everyone was inside the room, and he proceeded to stand next to Daenerys. As he lifted his head, his eyes met with Aggo’s, whose gaze hardened but did not have its usual burn and hostility.

“I am flying to the North tomorrow at first light,” she announced. Ignoring the three men’s stunned faces, she turned to Rian and said, “And you are coming with me, Rian.”

“Please hold on, Your Grace,” Rian was confused at the sudden command. “You are flying to the North? Why? I thought you wanted to break them.”

Daenerys’s lips curled slightly in amusement. “Yes, Rian. That plan did not change. I’m not flying to the North to make nice with them but to break them as intended,” she explained calmly. “You are coming with me and my dragons for an early surprise assault on the North.”

Rian widened his eyes, while Aggo and Kovarro exchanged surprised glances.

Kovarro was the first to speak up. “But Khaleesi, many of our riders are still on their way to deliver the missives. Not all had been delivered.”

Rian frowned, his violet eyes clouded with concern. “Would an early assault on the North affect how the Lords would react to the missive?” he asked as he turned to Daenerys, searching her face for an answer.

Daenerys smiled and nodded. “It would certain influence how they receive the missive. But the North is now an independent kingdom, one that thrives off the South’s blood without offering anything in return. How I deal with the North is a matter separate from the rest of Westeros. The attack will also force the Lords to make their decisions quickly, especially once they have their copy of the missive. The strike on the North will show them the consequences of betraying and opposing House Targaryen.”

“Ah,” Kovarro beamed as realisation dawned upon him, “The North is to be made an example of to show them it’s wiser to side with Khaleesi or to stay neutral.”

Daenerys’s smile widened, and she gave Kovarro a nod of approval. “Exactly.”

“What if they choose the usurper instead?” Rian asked, his voice laced with concern.

Daenerys didn’t hesitate. "Then they will face dragonfire, just as promised."

"This attack will take them by surprise," Aggo said gruffly, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "The false king and his bootlickers expect you to battle in the Riverlands, not to fly straight to the North."

Rian exhaled slowly, nodded. Years ago at Meereen, he had witnessed what dragonfire could do. It destroyed entire fleets and turned men into ash. Daenerys had obliterated the slave masters and their armies, breaking the chains that were wrought upon Astapor and Yunkai once more.

“They will lose,” Rian said resolutely. “They do not stand a chance against the khalasar, and they will not be able to stop Your Grace’s dragons.”

Daenerys gazed at the three men, finding understanding and acceptance in their eyes. It had been so long since her council had agreed with her so completely without hesitation and without judgment. No one telling her what to do or what not to do. No one expecting her to be anything other than who she was – a dragon.

She laced her fingers tightly to restrain a surge of emotion.

“Aggo, you shall be fully in charge of the khalasar and Harrenhal and its defences when Rian and I are away. Kovarro shall serve as your second,” Daenerys instructed.

Aggo nodded. “Yes, my queen.”

Kovarro frowned in concern. “But Khaleesi, isn’t it too dangerous for you to fly into enemy territory all alone with Rian?”

Daenerys smiled at Kovarro’s question. “Rian is the First Sword of Meereen’s volunteer army, and you’ve seen his skill in battle with Morokos. He is fully capable of keeping both himself and me safe.” Her violet eyes gleamed with confidence. “Besides, my children will protect me.”

I am glad you have made your decision, the voice said in a rare, pleased tone.

Daenerys was almost amused. Are you glad that I have made my decision, or that my decision has pleased you?

Why can’t it be both? the voice replied, just as amused, before turning serious. You won’t back out at the last moment, will you?

No, I won’t. I am a dragon, not a sheep. Fire and blood is House Targaryen’s promise, and it is time the North tastes it in full, Daenerys’s violet eyes burned in fierce determination.

Yes, it is, the voice whispered, satisfied at Daenerys's response. Teach them, burn them, break them. We shall do it together.

Yes, together, Daenerys echoed in her mind.

There was no turning back now.

*******

Location: The Trident
Time: Afternoon

Jon watched the water streaming through the Trident. The gentle murmur of the current was soothing, filling the air with tranquillity. The water was so clear that he could see the sediment below and the tiny fish darting through it. It was hard to believe that nearly thirty years ago, this very water had run red with blood from a brutal battle.

His true father, Rhaegar Targaryen, had fallen at the Trident, his chest shattered by the crushing blow of Robert Baratheon’s warhammer.

Jon had wondered more than once – had Rhaegar not died, or if he had won the war, what would have happened?

The Mad King was still reigning. House Stark would surely suffer House Targaryen’s wrath. What would Daenerys become growing up under the Mad King’s rule? And him, the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Would the Mad King even allow him to be alive?

It was survival.

It was either House Targaryen or House Stark.

In the end, he had to make the same choice. Daenerys had lost her way, burning down King’s Landing despite its surrender. And her speech… gods… she mentioned Winterfell. Fear had gripped his heart, and it was relentless. When she refused to even apologise or show regret for what she did to King’s Landing, that was when he knew she had to go.

He did not only choose House Stark, but he also chose the realm.

His breath shuddered and his body trembled. He did the right thing, but it did not mean he would not suffer the consequences. The dreams had continued, and the pain in his heart never truly left.

And now he’s about to do the impossible – claiming Drogon.

Jon had been tracking Drogon’s movements, and it was strange and unpredictable. First, it had flown past the Vale. Then it was said to have flown westward to the Westerlands. Jon had turned his horse and was on his way to the Westerlands when he witnessed the familiar black shadow flying over him back to the east.

Jon wasn’t sure how to even begin claiming a dragon. Daenerys had guided him to “claim” Rhaegal, if that was what it was. But she was gone now. Drogon might well blast him with dragonfire as it had to the Iron Throne. If it did, the dreams would stop, and the pain would finally end. That didn’t sound so bad.

When Jon told Tormund of his decision to find and claim Drogon, Tormund had thought he was crazy. He wanted Jon to return to beyond the Wall with him. When Jon refused and informed him of the reasons why he was going to Drogon, Tormund had looked at him with pity and a tinge of disdain.

“You’ve gone mad, Jon. You gotta let go and let yourself be free. Come back when you are ready, but I fear this would be the last time we’d see each other.”

Then Tormund turned and left.

Jon let out a resigned chuckle. Might as well. Being alone seemed to be his fate.

A familiar warmth pressed against his thigh, and he looked down. Ghost stood beside him, ever faithful, having followed him all this way. Jon let out a faint smile, reaching down to ruffle his thick fur.

"At least you’re still here," Jon murmured. "You never asked for anything, never judged me… You’re just here. Always here. For me."

Ghost suddenly lifted his head, his posture tense and alert. Jon followed his gaze and saw two smallfolk youths – a boy and a girl, no older than sixteen – approaching the river, playing as they came.

Jon turned and was about to leave when he heard the youths speak.

“We were so lucky. I was sure the Dothraki were going to sell us into slavery,” the boy said.

Jon stiffened. At Winterfell, he had heard tales of the Dothraki who had stayed in Westeros after Daenerys’s fall. He had also passed by villages ravaged by their raids in the Riverlands. Even after Daenerys was gone, her legacy had continued to haunt Westeros.

“Thank goodness there was that nice lady who saved us,” the girl said.

Nice lady? Jon’s ears perked in curiosity.

Still unaware of Jon’s presence, the youths continued their conversation.

“Saved us? She…” the boy paused, as if struggling to find the right words. “She seems like trouble,” he said finally. “She commands the Dothraki. She could be the one ordering the raids.”

A woman who commands the Dothraki? Jon’s stomach started to twist in unease.

“But if she’s the one who orders the raids, why did she let us go? She even gave us coins and supplies and apologised,” the girl argued. The boy scratched his head, clearly confused by the contradiction.

“Besides, she’s so beautiful!” The girl clasped her hands, eyes wide in awe as if recalling a dream. “I’ve never seen anyone like her before. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes... It’s like she’s some kind of goddess!”

The words struck Jon in his heart like a dagger. He froze and his mind raced. No, it can’t be… It can’t be. I… I killed her. I stabbed her in the chest. She died in my arms. I was sure of that.

"Bran wants to know if you had verified that Daenerys Targaryen was dead." Sansa’s voice echoed in Jon’s mind.

Jon’s hands clutched at his head, as the world seemed to spin around him. No, no, no…!

“Goddess?” the boy’s voice broke through Jon’s spiralling thoughts. “More like trouble. Did you not see the monster she carried in her arms? The flying beasts that made all those terrifying noises?” His voice trembled. “She said she’s the rightful queen of Westeros. But our King is a Stark, and I don’t think she’s a Stark.”

“But she… she seems really nice…” the girl’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “When was the last time a lord or lady ever apologised to us smallfolk for wronging us? They never do. She did. She even gave us compensation.”

"They’re all nice until they get power," the boy muttered bitterly. "Like Uncle Teddy. He used to be kind to everyone, remember? But then he started working for the Lord, and now he talks down to us like we’re nothing. Do you remember what he did to Granny Danice?" His voice brimmed with anger. "He had her dragged away and locked up just because she couldn’t pay her taxes on time. Wouldn’t even listen to her pleas. She used to feed him whenever he couldn't afford food."

The girl fell silent at the mention of Uncle Teddy and Granny Danice.

Meanwhile, Jon could no longer keep himself hidden. He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the ground. The sound made the two youths freeze, their eyes snapping toward him.

They tensed in fear, especially when their gazes landed on the sword hanging at Jon’s waist.

“Do not fear, I wish you no harm,” Jon said quietly, as he clenched his fists to restrain the surge of emotion in him. “I only wish to ask you a question.”

Jon swallowed thickly. He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to. He had to know. 

“This woman you speak of… what is her name? Did she say it?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, his posture defensive. “What… what’s it to you?” His voice trembled just slightly, though he tried to put up a brave front. Fear was clear in his eyes, but he still stepped in front of the trembling girl, his body instinctively shielding her.

“Please, tell me,” Jon said, his voice rising unintentionally that his words came out harsher than he meant, and both youths flinched and backed away, their eyes wide with fear.

Jon inhaled sharply, guilt flooding over him as he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control. “I’m sorry…” he muttered, as he fought to steady himself. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But this is important. Please, tell me. Did she say her name?”

The two youths exchanged uncertain glances. The boy’s gaze eventually hardened as he made a decision. There was little point in angering this strange man, who could easily be either a sellsword or a noble, someone capable of slaying them or worse, should they cross him.

“I… we don’t really recall,” the boy said hesitantly. “Her name was quite a mouthful.” He shifted awkwardly. “But it sounded something like... Day... dairy? Dairy Tark? Tark rain?”

Jon’s heart thumped painfully in his chest, each beat feeling like it might tear him apart. It… can’t be true.

“Do you mean to say… Daenerys Targaryen?” Jon whispered, his voice trembling.

The girl peeked out from behind the boy, her eyes wide with surprise. “Yes…! That’s the name! Wow… how did you… how did you even know that? It was so hard to remember! And… and I think it was actually a bit longer than that.”

Jon blinked, his eyes stinging with a rising panic. The world seemed to spin around him, and the girl’s words came at him like they were underwater, muffled and distant.

“…A bit longer than that?” Jon murmured, his voice a mix of disbelief and a dazed confusion. “Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen?”

“Yes, yes!” The girl clapped her hands together, clearly astonished that Jon knew the complicated name that had eluded her and her companion.

The ground seemed to crack open beneath Jon’s feet, as if the very earth itself was splitting apart. He felt himself falling into an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole. Daenerys’s smile, her melodic voice, the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, her intense violet eyes... All of it flooded his mind at once. And with it came the memories of her overwhelming anger and grief, the rage that had threatened to consume the realm.

“Where is she…?” Jon found himself whispering.

“Harrenhal,” the boy’s voice echoed in his mind. He collapsed to the ground, unable to hold himself upright any longer. By the time he came to his senses, night had fallen. The two youths were gone, and Ghost was nuzzling his wet nose against Jon’s face, grounding him in the present.

Jon turned to look at Ghost, his grey eyes glistering with unshed tears.

If she’s here proclaiming to be the rightful Queen of Westeros…

A cold dread settled in his heart.

I have to kill her again.

His hand instinctively reached for his sword, fingers tightening around the hilt.

She must die.

"But this time, Daenerys… I won’t let you die alone," he whispered, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

Chapter Text

Location: Winterfell
Time: Night

Sansa sat in her solar, the only sounds in the chamber were the whispers of the chilly breeze, scratching quill and rustling parchments.

Sansa was writing correspondences but she couldn’t focus.

Her blue eyes shifted to a letter on her desk and her heart couldn’t help but skip a beat again as she recalled the contents in the letter, sent by her uncle Edmure Tully.

Daenerys Targaryen is alive.

And that Daenerys Targaryen had sent a missive to the lords of the Riverlands, demanding for them to choose their loyalty, either rise in arms for her, stay neutral or face her in war.

Sansa had no doubt this missive would have been sent to other lords in the other regions, as Daenerys would want to secure as many allies as possible while depriving Bran of allies.

Yet she had not received the missive.

In fact, none of the lords and ladies in the North had received such a missive. Her Wardens had sworn on their honour and on their Houses.

Her lips quivered as she fathomed what that meant. Sansa didn’t think it was out of respect for the North’s independence.

She wanted to recall Jon to Winterfell, because if Daenerys Targaryen was indeed alive, then attempting to claim Drogon would be walking into a death trap. But there had been no word from him since he left, and he could be anywhere.

Daenerys Targaryen is alive.

Sansa slumped back on her chair as those words in Edmure’s letter raced in her mind relentlessly. Jon swore he had killed Daenerys Targaryen, yet here she was, supposedly still alive.

She puts down her quill, and she clenched her fists to stop her hands from trembling. It had become clear now why her black dragon had attacked the North. And if she was to link that to how the North did not receive the missive…

Sansa’s breathing turned uneven, her chest tightening. Daenerys Targaryen intends to burn the North.

Sansa drummed her fingers on the desk restlessly. “Summon Lady Cerwyn,” Sansa ordered a servant.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the servant bowed and left to find Jonelle Cerwyn.

She had instructed the Wardens to prepare for potential war, but she wasn’t sure how prepared the North would be for dragonfire.

Nevertheless, if Daenerys Targaryen comes here… she will find that the North remembers and has fight in them.

*******

The night is crisp, and the drifting clouds blotted out the last remnants of light.

On the castle walls of Winterfell, a young soldier took a sip from his waterskin and exhaled in satisfaction. He hated the night duty. It’s pitch dark, cold, and boring. He sighed, crossed his arms to keep himself warm and closed his eyes for a rest.

It was then he heard it.

Soft tapping sounds. His brows furrowed and his eyes blinked open.

Tap tap tap tap…

He couldn’t tell what’s making those sounds, but it seemed to have come from the scorpion located a few steps away from him. He sat up straight. Those scorpions are important defence weapons for Winterfell. If any of them are damaged…

No, he couldn’t risk it. He’s just a poor soldier and his family relied on him.

He turned to the scorpion.

Tap tap tap…

But it was too dark to see anything, so he got up and slowly approached the contraption, hoping it wasn’t damaged.

Tap.

He stepped in front of the scorpion and froze. On the scorpion was a small silver-and-white scaled winged creature, its tiny claws clicking against the contraption.

What is this? The soldier thought as his stomach twisted, his heart sinking into a slow panic.

He silently drew his sword, but then he heard the sound of flapping wings from behind. He held his breath and slowly turned.

Searing heat greeted his face and he screamed.

The bloodcurdling scream woke those who were sleeping and froze those who weren’t.

Moments later, a soldier with a blackened face tumbled from the battlements, landing with a sickening thud at a group of soldiers' feet. They recoiled, gasping, some stumbling backward in horror. One soldier instinctively gripped his weapon, but his hands trembled, betraying his fear. The acrid stench of burnt flesh filled the air, and faint embers still clung to the charred remains, etching the nightmare into his mind.

But before they could recover, more screams shattered the night as bursts of fire erupted across the battlements and throughout Winterfell.

Panic engulfed Winterfell in an instant. Servants scrambled to fetch buckets of water, their frantic shouts drowned by the roar of the flames. Soldiers unsheathed their swords, eyes darting wildly as they braced for another attack, searching desperately for the unseen enemy. Bells tolled urgently, their echoes swallowed by the chaos as fire spread across the stronghold.

*******

Jonelle Cerwyn hurried to Sansa’s solar. It was rare that the Queen would summon anyone at this hour, so whatever she wanted to discuss must be important.

She took a sharp breath before stepping inside. “Your Grace.” She bowed.

Sansa rubbed her temple and gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Please take a seat, Lady Cerwyn,” Sansa said, her voice calm but there was an unmistakeable tightness hidden in it.

Jonelle pulled out the chair and sat gracefully.

Sansa was about to speak when a sharp scream pierced through the night, startling them both. Then another. And another. The unmistakable scent of smoke and the ringing of bells followed.

“What on earth…” Jonelle Cerwyn jumped to her feet, her chest tightening.

The door burst open, and a servant stumbled in, red-faced and panting. “Your Grace, Lady Cerwyn, there’s a fire! No, multiple fires! Winterfell is burning!”

“What?” Sansa gripped tightly onto the desk for support as she grappled with the news. Multiple fires? How? This had never happened before.

She had expected a dragon attack from Daenerys, yes, but no one would have missed her black dragon, and its fire would have been far more devastating.

Then what was this?

Her mind raced.

The North held a fragile peace with the Wildlings while the Ironborn had been antagonistic. But neither could have reached Winterfell unnoticed, much less set multiple fires. Who else could have done this?

As if the gods themselves had answered her question, a terrible, thunderous roar split the night, shaking the air and rattling the very walls of Winterfell. The sound stole the breath from Sansa’s lungs.

Dragon.

She turned sharply. Jonelle had collapsed to the floor, her face drained of all colour. The servant crouched beside her, hands clamped over his ears, his whole body trembling.

Dread struck Sansa’s chest hard as she realised…

Daenerys Targaryen has come.

*******

Rian held his breath, his fingers gripping Drogon’s ridges as the dragon dived toward Winterfell. The darkness was nearly absolute, broken only by the flickering glow of fires spreading through the stronghold.

The icy wind lashed his face, howling so fiercely it nearly drowned out Drogon’s thunderous roar.

He lifted his eyes. Seated right behind Daenerys, all he could see was her back and her neatly braided silver-gold hair, but he could feel the excitement radiating from her.

But it was more than that.

Beneath the exhilaration, he could feel her intense rage.

Daenerys had remained mostly calm throughout their journey. Even when she reunited with Drogon, discovered and hatched the three dragon eggs, when she nearly perished in Valyria, when the port inspector at Banefort, Morokos, and even Davos Seaworth insulted her, and even when he disappointed her, none of it had stirred such a powerful reaction.

But he understood. She had made it clear why the North angered her so, and why she offered peace to every lord in Westeros except the North and House Lannister.

His grip on Drogon’s ridges tightened as his heart steeled, his violet eyes darkening with rage. There would be no mercy for the North.

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed as she fixed her gaze on Winterfell. With every passing second, her heartbeat pounded louder, faster. For a moment, her eyes flicked toward the distant horizon where the Wall once stood before snapping back to Winterfell. Her expression hardened.

It was said that the North remembers. But dragons remember too. And she would not forget the slights and betrayals dealt to her by the North, not after everything she had done and lost in the war against the undead.

The memories of Viserion’s death cry, his blue eyes and Jorah’s death all came rushing back, impaling her heart once more.

She blinked, her vision blurring as tears stung her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she forced them back.

It’s just the wind, she told herself. Missara, Joragon, Aerax, stop playing around. It’s dangerous. Back to me, NOW.

Drogon descended lower, and soon Winterfell loomed just beneath them, close enough now for his flames to rain down. Close enough to be seen.

And he was.

Screams of terror erupted through Winterfell when Drogon plunged from the dark clouded sky, his massive form emerging like a spectre of death.

From the corner of her eyes, she caught sight of Missara, Joragon, and Aerax gliding through the air as they flew toward her. Their flight was slower than usual, their wings struggling from exhaustion. They panted and squirmed after landing on Drogon, gripping tightly onto Drogon as his descend remained steady.

Daenerys smiled bitterly as her violet eyes refocused on Winterfell.

“Dracarys.”

Drogon’s jaws snapped open, unleashing a torrent of black and red fire upon Winterfell with a thunderous roar.

The first blast of dragonfire consumed the battlements, turning wood to ash and melting metal in an instant. Soldiers screamed as the dragonfire swallowed them whole. Those who were left untouched still felt the searing heat, and they leapt off the castle walls to their deaths in desperation.

From below, bells continued to ring, sounding more urgent and desperate as the moments passed.

Daenerys flinched at the sound of the bells.

Never allow useless regret to stop you, the voice urged harshly. Burn them. Teach them what it means to betray a dragon.

Daenerys’ breath shuddered, but she did not hesitate. With a firm pull, she directed Drogon to turn, encircling Winterfell as he rained another torrent of dragonfire. This time, the flames consumed the godswood, the ancient heart tree reduced to blackened ruin, its embers glowing like dying stars.

Heat and smoke thickened the air around Daenerys, filling her lungs and clinging to her skin. The howling wind and the roar of burning wood were all she could hear.

The people of Winterfell screamed as one of the ancient fortress’s tallest towers was consumed by black and red flames. The structure groaned before crumbling, its collapse sending debris crashing down, crushing those below and scattering flaming rubble across the fortress.

Daenerys watched coldly as the ancient fortress burnt, the flames devouring stone and wood alike.

She guided Drogon downward.

Soldiers paled, turned, and tried to flee, but a fierce burst of dragonfire engulfed them, their screams cut short as their bodies blackened and crumbled into charred remains.

Drogon landed just before the castle doors in a storm of embers and ash.

With a single swipe of his tail, soldiers were sent crashing into the castle walls, their bones shattering, blood spilling from their mouths as they gasped their final breaths.

Those who still dared approach met only fire, razor-sharp claws, or the devastating force of his tail.

When no more soldiers came forward, Drogon reared up and roared, his massive wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over everything in his path. The people of Winterfell gasped and fell to the ground, trembling in fear. He then swept one wing down, from which Daenerys and Rian calmly descended, deepening the people’s shock.

Daenerys heard tapping sounds from behind and she stopped. She turned and saw that Missara, Joragon and Aerax had followed her. She couldn’t resist a smile. She was about to pick up the eager-looking Missara but then she paused.

“It’s Joragon’s turn,” Daenerys said kindly as she patted Missara’s head. She then scooped Joragon into her arms. The purple juvenile dragon squealed in delight and glanced at Missara almost triumphantly. Rian tried to pet Missara but the crimson-and-gold juvenile dragon hissed angrily at him and he backed away. Aerax looked on nonchalantly.

Daenerys turned to Rian. “Let us go and find Sansa Stark, before the fire takes her.”

“What if she’s already dead?” Rian asked.

Daenerys smiled grimly. “She doesn’t die easy.”

No one stopped them as they approached the castle doors.

Except for two soldiers, who bravely stood in their way, their weapons drawn. They glared at Daenerys and Rian, their eyes burning with hate despite their trembling bodies.

“You shall not pass!” one of the soldiers growled.

But the words had only left his lips when Rian moved. In a swift motion, he drew his sword and sliced across the soldier’s throat. His comrade had barely reacted when Rian sliced open his neck too. The man fell to his knees, his cries bubbling at his throat as he choked on his own blood.

Daenerys and Rian stepped past their bodies, unfazed. Behind them, Missara and Aerax followed, their claws clicking against the stone. Rian pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the hinges groaning as they swung wide with a long, echoing creak.

Memories flooded Daenerys’ mind as she strode through the castle’s hall and corridors. Shadows of the past were in every corner, as were soldiers and guards who were swiftly dispatched by Rian.

Joragon and Missara joined the fray. Joragon sprayed the soldiers with well-aimed fire, burning their flesh, while Missara struck with her fangs and claws, her savage attacks leaving enemies writhing in pain just long enough for Rian to finish them off. Aerax, however, merely glanced around curiously, unaffected by the chaos.

The last soldier fell to the floor, gasping for breath after taking a stab wound to his gut. Daenerys stared down at him.

“…Where is Sansa Stark?”

The soldier laughed even as pain wrecked through his body. “You could ask a hundred souls, or a thousand, but none will betray her to you, dragon bitch.”

Daenerys didn’t react. She had heard worse.

Rian, however, curled his lips in disgust, his violet eyes burning in anger. “Then you are worthless.” He drove his sword through the soldier’s face in a single, brutal thrust. “Take your filthy tongue to the grave.”

The soldier gurgled once before going still. Rian pulled his blade free without a second glance.

Daenerys had already turned away.

Rian exhaled sharply. “Let’s take a servant or two and make them talk.”

Daenerys shook her head. “It’s a waste of time. They are Northerners, loyal to House Stark. They will not betray her.”

Rian ran a hand through his silver hair, frustration flickering in his violet eyes. “But we can’t possibly search the entire castle. She could be hiding anywhere.”

Daenerys paused. Hiding?

For a moment, she said nothing, lost in thoughts. Then slowly, she murmured, “If she’s hiding, there’s only one place she would go.”

The crypts of Winterfell.

That was where Sansa had stayed at during the war against the undead.

The crypts were not merely a resting place for deceased Stark lords and their kin. It was also a place of refuge and safety.

“Yes,” Daenerys mumbled as she stroked Joragon’s warm scales. “She would take her people there.”

She turned to Rian. “She must be in the crypts.”

Rian stared at her blankly. “The crypts?”

Daenerys smiled faintly in mild amusement. “Follow me.” She turned, already walking. “I know where it is.”

They were on their way to the crypts when Daenerys suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, her brows furrowed as a flicker of doubt crossed her face.

Rian halted beside her, sensing the shift in her demeanour. “What’s wrong?”

“No… she’s not in the crypts,” Daenerys muttered.

Rian frowned in confusion, but he didn’t press her. He simply waited, knowing Daenerys was piecing something together.

A moment passed before she spoke again, her voice more certain. “I’ve been here before. I’ve visited the crypts before. Sansa Stark knows that.” Her expression darkened. “She may have already heard that I’m alive. And even if she hadn’t, Drogon’s attack on Winterfell would have made it obvious. She wouldn’t hide somewhere so predictable.”

Then where could she be? Rian wanted to ask, but he held his tongue, choosing instead to let Daenerys think it through.

Do you really need her? Just burn the whole place down and be done with it, the voice was sharp, laced with irritation. Every moment you linger here gives the Northerners more time to strike back.

My victory is incomplete without her, Daenerys seethed.

Her argument with the voice was cut short by Drogon’s furious roar.

Her heart clenched with a sharp pain, their bond pulling tight, flooding her with fear and panic.

She turned abruptly, her pulse hammering. Then she ran, racing out of the castle, her only thought on Drogon.

*******

Drogon was no longer in the courtyard. He was circling the castle in the skies as his molten eyes swept over Winterfell over and over.

The moment he caught sight of Daenerys, Rian, and the three juvenile dragons, his jaws opened and a torrent of dragonfire erupted, destroying a battlement in an instant. The screams of dying soldiers echoed into the night.

A familiar voice rang out from above. Loud, commanding, and merciless.

“FIRE!”

A chill ran down Daenerys’ spine.

Her stomach twisted, and her chest clenched in dread as the heavy thrum of bolts ripping through the air filled her ears.

Scorpions. Winterfell had many of them. The realisation hit Daenerys hard. The thick darkness of the night, made heavier by smoke, fire, and chaos, had concealed the threat.

Her gaze snapped toward the source of the voice and locked onto Sansa, standing tall on a battlement. Daenerys’ violet eyes flared with rage, but Sansa’s cold blue eyes simply stared back at her defiantly.

Daenerys gritted her teeth, forcing down her fury as she snapped her gaze back to Drogon. He surged upward, his massive wings beating hard against the air, twisting his body to narrowly dodge the incoming bolts.

She held her breath. Then, as the last bolt missed him by mere inches, she exhaled in relief.

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat when none of the bolts struck Drogon, much less kill him. She turned to her soldiers who were already loading fresh bolts onto the scorpions.

“Get ready to fire the next round,” she ordered, her voice firm and steady despite the cold dread gripping her heart. Every missed shot was another chance given to Daenerys and her dragon to destroy them.  

She had barely finished speaking when Drogon roared.

The sound tore through the air. Sansa and her soldiers staggered, the force of it piercing their bodies, filling them with terror.

Her soldiers ducked and shrieked as Drogon swooped dangerously close.

Then came the fire. A torrent of black and red flames consumed the adjacent battlement.

Sansa’s stomach dropped as she watched her soldiers scream and writhe, their armour melting as black and red fire devoured them whole.

Even from where she stood, the heat was searing, scorching against her skin.

Another tower gave way, collapsing with a thunderous crash. Stone and debris rained down, shattering against walls, striking people where they stood.

Screams ripped through the night, piercing Sansa’s heart. She barely had time to react, ducking just as a jagged chunk of stone hurtled past, missing her by inches.

My people…! That dragon must be brought down before it kills more of them and burns my home to the ground!

“Hurry up!” she shouted, her voice sharp and urgent. There was no time to lose.

*******

Daenerys sensed the strain in Drogon’s roar. Her heart clenched and she turned to Rian, but he was already moving.

Without hesitation, he snatched up a spear from a fallen soldier, his grip firm. He pulled back his arm, took aim, and hurled it straight at Sansa.

The spear whistled through the air, slicing toward its mark.

At the last second, a soldier caught sight of it. With no time to think, he lunged, shoving Sansa aside. The spear struck him instead, driving through his chest with brutal force.

He staggered, blood bubbling from his lips. Then he crumpled to the ground, dead.

Sansa stared at the dead soldier and his vacant eyes, her face pale and her body shaking. She shook her head as she took a deep breath and shifted to a position where she cannot be seen or struck from the ground.

I must not falter. I must defend Winterfell and my people from Daenerys Targaryen.

“Your Grace! We are done loading!” a soldier reported.

“Good. Now fire!” Sansa commanded sharply.

Daenerys gasped as another volley of scorpion bolts shot forward with a heavy thud, hurtling toward Drogon at full speed.

Drogon roared a fierce, guttural cry of pain. A sharp, searing pain stabbed through Daenerys’ heart.

Drogon had been hit.

The voice screamed in rage, sending a sharp pain to Daenerys’ mind. She staggered in a shocked daze, struggling to catch her breath.

Scorpions, scorpions again. Blood for blood, fire for fire. They would have slain him the way the Dornish slew Meraxes! the voice snarled, its tone becoming sharper as its fury flared. Had you been riding him, they would have sent you tumbling to your death with him, just like Rhaenys did with Meraxes! Burn them all, Daenerys. Let the North remember not their wolves, not their kings and queens, not their defiance, but you and the fury of our House. Do it. Do it before they strike down your dragon!

I cannot let Drogon die. I will not lose another child. Not again. Not on my watch.

Fire burnt in Daenerys.

What is victory if my child dies?

Daenerys reached out through the bond. Drogon, destroy the battlement Sansa Stark is at.

Drogon responded instantly. He growled, eyes locked onto Sansa Stark. His wings beat furiously as he dived toward the battlement.

Sansa’s heart pounded violently when she saw Drogon diving towards them.

“Have you reloaded the scorpions?!” she shouted at her soldiers, her voice sharp with desperation.

“Just another moment, Your Grace!” a soldier huffed as he and his comrades worked to load the heavy bolts.

But she knew it was too late.

Drogon had opened its jaw, and a swirl of black and red fire gathered in his throat, a burning inferno waiting to be unleashed.

The scorpions wouldn’t fire in time. The dragon and its flames would reach them first.

“Move out! Save yourselves!” Sansa gasped as she turned and sprinted across the battlement toward the nearest staircase.

Too late.

With a deafening roar, Drogon slammed into the stone. The impact shattered the battlement. The scorpions were crushed and destroyed. Soldiers were flung into the air like ragdolls, their screams lost in the chaos.

The floor beneath Sansa collapsed and she screamed as she plummeted into the destruction below.

Is this the end? Sansa wondered as dread clouded her mind. But just before she hits the ground, massive black claws close around her, knocking the breath out of her.

After a while, she was tossed unceremoniously to the ground. She hit the ground hard, a sharp groan escaping her lips as pain jolted through her body.

Amid the roar of flames and distant screams, the crunch of boots on dirt cut through the chaos.

Sansa lifted her head, wincing at the pain, only to meet the face of the woman she had thought dead. The woman who had just burnt her home and murdered her people.

She couldn’t help but let out a hollow laugh. So it had come to this after all.

*******

Daenerys stared down at Sansa, who lay weak and broken at her feet. Her face, once so beautiful and brilliant, was now marred with bleeding cuts and soot. But Daenerys felt no pity for the young woman she had once allied with, only rage.

Daenerys could feel the many eyes on her from all corners of Winterfell, from the hidden smallfolk to the converging soldiers.

Let them watch. I want them to watch.

Without hesitation, she drew Dark Sister.

She grabbed Sansa’s hair and yanked her up, ignoring her stifled cry of pain. She placed the blade at Sansa’s neck.

Her voice thundered through the courtyard. “If anyone else dares attack me and my dragon again, Sansa Stark will be the first to pay the price.”

The angry, fearful and defiant stares lingered on her skin. But none stepped forward. Instead, they shrank away.

Behind her, Drogon landed with a thundering crash, the impact shaking the earth and sending gusts of dust. His massive wings unfurled like a black fortress, shielding his mother from all who dared stand before her. His breath rumbled like distant thunder, his molten eyes burning with fury, his towering body an unshakable sentinel at Daenerys’ back.

She turned, her gaze sweeping over him.

And then she saw them.

Two scorpion bolts.

One, buried deep in his left shoulder. The other, lodged in his right leg.

Pain clawed at her insides. She whirled back to Sansa, fury blazing in her eyes as she resisted the urge to strike Sansa.

“Rian, remove the bolts and tend to Drogon’s wounds,” Daenerys commanded, her voice edged with barely restrained fury.

"Yes, Your Grace," Rian said without hesitation, already moving toward Drogon.

As he set to work, Daenerys turned back to Sansa, her full attention fixed on the woman at her feet. Daenerys’ grip on Sansa’s hair tightened, yanking her closer. Sansa bit her lip, refusing to cry out, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped her nonetheless.

“Do you know why I’m here, Sansa Stark?” Daenerys hissed.

Sansa grimaced as she stared hard at Daenerys, but she refused to answer.

Daenerys’ eyes blazed with cold fury. "I am the rightful Queen of Westeros."

She yanked Sansa’s hair again, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Jon’s assassination of me? Treason. Bran Stark’s usurpation? Treason. Your support of both? Treason. The North’s so-called independence? Treason."

She leaned in, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "That’s a lot of treachery from the North, don’t you think?"

Sansa’s blue eyes blazed in defiance. “Jon did that because you went mad and burnt King’s Landing, murdering thousands of innocents. Bran was chosen by a council, I was only one vote out of many. Even if I had chosen otherwise, the result would have been the same.” Sansa let out a sharp, pained laugh. “As for the North’s independence, do we not deserve it?”

Sansa’s expression hardened, and for the first time, her blue eyes were glazed with the grief of loss. “Your brother Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped my aunt Lyanna. Your father murdered my grandfather and uncle. And after them? We suffered under Joffrey Baratheon. Under Tywin Lannister. Under Cersei Lannister. They murdered my father, humiliated me, then slaughtered the rest of my family. Jon, Arya and Bran were all I had left, and even they suffered what no one else should have to suffer.”

She lifted her chin, her gaze locking onto Daenerys' like steel. “What has our loyalty ever gotten us?”

Hesitation flickered in Daenerys' eyes, but only for a moment. It passed quickly, and she clenched her jaw.

“Mad. According to traitors who wanted me gone. What better excuse than to paint me as my father’s daughter?” Her voice was sharp as steel, her fury simmering beneath the surface. “Bran Stark was chosen by a council of lords who were either treacherous or spineless sheep.”

She leaned in closer, her grip on Dark Sister firm. “What have Joffrey Baratheon and Tywin Lannister’s crimes got to do with me? As for Cersei Lannister, I was the one who ended her.” Her violet eyes burnt as she continued, her words laced with cold, quiet fury. “I was also the one who contributed the most in the war against the undead. You would have gotten nowhere without me.”

Her voice grew even colder now, edged with accusation. “And yes, you were only one vote against many. But you could have stood by your principles. You could have stood by me, even if I was dead. You did not.”

Daenerys studied Sansa’s face, searching for regret, for doubt. For anything. But if Sansa was feeling anything, she hid it well, for her expression remained cold and hard.

Rage surged, and Daenerys seethed as she continued, “As for my father and Rhaegar’s crimes against your family, again, they had nothing to do with me. But Viserys and I suffered for it anyway. Like you and your siblings, we endured what no one else should have to suffer.”

Her grip on Sansa’s hair tightened, eliciting a sharp wince.

“Did Jon tell you how he assassinated me?” Daenerys' voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “He couldn’t have done it without using my love and trust for him against me.”

Her violet eyes burnt. “Is this the North’s honour? Is this House Stark’s honour?”

“It’s honourable to remove a monstrous tyrant from power. To stop you from doing to other cities what you did to King’s Landing.” Sansa shot back as she grimaced in pain.

Daenerys flinched, the words cutting deep, twisting like a knife in her heart.

Is this what they truly think of me? A monstrous tyrant?

She had liberated slaves in Essos so that none would suffer as she had, and that all could live in peace and justice. She had poured her armies, her dragons, her very soul into the war against the undead, even when she could have marched straight to King’s Landing, taken her crown first, and fought for Westeros as its rightful Queen.

But she had chosen them over her own ambitions.

And this was their verdict? A monstrous tyrant?

“Look at what you’ve done here, Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa persisted even as she wheezed, “Even if you weren’t mad before, you have now truly gone mad.”

You let a Stark girl test your patience? End this. Kill her and move forward. Remind the North who rules, the voice commanded.

Daenerys blinked, the voice’s command pouring a bucket of ice water over her head. She inhaled sharply, regaining her senses.

“Talk is all you do and what you are good at, Sansa Stark. But in the end, it doesn’t change the fact that I chose to bleed for Westeros, and you, your brothers and your people spat in my face in return.” Daenerys murmured, her voice cold as steel, edged with quiet fury. “You judged me before I could even rule. You assumed I would burn and never rebuild. You never considered that I could have had mercy. I wasn't even given the chance to prove myself.”

Daenerys tightened her grip on Sansa’s hair before shoving her aside. She stepped back, her gaze sweeping over the burning ruins of Winterfell before settling on Sansa once more.

Then she spoke, her voice sharp and rising above the destruction. “Unlike how I was given no choice, I shall now give the North choices, Sansa Stark. Not one, not two, not even three, but five.”

She paused to let her words sink in before continuing.

“Your first choice: bend your knee to me, your rightful Queen.”

She let that linger, watching the flicker of resistance in Sansa’s eyes before she continued.

"Your second choice: deliver me the heads of all Starks in exchange for your independence."

Daenerys heard gasps and murmurs ripple through the hidden Northerners, but she remained unmoved.

“Your third choice: remain independent, with the Starks as your kings and queens, but pay a tribute to House Targaryen. One-third of all you have. Every year. For perpetuity."

The air grew suffocatingly thick with tension, but Daenerys did not care.

"Your fourth choice: stay independent under the Starks with no expectations of annual tribute, but deliver Jon Snow to me. Alive."

The whispers died instantly.

“Your fifth and last choice: death by dragonfire.”

Daenerys paused, letting the choices fester like an open wound. Then, her voice rang loud and clear.

“Make your choice. Now.”

*******

A chill seeped into Sansa’s bones, her body trembling not just from the pain of her wounds, but from the raw shock and creeping fear tightening around her chest. She stared at Daenerys, searching for some crack in the moment, some sign that this was nothing more than a cruel nightmare she could wake from.

But it did not happen.

Daenerys simply stared back, waiting.

This was reality. One she could not escape from.

Finally, Sansa spoke, her breath shuddering. “None of these are real choices, Daenerys Targaryen.”

Daenerys’ expression remained unmoved. “I understand they are unpalatable, but they are still choices. And I am waiting for your decision, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, biting her lip hard. “The choices you offer are cruel. Dishonourable.”

Daenerys’ gaze turned to ice. “So is the North.”

Sansa’s fingers curled, digging into the dirt beneath her. She tasted blood in her mouth, barely aware she had bitten too hard. “…This concerns the entire North. I cannot make this decision alone. I need to discuss it with the northern lords and ladies. I need… time.”

Daenerys scoffed. “I’m no fool, Sansa Stark. What you want is time to regroup and to resist. You call yourself Queen, do you not? Then be the Queen you claim to be and make your choice now.”

She took a step closer, her presence looming. “It’s now or never, Sansa Stark. Speak your answer, or I will choose for you.”

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine. None of those choices were acceptable, but if she refused to choose, Daenerys would decide for her. And she did not trust what choice the Dragon Queen would make for the North.

Her mind raced.

The first choice meant full surrender, complete humiliation. The North would bow to Daenerys once more, but at least they’d be spared. But what of Bran? She had no doubt Daenerys would march on King’s Landing next, and she would not stop until Bran was either dead or deposed. And if that happened, any attempt to help Bran would brand the North as traitors, condemning them to dragonfire once more.

The second choice was unthinkable. She, Bran, Arya, even Jon, every Stark would have to die. It was not an option, not for her, not for the Northern lords.

The third choice was nearly as bad. A tribute of one-third of everything they had, every year, forever. The North would be bled dry. If Daenerys won against Bran and took the throne, she would rule them in all but name.

The fourth choice had the illusion of being more palatable. But Jon was still respected in the North, despite his mistakes. Could she betray him? Would she? It might buy her time to regroup, but could the North truly stand against Daenerys and win? And if they couldn’t, not only would they lose Jon, they would also go down with the stain of dishonour.

The fifth choice was no choice at all. She would not allow her people to die.

A sharp breath escaped her lips, her body trembling.

They are all no good. Every choice is painful. Every choice will tear the North apart for years. But that’s what Daenerys Targaryen wants – disunity. She doesn’t need to rule us, or even see us as a threat, if we destroy ourselves. No matter what I choose, she stays in control.

Her gaze flickered toward Drogon, wounded but alive. Rian was tending to him carefully. The dragon was injured now, but it would heal. And worse, Daenerys now knew the North had scorpions.

Her next attack would be devastating.

Winterfell was already half-destroyed. A second attack would wipe it out completely. And the rest of the North, how well would they even fare?

This time, Daenerys came with only her dragons and a single guard. But the next time? Would she return with her full force? There were still Dothraki in the Riverlands, thousands of Unsullied at Dragonstone. That much, Sansa knew. If Daenerys hadn’t already reclaimed them, she would soon enough.

Could the North withstand that?

And even if the North somehow survived, even if Daenerys offered some twisted form of mercy, it would take generations to recover.

Her gaze flickered to the three juvenile dragons carelessly stumbling around Drogon.

Three more dragons.

If Daenerys remained undefeated, if these dragons survived and grew, there would be no stopping her in the future. No containing the storm that was Daenerys Targaryen.

And even if Daenerys fell, what of the dragons? Could they even be killed? And if not, who could stand against them when they one day turned their fire on Westeros?

True dread and utter hopelessness sank into Sansa's bones like frostbite.

*******

Daenerys followed Sansa’s gaze, a faint smile curling at her lips. She saw it – the way Sansa’s mind raced, weighing the impossible. She knew.

Missara, Joragon, Aerax. Three more dragons. As young as they were, their mere existence had shifted something in Sansa’s eyes.

Daenerys recognised the moment and seized it.

“Time’s up, Sansa Stark. Tell me your choice,” Daenerys commanded.

Sansa’s heart hammered in her chest. Every muscle in her body screamed in resistance, every fibre of her being recoiled at what she was about to do.

But there was no choice. Not a single choice that could leave her or the North unscathed.

She clenched her fists as she forced herself to swallow the bitter truth. For the North to survive, she had to discard her pride and her honour. She had to kneel.

Not for Daenerys. Never for Daenerys.

But for the North. For her people. For her home.

She inhaled sharply, forcing her pain-ridden body to move. One knee. Then the other.

The moment her knees touched the scorched ground, something inside her shattered. Her body obeyed, but her soul screamed in rebellion.

I will never forgive you for this, Daenerys Targaryen.

Sansa lifted her chin, her eyes burning hot with unshed tears, staring up at the woman who had brought Winterfell to its knees. She kept her expression blank, cold, masking the seething resentment that burnt within her.

Sansa calmed her shuddering breath. Then, with a steady voice, she spoke the words that twisted her heart, and which sealed the fate of both herself and the North for unforeseeable years.

"I, Sansa Stark, swear my fealty to Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of Westeros."

As the final words left her lips, the air seemed to leave her lungs.

I have failed. I am sorry.

A heavy silence fell over Winterfell as the Northerners stared, frozen by what had just transpired.

The independence they had longed for was short-lived, crushed under the pressure of an unstoppable force they could not defeat.

Their queen, reduced to a kneeling, humiliated figure, just like her ancestor Torrhen Stark.

Their freedom and their voice lost once again. They bend their knee to the dragons once more.

And gone with their freedom, their voice and their pride, was their fire, their spirit and their dream.

Sansa felt it. Daenerys felt it too.

Daenerys smiled in satisfaction. She saw the lingering defiance in Sansa’s icy blue eyes, but she did not care. Sansa had been beaten. Broken in body and spirit. She could not win, and she knew it.

The Northerners in Winterfell knew it too.

And soon, the entire North would know.

The Northern spirit would be crushed. And amidst their pain, they would turn on each other. Sansa’s choice would divide them, and they would squabble over what choice Sansa should have made.

More than that, Daenerys knew the North would hate her and curse her name, but she did not care.

If they resisted, she would burn them as traitors. There would be no hesitation, no mercy.

Rian approached quietly, his voice low. "It is done, Your Grace. Drogon's wounds have been tended to."

Daenerys gave a slight nod.

Drogon lowered his massive form, sweeping one wing to the ground. Daenerys ascended, mounting him with effortless grace, Rian following behind. Missara, Joragon, and Aerax glided onto Drogon’s back, their small bodies a stark contrast to their mighty sire.

Then, Daenerys’ voice rose above the smouldering ruins of Winterfell.

"Betray me, and the North burns. Not just Winterfell. All of it."

She let the words settle, not just into Sansa’s bones, but into the hearts of every Northerner who remained.

With a final cold glance, she added, "That will be your legacy, Sansa Stark."

Drogon’s wings unfurled, his roar splitting the air.

The North, as a kingdom, was no more. They belonged to the Targaryen dynasty once again.

And their conqueror, Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, was now their Queen.

Chapter Text

Jonelle Cerwyn wrapped a steady arm around Sansa’s shoulders, guiding her through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell. The scent of smoke and ash filled the air, mingling with the distant echoes of weeping and hurried footsteps.

Sansa moved stiffly, her body aching with pain and her heart seething with fury and sorrow. Bloodied lifeless bodies lined her path, their vacant eyes staring into nothingness. The cold wind, thick with the stench of fire and death, lashed at her skin as it howled through the destroyed walls.

Winterfell had been painstakingly rebuilt after Ramsay Bolton left it in ruins, only for Daenerys Targaryen to ruthlessly burn it down.

Sansa bit her lower lip. We will rebuild. We always have. We will not be defeated. Not by hounds, and not by dragons.

When they reached her chambers, Jonelle helped her onto the bed. But Sansa did not lie down. Instead, she sat stiffly, her once defiant eyes now dimmed and defeated.

“Your Grace…” Jonelle Cerwyn’s voice was soft and hesitant. “You… bent the knee.”

Her tone was neither accusatory nor angry, but the pain in it was unmistakeable. Sansa breathed deeply, but it did little to ease the dull ache in her chest. She said nothing. What could she say?

“Why, Your Grace?” Jonelle asked in pained sorrow. “You could have chosen the fourth option, given the North time.”

“To what end, Lady Cerwyn?” Sansa said, her voice sharper than she had intended. “Our time had passed the moment we failed to take down that dragon.”

She shook her head, bitterness overwhelming her. “And Daenerys Targaryen knew it. She knew I was stalling when I asked for time to consult with the lords and ladies. Do you think she wouldn’t see through another ploy, especially that wretched fourth choice of hers? She wouldn’t trust us to actually deliver Jon to her.”

She lifted her head and gazed sharply into Jonelle’s eyes. “Even now, after I bent the knee, she will still suspect me of scheming. No matter what I chose, Daenerys Targaryen will never trust me or the North. And any resistance, any sign of defiance, will be the excuse she needs to burn us to the ground.”

Sansa shut her eyes tightly, her breath shuddering. “And I… I cannot betray Jon,” she whispered.

“… But by doing so, Your Grace has betrayed King Bran,” Jonelle said quietly.

Sansa let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “That’s where her cruelty lies, Lady Cerwyn. Every option she gave demanded the betrayal of someone, even me.” Her fingers clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, but she felt nothing. The ache in her heart drowned out all else. “She drove a blade straight into my heart, and into the North’s. But if I had refused to choose, she would have chosen the fifth option for me. For all of us.”

Jonelle shuddered, a chill creeping down her spine. Not just from Sansa’s words, but from the brutal memory of the fire, the screams, and the destruction left in the wake of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon.

She inhaled deeply, but her breath trembled as much as her body.

“… The lords will be furious.” Jonelle murmured. “Not just at Daenerys Targaryen, but at you, Your Grace.” A flicker of fear crossed her face. “There will be unrest in the North. And I fear… some may take up arms.”

Sansa exhaled sharply, her voice colder now, laced with quiet fury. “All of Daenerys Targaryen’s choices would have led to the same outcome. I can only hope the lords will understand… and not do anything to shatter what little remains of our fragile position.”

Pain flickered across Jonelle’s face. The North, once again, thrust into a future of uncertainty. Would their suffering never end?

She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath to steady the storm of emotions raging within her.

“I shall fetch a maester to tend to your wounds, Your Grace,” Jonelle murmured, bowing before turning to leave.

Sansa watched her go, her gaze distant. It wasn’t just Jonelle. Every soul in Winterfell, including herself, would need time to process the ruin Daenerys Targaryen had left behind. The bodies strewn across the castle grounds, the homes and halls reduced to smouldering ruin, the countless lives lost in fire and blood. And worst of all, their spirit, their pride, their hard-won independence, that were obliterated the moment she bent her knee.

Slowly, Sansa lay back against the furs, wincing at the pain that pulsed through her body as her trembling fingers pulled the blanket over her.

I’m sorry, Bran.

She closed her eyes, her mind raging in fury and grief.

Daenerys Targaryen may win the war and take all of Westeros for herself, but I will not allow her to win the throne.

Her eyes opened once more, a renewed flame of defiance flickering in their icy blue depths.

I cannot betray Jon. He is Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.

Her thoughts sharpened into a focused plan.

Daenerys Targaryen, even if you conquer Westeros, Jon will be King. If you kill him, you will become a kinslayer, unfit for the throne. If you let him live, the lords will support him over you.

Her thoughts turned to Jon, the man she had once thought of as her bastard brother, now the last hope against the dragon queen.

Jon, hide well and stay safe. You are our only hope now.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Afternoon

The afternoon sun blazed fiercely over Harrenhal, where Dothraki warriors moved throughout.

Some patrolled the surrounding lands, while others trained together or sparred with the younger riders. Another group worked hard under the sun fortify defences as best as they could with limited resources.

Ever since Aggo and his men had seized Harrenhal, they had worked tirelessly to establish a proper base, and their efforts had only intensified after Daenerys had returned and reclaimed them.

Daenerys had not stopped them from restoring the crumbling castle, as its location made it valuable.

Positioned at the heart of the Riverlands, where many lords still swore fealty to Bran Stark, Harrenhal served as a defensive stronghold and a war base. Should the Riverlords rise in arms against her, this castle would be the key to holding them back.

But now, with Daenerys having left for the North with Rian and her dragons, Aggo and Kovarro remained behind to guard the stronghold and to lead the khalasar.

Aggo stood atop one of the crumbling ramparts, his dark eyes fixed on the distant horizon, watching for any signs of Drogon. It had been days since Daenerys had left for the North, and she had yet to return. He frowned.

Our Queen is strong, and she has her dragon and that soft boy with her. But she’s taking too long.

As he brooded over Daenerys’s absence and the unsettling quietness from the Riverlords, he barely noticed Kovarro approaching. It wasn’t until Kovarro called out that Aggo snapped back to reality.

“Aggo, an Unsullied has arrived from Dragonstone.”

Aggo turned sharply. “An Unsullied from Dragonstone?” His eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

“He’s at the Great Hall,” Kovarro replied. “He says he has a letter for Khaleesi.”

Aggo said nothing as he descended from the rampart and made his way toward the Great Hall. Inside stood a man with a stoic expression, dressed in plain traveller’s garb to hide his identity on the road.

“I am Khal Aggo,” Aggo said gruffly as he stepped forward, standing tall before the Unsullied, who met his gaze without flinching. “I am in command while the Queen is away. I hear you have a letter for her?”

“Yes. From Dragonstone,” the Unsullied said, bowing his head as he presented a sealed letter. “For Mhysa’s eyes only.”

Aggo’s brows furrowed. “Of course.”

He took the letter and tucked it securely into his belt, then turned to a nearby Dothraki warrior.

“See that he is given food and rest,” Aggo ordered.

The warrior obeyed, leading the Unsullied out of the hall without a word.

Just then, a Dothraki scout hurried in, passing by the Unsullied and his escort wordlessly. He bowed before Aggo and Kovarro, his expression tensed. 

“You return late,” Aggo said, unimpressed. “I trust your news is worth my time.”

“There is movement in the Riverlands, Khal Aggo,” the scout said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Signs of armies mustering.”

Kovarro stiffened as he frowned. “Whose banners?”

“I could not get close enough to be sure, but they are gathering in numbers.” The scout huffed before adding, “Those are not warbands defending villages. It’s a host.”

Aggo sneered derisively. “So the mudmen finally grow spines. We’ve raided them for years. They either ran or died too easily to be called warriors or men.”

Kovarro, however, was more cautious. He turned toward Aggo. “We must take this seriously. If they are forming a host, they are not preparing for defence but planning to strike. They are likely rejecting Khaleesi’s terms.”

But Aggo merely scoffed. “Let them try. These mudmen think they can match us?” He spat to the side. “We are the Dothraki. We fear nothing, least of all spineless mudmen who hide behind trees and rivers. We will cut them down like we always do.”

Kovarro nodded with a chuckle. “We will crush them if they make a move against us. That would be a great gift for the Khaleesi when she returns, aye?”

Aggo slapped his thigh and laughed heartily, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Sounds perfect.”

If it was war the Rivermen wanted, the Dothraki would be more than ready.

*******

Location: Riverrun
Time: Afternoon

Edmure Tully stepped into his solar, removing his cloak and tossing it aside, his mind heavy with plans and the stress of what he knew and what he didn’t.

First, there was the matter of the Vale. On paper, his nephew Robin Arryn ruled as Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. But Edmure knew better. The boy was too soft, both weak-willed and weak-minded, to lead on his own. The true reins of power lay in the hands of Lord Yohn Royce and the other loyal lords of the Vale. Edmure was almost certain that Robin had already begun arguing for surrender, only to be restrained by his vassals. He could only hope that Royce and the rest would have the strength and unity to hold the boy and themselves firm.

Then there was House Velaryon. Bound to the Targaryens by blood, and having quietly supported Dragonstone over the past three years, it was almost certain they would throw their full support behind Daenerys once the time was right. That alone would dangerously tip the balance in her favour. Few had forgotten how Stannis Baratheon once used Dragonstone and the Velaryon fleet to launch a full assault on King’s Landing. Stannis failed in the end, but he had no dragon. Now, Bran had no wildfire, and the key architect of that victory against Stannis, Tyrion Lannister, had mysteriously vanished without a trace for a while now.

That imp couldn’t have gone crawling back to Daenerys Targaryen, did he?

It was always possible. After all, Tyrion Lannister had killed his nephew and King, Joffrey Baratheon, and his own father Tywin Lannister. Then he pledged allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen, helping her to invade Westeros, only to be inexplicably appointed as Bran’s Hand after her supposed death.

And then he gave Bronn, of all people, the titles of Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin. Bronn, a sellsword with no noble blood and no experience in governance, was laughably unfit for either role.

At this point, can he still be trusted?

He breathed deeply.

Even if he did go crawling back to her, she might not take him. He’s a turncloak, untrustworthy to the core.

His brow knitted tightly as he thought of the last raven he had received from Davos Seaworth. The letter confirmed his worst fears. Not only was Daenerys Targaryen truly well and alive, but negotiations with her had also failed.

But Jon Snow killed her, didn’t he? Did he lie? Did he spare her life at the last moment, out of love and out of pity? Or was he simply mistaken?

Edmure shook his head furiously, chasing the demons out of his mind.

Whatever the reason is, I must not allow the mystery of the past to confuse me and withhold me.

He rubbed his forehead, dread twisting his stomach. He had sent ravens to the lords of the Riverlands, urging them to stand united behind Bran, and only about half had responded to proclaim their loyalty to him and to Bran while the other half had remained silent. The silence was worrying, and Edmure could only hope that they had chosen to stay neutral instead of joining Daenerys Targaryen.

A knock on the door pulled his mind back to the present.

“My Lord, there is a letter for you, newly delivered by a raven from the North.”

The North?

“Bring it in,” Edmure ordered.

The door opened and a servant walked in, respectfully handing the letter to Edmure before leaving. As the door closed softly, Edmure looked at the letter sealed with the sigil of House Stark. A letter from Sansa.

Usually, he would have welcomed a letter from his niece. But now, at such a time, even the feel of the parchment chilled his fingers as they trembled while he broke the seal.

He unfolded the letter and began to read.

His face paled and his fingers clenched the letter as his eyes raced across the words. His expression turned into complete disbelief as the letter’s words sank in, chilling him to the bones.

“This letter… this letter must be a fake,” he whispered, his breathing strained.

But he recognised Sansa’s handwriting.

Yet it cannot be.

Daenerys Targaryen had assaulted and burnt Winterfell with her blasted dragon, and Sansa had been forced into submission, bending her knee to prevent the rest of the North from the same fate. Sansa was informing him of what had happened to Winterfell, but also warning him of what he was about to face.

Edmure sank into his chair, still staring in disbelief at the letter in his hand, now crumpled under his tight grip.

A key ally had been stripped from Bran.

Sansa herself was now in peril, as the Northern lords would not like her decision of submitting. The North might decline into internal strife.

His mind raced back to Robin Arryn and the other Lords of Westeros. If they come to learn about the North’s surrender… it would only make Robin more determined to surrender, and the other Lords may take the same course of action, surrendering or stay neutral to avoid Daenerys Targaryen’s wrath.

Would fear silence their resistance before it even began?

His fingers trembled and he clenched them into fists to steady himself, crumpling the letter into a ball in the process.

No… I must stay strong, for Bran. I will protect your son, Cat.

Edmure let out a shuddering breath as he walked over to the hearth and threw the letter into it.

After watching the letter burn and shrivel into brittle, blackened ash, Edmure turned and left his solar.

He made his way down the hall to his private chambers, where Roslin was with their young son, Rymund. The boy, just three, was playing on the floor, his chubby hands grasping at a wooden horse.

Roslin looked up from her seat, concern clouding her gentle features when she sensed the tension in the way Edmure carried himself.

“Is something wrong?”

Edmure hesitated. He looked at her, then at their son, and gave a slow nod.

“Yes. I am riding out for war soon.”

She stood, her hands trembling slightly as she crossed to him. “Is it true then? You have confirmed it? That she… she’s alive?”

“Yes. Lord Seaworth and Sansa have confirmed it. oth had seen her with their own eyes,” Edmure replied, his voice hardening. “And she’s already burnt Winterfell. Forced Sansa to kneel.”

Roslin gasped, her hands covering her mouth in horror. “Winterfell… burnt…? Sansa had knelt?” She could not imagine the steely Sansa Stark surrendering. Yet, Sansa had done just that.

Roslin swallowed thickly, fear creeping into her voice. “Will the Riverlands be next?”

Edmure looked at her, his eyes fierce. “For too long, the Dothraki savages have trampled our lands, burnt our villages, and slaughtered our people. No more. We will show them the strength of the Riverlands. We will remind them that we are not weak. That we are not afraid. We will retake Harrenhal and drive them out once and for all. Without the Dothraki, she will lose her strength and her advantage.”

Roslin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But… what about the dragon?”

Edmure didn’t answer.

He turned his gaze to the window, where the sky stretched out in the pale afternoon light. The wind stirred the river outside the castle walls but offered no comfort.

He had no answer for the dragon.

Only a war to fight.

*******

The camp nestled between a river and the edge of a forest, but it was no mere encampment. Rows of large and neatly organised tents stretched across the clearing like the streets of a temporary village.

Smoke curled lazily from cookfires, filling the air with the scent of stewed meat and roasted bread. Men sat around eating and drinking, exchanging stories of the day, while women tended to the children.

On one side of the camp, restless steeds huffed and pawed the earth behind rows of stacked crates and barrels.

A young woman leaned against a tree, her sharp eyes sweeping across the camp. They eventually settled on the blacksmith – the only one they had – as he hammered without rest, forging the weapons they’d need for the war coming to the Riverlands, for Edmure Tully had called the Riverlords to muster their forces.

Her lips curled in bitterness as she twirled a dagger in her hand. House Tully had not summoned them, nor had they received the rumoured missive from Daenerys Targaryen who was supposedly still alive and had returned to Westeros. Why would they? House Tully had long written them off, and Daenerys Targaryen likely didn’t even know they existed.

A middle-aged man with a scarred face approached.

“What is it, Ser Gerard?” the young woman sighed.

“Are we going to answer House Tully’s call to arms, Lady Marissa?” Gerard asked cautiously, his voice laced with concern.

Marissa looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Of course not. They didn’t call us.”

Her gaze returned to the dagger as she stared at her reflection on the blade. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t declare our allegiance. We must act before the opportunity is lost.”

Gerard inhaled sharply, as if he had expected this. “We only have about a hundred men and we…” his eyes flickered to the camp, where the distant laughter of men, women and children echoed. “We have nothing. Not enough arms. If we die on the battlefield, what of our women and children? Do we even need to do anything?”

Marissa raised a brow. “You just said we have a hundred men, so that’s not nothing.” Her gaze drifted to the camp, her eyes softening at the sight of the children who laughed as they chased each other. “The women and children should head south for refuge before the war starts. This place won’t be safe for much longer, not when House Tully is about to fight a dragon.”

Her voice then sharpened. “We don’t need to be summoned to stand for something. Our House chose its side long ago, and we suffered for it. This may be our only chance to take everything back. If we miss it, we will rot here and die forgotten.”

Her grip tightened around the dagger. “At the very least, we can take revenge on those who abandoned us. And if we are meant to fall, then let us fall in fire and fury, while those we protect live to rebuild, without the burden of our broken name.”

Gerard shook his head, though a faint smile touched his lips. “You are stubborn, my Lady.”

Marissa pointed the blade’s tip at him and smirked. “I’m strong, and more than often right. That’s why all of you chose to follow me.”

She sheathed her dagger and dusted off her hands. “I will tell Hoder to hasten the forging. If he can’t arm everyone in time, those without weapons will go south with the women and children.”

“Are we declaring for the same side again?” Gerard asked.

Marissa rolled her eyes. “Of course. Who else would we declare for? Certainly not the ones who destroyed our House, stole our home, and kept stomping on us after our fall.”

Gerard nodded, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. “I shall get the men to start preparing then.”

Marissa watched the aging knight leave before she straightened and returned to her tent. Her eyes fell on a locked chest next to the bed. She knelt beside it, drew a key from her pocket, and turned it in the lock with a quiet click.

Lifting the lid, she reached inside and pulled out a faded black banner with a deep breath. Rising to her feet, she unfurled it.

On the black banner was a three-headed red dragon breathing flames.

“I didn’t think we’d ever raise this again,” she murmured, her gaze hardening. “This time, we won’t lose.”

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Evening

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the roar of a dragon echoed across the sky, alerting the khalasar to Daenerys’s return.

Drogon landed thunderously, after which she descended from him, with Rian following closely behind her. In her arms, she cradled Aerax, while Missara stayed close at her heels. Joragon, though clearly displeased, grudgingly allowed Rian to carry him.

Daenerys turned to Drogon. Her chest tightened at the sight of the wounds dealt by the scorpion bolts at Winterfell. She raised a hand and Drogon lowered his head, his molten eyes softening as she gently stroked his snout.

“Thank you, Drogon,” she murmured. “Rest well. I will have someone to attend to you.”

She called over a nearby Dothraki, who immediately ran off to fetch a healer. She remained at Drogon’s side, her hand lingering on his warm scales until the healer arrived and began to tend his wounds. Only when she was satisfied that Drogon was in good hands did she turn away and stride toward the castle.

The moment she entered the great hall, she was greeted by Aggo and Kovarro.

“Khaleesi,” Kovarro said, relief evident in his voice. “You took longer than expected.”

“Winterfell had scorpions,” Daenerys replied, her brows tightening. “But the attack was successful. Winterfell is defanged and Sansa Stark has bent her knee.”

“So the North is no longer a threat?” Aggo asked.

“That remains to be seen,” Daenerys replied coolly. “I told Sansa Stark that the entire North will burn if she betrays me.”

“What if the other northern lords rebel in spite of her?” Kovarro asked curiously.

“Then the rebels will burn,” Daenerys said calmly. “They do not speak for Sansa Stark.”

Rian nodded. “That’s fair.”

Aggo drew the letter from his belt and stepped forward, handing it over to Daenerys.

“An Unsullied delivered this just hours ago,” he said.

Daenerys took the letter and broke the seal. For a moment, she worried if the letter brought grim tidings. But as she read the words, she exhaled in relief. It was from Jhiqui, reporting from Dragonstone.

The contents were reassuring. Dragonstone and Driftmark’s war preparations were complete, and House Velaryon would soon formally declare for her. A strong start to her campaign.

But what caught Daenerys’s attention was the second letter attached to Jhiqui’s, sent from across the Narrow Sea.

From Daario.

She unfolded Daario’s letter, curious on its contents. She knew he had facilitated the arrival of the Unsullied living in Naath to Dragonstone. His spies across Westeros kept him well-informed, and he had stayed in contact with Jhiqui. He would know what she was doing. She only hoped things were stable in Meereen.

But as she read the letter, her breath caught.

Daario had captured Tyrion Lannister.

Her former Hand. The man she had trusted but had repeatedly let her down. Her fingers clenched the letter, trembling as Tyrion’s face came to her mind.

She had put her trust in him, looked past his family background and personal history in Westeros.

She believed in second chances. She understood that no one was perfect, and that all people made mistakes. That if those who had sinned were sincere in their repentance and loyalty, they could earn a place in her court. She had ruled with compassion, not just fire.

But Tyrion had been a fatal misjudgement.

He brought in Varys, who later attempted to murder her.

He gave her poor counsel, costing her dearly in both allies and victories. It began to feel like he was working against her rather than for her.

In the end, he served Bran Stark as his Hand.

How could that be possible if he had not betrayed her again, somewhere and at some time she wasn’t aware of? And after her death, he told Daario in a cold, unfeeling letter that she had gone mad.

Mad.

The word burnt in her chest.

You are neither mad nor weak, child. You could not have thought of the five options for Sansa Stark if you were mad. And you could not have accomplished what you did had you been weak. Believe in yourself, the voice whispered firmly, but in a rare gentle tone.

I know, she answered silently, but the betrayal still stings.

Daenerys inhaled deeply and read on.

Daario asked for her presence at Meereen to preside over Tyrion’s trial. He encouraged her to reveal herself to the Meereenese, to reclaim what was hers, to show everyone her true might and the queen she was always meant to be.

Daenerys lowered the letter and lifted her gaze to Aggo.

“Did the scouts bring any news?”

“Yes, my Queen,” Aggo replied, his tone grim. “The Riverlords are mustering, most likely against us. We should prepare for war.”

Daenerys nodded. “Tell the riders to ready themselves. We ride for war.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

She turned to leave. “I’ll rest in my chambers. Inform me at once if anything urgent arises.”

As she moved away, Joragon slapped Rian in the face with a playful flap of his wing and wriggled free from his arms, scrambling after her with Missara close behind, their claws clicking softly against the stone floor.

“Oww, seriously?” Rian muttered, rubbing his cheek as he watched Joragon scampering after Daenerys. “I carried you… you heavy little brat.”

Daenerys entered her chambers and shut the door behind them. She placed Aerax gently on the desk, while Missara curled comfortably into the soft blankets on the bed. Joragon soared to the top of the closet and perched proudly, surveying the room like a little king.

Daenerys sat at her desk, her mind still buzzing. She pulled out parchments, dipped her quill into ink, and began to write – one letter to Jhiqui, the other to Daario.

In her letter to Jhiqui, she expressed her gratitude for her leadership and loyalty. Once finished, she folded it carefully and sealed it with wax.

But when it came to writing Daario, her hand paused. Ink pooled and blotted the parchment. She stared at it for a long moment before continuing.

No, it wasn’t time to return to Meereen. Not yet.

She would not repeat the mistake of being distracted. Even if the undead rose again, she would focus on her campaign. From now on, she would fight only as the crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She would return to Meereen victorious as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, for the Meereenese deserved nothing less.

And when she returned, she would judge Tyrion Lannister as his sovereign Queen, and he a traitor to the Crown.

Ensure Tyrion Lannister remains alive until I return, she wrote, I will come back.  

She sealed the letter and exhaled sharply.

Her war had only just begun. And she would not fail again.

*******

Rian hesitated outside Daenerys’ chambers.

Night had fallen, and she had said she was going to rest. Yet, a faint light flickered from the gap beneath the door.

He glanced down at the tray of food in his hands.

She had barely eaten today.

His heart thudded as he swallowed thickly, then raised a hand and knocked.

“Who is it?”

Daenerys’ voice was soft but alert. He exhaled in relief; he hadn’t woken her.

“It’s me, Rian, Your Grace.”

A moment passed.

“Come in.”

Rian opened the door and stepped inside quietly.

Daenerys sat at her desk with Joragon curled in her arms, while Missara and Aerax lay nestled together on the bed.

“I brought you dinner,” Rian said, setting the tray down on the desk.

Daenerys blinked in surprise. Her mind had been so occupied the whole day she hadn’t even noticed how hungry she was. Until now.

Her stomach growled as the scent of roasted meat filled the air. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Thank you, Rian,” she said sincerely.

Before she began eating, she picked up the two letters she had written and handed them to him.

“Since you are here, arrange to have these letters delivered,” she said.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rian replied, accepting the letters with a small bow.

He left the chamber, leaving Daenerys to her meal as he went to see to the delivery of the letters. Once the task was complete, he made his way to the clearing where Drogon rested.

Sensing Rian’s approach, Drogon opened an eye, glanced at him lazily, then shut it again and returned to sleep.

Satisfied that the dragon seemed well enough, Rian turned to leave.

Then he stopped. A chill ran down his spine and his hairs stood on end.

He spun around, stepping cautiously back toward Drogon, eyes scanning the darkened clearing.

But there was nothing. No sound, no movement. No one.

He lingered for a moment, muscles tense, eyes sharpened as they searched for anything. Anything at all.

But once again, nothing came to his attention.

I must have been too sensitive after Winterfell. No one would dare mess around a dragon. Not one such as Drogon.

Even so, he cast one final glance around the clearing before turning and heading back toward the castle, the feeling of unease still whispering at the edges of his mind.

*******

Jon watched Rian leave from atop a tree.

He had come dangerously close to being discovered.

He turned his head and glanced at the bush where Ghost lay hidden, silent and still, then returned his attention to the dragon resting in the clearing.

His breath shuddered.

Drogon.

The last of Daenerys’ dragons.

Jon had never understood why Drogon had spared his life that day. The only explanation he could think of was that Drogon didn’t realise it was him who had killed his mother. Why else would Drogon spare the man who killed the one he was bonded to?

His heart pounded as his mind returned to the moment just hours earlier, when Drogon had descended into the clearing.

That was when he saw her.

Daenerys.

He had heard from the two smallfolk at the Trident describing someone who looked like her and claimed to be her. For days, he drifted between belief and denial, unable to sleep. His mind splintered, and for a time, he feared he was going mad.  

After all, he had been the one to drive the dagger into her chest. He had held her as she took her last breath. She hadn’t simply died, her very presence had left the world.

So he came to Harrenhal to see for himself, if only to find peace of mind.

He had managed to slip past the Dothraki patrols and hide both himself and Ghost. But for days, he saw neither Drogon nor Daenerys.

Until today.

He saw her.

Alive. Whole. Dismounting from Drogon with the same graceful poise he remembered. She didn’t look a day older than the day he killed her, as if time itself had not touched her.

How was this possible?

Could it be…? Could someone have brought her back, the way I was?

Jon trembled as the thought settled in. When Melisandre brought him back, she told him her god, the Lord of Light, had a purpose for him. That his return meant that he was chosen for something greater.

If Daenerys had truly been brought back… did that mean she had a purpose too? Had she been chosen?

Or… was she brought back because I… because I stopped what was supposed to happen?

Jon clamped a hand over his mouth, his fingers digging into his jaw as he fought the scream rising in his throat.

What I did… it couldn’t have been for nothing. She… she burnt King’s Landing… killed the innocent and the helpless and felt no remorse. She… she was going to do the same to other cities. To Winterfell.

His bloodshot eyes widened as his body trembled. He forced himself to breathe until the storm inside him slowly began to settle.

No… I must find out. This couldn’t be what was meant for the world. Not her. Not her dragon. Not fire and blood.

Calm returned to his grey eyes, hardening into cold determination.

His thoughts drifted back to Rian. The one who rode beside Daenerys on her dragon. The one who was as strikingly beautiful as Daenerys herself.

Who is he…? He seems close to her… too close.

A dull throb pulsed in his chest.

Does he sneak into the castle now and risk everything to search for her? Or wait… wait for that man to appear again, and follow him? The man could lead him straight to Daenerys.

For now, he would wait, silent in the shadows, eyes fixed on the castle, heart heavy with questions.

But when the time comes, he would not hesitate.

*******

The unease continued to nudge at the corners of Rian’s mind. He decided to check on Daenerys once more.

I should collect the tray.

Pleased to have found a reason, he walked with more confidence.

When he reached her door, he paused to gather himself, then knocked.

“Rian?”

He blinked, surprised.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Come in.”

He opened the door and stepped inside. “How did Your Grace know it was me?”

Daenerys smiled in amusement. “You always knock three times. The first two come quick, and the third after a pause.”

Rian blinked again. “I… I didn’t realise. You noticed?” he asked softly, touched despite himself.

Daenerys didn’t answer. She simply pushed the empty tray aside and gently stroked Missara, who now lay curled in her arms. Meanwhile, Joragon and Aerax were nestled together on the bed, fast asleep.

“They are taking turns,” Rian observed with a faint smile, nodding toward the juvenile dragons.

Daenerys’ smile turned wistful. “I try to be fair. Youth lasts only so long. Then suddenly, they are grown, too large to cradle like babes.”

“Indeed,” Rian agreed. “And one day, they shall soar high in the skies just like your Drogon.”

Daenerys lowered her gaze to Missara, whose jaws stretched wide in a yawn. She scratched under Missara’s chin, earning a pleased, rumbling sound from the little dragon. She smiled when Missara finally closed her eyes and drifted to sleep. Rising from her seat, Daenerys walked to the bed and gently laid Missara beside her siblings on the sheets.

Then she turned to Rian. “You have done as I asked?” she asked suddenly.

Rian nodded. “Yes, I have arranged for the letters to be delivered, just as you instructed. And before coming in, I checked on Drogon. You need not worry, his wounds seemed to be healing well.”

Daenerys gave a small nod, though a trace of fatigue lingered in her expression. “Well done, Rian.” She paused, then added softly, “And thank you, for checking on Drogon.”

Rian lingered awkwardly, unsure if he should speak or simply take the tray and excuse himself. Just as he reached for it, Daenerys broke the silence.

“I’ve thought much since Winterfell,” she said quietly. “And I’ve decided… it’s time to accept the facts for what they are.”

"And what is that?" Rian asked curiously.

Daenerys paused for a long moment as she struggled to get the words out. "... That I am not a liberator," she finally said, her voice laced with pain.

Rian tensed, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? You freed slaves in..."

"I know," Daenerys interrupted. "But that was in Essos. We are now in Westeros, an entirely different place with different people and needs."

She lowered her eyes and exhaled deeply. "Many lords here had rejected me. You see what happened with the North. What I did here in Westeros, it’s not liberation. It's... something else."

She lifted her gaze and held Rian's, unflinchingly with a steeled determination.

"I am conquering. I am a Conqueror."

Rian's lips parted but no words came. He did not know what to say and what to do to soothe the pain in Daenerys' eyes. Was there even anything anyone could do to make her feel better?

His breath shuddered.

"That's all right."

Daenerys stared at him, unsure of what he meant.

"Your ancestors were the Conquerors and they were remembered as great. You may be a Conqueror in Westeros, but in the Bay of Dragons, you will always be the Breaker of Chains, a liberator,” Rian said, his voice soft but firm. "Just because you are a Conqueror here doesn't take away the good you had done. Besides..." he paused as he held Daenerys' eyes. "A Conqueror is not equivalent to being a tyrant. I'm sure your intentions are not to torment the people of Westeros. You will do good, just like you did in Essos."

Daenerys' heart thumped furiously. How long had it been since someone showed this amount of confidence and trust in her, even after witnessing what she had done? Jon had turned against her, not trusting she would do good. And Tyrion... she had lost him a long time ago, even before King's Landing.

"Do you remember how the children of Meereen ran after you, calling you Mhysa? You earned that." Rian said, his eyes gleaming as he recalled the memories.

She smiled so brightly then. If she had stayed, would she have continued to smile like that? Not this strong front she has to wear, day after day. No matter, I shall stay with her till the end. One day, I will see that smile again.

He smiled faintly at Daenerys. "Even if the people here do not embrace you now, I believe they would do so one day, once they see you for who you truly are. And in time to come, you will be more than a Conqueror, or a liberator."

Daenerys blinked. His words brought back memories - warm, sweet and bitter all at the same time. She did remember the children of Meereen. And the people who cheered for her and clamoured for her grace. The memories washed over her, warming and mending her broken soul.

Yet, her chest clenched in pain. She wasn't sure if what Rian said would come to pass, but she wanted to believe it would.

She wanted to do good.

She may not be able to break the wheel, but she could fix a broken wheel, or mend it anew into one that could brighten even the darkest corners of Westeros.

A tear fell and she quickly turned away, her back facing Rian. She wiped the tear away with a finger.

Behind her, Rian said nothing. But he didn’t look away. He would never look away. From the first day she came to the gates of Meereen with her army, from the very moment she freed him at Meereen, he had made a vow he would always fight for her. And he had no intention of breaking that vow.

Daenerys Targaryen was his queen. The queen of his choosing. And she would always be.

Chapter Text

A chained Missandei stood on the rampart of King’s Landing, her gaze lowered and her face pale.

Cersei Lannister stood just behind her, cold as ice, staring down at Tyrion who looked up helplessly from the ground below.

“I know you don’t care about your people,” Tyrion began, “Why should you? They hate you, and you hate them. But you are not a monster. I know this. I know this because I’ve seen it. You’ve always loved your children, more than yourself.”

Cersei turned away at the mention of her children.

Seeing the crack in her facade, Tyrion continued, “More than Jaime. More than anything.” He paused, considering his next words.

“I beg you, if not yourself, then for your child,” he pled, “Your reign is over. But that doesn’t mean your life has to end, doesn’t mean your baby has to die.”

Cersei said nothing. For a moment, it seemed like Tyrion’s persuasion had worked. Her expression had softened and that was a lot, coming from the ruthless and faithless Lannister queen who had broken her promise to send reinforcements up north to for the war against the undead.

Daenerys stood still as she watched the exchange, her heart pounding relentlessly. Tyrion had failed her many times, but he was her best chance at saving Missandei. His consistent ill counsel had come from a place of faith and loyalty in his siblings, and Daenerys could only hope that Cersei held a little of that love for Tyrion.

But then, Cersei’s face hardened. She stepped forward and gripped Missandei’s arm. Daenerys inhaled sharply, her heart drumming faster as she walked a few steps forward. Her eyes never left Missandei.

Cersei’s lips parted. It was too far for Daenerys to hear what she said, but dread filled her chest, tight and suffocating.

Cersei then stepped away from Missandei.

Missandei lifted her eyes, and they immediately found Grey Worm. She stared at him for a moment, then turned her gaze to Daenerys.

Something was wrong. Daenerys could feel it. She was fire and blood, but now she felt only chills. Her mind raced. Why did Missandei look afraid and resigned? What did Cersei say to her? Why didn’t Cersei respond to Tyrion? Why wasn’t Cersei saying anything to him at all?

Daenerys’ breath shuddered and her body trembled.

No, no, no.

Finally, Missandei spoke. Though her voice was slightly shaky, her tone was fierce and determined. The word came through loud and clear.

“Dracarys.”

This was a death call, Daenerys realised. Even in her final moment, Missandei was declaring her unwavering loyalty to her.

Stand strong and never falter, Daenerys could almost hear her say.

No, no, no, no, no.

NO.

Daenerys’ heart hammered away and her mind screamed.

Cersei turned back to Tyrion, a smug smile spreading across her face.

A towering knight stepped forward and drew his sword. He raised it high and brought it down in a swift, brutal arc. There was a sickening, wet sound, then a pair of heavy thuds against the ground.

Daenerys never looked away. Not once.

She heard nothing but Missandei’s call for dracarys.

She saw nothing but Missandei’s toppling body and falling head.

She felt nothing but a searing pain in her chest, as though someone had dug out her already shattered heart.

Her breathing became short bursts of gasps.

But then, she clenched her fists, gritted her teeth and committed the scene into memory.

She turned and walked away.

I will never forget you, Missandei. I will never forget this.

Her violet eyes flashed in fury, swallowing the scream that threatened to burst out from her throat.

*******

Daenerys’s eyes snapped open, her arms shooting out as if to grasp something lost, her mouth wide in a silent scream as cold sweat clung to her skin, her heart pounding furiously and her chest aching with raw, breathless pain.

She gasped breathlessly as Missandei’s voice echoed in her mind.

Dracarys.

A soft chirp cuts through the haze in her mind, and Missara’s small face popped into view, followed by Joragon and then Aerax, their curious eyes blinking at her. Daenerys exhaled shakily and gathered all three into her arms, holding them close.

“Thank you for being here,” she whispered, pressing gentle kisses to each of their heads as their warm bodies nestled into her chest.

As their warmth spread through her body, her heartbeat began to steady, the ache in her chest easing with every quiet breath.

After she calmed, she gently set the juvenile dragons aside, murmuring softly to soothe their protests, then sat up and slipped out of bed, rising to her feet as she began preparing for the day ahead.

Once she was dressed, she walked to the door and grasped the handle.

Dracarys.

She froze, her grip tightening as the word echoed through her mind.

How can I ever let go of this pain?

If you cannot let go, the voice whispered, let it drive you. But do not let it become you - become who you are always meant to be.

Daenerys closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply. Then she opened the door and stepped out.

*******

Daenerys walked briskly into the war room where Aggo, Kovarro and Rian awaited. Behind her, the three juvenile dragons scampered along, their claws clicking against the stone floor. Their heads turned sharply from side to side, eyes wide with curiosity.

She stepped to the head of the table, and Missara hurried over, settling beside her feet. Joragon flew up and settled onto the table, where a large map of the Riverlands lay spread. Aerax ducked beneath the table, silent and unseen.

Daenerys’ eyes flicked to Aggo and Kovarro. “Has anyone responded to my missive while I was away, especially the Riverlords?”

“The Riverlords did not,” Aggo replied, his voice low and edged with a displeased growl. “But we can make them see the error of their ways.”

Disappointment flickered across Daenerys’ face as she took a deep breath.

“But we did just receive this,” Kovarro handed a parchment to Daenerys.

She broke the seal and read the contents carefully.

“What is it?” Rian asked curiously. 

Daenerys looked up at the three men. “House Baratheon has written to declare neutrality.”

“Are they strong?” Rian asked.

“House Baratheon had lost much of its past strength and influence, but they are still the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, which is very close to King’s Landing,” Daenerys replied. “If they stay neutral, it means one less ally for Bran Stark, and one less enemy for us. The Stormland lords may also choose not to act against us as well.”

She paused, and a faint smile curled on her lips. “Looks like legitimising Gendry Baratheon was the right call after all.”

“This is good news indeed,” Rian said, though he noticed a flicker of dissatisfaction cross Aggo’s face.

“Enough about the Baratheons,” Daenerys said, setting the letter aside. “Where are the Riverlords mustering?”

“Here. The scout says they could number between a thousand to two thousand men,” Aggo said, pointing to a marked area northwest of Harrenhal on the map. His finger then shifted westward, near High Heart. “The second muster point. Numbers unknown, but the host there is reportedly larger than the first.”

Finally, he tapped a third spot southeast of Riverrun. “And the last. It has the largest host.”

“Do we know how many men they’ve got?” Daenerys asked.

“It’s hard to say,” Kovarro replied. “But the last intel we had said the Riverlands could possibly muster at least eight thousand men.”

Daenerys’s eyes flicked between the three marked spots on the map.

“The first muster point is… close. Too close. And few in numbers.” She frowned. “It feels like a trap.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if the cowardly mudmen tried something,” Aggo said with a smirk, his voice thick with contempt. “But we will vanquish them with ease. They are weak, and no match for your dragon.”

Rian lifted his head. “Your Grace, are you planning to attack the first muster point?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied without hesitation. “If we crush a muster point before they converge, we can isolate and destroy segments of the Riverlands forces rather than fighting them at full strength.”

“Why resort to such trickeries, my queen?” Aggo scoffed. “You have eight thousand Dothraki riders. You know how fierce we are. We can take down a full host of mudmen for you, even without your dragon.”

Daenerys almost smiled. “I do not doubt the Dothraki’s capabilities. But I’m not simply looking to win a fight.” Her eyes swept across the three men. “I want to break the morale of the Riverlords. If we obliterate one muster point before they are ready, some Riverlords may retreat, or even surrender.”

And you cut down losses. Well-played, the voice whispered approvingly, but you can be bolder. More ambitious.

Bolder? More ambitious?

Yes. Instead of taking down only one muster point, why not take two? the voice whispered. Let your Dothraki seize the first, while you ride to the second near High Heart with your dragon. Take both down and watch the Riverlords crumble at Riverrun. It will send a far stronger message than taking only one down.

Drogon is injured.

And he is a dragon. Have faith in his strength, the voice urged.

“Your Grace?” Rian asked gently, his voice tinged with concern as Daenerys stared silently into the empty space for a long moment.

She blinked, then spoke. “Do they have any scorpions?”

“All three muster points do, but there doesn’t seem to be many of them,” Kovarro replied. His tone soured as he added, “Our scouts couldn’t get close enough to count them.”

Daenerys nodded.

More scorpions. I must remain vigilant.

She turned to her Dothraki commanders. “Aggo, Kovarro, take your riders and strike the first muster point. Kill only soldiers. Spare those who surrender. Seize every supply you can from the enemy.”

“Yes, my queen,” they said together.

Then she looked to Rian. “You will stay and defend Harrenhal.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered, though his eyes lingered on her. “Are you riding with Aggo and Kovarro?”

“No, I’m not.”

Daenerys placed her finger on the map, over the second muster point. “This will be my target.” Her gaze lifted, sweeping across the three men. “We have the strength to do this. And when we succeed, their morale will shatter.”

You are finally taking my advice, the voice remarked.

Because you actually make sense this time, Daenerys thought dryly.

I always make sense, child, the voice replied, amused.

Not when you tried to convince me to marry a fifteen-year-old, or to burn everything down on sight.

The voice simply laughed.

“Your Grace… you are going alone?” Rian asked, his voice low with concern.

Daenerys smiled faintly. “I’m not going alone, Rian. Drogon will be with me. He always has.”

Rian’s lips parted as if to speak, but Daenerys had already turned away, her attention shifting back to Aggo and Kovarro.

“Be wary of ambushes,” she warned. “They may be fewer in number, and you may be the stronger warriors, but they know the land far better than we do. I fear they may have some tricks up their sleeves.”

Aggo thumped his chest with confidence. “Worry not, my queen. You shall return with two victories.”

“Good,” Daenerys said with a nod. “You may set off once you are ready. I shall ride with Drogon tonight. Dismissed.”

The three men bowed low as she swept past them silently. Behind her, the three juvenile dragons followed closely, never once letting her out of their sight.

Now, they prepare and rest. Soon, they will face the Rivermen on their own soil, opening the curtain on the battle for dominion over the Seven Kingdoms.

*******

“Wait, Your Grace!”

Daenerys turned, surprised to see Rian jogging towards her. He stopped a few steps away, catching his breath before bowing to her. When he raised his head, his eyes flickered with concern, and Daenerys felt the urge to look away. There had been enough concern from him today.

“What is it, Rian?” she asked.

“It’s been a while since we trained,” he said. “I was hoping we could fit in a short session before you depart.”

Daenerys blinked, incredulous. “You want a training session? Now?” She paused, then admitted, “I suppose I haven’t practiced in some time. Things have been… hectic. But if we practice now, I might be too tired to ride tonight.”

He nodded. “It will just be a light session. It won’t take much time or energy.” Then a smile that looked almost cheeky spreads across his face. “I promise to go easy on you so you’d be fresh for the assault.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes but couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Careful. Someone lost the last time and went into hiding for days.”

Rian flushed. “Like you said, that was an accident.” Then his expression turned serious. “But truly, I’m worried about you attacking the second muster point alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” she insisted. “Drogon will be flying overhead. I won’t be touching the ground. Just dragonfire from the skies.”

“The battlefield doesn’t always follow plans,” Rian said softly. “You know that.”

Daenerys froze. She knew exactly what he meant. The scorpions at Winterfell. She had not known of them, had not seen them. Dozens of bolts had been fired upon Drogon, and two had struck him. She had flown into Winterfell, expecting it to be easy. It wasn’t.

She looked away for a moment. Then she sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “But just for a little while.”

Rian smiled in relief. “That’s all I ask.”

Daenerys turned and made her way towards the training yard, with Rian and the juvenile dragons trailing behind her.

The training yard was quiet, just the two of them and the three young dragons. They approached the weapons rack side by side, each selecting a practice sword.

“I’m ready,” Daenerys said, gripping the hilt.

Rian nodded. “Let’s start simple. You already know how to hold your stance. Now I want to focus on blocking and deflecting strikes from different directions. Make a strike at me.”

Daenerys stepped back, then carefully swung her sword at his shoulder. Rian met her sword with his.

“This is a block,” he said. Then, he pushed forward slightly forcefully, his sword knocking hers back. “And this is a parry. If you time it just right with the right amount of strength, you can throw your opponent off balance and follow through with a counterattack.”

Daenerys frowned as she adjusted her grip. “This seems hard. I will need a lot of practice to get used to this.”

“That’s why we are here,” Rian said gently. He stepped back, raising his blade. “Now, I’m going to strike at you. Try to block, or parry if you can.”

Daenerys nodded then shifted into position, her eyes fixed on him.

Rian swung his sword slowly towards her left shoulder. She met it with her blade.

“Good,” he said. “Now the right.”

He struck again, this time from the opposite side. Daenerys moved a heartbeat too slow, and the tip of his blade brushed her arm.

She frowned. “Again.”

They repeated the exercise. With each repetition, she moved faster and more fluid. Rian circled her, correcting her when her feet slipped or when her wrists twisted too far.

After several exchanges, she was growing breathless and ready to quit.

This is too much, she complained silently.

Too much? This is just beginner’s stuff. Child’s play, the voice replied with mirth.

I’m tired, and I’m supposed to ride into war tonight, she argued.

Dark Sister may be light and elegant, but you still need some skill to wield it properly, to be worthy of it, the voice coaxed, almost too sweetly.

“Now,” Rian’s voice pulled her back, “If the enemy gets too close, closer than sword-length, you won’t have room to swing. But there are still moves you can use to disable them.”

“How?” Daenerys asked, still catching her breath.

“The pommel.” Rian smiled with a sly twinkle in his eyes. “It’s not just decoration. If you are close enough, drive it into the enemy’s head or jaw. Like this.”

He stepped in, gently tapping the wooden pommel against the side of her head. Then her jaw. Then just beneath it.

She blinked, slightly startled. “That would knock someone out?”

“If you hit hard enough and aim right,” he replied. “Even if it doesn’t knock them out, it would hurt real bad. Their minds will spin.”

He lowered his stance. “Now try it.”

Daenerys mirrored his position and gripped her sword like he had. She drove the pommel forward, stopping it just short of his temple.

“Nicely done, Your Grace,” Rian smiled, “Now let’s try the jaw.”

She gave him a wry look. “You said this would be a light session.”

He chuckled. “This is light.”

You are lucky to have him as your mentor. If it were me… the voice scoffed.

I would have died? Daenerys offered dryly.

Oh no, you don’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t kill the last of our House from fatigue. There are far more worthy ways for you to die, the voice said sweetly.

Daenerys and Rian practiced for a few more rounds before she finally decided to call it quits.

“That’s enough.”

Rian bowed. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.”

Daenerys looked at him for a moment. “No. Thank you, Rian.”

She turned away, the three young dragons following tightly as she left the training yard.

*******

Daenerys walked down the corridor to head out and check on Drogon before resting. Her mind was cluttered.

House Baratheon had replied, but what of the others? The Riverlords were mustering, a clear declaration of defiance. Yet many others had not answered at all. No word from the Westerlands. None from the Vale. The Reach remained silent. Even the lords of the Crownlands had yet to respond. As for Dorne, perhaps the riders were still on their way.

A soft chirping pulled her from her thoughts. She paused and turned.

The three young dragons were hurrying after her, struggling to keep pace.

She smiled faintly.

“Come here, Missara.”

Missara spread her wings and leapt into Daenerys’ open arms, rumbling with pleasure as she nestled into her neck.

With Missara in her arms and Joragon and Aerax trailing behind, Daenerys left the castle and made her way to the clearing where Drogon lay resting.

Drogon lifted his head as she approached, his eyes following her with quiet recognition. Daenerys gently set Missara down and stepped forward, reaching out to stroke Drogon’s scales. He rumbled low in his chest at her touch.

“How are you feeling, Drogon?” she whispered softly.

Drogon rumbled in response and she smiled.

“I’m sorry, but we are riding into war again tonight.”

Drogon nudged her gently with his snout, and she chuckled. Resting her cheek against his warm scales, she murmured, “Thank you, Drogon. For always being with me. For always fighting beside me… and for me.”

She lingered with Drogon a little longer before turning to head back to the castle for some rest.

She was nearly at the door when a chill ran down her spine. A creeping sense of unease.

As if sensing it too, the young dragons stirred. Even Aerax, usually the calmest, spread his wings, hissing and snarling.

Daenerys opened the door and ushered them inside, murmuring to soothe them. Once they disappeared into the corridor, she reached for the black bracelet on her left wrist, her heart pounding.

Then, she vanished. Cloaked by magic. She hadn’t used the bracelet since she left Banefort, but it had never felt more necessary than it did now.

The soft crunch of boots on dried leaves and soil drew closer. Daenerys held her breath as she watched from the shadows.

A lone figure stepped into view, and she froze.

Her breathing quickened, heart thundering as rage and terror tangled inside her. Her body began to tremble.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

But it was him.

Jon Snow.

His face was just as she remembered from three years ago, only his hair was shorter now. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, constantly scanning, and his expression was grim with tension. His sword was already drawn, clenched tightly in his grip, as if he were expecting a fight.

Or ready to stab someone.

She remembered the warmth of his embrace. The taste of his mouth on hers. And the cold bite of the blade he drove into her chest.

Her eyes burnt. Her hand found the hilt of Dark Sister. Silently, she drew the blade from its sheath. Her grip tightened as she waited with bated breath.

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when Jon stopped right in front of her. For a split second, she wondered if she should drive Dark Sister straight through him.

A soft chirp.

Both Daenerys and Jon looked down.

Aerax had slipped through the half-open door, staring up at Jon with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Three new dragons…” Jon murmured. “Three… dangers.”

Daenerys’ blood roared in her ears as Jon raised his sword arm.

She struck without hesitation, slamming the pommel of Dark Sister into his temple.

Jon let out a muffled cry, staggering sideways from the blow. His eyes were wide, dazed and searching. But he saw no one.

Aerax growled, a low, warning sound. His wings flared, casting jagged shadows against the doorframe.

Daenerys didn’t hesitate. As Jon struggled to regain his footing, she stepped forward and kicked his sword from his hand. It clattered to the ground, far out of reach.

Jon stared at his sword, now lying far across the clearing. His eyes darted around, breath quickening. Concern twisted into confusion as he scanned the space yet saw no one.

Aerax released a sudden burst of dragonfire at Jon’s boots.

Jon yelped, stumbling back with a sharp curse as flames licked at the ground beneath him. He jumped away, swatting at the embers, his face twisting in panic and disbelief. His eyes locked onto the young dragon now snarling at him, wings spread wide, smoke curling from its jaws.

Daenerys silently circled around him amidst the chaos. Her mind raced.

Kill him? Or knock him out?
Knock him out? Or kill him?

Jon turned and lunged for his sword.

Without thinking, Daenerys seized him by the collar. His eyes widened in shock, and then his head snapped back as she drove the pommel of Dark Sister up beneath his jaw.

The moment he hit the ground, Daenerys pounced. She straddled him and drove the pommel of Dark Sister into his face. Once, twice, again.

Jon reeled, stunned and dazed, barely able to raise an arm in defence as the blows kept coming.

Daenerys was about to strike him again when the voice spoke sharply.

Stop. Unless killing him is what you are going for.

Daenerys froze, her arms suspended mid-air. She looked down at Jon. His face was bloodied, turned to the side, unconscious. Her breath shuddered as she climbed off him, hands shaking.

So… you are not killing him? the voice asked.

No, Daenerys replied. Not yet.

She removed the shroud, stepping back into sight. Scooping Aerax into her arms, she pressed a kiss to his head, her heart still pounding. Then she turned, her gaze falling onto the unconscious Jon.

“I’ve got you now, Jon Snow,” she whispered. “You have a lot to answer for.”

*******

Location: Council Room, King’s Landing
Time: Mid-day

The air in the Council Room was heavy and still, the way it had been since it was revealed that Daenerys was alive and had returned to Westeros.

Brienne, Aldric, Davos, Yohn, and Samwell sat around the long table, with Bran at its head. Davos kept his gaze lowered. Brienne sat upright at Bran’s left, composed but tense. Aldric shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while Yohn Royce remained expressionless. Samwell’s eyes flicked from face to face, his body tensed and anxious.

Bran said nothing. He sat motionless, hands resting flat on the table before him.

Aldric spoke first. “As expected, House Velaryon has officially declared for Daenerys Targaryen, and House Celtigar has followed suit. House Greyjoy too has declared for her.”

Yohn scoffed. “Of course the Valyrian houses would stick together. And the Ironborn are not a surprise either, considering their actions in recent years.” He turned to Brienne. “And House Baratheon has declared neutrality. The rest of the Stormlords seem content to follow their lead.”

Brienne stiffened. “House Tarth’s loyalty remains unchanged. We shall fight for His Grace.”

Aldric nodded faintly in acknowledgment, then continued. “The Crownland lords are still silent… but I fear many of them are waiting for Daenerys Targaryen to make her move before deciding.” He paused, a shadow flickering across his face. “If she shows up at King’s Landing with her Dothraki horde and the dragon, they might defect.”

“You are sure?” Yohn leaned forward.

“Yes, Lord Royce. My spies have confirmed that House Rosby, House Massey, and House Bar Emmon are leaning towards her. The others are more cautious… likely to claim neutrality.”

Davos let out a troubled sigh. “That’s not good.”

Silence fell over the room.

Samwell’s eyes swept across the table. “We still have the North. And the Vale.”

Yohn looked up, his face unreadable.

Samwell continued hopefully, “Lord Edmure Tully is mustering, and if the North and Vale join him…”

“The Vale has not decided,” Yohn said flatly.

Samwell blinked. “What?”

“The Vale lords are still deliberating and Lord Arryn is cautious. He wants to make the right choice for the Vale,” Yohn explained without emotion, as if it didn’t concern him.

Davos frowned. “Lord Arryn hasn’t come to a decision yet?”

“No,” Yohn said firmly. “And we must give him and the Vale lords the space to consider the best course of action.”

Brienne’s gaze sharpened. “And House Royce?”

Yohn turned his eyes to her, then looked away. “I am a man of the Vale. I will serve Lord Arryn’s will, once it is given.”

Another heavy silence followed. The councillors exchanged quiet, uneasy glances. It was becoming clear that the Vale might not stand with Bran at all, and Yohn Royce would leave the moment Robin Arryn declares neutrality or for Daenerys Targaryen.

Bran finally spoke, his voice calm but detached. “I understand, Lord Royce. You must do what you believe is best.”

Yohn's head jerked slightly towards him. “Your Grace…”

Bran’s gaze remained steady. “I only hope Daenerys Targaryen has the patience to wait for Lord Arryn’s answer without burning the Eyrie… as she once did to King’s Landing. And now, Winterfell.”

The room froze.

Davos turned sharply. “What?”

Aldric lowered his eyes. “A raven arrived this morning. Daenerys Targaryen rode to Winterfell on her dragon days ago. She razed it.”

A stunned silence fell over the council.

“The good news is that Queen Sansa is alive,” Aldric paused for a moment before continuing. “The bad news is that she has bent the knee. We should not expect support from the North.”

Samwell paled. His lips trembled. “She… she surrendered? That can’t be. His Grace is her brother.”

Bran’s voice remained steady. “Sansa chose to protect the North. That was her duty.”

“But…” Sam began, but Bran’s stare silenced him.

Yohn’s face had gone pale. He turned away slightly and said quietly, “I will take that into consideration when advising Lord Arryn.”

Bran said nothing. After a moment, he turned to Aldric.

“And the Reach?”

“They have yet to respond,” Aldric said. “I’m trying to influence the other Reach Houses such as Oakheart, Rowan, and Fossoway. But… no word yet.”

Yohn spoke next, slow and grave. “The Reach lords are likely looking to Hightower, Redwyne, and Florent for direction. And they have been silent as well.”

“They are not exactly silent. Houses Hightower and Florent are mustering men,” Aldric added. “But for whom, we still do not know.”

Davos tensed. “Then we must alert Lord Bronn.”

“I already did,” Aldric nodded. “I had sent a raven to him informing to keep an eye on the movements of Houses Hightower and Florent, and House Redwyne as well, just in case.”

“And Dorne?” Brienne asked.

“No response,” Aldric said. “None at all. Perhaps they are still considering.”

“So… we have no allies left but the Riverlands,” Samwell said, his voice low and tinged with anxiety.

“That’s not true,” Aldric allowed a faint smile, though it looked grim. “House Lannister has declared for His Grace. House Lannister had not received a missive from Daenerys Targaryen and they believe she is behind Lord Tyrion’s disappearance, given their… complicated history.”

Samwell exhaled in relief. “The Westerland lords are following House Lannister’s lead?”

“Half of them are,” Aldric said. “But it’s hard to say how much support they can provide with the Ironborn harassing them.”

The atmosphere thickened once again, and Samwell bit his lower lip.

Davos shook his head. “Many of the lords haven’t declared for her either. There’s still hope.”

“She has a dragon,” Sam said bitterly. “That’s reason enough to stay silent. That’s why we need the lords. We need more than silence.”

Brienne turned back to Yohn. “Lord Royce…”

Yohn looked away.

Bran exhaled softly. “What must come will come. We will meet it as best we can.”

He turned to Brienne. “See to it that the City Watch, the royal fleet, and the scorpions are ready.”

Then his eyes swept across the council.

“If the lords will not declare for us… we must remind them who wears the crown.”

*******

Yohn Royce returned to his chambers promptly after the council meeting concluded. He unrolled a piece of parchment, dipped his quill into ink, and began to write.

Lord Robert Arryn,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

Today, I learnt that Daenerys Targaryen has razed Winterfell, and that Queen Sansa Stark has bent the knee. This leaves the Riverlands isolated, and our position more precarious than ever.

However, I advise against making any hasty declarations.

Daenerys Targaryen has claimed she will not act against lords who choose neutrality, but her word remains unproven.

I suggest we wait and watch her actions in the Riverlands. If she attacks the lords who stay out of her path, then we must take a stand. But if she passes by the lords who had neither declared for her or for His Grace, then neutrality is what may save the Vale from war.

Yours faithfully,
Yohn Royce

Yohn reread the letter several times, his eyes scanning each line with care. At last, he inhaled sharply, folded the parchment, and sealed it with wax.

He rose from the table and made his way to the ravenry.

With steady hands, he tied the message to a raven’s leg, then stepped back. He watched as the bird took flight. He remained there for a moment longer, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling slowly as the raven disappeared into the horizon.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Evening

Daenerys paced across the tent, her nerves in a wreck and her thoughts in disarray.

The large shelter, once used as a makeshift prison for smallfolk captured by the Dothraki, now held a different kind of prisoner.

Jon Snow.

He lay unconscious on the floor, his hands and feet tightly bound with thick ropes. Her violet eyes flicked to him now and then, and each time they did, a searing heat burned through her chest. She had to look away.

She didn’t know what she felt. Her emotions shifted violently from one to another. Rage, sorrow, disgust, and fear.

He stabbed me. Killed me.

Now, they swung between guilt, loneliness, betrayal, vulnerability, resentment, and confusion.

He was my nephew. My lover. I would have married him after my conquest, if he hadn’t put a dagger in me.

She clenched and unclenched her fists.

He betrayed me. He murdered me.

“Shall we wake him, Your Grace?”

Rian’s voice pulled her out from the emotional tempest. She stopped pacing and turned to face her loyal guard. Then her gaze drifted to Jon for a short moment before she looked away again.

“I will wait a little longer,” she replied tersely.

She began pacing again.

What’s the point of waiting? I must ride to war soon and I have not rested. I’m wasting my time on him.

“Your Grace… perhaps you should take a short break. You will be leaving soon and you had not rested since…” Rian flicked a disdainful glance at Jon. “since him.”

Daenerys stopped pacing and shot Rian a tense look. “Why hasn’t he woken up? Did I hit him too many times? Too hard?”

Rian glanced at Jon. He was a pitiful sight. His entire face was bruised and swollen, his nose broken, lips split, with dried blood crusted all over. But Rian felt no sympathy. He could not, and he would never.

Just hours ago, Daenerys had bolted through the hall calling for help, with Aerax snarling in one arm and Dark Sister gripped tightly in her other hand. The fear and panic on her face was seared into his mind.

He had seen her fear before, when they fled from the splitting earth in Valyria, and when scorpion bolts tore through the sky towards Drogon at Winterfell.

But this fear was different. It was one of deep hurt and betrayal, and the cause of it was this man – Jon Snow.

If anything, you didn’t hit him hard enough, Your Grace, Rian thought darkly.

“The impact differs from one person to another,” he said. “He might wake soon… or later. Your Grace can always interrogate him after your return.”

Daenerys drew a deep breath but said nothing.

Later? The very idea of speaking to Jon later felt unacceptable. She wanted to speak to him now. To hear him explain his actions, his treachery.

Her hands clenched tightly together.

“Ugh…”

Daenerys and Rian both snapped their heads towards Jon at the sound of the groan. Daenerys’ body trembled. Her heart pounded, and her hands clenched into tight fists as she watched Jon shift slightly and groan in pain.

But when his eyes opened and their gazes met, her emotions which had been wild and frenzied for hours, settled like ash, then ignited into flame.

She stepped forward. “How dare you, Jon?” she hissed, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. “How dare you show your face after what you did to me?”

Jon stared at her, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Dae…Daenerys?” he rasped, his voice laced with pain.

“Why are you so surprised? Didn’t you come here for me?” Daenerys scoffed, her fists trembling in fury. “Sneaking around the castle with your sword drawn. Were you planning to put a blade in me again?”

Jon tried to sit up but winced at the effort. His eyes dropped to his bound wrists and ankles, then flicked back to Daenerys.

“I… I can’t believe it,” Jon whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “How… how is this possible? Who did this?”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “As if assassinating me once wasn’t enough… you came here to kill me again. And when you came across my dragon, you tried to hurt him too.”

Fury rose in her again at the memory of Jon raising his sword at Aerax. If she had not been there, protected by magic, she couldn’t imagine what might have happened to Aerax.

“The dragon…” Jon’s eyes widened at the mention of Aerax. “How…”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Daenerys snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You are not a Targaryen. What does a Northern bastard know about dragons?”

Jon flinched, his face paling. His breathing turned heavy and strained. His lips parted, but no words came.

She stared hard at him, but he didn’t respond. He only lowered his head like a defeated wolf who had failed the hunt. She shut her eyes, then opened them again with something close to derision, drawing a sharp breath.

For hours, her emotions had been a tempest. She had wanted to confront him. To demand an explanation for why he had killed her. Why he had come for her again. She had so many questions, her head and heart felt like they were bursting.

But now, looking at him like this, the defeated, hurt, and lost look in his grey eyes, she didn’t feel like saying anything to him anymore.

What was there to say to a man who was neither Stark nor Targaryen?

At least not right now.

“I don’t have time for you,” she said coldly as she turned towards the shelter’s entrance. “I have a war to fight.”

Jon snapped his head up. “War? What war? With who?” he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

She ignored him.

Turning to Rian, she instructed, “Keep him closely watched. I want him to remain alive. He is not to be harmed without my order.” She paused, then added firmly, “If he’s gone or dead when I return, there will be consequences.”

She turned sharply and left the shelter without looking back.

“Daenerys, Daenerys!” Jon shouted but she was already gone. Panic settled in his face like a man who had failed in his mission.

Jon gritted his teeth and tried to stand, but a man stepped forward, blocking his path. He looked up and found himself staring at a tall, lean figure – beautiful, with short silver-gold hair and violet eyes, so much like Daenerys’.

Rian.

“Where do you think you are going, Northern bastard?” Rian said, his brows knitted tightly together with disdain.

Jon glared at him, but Rian couldn’t care less. The mere sight of a bloodied Jon with wounded pride made him smile.

“Let me go, I have to stop her,” Jon said, breathing hard.

Rian’s face darkened. “You mean murder her.”

Jon winced as he forced himself upright. His grey eyes locked onto Rian’s, defiant.

“You don’t understand. She’s a danger to the world.”

“Tell me about it,” Rian replied lazily as he drew a dagger and began to toy with it, twirling it between his fingers.

Jon stared at him, uncertain for a moment. Then he began to speak.

“Do you know what she did to King’s Landing years ago?” he asked, his voice low. “They surrendered. And still, she burnt the city. Her men took the cue, not just to kill soldiers, armed or not, but to slaughter civilians too.”

Rian said nothing, but the dagger in his hand had slowed.

“She wasn’t going to stop at King’s Landing,” Jon continued, his voice edged with pain. “She was going to do it to the other cities too. Even to my home, Winterfell.”

He looked up at Rian with a grimace. “And it wouldn’t have ended in Westeros. She intends to bring war beyond these shores. How many more deaths before she is satisfied? How much more bloodshed? How much more sacrifice?"

Rian stopped twirling the dagger. He gazed at Jon’s bloodied face, his violet eyes blazing.

"I don’t know. I never heard her say anything about conquering beyond Westeros. But even if she does," Rian straightened. "I believe in her."

"What?" Jon let out a soft gasp, staring at him in disbelief.

"I’ve seen her in Essos. She doesn’t burn unless she’s pushed into it. And even if she burns the world," Rian said, his grip tightening around the dagger, "she will rebuild. And the world will be better for it."

Jon’s eyes widened. “You are obsessed with her. You are… mad.”

Rian stared at him, his eyes growing colder with each passing moment.

“So this is what happened.”

Jon stared back, confused.

Rian narrowed his eyes. “What I understand is that you were Her Grace’s vassal and lover. Yet you attempted an assassination on her – not once, but twice – and you say all this…” His voice hardened with disdain. “If you ever truly loved her, it seems to me you only loved the parts of her that were easy to love. And that you only loved the image of who you envisioned her to be, rather than who she really was.”

He loomed over Jon now, not bothering to hide the contempt in his eyes.

“So once the relationship became challenging, with your views clashing with hers and she was no longer fulfilling your needs and fantasies, that was when you abandoned her. And then you tried to murder her.”

“A clash of views? Needs and fantasies?” Jon growled, his face twisting as though Rian’s words had both insulted and horrified him. “She killed thousands of innocents in King’s Landing and she would have done the same in other cities too! Do you not understand what that means?”

His voice rose in agitation. “Do you not see the destruction she could have unleashed with her dragon? And you reduce all of that to a mere clash of views? You think I killed her because she no longer fulfilled some needs or fantasies of mine?”

"That is the clash of views," Rian replied flatly. "She saw the burning as necessary. You didn’t. You wanted a queen who would never strike, never burn. She failed to match that vision, so you murdered her for it."

Jon gritted his teeth as his grey eyes flared in rage. “You are saying this only because you haven’t seen what she’s capable of. The aftermath, the destruction… Once you see it…”

“Oh, but I have,” Rian cuts him off sharply. Then, with a wicked gleam in his violet eyes, he whispered, “In Winterfell.”

Jon’s breath caught. “What…?” he whispered.

“Oh, a few days ago, Her Grace burnt Winterfell and Sansa Stark bent her knee, begging for mercy.” Rian said carelessly as he waved the dagger in the air.

Jon froze as though he had been turned to stone. His eyes were wide with disbelief, and he looked as though something inside him had just broken.

Rian smiled in satisfaction, enjoying the sight of Jon’s expression breaking apart.

He slid the dagger back into its sheath and patted it. “It’s a shame you couldn’t appreciate Her Grace. She is beautiful, whether as Mhysa in the Bay of Dragons, or as Fire and Blood.”

He shrugged with deliberate nonchalance.

“I’ll leave you to your pain.”

Then he turned and walked out of the shelter.

Jon sat in stunned silence, his body rigid, breath shallow. The words echoed in his mind – Winterfell burnt, Sansa bent the knee, Sansa begging for mercy.

Something shattered in him.

He buried his face in his bound hands, shoulders trembling. Then he howled a scream of grief and utter helplessness that tore from the tent and spilled into the empty plains beyond, unheard by anyone, but vast enough to carry the weight of a broken man.

Chapter Text

The night was cold, the only sound that of hooves galloping across damp earth.

Aggo rode at the front, with Kovarro riding next to him and their riders flanking them. Tonight, they rode not to raid and plunder, not to survive, but to conquer for their queen.

The first muster point, their target, loomed in the distance. They could see the fire lights burning in the enemy’s camp from afar.

Kovarro’s hairs stood on ends. Not from the cold, but something deeper inside him, an instinct screaming for caution. He swallowed thickly. He’s a Dothraki warrior and a leader in his khalasar. He had participated in raids since he came of age and even led some of his own in Westeros during Daenerys’ absence. But he had never felt so ill at ease before.

He turned to Aggo. “We should stop and scout before we attack.”

Aggo snorted. “What? Are you scared of the mudmen now, Kovarro? The last scout came back three days ago, and we know the enemy didn’t have as many men as we do. Why fear them?”

“Khaleesi told us to be wary of ambushes,” Kovarro pressed. “She said the mudmen might have tricks up their sleeves. And something just doesn’t feel right.”

Aggo laughed. “Then let them try. We are Dothraki, not sheep. They are weak men, no traps they lay can defeat us.”

Kovarro opened his mouth again, but Aggo cut him off with a sharp glance.

“The Queen rode alone to the second muster point. And you would have us sit here like frightened goats while she destroys her enemies? What would she think of us, if she comes back only to find us sitting and waiting for scout reports, not having the victory we promised her?”

Kovarro hesitated. The thought of Daenerys returning victorious while they sat and waited like cowards, stung at his pride. He said nothing more.

They pressed on, the riders fanning out silently as they neared the edge of a woods.

Then suddenly, the hiss of arrows sliced through the air, followed by the sharp thump of impact. Horses screamed. A rider to Kovarro's left fell from his saddle, an arrow pierced through his throat. Another crashed down beside him, gurgling in the mud.

"AMBUSH!" Kovarro roared, drawing his arakh.

“KILL THE SAVAGES!” Countless Riverlands soldiers roared a war cry as they poured out from the trees, their eyes bloodthirsty as they readied their blades for the kill.

Aggo bared his teeth, already charging forward. "Blood of my blood! Ride! Kill them all!"

*******

The wind roared in Daenerys’ ears as she soared through the air on Drogon’s back. Beneath her, the Riverlands stretched wide, dotted with the distant flicker of village firelights gleaming in the dark.

Then she saw it, the flicker of campfires in the distance, betraying the location of the enemy’s second muster point near High Heart.

She descended swiftly, until Drogon was just above the treetops.

She did not hesitate.

“Dracarys."

Drogon roared and the fire rushed out from his jaws in a torrent of black and red. The fire ignited tents, wagons and men alike. Screams rose from below as men burnt, and the soldiers began to scramble and flee, while some others grabbed their weapons.

But it was too late.

As Drogon doused the encampment with another round of dragonfire, Daenerys’ eyes darted around alertly for signs of scorpions.

Then, she caught sight of large, mounted machines pointed to the sky.

Scorpions.

Three of them, spread out near the edge of the hill. One was already turning toward her. She clenched her knees against Drogon’s scales, directing him to turn to the scorpions. Drogon snarled at the sight of the scorpions. He did not forget the pain those machines had brought him.

“Dracarys.”

Drogon snapped open his jaws and let loose his flames. The first machine was engulfed in an instant, sending its operator screaming as he fell off the machine, rolling and twisting desperately on the ground in a hopeless attempt to snuff out the flames eating him up.

Drogon did not let up; he breathed another stream of dragonfire, burning up the second and the third scorpions, and their operators met the same fate as the first one.

All three gone within a few moments. Now, nothing stood between them and the battlefield.

Daenerys circled overhead, raining fire in great, sweeping arcs. The Riverlands army, finding themselves prey completely at her mercy, tried to escape into the woods. Some even jumped into nearby streams, hoping the water could shield them. But the woods were lit up in flames a short moment later, burning both trees and men. And those who did not swim far enough or deep enough, were burnt too.

While Drogon went on his rampage, Daenerys did not stop looking out for signs of scorpions that might have remained hidden. But no bolts came. No sounds of bolts being fired.

Endless screams tore through the night, as the area brightened with licking flames that threatened to consume everything in its path. Until finally, there were nothing but chilly silence and the crackling sound of fire.

Drogon’s speed slowed down as Daenerys scanned the encampment.

Countless blackened remains lie around. Half-burnt banners lay strewn across the battlefield.

There was nothing left but fire and blood.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, then turned Drogon east towards the first muster point to check on Aggo and Kovarro’s progress.

And if they needed her, she would be there.

*******

It’s near daybreak.

Lord Hawick stood on a high hill, staring down at the woods where clashing metals and screams could be heard from afar.

But the screams were not of Riverlands soldiers.

He sneered.

The Dothraki were brave and fierce warriors, but they were also arrogant. They slain many of the initial ambush party, and when the ambush force retreated into the woods, the Dothraki had foolishly pursued, believing victory was at hand.

But the fleeing was a trap. It was in the woods where the real massacre began.

The trees were obstacles for the horses, and the Dothraki were unused to fighting in woodlands and on damp, uneven ground. Archers hidden in the trees fired their arrows at the slowed Dothraki from the top. Ambush parties from all directions rushed in, further surprising the Dothraki.

As the Dothraki was being slaughtered in the woods, Lord Hawick’s eyes scanned the skies.

Still no sign of the dragon.

Lord Hawick exhaled in relief. They had expected Daenerys Targaryen. They made this muster point the most palatable for her by making it look vulnerable with fewer soldiers than the other muster points. They had prepared the scorpions for her dragon, five on this hill alone, and eight others scattered across the ridges and hilltops. This muster point had more than any other.

But Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon had not come.

Perhaps she had thought her Dothraki would be enough. That just because they had the least number of soldiers here among all three muster points, they would be easy pickings, not worthy of attention from her personally.

Whatever her reason was for not being here, Lord Hawick smirked at the prospect of victory. Even though he did not defeat her and her dragon, it would show the other lords that the Dothraki can be beaten. That she can be beaten. That they need not fear her.

This victory would see more lords stand against her.

Lord Hawick looked back into the forest, where more cries rang out from. The Dothraki were surrounded from three directions and hammered with arrows from the skies. But their back had yet to be attacked.

He turned to his captain. “Send in the last wave. Bring them in from the Dothraki’s behind.” Then his voice went low, his lips curled into a cold smirk. “I hear the Dothraki enjoy taking women from behind. Let’s see how they like being treated that way on the battlefield.”

The captain gave a nod and ran off, barking orders into the dark.

Lord Hawick stayed where he was, watching, waiting. He knew better than to celebrate early. The Dothraki might be trapped and losing, but they were not broken yet.

But they would be.

By the time the sun rose, he intended to be standing over a field of corpses, horses and men alike. If Daenerys Targaryen showed up, she would be met with the scorpions.

But just as he imagined the bolts tearing through her dragon’s wings, his eyes caught flickers of firelight scattered across the ridges and hilltops. His chest tightened.

The lights were coming from the very locations where the scorpions had been hidden.

He turned sharply to his captain and barked, “What is that? Why are they lit? Do they not know they are meant to remain hidden?”

The captain blanched. “They do. I… I’ll send word to put them out immediately.”

The captain turned on his heel and hurried toward the edge of the camp. But an arrow hissed through the air and struck him cleanly through the face, killing him instantly.

Before Lord Hawick could even process what had happened, shouting erupted from the darkness. A small company of armoured men burst into the camp, cutting down Lord Hawick’s stunned guards with brutal efficiency.

Panic spread and the men scrambled to fight back, but it was too late and their shaken spirits had slowed them. They fell one after another, slain in mere moments.

Lord Hawick backed away, reaching for his sword, only to find himself surrounded. Blades pointed at his throat and chest. The firelight danced in the eyes of the soldiers encircling him, but their sigils were not visible in the dark.

“Who are you?” Lord Hawick snarled, rage and fear mixing in his voice. “What House do you serve? By whose command do you dare attack me?”

A soldier stepped forward, face half-covered by a soot-streaked helm. The soldier reached for the horn strapped to Lord Hawick’s belt and pulled it off him before he could react. Then before he could say or do anything else, darkness took him.

*******

Dawn broke, faint light filtering weakly into the woods.

The cries of battle have now become ragged screams of pain and desperation.

The Dothraki were struggling. Their horses were all but useless on the uneven, root-cluttered ground. The trees slowed the horses’ movements and broke their lines apart. Forced to dismount and fight on foot, they slashed and struck with all the fury of their warrior spirit, but the terrain favoured the Riverlands men. Well-aimed arrows struck from the trees above, taking them out one by one. Spears thrust through the underbrush, striking at the Dothraki from cover. For every man they killed, another came at them from behind a tree or from high in the branches.

They had held their ground for hours, but their defeat was becoming closer and increasingly inevitable with each passing moment.  

“We must retreat!” Kovarro called, blocking a spear with his arakh. “We’ll be slaughtered here!”

Aggo growled, jaw clenched, eyes burning with fury. “No! We are Dothraki! We fight! For the Queen!”

But before another word could be said, an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He staggered. Then a second arrow punched into his stomach. He growled and clutched at the wound, blood seeping through his fingers.

Suddenly, a horn blast split the air. The sound was loud and deep, echoing through the trees. The Riverlands soldiers froze at the horn blast, and their commanders exchanged uncertain glances for a split second before they began shouting.

“Retreat! Pull back!”

Confusion spread among the Riverlands forces as they stopped their attack and withdrew from the woods.

This time, the Dothraki did not give chase. They were too spent, and too many of them had died in this ambush. They had learnt their lesson.

Kovarro sighed in relief, collapsing next to a still bleeding Aggo who had pulled the arrows out from his body and spat blood into the earth. The surviving Dothraki warriors sat on the ground too, taking a breather as they processed what had happened. Some others tried to calm their horses.

Then shuffling was heard and the Dothraki warriors tensed, their grip on their arakh tightening as they readied for another ambush.

But then, a small group of soldiers burst into the area. Their swords were drawn, but they did not attack. At their head stood a figure holding a war horn.

Kovarro’s breath shuddered, his chest tightening as his mind raced with questions. Was this the person who blew the horn and called away the Riverlands soldiers? Who were they? Why did they help them?

His eyes were then drawn to a banner the newcomers were bearing – a red three-headed dragon on black.

Then the sky darkened, and a familiar roar reverberated through the air.

Drogon swept over the treetops, and the Riverlands soldiers who had only just retreated, paled and panicked at the sight of the dragon. They ran faster, but no man or horse could outrun a dragon.

His jaws snapped open and a low guttural sound was heard before a torrent of black and red flames was unleashed, engulfing the fleeing Riverlands soldiers.

They screamed.

From the woods, the newly arrived soldiers looked on in awe. Even hardened men among them could not mask their astonishment.

Aggo lay weakly next to Kovarro, his eyes half-closed. “I failed,” he whispered. “I have nothing to show her… No victory won for her…”

His eyes shut, the roar of fire in his ears.

*******

The mood was subdued.

Three thousand riders had left Harrenhal in the dark. Now, only a thousand remained, most of them wounded. Aggo sat slumped, pale and sickly, blood drying across his torn leathers. Kovarro’s body had countless cuts and bruises, but none of them were fatal.

To avoid another ambush, the Dothraki had retreated from the forest and now rested on the open plains alongside their surviving horses. The less injured tended to their fellow warriors’ wounds.

Drogon landed thunderously. Daenerys dismounted, her eyes scanning the scattered remnants of her khalasar. She said nothing, only took in a deep breath before walking towards Aggo and Kovarro.

At her approach, Aggo lowered his gaze.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice restrained.

Aggo did not answer. Kovarro’s eyes darted between them. When it became clear that Aggo would not say anything, he decided to speak.

“We were ambushed,” he said quietly. “In the forest. They were waiting for us in there.”

Daenerys frowned. “Why did you go into the forest?”

Kovarro swallowed thickly. “The mudmen… they were defeated, and they fled into the forest…”

“They were defeated?” Daenerys turned and glanced at the battered remnants of her khalasar. They hardly looked like the victors.

When she arrived with Drogon, she had seen the Riverlands forces retreating in orderly fashion, nothing like the chaos or panic of a defeated, fleeing army. Drogon destroyed them then, and she had flown around the area, checking for any remnants of the enemy, but none were found.

It did not take her long to connect the dots.

Her riders had engaged the enemy and routed them. When the enemy fled into the woods, her riders had likely pursued, only to walk straight into an ambush.

It was likely the defeat was faked to lure them into the woods. Or perhaps they were made up of a force willing to sacrifice their lives to draw her riders in for the killing.

She clenched her fists.

She had warned them to be wary of traps, yet this had happened. She snapped her gaze to Aggo, whose head remained bowed. He still had not spoken a word.  

“I shall speak to the both of you after we returned to Harrenhal,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Kovarro murmured, his head lowered in shame.

Footsteps approached.

Daenerys turned to see a soldier making their way forward, cautiously. A few others followed behind, while more stood afar, casting glances between her and Drogon with thinly veiled awe.

The soldier had a war horn strapped to their belt. But more than that, the men carried a Targaryen banner. Worn, but still recognisable.

Daenerys watched them cautiously. She did not know them – they carried the Targaryen banner but no sign of their own House sigil. The only lords who had declared for her were House Velaryon and House Celtigar, and neither had said they would be sending men to her.

“You are…?”

The soldier with the war horn stepped forward and removed their helmet, then bowed respectfully.

“I am Marissa Frey, here at your service, Your Grace.”

“Frey? As in House Frey?” Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “I had received no word from House Frey. Are you here in their stead?”

“I am indeed of House Frey, Your Grace, but I am not representing them,” Marissa paused, lifting her eyes to meet Daenerys’. “I represent House Darry.”

Daenerys’ heart skipped a beat at the name Darry.

“Darry?” Daenerys’ voice raised slightly. “Why is a Frey representing House Darry? I’ve heard… I’ve heard that House Darry was no more.”

“Only by the male line, Your Grace,” Marissa replied solemnly. “My mother, Lady Mariya Darry, became the head of House Darry after the male line perished. My father is Merrett Frey of House Frey.”

She paused briefly before continuing. “I have several siblings, Your Grace. But only my elder sister and I still live. She will inherit from my father. I, as the younger daughter, carry the burden of House Darry.”

Daenerys turned her eyes to the worn Targaryen banner, its three-headed red dragon fierce against the faded black.

“When the usurper’s forces were about to attack Dragonstone, Ser Willem Darry took Viserys and I away, then raised us until he passed away,” she said quietly. “He saved our lives.”

A pause.

“He was always kind to me.”

She looked back at Marissa. “Viserys always believed House Darry will rise for us when we return to Westeros. Seems like he was right.”

Marissa nodded her head. “House Darry stood by House Targaryen during Robert’s Rebellion, Your Grace. We lost nearly everything for it. Land, men, and our standing among the Riverlords.”

She boldly gazed into Daenerys’ eyes. “And then Joffrey Baratheon gave what little remained to the Lannisters. We fight not only for old loyalties, Your Grace, but for the revival of House Darry. I would have come to Your Grace three years ago, but I was too young back then and House Frey was in a mess so I couldn’t.”

Then she gestured to the surrounding hills. “The Riverlands forces here were led by the Lord of House Hawick. They concealed scorpions across the ridges and hilltops, all aimed to strike at your dragon the moment you arrived. I sent men to each of the hidden positions to disable them quietly. Then I slipped into Lord Hawick’s camp, killed him, and took his war horn.”

A faint gleam entered her eye as she patted the war horn strapped to her belt.

“I used it to sound a retreat. The ambush force in the woods fell back as ordered.”

Kovarro spoke up then. “It’s true. It was right after the horn sounded that they pulled back.”

Daenerys looked between the wounded and ashamed Kovarro and the proud Marissa. Then her gaze returned to the Targaryen banner once more.

A faint smile broke on her face.

“As the descendant of a House that remained loyal in our darkest hour, and as the first from the Riverlands to rise for me now, I will not forget House Darry’s name.”

She now spoke loud and clear, so that all might hear her.

“When I sit on the throne, I will see that House Darry is restored and rewarded handsomely. For without House Darry, I would not be here.”

Marissa’s eyes turned red with emotion. Then she went down on a knee, and her men followed suit.

“And I, Marissa Frey-Darry, swear fealty to the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms – Daenerys Targaryen.”

*******

The sun was descending when Daenerys returned to Harrenhal on horseback. Behind her rode what remained of the riders who rode out to the first muster point, bloodied and silent. Drogon swept overhead, and the ground shook slightly when he landed at his usual spot.

The Dothraki who had stayed behind watched, their eyes widening at the sight before them. The proud riders who rode into the night now returned battered, their ranks thinned and spirits heavy.

Despite Daenerys announcing the victory at both muster points, the Dothraki knew better. It was her who won the battles, not the riders.

Among the Dothraki, no one spoke of victory.

After ensuring that the wounded and the newcomers were given rest and food, Daenerys retreated to her room to rest, with the three juvenile dragons rushing to her upon seeing her.

It was only in the morning when she learnt that Aggo had cut off his braid.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before sending word to Aggo and Kovarro to meet her in the war room.

She waited patiently in the war room. Missara and Joragon lazed on the table while Aerax sat next to Daenerys’ left foot.

The door opened. Aggo and Kovarro strode in and bowed their heads to Daenerys. Her eyes flicked to Aggo’s cut hair, no longer braided and adorned with trinkets of past kills, before settling on his hardened face.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“It is our way, my queen,” Aggo grunted. “I led my men into defeat.” His eyes flicked to Kovarro for a moment before returning to meet Daenerys’. “You told us to be careful of traps. Kovarro counselled me against pursuing the enemy. I listened to neither of you. My braid has no honour, and keeping it dishonours me further.”

Daenerys studied him for a moment then sighed.

“Even in your defeat, you fought bravely. You held the line and did not run. You bled for your brothers. That is honour, Aggo. Not all losses are shameful.” Then her tone sharpened, but only a little. “You led the khalasar in my absence. You know the weight of leadership, perhaps even better now. Your men followed you without question. Leadership is not only about fighting, but also about knowing when not to fight.”

Aggo remained silent, his head lowered.

“I shall reorganise the khalasar. But from this day onwards, Kovarro will take command,” she said authoritatively, “And Aggo, you shall be reassigned to defend Harrenhal until further notice. It is no lesser task. Harrenhal must not fall while I am away.”

Both men knelt. “Yes, Khaleesi,” they said in unison.

Daenerys nodded. She picked up Aerax and stepped out of the war room. Missara and Joragon got up and followed her hurriedly.

Now that her business with Aggo and Kovarro had concluded, it’s time to face him again.

*******

As Daenerys approached the shelter, Rian, who was seated on a stool sharpening his blade, stood up at the sight of her.

“Welcome back, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you, Rian,” she replied, her gaze shifting to the tent flaps. “How is he?”

“Silent. And maybe groaning every now and then in his sleep,” Rian shrugged. He looked at her for a moment. “Are you planning to speak to him?”

Daenerys glanced at him briefly then stepped forward, parted the tent flaps apart and entered the shelter.

Jon was lying on his side when he heard footsteps approach. He looked up and his eyes widened when he saw her. With a grunt, he sat upright, his gaze flicking between her, the three young dragons surrounding her feet, and Rian, before finally settling on her.

“With whom did you fight a war with?” he asked, his voice trembling. “And… is it true? Is it true that you burnt Winterfell?”

Daenerys shot Rian a sharp, irritated glance, to which he quickly looked away from. Then she returned her gaze to Jon.

“I did,” she replied simply, “You, a man of the North from Winterfell, murdered me. Then Sansa Stark declared independence, without my blessing, of course. And Bran Stark took the throne that was mine. It’s only natural that House Stark should pay for these crimes.”

“No… no!” a broken roar tore from Jon’s throat, raw with grief. “No!”

“Tch,” Rian scoffed from behind her. “Why are you being so dramatic? Her Grace didn’t kill Sansa Stark, and Winterfell was really only half-roasted.”

“There are innocent people in Winterfell!” Jon spat, his eyes red with grief. “Innocent lives that had nothing to do with your vendetta with me or anyone else!” He breathed heavily. “You… you did it again. What you did at King’s Landing… you’ve done it again. To Winterfell…”

Daenerys stared at him, unmoved. “Being a traitor is costly, Jon.”

He stared at her, his mouth gaped. The shelter was silent. So silent they could hear a pin drop. Then finally, Daenerys broke the silence.

“I’m still deciding what to do with you,” she said quietly, though her violet eyes were steeled. “I should have you executed, but...”

You can’t bear to kill him, or do you think execution is letting him off too easily? the voice whispered.

Daenerys turned to leave.

“Daenerys, stop!” Jon shouted, his voice guttural.

A dangerous gleam flashed in Rian’s eyes as he stepped in. “You do not command her.”

Jon gritted his teeth. He hated how defenceless he was. How he could not get any meaningful response from her. But most of all…

He hated how she looked at him. How she spoke to him.

As though he no longer meant anything to her. As though he wasn’t worth speaking to. As though she didn’t even want to look at him.

“It’s true. What Tyrion said about you…” Jon said, his voice low and trembling. “Everything he said about you was true.”

Daenerys stopped dead in her tracks, the tent flap half-raised by her hand. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her arm dropped slowly to her side as she turned back to him, eyes narrowed.

“What did Tyrion tell you?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with uncertainty.

Jon’s breath shuddered as the memories surfaced. His body trembled as a hollow pain bloomed in his chest.

“He said you murdered men wherever you went. That the Meereenese nobles were crucified. That Dothraki khals were burned alive. But because they were evil men… you grew more certain you were right. That you always knew who deserved to die. And that certainty would one day turn on the rest of us.”

Daenerys and Rian stared at him.

“Meereenese nobles?” Rian said in disbelief. “Do you even know who they were? Why fear her killing them, unless you were one of them?”

“The point is that she became too sure of herself. So sure that if she decided to kill anyone, for any reason, she’d believe she’s in the right even if she wasn’t!” Jon snapped. “And that was exactly what happened in King’s Landing. In Winterfell!”

Daenerys’ stomach turned to ice. “Did he truly say all that? Was that why you decided to murder me?” she whispered.

Jon didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes was answer enough.

Daenerys clenched her fists, her blood boiling with rage. So this was what Kinvara meant when she said Tyrion orchestrated her death. She never could have imagined the extent of Tyrion’s betrayal.

“Jon,” she said, stepping forward as she restrained her fury. “You led your people for a while. When you fought your enemies, did you treat it like it was a game? One where no one died? Where no sacrifices were made?”

Jon frowned. “What are you...”

“I tried diplomacy many times, Jon,” she cut in, her voice cold and lethal. “I tried it with the slavers. I tried it with the khals. With House Tarly. With Cersei Lannister.”

Her violet eyes blazed. “Diplomacy was always my first choice. But what was I supposed to do when we couldn’t agree on terms? When no one wanted peace? When they only wanted to harm me, rob me, lie to me, stab me in the back? When they killed those I loved? Was I to sit still and let it happen? No, Jon. Only a fool does that, and I’m no fool.”

She smiled bitterly. “But I supposed I was expected to be one.”

Jon’s breathing became heavier as he stared at Daenerys, unsure of what to say. But she knew what she wanted to say.

"Yes, I had the slavers at Astapor slaughtered. But I also freed the people they enslaved, including the Unsullied, who chose to stay and fight for me. Yes, I crucified the Meereenese slavers. Did Tyrion tell you they were nobles?” She scoffed in disbelief. “Perhaps he thought slavers were noble. They crucified 163 slave children to mileposts, so I did the same to 163 of them. The children were not any less important than they were."

Jon’s face changed. A dreadful realisation dawned upon him. He closed his eyes.

“He told me…” he whispered. “He told me I’d be branded a traitor the moment I doubted the righteousness of your cause. That you’d kill me. Because I was a threat to your claim to the Iron Throne…”

Daenerys stared at him in disbelief. “He told you I’d kill you, and you believed that?”

Her voice trembled slightly, her chest hollowed by a heartbreaking pain. “Jon, I never harmed you. When you came to me about your true parentage, I asked you to keep it to yourself but you chose honesty instead. I told you it would hurt me but you didn’t care. You chose a path that you knew would harm me.”

She took a breath, the weight of those memories settling over her. “And then the story began to spread just as I warned. Because you talked. Your sisters talked. Varys began to undermine me in favour of you, and he tried to murder me. You harmed me.”

She shook her head, her voice now becoming quiet, bitter and full of pain.

“And yet, after all that, I did nothing to you. But what of you, Jon? What did you do? You didn’t protect me. You didn’t defend me. Instead, you acted like we were strangers.”

She inhaled sharply and her voice hardened. “A true tyrant would have seen all of that as treason. A true tyrant would have had you arrested and executed. But I didn’t. I never hurt you. I never even threatened you.”

Her violet eyes simmered with fury.

“And what did I do to you in the throne room at King’s Landing, Jon? I offered you love and hope. But you?” She placed a hand on her chest. “You stabbed me. In the heart. So yes, Jon. You were a threat to me. But not in the way you thought. And I, was never a threat to you until you made me into one.”

She stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“And Winterfell paid the price.”

Jon sat frozen, his breathing uneven.

The shelter was quiet again. Rian’s eyes were fixed on him like daggers. Daenerys was no longer speaking, but her voice echoed in his mind.

He had thought the very moment he murdered her was the betrayal. But it wasn’t.

He had long betrayed her. When he chose to share his parentage, despite her plea. When he failed to protect and defend her. When he let Tyrion speak poison into his ear and listened. When he stopped seeing her as Daenerys, pulled away from her and started seeing her as a threat.

Even when she had done nothing to him.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. The silence stretched on.

Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“But what you did was still wrong,” he murmured. “What you did at King’s Landing. At Winterfell. The innocents. The children. They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t part of the war.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes.

“Even if you weren’t who I feared back then… you are now.” His voice cracked. “You’ve become what I was afraid you would be.”

Rian stepped forward with a fiery glare but Daenerys stopped him with a simple gesture of her arm.

“I know what I did at King’s Landing,” she said quietly. “And I’ve no intention of letting it happen again.”

Jon swallowed hard. “But Winterfell…”

Daenerys cut him off sharply. “Do you realise Westeros and I are in a war again because of you? If you had kept your silence like I asked, none of this would have happened. I was plotted against because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Varys tried to murder me. Sansa Stark betrayed me. Bran Stark usurped me. And it all began with you.”

Her hand caught his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“More people are dead now, and more will die, because of your arrogance. Because of your so-called honour. Because of your stupidity. So don’t you dare lecture me about righteousness, Jon Snow.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice sharpened. “You are not innocent. And you are not half as honourable as you think you are.”

Jon opened his mouth, as if to speak.

Mongrel, the voice growled.

"Mongrel,” Daenerys spat, casting his face aside with a sharp flick of her hand. “You are neither wolf nor dragon.”

Jon stared at her, slack-jawed, his expression caught somewhere between shock and grief, struck wordless by the wound her words had left.

Rian let out a whistle, his lips curling in amusement.

Daenerys turned and left the shelter, Missara and Joragon trailing behind her.

Aerax lingered, staring at Jon for a moment. Then he snarled, spreading his wings with a sudden flare.

Jon flinched, pulling back instinctively, his breath catching.

But Aerax did nothing more. He held the stare for another moment, then folded his wings, turned, and padded after his mother and siblings with quick steps.

*******

Daenerys strode through the corridors, her mind alight with fury.

She had never known.

Never known how deeply Tyrion had twisted the truth. How he had manipulated Jon, her only surviving kin, and used him to murder her.

Her fists trembled with cold, contained rage.

She thought about how Daario had captured him and was now keeping him in custody. She could fly back to Meereen now and have him answer for his every lie, every betrayal.  

She stopped and placed a hand on the cold stone wall, while another was pressed to her forehead.

No. I must stay calm. I must be focused. I must complete my conquest. I must return to Meereen, to my people, as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And I must judge him as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Your Grace.”

Daenerys took a deep breath and turned.

It was Rian. Aerax rested in his arms, calm and relaxed, peering down at his siblings who stood at Daenerys’s feet.

“He let you hold him?” she asked, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Yes. He just… flew to my shoulder. I took the cue,” Rian replied. Then, with a rueful glance at Missara, he added, “Missara would never have done that.”

“She never would,” Daenerys said with a faint smile. “Neither would Joragon.”

Then her thoughts shifted.

“You are here. Who’s watching Jon Snow?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Rian reassured. “The tent’s guarded by ten warriors. And bound as he is, he’s not going anywhere.”

Daenerys nodded. “Is something the matter? Or have you come to return Aerax?” she asked, reaching out to take the young dragon from his arms.

“Actually, yes.” Rian’s expression brightened. He reached into his coat and produced two letters, offering them to her once she had gently placed Aerax on the floor beside his siblings.

“We received these shortly after you left,” he said.

Daenerys turned the letters over in her hands. One bore a seal pressed in orange wax, stamped with a sun pierced by a spear. The other was sealed in pale blue wax, marked with a crowned fox seated beneath a flowering tree.

“I’ll read these in my room,” she said, carefully tucking the letters away.

She paused for a moment as she looked at Rian.

This brave, loyal guard that Daario had forced onto her in Meereen. They hadn’t known each other for long, but they had formed a strong bond through their journey from Meereen to Valyria, then all the way to the Iron Islands, and now here, to Harrenhal. He had seen and heard much since his time at Meereen. And she wondered if he had anything to say. Anything he might have in his mind, just that he wasn’t sharing them.

Just like Jon.

“Rian.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She met his gaze. “I told you before that I’ve killed innocents. And now you’ve heard the story from the other side. From Jon Snow.”

She drew in a breath.

“Do you still want to serve me? Do you wish to? You can leave if you want to.”

Rian blinked. A look came over his face. One she hadn’t seen since Valyria.

Fear.

“Are you dismissing me, Your Grace?” he asked with a sniff. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” Daenerys said quickly. “I just… I don’t want you to feel forced to stay, if you’ve found my methods… disagreeable.”

Rian’s eyes widened.

“You said I could speak freely if I disagreed with you. I haven’t, not because I’m keeping things to myself, but because I haven’t found anything I disagree with. Truly.”

He shook his head. “I’ve heard all that he said. But all it did was make me want to vomit.” His violet eyes blazed in fury. “The lies. His self-righteousness. His foolishness. His complete lack of understanding.”

He looked at her firmly. “Did Your Grace think I’d be affected by that? I may look soft, but I’m not soft. He looks tough, but he’s soft here.” He tapped his chest. “And here.” He tapped his head.

Daenerys let out a soft chuckle.

Rian straightened, then dropped to one knee without hesitation.

“I swore my eternal fealty to you in Meereen,” he said. “And I shall do it again.”

His eyes met hers.

“I swear eternal loyalty to you, my Queen, Daenerys Targaryen. I shall never, ever betray you. And I swear to always be truthful and honest to you, no matter the cost.”

Daenerys felt a warmth stir in her chest. This oath, spoken so simply, meant more than he could know.

She stepped forward and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“I accept your vow, Rian,” she said quietly. “And I will remember it.”

He bowed his head, and for a moment, her heart eased.

Chapter Text

Daenerys shuts the door softly behind her. She gently placed Missara, Joragon, and Aerax on her bed, then smiled as she watched them.

“The three of you should be with Drogon. Living indoors is not the best for your growth,” she murmured.

The three young dragons blinked at her innocently.

She sighed.

“We’ll see. Perhaps another week or two and I’ll send you to Drogon.”

She turned and went to the desk, sitting down. She took out the two letters that Rian had given to her. She broke the seal for the letter pressed in orange wax.

She began reading the letter.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen,

Greetings.

I am Quentyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear. You do not know me, but I know of you.

I am the younger son of my father, the late Prince of Dorne, Doran Martell.

I was squired to a vassal House when the Sand Snakes betrayed and slaughtered my family. Thankfully, the House I served remained loyal and hid me, keeping me safe while the Sand Snakes seized control of Dorne and ruled. I returned to claim my birthright after the treacherous Sand Snakes were eradicated.

I have received your missive and I wish to formally inform you that Dorne shall declare neutrality.

Due to the recent history between our Houses and the political turmoil caused by the Sand Snakes’ treachery, Dorne is in no position to participate in any war, nor do we wish to be drawn into any new conflict.

I hope you understand.

Yours faithfully,
Quentyn Martell

Daenerys exhaled.

“Recent history”. Two simple words, yet they carried the weight of personal pain, betrayals, and bloodshed. For House Targaryen. For House Martell. For Westeros. And even for the Sand Snakes.

She reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped a quill into ink as she prepared a response.

Prince Quentyn,

Greetings, and thank you for your letter.

I accept your declaration of neutrality. As promised, there shall be no demands nor consequences for your stance.

You have my heartfelt congratulations on reclaiming your birthright and restoring House Martell. It is a feat I, too, am striving to achieve for House Targaryen. I hope this war shall end swiftly, sparing Westeros further uncertainty and bloodshed.

Once the war is over and I have reclaimed the throne from the Usurper, I look forward to meeting you officially when the Lords and Ladies of the realm gather.

Until then, I wish you and Dorne peace and prosperity.

Yours sincerely,
Daenerys Targaryen

She sealed the letter in the hot red wax of her House and set it aside.

Then she reached for the letter from the Reach, sealed in pale blue wax. She broke the seal, unfurled the letter and began to read.

To Your Grace, Queen Daenerys Targaryen,

Greetings from Brightwater Keep.

I am Alekyne Florent, Lord of House Florent.

Allow me to speak plainly. House Florent shall declare neutrality in the present war. We will not take up arms against you. If we do muster, rest assured it is not in opposition to your cause.

We recognise that you may soon claim the throne. When that day comes, we shall serve, but our loyalty must be earned and our standing restored.

House Florent has been passed over twice for the rulership of the Reach, though our claim was strong. The first occurred during the Conquest, when House Tyrell, mere stewards, were raised to the lordship of Highgarden and named Lord Paramount of the Reach.

We now see the same pattern with Bran Stark, who appointed Bronn of the Blackwater, a mere sellsword, to the lordship of Highgarden after the fall of House Tyrell, and it is rumoured that he might soon become the Lord Paramount of the Reach. This is a grave insult to every noble house in the region.

When Your Grace ascends to the throne, House Florent will not oppose you. But do not expect our loyalty unless you redress these long-standing wrongs. Should you name me Lord Paramount of the Reach, you shall have not only our swords but also our lasting allegiance.

This is not an idle ambition. My claim is supported by two of the most ancient and noble houses of the Reach, House Hightower and House Redwyne, whose seals accompany mine below. And I believe Your Grace shall hear from them soon.

May wisdom guide your decisions.

Alekyne Florent
Lord of House Florent

Daenerys looked down at the bottom of the letter, where the sigils of House Florent, House Hightower, and House Redwyne were stamped in wax, just as Alekyne had claimed.

A little insolent, don’t you think? the voice whispered in amusement. Challenging you when you could simply burn them down.

He knows I can’t, since he is declaring neutrality and I have promised no consequences for that, Daenerys replied silently.

She set the letter aside. She would wait for the letters from Houses Hightower and Redwyne to arrive before composing a response.

*******

In the next several days, more letters arrived, delivered by ravens. They came from the Houses of the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Crownlands.

Daenerys opened the letters from the Reach first.

The Reach Houses had declared neutrality. But among them, both Houses Hightower and Redwyne formally endorsed Alekyne Florent’s claim to the title of Lord Paramount of the Reach, legitimising the claims in his letter.

She wrote a response letter to him:

Lord Alekyne of House Florent,

Greetings, and thank you for your letter.

I accept your declaration of neutrality.

I have also decided to uphold your claim for the title of Lord Paramount of the Reach, a title I shall confer upon you after I have dealt with Bran the Usurper and formally reclaimed the throne.

You have my promise. In return, I expect you to uphold yours.

I wish House Florent and the Reach peace and prosperity.

Yours sincerely,
Daenerys Targaryen

She sealed the letter with and set it aside. Then she began to open the other letters.

From the Crownlands, Houses Sunglass, Bar Emmon, Massey, Rosby and Staunton had declared allegiance to her.

She smiled.

More good news, at last.

Perhaps House Velaryon’s declaration of allegiance had pushed them to follow into the same position.

From the Westerlands, the Houses who replied also declared neutrality.

The mass neutrality did not surprise her. No one wanted to stand against a dragon, but few dared to stand beside one either. Any ally of hers would be marked a traitor should Bran Stark prevail, because victory was not guaranteed even with a fully grown dragon at her side.

For she did not have hardened scales to deflect swords and arrows, nor the ability to release dragonfire. She was much more vulnerable than any dragon.

Jon Snow had taught her that lesson three years ago.

But it was alright.

Every alliance she failed to gain was also one that Bran Stark failed to secure. And unlike her, he had no standing army. He might have scorpions, but she could destroy them. Just as she had at High Heart. Just as she had at King’s Landing, three years ago.

One by one, she wrote back, acknowledging and accepting their declared stances.

By the time she was finished, it was late afternoon. She tied each letter carefully to the ravens’ legs and released them, watching as they disappeared into the horizon.

She smiled faintly, resting her hands on the heads of her young dragons.

She had not felt this hopeful since the day she awoke on the cold stone floor of the Red Temple in Volantis.

After sending off the letters, Daenerys changed into her training garb and made her way to the yard.

For an hour, she moved through drills – footwork, blade work, balance. Her muscles ached and her lungs burned, but she welcomed the strain. It reminded her that she was still alive, still fighting, still shaping her future with every movement.

Rian was not here to teach her, but the voice was. It was incredibly critical, but taught her it did, and it corrected every minuscule mistake she made.

But then again, she had asked for it.

Daenerys had started to feel the strain halfway through the drills. And very nearly bored out of her mind.

How did people even get through such training? How did Rian do this? There was nothing but physical exertion, repetition and pain. It was so physically draining that even her mind began to dull in exhaustion.

She was so tired and so bored she did the unthinkable – initiating a conversation with the voice in her head.

You are quiet.

Do you really want me to speak? the voice said in amusement.

Speak, by all means.

Your footwork is abysmal.

Daenerys paused then, drawing in deep breaths.

And your stamina is worse.

I can ride for hours without trouble, she retorted.

But you can’t fight. If not for that little magic trinket, you’d never have taken down Jon Snow on your own. You know that, right? the voice said almost tauntingly. How many times did you have to hit him in the face to knock him out, hmm?

Daenerys shut her eyes. She hated how she had no answer.

Now. Train. Harder.

So Daenerys continued to train. Hard.

She no longer responded to the voice, but it continued to critique, continued to mentor, continued to taunt.

When the sun dipped low, it finally fell silent. She set her practice blade aside and called for her dragons.

Missara, Joragon, and Aerax circled above her as she stepped into the field beyond the walls. They shrieked with delight at the open space and beat their wings in widening arcs. Daenerys stood beneath them with her eyes tracking their progress. She smiled in amusement as Aerax tried to copy Joragon’s sharp turn and nearly tumbled mid-air.

Eventually, they began to tire, wings dipping with exhaustion. She called them back with a whistle and turned toward the keep.

As she walked back through the lower courtyard, she passed the shelter that had become Jon Snow’s prison.

She did not slow. She did not glance toward it. She walked past without a thought.

*******

Location: Highgarden
Time: Noon

In the council chamber of Highgarden, Bronn stood at the edge of the table where a map of Westeros was unfurled. His eyes narrowed as his right-hand-man General Thorlen shifted the markers.

“The Houses have started mustering,” said General Thorlen, his voice tinged with relief.

He had witnessed first-hand the Reach Houses’ resistance to Bronn, even when Daenerys Targaryen’s presence once again threatened the peace of Westeros. Still, they had responded to Bran Stark’s command for them to muster. If all the Reach unite behind Bran Stark, even Daenerys Targaryen would hesitate. Surely she wouldn’t want to burn the food basket of Westeros.

“Took them long enough to remember whose side they are on, and whose side they should be on,” Bronn grunted, his mind already turning gears on how to command the Reach troops, defeat Daenerys and her allies, and finally become the Lord Paramount of the Reach as he deserved.

“They haven’t moved yet,” General Thorlen said. “Most of them are still raising levies and gathering arms. But two are already on the march.”

Bronn’s head lifted and he looked into Thorlen’s eyes. “Which ones?”

“House Florent and House Hightower. They are advancing on Highgarden, with House Florent’s banners already at Dunstonbury while House Hightower’s banners are halfway there.”

“Already?” Bronn frowned. “These two are suspiciously enthusiastic, considering how they had humiliated or ignored me for the past three years.”

“Well, this time it’s His Grace who called for them, so it’s understandable they’d answer,” Thorlen tried to explain but quieted down when Bronn shot him a sharp look.

Bronn stared at House Florent’s marker on the map.

“They had never been pleased at His Grace’s decision to make me Lord of Highgarden, so why would they answer his call so readily?” His gaze hardened. “Have the men ready. No gaps in the watch. Rotate shifts, always check the gates, and make sure everyone’s armed, not just polished up for a parade.”

Thorlen hesitated. “You think House Florent and House Hightower are up to something?”

Bronn drew a deep breath. “I cannot be sure, but it’d be good to be ready for anything.”

Thorlen’s eyes drifted to Harrenhal. “And the dragon?”

Bronn nodded. “The dragon, too, of course. Make sure the workers work harder to construct more scorpions and bolts. We’d need them if the Targaryen bitch decides to show up.”

“They are already working overtime with the construction, smithing, and shoring up of defences,” Thorlen hesitated. “They’d want to be paid more.”

“Do they want to work harder or be burnt into crisps?” Bronn snapped.

“I’d let them know, my Lord,” Thorlen said quickly. Then he bowed, turned and left the council chamber.

Bronn leaned against the wall and stared out of the window, into the blue skies and the lushing green fields. It seemed so peaceful, but he couldn’t help but feel his stomach twist in unease.

He had a nagging feeling that his main problem wasn’t going to be a dragon.

*******

Location: Riverrun
Time: Afternoon

Edmure sat at his council table, face pale as he read the latest reports. A quiet but restless murmur filled the chamber with heavy anxiety.

The two muster points had been destroyed. Wiped out mercilessly.

And the dragon had been so close to Riverrun at High Heart. Daenerys Targaryen could have easily flown over and burnt the third muster point down to the ground.

But she hadn’t.

Edmure wondered why. What trick was she playing at? Some show of mercy to turn the Riverlords to her side?

He looked up slowly, his fingers trembling. “There were no survivors?”

“None, my lord,” said Lord Blackwood, his loyal bannerman and commander. He was experienced and brave, but even now, his voice trembled. “Lord Hawick is dead, and so are the other lords at the two muster points.”

Edmure swallowed hard, his face paling further.

Word was already spreading across the Riverlands. The Riverlords were shaken. They were angry for losing their friends, kin and bannermen in the attacks, yes, but they were also afraid. Afraid of the devastation. Afraid that they might be next if they continued to resist.

And with the North already bent to Daenerys, loyalties would most certainly begin to split.

Edmure dared not look at the Riverlords’ faces, for fear of what he might see.

“She didn’t even give warning,” Lord Roote muttered. “She just burnt them.”

“She had no right to!” Lord Bracken shouted, his fist slamming the table.

“We mustered forces without declaring our allegiance. She might have taken that as a sign of challenge,” Lord Harlton spoke, his voice cautious. “And she wouldn’t be wrong. I’d wager she correctly deduced our intentions.”

“What do you mean?” Lord Bracken snarled. “You made it sound like we deserved it! Don’t forget, you lost your own kin at High Heart!”

“Stop!” Edmure thundered, his voice ringing through the chamber sharp and clear. “You’d tear each other apart before we even face her in war! Do not allow her this power!”

The chamber fell silent.

Before anyone could speak again, a servant arrived.

“My lords, Lady Marissa Frey has come to seek an audience.”

Edmure frowned. House Frey had rejected the call to muster, claiming they had yet to recover from the loss of Walder Frey and his sons. They had even politely declined to send a representative to attend this council meeting. So why had Lady Marissa, a surviving daughter of the Freys, come, and without prior notice?

“Tell her I will meet her later.”

The guard bowed. He had only just turned to leave when the doors were pushed open.

Marissa strode in. Unannounced. Without summon.

Edmure and the lords froze when they saw her.

Her hair was tied back in a messy braid. She wore light armour, a sword strapped to one hip and a war horn to the other. Her armour was stained dark in places that looked like dried blood, and mud tracked behind her with every step of her boots. She looked like she came straight from a battlefield and was here to deliver a war report, rather than attending a council meeting.

Her dark eyes swept across the lords seated around the table before settling on Edmure.

“Forgive my rudeness, Lord Tully. But I carry an important message that everyone here should hear.”

“How dare you, Lady Marissa?” Lord Blackwood rose, his face darkened with anger. “You were not summoned. And to bring a weapon with you is an affront.”

“I come with a message from Her Grace,” she cut him off. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“What?” Edmure leapt to his feet, his nostrils flaring. The Riverlords were similarly alarmed by her words, beginning to rise when she said sharply, “Stay where you are. I am Her Grace’s messenger. If I do not return to her safely, she will take this as an official declaration of war against her, and you know what that means.”

Her eyes swept across the chamber coldly. “Now sit down, my lords.”

Stunned by her boldness and warning, the Riverlords slowly sank back into their seats. Edmure, however, remained standing. He glared at Marissa.

“So House Frey betrays us once again?” he spat. “Mercy is wasted on Freys.”

“And? Is Lord Tully going to execute your wife Lady Roslin and your son with her – Lord Rymund?” Marissa said without blinking.

“You…” Edmure seethed.

“Anyway, there is a misunderstanding. I did not come here to represent House Frey, nor do my actions represent theirs. They have not declared their stance. But I have.”

She paused.

“For House Darry.”

The Riverlords gasped, murmurs rippling through the chamber once more.

Marissa ignored them. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a sealed parchment. Breaking the wax, she unfurled it and began to read its contents aloud.

“Lord Edmure Tully and the Lords of the Riverlands,

Weeks ago, I sent each of you a missive, asking you to bend the knee to me, your rightful Queen, and to raise your banners in my name. I received no reply.

Yet you raised your banners at three separate locations, one of which lies dangerously close to Harrenhal. At least two of these mustering points were equipped with scorpions.

I can only conclude that you have already chosen your ruler – Bran Stark the Usurper.

I have promised dragonfire to those who act against me. And so, I have destroyed two of your three muster points.

I left the third untouched to offer you a final chance. The last chance to make the correct and wise decision that will determine the fate of your Houses.

I demand to have your answer within three days. My messenger, Lady Marissa Frey-Darry of House Darry, has now seen all your faces. Through her, I shall know exactly where to strike and whom to spare.

But I must warn you, if Lady Marissa does not return to me safely, Riverrun shall be the first to burn.

Lord Edmure Tully, if you intend to oppose me in favour of your nephew, I suggest you begin evacuating civilians from Riverrun. The same applies to any lord who intends to declare for the Usurper.

Neutrality, if it is your choice, must be declared openly. But silence is not neutrality.

You raised your banners without a word. You armed yourselves without cause. You prepared scorpions with the intention to kill my dragon. Therefore, if I receive no response, I shall take it as your declaration for the Usurper.

Queen Daenerys I Targaryen.”

The chamber remained frozen for a long moment after Marissa’s voice fell silent.

The letter she held in her hand might as well have been fire.

Edmure’s jaw was clenched. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped the edge of the table.

“She speaks like a conqueror,” muttered Lord Vance. “Like Aegon the First reborn.”

“That is what she is,” said Lord Piper grimly. “A dragon has already come, and two of our muster points had burnt. She’s not bluffing.”

“She gives us three days,” Lord Bracken scoffed, rising to his feet. “Three days to grovel, bend the knee, and accept her so-called mercy. And we are to thank her for the privilege?”

“She left one of our muster points intact,” said Lord Harlton quietly. “You think that’s not a message? That she can destroy but also choose not to? That’s power.”

“Power?” Lord Blackwood’s expression hardened. “Or manipulation. That’s not mercy. It’s theatre. She could have sent ravens but she sent this girl instead, so we’d all see her sword and smile and wonder which one’s real.”

Marissa met his gaze evenly. “Letters carried by ravens can be intercepted or hidden. Not so easily if the message is delivered in person." She glanced at Edmure. "Imagine if I had spoken to Lord Tully in private and he chose to keep the message to himself."

That silenced the room, and the Riverlords' eyes drifted to Edmure whose face darkened.

"How dare you," he seethed. "You dare suggest I'd betray my own?"

Marissa smiled faintly. "That depends on how you define ‘my own’, Lord Tully. All of us here are of the Riverlands, but only one is directly related to Bran Stark."

Edmure felt the eyes on him grew heavier with doubt. He clenched his fists, then said in restrained fury, "You have delivered the message. Now leave."

Marissa bowed. "As you wish, my Lord." She strode to the chamber door, paused at it and turned. "I do hope all of you will make the right decision." 

Then she left, and the door closed with a creak. 

Edmure looked around at the lords. "She destroyed two of our muster points, killed our bannermen. Before that, her Dothraki raided us mercilessly, killing our people, raping our women. And some, I hear, were sold into slavery." He paused for a moment to allow the words to sink in. "And now, she sends us a threat to kneel or burn. Do we really want such a person to sit on the throne?"

There was cold silence in the room before Lord Lychester spoke, his voice slow and grim.

"The Dothraki's deeds were despicable indeed. But those were done in her absence. I've heard that recently captured villagers had been released by someone fitting her description." He looked into Edmure's eyes. "We did not respond to her missive. Then we raised banners and prepared scorpions. She read our intentions correctly. Do you truly think we can still pretend we’re neutral?”

Some lords looked away. Others bristled.

"She demands a decision now," Lord Harlton said. "Not just submission, but a path out. A second chance."

Lord Bracken spat on the floor. “We already chose. We chose the King. The true King.”

“And what has this true king done for us?” Lord Piper snapped. “Does he have a dragon? Where is his army, his support? Or are we supposed to burn while he sits his arse safely on that comfortable throne of his? He bled us out for the North, and the North has surrendered."

"The Reach is rallying, the Westerlands will soon join," Edmure said quickly.

"Will they? We haven't heard anything from them," Lord Piper spat angrily. "The Vale has a man sitting in the King's Small Council, and even so it has remained silent. We are the only ones who have bled and we risk burning. Alone." He glared at Edmure. "And what of Tyrion Lannister? Is he still missing? How do we know he has not gone to Daenerys Targaryen, grovelled for her forgiveness and is back on her council? And you, you are Bran Stark's uncle. You get to gain if he wins. But what of us? What do we get, other than our men's dead and burnt bodies?"

Edmure's face darkened and he drew in a deep breath. "Those are very serious accusations, Lord Piper. You've allowed Daenerys Targaryen to drive a wedge between us."

"And you've given us no answer! No way out of this!" Lord Piper slammed the table with his fists and leapt to his feet.

“Lord Piper, who do you think you are shouting at?!” Lord Blackwood growled, jumping to Edmure’s defence.

Edmure tried to stop them but his voice was drowned out by the Riverlords who had begun shouting at each other. 

He looked across the chamber at the quarrelling lords of the Riverlands, once so certain of their cause. And he knew then that the Riverlands' war with Daenerys Targaryen was over. 

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Night

Clouds hung over the moon in the blackened sky. Rian yawned and stretched, casting one last glance at the shelter before turning to the Dothraki warriors on guard.

“Keep a tight watch. Ring the bells if anything happens,” he instructed.

The leader of the guards nodded. “Understood.”

Inside the shelter, Jon lay motionless on a thin mattress.

Voices drifted through his mind like ghosts, one after another.

Next time we see each other, I'll tell you about your mother.

Your mother was Lyanna Stark. And your real father was Rhaegar Targaryen. You’ve never been a bastard. You’re Aegon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne.

Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it... until we start to fear for our own lives.

Sometimes, duty is the death of love.

You are the threat. You are a threat to her.

We can’t hide behind small mercies.

Her Grace burnt Winterfell and Sansa Stark bent her knee, begging for mercy.

You harmed me. I never hurt you. I never even threatened you. I was never a threat to you until you made me into one.

Mongrel. You are neither wolf nor dragon.

His head throbbed. His stomach twisted. His heart panged. His eyes burnt.

He remembered meeting Sansa at Winterfell. She had urged him to claim Drogon, before either of them had realised Daenerys was still alive. She had danced around his lineage, saying he was family, but then emphasising he was a Targaryen.

And now, the only other living Targaryen – his queen, his love, his aunt – had refused to acknowledge him.

She had called him a mongrel.

He shut his eyes. He should try to escape. Return to Tormund and the Free Folks. He knows he should.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t summon the strength. His limbs had been heavy ever since he saw Daenerys again. He didn’t think she had poisoned him or drugged him. It was simply his state now.

He was sinking deeper into distress when he heard a scream. Then shouts.

His eyes flew open, then snapped toward the tent flap.

The Dothraki warriors outside were shouting, their voices angry and startled. It was then he heard it – a low, threatening growl. He pushed himself up from the floor at once, his heart spinning into panic.

Ghost.

His loyal direwolf.

He had left him in the woods to infiltrate Harrenhal. But after missing for days, Ghost must have been worried. Perhaps sensed him in danger. Or knew he was trapped.

And now… Ghost had come for him.

“Run, Ghost! Run!” he bellowed.

But he heard only a furious bark, followed by angry shouts from the Dothraki warriors. Then sickening wet sounds, as though blades cutting through flesh.

“RUN! LEAVE ME!” Jon cried in desperation.

His heart sank when Ghost’s howls became more desperate and weaker, but never farther than just outside the shelter.

Then the bells rang.

*******

Location: ???
Time: ???

In a small hall, Daenerys sat at the dining table, quietly eating a bowl of meat stew.

She looked up startled when the door burst open with a loud crash. She froze when a man, his face and scalp ruined by molten gold, stood at the door. His wild, bloodshot violet eyes locked onto her with a harsh glare and a chill ran down her spine.

“You’ve woken the dragons, Dany.”

From behind him, he drew out the harpy’s fingers and lashed it towards her. Her first instinct was to reach for Dark Sister to block the whip, but it wasn’t at her side as it used to. She tried to duck, but the whip seemed to follow her, and in an instant, it coiled around her body.

The whip scorched her flesh and she screamed.

“Viserys! Stop! Let me go!”

But Viserys only laughed cruelly and yanked the whip.

She was thrown through the air.

The hall vanished. Viserys was gone. The harpy’s fingers were no longer wrapped around her.

Now she was in the sky above Meereen.

Her eyes widened as she saw a great white and silver dragon circling the Great Pyramid. Then it perched at the top and let out a fearsome roar that split the sky. On the balcony of the pyramid stood a silver-haired man. He stared at her and smirked as he waved.

She blinked and found herself at King’s Landing.

The city was whole again. The castle looked different and was redder than she remembered.

Two dragons – one crimson and gold, the other deep purple and blue – soared overhead. Their shadows loomed over the city. Riding atop them were two young women with silver-golden hair, laughing as they pulled at the reins.

Daenerys watched in awe as they dove and spun through the air, performing sharp turns and daring plunges, things she had never tried with Drogon.

She turned and found herself in a garden. The air smelled sweet with citrus. A lemon tree stood at the centre, with a small wooden bench beneath it.

At the far end of the garden stood a red door. Her eyes stung and her heart lurched at the sight of it. She stepped towards it but the door swung open first.

Three silver-golden-haired children – two girls and a boy – burst through, giggling and shrieking as they ran past her.

“How long before Mother notices we’ve slipped out of class?” laughed the smallest of them. She had the sharpest features and a mischievous gleam in her violet eyes.

“Before the hour is up!” the boy declared confidently.

“No. She’s tied up in the council,” the older girl said, trying to sound as adult as possible. “I’d say in another three hours.”

“I’d say at dinnertime,” the younger girl giggled.

Then the three turned towards Daenerys.

“Which of us is right?” they asked in unison. “Mother?”

Daenerys gasped and staggered back, a hand pressed to her chest where her heart thudded violently.

......

Her eyes snapped open.

She stared up at the canopy of her bed, gasping for breath. The room was dark. Someone was knocking rapidly at her door.

“Your Grace?” came Rian’s voice from outside.

Daenerys touched her face. It was wet. Her breath trembled as she slowly sat upright.

Once, life had been so hard she felt like she could die. It was her dreams that had saved her then, offering hope when nothing else could.

For years, she believed she could never have children. Sometimes when she was all alone, she had wondered where her path to restoring House Targaryen would lead to. No matter what she achieved, whether she succeeded or failed, she would still be the last of House Targaryen.

But now?

Her dreams had given her hope again.

She touched her belly.

Perhaps not all was lost. Perhaps there was still hope.

Another knock. This time more urgent.

“Your Grace?” Rian called again.

She drew in a deep breath.

“What is it?”

“There has been an accident.” A pause. “With Jon Snow.”

Daenerys turned sharply to the door.

Jon Snow.

Him again.

She clenched her fists.

What has this so-called nephew of hers done now?

Chapter Text

The night air was chilly, the stars twinkling in the sky.

Yet the smell of blood was unmistakeable as Daenerys strode into the field. Her Dothraki warriors stood around what looked like a large fallen dog, cursing and swearing about the “dog” as they sported scratches and bite marks, some shallow while others are bleeding and vicious. One of them sat at one side, blood soaking through his trousers as a Dothraki mender tended to him.

“What is this?” she asked.

“This thing came out of nowhere and attacked our warriors,” Rian explained. He paused then added, “It seems to be trying to rescue Jon Snow.”

Daenerys stared at Ghost, its white fur bloodied. It lay on the ground panting, its red eyes half-closed but still glaring around. This was no dog. It was far larger than any she had seen. And if it truly had tried to rescue Jon, then its intelligence, loyalty, and bravery surpassed that of any mere beast.

She glanced towards the shelter where Jon’s cracked voice could be heard through his cries.

“Don’t hurt him! Please don’t hurt him! Let him go! Please, Daenerys!”

Daenerys soured. He would plead for a “dog”. She wondered if he had pleaded as hard for her life to himself or to Tyrion when he was persuaded into killing her.

For months, since she had awakened in the cold stone chambers in the Temple of R'hllor, she had anticipated, even feared, a confrontation with Jon.

He was a man she trusted. Not just as a lover or a nephew, but as a man whom she thought would stand beside her always. A man who would hold her hand as she sat on the Iron Throne. The man she would marry and perhaps even have children with, if she could.

But none of that came to pass.

Because he put a dagger into her chest, ending her life amid a passionate kiss.

His betrayal had hurt her beyond words.

Daenerys had wanted to question him, scream at him, strike him. But after their confrontations, after having stared into his torn heart, she realised there was nothing more to say.

Even now, as his cries of anguish drifted into her ears, she felt no love, no anger, no hatred. Only a numbness that tugged gently at her heart for whatever’s left between them.

He might as well had been a stranger to her.

A thought suddenly popped into her mind.

How did I fall in love with him? Why did I even love him?

A chill ran down her spine as she realised she had no answer.

Had she changed to the point she couldn't understand her old self, or had she simply come to a realisation their love never made sense in the first place?

Daenerys didn't know, and she felt like she didn't want to know.

Still, she wasn’t without mercy, or appreciation for unique creatures capable of bonding and risking their lives for those they loved.

It’s a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, the voice offered. A unique creature indeed, but of course nothing comparable to our dragons.

Is it dangerous? Daenerys asked.

The voice replied evenly: Not to you. You have dragons. But the same can’t be said for your soldiers. Why? You want to keep it? It’s not exactly a dog.

She turned to Rian.

“Make sure the wounded are well taken care of,” she instructed. “As for the direwolf…” she looked again at Ghost, still panting and struggling for its life. “Muzzle it. Then have it treated and caged.”

Rian blinked in confusion. “You are not killing it?”

“Please spare him! Daenerys!” came Jon’s cry again from inside the shelter.

“Not yet,” she replied.

Rian’s eyes flickered to the shelter, then back to her. “Would you like to see him?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

She turned and walked away.

*******

“No.”

Daenerys’ answer came so swiftly it startled Rian. As he watched Daenerys walked away, a sense of satisfaction bloomed in his chest. He covered his mouth with a hand, hiding his curled lips.

Finally.

Finally, she had left that man behind in the past where he belonged.

Rian turned to glance at the shelter once more. As if Jon had sensed Daenerys’ departure, his incessant moaning had ceased. Rian smirked.

He must be wondering how he failed to manipulate Her Grace again. It’s harsh, but the world won’t change without blood. Jon Snow, you just wanted her to bleed for you, but not beside you or with you. But I shall bleed for her. Willingly. And beside her, if she’ll have me. And you shall be a forgotten footnote in her life story.

He turned to the Dothraki mender and issued instructions, then dispatched another uninjured warrior to find more menders and to deal with Ghost.

Finally.

*******

Location: Riverrun
Time: Noon

Riverrun’s city streets bustled with life as men and women worked and shopped, while children ran and shrieked in playful delight.

Everyone was busy.

So was Marissa Frey-Darry, in her own way.

For days, she had stayed in secret, quietly observing. She had watched the ravens depart Riverrun, each one flying in the direction of Harrenhal. Now, she sat at a table by the window of a local tavern, strategically positioned near the city gate. It was a prime location for business, but more importantly, it gave her a clear view of comings and goings.

Like how she had just seen several Riverlords leave the city almost hurriedly. Most notable among them were Lord Piper and Lord Harlton.

She smiled beneath the shadow of her hood as she lifted a mug of beer to her lips.

“Marissa, remember this: if Edmure Tully shows no signs of surrendering yet does not evacuate his people, then you must warn them in his stead.”

That was what Daenerys had told her before sending her to Riverrun.

Her gaze drifted to the city’s bell tower, tall and unmistakable even from her seat.

Her thoughts shifted to the papers hidden in a secret sewn pocket within her cloak – proclamations she had prepared in advance. They warned of an impending dragon attack should Edmure Tully refuse to surrender, urging the people to flee the city for their own safety.

She narrowed her eyes, locking her focus on the bell tower.

That would be a good place to start.

*******

Location: Highgarden
Time: Evening

General Thorlen stepped into the grand hall and bowed to Bronn, who sat at the table downing his third glass of wine.

“My Lord, the Florents and Hightowers have sent another request to enter Highgarden to rest for the night.”

Bronn scoffed. “They must think I’m stupid just because I used to be a sellsword.” He took a huge bite from a chicken thigh and spoke through his chewing. “The answer is still no. Tell them to camp in the open field east of Highgarden. It’s not too far away. They can get there and set up camp before nightfall.”

General Thorlen hesitated. “This would be the third time we have turned them away, my Lord. They are already disgruntled. I fear this third rejection would anger them more.”

Bronn flung the bone onto his plate.

“They are already angry, Thorlen. They have been angry for the past three years.”

He wiped his oil-slicked hands with a cloth, then lifted his eyes and fixed them on Thorlen.

“Their insistence on getting inside Highgarden only makes their intentions clearer.” He tossed the cloth aside. “They’re here to take it.”

General Thorlen stiffened.

“You think that’s their intention?”

“Oh, I don’t think it, Thorlen. I know it.”

Bronn rose from his seat.

“And after that, who knows? Is Highgarden the price for backing His Grace? Or will they bend the knee to the Targaryen bitch, with Highgarden as their loot?” He gritted his teeth. “Whatever it is, I’d be a bloody fool to let them in.”

“If you are right, this is treason,” General Thorlen said in a low voice. “We must alert His Grace.”

“Go ahead,” Bronn said with a careless shrug. General Thorlen glanced at him worriedly before he bowed and left to send a raven to King’s Landing.

Bronn stared into the hearth’s flames. So much had changed in three years. Even more in recent months.

Tyrion was still missing. And nothing had been the same since his disappearance.

Aldric had sent spies to Meereen but there had been no word. Either Tyrion wasn’t there, or Meereen was hiding him well.

Bronn forced himself to focus on the more immediate problem – the looming threat of a siege by the combined forces of House Florent and House Hightower.

If they did lay siege, how long could he hold Highgarden before the inevitable? And would the Reach be counted as lost to Bran?

“Fuck this shit… I didn’t sign up for this…” Bronn muttered under his breath.

He sat down heavily and snapped his fingers at a nearby servant.

“Bring me another plate. Now!”

*******

By nightfall, Bronn received reports that the Florent and Hightower banners had set up camps east of Highgarden.

Satisfied, he changed into his nightwear and went to bed.

As the hours passed and the guards rotated shifts, something began to shift in the air.

The fresh guards looked at each other and nodded, their expressions grim and eyes filled with quiet resolve. They moved to the city gates, gripped the handles, and pulled.

The great doors groaned open.

Waiting outside was a host of armed men. They marched into Highgarden without a word. The guards bowed their heads solemnly, but their eyes gleamed with hope.

Bronn was still asleep when the doors to his bedchamber burst open. His eyes flew open, and he instinctively reached for the sword propped beside his bed.

“My Lord!” Thorlen panted.

“What in the Seven Hells, Thorlen?” Bronn almost shouted, but the general looked flustered and dishevelled, nothing like the composed man he usually was. That was when Bronn knew something had gone terribly wrong.

“We’ve been betrayed, my Lord!” Thorlen said, breathless. “The guards opened the gates to the Florent and Hightower forces! They’re taking over Highgarden!”

“The f–” Bronn swore. “I knew it! Those bastards! What about our soldiers?"

"They..." Thorlen struggled to get the words out. "They have surrendered without a fight. Many have even joined the enemies' ranks." 

Before Bronn could blow up further, he urged, "We have to leave now, my Lord! If they capture you…”

Bronn didn’t wait for him to finish. He slipped into his boots, hurriedly put on a simple shirt and drew his sword.

“I'm not going to let them capture me. How many loyal men do we have?” he demanded.

“Not enough to fight them,” Thorlen admitted. “And they are already inside the city…”

“Fuck!” Bronn cursed furiously.

Highgarden, lost right under his nose.

While he was asleep.

Him, betrayed by his own men.

Rage pulsed through his blood as he realised there was nothing he could do now except flee.

“Curse those Florent and Hightower swine…!” he growled under his breath. “I shall not forget this!”

Bronn and Thorlen slipped through the servants’ corridors, moving swiftly and silently through the halls. The distant echo of boots and shouted orders grew louder with each passing moment. Highgarden was falling, room by room.

They emerged into the stables, where a few loyal retainers had already saddled the fastest horses.

“Where to?” Thorlen asked as they mounted.

“To King’s Landing,” Bronn growled. “His Grace must hear of this despicable treachery.”

He cast one last look at the towering spires of Highgarden silhouetted against the moonlit sky. His jaw clenched and he tightened his grip on the reins.

“I’ll return one day and skin these traitors myself.”

Then he spurred his horse, and they rode off into the night.

*******

Location: King’s Landing
Time: Morning

The mood in the small council chamber was grim.

Reports of Highgarden’s fall had arrived at dawn, and the lords gathered around the table wore strained expressions. House Florent and House Hightower had seized the castle without bloodshed, aided by traitors within the city walls.

Yohn Royce’s face was stone, his heavy brows furrowed as he sent a harsh glare towards Bronn, who had managed to make his way back to King's Landing safely.

“You were supposed to march with the Reach’s banners. Yet you had Highgarden stolen from right under your nose.”

Bronn bristled at Yohn’s accusing tone and words.

“This was a problem I raised long before war reached us,” Bronn snarled. “I told the council repeatedly that the Reach houses won’t listen to me. Particularly the Florents, Hightowers and the Redwynes. So what a surprise they did this!”

He turned to Bran. “This could have been prevented if I had been made Lord Paramount of the Reach. I could have taken those fools to task!”

“You think that would solve your problems?” Yohn shot back.

“Then what would?!” Bronn almost shouted. “They were already traitors who not only stole Highgarden from me but also declared neutrality! So don’t you dare put this on me.”

Yohn clenched his jaw then ignored him. Instead, he turned to Bran. “This has seriously affected the crown’s war efforts. The Riverlands’ forces have been defeated on two fronts even before they marched. The most powerful Houses in the Reach have taken Highgarden and declared neutrality, and it’s without doubt the other Reach houses will soon follow their lead. The Stormlands and Dorne have also declared neutrality. Westerlands are doing the same. And the Crownlands…” He bit his lower lip. “Several Houses have outright declared for Daenerys Targaryen. The situation is nothing short of perilous.”

“The Vale has yet to answer,” came Aldric’s voice, and all eyes turned to him. “Neither to His Grace nor to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Yohn pursed his lips and said nothing.

Bronn scoffed.

“You talk a lot, old man. But it’s your darling Vale that refuses to make a move.” Bronn’s eyes gleamed darkly. “And what have you done? Have you advised Lord Arryn to stay quiet? Declare neutrality?” He raised from his chair slowly and inched forward. “Or perhaps you advised him to declare for the Targaryen bitch?”

"Please stop. You are not helping," Davos told Bronn, his voice laced with fatigue. 

But it was too late. Yohn’s eyes flashed in anger and he stood up abruptly. “I will not take this insult. It’s already insulting enough you are on this council in the first place.”

He turned to Bran. “Please do excuse me, Your Grace.”

Before any other person could say another word, Yohn had left the council room.

“You’ve made matters worse,” Brienne hissed.

“Fine,” Bronn threw his hands up in the air. “Everything’s my fault, alright?”

After the council was dismissed, Bran sat by the window motionlessly, his eyes staring out into the sky. Brienne had stayed behind as usual, while the rest of the council had left to attend to their duties.

That no one had yet to declare for their King was most disturbing, and their staunchest allies – the North and the Riverlands – had either surrendered or were on the verge of defeat. She had tried writing to Gendry to convince him to change his mind and declare for Bran instead, but he had replied with a firm refusal. Gendry told her in his reply letter that he did not want war, that the people deserved peace, and that he didn’t care who sat on the throne as long as the people of the Stormlands were left alone.

She could not argue with that.

And now, they were surrounded by enemies even before Daenerys Targaryen was here.

From the Blackwater Bay, they face House Velaryon’s fleet. As diminished as they were, they could still cause serious problems if they blockade the Blackwater Bay alongside Dragonstone.

And numerous Crownlands Houses had declared for Daenerys Targaryen.

If the Riverlands fall and the Vale still fails to respond…

She clenched her fists.

“Your Grace… we are surrounded by lords who have already declared for Daenerys Targaryen. More are wavering every day. If things worsen…”

“You may leave,” Bran said simply. His eyes did not shift from the window. “Return to Tarth. Or go to my sister in Winterfell.”

Brienne swallowed. “No, Your Grace. I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn to protect her children. I will not break that oath now.”

There was a long pause. The wind stirred the curtains.

At last, Bran spoke again, his voice distant. “You promised to protect her daughters and bring them home safely. They already returned home safely three years ago. You need not do further.” He paused, then slowly added, “And Bran Stark… he died a long time ago.”

His words stole the air from her lungs. Tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks.

But when she answered, her voice was steady. “Your royal fleet still needs a commander. I will remain… and help command it.”

Bran said nothing more. He simply watched the sky above, as if searching for something that no one else could see.

*******

Yohn Royce returned to his chambers and began to pack his belonging. He packed little, only the essentials, into a small bag.

Then he sat down at his desk and began to write a letter to his liege, the young Robin Arryn.

His eyes blazed with fury as he recalled Bronn’s words in the council meeting. He has had enough of that brute.

After finishing the letter, he sealed it, went to the ravenry personally and had it sent. Without waiting for reply, he went to the stable and had his horse saddled.

Outside the castle, he paused at the city gates and looked back once. King’s Landing bustled with renewed vigour. Merchants calling out their wares, workers rebuilding streets still scarred from the siege three years ago. Yet the life of the city felt hollow, thin beneath the weight of growing uncertainty.

He spurred his horse and rode out of the city.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Late Afternoon

More letters were delivered to Daenerys’ desk today, and their contents pleased her.

Multiple Riverlords, particularly those surrounding Harrenhal, had sent in their declaration of neutrality. House Frey had also declared a neutral stance.

The Riverlands, now divided, was no longer a significant threat. However, Houses Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister and Roote had declared allegiance to Bran Stark.

It was a move that would not be left unpunished.

She had warned them that they’d meet with dragonfire if they declared against her.

But the best news would be from Alekyne Florent, who in a new letter had boasted about his taking of Highgarden without shedding blood. She wrote back a simple congratulatory letter. There would be no war with the Reach, and for that she’s grateful.

After a morning of rigorous sword training exercise and flight training with her young dragons, Daenerys went to visit Drogon. She stroked him and whispered to him, then left the young dragons with him.

Then she went to the khalasar’s camp site. Her steps were light, as the weight on her chest lifted little by little with each passing day. She smiled and nodded as the Dothraki greeted her.

She stopped in front of a large cage.

Ghost lay inside. Raw horse meat was laid in front of it, but he ignored it. He had been like this for days. Not eating. Not drinking. Barely moved. But his crimson eyes remained sharp and alert, and he emitted a low growl as she approached.

They locked gaze. Neither looked away.

“You are loyal. Like my dragons.”

Her heart soured and her eyes stung as the images of Viserion and Rhaegal came to her mind.

“You’d die for him, wouldn’t you?” she whispered. “But is he worth it?”

Ghost growled.

Caged and kept among the Dothraki since he was captured, Ghost had not seen or even heard from the man he sought to rescue.

Daenerys did not know if Jon had asked about Ghost. She did not ask Rian, and Rian had not informed her of anything. But he was keeping to her instructions – he was to watch over Jon, made sure he’s safe under custody with no allowance for visitors, and to ensure he did not escape. So long as Jon remained safely in custody, there was no need for Rian to report.

It had helped.

Once, she yearned for his love, care, and understanding. Now, she was perfectly fine without him.

No pesky advisors to hold her back either.

It’s good to trust your instincts, but sooner or later you’d need people to help you rule, the voice counselled.

There will be plenty of lords to pick from once I reclaim the throne.

Ah yes, but who to choose? Certainly not anyone from the North or the Riverlands, there’s too much animosity now, the voice said.

I already have some names, Daenerys replied.

Is one of them Alekyne Florent? the voice asked almost too nicely.

I’d let you figure that out on your own, Daenerys smiled.

Sly, the voice whispered but sounded pleased. It’s good to keep some cards to yourself.

A pause, then the voice asked: What of this direwolf? It’s neither pet nor dragon.

Daenerys did not reply. She called a nearby Dothraki over and ordered them to bring fresh meat. Then she used a long hooked stick to drag out the uneaten horse meat from the cage.

Ghost did not move an inch, though his crimson eyes remained locked onto her.

The Dothraki hurried over with a plate of fresh meat. This time, it was rabbit that the Dothraki had hunted in the nearby woods.

Daenerys picked up the meat from the plate and threw it into the cage.

“Eat. Whatever your future is, you’d need your strength.”

Ghost stayed still, eyes still fixed onto her.

Daenerys looked at him for another moment then turned and walked away. As she disappeared into the distance, Ghost slowly sat up, wincing softly at the pain of his wounds. He lowered his head and tore into the rabbit meat.

*******

Daenerys summoned a war council that evening.

She sat at the head of the table and spoke once Aggo, Kovarro and Rian had taken their seats.

“Houses Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, and Roote of the Riverlands have declared allegiance to Bran Stark,” she said in a steady voice. “The rest have chosen neutrality.”

“So Khaleesi is going to burn the rest?” Kovarro asked, his eyes gleaming in anticipation.

Daenerys looked at him.

“I intend to strike Riverrun, the home of House Tully,” she said calmly, as though discussing the weather. “The lords who chose to stand against me shall watch the home of their Lord Paramount become nothing but blackened stones and ash. If they are wise, they will lay down their weapons.”

Rian blinked. “But they already declared against you.”

“Yes. I did not say they will get away with it,” Daenerys said. “I can spare their lives, but not without consequences.”

She clasped her fingers, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes.

“After I reclaim the throne, coins will be needed to finance rebuilding and reform. They shall pay for that.”

“But what if they do not surrender?” Kovarro pressed.

“Then they burn, as I promised,” she replied simply.

The three men exchanged glances and nodded.

Daenerys leaned back.

“Kovarro, prepare two thousand riders. You and the riders shall ride with me to Riverrun in three days.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Kovarro nodded.

Her eyes turned to Aggo and Rian.

“The two of you will remain and defend Harrenhal.”

“Yes,” Aggo said with a nod.

Rian’s lips parted, his eyes widening slightly.

“Your Grace, can’t I go with you?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been on defence duty since we arrived at Harrenhal. I’m not just good at fighting. I can prove myself on the battlefield. I swear.”

Daenerys’ gaze softened at his gentle protest. For a moment, she considered swapping him with Kovarro but quickly pushed the thought aside. Harrenhal needed Aggo who had experience commanding the Dothraki, and Rian’s cool head was needed to strategise alongside him.

“Rian, defending Harrenhal is important, and I trust you to do the job,” she said firmly. “Harrenhal is surrounded by many Riverlands houses who have newly declared neutrality. But I do not know if any of them are completely honest with their choice.”

She locked eyes with Rian.

“You are cool-headed and see things others might miss. And Aggo,” her gaze shifted to the Dothraki warlord, quieter since his last defeat, “Aggo is strong at commanding the riders. The two of you can work together to defend Harrenhal and keep it safe. There is no one else I trust with this duty.”

Aggo said nothing, though his eyes hardened in determination. “I shall not disappoint you again, my queen,” he said gruffly.

Rian inhaled deeply, though it did little to ease the disappointment in his chest.

“Yes,” he bowed his head solemnly. “As you command, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Daenerys said with a nod. “It’s settled then.”

As she dismissed the war council, she could not help but think of the disappointment on Rian’s face, a look he tried to hide but failed to mask completely.

She sighed.

Rian was loyal, and she’d have to find a way to reward him.

Somehow.

*******

Location: Riverrun
Time: Mid-Morning

Many Riverlords had left Riverrun.

The ones who did not leave had went to the third muster point which Daenerys had left untouched. Then they moved to another location. To where, Marissa did not know and she could not risk following.

But one thing she knew was Edmure had now openly declared his allegiance to Bran Stark. As did Lord Bracken, Lord Blackwood, Lord Mallister, and Lord Roote. Yet, he had not began to evacuate Riverrun.

Marissa scoffed under her breath as she sat by her regular window seat in the tavern. Is he planning to drag the people of Riverrun into dragonfire with him?

Her eyes flickered to the bell tower.

Time to move.

She sat at her table, drinking a mug of ale calmly as she waited. Waited for the guards to rotate shift. Waited for the streets and market to become busier with activity.

Then when the time came, she stood up and left coins at the bar table and promptly left the tavern, her footsteps light but sure.

She pulled her hood down and her cloak tighter as she made her way to the bell tower. She walked in the shadows and stayed away from patrolling guards when she could. Until she reached the bell tower.

She snuck into the bell tower. Up and up she went, until she arrived at the top, where a guard faced her with his back, unaware that someone was right behind him. She struck out at the side of his neck, hard and fast, just as Ser Gerard had taught her.

The guard crumbled to the ground.

Quickly, she pulled out the stacks of papers hidden in her cloak. With a flick of her wrist, she hurled the papers in the air, watching them scatter.

She did it again and again, until all the papers were gone.

The people, surprised and curious by the floating papers, either picked them up from the ground or caught them mid-air.

She heard the guard groan. She spun around and ran down the stairs as quickly as she could. As she exited the tower, she could hear panicked voices.

“Guards! Guards! Is this true? A dragon attack is coming?!”

“War? What war?”

“Mama, what is a war?”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to know. But let’s go home and pack. We are going to your grandpa’s village for a visit.”

“What kind of prank is this? This is not funny!”

“Is this why our soldiers are mobilising? But, fighting a dragon? Is this some stupid promotion for a new book?”

“This is a waste of good paper.”

As the market and streets buzzed with increasingly loud voices, Marissa walked hurriedly to the inn’s stable where she kept her horse at. As she mounted her horse and rode out of the city, she could only hope the people took this seriously, and that Edmure would start evacuating the people properly as he was warned to.

But for now, she’d return to Harrenhal. To her Queen.

*******

Edmure stood next to his solar’s window, his hands folded at his back, face pale like a ghost.

He had already heard from his steward that papers speaking of the dragon attack had been distributed to the people. Some were demanding answers, while others took it as a joke. But nevertheless, the city was now in deep unease.

The steward stood in the solar, awaiting orders.“They knew before I gave any order,” Edmure murmured before letting out a deep sigh. “Begin the evacuation. Tell the guards to open the gates for anyone who wants to leave. For those who wish to stay, prepare the dungeons for them. Make sure it’s comfortable and is stocked with sufficient supplies to last a siege.”

The steward bowed then left in quick footsteps.

Edmure then turned to Roslin, who had been standing in the corner of the room, her face pale and fearful.

“Take Rymund and leave for the Twins. House Frey had declared neutrality. It should be safe there. And…” he turned away, “It’s no longer ruled by your cruel father and brothers. They’ll take you in.”

“What about you?” Roslin asked, her voice trembling. “Do you intend to stay here and fight to the bitter end?”

Edmure didn’t answer.

Roslin’s heart hammered as hurt and worry flashed in her eyes.

“What’s your plan, Edmure? How are you going to fight a dragon?”

“We have scorpions,” he said flatly. “We’ve mounted them on the battlements, and our muster points have a dozen of them. They were designed to…”

“Scorpions?” Roslin cut in, her voice rising in shock. “You are depending on a weapon from centuries ago?”

Edmure bristled. He turned to face her.

“They brought down Meraxes, Rhaenys the Conqueror’s dragon.”

“That was centuries ago, and it was more of by luck than the weapon's actual capability,” Roslin snapped. “The destroyed muster points had scorpions. Winterfell had scorpions. Even King’s Landing three years ago had scorpions. None of them stopped Daenerys Targaryen. What makes you think they will stop her here?”

Edmure inhaled sharply. “The Conquerors burnt everywhere before Meraxes was shot down in Dorne. Maybe…”

“You are hoping for the same miracle to happen?” Roslin stared at him in incredulity. He looked away again, not saying a word.

Roslin let out a laugh of astonishment, then shook her head and spoke softly, her voice trembling still. “Please, Edmure. Please act for your family. For once.”

“I am acting for my family,” he said firmly and stubbornly.

“No. You are acting for your sister’s family, not for yours,” she retorted. “You are acting for your nephew, the King. You care for him. But what about me, your wife? And what about your son Rymund?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You’ve sacrificed enough for the Starks. You must act for House Tully and for the Riverlands now.”

Edmure’s gaze dropped, his eyes staring out of the window into the courtyard.

“I must protect my sister’s children,” he whispered. “They’re all that’s left of her.”

Roslin stepped forward and clenched her fingers into his tunic. She turned him around to face her, but he looked away. Her breath shuddered as she spoke in a louder voice. No, she would not permit him to pretend he didn’t hear her.

“Sansa is safe. She is the King’s sister, but even she had surrendered. So why are you still fighting, Edmure?” She shook him hard. “Do you want Rymund to grow up without a father? He’s too young! What would even happen to House Tully without you at its helm? Please, do not let that happen!”

But Edmure was no longer listening. His mind had drifted back to that one fateful night, where the lives of Robb, Catelyn and countless bannermen were ruthlessly taken away while he was in the bedchamber with Roslin.

They were all murdered, at his wedding.

Then he was imprisoned.

He couldn’t help Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon. All of them left to fate. All of them suffered for years.

Then Rickon died.  

Sansa and Arya survived, but not without their own scars. Arya had left Westeros after the dust had settled in Westeros, and no one knew if she was dead or alive now. And Sansa could have died if she had not surrendered to Daenerys Targaryen. Once again, he did not manage to help her.

Bran was the only one left he could still help.

“After Ned died, I’ve saved no one, Roslin,” he whispered, his voice faded. “Bran is the only one left that I can try to save, even if… even if it’s futile.”

Roslin stared at him, her tears finally falling as she lets go of his tunic.

The walls of Riverrun had never felt so heavy.

Chapter Text

The Dothraki rode swiftly through the lands of House Smallwood, northwest to Harrenhal, as they advanced towards Riverrun. They stopped only to rest before resuming their march.

Daenerys rode among them, while Drogon soared above like a silent, protective shadow. The towns they rode past did nothing to deter them, as their lord had declared neutrality.

As they crossed into the lands of House Vance, Daenerys exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.

She had suspected the Riverlords’ sincerity and had prepared for the possibility of an ambush. She had even warned her riders in advance, and they had been primed for a bitter fight, driven both by their hunger for victory and the desire to avenge their fallen brothers from the last battle.

But there was no ambush.

Perhaps I was overthinking, she thought.

It’s never ‘overthinking’ when you are a Queen, the voice replied. It’s always wise to keep your guard up and never trust easily, especially those who had warred against you.

~~~~~~~

The captain of the border guards watched passively as the Dothraki galloped past and into the lands of House Vance.

Then he heard a low rumbling, and a great black shadow swept over them from the sky. He trembled in fear as did his men. His hair stood on end and his legs went weak. Still, he found the strength to turn and walk back into his small office, nearly stumbling into his chair.

He hurriedly wrote a short note, then hurried to the ravenry and tied the note to the raven’s leg.

As he watched the raven take off and vanish into the horizon, he couldn’t help but think…

This could be the worst mistake ever.

~~~~~~~

Lord Smallwood read the captain’s note with trembling hands.

Finally, it’s time.

He tossed the captain’s note into the hearth and watched it burn into brittle, ash-grey ruin, the edges curling with the heat. Then he summoned his steward.

The moment the steward entered his solar, he ordered, “Send a letter to House Lychester and House Hawick. Tell them the time is right and that they must march immediately.”

The steward’s eyes flickered with unease and hesitation.

“My lord, I must advise against this… this course of action. We have declared neutrality, and we have limited military resources. We should not…”

“Then what?” Lord Smallwood snapped. “Bend the knee to that foreigner? She slaughtered our kin when she struck Lord Hawick’s forces!”

The steward breathed deeply.

“My lord, it was a war and it made us weaker than ever. And she was born on Dragonstone. She is the blood of the dragons. Her father was the…”

“Mad King,” Lord Smallwood interrupted coldly. “She’s gone now to face Lord Edmure’s host. This is our one and only chance to seize Harrenhal and fortify it before her return. Lord Edmure and the lords of Houses Bracken, Blackwood, and Mallister are sacrificing themselves to give us this opportunity to bring her down. Do not delay.”

The steward bowed and left with an unsteady gait.

Lord Smallwood clenched his jaw.

“Lord Edmure… should you die, it shall not be in vain.”

*******

Location: Riverlands
Time: Noon

The Riverlands coalition stood still in the field, a sea of banners swaying in the breeze. Flanked by thick forests, their spearmen held the front line, steady and alert. Archers lay hidden among the trees and underbrush, while infantry and cavalry stood behind the spears, ready to strike the moment the line was breached. Scattered along the rear, a dozen scorpions had been positioned with their bolts loaded and aimed skyward, ready to fire the instant the dragon appeared.

Overhead, heavy grey clouds loomed in the sky with rolling thunders.

At the front of the host, four riders sat mounted in grim silence. Edmure Tully at the centre, flanked by Lord Bracken, Lord Blackwood, and Lord Mallister, their faces solemn.

Edmure took in a deep breath before he rode forward a few paces and spoke, his voice loud and clear.

“Today, we stand for our rightful King. A king who was chosen by the lords of Westeros to lead us, and a king who leads with humility.” His gaze swept the ranks, his tone sharpening. “But we do not stand for the Crown alone. We stand for our home, and for our people!”

His fists clenched.

“Daenerys Targaryen comes proclaiming herself our Queen. But we have not forgotten what she and her Dothraki screamers did! She burnt King’s Landing, even after they surrendered! And now she demands our surrender!” His voice rose with fury. “We cannot trust her! And her screamers brought us nothing but pain and death! They killed our soldiers, plundered our villages, butchered the smallfolk! They violated our daughters, they sold our people – young and old, men, women, even children – into slavery, as if they were cattle!”

A murmur of rage rippled through the ranks.

“And now she threatens to burn us,” Edmure said, his voice impassioned. “She will come with her dragon to rain fire upon us, but we are not afraid! We are Rivermen! We are brave and strong defenders of justice!” He unsheathed his sword and raised it high. “She may be fire and blood, but we are the river and the storm that will drown her and her beast!”

Cheers erupted through the ranks.

It had begun to drizzle, but it quickly turned into a heavy downpour, muting the roaring cheers.

Edmure tightened his grip on the sword. “The Seven have sent us rain!” he cried, “This is a sign! The gods are with us! Fire shall not claim this land today!”

The troops cheered again, louder than before.

And then it came.

A deep, inhuman roar splits the sky, cutting through the drumming of the rain. Then, the sound of thousands of galloping horse hooves echoed across the rain-soaked fields. Through the mist and rain, the troops saw lines of riders approaching them like death.

The Dothraki had arrived.

“Form ranks!” Lord Mallister bellowed. Captains shouted commands. Spears were lowered into position, and shields were locked into readiness.

The rain beat down upon them relentlessly, but they did not flinch. Instead, they braced for the incoming fire and blood.

~~~~~~~

Kovarro rode at the head of his riders. When it first started to drizzle, he had rolled his eyes in disbelief but also concern, hoping that it wouldn’t grow heavier.

But then came the downpour.

He swore under his breath. He decided he hated this land. If it wasn’t dense forests, it was rain and muddy terrain. This was no place for the Dothraki. And now? The rain was limiting their vision, and the hateful terrain had turned against them once more.

He could hear murmurs of discontent from his riders, though whatever complaints they had were quickly drowned by the relentless hammering of the storm and rolling thunder.

Through the mist of rain, he could make out the lines of spears in tight formation, ready for them. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure. Countless indistinct shapes were all he could see under the veil of rain.

His gaze flicked to the dense forests flanking the Riverlands host, and the memory of the first muster point’s defeat throbbed in the back of his mind like an old bruise.

He raised a hand.

“Halt!”

The riders slowed and came to a stop behind him.

“We are not charging?” a rider asked.

“Not yet. We wait for the queen,” Kovarro replied.

~~~~~~~

The Riverlands host waited with bated breath, but the Dothraki had halted and did not advance.

“They are not moving,” Edmure muttered under his breath. “What are they up to?”

“The better question is, where is the dragon?” Lord Blackwood whispered, unease tying knots in his stomach.

The dragon was dreadful, yes, but not seeing it, not knowing where it was right now, felt more disturbing.

“At ease,” Edmure said, trying not to let his nervousness show. “We cannot allow the enemy to throw us into panic.”

“Exactly,” Lord Mallister scoffed. “And the battle hasn’t even started.”

A low rumble rolled across the field and the lords froze. That was not the sound of thunder. Yet it was close. Too close.

The Riverlords turned sharply, scanning the dark skies that continued to pummel rain onto them.

Then suddenly, a black shadow dropped from the stormy clouds. A monstrous roar split the heavens as Drogon plunged downwards, snapped its jaws open and let loose a torrent of dragonfire at the rear. It struck the scorpions. They erupted into flames, and the operators screamed as they were caught in the blaze, burnt alive.

Before the screams had faded, Drogon had circled around and released a second blast, this time striking the cavalry. Horses and men burnt alike. The rear lines sank into complete chaos as soldiers tried to flee the fire, trampling over one another in panic.

“The rain!” the soldiers cried, “It’s not stopping the dragon!”

The dragonfire burnt through the storm like it was nothing. Smoke and steam hissed into the air, but the fire burnt on mercilessly.

Panic rippled through the Riverlands host. Men turned to flee. Formations broke. Screams tore through the downpour.

“Hold! Hold!” Edmure shouted in desperation. “Steady! STAND YOUR GROUND!”

But fear had already sunk its claws deep.

Then came the thundering of hooves and the shrieking war cries.

While the Riverlands host was reeling from Drogon’s assault, the Dothraki had charged forward at full speed, unhindered by fear. The spearmen scrambled to reform their lines, but they had already weakened, their hands trembling and their spears wavering.

“Fire the arrows!” Lord Blackwood bellowed.

The archers let loose their volleys, but so did the Dothraki. Arrows struck several riders, sending them tumbling off their horses, but the rest pressed on. Horse-archers rained arrows upon the treeline, targeting the archers, while warriors brandished their arakhs, ready to tear into the destabilised ranks.

A fresh torrent of dragonfire ripped through the centre, further breaking apart the formation. Men screamed as they burnt.

The spearsmen heard the screams and felt the heat from the backs of their necks. They wavered more at the sight of the charging Dothraki.

“We must not waver!” Edmure roared. “Show them who you are! Show them the power and the spirit of the Riverlands!”

The spearsmen gritted their teeth and tightened their grip. But despite his bravado, Edmure felt doom pounding in his chest.

Is this it? Thousands of men, weeks of preparation, all gone, just like this? Not even a fighting chance? Is this what it’s like to fight a dragon?

Then fire poured over them.

They barely had time to scream before they crumbled into a mass of melted metal and blackened flesh. The surviving spearsmen dropped their weapons in terror and turned to flee, but many were trampled by the Dothraki’s horses or cut down by the arakhs as they ran.

Lord Bracken, who’s at the rear commanding the scorpions and cavalry, screamed at the few surviving scorpion operators. “Fire! Fire, damn you! What are you fools waiting for!”

But the operators had abandoned the machines and were fleeing.

“I will do it myself!” Lord Bracken snarled. He dismounted and sprinted towards the nearest scorpion.

But before he could reach it, a fresh blast of fire struck the machines. The scorpions exploded in splinters. A burning beam slammed into Lord Bracken, and he went down without a sound.

~~~~~~~

Location: Riverrun

Roslin trembled as her body turned cold.

“Mama, what’s wrong?” little Rymund asked sleepily from her arms, where he lay nestled in warmth.

“Nothing’s wrong, my sweet boy,” Roslin said quickly, forcing a smile as her voice strained to contain the grief and fear beneath it. She tore her gaze from the window, where the distant battlefield smoke could be seen under the dark sky and heavy rain even from miles away.

She crossed to the bed and gently laid Rymund down.

“Mama, when is Papa coming back?” Rymund asked softly with a yawn, his eyes already half-closed.

Roslin fought back the tears. “Soon, my sweet boy. Soon.”

He drifted into sleep. She tucked the blankets around him and kissed his forehead. Then she turned and stepped out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.

“Summon Master Haron to the lord’s solar,” she instructed a servant.

The servant nodded and hurried off.

Roslin made her way to the solar, her chest aching and her head light. From the solar’s tall window, the smoke looked thicker, heavier, darker, and more suffocating. She thought she could smell the scent of burning flesh.

Edmure had told her to flee with Rymund to the Freys, but that hope had vanished the moment House Frey declared neutrality. To preserve their neutral stance, they could not harbour the wife and son of Daenerys’ enemy.

They had nowhere to go but to stay in Riverrun and share its fate.

She placed a hand to her mouth, her stomach twisting and turning. A single tear slipped down her cheek just as the steward Master Haron arrived.

“My lady, you called?”

Roslin turned to regard Master Haron. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“Prepare to raise the white banners, and have the guards watch the skies. The moment the dragon is sighted, raise the banners and ring the bells.”

Master Haron was startled. “My lady, this was not Lord Edmure’s command…”

“Look outside the window, Master Haron!” Roslin gestured to the dark smoke. “We can see it all the way from here! That’s not any fire our men are facing out there, but dragonfire. What are the chances that any of them are coming home alive?”

Master Haron glanced towards the window, then turned his eyes away, visibly unsettled.

“Our duty now is to ensure the survival of House Tully and the people of Riverrun. Do you understand?” Roslin urged.

“…The dragon queen may still burn Riverrun,” Master Haron said quietly. “We declared for His Grace and chose to face her in war. And…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “She burnt King’s Landing three years ago, even after they surrendered. We now stand in the same position.”

“It’s still a chance we must take,” Roslin replied, her voice shaking. “She said she would burn Riverrun if we harmed Marissa or defied her in favour of His Grace. But she never said anything about surrendering. If we surrender, maybe… maybe there’s still a chance she will show mercy.”

She shook her head, another tear falling.

“A foolish hope, perhaps. But it’s all we have left.”

Master Haron remained silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he bowed.

“As you command, my lady.”

He turned and left the solar.

The moment the door shut, Roslin collapsed to the floor, her tears flowing freely now.

“Edmure, you… you foolish, foolish man…”

Her ragged sobs filled the room as she mourned the husband who might never return.

~~~~~~~

Daenerys watched as the Dothraki tore through what remained of the Riverlands host. Their morale shattered, they were completely at the mercy of the fiery Dothraki.

Her gaze shifted towards the fortress miles away.

Riverrun.

It looked so small from this distance. From the sky.

Marissa’s last letter reported she had dispersed the news of the incoming dragon attack and that she had left the city. In the letter, she urged Daenerys to reconsider burning Riverrun if House Tully chose to surrender upon her arrival. If Edmure Tully marched to war, Riverrun would be left in the hands of the steward and its lady, her cousin, Roslin Frey.

“Roslin is sweet, and should she surrender, she would never dream of defying Your Grace,” Marissa had written.

Daenerys gripped Drogon’s scales, guiding him towards Riverrun. The wind lashed against her hair and body, her stomach churning with fire while her heart turned ice cold at what she was about to do.

She narrowed her eyes as they closed in, searching for scorpions, whether hidden or in plain sight.

But there were none.

Instead, white banners flapped from the battlements.

Then came the bells, its solemn and clear sound rising through the rain.

But in her mind, the bells of Riverrun overlapped with the bells of King’s Landing.

Daenerys trembled. Her grip on Drogon’s scales tightened.

I cannot let the past control me. I must break free. I must fly free, like a dragon.

She inhaled and exhaled heavily.

Slowly, the bells of King’s Landing and the screams and wails of its people faded. Until only the bells of Riverrun remained.

Her gaze lingered on the fortress for a moment longer. Then, slowly, she leaned forward.

“Sōvētēs,” she whispered.

With a great sweep of his wings, Drogon turned and soared away from Riverrun, leaving the city untouched.

~~~~~~~

Location: Riverrun
Time: Morning

The triumphant Dothraki rode into Riverrun, undeterred, its gates flung wide open.

The guards stood with heads lowered, faces downcast and eyes red.

A dark shadow swept overhead, and they flinched. Drogon’s roar split the air, the sound so fierce it made the ground tremble and the walls felt as though they might crack apart. The guards clamped their hands over their ears, terror plain in their eyes. Some collapsed to their knees, unable to withstand the shock.

The Dothraki laughed as they rode past. Some shouted words, a harsh-sounding foreign language that the guards could not understand. But they understood the derision in their voices, the mocking smirks on their faces, and the scorn in their eyes.

In the castle’s open courtyard, Drogon had landed, crushing flowerbeds and shattering stone tables beneath his mighty feet. The castle guards and servants gasped in alarm, recoiling in fear.

Drogon blinked, and they stepped back further, faces pale. One servant collapsed in terror, wetting himself as Drogon’s molten eye locked onto him.

With a lazy sweep of his wing, Drogon lowered it to the ground. Daenerys descended, walking gracefully down the curve of the wing.

The guards and servants stood frozen, their jaws slack at the sight of her.

But their attention soon shifted, as a dozen Dothraki warriors strode into the courtyard. The guards flinched, and the servants backed away, eyes wide with terror. The women scattered, darting into hiding.

The castle’s doors opened with a loud, aching creak.

Roslin stepped out slowly, her head bowed. In her arms, Rymund lay nestled, still half-asleep, his small face pressed against her shoulder.

She was flanked by two maids and the steward, Master Haron, who followed in silence.

She lifted her eyes, only to meet Daenerys’ blazing violet gaze. Drogon’s massive form loomed beside the queen, and terror gripped her. Roslin gasped and immediately lowered her head again, her heart pounding.

Her mind reeled. So this is a Targaryen. The Dragon Queen. And that… that is a dragon. Impossibly beautiful, yet so formidable… so fearsome. Edmure… what were you thinking? Going up against… against that?

Rymund stirred in Roslin’s arms, his eyes fluttering open. He turned his head, and his gaze landed on Daenerys and Drogon. His eyes widened in wonder.

“Wow… beau… beautiful! Mama…! Big lizard…! Goddess!” he babbled, his voice soft with amazement.

“Hush, sweet boy,” Roslin cooed, though she began to panic. What if the dragon queen took offence? She may have accepted the surrender, but having declared war upon her, House Tully was treading on thin line.

Daenerys looked at Roslin and Rymund. The Lady of Riverrun was visibly shaking, but her son seemed not to notice, his wide-eyed wonder fixed solely on her and Drogon.

Daenerys blinked, watching as Roslin calmed the boy softly, gently.

Once, she had been with child.

Rhaego.

She had been so hopeful. But Rhaego died in the tent that was supposed to give Khal Drogo life.

A familiar ache tugged at her chest. That was many years ago, but the pain never truly left. Then she thought of the dream she had a while ago.

In it were three children. Two girls and a boy.

Would it be too much to wish that the dream was not just a dream? That it might still come true, like her other dreams had? Even after all the lives she had taken?

She pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the trembling Roslin.

“I believe you are here to swear your fealty, Lady Tully,” Daenerys said coolly.

Roslin flinched.

“Your Grace… if I may…” Her voice came out low and fragile. “Is… is my lord husband still alive?”

Daenerys tilted her head slightly.

“Unlikely,” she replied. “Most of his host was burnt. If he didn’t suffer the same fate, pray that he never shows his face.”

Roslin shuddered, struggling to keep her tears at bay. Her breathing grew uneven, but at last she dropped to one knee, slowly and carefully as if the weight of the moment crushed her.

“I, Roslin Tully, and my son Rymund Tully, swear fealty to the true and rightful Queen of Westeros, Daenerys Targaryen,” she whispered.

The courtyard went cold and still at Roslin’s submission.

Slowly, one by one, all the guards and servants present, including Master Haron, knelt.

Daenerys stepped forward. She reached out and touched Rymund’s cheek.

Fear stabbed through Roslin’s heart. Every nerve screamed at her to turn and run away with Rymund, but terror rooted her to the spot.

Around them, Master Haron, the guards, and the servants watched in silence, their eyes wide with fear and dread.

Rymund chuckled at the touch and reached out, his small hand gripping Daenerys’ finger. Her lips parted in surprise, then slowly, she smiled faintly at the child.

Roslin's eyes widened, unable to believe what she was seeing. Around her, Master Haron, the guards, and the servants stared in stunned silence.

Daenerys gently withdrew her finger, then ruffled Rymund’s hair for a moment before stepping back.

She turned to Roslin, her gaze steady.

“Your surrender is accepted, Lady Tully.”

At those words, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the courtyard. The tension eased, though it did not disappear entirely.

Her violet eyes swept across the faces of the Tully retainers gathered in the courtyard.

“From this moment on, Rymund Tully is the Lord of House Tully,” she declared, her voice clear and firm. “And Lady Tully shall serve as his regent until he comes of age.”

A murmur rippled through the courtyard. The Tully retainers bowed their heads in solemn acceptance, while Roslin clutched Rymund closer to her chest, her eyes brimming with tears of relief and quiet dread for the future.

“And here’s my first command to you as your Queen, Lady Tully.”

Roslin froze.

Daenerys stared down at her, eyes cold.

“Send word to the Houses that joined House Tully against me. They are to come to Riverrun and bend the knee to both Lord Rymund and to me. They will recognise him as their new Lord Paramount, and me as their rightful Queen. If they do so, they may keep their lands and titles. If they refuse, they will face fire and ruin.”

She paused. Her next words came out sharper, colder.

“This is the third and final chance I am giving them. There will be no more.”

Roslin bowed her head, her heart pounding.

“As you command, Your Grace,” she said weakly.

Her arms tightened protectively around Rymund as she spoke the words. Her face was pale, but she kept her composure. The retainers followed suit, lowering their heads, their knees pressing deeper into the wet stone. No one dared to speak.

Daenerys gave them one last sweeping glance then turned and ascended Drogon’s wing.

The courtyard remained silent as the dragon’s wings unfurled, casting a shadow over the castle walls. With a powerful sweep, Drogon lifted into the sky, carrying the Dragon Queen away, leaving Riverrun beneath the echo of bells, smoke, and surrender.

Chapter Text

Not long after Daenerys departed Harrenhal with Drogon and two thousand riders, Marissa’s bannerman Ser Gerard requested a meeting with Aggo and Rian to discuss defence plans.

In the meeting, Ser Gerard proposed converting a thousand of the remaining Dothraki into archers, to be stationed at key points around Harrenhal. He also suggested assigning another thousand to fight on foot, to provide greater versatility in the event of an assault.

Aggo was not pleased with the proposal. He preferred riding out to meet the enemy head-on, but both Rian and Ser Gerard found this too risky. The attackers were coming from different directions, and riding out would overstretch their forces while leaving Harrenhal exposed on all sides.

Ser Gerard laid out the advantages of defending the castle, even in its ruined state. After considering his words, Aggo eventually agreed.

The meeting ended, and Rian made his way back to his room. On the way, he passed the training yard and paused. Daenerys wasn’t there, but in his mind’s eye, he could see her with Dark Sister in hand, practising her strikes and footwork. His lips curled into a faint smile even as the vision faded.

A sharp shriek cut through the air, pulling Rian from his thoughts. He lifted his head and looked up. The young dragons were circling above.

“Missara! Joragon! Aerax!” he called.

Aerax was the first to respond. He swooped down and landed on Rian’s shoulder. The little dragon was growing fast, as were his siblings, and Rian gritted his teeth as his shoulder strained under Aerax’s weight.

Missara and Joragon landed on the ground beside him. Missara hissed, her molten eyes narrowing as though annoyed he’d even dared to call her. Joragon gave Rian no notice at all, his attention fixed on Missara.

Moments later, Missara gave a low growl and scampered away across the yard. Joragon followed silently behind her. Aerax clung to Rian for a moment longer before leaping off his shoulder to join his siblings, leaving behind faint claw marks and a lingering ache.

Rian exhaled and continued his way back to his room. Once inside, he picked up his charcoal and parchment, returning to the sketch of the dragon saddle he had promised Daenerys. He had asked the Dothraki to help him procure the materials. Soon, the prototype would be made, and he would finally present it to her.

I hope she’ll smile when she sees it, he thought.

~~~~~~~

The idyllic mood was broken when scouts returned the next morning, their footsteps hurried and their faces stern with urgency.

“An army is approaching from the northwest,” one of them reported, wiping sweat from his forehead. “They will be here in another day and a half.”

“I saw troops coming from the east,” added another. “They may take longer to arrive, but they are coming.”

Aggo’s face darkened. Rian turned to a nearby warrior.

“Get Ser Gerard to the war room. Now.”

The warrior nodded and left at once. Aggo and Rian made their way to the war room, where Ser Gerard arrived moments later.

“You called, Commanders?”

Rian nodded. He looked at Aggo who returned a silent nod. Rian returned his attention to Ser Gerard.

“We’ve received reports of armies moving towards Harrenhal from both the northwest and the east,” he said in a serious voice. “If they’re coming for us, we need to prepare.”

“Northwest?” Ser Gerard frowned, stepping closer to the table where the map of Westeros lay open. He pointed to the region northwest of Harrenhal.

“House Smallwood holds these lands. And here,” his finger moved further west, “is House Vance of Atranta.”

His finger then moved to the east. “As for the east… House Whent borders us directly, but they are weak. They didn’t even muster when House Tully called the Riverlords to arms.”

His hand moved further east. “Beyond Whent lands is House Mooton. If anyone from the east is moving, it’s most likely them. And House Whent won’t be able to stop them.”

He met Rian’s eyes. “Houses Smallwood, Vance and Mooton have all declared neutrality.”

“Then why are they moving towards us?” Aggo finally spoke, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “If the queen had called for their banners, she would’ve told us, but she did not.”

His tone dropped to a growl. “Are they planning to attack us? After declaring neutrality?”

Ser Gerard hesitated. “If that’s their plan, then it’s treachery. Her Grace must have already passed through Smallwood lands by now, and they waited until she was gone.”

“So it’s Houses Smallwood, Vance and Mooton?” Rian pressed, eyes simmering. But then he straightened and waved a hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter who. We will kill whoever dares attack us, and we will make the survivors talk.”

“Agreed,” Aggo said in approval.

The meeting ended, and the three men went about preparing their forces for war.

Upon hearing the news of a potential assault, the Dothraki’s eyes gleamed. They wasted no time – warriors sharpened their blades and saddled their horses, smiths forged more arrows, and the menders set about brewing tinctures. Even the dungeons were being cleaned and prepared, ready to house the sick and wounded when the battle comes.

Ser Gerard watched as the camps burst into life.

“They seem… eager,” he remarked.

“The Dothraki thrive on wars and victories,” Rian replied, as Aggo barked orders to a group of warriors. “Sitting around isn’t in their nature.”

Rian’s gaze drifted towards the cage which housed Ghost. The direwolf lay inside listlessly. He called over a nearby Dothraki warrior.

“Move the cage to the dungeons,” he ordered. He paused, then added, “Move the prisoner there too. But keep him separate from the wolf. Don’t let them see each other.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Rian’s face as the warrior nodded and left.

Ser Gerard looked at Ghost. It looked like a wolf, but there was something different about it. And the prisoner. He knew there was a prisoner but didn’t know who it was. What he did notice was the hint of cruelty in Rian’s amusement.

“That prisoner,” Ser Gerard said carefully, “you seem to dislike him.”

“He’s a traitor. He betrayed the queen,” Rian replied, his tone casual. “Dislike is a mild word.”

“And the wolf?”

“The traitor’s companion. The queen showed it mercy.”

Rian rubbed his forehead. “Argh. I’ve got to get the dragons into the dungeons too. I doubt they’ll like it.”

Ser Gerard let out a laugh. “No, I don’t think they will.”

The sound of horse hooves approached. A lone rider neared the camp, prompting several Dothraki warriors to step forward, hands on their arakhs, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Halt! Who are you?” one of them demanded in a heavily accented Common Tongue as they surrounded the rider.

The horse came to a stop, and the rider was just about to speak when Ser Gerard approached.

“She’s Lady Marissa of House Darry. She serves the queen, like all of us do,” he told the Dothraki. “Let her pass.”

At his word, the warriors lowered their blades and stepped aside, though their eyes remained wary.

Marissa dismounted and grinned playfully at Ser Gerard. “Thank you, Ser Gerard. Whatever would I do without you?”

“You’ve done quite well on your own,” Ser Gerard replied, smiling back. “You made it back alive, didn’t you?”

“That I did,” Marissa laughed.

“You are far too bold at times,” Ser Gerard shook his head in resignation, though his tone was warm and his eyes shone with pride. “I told you I should go instead, but you insisted on going, and alone.”

“It turned out well,” Marissa said as she dusted her cloak. “Left quite the impression on everyone.”

“I’m sure it did,” Ser Gerard smiled fondly. “So impressive I nearly had heart palpitations worrying for you.”

“Worrywart,” Marissa chuckled.

“Marissa of House Darry?” Rian spoke as he stepped forward. “The one who helped Aggo and Kovarro?”

“Yes,” Ser Gerard confirmed. “She’s the heir of House Darry, which I serve. Her Grace sent her to Riverrun to deliver a message to House Tully, that’s why you’ve not met her until now.” He gestured towards Rian. “My Lady, this is Commander Rian. He oversees Harrenhal’s defence with Commander Aggo, whom you’ve already met.”

“Lady Marissa, welcome back,” Rian said politely. “And thank you for helping Aggo and Kovarro.”

Marissa inclined her head. “Well met, Commander Rian,” she greeted warmly. “There’s no need for further thanks. I only did my duty, as part of my pledge of loyalty to Her Grace. That’s all this is.”

Rian gave a slight nod, noting the distinction but choosing not to press it. He understood too well the Dothraki’s reputation in the Riverlands.

“So, you oversee Harrenhal’s defences?” Marissa said. “Then I bring news.”

The air shifted at her words.

“What is it?” Rian asked, bracing himself.

“On my way back, I saw armies approaching Harrenhal. They are estimated to arrive in another day or so.” She paused. “Their banners are of House Smallwood and House Lychester. Did the queen summon them?”

“No,” Rian replied at once. “I believe they intend to break their neutrality.”

“Oh…” Marissa’s expression darkened, but she said no more.

“Lady Marissa, is House Vance among them?” Ser Gerard asked.

“No.”

Ser Gerard exhaled in relief. "Good."

Rian raised a brow. “Why? Are they strong?” 

“The Riverlands were embroiled in a war several years ago. Many houses are still recovering from it. Let’s just say House Vance is doing much better than Smallwood or Lychester,” Ser Gerard explained. “So yes, it’s fortunate they are not involved in this treachery.”

“I’m surprised House Smallwood and House Lychester are making such a risky move,” Marissa said, crossing her arms. “They are weak, especially House Lychester. This will only hurt them.”

“There’s another army approaching from the east. I suspect it’s House Mooton,” Ser Gerard added.

“House Mooton?” Marissa frowned. “They were Targaryen loyalists, like House Darry was. Why would they fight Her Grace? And they are near ruin as well.”

She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Have they all gone mad? What spell has Bran Stark cast over them?”

“House Tarly was loyal to the Targaryens too,” Gerard said quietly. “And they defied Her Grace all the same.”

Marissa let out a long sigh. “Let’s hope it’s only these three Houses being foolish.” She looked between Rian and Ser Gerard. “What now, then?”

“We are preparing for war, of course,” Rian said. “Perhaps they dared take such a risk because they think us weak and vulnerable without Her Grace’s dragon. But we will prove them wrong.”

“We should send word to Her Grace,” Marissa advised. “And keep scouting the borders. We need to know the armies’ movements, and if any other neighbouring Houses are making a move.”

“I’ll see to it. Thank you for your counsel, Lady Marissa,” Rian replied.

With no time to waste, the three of them parted to prepare for the battle to come.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Night

It was a moonless night, and heavy clouds draped the sky in a darkness blacker than most nights.

In the shadows, the Riverlands forces crept forward in silence, their weapons drawn as they closed in to Harrenhal.

It was a crumbling ruin, with only a few parts intact. Around it stood barricades, small towers, and ramparts built from wood and stone, part of the Dothraki’s rebuilding efforts over several months of occupation. Despite their efforts, Harrenhal remained vulnerable. It was not the formidable fortress it used to be in its golden age.

At a silent signal, the Riverlands soldiers broke into a run. They burst through the barricades, hoping to overrun the defenders before the alarm could spread.

But the defenders were not asleep as expected.

Dothraki riders galloped out from the sides, shrieking their war cries and stunning the Riverlands soldiers.

But the Riverlands soldiers were not afraid. There was no dragon to fear. Only cruel men who had raided and plundered their towns and villages for the past three years. Tonight, their blood roared with vengeance, and for the hope that they might make a difference in the war the dragon queen had launched against their homeland.

Seeing that their night assault had failed, the commanders bellowed, “Charge!”

The Riverlands soldiers erupted in response.

Horses crashed into their bodies and gleaming arakhs came swinging. But the vanguard stood firm, some swinging their blades at the horses’ legs, others stabbing upwards at the riders.

From the other side of the castle, a second battalion advanced towards the walls that still stood. On those walls, Marissa Frey-Darry commanded the archers.

“Now!”

Arrows hissed through the air, striking men down in clusters.

“Fire! Again!” Marissa ordered.

In the lower wards and broken courtyards, Rian and Ser Gerard led the infantry, holding the lines against swarms of Riverlands soldiers trying to overrun the castle.

“Stand your ground!” Rian shouted as his sword cut down a man. “They thought us weak! Let’s show them we are not!”

Beside him, Ser Gerard fought just as fiercely, cutting down one man after another.

~~~~~~~

Blood was thick in the air, where the screams of men echoed.

As the battle dragged on, growing fiercer and bloodier, a Riverlands captain spotted something odd.

A group of Dothraki warriors, nearly hidden by the shadows of the crumbling walls, had not joined the fight. The captain signalled to his men, and they silently approached the Dothraki from behind. By the time the warriors noticed them, it was too late. The soldiers had crept up and sliced their blades through them before they could fight back.

After the warriors fell, the captain and his men noticed that the Dothraki had been guarding a door, half-hidden by rubble and shadow.

“What were they protecting?” he murmured. Then he turned to his men. “Let’s go in and see what’s so important.”

His men nodded, and he pushed the door open. Inside, darkness stretched ahead, with narrow stone steps winding downwards.

They descended in silence, boots careful on the worn steps. At the bottom, another door barred their way. Behind the door came the faint sound of voices. Broken whispers, groans, and whimpers echoed faintly in the dark.

“Ready yourselves,” the captain said, his grip tightening on his sword.

~~~~~~~

Jon sat in his cell in the dungeon, quiet and still.

He had been moved here along with the wounded and sick a day ago. But unlike them, he was locked behind a cell, his wrists and ankles still tightly bound by thick ropes.

He saw familiar routines when he was brought in, and he realised that the Dothraki were preparing for war, possibly a siege on Harrenhal.

With whom, he could only guess.

Daenerys is in a war. Is she now fighting with the Riverlands?

He swallowed thickly.

Deep in the dungeons, he could hear nothing from above. All that reached him were the hushed whispers of Dothraki, a language he did not understand.

He wondered what became of Ghost. Since that night, he had not heard anything about Ghost. Not even when he asked. That man, Rian Runestar, would only smirk and say Ghost was in good hands. No proof. No further information.

And Daenerys had not come to see him again. Not even to confront him.

He sank back against the wall, his head tipping until it landed softly against the stone. He stared into space wordlessly.

A sudden commotion snapped Jon from his thoughts. The Dothraki were shouting, their voices loud and urgent. Then came the sickening sound of steel slicing through flesh.

Jon sat up at once, his muscles tensing and his mind alert.

He heard heavy footsteps echoing through the stone corridor, boots pounding against the floor. Another cry rang out, cut short with a wet, choking gurgle.

He saw two Dothraki, their footsteps slow and heavy from illness, attempting to reach for the weapons stored just outside the cell. But they were mercilessly struck down, their blood spraying across the floor.

Jon froze.

The killers emerged from the shadows. They were clad in bloodied armour, marked with the sigils of Riverland houses. One of them turned his head and spotted Jon.

“There’s someone here.”

Jon felt chills, his hair standing on ends.

“He doesn’t look like a Dothraki.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Jon’s breath shuddered. He pushed himself up from the floor, steadying himself, and met their eyes.

“My name is Jon Snow.”

The soldiers froze, recognition flickering in their expressions.

“I was captured a while ago. Please release me.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, then turned to the man beside them, clearly their captain. He frowned.

“We will release you. But if you are lying, or up to some trick, we will cut you down,” he warned.

Jon nodded silently.

“Release him,” the captain ordered.

The soldiers forced open the dungeon cell. One of them stepped forward and drew a knife. Without a word, he knelt and sliced through the thick ropes binding Jon’s wrists and ankles. The ropes gave way with a snap, falling limp to the floor.

Jon inhaled sharply. The ache in his limbs remained, but the weight was gone. He flexed his hands and moved his feet slowly, feeling the blood rush back into them.

Finally, he could move freely.

Then, he heard more sharp screams and groans, and his head snapped up.

“The men here are sick and wounded,” Jon said. “It’s unjust to kill them.”

The captain rolled his eyes, while the soldiers scoffed in disbelief.

“They are Dothraki,” the captain snapped. “Rapists. Murderers. Looters. Slavers. Do you know how many of ours they have killed in the past three years? And now you ask us to spare them, just because they are sick and wounded?”

He turned to his soldiers further down the dungeon corridor.

“Kill them all!”

Jon’s blood froze.

“If you truly are who you claim to be,” the captain snarled, “then you know the price of war. Daenerys Targaryen is at war with the Riverlands. She’s likely locked in battle with House Tully as we speak. So what’s wrong with us killing her Dothraki?”

Jon’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He stepped out of the cell and picked up an arakh. He was unfamiliar with the weapon, but it was better than being unarmed. He turned and faced the Riverlands soldiers, who now looked at him and the arakh in his hand warily.

“Thank you for releasing me. I shall be on my way now.”

“Wait, you are not helping?” the captain frowned.

“I’m not in the condition to do so,” Jon said quietly.

He had been fed well, but he felt drained. There was clearly a war raging in Harrenhal, but he had no desire to get involved.

He no longer wished to be involved in anything. Not after realising how wrong he had been about everything. Not in the politics of Westeros. Not even in the North. Right now he just wanted to find Ghost, free him, and disappear into the deep North, back to the free folk.

The soldiers did not stop him as he turned on his heel and hurried down the corridor, calling out for Ghost as he ran. The captain watched his figure disappear into the shadows, then exhaled.

“Let’s go.”

The soldiers at the other end of the dungeon were still locked in combat with Dothraki who had managed to grab their weapons and were now fighting back.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” the captain shouted. “There’s nothing here! Leave and rejoin our ranks!”

The Riverlands soldiers turned to withdraw, but then three winged shadows emerged from the dark.

A jet of red-and-gold fire struck one soldier in the face, and he screamed. Purple flames washed over several others, sending them stumbling backwards in alarm, crashing into the men behind them.

The Dothraki saw their chance. Their sick and wounded bodies did not stop them. They surged forward, blades flashing as they cut down the stunned Riverlands soldiers.

The captain watched the scene unfold in terror.“Retreat!” he bellowed, his voice trembling with shock.

He turned to flee, only for silver and white to flash before his eyes. Sharp claws tore into his face, sinking into his eyes.

He screamed.

~~~~~~~

“Ghost! Ghost!” Jon shouted frantically as he ran through the sprawling dungeon. It was far larger than he had expected.

“Where are you? Answer me!”

From afar, he heard Ghost’s howl, and his heart lifted.

He followed the sound, but then came the screams. He froze, an eeriness creeping into his chest. The screams were different from the Dothraki’s. Something wasn’t right. He hurried on. The howls grew louder, guiding him through the maze of stone and torchlight, until he reached a thick wooden door.

Jon struck it with his fists.

“Ghost, are you in there?”

A loud howl answered from within.

“I will get you out!” he swore.

He grabbed the handle and pulled.

Locked.

He kicked the door, then threw his shoulder against it repeatedly, but it wouldn’t budge.

Breathing heavily, his body bruised, he raised the arakh and began hacking at the wood.

“Hold on a little longer, Ghost!”

*******

Outside, the battle raged on, when sudden shrieks pierced the sky.

Rian looked up, startled. Missara, Joragon, and Aerax were circling above, their cries echoing through the air.

His heart sank. The dragons were supposed to be in the dungeon. His orders had been clear – no one was to enter or leave until the battle was over, and that the dragons definitely must not leave the dungeon.

The Dothraki warriors assigned to guard duty had been sulky and displeased, but they wouldn’t have disobeyed a direct command.

If the dragons were flying free… had the Riverlands soldiers found the dungeon and broken through?

“Missara! Joragon! Aerax!” he bellowed. “Come to me!”

The dragons either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him.

His heart lurched as Joragon suddenly dove, releasing a burst of dragonfire into a cluster of soldiers. Their shrieks rang out as flames engulfed them. Aerax flew low and unleashed a stream of fire at another group of soldiers, while Missara shrieked as she continued circling in the sky.

“Damn it!” Rian swore.

He turned sharply.

“Ser Gerard! Take command and ensure the dragons are safe! I need to check the dungeon!”

The dragons were vital, but so was the prisoner Jon Snow. Losing him was not an option.

Without waiting for a reply, Rian broke into a run.

~~~~~~~

The sound of a shoulder slamming into heavy wood echoed through the dungeon corridor.

Jon huffed, then rammed the door again.

It shuddered, but held.

He paused, breathless and perspiring, both shoulders burning with pain. From inside the cell, Ghost howled mournfully, a long, echoing cry that clawed at Jon’s heart.

“I’m here,” Jon said, pressing his hand to the door. “I will get you out soon, I swear it.”

He looked at the door. The wood was splintering, and the lock was beginning to give. It would break soon. Soon, he could free Ghost, and they would flee Harrenhal together.

This time, he would listen to Tormund. He would let go of everything and live in peace with the free folk. He would never venture south again. Never, ever.

He stepped back, drew in a breath, and braced to ram the door again.

But a sudden blow struck his temple. Pain exploded. His world reeled. He staggered, then collapsed to the floor.

A boot crashed into his ribs. Agony flared through his body, and he thought he heard something crack. He huffed and groaned in pain as he clutched at his torso. Every breath sent sharp pains through his body.

He looked up. His vision had become blurred, but there was only one man in Harrenhal he knew with silver-gold hair.

Rian kicked the arakh out of Jon’s hand.

“Trying to rescue your wolf and run away, Jon Snow?” he said in a low voice. “You think you deserve freedom after everything you’ve done?”

He stomped down hard onto Jon’s left shoulder.

The shoulder cracked. Jon screamed.

Behind the cell door, Ghost barked desperately and furiously.

Rian tilted his head. “No, that’s the wrong one. To stop you from running, this is the correct one.”

He stomped again, this time at Jon’s kneecap.

Jon’s eyes turned red as his kneecap snapped. His mind reeled as he drowned in pain.

Rian grabbed him by the collar and began to drag him away.

“Let me see Ghost,” Jon gasped.

“No,” came Rian’s swift reply.

“Then lock me up with him!” Jon sobbed.

Rian stopped in his tracks. He turned and looked down at Jon sobbing from pain, both physical and emotional. His brow raised and his lips curled upwards.

“No.”

He resumed dragging Jon, whose gasping sobs echoed through the corridor, fading into the distance, mingling with Ghost’s mournful howls.

As Jon was pulled helplessly through the dungeon, Daenerys’ voice pierced through the fog of pain in his mind.

“Being a traitor is costly, Jon.”

He had thought she meant his freedom. Perhaps even his life.

He hadn’t realised Winterfell, Westeros, and now Ghost, would be the price.

And there was nothing he could do but weep.

Chapter Text

Location: Riverrun
Time: Noon

After accepting House Tully’s surrender, Daenerys stayed at the Dothraki encampment outside Riverrun. It was days later when Roslin sent her a message, informing her that the heirs of Houses Bracken, Blackwood and Mallister had arrived.

So she rode into the city on her silver, with Kovarro riding next to her and a line of riders trailing behind them.

As she rode through the city, the people of Riverrun either lowered their heads, dashed into the closest building, or shuttered their doors and drew the curtains across their windows.

Kovarro leaned towards her, his eyes gleaming in pride. “They fear you, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys did not reply.

She had expected this.

They have every reason to fear me. Even hate me.

But it was done. It was not something she could take back, nor could she turn back time.

At the castle, Roslin personally received her. She flinched at the sight of the Dothraki, averting her gaze from the bare-chested fiery warriors whose presence reminded her of the traumas they had carved into the Riverlands.

“Do not be concerned, Lady Tully,” Daenerys said reassuringly. “They will harm no one as long as nothing goes wrong.”

Roslin understood the veiled meaning.

“Nothing will go wrong, Your Grace,” she replied quietly, then led Daenerys and the Dothraki to the Great Hall.

In the centre of the Great Hall, little Rymund squealed in excitement as he toddled under the close watch of two dedicated nursemaids. The servants held their breath when they saw Daenerys and her Dothraki.

But not Rymund.

He lifted his head, and upon sighting Daenerys, beamed. He took unsteady steps towards her, but Roslin deftly lifted him into her arms before he could reach her.

“I apologise for him, Your Grace,” Roslin said with a tight smile.

“He has caused no offence, Lady Tully,” Daenerys replied coolly. “A child is without sin.”

“Silver lady,” Rymund lisped brightly.

Daenerys smiled at him kindly. “Hello, Lord Rymund. It’s good to see you again.”

Rymund beamed. He stretched out his hands, attempting to grab hold of Daenerys’ silver-gold tresses, but his adventurous hands were quickly caught and held back by Roslin.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said, her voice slightly strained with anxiety. “Do take your seat. Master Haron, our steward, will bring in the heirs of Houses Bracken, Blackwood, and Mallister.”

Daenerys did not reply. She turned and walked to the high seat belonging to the Lord of House Tully and sat down with quiet grace. Kovarro stood beside her, while her Dothraki remained close with their eyes alert, ready for anything.

Slightly offset from the high seat was another chair, where Roslin gently placed Rymund. She then stood next to him, her gentle eyes ever watchful of her young son.

Daenerys turned her head slightly to look at Roslin. “Who are the heirs of those Houses?”

“House Bracken has only daughters remaining. Its heir is Lady Jayne. House Blackwood’s heir is Lord Brynden. And House Mallister’s heir is Lord Patrek,” Roslin replied cautiously, before quickly adding, “I’ve spoken to them. They won’t cause Your Grace any trouble.”

Daenerys gazed at her thoughtfully, then said slowly, “For their own sake, I hope not.”

Roslin hesitated, a flicker of struggle passing through her eyes. Then, in a restrained voice, she said, “Lord Patrek was a close friend of Edmure’s. He still mourns him… so if he… if he comes across as rude, please be assured he means no harm.”

Daenerys stared at Roslin for a moment, then turned away.

“I’d expect nothing less than his loyalty.”

This is the third chance. If the lords refuse even this leniency, there would be nothing left to say, Daenerys thought.

She sat straight and stared ahead, and Kovarro tensed as the doors at the far end of the hall began to open.

~~~~~~~

The doors opened.

Lady Jayne Bracken entered first. She was thin and pale, with dark shadows under her eyes. Her steps were slow and slightly unsteady, her face blank, as though she’d rather be anywhere else but here. She did not look up as she crossed the hall.

Beside her was Lord Brynden Blackwood. He carried himself with quiet dignity, but his eyes were heavy with resignation at what he was about to do.

Right behind them was Lord Patrek Mallister. He strode in confidently, as if he was born to command. His eyes first landed on Rymund and Roslin, then shifted to Daenerys, seated on the high seat. He stopped mid-step and held his breath, startled and impressed. But then the heat in his gaze cooled, and his eyes narrowed and blazed with silent anger.

The three stopped several steps away from the seats.

Daenerys swept her eyes over them once, then spoke.

“Lady Jayne Bracken, Lord Brynden Blackwood, and Lord Patrek Mallister, you have been summoned to Riverrun to swear fealty Lord Rymund Tully, the new Lord Paramount of the Trident, and to me, the rightful Queen of Westeros.”

She had barely finished when Patrek muttered under his breath, “You are no queen…”

But everyone had heard him.

Jayne looked like she was about to faint, Roslin’s eyes widened in shock, while Brynden frowned in concern as he cast a sideways glance at Patrek.

The Dothraki warriors did not fully understand his words, but they sensed the defiance in his tone. Their muscles tensed, with two reaching for the hilts of their arakhs.

“I believe Lady Tully had informed you there would be no fourth chance,” Daenerys said, her tone cool and her eyes narrowed. “But if you insist, I have more than enough warriors in this hall who can deliver you the death of a traitor. Feel free to choose one.”

Patrek clenched his fists tightly and gritted his teeth, as though fighting back the temptation to hurl insults at Daenerys.

But then, Brynden stepped forward.

Without hesitation, he knelt on one knee before Rymund.

“I, Brynden Blackwood of Raventree Hall,” he said clearly, “swear fealty to Lord Rymund Tully, rightful Lord of House Tully and Lord Paramount of the Trident. I pledge him my loyalty, my service, and my sword.”

He turned then, still kneeling, and bowed his head low before Daenerys.

“And I swear fealty to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Westeros, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Long may she reign.”

Patrek stared at Brynden in disbelief, his jaw slightly slack.

Jayne moved next, her steps hesitant and her head lowered. She dropped to her knees and said in a trembling voice, “I... I am Jayne Bracken of Stone Hedge, and I swear fealty… to Lord Rymund Tully… as Lord Paramount of the Trident…”

She swallowed hard, her eyes flickering to Daenerys.

“…and to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, rightful Queen of Westeros.”

With Brynden and Jayne having sworn their fealty, only Patrek remained standing, and all eyes turned to him.

He unclenched and clenched his fists repeatedly.

“She killed our fathers,” Patrek said bitterly. Jayne flinched, while Brynden narrowed his eyes, but neither spoke.

Patrek did not stop there. He looked up and glared at Roslin. “She killed your husband.”

Pain flickered in Roslin’s eyes. Daenerys turned to look at her, and she felt compelled to speak. Suppressing her sorrow, she said in a shuddering voice, “It was war, Lord Patrek. It wasn’t personal.”

“But…”

Daenerys turned her gaze back to Patrek.

“And yet, you would have celebrated had your fathers won the battle and I was the one who fell,” she said coolly. “Your fathers were given two chances. They gave them up, and I respected their decision. And now Lady Bracken and Lord Blackwood have chosen to accept the mercy I extended to your Houses yet again.”

She leaned back in the high seat. “As I said, you may choose any of my warriors here to deliver you the death of a traitor.”

She paused for a moment to allow the words to sink in, before she continued, her voice sharpening.

“Lord Mallister, I do not have forever. Bend your knee and swear fealty to Lord Rymund and to me now, or die.”

Brynden did not look once at Patrek, while Jayne kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

Rymund looked up at Roslin. “Mama, when can I go? I’m tired, and this chair is uncomfortable.”

Roslin gently patted his back. “Just a little longer, my sweet boy,” she murmured.

Patrek watched, and his eyes widened when Rymund leaned over, grabbed a handful of Daenerys’ hair, and gave it a sharp tug.

“Jaja! I got you!” Rymund squealed in excitement.

Roslin and the nursemaids gasped, and the hall fell completely still. Jayne’s eyes twitched in fear, while a sliver of discomfort slipped through Brynden’s calmness.

Daenerys felt her scalp burn with pain. She saw Kovarro move from the corner of her eye, and she held up a hand. He stopped.

She leaned towards Rymund, took his small hand, and gently pried his fingers open. “It’s not nice to grab people’s hair like this, Lord Rymund,” she said with a soft smile. “It hurts, you know.”

“Long silver,” Rymund said, beaming. “Purple eyes.”

Daenerys gently tapped the back of his offending hand. “No hair. No eyes.”

Rymund chuckled, his little fingers curling around Daenerys’ finger.

Patrek watched with mixed feelings. When he first saw Rymund grab Daenerys’ hair, his heart pounded in fear for his late friend’s only child. He had expected a violent outburst, a dragon’s wrath, something befitting the daughter of the Mad King.

But it hadn’t come.

Instead, she had smiled, spoken gently, and even made the boy laugh. And Rymund wasn’t afraid of her at all. Instead, he seemed to like her.

Patrek drew in a shuddering breath. Then slowly, he went down on one knee.

The soft sound of it echoed in the silent hall, and all eyes turned to him.

Patrek bowed his head.

“I, Patrek Mallister of Seagard,” he said solemnly, “swear fealty to Lord Rymund Tully of Riverrun, rightful Lord of House Tully and Lord Paramount of the Trident. I pledge him my loyalty, my counsel, and my sword, so long as I draw breath.”

He paused for a moment. Then he raised his head slightly to look at Daenerys.

“And I swear fealty to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Westeros, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. May your rule be just, and may our lands know peace.”

The hall was silent.

Roslin blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to yield. Not so easily, at least. She thought he would protest more, maybe even hurl another insult. Yet he had yielded.

Brynden finally looked at Patrek, a flicker of surprise passing through his otherwise composed face. And Jayne exhaled softly, quiet relief settling over her anxious features as her shoulders eased and the tension left her.

Daenerys was surprised by the turn of events. She had thought her hand might be forced, but it hadn’t been. She looked at Rymund and smiled at him gently.

“Thank you, Lord Rymund,” she whispered, giving his little hand a warm squeeze.

He beamed at her.

She turned to the three kneeling young Riverlords.

“Your oaths are accepted with gratitude, Lady Bracken, Lord Blackwood, Lord Mallister,” she said. “Remember and honour your oaths, for they are the honour of your House.”

The tension in the hall began to fade. The Dothraki let go of their weapons. The nursemaids eased their posture. Even Roslin let out a quiet breath of relief.

Daenerys rose from the high seat. She looked down at the three kneeling heirs, then at Rymund, the boy who would one day rule them.

For now, peace had been kept.

*******

Location: Dothraki Encampment
Time: Night

The sky had darkened with grey clouds overhead by the time Daenerys returned to the Dothraki encampment outside the city.

She had taken her leave after the oaths were sworn, not wishing to impose any longer, for Roslin and Jayne both looked as though their hearts might give out had she decided to stay on.

She ordered the Dothraki to break camp, but before they could do so, a heavy downpour swept over them, forcing her and the riders to remain inside their tents. Only a few stayed outside to stand guard or patrol the surroundings, ever watchful for any potential hostile movements.

By nightfall, the rain had eased to a drizzle, and Daenerys was about to turn in when a warrior spoke from outside her tent.

“Khaleesi, there’s an urgent letter from Harrenhal.”

She felt her nerves tingle with unease. “From Harrenhal?”

“Yes,” the warrior replied. “A rider came to deliver it. He said it’s important.”

“Hand me the letter.”

The warrior entered, placed the letter in her hands, and withdrew.

Daenerys broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was messy, as though written in haste, and it was signed by Marissa.

The letter reported that Houses Smallwood and Lychester had mustered forces and were marching towards Harrenhal. One or two more Houses from the northeast of the Riverlands were said to be doing the same, though their identities had yet to be confirmed. At the end of the letter, Marissa urged her to return quickly to defend the castle, warning that an assault was highly probable.

Daenerys lowered the letter, her heart beating furiously.

She remembered that Houses Smallwood and Lychester were among the Riverlords who had declared neutrality. And since the Riverlords in the northeast had been crippled by her attack on the first muster point, it was likely that the ones now marching to Harrenhal had made the same declaration.

And this happened right after she had crossed the borders of Smallwood lands. Was the neutrality a lie? Why?

Her hands trembled with the suppressed rage of betrayal.

Another treachery.   

Always, always after she offered mercy. After she offered peace. After she offered coexistence.

Her stomach twisted and her heart turned cold when she thought of the armies of Houses Tully, Bracken, Blackwood and Mallister.

Had they planned this together? Using themselves to draw her away from Harrenhal, then the “neutral” Houses strike at her base while she was kept busy?

And then when they were defeated, they bent their knee and pretended they hadn’t schemed against her?

She crushed the letter and whipped her head towards the tent’s entrance.

“Rouse the riders,” she commanded the warriors standing guard outside. “We return to the city.”

~~~~~~~

Location: Riverrun Castle

Roslin sat back in her chair in the solar, staring out at the drizzling night sky through the window as she slowly twirled the goblet of wine in her hand. The chilly breeze brushed her face, but nothing was colder than the weight in her chest.

She had put Rymund to bed, dined with Lady Jayne Bracken, Lords Brynden Blackwood and Patrek Mallister, then seen them off personally.

And Edmure… Edmure was dead. Rotting with thousands of others on the battlefield.

Or hiding somewhere.

But he might as well be dead. He could not return without risking another war, and she could not allow that. Not when it would endanger Rymund’s life.

She covered her face with a hand, willing the tears not to fall.

“My lady.”

She quickly wiped her tears away.

“What is it, Master Haron?” she asked, trying to sound as calm as possible.

“The queen…” Master Haron hesitated, his voice edged with a tinge of fear, “she has returned. And she… she brought more Dothraki than in the day.”

Roslin’s heart lurched. Her hand trembled so badly she nearly spilled the wine as she set the goblet on the desk. She rose unsteadily to her feet.

“What did you say? She’s back… and with more Dothraki?”

“Yes, my lady. She demands to speak with you at once. She is waiting in the audience hall.”

“Did… did she say why?” Roslin was almost too afraid to ask.

“No, my lady,” Master Haron replied, his voice growing more brittle with each passing moment. “But… she seems… furious.”

Roslin’s heart thudded. Her head felt light, and she gripped the desk to steady herself.

What could have gone wrong? I bent the knee, and so did Lady Jayne, Lord Brynden and Lord Patrek. And she seemed to like Rymund. So, why?

“My lady, we must go at once,” came Master Haron’s voice.

Roslin drew in a deep, shuddering breath. She knew she would have to face Daenerys, whatever awaited her.

For Rymund.

“Yes, let’s go…” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

~~~~~~~

The great doors of the audience hall swung open, and Roslin stepped inside. Daenerys sat upon the high seat, her gaze so sharp Roslin instinctively looked away from her eyes.

On either side of the aisle leading to the high seat, the Dothraki warriors stood in two lines.

“Come forward, Lady Tully,” Daenerys said in a voice that was calm yet so commanding that Roslin felt compelled to obey.

The atmosphere felt increasingly oppressive as she walked between the two ranks of warriors, their dark eyes following her every step. She no longer felt like the Lady of Riverrun and Regent of the Riverlands, but like an outsider summoned to stand before judgement.

Finally, she stopped a few steps from the high seat, the very spot where Jayne Bracken, Brynden Blackwood, and Patrek Mallister had stood and knelt to Daenerys earlier in the day.

There was a long unsettling silence before Daenerys spoke.

“I hear Lady Bracken, Lord Blackwood, and Lord Mallister have left,” she said, her gaze fixed on an increasingly uncomfortable Roslin. “That’s fast. Is that a coincidence, or are they running away?”

Roslin startled, confused by the veiled accusation. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” she said, striving to keep her voice steady. “Their fathers had only just died, and they came here immediately to swear their fealty after they were summoned. They did not stay long, nor did I keep them, for they now had to handle the affairs of… of the changes.”

“Is that so?”

Daenerys’ voice was so cold that Roslin shivered. She couldn’t help but think of the dragon still lurking outside the city. She tensed, wanting to ask what the issue was but finding herself tongue-tied, afraid that whatever she said might be deemed a crime.

Daenerys peered at Roslin, who was now shaking visibly.

No. I had been lied to, put in danger and betrayed by those who appeared and acted true and sincere. Trust is not something I can give away so easily again.

She hardened. “Lady Tully, I have just received news from Harrenhal.”

Roslin said nothing. She stood where she was, as though awaiting judgement, so Daenerys continued.

“I was informed that Houses Smallwood and Lychester are marching their armies towards Harrenhal.”

Roslin’s head snapped up, startled. Daenerys rose from the high seat.

“I wonder why, since I never summoned their banners.”

She stepped forward, her expression cold. Roslin stepped back fearfully.

“These two Houses had declared neutrality, and I crossed Smallwood lands without trouble on my way to Riverrun.”

She continued forward. Roslin continued to retreat, her breathing growing heavier.

“Furthermore, there are reports of another one or two Houses from the northeast of the Riverlands doing the same. All of them moved after I left Smallwood lands.” Daenerys narrowed her eyes, her gaze sharpening. “This looks to me like a coordinated move – Houses Tully, Bracken, Blackwood, and Mallister to draw me out and engage me in battle, while the others strike at Harrenhal.”

Her voice dropped to a growl. “Did you know about this, Lady Tully?”

“N… no!” Roslin stammered, shaking her head rapidly. “I don’t know anything about this!”

“You don’t know? Then who would know?” Daenerys snapped. “Am I to summon Lord Edmure Tully from the dead and ask him?”

Roslin kept shaking her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I truly don’t know, Your Grace. I swear by my name and by my life.” Her lips quivered. “If… if it was something planned by Edmure and the late lords of Bracken, Blackwood, and Mallister, they have taken it to their graves. I was never involved in the war council. I had no idea what was planned!”

Daenerys stared at the trembling and tearful Roslin.

I detect no lie from her, the voice whispered. She’s too fearful to lie, for her young son’s life is at stake.

Daenerys inhaled deeply and took a step back.

“Lady Tully,” she said with quiet authority, “for Lord Rymund’s sake and your own, I hope you are not lying.”

“I swear I know nothing!” Roslin insisted.

“Very well,” Daenerys said. She folded her hands and looked at Roslin, her eyes and voice calm. “I reward loyalty but punish treachery. The crimes of Edmure Tully will not be counted against you and Lord Rymund, but remember this, Lady Tully…”

Her voice dropped low. “Never betray me. Should I discover you lied to my face today, you shall face the full consequences of your actions.” Her tone sharpened. “As for the new lords of Houses Bracken, Blackwood, and Mallister, I will not go after them. I expect them to live up to their oaths, and you, Lady Tully, will watch over them and ensure they make no missteps.”

“Yes… yes. Of course, Your Grace,” Roslin nodded, her voice shaky, before she dropped to a whisper, “My… my son…”

It was a mere whisper, but Daenerys heard it.

“I do not harm or kill children, Lady Tully.”

Roslin startled, her face growing even paler. “No… no… it wasn’t my… my intention to…”

Daenerys’ expression softened. “Your son’s safety is not just your concern, Lady Tully, it is also mine. If harm should come to you, I will see to it that Lord Rymund is taken into my care and raised with every honour.”

Roslin stared at her, jaw agape.

It sounds like a threat, the voice murmured. The poor woman probably thinks you mean to kill her someday and steal her child.

“I do not mean it as a threat,” Daenerys said quickly. But Roslin did not appear any happier. Instead, she lowered her head in silence, her hands clutching tightly at her skirts.

Too late, the voice mused, then turned cheerful. In any case, I believe you have cowed her sufficiently she’d never dare to go against you in any way.

Daenerys decided not to dwell on it.

“Lady Tully, I shall be returning to Harrenhal after this meeting to deal with the unsummoned banners.” She turned to Roslin. “In the meantime, you will write to Houses Smallwood and Lychester.”

Confusion and caution crossed Roslin’s face. “Write to them?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied firmly. “Write to them as Regent of the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Let them know to whom the Riverlands now owes its fealty. Tell them they have erred, and that they have made a most grievous decision. If they do not wish the complete annihilation of their Houses, they must deliver their lords to me. And they are to pass this command to the other Houses who took part in this treachery.”

Roslin drew in a sharp breath. “I… I’m not sure if they would…”

“They must,” Daenerys cut in coldly. “Or my dragon will descend upon their keeps. Iron and stone will not keep them safe.”

“What will Your Grace do to them?” Roslin whispered.

“They will be executed,” Daenerys replied without hesitation. “Additional taxes to be paid to my Crown shall be imposed on their Houses, and they will not be permitted to pass this burden to their people. In exchange, their heirs will retain their lands and titles.”

Roslin froze. Daenerys saw the fear and hesitation in her eyes.

“You must understand why this must be done, Lady Tully,” Daenerys said, her voice softening but not losing its firmness. “Leaving this unpunished will only invite more treachery, and your voice will cement both your authority and mine.”

Roslin lowered her head. “Yes, Your Grace,” she murmured. “It shall be done.”

Outside, it continued to drizzle.

Chapter Text

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Pre-Dawn

It was the dead of night, just before dawn, when Rian climbed the stone steps to the eastern wall. At the top, Marissa stood watch with a handful of her men.

They glanced briefly at Rian before returning to their vigil, eyes scanning the dark miles ahead for any flicker of movement or stray torchlight.

Marissa turned to him. “Ser Rian,” she greeted softly.

“Lady Marissa,” he replied with a nod. They stood side by side, gazing into the shadowy landscape.

“I keep wondering if the letter has reached Her Grace,” he said in a low voice. “Every hour we wait, every day we hold, I fear there might be reinforcements for the enemies.”

Marissa kept her eyes on the landscape. “It will take time. A raven was impossible with her host on the move and her location uncertain, so the rider had to skirt Smallwood lands entirely. We cannot be sure which houses remain true to their neutrality, or which might choose to betray it. Better he takes the longer road than end with an arrow in his back and the letter intercepted.”

Rian nodded stiffly. Marissa studied his face.

“How are the wounded? And the dragons?”

Rian exhaled heavily.

He thought back to the struggle of forcing the three young dragons back into the dungeon after their breakout. It had been three days since, and with each day they grew more restless. Missara and Joragon had begun to snarl at him, while Aerax who was usually friendly with him had turned cold. He knew the confinement was hard on them, but it was safer than leaving them loose when the Rivermen were still attacking Harrenhal. They could be captured or killed by arrows and blades.

The Dothraki wounded were just as restless. Since the slaughter of the sick and injured in the dungeon when the Rivermen broke through, none of them would lie still. Better to fight and fall in battle, they said, than to be butchered helpless while lying down.

“The dragons are fine but restless. The wounded refused to sit still,” Rian said, his gaze fixed on a group of riders patrolling below. “The Dothraki are not ones to sit around.”

Marissa’s brow furrowed. “It has been four days since the first assault. Each time they return, they fight harder and more desperately. I have the same fear as you do, Ser Rian, that they could be waiting for reinforcements. And if more banners join them…”

Rian clenched his fists. “Then we will fight them all the same.” His gaze and voice hardened. “We shall stand our ground and hold Harrenhal until Her Grace returns. We must.”

Marissa did not argue. For everyone in Harrenhal understood the stakes.

~~~~~~~

A host of Riverlands soldiers quietly marched towards Harrenhal without the aid of light, hoping to catch the defenders off guard. Their expressions were grim, their eyes dimmed.

For four days and nights, they had tried to take down Harrenhal. Already their morale had taken a blow from the failure of the first assault. Then they tried again. And again. Even when reinforcements from House Hawick joined them, little changed.

They had successfully seized positions within the fortress, but either lost them to marauding Dothraki riders or were forced to abandon them.

Every hour, every day that was lost, inched them closer to Daenerys Targaryen and her dragon’s return. Their lords had wagered everything on the assault while Houses Tully, Bracken, Blackwood and Mallister served as distraction. Their task was to take Harrenhal by surprise, reassemble the scorpions – kept dismantled but ready in their camps – and wait for the dragon.

Once they spot the dragon, they would shoot it down, for she would never have expected her base to be taken while she was away.

But now… that hope was slipping away.

Many thought of turning back to go home.

But where could they go?

When the dragon queen returned, she would learn of their lords’ treachery all the same, and she would burn their homes.

They had no choice but to march on.

~~~~~~

From the wall, Marissa spotted movement in the distance. She leaned forward and squinted her eyes, then spun around and called to her men: “Archers! Ready!”

Rian saw nothing, but he knew better than to risk doubt. He hurried down the stairs to rouse his men and to find his co-commander Ser Gerard. He shouted as he went, “To arms! Form ranks! The enemies are here!”

Men who were resting immediately leapt to their feet and brandished their arakhs, their nerves and senses on high alert as they readied for combat.

Aggo was the first to act. Upon hearing Rian’s call, he rallied his riders. As soon as the Riverlands soldiers came into sight, they rode out and crashed into the stunned host, cutting through their formation like a hot knife through butter.

But the Riverlands forces recovered quickly. Screams ripped through the night as men and horses alike fell.

The fighting grew fierce. Arrows rained from the walls, the Dothraki pressed hard from the flanks, and the infantry held the line at the breach. For a while the battle swung back and forth in chaos.

Then a sound tore through the sky.

A deafening roar that shook the very stones of Harrenhal.

The Riverlands soldiers froze, heads snapping upward. From the clouds, a massive shape descended, its shadow falling over them.

The roar and the sheer size of Drogon shattered the last shred of discipline and nerves among the attackers. In contrast, the Dothraki’s morale surged – they slashed faster and fiercer, driving deep into the heart of the enemy’s formation.

The Riverlands host broke in terror. Soldiers turned and fled. Some sought cover in nearby woods and thickets, while others were mercilessly cut down by the riders and warriors, or struck by arrows from the walls.

The army that had marched with grim resolve to slay the dragon queen and her beast now lay in ruins.

*******

Location: War Room, Harrenhal
Time: Dawn

Darkness gave way to light.

A thousand riders were dispatched to the Riverlands camps to seize supplies. Those who remained behind kept watch, tended to the dead, and guarded the Riverlands soldiers who had chosen to surrender.

The captives trembled beneath the eyes of the Dothraki and under the shadow of the great dragon nearby, rumbling as it rested.

Meanwhile, Daenerys sat at the head of the table in the war room, with Aggo and Rian seated to her left, and Marissa and Ser Gerard seated to her right.

She listened as Rian gave his report. Her laced fingers tightened when he spoke of the massacre in the dungeon. When he finished, she looked to her commanders.

“All of you, good work in defending Harrenhal,” she said calmly. She turned to Ser Gerard. “Dividing the riders into infantry and archer units was a brilliant idea and contributed much to the defence. I commend you for that, Ser Gerard.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Ser Gerard bowed his head. “I merely did my duty.”

She turned to Marissa.

“Marissa, see that the men who surrendered are tended to.” Her eyes flashed. “Then tell me which Houses took part in this attack, aside from House Smallwood and House Lychester. I had Lady Tully send letters demanding they surrender their lords, and to pass the message to the other Houses involved in this treachery. But if they failed to pass it on, then I must know which Houses are guilty, so I can act.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Marissa replied with a nod.

Then Daenerys turned to Aggo.

“You did well leading the riders. This victory is yours, one you may now wear proudly with your new braid.”

“And I shall continue to earn them,” Aggo replied gruffly, his eyes sharp with determination.

She gave a nod, then finally turned to Rian.

“How are Missara, Joragon and Aerax? Are they well?”

“They are well, Your Grace,” Rian said. “Thankfully they were not harmed. But they are displeased at being kept in the dungeon.”

Daenerys sighed in resignation. “Dragons do not thrive in confinement.”

Her chest ached as she thought of Rhaegal and Viserion, whom she had once locked away in Meereen. They had died too young and too sudden, before she could atone for what she had done to them.

She rose, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor.

“Come with me to the dungeon, Rian. I shall see to my children and bring them out myself.” She shifted her gaze to Aggo, Ser Gerard, and Marissa, who had risen from their chairs as well. “Thank you once again for the solid defence. I am counting on all of you to continue to keep Harrenhal safe.”

The three bowed as Daenerys left the war room with Rian.

~~~~~~~

Daenerys felt Rian’s eyes on her as they walked towards the dungeon. She said nothing. If he wanted to speak, he would.

And he did.

“You must be tired,” he murmured. “Coming back all this way. You should rest.”

She exhaled softly. She had ridden straight back after confronting Roslin and had yet to catch a wink of sleep. Yes, she would rest soon, but not quite yet.

“I will, after tending to Missara, Joragon, and Aerax,” she replied gently. “I know they are safe, but I want to see them with my own eyes. And I want them to know I am still here. For them.”

Rian nodded.

Silence fell between them again. It was not awkward, yet she sensed Rian expected her to say more, perhaps even to ask him something. But she could not guess what, so she remained quiet.

Then he spoke again.

“About that prisoner…”

Daenerys frowned, her eye twitching. So it’s about him. But why would Rian want to speak of him? Could it be…

She stopped and turned, her movement so sudden it startled him.

“Don’t tell me he escaped,” she said, her voice low but sharp.

“No, no, he did not,” Rian said quickly.

At his reassurance, Daenerys’ shoulders eased.

“Then what is it?”

She caught the flicker of hesitation in him and let out a weary sigh. The last time Jon had been left in Rian’s charge, he had been told about what happened to Winterfell without her permission. She wondered if Rian had said something to him again.

“What did you say to him this time?”

“Well…” Rian’s eyes darted aside. “When the Rivermen broke into the dungeon, they freed him as well. But instead of fleeing, he went to find his pet. I found him trying to break the door down and I…”

His voice trailed off. With his averted gaze, Daenerys felt her stomach sink.

“What did you do?”

Rian was staring at the ground now.

“I… might have broken some of his… bones.” He shook his head, then quickly added, “But only to stop him from making further attempts to free the wolf or to escape. Now he cannot try, even if he wants to.”

Daenerys’ stomach twisted into knots as a flood of emotions overcame her.

On one hand, her chest clenched in disgust as she realised Rian had acted beyond necessity. On the other, she knew he had done so out of loyalty, and perhaps to vent his rage at Jon’s betrayals of her.

She sighed, but her voice was firm when she spoke.

“You will see that he receives proper care for his injuries.”

Rian blinked, taken aback. “You are still concerned for him?”

She gazed at him coolly. “It is not about him, Rian. I do not approve of torture, and I do not wish you to sully yourself with such acts.” She paused, then added, “I have yet to pass judgement on him for his betrayal, and I want him well for that. I understand you sought to prevent his escape, but there are other ways to restrain him. Your actions will also reflect on me, and on the rule I represent as Queen. Do you understand, Rian?”

Rian lowered his head.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Just do not repeat it,” Daenerys said, turning as she continued towards the dungeon.

He stared at her back for a moment before falling into step again, staying two paces behind her.

*******

Daenerys woke the next morning from a long, satisfying sleep to the screeches of the young dragons. She peered out the window and smiled as she watched Missara, Joragon, and Aerax chasing one another playfully across the sky.

Her gaze swept across the vast courtyard of the ruined fortress, where the Dothraki busied themselves with training and sorting the supplies seized from the Riverlands camps.

Then she turned her attention to the desk, where letters, papers, quills, and ink bottles lay waiting. The ravens had arrived shortly after she left for Riverrun. She broke the seal on the first letter and read.

It was from House Arryn. Its lord, Robert “Robin” Arryn, waxed lyrical, invoking the long ties between House Arryn and House Targaryen, reminding her that Arryn blood ran through her, making them cousins…

Daenerys read carefully, resisting the urge to skim, though she could not help but wonder if no one had thought to help Robert Arryn frame his words more clearly.

Still, the key point was plain enough – House Arryn declared neutrality.

She was almost disappointed. After so much flattery and attempted charm, she had half-expected him to go further and declare for her outright. So much for being ‘cousins’.

The rest of the letters were the same, declarations of neutrality from the Houses of the Vale. She placed them down on the table calmly. She could only hope they were all true.

Then she sat and began to write.

Replies to the Vale Houses.

A letter to House Velaryon, commanding them to prepare their fleet to sail for King’s Landing.

Another to Jhiqui at Dragonstone, ordering her to send a thousand Unsullied to sail to the Crownlands, then march on to the city.

To the Crownlands Houses that had already declared for her, she wrote commands to raise their banners, join with her Unsullied once they landed, then march to King’s Landing. She would meet them at the city gates.

When the last seal was pressed, she paused, then drew out a fresh sheet of parchment. Dipping her quill into the ink, she began her final letter of the day.

Dear Daario…

*******

Location: Acorn Hall
Time: Afternoon

In the great hall of Acorn Hall, it was silent save for the clink of metal as Lord Smallwood cut a slab of roasted meat on his plate and raised a juicy slice to his mouth.

His wife and daughter ate quietly, though the young lady’s stomach twisted with unease. She glanced at her mother, who avoided her eyes, then flicked her gaze to the steward. His fists clenched in dread, but he inhaled deeply and stepped forward.

“My lord, if I may.”

“I’m eating,” Lord Smallwood said coldly. He picked up his goblet and drank deeply, then gestured for the cupbearer to refill it.

The steward’s fists tightened. “My lord, this is not a matter we should delay. We must respond to Lady Tully’s letter.”

Lord Smallwood slammed his knife onto the table, startling the cupbearer and the two ladies.

“She had no idea!” he shouted. “She was supposed to buy us time just as her lord husband did! And what? She surrendered? She threw our plans out of the window!”

The steward trembled. But still, he found his voice. “Lady Tully did what she could to save her people, her son, and House Tully.” He bit his lip. “And… we failed to capture Harrenhal as planned. If we do not reply, I fear the dragon will…”

Lord Smallwood rose sharply as he glared at the steward.

“Careful,” he growled.

The steward shrank back. It was then the young lady rose from her chair.

“Father.”

Lord Smallwood turned sharply to his daughter. Her mother gasped and tugged at her sleeve, but the young lady patted her mother’s hand reassuringly before gently pushing it away.

“We should surrender.”

“Do you know what you are saying, Carellen?” Lord Smallwood snapped. “Daenerys Targaryen intends to execute me. You would have me send myself to death?”

Lady Carellen bravely gazed into her father’s eyes.

“It appears that would be the price to pay for the safety of our House. We had received word that the lords of Houses Lychester, Hawick and Mooton had decided to turn themselves in.”

“Because they are cowards.” Lord Smallwood scoffed bitterly. “The safety you speak of would only last for a while. Even if I die, our House will be bled dry by the punitive taxes. What difference is there from all of us dying?”

“We will not die,” Lady Carellen said quietly. “I will ensure of it.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Smallwood spat. “You know nothing. You are as foolish as Roslin Frey and that Bracken girl.” He looked at Carellen, disappointment etched deep into his face. “If only your brother were still alive… he’d never have spoken such words.”

Carellen stiffened, tasting bitterness as she swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said, though her tone was unapologetic, and her head was held high. “I’m afraid no one at Acorn Hall agrees with you. Not anymore.”

“What did you say?” Lord Smallwood growled, his grip tightening on his goblet. He jerked his hand back, wine splashing onto the floor. Lady Smallwood gasped, about to cry out a warning to her daughter, when Carellen snapped a command in a sharp, cold voice.

“Take him.”

Before he could react, the steward, cupbearer, and nearby guards rushed forward. They wrenched his arms behind his back, subduing him even as he shouted in rage and alarm. Lady Smallwood covered her mouth in shock as her husband’s hands were bound with ropes by his own retainers.

“What is this?” he bellowed, his voice breaking with fury and betrayal. “How dare you? Carellen, explain yourself!”

“Father,” Carellen said, her voice steady though her body trembled. “I am sorry, but this must be done for our House.”

“Carellen!” Lord Smallwood was in utter disbelief. But she no longer looked at him, as she now addressed the steward.

“Send him to Harrenhal, along with our most sincere apologies to Her Grace. Tell her such betrayal shall not happen again.”

The steward nodded.

“Carellen!” Lord Smallwood screamed as the guards dragged him away.

But neither his daughter nor his wife looked at him again.

And this would be the last time he ever laid eyes on them.

*******

Location: Catacombs, Meereen
Time: Unknown

Tyrion lay on the cold stone floor of the catacombs of Meereen.

Since his abduction and imprisonment, he had tried looking for an escape, but there was none. Guards were posted at every door.

There was no light, except when the doors creaked open and torches flared as guards stepped in to deliver food and water, to collect the empty trays, or to take away his waste.

There were no books. Not that they would help without light.

And there was no one to talk to. He could sometimes hear the guards’ voices beyond the heavy and reinforced doors, but they always fell silent when he spoke.

Time passed, and gods know how much. In the darkness, with no entertainment, no one to talk to, and no updates on whatever was happening in Westeros, Tyrion grew increasingly restless.

And frantic.

At first, he tried coaxing the unseen guards into conversation, but they never answered. He demanded to see Daario, but the man never came. Tyrion could not tell if his requests were ignored, or if Daario himself refused to meet him.

So he tried another tactic that was risky to his wellbeing, but worth it if it received a response – he began to insult Daenerys. Harsh words and bawdy jests about her that were loud enough for the guards to hear. They never replied, but he saw their tight expressions and murderous glares whenever they entered with food and water or to clear his waste, then he would smile and add another insult. Yet they never struck him or spoke to him. They remained stoic and silent.

It was maddening, and he was nearly at the end of his rope.

Now, all he could do was to talk to himself to grasp onto his sanity for as long as he could. And he wondered how long before he would go mad.

He clenched his fists.

No, Daenerys… she is still alive. I must make it until she’s here.

His fingers relaxed and he closed his eyes. His hand reached for the brooch on its chain, resting against his chest, and gripped it tight.

I will expose her. I will tell everyone at Meereen what she has become.

~~~~~~~

Location: Council Room, Great Pyramid of Meereen
Time: Noon

Daario fanned himself with his hand as the oppressive heat of Meereen closed in. He listened to the councillors with half his mind adrift, his fingers drumming lazily on the table.

When the meeting ended and the councillors shuffled out, the weight of leadership seemed to lift from his chest. He stretched, only to feel a cool gaze fixed on him. Flicking his eyes to the left, he saw one councillor had lingered, her eyes still upon him.

“Well, Nissari,” he said with a yawn, “You had plenty to say during the meeting. More to add?”

Nissari, a slender middle-aged woman with weary eyes, did not look away.

“I have a question for the Lord Regent.”

“Oh?” Daario slouched deeper into his chair. “And what couldn’t be asked in front of the others?”

“It is a question many of us hold, though none dared voice it for fear of disappointment.” Nissari’s eyes narrowed as Daario reached for his goblet. “But I suspect you may know the truth. Tell me, my lord… is it true? Is our Queen alive?”

Daario choked mid-swallow, spitting wine as he bent forward coughing.

“What?!” His eyes widened in mock astonishment, his voice pitching higher than usual.

Nissari raised a brow, then reclined in her seat. “Judging by that reaction, I think I have my answer.”

Daario rolled his eyes. “You are either overthinking, or underthinking.”

“How long do you think you can hide this, Lord Regent?” Nissari’s voice was cold. “Already there are whispers in the streets that the Queen lives. Merchants from Westeros speak of a dragon queen making war in their land. And who else could that be but our Queen, the Mother of Dragons, for it was she who woke the dragons and rode them?”

Daario crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. “And what makes you think I know anything?”

“The Queen was close to you before,” Nissari replied without hesitation. “She trusted you enough to leave Meereen in your hands. If there was anywhere she would turn after what happened in Westeros years ago, it would be here. To you.”

Daario rolled his eyes again and drank from his goblet in silence. Inwardly, he half-cursed Nissari, yet he could not help but be impressed once more by her courage and wit.

Before Daenerys had come to Meereen years ago, Nissari had been a slave working accounts for her master. She was gifted with numbers, knew the trades and industries of the city and region like the back of her hand. She also knew people, understood how money flowed, and how commerce worked. Anything to do with numbers and trade, she was more than a reliable source. Among the Masters, she had been a prized possession.

And it was with her talents that Meereen’s finances and economy were steered to stability. Under her watch, its trade expanded multifold and was on the path to greater prosperity than before.

Even in a council where at least half its members had once been slaves like she was, Nissari stood out.

Since she had broached the matter, it seemed pointless to keep up the ruse. Sooner or later Daenerys would show up in Meereen anyway, if her campaign in Westeros went her way, Daario thought.

“Alright, alright,” Daario sighed dramatically. “You are right. The Queen is alive.”

Nissari shot to her feet, her expression and voice hardening. “So you do know. How? Did you speak with her?” She paused, a chilling realisation seizing her. “Why has she not returned to Meereen? Why is she still in Westeros?” Her tone turned bitter. “We need her. We want her. But not Westeros. They betrayed her. They do not deserve her grace.”

Daario exhaled and waved his hands. “It’s complicated. There’s the whole thing about her family ruling Westeros for generations, her dead brothers, and her unresolved issues about being betrayed and assassinated by the very people she saved… well, what did I leave out?”

“Well then, Lord Regent,” Nissari said, her voice steady but cold. “Allow me to take my leave to Westeros.”

He stared at her in astonishment. “What? Why?”

“The trade deals and economic policies I have made over the years for Meereen should set its financial path and keep the economy stable for years to come, provided there are no huge surprises that destabilise the region,” she said calmly. Then her tone sharpened. “Our Queen was lost to us for years because she was betrayed. Had it not been so, she would have conquered Westeros and returned to us. She needs someone she can trust to work for her, and who else but a loyal Meereenese?”

Daario’s hands grabbed his hair. “Unbelievable,” he uttered as he shot a glare at Nissari. “Do you even understand how hard it’d be to get a replacement for you? You are just giving me more work!” He narrowed his eyes. “And you do understand you may never be able to return? You have to take a ship, and the journey is long and treacherous.”

Nissari folded her hands. “I leave my fate to the gods. If they decide I am to die before I can serve our Queen, so be it.” She held Daario’s gaze. “My children were murdered by those butchers who called themselves the Great Masters.” Her voice softened with pained memory, yet it was edged with steel. “It was she who gave me and my children justice, and I am willing to follow her to the end.”

Daario leaned back in his chair, studying her in silence. For all her calm words, there was a fire in her eyes that even he could not dismiss. Then he smiled and lifted his goblet.

“Well, Nissari. You are a bold one. Not only that, but you do have talents she would need once she reclaims her throne in Westeros.” He took a sip of wine. “Get your things ready. There’s a ship that sails to Westeros for trade, and it was the very ship that carried the Queen to Westeros months ago. I shall make arrangements with the captain to send you to her. With any luck, you might even sleep in the very bed she once lay on.”

Nissari’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and her lips curved in a rare smile. “I thank you for your understanding, Lord Regent. I shall await word of your arrangements, then.”

She bowed deeply and left the room.

Alone now, Daario stared into his goblet of wine. Then he blinked and groaned.

“Ahhh… stupid, stupid. I should have kept her until Daenerys comes back. Then I could get squeeze more work out of her before they leave together!”

*******

Location: War Room, Harrenhal
Time: Noon

In the war room, Daenerys sat at the head of the table, her hands folded before her. Aggo, Rian, Marissa, and Ser Gerard were seated at their places, waiting for her to speak.

“I have received word from the Riverlands Houses involved in the treachery,” she began, her voice calm and steady. “Lady Carellen now leads House Smallwood and will be sending her father to us for justice. Lords Lychester, Hawick, and Mooton have also chosen to turn themselves in. The new lords and ladies of these Houses have pledged to keep to their sworn neutrality.”

Her eyes swept across them.

“But soon, I shall be leaving for King’s Landing.”

A murmur rippled around the table, but none spoke until she continued.

“House Velaryon’s fleet will sail for King’s Landing. The Unsullied will sail from Dragonstone and form a host with the banners of the Crownlands Houses who have declared for me. Together, they will advance on King’s Landing. I shall meet them at the city gates, where the assault will begin.”

She paused, then went on.

“I will take Rian with me. Aggo, Marissa, Ser Gerard, you will remain here at Harrenhal.”

Aggo looked up, a frown on his face, but Daenerys continued.

“Aggo, you shall continue to command the riders. Marissa, the archers will remain under you. Ser Gerard, you shall lead the warriors as you did in the last battle. This is not only because your leadership has proven its worth, but also because Harrenhal is best defended by those of the Riverlands. Should the enemy strike here again, the defence must have your knowledge of these lands.”

“Your Grace, how many men will you take with you?” Marissa asked.

The reply came swiftly. “None. Only Rian, and my dragons.”

Marissa stared at her in disbelief. “Only that?”

“Yes.” Daenerys’ tone softened, though her resolve was clear. “The Vale Houses have declared neutrality, but I will not risk their treachery by leaving too few men to defend Harrenhal while I am away. The strength of the forces here will soon be bolstered when Kovarro returns from Riverrun with his riders. But I am not alone, for I will have my dragons, the Unsullied, and the Crownlands banners.”

She leaned forward. “Harrenhal must hold. That is your duty and responsibility. Mine is to end this war at King’s Landing.”

Silence followed her words, with none at the table voicing objection.

At last, Aggo struck his fist against his chest in salute. “It shall be so, my queen.”

Marissa bowed her head. “Harrenhal will hold.”

Ser Gerard nodded his head. “On my life, it shall not fall.”

Daenerys gazed at each of them in turn. Then she rose from her chair, her voice steady.

“Then it is settled. Prepare yourselves. Keep the prisoners safe while I am away. I shall send word when this war has ended.”

She turned and left the chamber, Rian rising quickly to follow. Behind them, the others rose as well, parting ways to see to their duties.

Chapter Text

Location: Dragonstone
Time: Morning

Jhiqui stood on the cliff, watching the ships carrying the Unsullied as they sailed away to the Crownlands.

The Velaryon fleet would sail towards King’s Landing, attacking from the sea, while the Unsullied would march with the banners of Houses Bar Emmon, Rosby, and Massey, striking the city by land as they awaited Daenerys’ arrival to join them.

A smile curled on her lips as she imagined the broken usurper, sitting helplessly on the throne that did not belong to him, with no reinforcements coming to save him.

At last, her Khaleesi would be Queen. The one true Queen of Westeros.

After Khal Drogo’s death, she had once thought that everything was over. But Daenerys had shattered her expectations time and again, rising higher than she had ever imagined.

More than once she had wondered if Daenerys could have accomplished all this had Khal Drogo lived. If so, how would Khal Drogo have reacted? He had always loved and admired that fire in her spirit, but would he have accepted a Khaleesi no longer under his control, one who commanded power of her own?

But there was no time for reminiscence. There was still work to do. She turned and walked back towards the looming fortress of Dragonstone, leaving behind the high-pitched squawks of seagulls.

~~~~~~~

Back in the fortress office, Jhiqui read Daenerys’ letter again. 

She had done all that Daenerys had asked of her – shoring up Dragonstone’s defences, sending the Unsullied to the Crownlands… but there was this last request, the purpose of which she could not fully understand. 

Prepare a chamber on the highest level of the castle, one with a window overlooking the ocean, gently barricaded to prevent entry or exit through said window without compromising the view. The chamber should be relatively spacious and comfortable, and it must be well-stocked with books and writing materials.

The chamber must be fitted with a privy and proper washing facilities. The design must allow servants to clean and replenish these facilities without being seen.

The doors to the chamber must be doubly secured and can only be unlocked from the outside. The main door must also be fitted with a lockable aperture at its base, through which food trays and water jugs may be passed and retrieved.

Jhiqui could hear the sounds of construction echoing from the chosen chamber even now. Selecting a suitable chamber and outfitting the doors were simple enough, but installing the privy and washing facilities was another matter.

Daenerys intended this chamber for someone, that much was certain. But for whom?

She carefully folded the letter and placed it inside the desk drawer. Then she sat down, humming a Dothraki folksong as she began to write a letter. The script was wobbly and uneven, each word looking as though it had been wrestled onto the paper, yet her hand was steady as she continued.

I am the Khaleesi’s only handmaiden left. Now I learn more, learning to write just like how she learnt the Dothraki tongue. Soon, she will see that my worth lies not only in maintaining this castle, but more. And soon, I shall stand beside her once again.

With that in mind, she grinned and scribbled more rapidly.

Let the fools fight her Khaleesi. She shall hold this castle for her.

*******

Location: Harrenhal

Daenerys watched as the remains of the lords of Houses Smallwood, Lychester, Hawick and Mooton were lifted into their coffins, which were then covered.

They were beheaded for their treachery, the execution carried out by a Dothraki warrior chosen by Aggo. Among them, Lord Smallwood alone swore and cursed at both Daenerys and his own heir. The rest remained silent as they accepted their fates.

She turned to the stone-faced Marissa.

“Release the soldiers who had surrendered and let them bring their lords home so that they may receive burial,” she said. “They may be traitors, but they should be returned to their families who shall decide where they belong in death.”

Marissa’s eyes softened at the command. “Yes, Your Grace,” she bowed. “It shall be done.”

As Marissa went to make the arrangements, Daenerys went to the clearing where Drogon rested.

When she reached the clearing, Drogon was feeding on a whole roasted cow, while Rian tossed slabs of raw meat to Missara, Joragon, and Aerax.

Missara flipped through the air with elegance as she snatched a slab. Joragon released a controlled stream of fire, roasting the meat mid-air before snapping it up. Meanwhile, Aerax remained seated calmly on the ground, waiting for the meat to land before he roasted it with his dragonfire and tore into it.

Daenerys stroked the young dragons as they ate. They rumbled in satisfaction but scarcely paid her any attention, too focused on their food. She then walked over to Drogon, his scales radiating heat beneath her hand as she stroked him, before turning to Rian.

“Well, how ready are you for King’s Landing?” she asked.

Rian set down the bucket of meat and placed his hands on his waist. “I’m more than ready, Your Grace,” he replied with an eager glint in his violet eyes. “I can’t wait to see you sit on the throne. What’s it called here? The… the Sword Throne?”

Daenerys laughed. “The Iron Throne,” she corrected. “But you are not too far off, I suppose. It was forged from many swords.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Rian grimaced.

“I don’t think it was ever meant to be comfortable,” she said, shaking her head. “Ruling can be very uncomfortable, when you are responsible for so many lives.”

As she continued to stroke Drogon, she asked, “How is the saddle? Have you managed to recreate it?”

Rian nodded once, looking almost pleased that she had asked. “I was about to report on this, Your Grace. I’ve had a prototype made, ready for you to try at any time.”

Daenerys blinked in surprise and straightened.

“Well, bring it here then. We are about to fly to King’s Landing. The saddle will be helpful.”

With that, Rian hurried off and spoke to a few Dothraki warriors, who nodded and dispersed. When they returned, they were carrying a large saddle of reinforced leather and metal plating, complete with leather harnesses.

Missara, Joragon, and Aerax paused in their feeding, watching with curiosity as the warriors cautiously approached Drogon with the saddle. Sensing something amiss, Drogon emitted a low growl, his molten eyes glaring at the warriors, who froze in fear.

Daenerys touched his snout. “It’s all right, Drogon,” she murmured. “This isn’t going to hurt.”

Drogon huffed, his eyes narrowing to slits before he turned his face away. Daenerys gestured to the warriors, who quickly stepped forward and began strapping the saddle onto him. As they worked, Drogon flicked his tail impatiently. Every so often he growled, startling them into halting, until Daenerys urged them on.

Once the saddle was secured, Daenerys placed her hand on Drogon’s scales and climbed onto the prototype. She settled herself in, fastening the harness around her.

With a deep rumble, Drogon rose to his feet. The sudden shift made her grip the harness tightly as the unfamiliar weight of the saddle threw her off balance. She straightened her back, testing her seat, but the straps pressed awkwardly, and the leather creaked under her movements.

It did not feel secure. In truth, it felt worse than riding bareback, where at least she trusted her instincts and Drogon’s strength.

She dismounted, landing lightly on the ground. Shaking her head, she looked at Rian.

“Perhaps both I and the saddle need more time,” she said.

“Oh.” Rian’s shoulders sank, his disappointment plain. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I will work on it again.”

“Don’t worry about it, Rian,” Daenerys said gently. “Dragons were lost to the world for a long time. It is only natural that recreating a saddle for one would take time.”

Rian nodded, though the disappointment lingered in his eyes. “I won’t give up,” he said firmly.

Daenerys smiled faintly. “I know you won’t.”

She lingered in the clearing, choosing to spend more time with the dragons. Taking the bucket, she hand-fed the meat to Missara, Joragon, and Aerax, who rumbled softly as they snapped up each slab from her hand.

Rian remained nearby, watchful and silent, standing guard as his queen tended to her children.

*******

Location: ???
Time: ???

Bran opened his eyes.

He was in a chamber, but he wasn’t truly there. The surroundings were clouded and misty, though he could still make out what seemed to be the room of the Small Council.

Or at least, what it had once been a long time ago.

Muffled voices reached his ears, warbled as though carried through water. But when the door of the chamber slammed open, the sounds sharpened, clear and cutting.

A man with short silver-gold curls entered, his handsome face marked by the weariness of age and sorrow. Behind him came a woman with braided silver-gold hair, her features drawn tight, her violet eyes glowering with simmering rage.

Bran recognised her. He had seen her before, in a vision months ago. A sword was still strapped at her side, though now she wore a light silk dress instead of armour.

“Please,” the man said, his voice heavy with fatigue and edged with a near-pleading tone. “You’ve said your piece more than enough.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, her rage close to breaking loose. “Apparently not,” she hissed. “Why else would you accept a peace deal with Dorne?”

“We’ve lost too much,” he said quietly, refusing to meet the woman’s furious gaze. “No matter what we do, Rhaenys is never coming back. We must care for Aenys now. And we have a realm to rule…”

“This realm,” the woman cut him off bitterly. “You began this whole Conquest over a dream. Rhaenys and I came here only because of you. For you. For your dream, we even took up roles secondary to you, willing to be seen as less, just to support you. And now Rhaenys is dead, and you repay her by signing a peace agreement with those who killed her and Meraxes, without even reclaiming her body?”

One hand gripped the hilt of her sword, the other clenched into a trembling fist.

“What kind of brother and husband are you, Aegon? And how dare you?”

The man, Aegon, said nothing as he pressed a hand to his forehead. His body trembled, his eyes glistening.

“Are you truly set on accepting this peace agreement?” the woman asked, her fury held in check by the thinnest restraint.

Aegon inhaled sharply, as though bracing for the worst. “Yes,” he replied softly, though a hard edge underlay his tone. “And you shall obey, for I am the King.”

Her violet eyes flared. “And if I insist otherwise?”

Aegon shook his head. “Please don’t. We cannot afford endless wars. If you ride out…” He broke off, unable to finish.

The woman gave a short, bitter laugh. “What? You’ll stop me with Balerion?”

Aegon said nothing, but his silence was louder than any words.

She laughed again, coldly this time. “Fine, have it your way. I shall return to Dragonstone and properly mourn my siblings, and I’ll be taking Maegor with me. I trust you’ll take good care of Aenys? He’s still your son, even if you no longer care for his mother.”

Aegon snapped up his head. “What? Wait…”

But she paid him no heed, turning on her heel and striding from the chamber.

“Wait, Visenya!” he cried after her.

But the woman, Visenya, did not stop. Bran’s consciousness followed her as she stormed through the castle, her steps echoing against the stone. Startled servants scattered as she barked sharp instructions for them to begin packing for her and Maegor’s return to Dragonstone. Then she slammed the doors of her chamber shut.

Inside, she poured herself a goblet of wine. Her hand trembled as she raised it to her lips, but she did not drink.

“This is your favourite wine, Rhaenys…” she whispered.

She gripped the goblet tighter, her jaw clenched, then screamed as she hurled it at the window. The goblet struck the glass with a loud clang, splashing wine everywhere. It rebounded and fell to the stone floor with a hard clatter, rolling across the chamber before coming to a stop.

Then she turned sharply and drew Dark Sister so swiftly it was as though it had never been sheathed. Her violet eyes locked onto Bran yet stared past him. He held his breath.

“Who’s there? Show yourself.”

Bran blinked. The chamber around him began to fade. Visenya, the window, the spilled wine, all of it seemed to pull away from him, as if he was being dragged backwards. The shapes grew smaller and dimmer until they vanished completely.

All at once, he gasped and found himself at his seat in the Small Council room in the present day.

“Your Grace?”

He lifted his eyes and saw Brienne watching him with concern.

“Your Grace, do you have something to say?” she asked gently.

His weary gaze swept across the table.

There were fewer people now. His uncle, Edmure Tully, was dead, and the Riverlands had fallen into the hands of Daenerys Targaryen. Yohn Royce had left silently, and the Vale had declared neutrality soon after. Bronn was still around but no longer came to council, saying they should call him only when the fighting began. The rest who remained wore solemn expressions.

The North and the Riverlands had been beaten and had bent the knee.

The Stormlands, the Vale, the Reach, and Dorne had declared neutrality. Without Tyrion’s leadership, the Westerlands Houses had also chosen neutrality. Half of the Crownlands had declared for Daenerys Targaryen, and the rest had chosen to stand aside.

Not a single House had answered the King’s call.

The Lords who had voted for him to be King now sat back, waiting to see where the cards would fall. But it was clear where the cards would fall without their support, and they had chosen to sacrifice him in return for their own peace.

Bran’s mind returned to the vision of the past. It had come to him unbidden. He remembered the first time he had seen Visenya Targaryen.

Both visions had ended the same way, with her pointing Dark Sister at him.

What did that mean? Was it connected to the coming assault on King’s Landing by Daenerys Targaryen’s forces?

Then, a soft laugh escaped his lips, and everyone turned to him, startled.

“I see,” he murmured.

“Your Grace?” Sam leaned forward in concern.

But Bran did not reply. He could not.

I saw myself on the throne, so I came all the way here. Turns out… this body is only meant to be the seat warmer.

“What are the enemies’ movements now?” he asked.

Aldric placed a finger on a point of the map unfurled on the table.

“The Unsullied from Dragonstone have joined the banners of Houses Bar Emmon and Massey, and they have crossed the Wendwater Bridge.”

His finger shifted left and slightly above King’s Landing.

“House Rosby has yet to move, but my spies say they are making their final preparations.” He looked up at the faces of his fellow councilmen. “And the Velaryon fleet has blockaded Blackwater Bay.” He paused, then continued slowly and carefully. “And the mood in the city is…”

“Poor,” Bran finished as he met Aldric’s eyes. “The blockade has pushed food prices even higher than before. And they are afraid. Afraid of being burnt again.”

Aldric nodded once. “There are voices in the city calling for surrender…”

“Surrender?” Sam’s voice rang sharply from the other side of the table. “Does Daenerys Targaryen even take prisoners? She had my father and brother executed, then burnt King’s Landing even after they rang the bell. If we are all going to die anyway, why not just bring the fight to them?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the council room. At last, Davos spoke.

“…For the past three years, we’ve focused mostly on rebuilding the city and its industries,” he said quietly. “The lords too have been intent on rebuilding after the political upheavals and wars of recent years. They’ve been helpful, but it’s clear now there’s a limit, with nearly no one willing to march to war again.”

He exhaled deeply. “We still have a royal navy, but it’s smaller and weaker than the Velaryon fleet, and they’ll be much more cautious after the Battle of the Blackwater. As for the city, we cannot expect the City Watch to stand against the combined strength of the Unsullied and the Crownlands Houses who’ve declared for her.”

Sam clenched his fists. “It was a grave mistake to allow the remnants of her forces to remain in Westeros instead of dealing with them at once back then.”

“Aye,” Davos replied with resignation. “But no one had expected her to survive and return either.”

The words hung in the air. No one answered. The chamber fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant roll of thunder outside.

Sam lifted his gaze, his eyes burning. “Even if she wins the war, she has no right to the throne.”

All eyes turned to him.

“What do you mean?” Brienne asked cautiously.

“She fights this war for the Targaryen claim, but there is another.” Sam drew in a sharp breath. “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen has a surviving son. He is the rightful heir, not her.”

A stunned silence followed. Bran’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Brienne frowned, her hand tightening on the table. “Is this true? How do you even know this?”

Aldric frowned. “Indeed. Prince Rhaegar’s son and daughter by Princess Elia of Dorne were slain by Lannister forces. Are you saying the young prince survived?” His gaze sharpened. “How did you learn of this, Maester Sam? And who is it? Is it someone you know?”

“Stop,” Bran said calmly. Then in an even voice, he continued, “It does not matter. Daenerys Targaryen is the one pressing her claim and advancing with her armies right now, not Prince Rhaegar’s son.”

“But, he could…!” Sam protested but was cut short by Bran.

“If he were interested in the throne, he would have stepped forward years ago,” Bran said coldly. “He could have stepped forward now too, but we’ve heard nothing from this lost prince. And even if he did, in the end, might is what matters. What does he have to fight against Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon and armies, if she has no intention of stepping aside for this nephew of hers?”

A heavy silence lingered after Bran’s words.

Brienne’s frown deepened but she said nothing, the conflict plain in her eyes, torn between Sam’s conviction and Bran’s blunt pragmatism.

Davos shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face lined with weariness. At last, he sighed. “His Grace speaks true. Might is what rules in the end. If this prince truly exists, he has no army or dragon to command. But if he does, he’s simply another danger.”

Aldric nodded grimly. “And if he were to step forth now, all he would do is divide us and the realm further. He might not help us. Perhaps he might claim the throne for himself. And if he fought against Daenerys Targaryen…” He closed his eyes. “Would it be another Dance of the Dragons? Do we truly want to risk that?”

Sam opened his mouth again, but Bran’s chilly gaze stopped him cold. He sank back into his chair, his words swallowed.

The silence that followed was heavy with resignation.

*******

Location: Harrenhal
Time: Noon

Jon lay in his dungeon cell, his broken shoulder and shattered kneecap still throbbing with pain. His injuries had been tended to, and he knew Daenerys’ forces had won because he no longer heard the clashing of blades and the screams of the dying. Instead, what he heard was a dragon roar and the triumphant shouts, music, and laughter of the Dothraki.

And Ghost… he could no longer hear Ghost. He did not know if his direwolf had been moved elsewhere, or worse.

The three young dragons were kept in the same dungeon, but their sounds came only as occasional shrieks and restless whines. Until the day he heard familiar footsteps, and a voice.

Her voice, calling to the dragons.

He called out to her, but there was no reply. Then the dungeon door slammed shut and he could hear neither her nor the dragons any longer.

Time passed. He measured it only by the meals brought to him. He was fed twice a day, and a mender came to check on him every fourteen meals. Since Daenerys’ return, he had seen the mender four times. It had not been long, yet time dragged endlessly, and the pain in his shoulder and kneecap felt insignificant to the emptiness and the gnawing restlessness that crushed him from within.

Daenerys had not spoken to him since their last confrontation, and even Rian had not shown his smug face for some time. Anxiety seized him as he wondered what had happened outside during his captivity. Had the Riverlands been defeated? If Daenerys now intended to march on King’s Landing, who would defend Bran with the North and the Riverlands already lost?

Would the Westerlands, the Reach, or perhaps Dorne throw their support behind Bran? Now that he was a captive, how could he even help Bran? The endless possibilities and shifting variables clawed at his mind until he felt he was going insane.

Madness… am I more like a Targaryen, like her, more than I could admit to?

Before Jon could ruminate further, he heard the dungeon door creak open and footsteps approaching. Two Dothraki warriors appeared at his cell. Without so much as a glance at him, they unlocked the door and strode inside. Each seized one of his arms and hauled him upright.

Jon winced as pain flared in his shoulder and seared through his shattered kneecap. His injured leg buckled beneath him, but the warriors’ iron grips kept him from collapsing.

They began to drag him out of the cell.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked hoarsely.

The warriors gave no reply. They simply continued to drag him until they were out of the dungeon.

Sunlight poured over him, stabbing his grey eyes, dulled from the gloom of his cell. He squinted hard, struggling to adjust.

He gasped for breath as the warriors gave him no pause, dragging him onward without respite. To where, he did not know. Perhaps Daenerys had decided to end him after all.

~~~~~~~

The clearing was busier than usual. Daenerys stood before the crouching Drogon, while Missara, Joragon, and Aerax pranced in restless circles at her feet, snapping at each other playfully as they shrieked.

Rian stood beside her, his violet eyes bright with anticipation. Aggo, Marissa, Ser Gerard, and several Dothraki warriors had gathered to see them off. They would remain behind to hold Harrenhal while she and Rian flew for King’s Landing.

Footsteps sounded. Daenerys turned just as two Dothraki warriors emerged from a corner wall, dragging Jon Snow between them.

His face was pale in the sunlight, his body weakened from injury, his eyes dimmed. Yet the moment they landed on her, life seemed to return to them, his gaze sharpening.

The warriors halted before Daenerys, and her violet eyes met his grey ones.

Jon breathed heavily. Daenerys was dressed in light armour, a sheathed sword at her waist. Rian was dressed similarly, though an additional blade was strapped across his back. Jon glanced at Drogon, then at the three young dragons.

Suspicion rose in him, and he was about to speak when a familiar whimper reached his ears. He turned and his eyes widened at the sight of Ghost, shut inside a cage.

“Ghost!” he cried. He tried to lunge towards him, but the Dothraki warriors held him fast.

Daenerys looked on coolly before turning to Marissa. “Send the direwolf to Lady Sansa Stark at Winterfell. A direwolf is the sigil of her House, and she shall decide its fate, be it freedom or companionship.”

Marissa bowed her head slightly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Jon whipped his head around, staring at her in disbelief.

“I...” he began, but Daenerys cut him off at once.

“You are my prisoner, Jon,” she said calmly. “You are in no position to care for it, and I’m afraid it’s not a good fit with the Dothraki.”

Jon swallowed hard and turned back to Ghost. Their eyes met and held as the direwolf whimpered mournfully.

“…At least let me say goodbye to him,” he said hoarsely. “Please, Daenerys.”

Daenerys gave a nod to the Dothraki warriors, and they dragged Jon to Ghost’s cage. They released him, and he dropped onto his one good knee, wincing as pain flared through the shattered one.

He looked up at Ghost and forced a smile. One hand gripped the cold bars, while the other slipped between them to rest against Ghost’s head.

“Good boy,” he whispered, his eyes burning with tears as he stroked the direwolf. Ghost nudged against his hand, whining softly.

A tear fell, and his fingers trembled. “Thank you for accompanying me all these years,” he murmured, his voice quivering. “I do not wish to part from you again, but…” he fought back his tears, “…it seems fate always has other plans for me.”

Ghost gazed at him sorrowfully.

“Goodbye, Ghost,” Jon whispered painfully as he gave his direwolf a final stroke. “Live well, and strong.”

Ghost whined as Jon withdrew his hand from the cage. He forced himself to ignore the direwolf’s increasingly desperate cries and turned to face Daenerys, who had been watching in silence.

“How do you intend to deal with me?” he asked quietly.

Daenerys met Jon’s gaze unflinchingly. She had watched him bid farewell to the direwolf, a companion he seemed to treasure as deeply as she did her dragons.

Bitterness rose in her as the image of Rhaegal spiralling into the sea flashed before her eyes, scorpion bolts piercing his chest, wing, and neck.

Her eyes narrowed, and she replied frostily, “I’m taking you to King’s Landing, Jon. It’s time you were reunited with your brother, don’t you think?”

Jon’s face paled as he held his breath. Daenerys turned to the Dothraki warriors and commanded in their tongue, “Tie him to Drogon with the ropes. Make sure he’s secure and will not fall.”

Jon stared in confusion as the Dothraki warriors hauled him up by the arms and dragged him toward Drogon. Fear flashed across his face, then gave way to bewilderment as they lifted him onto Drogon and plopped him chest down across the dragon’s back.

Drogon growled in warning but quieted when Daenerys climbed onto him and stroked his neck.

“Hush, Drogon. It’s all right,” she whispered.

Rian followed soon after, taking his place behind her. Joragon unfurled his wings and flew to perch atop Drogon’s head, digging his claws into the adult dragon’s scales. Drogon rumbled unhappily. Missara swooped down and nestled against Daenerys’ chest, tucking herself comfortably into her arms. Aerax clambered up more slowly and settled in between Daenerys and Rian.

Jon lay helpless on Drogon’s back. He watched as Daenerys and Rian took their places, the young dragons settling around them. For a moment, yearning seized his heart, for they looked like what he had always wanted but never truly had – a family.

He stiffened when the Dothraki warriors returned with what seemed an endless coil of thick ropes. They forced him flat against Drogon’s spine, then wound the ropes over his back, shoulders, and waist, pulling them tight around both him and the dragon’s body. Each tug pinned him harder onto Drogon.

They passed the ropes under the dragon’s belly and back over again, knotting them firmly until Jon was lashed down like cargo strapped to a ship’s deck. By the time they were finished, he could barely move.

He tried to shift but could not budge an inch. Panic gripped him; his chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his heart hammering painfully. He glanced ahead where Daenerys and Rian sat secure at the base of the neck, nestled between Drogon’s mighty shoulders. By comparison, he felt utterly exposed. Once, he had stood beside Daenerys, and he had even ridden a dragon, but now he was strapped to one as a prisoner.

And through it all, Daenerys never once looked back at him. Not even when the warriors reported to her that he had been secured to Drogon.

Daenerys nodded at the warriors’ report. Once they had descended from Drogon, she gazed down at Aggo, Marissa, Ser Gerard and the gathered warriors.

“Guard and defend Harrenhal,” she commanded. “The next time you hear from me, it shall be as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Marissa and Ser Gerard replied with a bow. Aggo and the Dothraki warriors bowed their heads solemnly.

Daenerys turned away and gently patted Drogon’s neck.

“Sōvēs.”

With a thunderous beat of his wings, Drogon rose into the sky, the three young dragons clinging tightly to him as the host of Harrenhal watched their queen ascend and vanish into the clouds.

Chapter Text

Location: King’s Landing
Time: Day

The City Watch stood upon the ramparts. The sun blazed overhead and they perspired, their throats parched as they stared into the distance.

From afar, they could see the approaching army of the Crownlands Houses.

But the army had not come to defend the King. It marched for the dragon queen. She was not yet in sight, but her presence was expected. The thought of facing a dragon made the men’s hearts pound loud and fast.

One soldier glanced down into the city, drawn by the increasingly desperate voices below.

The gates were closed and heavily guarded by the City Watch, who were being rushed by a throng of smallfolk clutching small bags of what little they owned. The people pressed together and cried out, their voices cracked with fear and panic.

“Let us out! We want to leave!”

“No!” the City Watch thrust back the crowd with their spears. “It is safer to remain in the city. Calm yourselves and take refuge, as the King commands!”

“Calm down and take refuge?!” a voice shrieked in fury. “That did us no good the last time!”

“If we stay, the dragon will burn us alive!” another cried in despair.

“Let us out! Please! The eldest of my children are not yet ten! They are too young to die!”

“Ring the bell!” someone yelled. “Ring the bell to surrender!”

Everyone froze for a moment, but the crowd erupted almost immediately.

“That’s treason!” the City Watch captain warned with a dark expression. “No one rings the bell unless we receive the King’s command!”

“To the Seven Hells with the King!” someone screamed back. “What’s a King without his people? I say we ring the bell!”

The smallfolk nodded, loud murmurs growing into shouts of demands.

“But the last time we rang the bell, the dragon queen still burnt us!” another voice cried out.

“That’s because we rang it late!” another shouted in reply. “If we surrender now and show our loyalty to the dragon queen, surely she won’t burn us again!”

“Stop!” the City Watch captain roared as he drew his sword. The crowd froze. “No one rings the bell without the King’s command! Go and seek refuge! This is final!”

The warning broke something among the smallfolk. The clamour rose, and they pushed hard. The City Watch was being driven back despite their efforts to calm the crowd and hold the line.

“Calm! Calm!” the City Watch roared, but the smallfolk were no longer listening.

The city had descended into a riot.

~~~~~~~

Bran sat close to the window, overlooking the city. The atmosphere in the room was still and fragile as the unsettling sounds of the riots seeped in. Faint and nearly inaudible, yet everyone in the room heard them.

Davos frowned, worry etched across his face. Sam’s laced fingers tightened nervously. Aldric tried to remain calm as ever, but the growing concern in his eyes was clear. Bronn rolled his eyes impatiently.

Brienne cleared her throat, pulling everyone’s attention back.

“The royal fleet is ready to sail to engage the Velaryon fleet,” she reported. “Lord Davos shall lead the fleet. And the City Watch is ready as well.”

“I… I see…” Aldric muttered, his head lowered, his eyes glancing towards the door, though he said nothing more.

“About time,” Bronn growled. He glanced at Brienne. “I assume I will be leading at least a unit?”

Before Brienne could reply, Bran spoke.

“No, do not sail to engage the Velaryons.”

Bran’s eyes drifted to the courtyard, where he spied a cat darting into a bush.

“The City Watch should continue to maintain order and defend the gates. But once the dragon shows up… ring the bell.”

His voice was soft, but the words were louder than anything the councillors had heard.

Bronn jumped to his feet, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “You are throwing the fight even before it starts?”

“It had long started, Lord Bronn,” Bran replied calmly. “It began with the assault on Winterfell and ended in the Riverlands.”

He turned slowly to face his frozen council.

“How are we to fight a dragon?” he asked softly. “If it were only the army, the Houses would be more likely to lend me their support. But it is the dragon that keeps the lords at bay. No one wished to fight a dragon, and neither can King’s Landing.”

Bronn slammed his fist onto the table, his jaws clenched. “We have scorpions!”

“So did Winterfell and the Riverlands,” Bran replied coolly. “But neither stopped the dragon.”

“Because they were bad shots,” Bronn spat venomously. “I shot it before. I can do it again.”

Bran paused for a long moment, his eyes far away. Then finally, he shook his head and murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, “No. Not this time.”

The councillors were still reeling from Bran’s decision when Brienne spoke next, her voice trembling slightly. “If the plan is to surrender, what of you, Your Grace?”

Bran looked out of the window again, his gaze now fixed on a trail of smoke rising from the east of the city. The capital was sinking into chaos even before the enemy had arrived at the gates. It would not be long before either the people threw the gates open or the city collapsed within itself. Either way, blood will spill.

“I will surrender the throne to Daenerys Targaryen if that keeps the peace,” he replied calmly, ignoring the stunned expressions of his councillors.

“You will die,” Davos warned.

Bran did not reply.

“She is cruel,” a voice said shakily.

All eyes turned to the speaker – the Grand Maester Samwell Tarly.

He clenched his fists. “Let us not forget she is her father’s daughter.”

Bran blinked slowly. “It wasn’t that long ago,” he said softly, “that you suggested Prince Rhaegar’s lost son as an alternative to her. The Mad King’s blood runs in Prince Rhaegar, and through him, in the lost son’s veins as well.”

Sam’s mouth opened and shut, then opened and shut again. He wanted to protest. He wanted to argue. But in the end, he could not get a word out.

“Stand down and bend your knee when she comes,” Bran said, “and your lives may be spared.” He turned to Aldric. “Tell them what became of the lords who surrendered.”

“Y-yes,” Aldric said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “She executed the lords who went against her, but did not kill any of those who had bent the knee…”

Aldric’s report was cut short by the sharp sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

“This is a huge waste of time,” Bronn hissed. “This meeting is nothing but an attempt to persuade us to submit, with you,” he pointed a finger accusingly at Bran, “refusing to do anything!”

“Stand down, Ser Bronn,” Brienne warned.

“It’s Lord Bronn,” he snapped. “Calling me Ser now that I’ve lost Highgarden, eh? Which wouldn’t have happened if I’d been made Lord Paramount of the Reach in the first place!”

“Would you please let this go for a moment?” Davos sighed heavily as he rubbed his temple. “Aldric was speaking and you are being disrespectful to His Grace.”

Bronn’s eyes threw daggers at Davos. “A ‘His Grace’ who intends to give his crown away,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Things would have gone much better had Tyrion been here, but no one cares to really look for him, not even this so-called King. And without him, this council and this King are just falling apart!”

Bronn turned and stormed out of the council room, leaving behind a blank-faced Bran and the unsettled councillors.

Bran turned away and returned his gaze to the bushes in the courtyard. The cat had yet to reappear.

“All of you may leave too if you wish, but Daenerys Targaryen might still expect that none of you fight against her.”

Sam clenched his fists, Aldric lowered his head in silence, while Davos remained solemn.

“I will stay with Your Grace till the end,” Brienne said quietly.

Bran said nothing, his gaze far away, as was his mind.

*******

Location: Outside the Gates of King’s Landing
Time: Day

Banners of the Crownlands Houses – Rosby, Staunton, Sunglass, Massey, and Bar Emmon – fluttered in the breeze alongside the Targaryen banner. The combined host of Crownlands forces and the Unsullied surrounded King’s Landing, with siege towers and catapults rolling into position, ready to strike at any time.

The Unsullied held their spears upright as they stood motionless under the sun. They were led by one who had risen to prominence on Dragonstone. He was the first to volunteer to remain even as Grey Worm and many others chose to sail away. He had worked with Jhiqui to form an informal alliance with House Velaryon, overseeing Dragonstone’s defences and the development of new villages. Under his joint leadership with Jhiqui, the Unsullied of Dragonstone had not only remained loyal to Daenerys but had grown in discipline, strength, and patience.

And now, they had returned to the gates of the city where they had lost their queen years ago, the city where the faint echoes of unrest could be heard over the walls.

One of the Unsullied approached him, saluting. “Commander Talzor, no sign of the Queen yet.”

Talzor looked over the Crownlands host, led by the commanders of the Houses that had declared for Daenerys.

This time will be different, he told himself. No one can hurt the queen again, not under my watch.

“She will come,” he said, his voice flat yet certain.

The wind shifted, and the soldiers turned their eyes skyward, squinting at the horizon. Somewhere beyond the clouds, a shadow moved.

And the waiting began to end.

~~~~~~

Location: The Skies Above King’s Landing
Time: Day

The wind howled past Daenerys’ ears as Drogon cut through the clouds, wings stretched wide against the burning sun. Far ahead, the faint outline of King’s Landing began to emerge – the rebuilt towers, walls, and castle rising over the city.

Daenerys’ heart pounded more heavily the closer she drew. This was the city where her father had died, where her family’s legacy had crumbled, where Viserys had longed to return, and where she had once conquered and died.

She tightened her grip on Drogon, who rumbled as he sensed her unease.

Behind her, Jon seemed to be shouting something, but his voice and words were lost to the wind. She did not look back, nor did she try to listen to what he was saying.

No, I’m done listening to men who wants me to be their vision of who I should be, rather than who I am.

She guided Drogon downwards. He circled King’s Landing as he made a gradual dive. The clouds thinned, and the city came into full view – the streets, the buildings… and what seemed to be people thronging at the city gates. She frowned but pushed the image out of her mind.

As they flew lower, the banners became clear, black and red Targaryen standards rising beside the sigils of Rosby, Staunton, Sunglass, Massey, and Bar Emmon. Rows of soldiers surrounded King’s Landing in disciplined formation, siege towers and catapults in place. She could see the Unsullied now, their spears glinting in the light, their formation perfect as ever.

They were ready.

For the siege.

And for her.

Viserys, do you see this? We are home, again. And this time, I’m not losing it to anyone again.

Home.

She swallowed thickly. The word rang in her mind, yet it didn’t feel quite like it. She pushed the thought into the recesses of her mind.

I’m just not used to it yet.

As they descended over the army lines, the soldiers erupted into awed shouts and cheers. She blinked.

She had expected grudging acceptance, even fear, but not this. It reminded her of the old loyalty she had known in Essos. The cries of Mhysa, and the sea of faces that had once believed in her.

They bow to might, the voice whispered, breaking Daenerys from her thoughts.

She blinked, the wind drying the water in her eyes.

But you may still convince them you are more than that, the voice added, almost comfortingly.

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, gaze fixed on the Blue Hold in the distance.

I will, she swore to herself.

~~~~~~~

Location: The Gates of King’s Landing
Time: Day

The shadow swept across the city like a curse. The smallfolk looked up and saw the dragon.

A collective scream tore through the streets. Mothers clutched their children and fled, while others stumbled and tripped over one another in blind terror. The crowd at the gates broke into chaos; men and women pushed, clawed, and shouted as the black shape of Drogon loomed larger in the sky, his roar shattering what little order remained.

The City Watch shouted for calm, but their voices were swallowed by panic. The press of bodies surged against them, and their spears were useless. Some dropped them, others turned their weapons outward, striking in fear rather than discipline.

“Hold the line!” their captain bellowed, but his men were already scattering. The gold cloaks of the City Watch vanished into the mob like spilled coins.

A young woman fell to her knees, crying out as her child was torn from her arms. Someone tripped over her, someone else struck her trying to get past, and then, suddenly, a sharp voice rose above the chaos.

“Make way! Make way for the King’s decree!”

The crowd froze when they saw the royal messenger, a pale, sweating man forcing his way through, clutching a sealed parchment high above his head.

He climbed onto a toppled cart, his voice shaking as he unrolled the decree.

“By the order of His Grace, King Brandon of House Stark,” he announced loudly, “the city is to ring the bell and open the gates!”

For a moment, there was only silence. The crowd stared, stunned and in utter disbelief.

“The… the King orders it,” the messenger stammered again. “Ring the bell! Open the gates! All civilians are to retreat to safety!”

The crowd stood still, not knowing how to react, while the City Watch lowered their weapons, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. One man fell to his knees, muttering prayers.

Then slowly, the first toll of the great bell rolled across King’s Landing.

Dooom.

The sound carried through the streets, over the roofs, and across the walls, heavy and hollow.

Above, Drogon flew under the sunlight, circling the trembling city that once burnt beneath his fire.

~~~~~~~

Location: Outside the Gates of King’s Landing
Time: Day

The ground trembled as Drogon landed with an earth-shaking thud before the Crownlands host.

Daenerys dismounted, her silver hair streaming behind her, gleaming faintly beneath the sun. Missara, Joragon, and Aerax hopped off Drogon and followed behind her, shrieking and unfurling their wings in long, stretching arcs.

A wave of awe rippled through the host.

They were seeing a Targaryen for the first time in their lives. And dragons, the power and symbol of House Targaryen, had long faded into tales and legends, but now they were seeing not one but four.

The Unsullied were the first to move. Talzor strode forward, dropped to one knee, and pressed his fist to his chest.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice steady. “I am Talzor, commander of your Dovoghedhi.”

Daenerys looked at him, her eyes softening. “Thank you, Talzor. I am glad you are here.”

Talzor bowed.

One by one, the Crownlands lords followed. Lords Rosby, Staunton, Sunglass, Massey, and Bar Emmon bowed low in reverence.

“My Queen,” they said.

Rian dismounted from Drogon and approached. “Your Grace,” he said quietly, “shall we attack the city now?”

Daenerys looked towards the walls of King’s Landing, the banners hanging limp in the faint breeze.

“Not yet,” she said. “Send a final warning. Give them one last chance to surrender.”

Rian bowed and turned to relay her order. But before he could say a word, a low sound rolled across the field.

Dooom.

The bell’s toll silenced the host. Another followed, louder, echoing through the air.

Dooom.

Heads turned towards the city. The gates creaked open and the soldiers’ eyes widened. The lords frowned. The bells rang and the gates opened, all signs of surrender, but this was too easy and too good to be true.

“Get into formation!” Lord Rosby roared. The vanguard raised their shields and spears, and the archers drew their bows.

“Your Grace, let’s get back to your dragon,” Rian urged.

But Daenerys could not move. Memories of warm smiles, a falling head, smoke, screams, and fire returned sharply to her mind. Her heart pounded furiously and her breath came heavy, the ghosts of the past clawing at the edges of her mind.

Snap out of it, child, the voice whispered fiercely. Do not falter.

She inhaled slowly, her hand gripping onto Dark Sister’s hilt instinctively.

You’re right, she answered inwardly. It’s different this time. I shall not repeat the same mistake.

Her voice rang clear and resolute. “Talzor, take a company of your men and follow me into the city. Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass, each of you will bring a company of your men as well. Lords Massey and Bar Emmon shall remain behind to command the forces.”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances. Lord Bar Emmon cleared his throat. “Your Grace… the surrender came too swiftly and without a fight. Might this be a ruse? An ambush?”

Daenerys met his gaze evenly. “If it is, then let them learn what happens when they test a dragon’s mercy. If it is not, it is our gain, and the people’s as well.”

Lord Bar Emmon lowered his head. “As you command.”

“Prepare to advance,” she ordered. “We enter together.”

She turned to the Unsullied and gestured towards Jon, still bound to Drogon. “Cut the ropes, secure him, and take him with us,” she commanded. “It’s time for him to reunite with his brother, and for them to learn what happens to traitors and usurpers.”

A few Unsullied stepped forward to Drogon. They drew their blades and cut through the ropes binding Jon. His limp form slid from Drogon’s back, caught by two Unsullied.

“Please, Daenerys…” came Jon’s voice weakly, but she turned away, ignoring him as she mounted a horse that had been brought to her. Rian mounted another.

“I am following you, right?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” she replied, resisting a smile. “You are my guard, after all.”

Rian beamed. He lifted his head and turned his gaze to the city that now awaited its rightful Queen.

~~~~~~~

Location: The Streets of King’s Landing

Daenerys rode through the gates of King’s Landing. Behind her were Talzor and Rian, followed by the Crownlands lords. Lines of soldiers trailed after them in disciplined formation, their armour glinting beneath the harsh sun.

Two Unsullied dragged a bound Jon along. He winced as his shoulder and knee pounded with pain. Every second felt like an hour.

In Daenerys’ arms nestled Missara, her small crimson wings twitching restlessly. Aerax perched behind her on the horse, his silver and white scales gleaming in the light, while Joragon glided above, never straying far from her.

A low rumble shook the air.

The ground quivered beneath them as Drogon descended, his massive body pressing against the city walls. His claws dug into the stone, his molten eyes glowing like two burning suns as he surveyed the city from above. The City Watch stationed on the ramparts froze where they stood. Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, their bodies trembling uncontrollably, while others turned and fled.

The streets lay empty of civilians. Shuttered windows, barred doors, and overturned carts lined the alleys, a ghostly image of a city that had been painstakingly rebuilt after it was burnt years ago. Only the City Watch remained, their heads lowered and eyes downcast as she rode past them.

Yet Daenerys could feel eyes on her all the same. The people were watching, from windows, from shadows, and from cracks in the doors.

Fear was thick in the air. But so were wonder and curiosity.

She couldn’t help but feel a heaviness in her heart. She had decided to embrace the identity of a conqueror, yet people treating her with fear still filled her with unease.

They fear you because of your might, and because people are resistant to change, the voice whispered. But they will get used to it. They always do.

Daenerys lowered her eyes for a moment, her hand stroking Missara’s head as the young dragon rumbled in contentment.

Let them fear. It is not now, but the future and my rule that shall determine who I am to them.

*******

Location: Throne Room, the Blue Hold

The heavy doors of the throne room groaned as they were pushed open. Brienne strode in, her expression tight and her eyes heavy with worry.

“They are almost here,” she said.

Bran sat on the throne, a simple but sturdy chair carved out of weirwood. Sam and Davos stood on each of his side, their body tense.

Davos turned to him.

“This is Your Grace’s last chance to leave,” he said, quiet urgency in his voice. “You may have surrendered, but there is no guarantee she will spare your life.”

“If I wanted to leave, I would have left a long time ago,” Bran replied calmly. “And where could I go? The North? If they harbour me, they would be branded traitors and be burnt again. Beyond the Wall? The Wildlings respect strength, and these,” he glanced down at his legs briefly, “do not exactly demonstrate strength, do they?”

“There must be a way,” Sam said anxiously, though anger brewed in him. Bronn had disappeared, as had Aldric. And with the guards told to stand down, there was no one left to defend Bran, except for him, Davos, and Brienne. But they too had been ordered to stand down. Worse still, to bend the knee.

Bran’s blue eyes shifted to him. “It is you who should go, Sam,” he said softly. “Return to Gilly. Return to the Citadel.”

“No!” Sam shook his head fiercely. “I, I am no coward! I shall defend you to the end!”

Bran stared at him for a long moment before looking away.

“It does not matter, Sam. All your paths lead to Gilly and the Citadel all the same. It is my path that is unclear.”

Sam blinked.

“What do you mean?”

But before Bran could reply, the echoes of heavy footsteps approached.

“They are here,” Davos said, his eyes sharpening as they shifted towards the doors. Brienne inhaled deeply, resisting the urge to draw her sword.

~~~~~~~

The doors to the throne room stood wide open when Daenerys arrived. No guards blocked her way. No blades were drawn. There was only silence.

She walked in without hesitation, her steps echoing against the stone floor. Behind her came Rian, Talzor, Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass, followed by a small escort of soldiers and Unsullied. Two of them dragged Jon along, his feet scraping weakly against the floor.

The three young dragons padded in after their mother – Missara gliding low beside her, wings half spread; Joragon following closely next to her, and Aerax trailing behind, his silvery wings brushing against the floor with a faint hiss.

At the far end of the hall sat Bran Stark upon his weirwood throne. Sam and Davos stood at his sides, while Brienne took a wary step forward, her hand twitching near her sword though she did not draw it.

Sam recoiled instinctively at the sight of three dragons. “Seven save us… Ser Davos speaks true, there were more,” he whispered.

Brienne froze, eyes wide as she took in the sight of the creatures. She had seen Daenerys’ dragons from afar at Winterfell years ago. These were smaller than the ones she had seen, but unmistakably dragons, alive and breathing in the throne room.

Daenerys stopped before the dais. Her eyes met Bran’s. For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Sam’s eyes widened in shock as he recognised the pale, diminished figure the Unsullied were holding upright.

“Jon?!”

Bran’s eyes flicked to Jon for a moment before returning to Daenerys.

“It’s been a long while, Ser Samwell,” Daenerys said politely, though she gave him no room to respond as she turned her gaze to Bran in the very next moment.

“You chose to surrender rather than fight,” she remarked calmly.

“I did,” he replied, his tone unnervingly still.

“Do you understand what this means?” she asked.

“I do,” he said. “It means I no longer rule.”

“Then you understand what comes next,” she said softly.

Bran’s gaze shifted to Jon, limp between the Unsullied. He did not reply.

“Your Grace,” Davos said, “His Grace surrendered peacefully. He should be shown leniency.”

Daenerys looked at Davos sharply. “I disagree.”

The atmosphere tensed. Sam stared at her in disbelief, Davos’ brows knitted, while Brienne drew a deep breath.

“Yes, he surrendered and ensured no blood was shed. However,” Daenerys’ gaze sharpened, “that does not negate his crime of usurpation, nor his choice to willingly benefit from Jon Snow’s treachery.”

She narrowed her eyes, her voice turning cold. “If treachery is rewarded with leniency, what do I reward loyalty with?”

A tense silence followed. Sam flinched, his mouth half-open in protest; Brienne lowered her gaze; Davos exhaled sharply, the weight of her logic pressing on him. Rian’s eyes gleamed with fierce satisfaction, his hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of his sword. Talzor bowed his head in silent approval. Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass nodded solemnly in grim agreement.

Her violet eyes shifted to the weirwood throne.

“The Iron Throne… what happened to it?”

“I regret to inform you that your dragon melted it with its dragonfire after your untimely demise the last time,” Bran replied calmly, stroking the arm of the weirwood throne. “So I had this new one made.”

Daenerys went silent. Drogon did what?

Why would Drogon do that, she wondered. A dull pain throbbed in her chest. Did he think the Iron Throne had killed her, since it was made of swords and she was pierced by a dagger? Or did he believe it was her pursuit of the Iron Throne that had killed her, and so he burnt it?

If that truly was the case, she wondered what Drogon really thought of her second attempt at the conquest of Westeros.

What a waste, the voice whispered. The throne was a work of… art, in a way. It was House Targaryen’s legacy.

It doesn’t matter, Daenerys responded to the voice. The loss of the Iron Throne marked the end of an era. House Targaryen shall begin anew with me, thus having a new throne is fitting.

“I see,” she said coolly. “It looks comfortable.”

“It is,” Bran replied simply.

“I will not keep it, though,” she said evenly. “I do not wish to sit on a throne made for a usurper, and it doesn’t quite fit my taste. Nevertheless, it is still mine.”

“It’s up to you. It’s yours now,” Bran said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Winter is gone, Bran Stark,” Daenerys said quietly. “What’s left now is fire and blood.”

“I am aware,” he replied emotionlessly.

Daenerys turned to Rian.

"Rian, get him off my chair."

Chapter Text

"Rian, get him off my chair."

Sam stared in disbelief at the command. Davos glanced at Brienne, who took a step forward but stopped when Bran raised his hand.

“This is between me and Daenerys Targaryen. Leave us be,” he said quietly.

Brienne’s chest tightened. She was about to protest when Missara shrieked and she flinched before she could stop herself. Joragon and Aerax responded to Missara, turning to Brienne and hissing in unison.

“Leave us be,” Bran repeated.

Bitterness coiled in Brienne’s heart as she reluctantly stepped away, while Davos gently pulled Sam away.

“Jon!” Sam shouted desperately to his old friend. “Say something! Stop her!”

Jon lifted his head weakly, half-drowned in the pain of his shoulder and knee, injuries that were once again aggravated by the dragon ride and his forced walk through King’s Landing. His vision blurred. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

With Brienne and Davos having stepped aside, Rian strode forward. He seized Bran by the collar and hurled him down so forcefully his head hit the ground with a loud thud. The jarring sound jolted Jon out from his dazed state.

"Bran!" Jon cried.

Daenerys stepped forward and paused for a moment before the weirwood throne. Then she sat down, shifting slightly to find the most comfortable spot before reclining into it.

Missara flew into her arms and nestled against her chest. Joragon perched upon the throne’s top rail and unfurled his wings with a low, rumbling yawn, while Aerax settled by her right foot, his eyes flicking from Brienne to Davos from time to time.

By now, Rian had firmly held down Bran’s arms and pulled them into a knot behind his back, forcing him to kneel before Daenerys. Brienne, Davos and Sam watched in distress.

“Please, Daenerys. Do not do this,” Jon pleaded. “He has surrendered and is powerless against you.”

Daenerys looked down at Bran from the throne and smiled faintly. “Thank you for warming the seat for me while I was away, Bran Stark.”

She drew Dark Sister from its sheath, placed its tip against Bran’s throat and lifted his chin with the blade.

From aside, Sam had gone pale. Davos looked on with silent resignation while Brienne’s fingers twitched. The temptation to draw her sword to defend and free Bran was strong, but she knew that a single movement from her would seal not only Bran’s death, but also those of Davos, Sam, and Jon.

If that was not already part of the dragon queen’s plans.

“Daenerys, please don’t…” Jon pleaded again but Daenerys kept her gaze locked onto Bran’s blank face.

“Do you not have anything to say, Bran Stark?” she asked. “Anything at all. A plea for mercy or perhaps swears and curses. This may be your last chance to speak.”

Bran lifted his eyes, gazing at her with a cryptic look.

"Is this really what you want, Daenerys Targaryen? The throne of Westeros... my life?"

Daenerys paused, her violet eyes narrowing. It was a question she had asked herself repeatedly after she awoke from death. Since she was a child, her brother Viserys had drilled into her mind about their birthright and their rightful claims to Westeros. Or rather, his claim.

She had long realised it was never truly her dream. Even as she broke chains across the former Slavers’ Bay, the chains that Viserys had wrought upon her had never been broken.

Until Jon Snow stabbed her with that dagger. Until she was told that a hundred Unsullied, including Grey Worm, had willingly sacrificed to bring her back to the world of the living.

And now, everything she wanted and worked for had nothing more to do with Viserys. It was her will.

"Yes," Daenerys answered without hesitating. "It's mine. I worked for it. I fought for it. You and your conspirators stole it from me. I want what's mine back."

"You are feeling many things. Are you sure that's truly you?" Bran questioned, his voice soft yet piercing, "There is another soul, forged of pure fire, clinging to you like a parasite. You..."

Anger flared in Daenerys and she cut him off. "No, Bran Stark. You are the parasite."

Daenerys shoved Dark Sister’s tip into Bran’s throat and ruthlessly sliced across his neck. He toppled over soundlessly, blood gushing out of his half-decapitated neck.

“NOOOOO!” Jon’s anguished scream tore through the air.

~~~~~~~

Three black cats were loafing together in Blue Hold’s courtyard bushes. The one in the middle shuddered, then opened its eyes.

The cat on the left sprang up and bolted from the bushes. The cat on the right leapt to its feet but did not flee. Instead, its back arched, fur puffed up, ears flattened as it hissed at the middle cat, which stared back warily.

The right cat’s tail flicked furiously. Then it snarled and lunged at the middle cat, claws out. The middle cat immediately darted away, with the right cat tearing after it through the courtyard.

~~~~~~~

Sam, Davos and Brienne stood aside, their faces pale and their bodies frozen in shock. Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass exchanged uneasy but understanding glances. Satisfaction gleamed in Rian’s eyes, while Talzor’s impassive face showed a crack of emotion – a grim contentment of justice long delayed.

Rian handed her a cloth, and she wiped the blood from Dark Sister's blade before sheathing it.

Daenerys’ gaze flicked to Jon, whose eyes were tearful and bloodshot, filled with horror, agony, and grief.

Jon huffed and grunted as he fought to break free from the Unsullied’s iron grip despite the throbbing pain of his injuries. Daenerys gave a slight nod, and they released him.

Rian immediately stepped in front of her, his hand on his sword hilt. She touched his arm lightly, and the tension in his muscles eased. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances; his hand remained firmly on the hilt, ready to strike if Jon made a wrong move.

Jon dropped to his good knee and half-crawled, half-dragged himself to Bran’s lifeless body. He reached out slowly, cradling Bran’s head into his arms.

“No…” he whispered in a trembling voice. “No… Bran…”

He gasped in shock, the pounding pain in his chest forcing him to arch his body into a foetal position as he struggled to breathe. He bent lower and lower, until his cheeks touched Bran’s.

He stared at Bran’s bleeding neck and unresponsive body, which bled lesser and turned colder with every slipping second.

He never thought things could turn out this way. First, the man he thought was his father died right in this city, accused of treason. Then Robb died. Rickon was shot to death in front of his eyes.

And now, Bran, his last surviving brother, had died too, executed in his face.

Was it because of me? If… if I had not listened to Tyrion Lannister… If I had not killed Daenerys…

His head snapped up, locking gaze with Daenerys who stared at him impassively. A fire lit his grey eyes, filling them with cold fury and hate.

“Are you happy now? Are you?” he demanded bitterly. He shook his head, then spat venomously, “You are evil.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes in mild disapproval.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you Starks had not conspired with Tyrion Lannister to murder me and steal my throne. You lot deigned to ride on my power and victories, then turn around to stab me in the back, murdering me and smearing my name in a single stroke," she said, her voice cold and sharp.

"I heard many a man praise the Starks for their honour. But tell me, Jon, where was your siblings’ honour when they pardoned the men who plotted against their Queen and murdered her? And where was your honour when you approached me in the name of love…” Daenerys’ eyes hardened. “Only to stab me in my chest?”

Jon burst into laughter. His laughter echoed through the halls, so tainted with grief and madness it sounded hollow yet terrifying.

“My honour?! Just in case you’ve forgotten, my true name is Aegon Targaryen! So maybe the dragon in me had eaten and swallowed my honour, as like how it did yours, my dearest aunt!” he spat.

Daenerys knew the words were meant to bite, yet to her surprise, she felt nothing. But they achieved their purpose, for there was a ripple of gasps and stunned expressions on everyone’s faces. Only Talzor frowned, and Rian who looked at her in surprise before he returned his attention to Jon, his violet eyes flaring in simmering rage.

Davos’ grip on Sam loosened in astonishment, and Sam seized the opportunity to break free. He stepped forward quickly and stood next to Jon before turning to face the lords.

“It’s true,” he said, his breath heavy with anxiety and anger. “I saw a record in the Citadel that said Prince Rhaegar Targaryen annulled his marriage to Princess Elia Martell and wed Lady Lyanna Stark. Jon is their child. That makes him the true heir of House Targaryen.”

He turned to Daenerys, his jaw clenched. “And now she wants to silence Jon so she can claim the throne.” He pointed a trembling finger at her. “She is the true usurper!”

Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass glanced at one another, their expressions caught between solemnity, wariness, and disbelief.

Lord Rosby turned to Daenerys. “Your Grace,” he began in a wary tone. “Is this true?”

She flicked her eyes to him and he shrank slightly.

“Jon Snow claims to be Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark’s son,” she said calmly. “But even if that’s true, he is nothing more than a bastard.”

Sam and Jon’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Has anyone here ever heard of this so-called annulment or marriage before today?” Daenerys questioned sharply. “How could the marriage be annulled when Princess Elia had borne two children? Why was this annulment never announced, never formalised publicly as law demands? Why was this supposed marriage to Lyanna Stark kept secret? Are such unions still valid if no one knows of them? And would Dorne truly have taken this lying down?”

She swept her eyes across the room, her gaze narrowing.

“If a supposed child of a hidden, unlawful marriage can trump the rights of trueborn heirs, then every lord is at risk. Every claim you hold may be challenged when bastards come knocking at your gates, and when a father could quietly annul his marriage in secret. If marriages and birthrights can be treated so wantonly, then what meaning is there left in marriage at all?”

The faces of Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass paled as realisation dawned.

“Her Grace speaks true,” Lord Staunton said slowly. “This… claim… insults the very institution of marriage.”

Lord Sunglass turned to Sam, his expression darkening. “You said you saw a record in the Citadel?” he demanded, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “So the Faith knows? I’d be surprised if the Faith were ever involved in something as incredulous as this.”

Jon stared at Daenerys blankly, his body trembling. Sam’s face had gone pale. His teeth chattered, but he forced himself to speak.

“The record was written by the High Septon Maynard so it cannot be false. Jon is the son of Prince Rhaegar,” he said, his voice quivering with fear and determination. “That makes him the rightful heir.”

Daenerys smiled faintly as she rose from the throne.

“You speak of a record of Rhaegar’s annulment and marriage. Were there any records of a child born between him and Lyanna Stark?”

Sam froze.

“Were there any witnesses to his birth?” Daenerys pressed on. “Ned Stark claimed Jon as his bastard. Do you mean to say Ned Stark lied to Robert Baratheon, the man he swore fealty to?”

The air froze into silence.

After a moment, she exhaled softly. “After Rhaegar and my father died, my mother, Queen Rhaella, crowned my brother Viserys upon Dragonstone. And I am Viserys’ heir.”

Her gaze settled coldly on Sam.

“The line had long passed from Rhaegar’s blood. House Targaryen is rightfully mine now.”

She paused, then gestured to Missara, Joragon and Aerax.

“The dragon is the symbol of House Targaryen. I have had six in my lifetime. How many has Jon had?”

Missara, still nestled in Daenerys’ arms, turned her head lazily towards Sam. Then, without warning, she shrieked in his face, a small sphere of fire forming in her throat.

Sam gasped and staggered backwards, tripping and landing hard on his bottom. Rian scoffed derisively at the sight.

Daenerys gently stroked Missara’s head, and the young dragon snapped her jaws shut before nestling against her neck once more. She soothed the crimson-and-gold dragon for a few moments before gently placing it onto the seat. 

“Speaking of rightful heirs…” she said softly, her eyes shifting to Jon, though her gaze was far from gentle.

Hate and anger towards her, she could understand, because she had just killed his brother right in front of him. Yet once again, it was their shared bloodline he chose to weaponise against her.

She smiled faintly. “Jon, did you think you could hurt me with those words? How foolish of you.”

Jon snapped his head up, eyes red and wild with grief, pain, and fury. But all he saw were ice-cold violet eyes that simmered with a fire that screamed to be unleashed upon him.

“You are a mere bastard who was never legitimised by the rightful kings or queens of the realm. Your parents’ so-called marriage was unknown, unapproved, and unblessed by every House involved. Not the Targaryens, not the Baratheons, not even the Starks. You rode Rhaegal only because I allowed it, and you formed no meaningful bond with him. A mummer’s dragon is no dragon and has no right to the great name of Aegon Targaryen.”

Daenerys let out a cold chuckle. “But do you even believe that incredulous claim, Jon? Rhaegar and Elia already had a son named Aegon. Even if you have the blood of the dragon in your veins, you had no name of your own. Your so-called name was stolen from Elia’s son, my nephew. You are simply Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, and nothing more.”

Jon’s face paled further. His grip on Bran’s dead body tightened even as his own body trembled. Daenerys stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

“And who can prove you are truly who you claim to be, Jon? Ned Stark named you his bastard and never said otherwise, did he? And your siblings, who knew the truth, never attempted to legitimise you.”

Jon stared at her, his heart shivering. “Because… because that was what I wanted,” he whispered. “I told you before. I did not want the throne. I…”

“Then why bring it up?” Daenerys snapped. “And why do you insult the dragon, the symbol of House Targaryen?”

Jon recoiled instinctively, gasping.

“You only claim to be a Targaryen when you wish to hurt me and my House. Since when, other than that, were you a Targaryen? Have you ever regarded yourself as a Targaryen, Jon? Have you even lived as one, after learning about your parentage?” Daenerys demanded, her violet eyes flashing in fiery but controlled emotions.

“Of course you did not, Jon. Because you never stopped being a Snow, the bastard of Winterfell,” said Daenerys in a low, restrained voice. “And if you had, you would not have killed me.”

Jon breathed heavily, his mind reeling and his vision swimming. His face burnt as he felt countless eyes on him, some pitiful, some contemptuous, and others with emotions he neither understood nor wished to understand.

“Jon, Jon!” Sam shook him anxiously. “You, you cannot be brainwashed by her just like this! You must…”

“Ser Samwell,” Daenerys interrupted sharply. Sam took a few quick uneven breaths, then lifted his eyes and bravely locked gaze with her, though it was almost too much to bear.

But as Daenerys looked at him, she saw not the man who challenged her claim and tried to smear her, but the compassionate and dedicated young man who had once risked his life to save Jorah.

Her voice softened as she spoke next, though not her words.

“You have said enough, Ser Samwell. I have permitted you to speak, even such treacherous words meant to undermine my claim, purely out of respect and gratitude for what you once did for my dear friend Jorah.” She paused, fixing her gaze onto him as she let the words sink in the room. “This is my last mercy to you: return to Horn Hill to be with your family, or to the Citadel, where your talents are best used. But whichever you choose, never again speak of this matter or challenge my claim. Do not test me further, Ser Samwell. I would very much prefer not to hurt you.”

Sam froze. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. Was she truly showing him mercy, or was it merely a performance for the lords gathered in the throne room? If it was a performance, it had worked, for Lords Rosby, Staunton, and Sunglass were already nodding in agreement.

But if it was truly mercy, he hated it. He hated how she could still be merciful. Hated that she had not extended this mercy to Dickon. Hated that she had not extended it to Bran. Hated that she would not extend it now to Jon.

A hand pressed gently on his shoulder.

It was Davos.

His face looked wearier than ever, his eyes heavy with resignation and sorrow.

“Enough, Sam,” he said quietly. “You’ve said more than enough. Come stand beside me and Lady Brienne.”

“But Jon…” Sam choked.

Davos shook his head sadly, and Sam understood. His heart wrenched. Jon’s fate, and everything else, was out of his and everyone else’s hands now.

Davos helped him up and gently guided him to stand beside himself and Brienne.

With Sam out of the way, Daenerys turned to address the room.

“Jon Snow was never properly punished for his crime of breaking his oath of fealty and assassinating me, his queen,” she said in a clear voice. “I hear he was exiled to beyond the wall, but he has friends and allies there, and he was free to live as he wished. Was that truly a punishment, or freedom in disguise?”

The lords, and even their men who had followed them into the throne room, exchanged uncertain glances.

“I have made a judgement. Jon Snow shall…”

Her words were cut off by Jon, his head hanging low in misery as he mumbled, “Kill me, Daenerys. Just kill me.”

She could not deny that the temptation burnt within her, but she forced it down. She always had. Whatever he might have done to her, he was still her nephew. Even if he weren’t, he was still someone she had once loved.

And now, there were many in the room who possibly believed Jon to be Rhaegar’s son, and they were watching her every move, every decision.

She let out a heavy sigh. “And become a kinslayer like you? Even now you want to trick me," she said as she clenched her fists.

Jon’s head jerked up, his grey eyes wide with shock. “What?”

“You killed me,” Daenerys said coldly. “If you are who you claim to be, then you betrayed your own blood. You call yourself honourable, yet you are nothing more than a kinslayer. And now you want me to do the same, to take the bait and to let your death stain my name and reputation.”

Jon flinched. “That’s not my intention… it’s not…” His voice trailed off as his head dropped, eyes wide and jaw slack.

How do you intend to deal with him? the voice asked curiously.

You will soon know. Just wait and see, Daenerys thought.

Jon looked up and stared soullessly into her beautiful violet eyes that used to caress him with warmth and love. But now, those eyes that he had loved felt like an abyss about to swallow him whole.

"I'm not a Stark, and not a Targaryen either. I'm... no one. A mere bastard that is no longer of any real use to anyone," he whispered.

“Jon… that’s not true,” Sam said pleadingly, but Jon didn’t seem to hear him.

Daenerys turned away.

"You chose to give up everything and be nothing the moment you decided to plunge that dagger into my heart, Jon," she said quietly. “If not, you’d have a place by my side.”

Just what had possessed her to love him, even laid with him, she wondered. He was so… insignificant. He was a good man and physically attractive, yes, but that was all. Looking back, they could be friends at best, but lovers? At that time and so suddenly? Why had she even allowed him to ride her precious Rhaegal? Inconceivable.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath to calm her emotions. As the storm in her heart gradually calmed, she turned to regard Jon once more.

"I wish I could lessen your pain, but I'm afraid that is impossible," Daenerys said, her voice steady but cool as her violet eyes fixed on Jon. "You took my trust, my crown, and my life. You will not have the mercy of death. Instead, you will live with the weight of your crimes and the knowledge that your betrayal and failures will haunt you until your last breath. That is my justice."

Jon looked at her, his expression broken, but he said nothing.

“Since you claim to be Rhaegar’s son, you will be confined to Dragonstone for the rest of your days,” she continued. “Our ancestral home shall be your prison. No banners, no armies, no ravens. You will live alone, a shadow of the man you once were. No one will find you. And no one will rise you as king.”

Her gaze shifted to Talzor.

"Take him to Dragonstone. Jhiqui knows what to do," she commanded in High Valyrian.

“It shall be done,” Talzor replied. Two Unsullied stepped forward, seizing Jon by the arms and dragging him away.

“Jon…!” Sam gasped. He tried to follow, but Davos caught his arms and held him fast.

“Don’t,” Davos whispered. “There’s nothing you can do for him. Do not act rashly. Think of Gilly. Think of your children.”

Sam froze at the mention of Gilly and the children. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he clenched his fists so tightly that his whole body trembled. But he took no step forward, nor spoke another word.

Brienne watched as Jon was dragged away. Then she bowed her head and remained silent.

The Unsullied had almost taken Jon to the door when he jerked his head up and screamed at Daenerys, his haunted grey eyes heavy with tears he could no longer shed.

"KILL ME, DAENERYS! KILL ME!"

Daenerys turned away.

"KILL ME! PLEASE! KILL ME!"

His grief-stricken howls echoed endlessly in the empty corridors of the Blue Hold. Even as they faded to nothing as Jon was dragged farther and farther, his howls would not leave Daenerys alone as they continued to ring in her ears.

Rian looked at the dead Bran before turning his gaze to Daenerys.

"What now?" he asked.

"Send Bran Stark back to Lady Sansa. Let her inter him in that crypt of theirs. I will make a public announcement of his death."

Rian paused, then spoke in a voice so low only she could hear. “I wasn’t asking about that.”

"Hmm?"

Rian looked into her eyes gently.

"What of you?"

Caught off guard, Daenerys took a deep breath and turned her gaze away. The gentleness in his eyes burned her. She took a deep breath and fought off the tingling feeling in her body and the ache she felt in her heart.

She was not ready for this. She did not know when or if she ever would be. But she could not bring herself to tell Rian that. She could not close that door.

“We shall speak of that later,” said Daenerys. Without giving him room to respond, she turned to Lords Rosby, Staunton and Sunglass.

“Have the lords and ladies summoned to King’s Landing. They must meet their Queen, and I shall discuss with them what happens to the realm moving forward," she commanded.

“Yes, Your Grace. It shall be done,” said Lord Staunton.

“Your Grace, if you do not mind, I shall rejoin my men to further secure the castle,” said Lord Sunglass.

“Please go ahead, Lord Sunglass,” Daenerys replied.

Lord Sunglass bowed and turned to leave the throne room.

Rian watched her, his expression unchanged though a flicker of disappointment stirred within him. Nevertheless, he must continue his duty.

He turned to look at Brienne, Sam and Davos.

“The three of you served the usurper,” he said coldly. “One has yet to answer for his fate, while the two of you…” His gaze sharpened as it flicked from Brienne to Davos. “Will you bend the knee to Her Grace?”

Daenerys watched them. She saw uncertainty and conflict flicker across Brienne’s face, while Davos only seemed to grow wearier with each passing moment.

After a long, silent pause, Davos stepped forward. Sam’s eyes widened as Davos sank to one knee.

“I swear my allegiance to you, Daenerys Targaryen, First of Your Name, as my queen,” he said solemnly.

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” Daenerys replied, her sharp eyes softening slightly.

“I do have one request.”

“Please, speak.”

“The years have made me weary, and I fear my time for politics is over,” Davos said quietly. “If Your Grace would permit it, I would like to retire to my seat at the Rainwood and spend the rest of my days with my family.”

“Do as you will, Ser Davos,” Daenerys said gently. “Family is where everyone belongs.”

“Indeed,” Davos murmured with a soft sigh and a nod. Rising to his feet, he bowed to her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As Davos stepped back to stand beside Brienne once more, Daenerys’ eyes shifted to the warrior who was silent in words but not in gaze. Brienne’s eyes were fixed on Bran’s lifeless body, still lying on the floor.

“You are of House Tarth?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes,” Brienne replied, her tone clipped. Rian frowned, and Talzor’s grip on his spear tightened. Daenerys, however, seemed not to notice or care.

“And Lord Selwyn Tarth is your…?”

“He is my father,” Brienne said quietly.

When Gendry had declared neutrality, the Stormlords had followed suit. Not out of loyalty to him, but because they deemed it safer to avoid a war with a dragon. If Daenerys Targaryen’s intent had been to divide the lords and cow them into inaction, then it had worked.

Her father, too, had chosen to take no side. Brienne did not blame him, yet bitterness lingered as her gaze drifted once more to Bran’s motionless body.

“I am aware my father had declared neutrality,” she said, though her voice quivered slightly. “Now that the throne is yours, it will not be long before neutrality becomes sworn oaths of loyalty. I shall stand by my father’s decision. I will return to Tarth and give Your Grace no trouble. This I swear.”

Rian scowled. “You…” he snarled, intending to demand that she clearly declare her loyalty, but Daenerys raised her hand, and he fell silent.

“Remember your words, good lady,” Daenerys said coolly.

“I always do,” Brienne replied. Then, without hesitation, she added, “Before I return to Tarth, I would ask permission to join the entourage that will escort His Grace’s remains back to Winterfell.”

“Bran Stark, or the usurper,” Rian corrected sharply. “Not His Grace.”

Brienne ignored him, her eyes fixed on Daenerys.

“You have my permission,” Daenerys said.

Surprise flickered in Brienne’s eyes. She lowered her head in a slight bow.

Daenerys turned to Sam.

"Ser Samwell, have you decided? The Citadel or Horn Hill?"

Sam glared at her but said nothing. 

Daenerys sighed softly in a mix of resignation and frustration. 

"You will be allowed to travel between the two as you wish," she said evenly. "But remember that you must never again speak of Jon Snow's alleged parentage and claim."

Alleged?! He wanted to shout, but he managed to swallow his fury. 

Gritting his teeth, he looked away and muttered harshly, “The Citadel.”

Daenerys nodded. 

"The three of you may return to your chambers to rest and prepare for your departure. Lady Tarth, you shall be informed when the entourage is ready."

She turned to Talzor. “Clean this up,” she said, gesturing to Bran Stark’s body. “Inform this lady when ready to depart for Winterfell.”

"Yes, Your Grace," Talzor replied with a bow. 

~~~~~~~

The room was finally cleared, with only Rian, Talzor and a few Unsullied, as well as Lords Rosby and Staunton and their men left with Daenerys.

She stepped away from the weirwood throne then turned to Rian.

"Rian, get rid of this... throne."

Rian looked at her, puzzled. Talzor and the lords were confused too.

"My queen, it's your throne. Where will you sit if it's gone?" Lord Rosby asked. 

"Make a new one," she replied without hesitation. "It doesn't need to be elaborate. It can even be an ordinary bench. What it cannot be is to become a reminder of the North, or of Bran Stark’s unlawful rule."

“I see. This makes great sense,” Lord Staunton said with a nod. “The weirwood is a symbol of the Old Gods, the faith of the North. But here in the Crownlands, and throughout the South, it is the Faith of the Seven that reigns. A throne made of weirwood has no place in King’s Landing.”  

His smile widened. "This is truly wise, Your Grace!"

Daenerys smiled faintly. She had not thought of religion when she gave the order; she merely wanted to purge King’s Landing of all lingering traces of Northern and Stark influence. Still, if this pleased the lords and perhaps even the people, then it was a double win.  

“Then perhaps you would like to oversee the making of the new throne, Lord Staunton?” she offered.  

Lord Staunton beamed. “That would be my honour, Your Grace!”  

Daenerys’ eyes met Rian’s, and they shared a smile.  

Finally, the journey of reclaiming Westeros' throne was over. 

But now, the new journey of ruling had begun.

~~~~~~~

As Sam stormed back to his chamber, he felt the timid and anxious glances of the servants who hid from sight. He ignored them and the relief he glimpsed from their faces as he passed. Relief that the city and castle had not been burnt this time. That perhaps they had been spared this time.

Fury and bitterness coiled around his heart. 

So Daenerys Targaryen had learnt to hide her true self and play the merciful queen, he thought bitterly. But it would not last. Sooner or later, she would show her true colours.

When she did, what or who would she burn next?

And Jon. She had him sent to Dragonstone for imprisonment, but who was to say she would not torture or kill him in secret?

I have to stop her.

Sam slammed the door of his chamber shut. 

He pulled out a trunk, opened it, and began throwing into it whatever he deemed necessary. When he was done, he locked it tight.

By the time he finished, evening had fallen.

He sat at his desk and drew out a sheet of parchment. Dipping a quill into ink, he began to write.

He wrote two letters. 

Now that King’s Landing was under Daenerys Targaryen’s occupation, the ravenry would be under her watch. Any letter that left or entered the city, especially his, might be spied on.

The first letter, addressed to Gilly, his mother, and his sister Talla, spoke of what had happened and his relocation to the Citadel. Its language was neutral and harmless, safe even if read by the Targaryen queen.

The second letter was different. Addressed to Sansa, he believed it would surely trigger Daenerys Targaryen's paranoia, so he would not send it from King’s Landing. After sealing it carefully, he hid it within a secret pocket sewn into his cloak. He would send it only after he had reached the Citadel, safe from Daenerys Targaryen's influence and watch.

He exhaled heavily and lifted his trunk. He swept his eyes across the chamber, taking one last look at it. 

"I will be back," he muttered. 

And Jon will be King.