41.Blood on the Snow

22nd Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Daenerys Targaryen, Outside Golden Tooth

War was a dull affair.

Not only was it dull, but it was slow, dragging through the mud like an old swine. The decision to take the war to the Westerlands had been made moons ago. Moons that it took the army to march through rain-soaked roads, ferry supplies, and carefully scout ahead. Pesky problems like arranging patrols, foraging, counting grain, and even organising the marching columns never seemed to end. A grand total of two hundred and forty miles in over fifty days. Things could not go any slower.

“It’s hardest to march a host through the cold and the mud,” Ser Barristan had explained.

It wasn’t only the matters of war that were going sluggishly. Her attempts to corral Rhaegal back to her side failed. The green drake had grown stubborn in her absence, refusing to leave the tower of Harrenhal where he had started roosting. Daenerys would let her wayward son stay there—but only until the war ended.

Worse still, she couldn’t even fly ahead or too far away from the army. “Dragons and their riders alike are too vulnerable without swords to defend them when they stop to rest on the ground,” Aegon had said. “What if some lucky scout or bold marksman ambushed you while you camped alone for the night? Or when you stopped to relieve yourself?”

He was not wrong, Daenerys knew, though she’d never admit it aloud. But perhaps it was a tad too paranoid. She had flown all the way to Winterfell and back, and nothing had happened. Still, any desire to attack the Golden Tooth on her own had been doused when the myriad scorpions lining the Lefford walls had started launching a rain of steel as soon as Drogon flew over. None had hit, of course, but the warning was clear.

And so, with nothing to do, Daenerys was reduced to returning to the army and joining their march. Chilly rain, muddy roads, landslides, small floods, and bland, cold food became her companions. The most unbearable thing was the dullness and mundanity, which got worse by the day. There was nothing to do for Daenerys in the army camp besides flying with Drogon, which eventually lost its charm.

“Don’t fly too far,” the killjoys would tell her every time. “It’s not safe.”

Worse, Aegon was tired and scarcely visited her tent at night.

Daenerys almost regretted not staying in Riverrun. She would have, but her desire to see the end of the Lannisters with her own eyes won.

Missandei had proposed she learn some more languages, but the lessons were long and dull, and Daenerys abandoned them after a few days. The Dothraki, the High Valyrian, and the Common Tongue of the Andals were enough. She was queen now, and it was others who had to speak in her tongue of choice now.

The slow, agonising torture finally ended once the Golden Tooth was in sight.

The small yet angry-looking castle was nestled atop the rocky hill, overlooking the road into the Westerlands. Three banners fluttered above the gates—the roaring lion of Lannister, the crowned stag of Baratheon, and the yellow sun above a sharp hill of Lefford. Slow but steady, the army fanned out surrounding the castle from every direction like a sea of ants.

Jaime Lannister hid behind those walls, the scouts claimed. The crippled Kingslayer was the last great commander truly loyal to Tommen’s cause. If he fell here, the Westermen would crumble like a pile of loose sand, or so Connington, Ser Barristan, and the Imp claimed. It was rare for those three to agree on anything, and when they did, it had to be true.

Yet, to the men’s dismay, their entry into the Westerlands was bereft of loot. Not a single soul could be seen for miles. All towns and villages were abandoned, and fields were burned and scoured clean. “Lannister wants to deny us forage and supplies,” Connington grunted through gritted teeth. “He wants to win the battle of starvation.”

Even negotiations had predictably fallen apart—Jaime Lannister refused to surrender and turned the envoys away at the gates.

And here she was, on the second morning of the siege, where cold crept into the air with insistence. The chill was not like the vile, insidious Northern cold that threatened to freeze your blood, but more like the crisp, frosty air in the Vale. It still irked her; the cold itself was a reminder of that insolent boor sitting in Winterfell. A reminder that her long-expected home was filled with cold and dampness, unlike the pleasant heat of Essos.

Surely enough, wetness smudged atop her forehead, and Daenerys raised her head only to see snow dancing in the wind.

She had roused herself from sleep early to participate in yet another dreadfully dull war council. But this one couldn’t be skipped because of one question—would dragons participate in the storming of the Golden Tooth or not?

Now, she was on her way to the command tent, Red Flea and Dogkiller trailing in her wake like silent shadows. The cold had killed dozens of Unsullied in the past moon, and even more had gotten sick, unused to the cold weather of Westeros. Normally, furs, thick leathers, and heavy woollen cloaks would be easy to procure, but the Riverlands had been stripped bare. Aegon’s men fared no better. The whole host lacked everything but swords and spears.

Salt, fur, leather boots, woollen cloaks—it was all worth its weight in gold, and she had seen men-at-arms haggle and almost come to blows over an old bearskin cloak.

A murder of crows gathered along the posts and the banners, cawing hungrily in anticipation of the coming battle. The black omens of death were a common sight across the Riverlands, warring against vultures for the flesh of the fallen.

The newest white cloaks stood guard at the war tent—Sers Alton Stauton and Grance Morrigen. The pristine fabric had turned grey in the gruelling march, no matter how hard the washerwomen cleaned it. “Grey cloaks,” some men had begun calling them in jest. It was not just the cloaks. The lack of enamelled armour saw the kingsguard simply wearing grey steel, with a plain surcoat that hadn’t truly been white for over a moon now.

While her own queensguard had been disbanded, Strong Belwas continued to guard her quarters while Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo led the three hundred surviving screamers in her name.

The tent was crowded, and her entrance had ended the chatter. Over two dozen men were clustered around the table—Aegon’s council, the two captains of the Golden Company who led two thousand men each, and all of the lords who had joined the host.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion was the first to greet her, still sober early in the morning. Not for long, judging by the wineskin in his stubby arm. “You’re just in time for the council!”

The rest merely spared her a glance or a curt nod.

Ignoring the silence and the sour faces, Daenerys seated herself on the empty chair on Aegon’s left.

“Now that we’re all here, we can begin planning the siege,” Jon Connington said with a newfound stiffness. For once, he did not seem bothered by her. With his pale face, Daenerys thought he had caught a cold or some other ailment.

“With winter here, we have no time to starve them out,” he continued grimly. “The scouts report that the kingslayer has stripped everything bare for leagues, and his granaries are probably as full as they could be. If we want the Golden Tooth, we must storm it.”

“The battering rams and the siege ladders will be ready come tomorrow,” one of the Riverlords said. What was his name again? Diddy? Deddy? Deddings? Daenerys didn’t bring herself to care right now. “The men will just have to brave up the slope to the walls.”

“They’ll have to brave the Westerlander bolts and arrows with it, too,” Lord Morrigen added.

The meeting grew quiet as all the men pondered over the shoddily drawn map of Golden Tooth’s defences—Aegon’s work after flying over the castle.

At that moment, a crow covered in snow quietly flew in, landed on a sword stand near the brazier and started cleaning its feathers, completely unbothered by the humans nearby. Daenerys looked around, but nobody else in the tent paid the bird any heed, and after a few more glances, she also ignored it.

“A night raid, at least,” one of the sellsword captains said at last. “We should try the gates with axes and torches under the disguise of the darkness.”

“There’s time still,” another cautioned. “I bet they have cauldrons full of boiling oil on the ready. The first to attack will be cooked alive. I heard they had whole cisterns filled with the stuff.”

“Storming the walls is dangerous,” Simon Staunton said, voice hesitant. “If the Golden Tooth is fully manned, we will lose at least fifteen thousand men taking it. I say we take our time, build trebuchets, find some sappers to dig under their walls and collapse them. In two, no—three months at most, we will be sitting in Lefford’s hall.”

“Three months?” Lord Thorne snorted sharply. “Lingering here for too long is no less dangerous. The supply lines are stretched thin as they are right now. The first heavy snow would see us eating our horses in a week. The second would see us boil our bootstraps for soup. Sieging this castle is folly now.”

“Indeed,” the Imp agreed, mouth already half-glued to his wineskin. “The Golden Tooth was built to withstand hosts bigger than ours.”

“But it hasn’t been built to withstand dragons,” Varys tittered. “No castle has. We have two dragonriders here—an advantage all others who came to siege the Golden Tooth lacked.”

“And they have prepared for the dragons, too,” Aegon said darkly. “Scorpions line the battlements and the towers. Drogon and Viserion are still young and small, and their scales have yet to grow impervious to such weapons. If the kingslayer is cunning, the highest battlements will be filled with marksmen, trying to aim at any dragonrider daring to fly over.”

“We’ve merely lost the element of surprise,” Tyiron said lazily, taking a deep swallow from his flask.

“Do you have some plan, Imp?” Connington asked.

Seeing that everyone was looking at him, the dwarf finally lowered his flask and straightened up.

“A shadow of a plan. I say, what if the dragons attack directly from above?”

“From above?” Aegon echoed.

“Scorpions can only aim in one direction, and while hundreds of them might be pointing at different angles, they would struggle to move, secure, and aim them in parallel with the walls to point towards the sky. If you start from the main keep, which is the tallest, you can work your way downwards and set all the scorpions on fire, and not a single one would be able to aim at the dragons.”

“Scouring the battlements from top to bottom?” Ser Barristan murmured, rubbing his chin. “That plan has some merit.”

“Yes, and if we attack after the footmen have stormed the gate and the lower walls…”

Daenerys yawned. They continued speaking fervently about the plan, but for all their enthusiasm, someone had to storm the walls first.

“It will be a hard fight,” Connington said at last, face turning solemn. “But the Golden Tooth is not a large castle. There’s only so much of these supplies that can fit inside. Besides, we only need to assault to keep the defenders engaged so they won’t focus on the dragons above.”

Her husband’s gaze roamed the tent, yet nobody volunteered to send their men towards Golden Tooth’s walls first.

Her lips curled in disdain. Cravens full of empty boasts, the lot of them. Daenerys remembered how many lords boasted and were eager to lead the vanguard.

All of them were silent now.

“If our lords are too craven to do it, Grey Worm and my Unsullied shall,” Daenerys said, her words laced with disdain. “My men will assault the walls and the gates first.”

More than a few looked livid at the insult. But the craves didn’t dare say anything—even the cockless were braver than them.

“Are you sure?” Aegon asked.

“Yes.”

Aegon squeezed her hand in gratitude underneath the table.

The war talk lost some enthusiasm, turning towards the remaining armies Cersei’s bastard had under command. But nobody looked worried about them, so Daenerys scarcely paid any attention.

In a dreadfully boring half an hour, the topic finally turned to something of interest.

“Varys, Maar, anything on the North or Jon Snow’s mother’s yet?” Her husband switched the topic.

Daenerys leaned forward with interest. She was far from the only one; everyone wanted to know how and why the thieving Stark Bastard had gotten dragons.

“Nothing,” the Lyseni said, spreading his hands helplessly. “No matter how many men I send North, they can’t get past White Harbour.”

“What do you mean?”

Lysano Maar sighed. “I lose contact after they venture deeper into the North.”

“Probably dead, then,” Tyrion chortled. “Outsiders stick out like a sore thumb in the North, and it isn’t easy to look and sound like a Northman.”

“Quite so,” Varys agreed, his powdered face heavy with regret. “I tried recruiting Northmen, of course. But none dared to accept any bribes, no matter how much gold or honours I offered. They all claim to follow the Old Gods, but it’s the Starks that are worshipped.”

A few scoffed, cursing the Northmen as heathens. However, Daenerys was intrigued.

Could such deep loyalty be gained through worship?

Was that why the Usurper’s dog was so respected, while half of the lords here treated her with disdain?

It stung.

“Surely you have found at least something about the Stark bastard?” Aegon said, irritating seeping into his words. “Or must I search for a more competent spymaster?”

Varys bowed deeply, his brow kissing the table below and leaving a white layer of powder.

“My deepest apologies, Your Grace,” he said, clasping his hands. “It’s just too hard to squeeze out anything beyond hearsay. The North is cold, harsh, and distant, and the Northmen have always been wary of outsiders, and twice as much after the Red Wedding and the reaver attacks. But I have researched the matter of Jon Snow at length.”

“Speak, then,” Connington urged. “What are you waiting for?”

Varys tittered at the griffin lord, angering him further.

“Jon Snow was first seen in Winterfell soon after the Rebellion had ended,” he said just before Connington exploded. “Yet his mother and place of birth remain a mystery. Eddard Stark passed through the Vale, North, Riverlands, Crownlands, Stormlands, and Dorne during the length of it.”

“There’s a chance his mother was from the Essos or the Reach, too,” Maar added.

“Indeed. Regardless, I’ve heard many songs about Jon Snow’s parentage, each singing a different tune. In the Sisters, they claim Snow was sired on a common fisherwoman. In the Riverlands, they say the woman was a whore. In the Crownlands—a Lysene courtesan or perhaps a dragonseed from Dragonstone. Some even claim his mother was Lady Ashara Dayne.”

“If it were Ashara Dayne, it would explain the dragons,” Ser Manfrey Martell rasped out. The cold had begun taking a great toll on the wrinkled knight. “Daenerys’s daughter wedded to Lord Dayne.”

Even Daenerys perked up at hearing her name.

“The Daenerys who wedded Prince Maron Martell for a kingdom?” Aegon asked.

“The very same.”

She vaguely remembered the story. Daenerys had been the daughter of Aegon the Unworthy, and her elder brother had married her off to the Martell Prince to bring Dorne into the fold. Though Viserys had always spoken of the Dornish with great disdain, calling them useless cravens and liars.

“It can’t be Lady Ashara,” Ser Barristan denied, his blue eyes growing distant. “She had a short tryst with Brandon Stark in the tourney of Harrenhal.”

“Perhaps this Jon Snow is Brandon’s son, then,” Connington said flatly. “Passed as Ned Stark’s get to avoid having his own claim to Winterfell threatened, while keeping his nephew well-taken care of.”

“Quite the conjecture, my Lord Hand, but I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Varys’s smile only grew wider. “The servants in Starfall claim that Lady Ashara gave birth to a stillborn daughter. I’m afraid that everywhere I look, every clue I follow, there’s only rumours and shadows but no substance.”

“Look harder,” Aegon ordered. “What of the dragon eggs, then? Where did a Snow find them where many others failed?”

“I have yet to find out, Your Grace,” the Spider said apologetically, dipping his head deeper. “The Wall is quite far, and the weather has turned for the worse, making travel a terrible challenge. Men of the Watch are tight-lipped on the matter of Jon Snow.”

“Surely you have found some volunteers to join the Watch and learn more?” Daenerys prodded.

“If only it were that easy, my queen.” Varys nervously wrung his meaty fingers. “Men are reluctant to swear off women and venture into the frozen wasteland. While I did find some volunteers, their ship sank near the Fingers during a terrible storm, so…”

She scoffed. “Useless. What good is a spymaster who can’t find anything?”

Both spymasters ducked, having the decency to look ashamed. So much for empty boasts of ‘knowing everything that happened from Sunspear to the Wall.’

Aegon’s face looked like a cold statue as his eyes flicked between the two spymasters. But Daenerys could see the disappointment in his eyes. Eventually, he shook his head.

“We attack on the morrow at dawn,” her husband decided. “Council adjourned—start the preparation.”

23rd Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

“Dracarys!”

Black flames shot with red engulfed the ramparts atop the inner Lefford Keep, setting the men and scorpions ablaze. The heavy stench of charred meat and desperate wails of pain mingled with the clash of battle and death below as their host stormed the fortress from every direction.

Her eyes stung, and she gagged, trying to keep her breakfast in. She couldn’t get used to the smell and sound of battle even after experiencing it many times. It was that bitter, jarring feeling that made your insides twist as a shroud of solemn death and desperation hung atop the surroundings as men perished at each other’s hands.

It had been an hour since the first assault had begun, and most of the defenders were invested on the lower ramparts. A glance down at the battle had her grimace—hundreds of her Unsullied had perished beneath the walls already, and they had yet to breach the fortifications. Scaling ladders, battering rams, and grappling hooks were all being repelled.

Near her, Aegon was setting the scorpions atop the higher towers aflame. Tyrion’s tactic had proven effective so far. But the dragonflame spluttered from afar, forcing them to fly lower to torch these contraptions of war. Daenerys wheeled Drogon to continue burning the wooden parapets and ramparts as the men below struggled to turn the hefty scorpions skywards.

Just as she thought the battle would be theirs, an arrow whistled above her head. Then a second and a third followed, and Daenerys glued herself to the saddle and Drogon’s scales. The dragon turned around, irritated, and roared. She could hear the soft, fleshy thunks as more arrows sank into his scales and the soft membrane of the wings.

She turned to Aegon only to pale when a scorpion bolt almost struck Viserion. Her blood chilled, and it felt like a thousand ants crawled up her spine as the realisation sank in—they had managed to turn some of the scorpions skyward.

“Daenerys! Retreat!” Aegon’s cry tore through the winds and clamour below, and Daenerys struggled to tug on the reins of the angry Drogon.

Her heart almost jumped in her throat when a pained roar echoed, and she turned to see a dark, iron-tipped bolt glance at Viserion’s side, piercing through the scales and drawing blood.

The dragons snapped angrily as Unsullied pulled the arrows from their wings and bellies. Smoke curled from their nostrils, and Daenerys suspected the only thing that stopped them from burning the surroundings was her presence.

A deep, threatening rumble echoed from Drogon’s throat.

“Calm,” she urged, stroking the tip of his snout. “They’ll be done soon.”

Snow drifted down from the grey sky, settling over the wounded beasts and the ruined field alike, cloaking the world in a quiet white shroud.

Almost every inch of Daenerys’ body hurt, and the exhaustion seeped into her bones. The ringmail weighed over twenty pounds, and her shoulders and back felt strained and bruised, while the crude fabric of the padded jacket underneath chafed her skin.

Red Flea silently helped her get out of the uncomfortable armour.

Still, Daenerys could hardly compare when she was better off than Aegon.

Viserion had twisted in the air, veering off as they flew away from the Golden Tooth, exposing him to the marksmen on the wall. He almost looked like a hedgehog with all the arrows sticking out from his armour, but the heavy plate had done its job—her husband was unharmed underneath save for a few shallow puncture wounds, and now his squires were carefully pulling off the layers of armour.

Thankfully, the dragons weren’t maimed, and none of their wounds were deep.

“The wound will heal,” Marwyn, clad in dark green robes, declared after inspecting the angry gash at Viserion’s side as rivulets of steaming dark crimson sizzled into the ground. “The scales should grow out anew, but I don’t recommend flying anytime soon, Your Grace. Food must be brought to Viserion, and he must rest in order to recuperate.”

It was a small mercy. She had felt invulnerable in the sky, but the notion had been disabused today. The assault had failed disastrously without the dragons providing cover, and many of her Unsullied were left beneath the walls of the Golden Tooth forever.

“Where is Grey Worm?” Daenerys asked.

“He died at the battering ram with the gates,” was Dogkiller’s response. His words were even and emotionless, but that chilled her further. “The boiling oil at the gatehouse cooked him on the spot along with many others.”

Anger and sadness crawled up her throat, battling each other for dominance as her vision began to swim.

She had done this. She had ordered her men towards their deaths just to test the castle’s defences.

It was only later that noon that Daenerys managed to calm down, and the losses were finally counted.

Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine Unsullied had died in the assault, and about seven hundred from the Stormlord’s men.

She swallowed her sorrow and anger and dragged her tired feet to attend the war council again.

Aegon stood as stiff as a statue, hands clasped over the map-strewn table, while the lords and the councillors argued.

“…Surely, the Kingslayer has suffered significant losses as well!”

“You cannot know that,” Lord Jordayne said, his Dornish drawl particularly disdainful. “For all we know, he has mostly wounded and tired men but few dead! The Unsullied were pushed from the walls, after all. By the time they managed to climb to the ramparts, they were tired from the trek up the hill and lugging all the gear and ladders. Even if they feel no pain, what good would it do when they had no more strength to swing a sword?”

“Indeed,” Tyrion muttered, once again weaning himself on another flask of wine. “The Unsullied’s greatest advantage is their unbreakable discipline and the ability to hold a line. Something they could hardly do while climbing ladders.”

Lord Simon Staunton cleared his throat and leaned forward. “What if we leave seven thousand men to siege the castle and press deeper into the Westerlands with the rest?”

“Foolish,” Connington retorted immediately. “If the remaining Lannister forces wheel around and strike them from behind, we’ll be deep into the hilly Westerlands with no supply but forage. Hunger will defeat us before we even see Lannister swords.”

“And foraging in the middle of winter means slow death by cold and starvation,” Ser Barristan added. “We’ll be noticed, too. The risk is too great, and the chance to take Casterly Rock by surprise too small…”

The Red Flail shifted uneasily. “Perhaps it would be best to wait for spring,” he offered, but his voice was laced with caution. “The Kingslayer has hidden deep like a turtle, ready to outlast us. If we stay here, we’ll dance to his tune. Should the snowfall thicken and the cold grow fiercer, we’ll be seeing our men freezing to death by the hundreds soon enough.”

“There’s also the costs,” Tyrion took a heavy swallow of wine. “War is an expensive endeavour. Men expect to be paid for each month on the campaign, and our coin is running thin. Promises of pay can only get us so far. When the coin runs thin, so does the fighting spirit, even for the most loyal soldiers.”

Aegon looked reluctant.

Varys cast a glance at the map and sighed.

“A retreat might see Your Grace gain more than a stubborn push forward,” he advised softly. “When spring comes and the weather thaws, the dragons will have grown further. Once they’re big enough, what’s there to fear from arrows and scorpions?”

The old Martell knight inclined his head in agreement. “The Spider speaks true—time is on our side. It would also give us time to shore up our supplies and draw the full strength of the Reach and the Vale. With the Tyrells leading thirty thousand swords up the Ocean Road, the Valemen bolstering us with their knights, and the Greyjoy lass attacking from the Sunset Sea, the Westerlands would be beset from each side.”

“There’s merit to that,” a Stormlord said.

More men were quick to nod or grunt in assent. To Daenerys’s dismay, even Aegon clasped his hands, looking pensive as his purple eyes sought out the map of the Seven Kingdoms strewn before them.

The feeling of betrayal coiled in her chest and would not go away.

Did they not all claim loudly how victory was close at hand?!

And now, they were eager to retreat.

Cowards!

“If we retreat now, we give the Lannisters time to scheme and plot and plan,” she said coldly.

Varys bowed his perfumed head. “Even the finest baker needs flour to make bread. The Lannisters are done in, Your Grace. They have no friends, no allies, and nobody else to turn to. Everyone they could have drawn to their side has already been invited.”

They didn’t take her seriously, the Dragon Queen realised. She was just the king’s wife to them. A pretty pair of teats and a womb to make heirs and spares. Even Aegon didn’t support her here. The stab of betrayal cut deeper.

She clenched her hands and stood up.

“What of House Stark?” Her voice thickened with disdain. “If we can’t attack the Westerlands in winter, we could scarcely assault the North. By the time our dragons grow further, so would Snow’s. What if the damned Lions ally with the Stark bastard?”

Ser Gordon Gaunt coughed, raising his hands in an attempt to placate her. “Let us not be hasty, Your Grace,” he urged. “Slights might have been offered, but waging a war with Winterfell is dangerous. The Stark problem might be easier to resolve with ink and words than fire and sword.”

“What do you suggest, Ser?” Aegon asked, intrigued.

The Gaunt knight bowed.

“Let us retreat somewhere warm to tide us through the winter and consolidate the royal grasp on the conquered lords. Come spring, if both sides have heirs, an alliance can be negotiated.”

The words angered her further and were met with heated clamour around the table as fists were raised and objections were mouthed.

Daenerys’s fury surged again, and it only grew when the council broke into murmurs and raised hands, bickering like fishwives.

“What if the babes are all boys? Or all girls? Or stillborn?”

“You’d curse His Grace with such talk?”

“Nonsense—”

Aegon lifted his head from the map and gazed at her imploringly. His lilac eyes looked impossibly soft, as if asking her permission to ally with that Northern thief.

Daenerys fled.

She stormed out of the tenth, not looking back. The fury and betrayal burned raw in her throat, and she wanted to scream and curse.

Oh, she knew she might never have another child again. The gods had seen that the chance was so fleeting that it might as well not be there. But if she did… if she had a child, Daenerys would rather die than match it with the get of that Northern wretch and his scarred, ugly thing of a wife.

He had promised!

Aegon had promised that they would deal with the thieving wolf bastard!

…Was it all a lie?

Daenerys felt despondent.

Her mood turned for the worse as she glanced behind her. Her Unsullied faithfully trailed, ensuring her safety. They all followed her here, but all she had given them was death and broken promises. Ten thousand had left Astapor under her banner, and now less than a third remained. Regret swelled in her chest.

They had fought to their deaths on the streets of Mereen. They had not baulked at the harsh storms on her long voyage. They had not faltered in the cold Westeros or beneath the walls of the Golden Tooth. It was all for her. For this damned land of cold, rain, snow, and arrogance. The anger drained out of Daenerys, leaving only sorrow behind.

This was supposed to be her home, the place where she belonged, yet why did she feel more lost than ever?

Why did Westeros feel so foreign?

Why did the anger and sadness cling to her like a cloak?

Her body still ached from head to toe. Bruises, scuffs, and sore muscles jolted with pain, yet she didn’t want to rest. She didn’t feel like she deserved rest.

She sought out her eldest son. Drogon slumbered on a small hill cleared especially for him, his saddle still fastened with chains over his lower neck.

This was all she needed—a flight to free her mind of her burden and woes. Let the cold winds in the sky wash away her worries as she leaves the sorrows and betrayal on the ground.

A raven cawed.

She flinched, then glared. The bird perched on a rock nearby, eyeing her with cold amusement. Its kin had feasted on her men, and this one had come to mock her grief. Even beasts were taunting her now!

“Begone, damned bird!”

The raven merely blinked its beady eyes at her, unmoved and uncowed.

Daenerys ignored the bird and sighed.

Sighing, Daenerys climbed atop Drogon’s saddle.

Within a minute, she was soaring in the sky again. Drogon was pliant to her touch, no longer as angry or unruly as before, and flying no longer felt like a struggle. No longer did she have to wrestle the reins until her arms grew numb or shout herself hoarse against the whistling wind.

A clear command, a soft tug—all it took for Drogon to obey her now.

Now, Drogon flew northeast, looping across the sky lazily, as her gaze flicked to the expanse below. It looked almost pretty, all covered by a thickening quilt of white. Soft and silent and pure… there was nothing else like it. Yet the ethereal visage before her was just as dangerous as it was majestic, but it could not stop her amazement.

The cold wind battering her face broke her out of her reverence. It sliced through her shawl and thick leather cloak, pressing her back to the saddle, and her tired body soon started to groan with protest.

Her stomach was the next to rebel, churning and twisting into a knot, demanding release. Daenerys tried to ignore it, but the ache got worse by the minute.

With a sigh, she leaned forward, steering Drogon towards a clearing atop a barren hill and cried out, “Land!”

Dismounting hastily, Daenerys dashed to a clump of bushes. Just as she relieved herself, another set of wings cracked against the wind. Had Aegon followed her? Would he come here to apologise or maybe even comfort her?

…But Viserion was wounded, and Marwyn said he had to rest for some time to heal.

Her stomach lurched again when Drogon reared angrily at the sky, all his hackles raised. He opened his maw, and a warning roar tore through the snowfall.

But it was too late. Before Daenerys could even realise what was happening, her son tried to twist, but a monstrous, dark-blue dragon crashed from above.

The ground beneath her legs shook. Daenerys’ tired knees folded, and she fell onto her bum straight into the shrubbery.

By the time she forced herself back up, Drogon’s throat had been pinned by the other beast’s maw. A blur leapt above the saddle, and her son’s angry roar choked into a pained whimper.

Drogon slumped on the snow below, twitching and trashing as a sword was jammed into his eye, and Daenerys’ heart broke when a figure cloaked in darkness grabbed the hilt, pushed in, and twisted.

Drogon grew silent, slumping on the snowy ground, and her heart shattered.

The man pulled out the blade with a sickening squelch, and even the savage-looking dragon remained as still as a statue.

“No!” Her voice came out weak, feeble like a whisper in the rain. Her vision turned blurry as tears stung her eyes. “No—no! No, this can’t be happening!”

She dragged her boots through the snow, raising a trembling hand at her son’s corpse.

The next wail choked in her throat, but she ignored it. She ignored the steel-clad warrior and his dragon and trudged to her eldest.

“Drogon, wake up,” Daenerys cried, her hands fervently running her fingers over his crimson-streaked scales. “This is just a dream. A bad dream. Wake up, Drogon. Soves. Soves! SOVES!”

Her son lay there, unmoving, as steaming blood dribbled down his snout.

Daenerys collapsed on the snow, feeling numb; even the twist in her innards no longer felt as painful. Then, the cold dullness was chased away by the fury bubbling in her gut. The searing rage rose up, running through her veins like molten iron, giving her strength once more.

Angrily wiping the tears from her eyes, she turned to the thrice-cursed Jon Snow.

“Why?!”

No, she knew why.

Daenerys remembered the threats that had left her tongue in Winterfell.

The bastard was like a statue, leaning on the hilt of his blade, still slick with Drogon’s warm blood. He looked like an evil spectre in that dark suit of plate that did not leave even an inch of skin exposed.

He took off his helmet, and his heavy gaze bore into her.

“Why, you ask?” He tilted his head, face like a mask of frost. “You dare ask me that? Because of you, Daenerys Targaryen. Because you forced my hand. Because you came to my home and threatened my wife, my sisters, and my people.”

A tired sigh rolled from Jon Snow’s mouth, and his eyes softened. “I had hoped we could work something out—some sort of peace. I suppose even fools like me get naive in their old age, but I ought to have known better. Peace is just a pipe dream without the strength to back it, and foes are better crushed under your heels to the last.”

Had… had Jon Snow gone mad? He was a young man, scarcely a year older than her!

“How?” Daenerys stabbed an angry finger at his chest. Her gaze fluttered to the monstrous thing that was perched on her son’s corpse. The dragon was no less than Drogon in size. “Dragons are not supposed to grow this fast!”

Jon Snow snorted.

“You know nothing of magic, little girl,” he said, his voice thick with disdain. “You stumbled onto your dragons by blind luck and know the magic that drives them even less. But you’re not wrong, Daenerys Targaryen. Dragons are not supposed to grow this fast.”

He stepped forth, and his blood-stained armoured figure loomed above her, a whole head taller.

But it did not make her feel half as small and insignificant as those eyes that glowed like a pair of purple lanterns. Eyes were not supposed to glow like that.

It was done, Daenerys realised. Never had she felt so powerless, so… insignificant. There were no traditions or customs to protect her here. No rescue would come, for nobody knew where she flew, and she was just at the mercy of the cold, ruthless Northern King.

Daenerys was going to die.

She wanted to swear, scream, shout, and ask a thousand questions, but suddenly, she felt at peace.

“What happens to me now?”

His brow creased, “I had intended to spare you, you see. Kinslaying is frowned upon, and you are my aunt by blood, after all.”

“Aunt?” she croaked out, her mind clouded by confusion.

“Rhaegar sired a bastard upon Lyanna,” he said flatly. “And Eddard Stark decided to raise the boy as his own, shielding him from the vengeful eyes of many.”

It was not a lie. Daenerys knew the lies of men, and this… man spoke with utmost certainty. He believed every word that tumbled out of his tongue.

“You?!”

Jon Stark—her nephew—sighed. “Aye. Me.”

She laughed then, the hysterical sound echoing through the snowy hill. It was madness, pure madness.

But it made all too much sense.

He had hatched dragon eggs, just like her. A true dragon, hidden beneath a coat of wolf fur and the snows of the North. Her blood and kin.

“My nephew,” she croaked out. Her fury and rage drained away like water from a sieve, leaving way for exhaustion and sorrow, and she slumped in the cold snow, feeling boneless. “Why fight me then?”

“Because I want peace.” He closed his eyes. “Because you threatened me in my own home.”

“I was just… lonely, and cold, and tired, and, and angry,” she wept, brushing her tears. “If I knew you were the blood of my blood…”

He just tilted his head, and his inscrutable mask of ice returned to his face.

“Would anything change?” he challenged, but there was no heat in it. “I am just a bastard. A bastard of the most dangerous kind—the one with a claim, crown, and a dragon, wed to a daughter of your foes. A daughter with another claim, no lesser than yours. You might be able to suffer my presence. But would Aegon do the same? Would his councillors not whisper in his ears, saying how the North is dangerous, planning to usurp him or his children?”

“No! You can still join Aegon and me and rule the Seven Kingdoms together! We can still make this work!”

“Even after I slew your dragon?”

Daenerys glanced at Drogon’s corpse, and her heart clenched again.

“I would forgive you,” she managed, feeling the ball of tangled emotions swell in her chest. “I am angry, but I would forgive my nephew.”

“It speaks of your character that you are willing to find forgiveness in your heart,” he agreed, his eyes full of pity. “But what of the rest? What will bind this alliance you speak of? A three-way union or co-rule between me, Aegon, and yourself? Do you fancy yourself the second coming of Nymeria? No, even the Rhoynish Princess never held two consorts at once.”

Her nephew shook his head.

“Even if that could work, I will never betray my wedding vows,” he said, voice full of steel. “I could never forgive the threats levied at my kin. There’s no way to peace now. It’s too late.”

The blue dragon bit greedily into Drogon’s corpse, tearing out chunks of flesh and scales easily before roasting them with a short burst of flame.

“But… but you haven’t killed me yet,” Daenerys said, desperation creeping into her words. She had to fix this. “I too am your kin. Why talk to me at such length?”

“So you can die with your eyes open,” he said coolly. “Some honesty is the least I can grant you, aunt, before I send you off.”

But… she had forgiven him. Was it not enough? They were kin, they were family!

Did her nephew not see?

“What then?” Daenerys challenged, turning angry. “I offer you a hand in peace, and you will kill your aunt and become a kinslayer?”

“To the world, I am Eddard Stark’s bastard son, and you’re no kin of mine.”

His final words barely registered in her mind, and she couldn’t even bear to look on as her child was being devoured like some dinner. No, Daenerys’ attention was occupied by Jon Stark’s cold eyes as the dark, sinister blade rose, the bloody tip pointing at the grey sky.

The same colour as his armour, but its dark hue looked like a wound upon the world, greedily drinking in all the light, and even Drogon’s blood seemed to be sucked in. Her spine crawled as fear slithered through her veins.

At that moment, the realisation returned with a vengeance. She was going to die. There was no escape—her nephew would kill her. His two amethyst orbs were filled with resolve and something else she couldn’t read, but it was clear. He meant to kill her, and nothing would stop him.

The veil of snow drifting in the air thickened.

The sword descended as Daenerys blinked. A flash of cold was followed by weightlessness and numbness. The last thing she saw was the world spinning as a headless body collapsed on the snow, spraying blood everywhere, and darkness took her.