Chapter Text
Leaning low over Drogon’s back, the cold air snatched at Daenerys’ braids and stung her eyes, but it was a price well worth paying for the thrill of dragonflight. Mighty wings beat as she soared and swooped, riding the thermals up and plunging back down. And what could be a better accompaniment to the ride than to unleash the power of dragonfire on a thoroughly deserving foe. Daenerys had never met a Frey, but that didn’t matter. She had learned of their crimes from Robb, and not just him. Varys and Tyrion had spoken to her of the Red Wedding, as had Lord Manderly and the Blackfish. So she was without compunctions of any sort as the Twins blazed beneath her, turning the Trident orange.
The sheer force of the dragons’ fire was a thing to behold, smashing stones apart, toppling towers into the churning river. Daenerys had watched from on high as burning figures leapt into that river to escape the flames. Let them try; there were men along the bank waiting for them. Now though the castles were silent and still but for the inferno consuming them, a crumbling tomb for a house of betrayers. There was a bloody satisfaction for delivering such justice, much as there had been to sacking Astapor and purging the Great Masters. This was the queen Daenerys wanted to be, the queen she alone could be, wielding the terrible power of dragonfire. A sword of justice, swift and merciless. For Robb, for his mother, his wife, for all the treacherous Freys had harmed, she was glad to right the scales.
The heat of a house’s end warmed Daenerys as Drogon swooped low across what remained of the Twins, his shadow descending on the encampment a ways to the east. There was an open space among the tents in which he landed, shaking the earth, and no sooner had Daenerys slipped from his back than he rose again, the force of his wingbeats nearly unbalancing her and threatening to blow away a few dozen tents.
Men stopped to acknowledge Daenerys as she strode through the camp with her head held high, as was only right. She was their queen, and owed respect, but it felt different now. During the siege their respect had been perfunctory, on the march it had been renewed, but now she felt how the Targaryens of old must have felt, bestriding the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback. Closer to gods than to men, so Viserys had said, and now they had all seen the truth of it. Nothing could stand in her way.
When Daenerys ducked through her pavilion’s flap, Missandei was already there waiting for her with a cup of wine, which she took gladly and drank deep. Razing two castles was thirsty work. Varys was there too, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, and Tyrion with a cup of his own. The man could drink, though she valued his counsel far more when he was sober. Still she decided not to begrudge him his wine; tonight they were celebrating a victory.
Chairs were already arranged around a warm brazier, and Daenerys sank into one, relaxing as the others joined her. Powerful she might be on Drogon’s back, but she was not particularly comfortable, no matter how she tweaked her saddle. This padded chair was much nicer, especially with wine inside her. “Quite the display, your grace,” Varys simpered.
“One wonders why anyone ever rebelled against House Targaryen when they still possessed dragons,” said Tyrion. “I hope my sweet sister can smell the roasting flesh from King’s Landing.”
“Cersei has had her fair share of that scent,” Varys replied. “I understand the ruins of the Sept of Baelor still smoulder.”
“House Lannister fought against dragons when they supported Aegon over Rhaenyra, and paid dearly for it,” Daenerys pointed out, swirling her wine.
“True, but it was not the dragons who made them pay,” Varys said. “Lord Jason was cut down by a squire, and Ser Tyland was mutilated by Queen Rhaenyra, while it was the ironborn who sacked Lannisport.”
Silence fell briefly, and Daenerys mused on her ancestor, the only woman to ever sit the Iron Throne. Rhaneyra was remembered as a cruel and capricious woman, but how much of that was true and how much slander? How different would her memory be had she triumphed?
Before Daenerys could sink too deeply into such thoughts, the flap was pushed aside and Robb appeared, bringing a smile to her face. Today had been for him, a gift she was glad to give, and she dearly hoped he liked it. “Not quite Harrenhal, but I think it sends a similar message,” she said, studying his face and finding his expression disappointingly grim.
“It has been a long time since dragons were seen in the Seven Kingdoms. A few more castles may need to be razed for the message to sink in,” Tyrion commented, sipping his wine.
“If we burn every castle in our path there will not be much left of the Seven Kingdoms,” Missandei spoke up, and not for the first time Daenerys was glad to have a voice of restraint she could trust so completely.
“Fortunately, many of the castles that stand in our path are like to find old Targaryen banners to raise as we approach them.” Varys had picked up a cup of wine, though it seemed quite full. “Darry and Harrenhal shall be the main obstacles, I believe.”
And what better castle to have in their path than the one the Conqueror ruined, Daenerys thought. “Even better. A second burning of Harrenhal should leave no doubt in anyone’s mind about what it means to defy me.”
“There is, of course, still the matter of King’s Landing itself,” Varys continued. “Not to mention the Westerlands, and Riverrun also under Lannister control.”
“My brother does not support my sister,” Tyrion reminded them. “He holds the Westerlands.”
“No, but it is his men who hold Darry and Harrenhal,” said Varys. “We must take these castles to enter the Crownlands.”
“Even if Darry and Harrenhal surrender, we would be fools to leave Lannisters unchecked in our rear,” Daenerys said, tapping a finger against her wine cup. “The Kingslayer may rediscover his loyalty to Cersei and attack us from behind.”
“What do you propose? Split our army once we cross the Trident?” Robb asked her.
Daenerys looked down into her wine, holding back a spike of frustration. Why was he asking her? He was the Young Wolf, and this was the land he had fought over with such skill, so everyone said. If he could not even tell her how to wage war here, what use was he except to warm her bed? “This army is not large enough to be split without risking the two halves’ separate destruction,” she said, holding her irritation in check.
“We could solicit the support of my Aunt Lysa in the Vale,” Robb suggested. “Her numbers would greatly strengthen us.” That was better, but still hardly the genius everyone talked about.
“Lysa Arryn sat comfortably in her castle and did nothing to support you the last time you marched south. Why should she behave any differently now?” Tyrion asked. “Even if she does, she is unstable to say the least, and would make for a most unreliable ally.”
“Lysa Arryn’s reliability, or lack of it, is unlikely to trouble us,” said Varys. “My little birds tell me that she’s dead. Petyr Baelish is regent for Lord Robert now, with the reluctant assent of the Lords of the Vale.”
All this Daenerys already knew, for Varys had told her about it some weeks ago. It had not seemed all that important at the time, not when the Vale remained neutral, but seeing the look on Robb’s face she wished she had at least told him. “Dead?” he asked, stunned.
“Indeed. An accidental fall, apparently.” As accidental as Queen Jaehaera’s death, no doubt. “Lord Baelish is a cunning and ambitious man, your grace,” Varys continued. “Even in my line of work, I have never met someone so utterly without scruples.” He turned back to Robb. “Your father trusted him, and Baelish betrayed Lord Stark to his death.”
Daenerys bore little love for Ned Stark, but she would be a fool to ignore his lesson. Still the Vale was there for the taking, and with a new regent who had many enemies this seemed a good time to make a move. “It would take a long time to march all the way to the Eyrie and back, especially to meet with such an untrustworthy man.” she said. “I have no intention of wasting so much time. I will fly.”
When Daenerys departed the next morning, soaring upon Drogon’s back towards the light of the rising sun as it sprung forth from the horizon, Viserion and Rhaegal flew with her. She might have left them behind to protect her army, but the scouts had reported no Lannister army moving to meet them, and there was no power in the skies but her own. Besides, she still wasn’t sure if she could exert that much control over them. She could do more these days than command them to breathe fire, but she was not confident they would stay if told. It didn’t matter overmuch though, she only needed them to go with her, and today three dragons would make an excellent point.
The Mountains of the Moon rose before Daenerys and she urged Drogon higher, up into the clouds. The air bit at her exposed skin, cold and harsh, snatching the tears from her eyes as quickly as they formed. Still Drogon rose, higher and higher, the force of his wingbeats threatening to start an avalanche as rock gave way to snow. And then all at once he surged over the peaks with a keening cry, and the Vale stretched out before Daenerys’ stinging eyes. Steep-sided green valleys went on all the way to the horizon, cut in two by meandering rivers that wended westwards towards the sea. It was a magnificent sight, and she couldn’t help but laugh. This was what it was to be a dragon rider, to be a Targaryen, to be closer to gods than men. There was only one man she could imagine ever sharing this with.
Daenerys and her dragons swept through the valleys, following their westward course. Far below she could see the High Road climbing along the heights, towards her destination. The tale Viserys had told her of Aegon’s Conquest was at the forefront of her mind: Visenya’s flight to the Eyrie, past the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon, up to where the Arryns perched upon a shoulder of the Giant’s Lance. She followed her ancestor’s path, soaring up that great peak whose snows were as white as the castle. Sunlight shone off the ice of a frozen waterfall as she descended, and the weight of Drogon’s landing shook snow off the roofs.
The Eyrie sprang to life, though none of the men who rushed out into the frosty courtyard clutching arms seemed eager to be the first to test Drogon. Daenerys dismounted, sliding down his flank, and at once she missed his warmth. It was bitterly cold here, colder even than it had been outside Winterfell, the chill air stabbing at the exposed skin of her face.
A small, finely-dressed man with grey at his temples and in his goatee appeared from a doorway, swiftly followed by a tall young woman with dark hair and eye-catching beauty. From the way the soldiers parted to let them pass, Daenerys presumed they were in charge. Which meant the man must be Petyr Baelish, though who the young woman was she didn’t know. Baelish’s daughter, perhaps.
Standing in front of Drogon, Daenerys waited for Baelish and the girl to approach her, which they did with understandable reluctance. “Daenerys Stormborn, I take it?” the man said, eyeing the dragon apprehensively.
“Queen Daenerys Stormborn,” Daenerys corrected him with a thin smile. “And you must be Lord Petyr Baelish. Lord of Harrenhal, as I understand?”
“You understand correctly,” said Baelish, steepling his fingers in a practiced pose. It seemed to Daenerys like an attempt to appear calm and collected with a dragon eyeing him. “To what do we owe the honour of this visit, your grace?”
Never had the words ‘your grace’ sounded quite so insincere to Daenerys. “I have need of the Vale’s army. House Arryn has not forgotten its fealty to House Targaryen, I presume.”
“Lord Robert was not born at the time of the Rebellion,” Baelish pointed out. “He swore no oath of fealty to your father.”
“Then he can swear one to me now,” Daenerys replied. “Where is he?”
“He is… indisposed. Unfortunately, the young lord is often unwell.”
“He has not suffered a fall, I trust?” Daenerys smirked.
The corners of Baelish’s eyes crinkled. “Not at all. Merely a disturbance of the stomach.”
“And who is your companion?” Daenerys asked, turning her eyes upon the girl.
Baelish gestured for her to step forwards. “I’m told that when you sailed in to White Harbour you arrived side by side with Robb Stark. No doubt he will be grateful to learn that here in the Vale I have kept his sister safe after spiriting her out of the hands of the Lannisters. May I present Lady Sansa Stark.”
Daenerys looked her over again, and she could see it now, the resemblance. Sansa carried herself like Robb did, looking at her with those same thoughtful blue eyes. “Your grace,” she said, curtsying gracefully.
“Lady Sansa. Robb will be pleased- he will be overjoyed to know that you’re safe and well,” Daenerys smiled, and this time it was warm and true. Already she was looking forward to telling him.
Sansa smiled too, though there was an intense look in her eyes as she took a step closer to Daenerys. “Lord Baelish murdered my aunt Lysa,” she said, her voice taut but firm. “You cannot trust him. You should kill him.”
Baelish moved fast, darting towards the doorway from whence he had come, but Daenerys didn't have to move at all. "Dracarys," she said, as cold as the frozen waterfall, and Drogon breathed fire that melted the courtyard’s frost, enveloping the small figure in a column of orange flames. He screamed, thrashing, the fire’s grisly effect on his flesh mercifully obscured, and in a matter of moments what remained of him collapsed to the steaming flagstones.
Sansa let out a breath, watching Baelish’s remains like she couldn’t believe it had been so easy, like she wanted to be sure he would not conspire to rise to his feet. “He thought I was under his spell,” she said, without turning away. “He thought to use me to win Robb’s favour. I don’t think he expected you to fly here by yourself.”
“Men have been underestimating me for my entire life,” Daenerys replied, and Sansa looked at her with a small smile of understanding. “He’s not the first to meet this fate. I doubt he will be the last.”
“Would you like to come inside?” Sansa asked. “It’s too cold out here.”
Daenerys took Sansa’s arm, and together they strode into the castle as the soldiers watched on, wisely unwilling to dispute the recent transfer of power with Drogon making himself comfortable in the courtyard.
In the Maiden’s Tower, Sansa and Daenerys warmed themselves by a fire and shared tea and lemon cakes. Daenerys spoke of Robb, of her journeys in the east, of the campaign in the North. Sansa spoke of King’s Landing, her escape to the Vale, Lord Arryn and Lord Baelish. “I lied for him,” she said. “I told the lords of the Vale that he was innocent of my aunt’s murder. I think he wanted to believe that I did it out of affection for him.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I didn’t trust that the lords would not simply hand me over to the Lannisters after they killed him.”
“But you trust me?”
Sansa arched an eyebrow as if to say Daenerys was getting ahead of herself. “You and the Lannisters can’t both rule. And Littlefinger- Lord Baelish told me about Robb. I’m… looking forward to seeing him again,” she smiled, seeming for a moment very much a young girl.
“He never gave up on you.”
“Giving up has never been his strong suit.”
No, it hasn’t, Daenerys thought with a smile. “I would offer to bring you back with me on dragonback to see him, but I’m not sure how well my dragons will take another rider.”
“I wouldn’t go anyway. Matters need to be settled here.”
For some reason, Daenerys had thought of Robb’s sisters as delicate little girls, but it was clear to her now that Sansa had steel beneath her silk. “You intend to take Lord Baelish’s place?”
Sansa nodded. “Lord Robin is very attached to me. He will do as I ask, and the lords of the Vale will do as he commands.”
“Then what will he command?”
“That they muster their armies at the Bloody Gate, and march to join you, as they should have marched to join Robb.” Sansa’s smile was wolfish. “I think I will enjoy having a Queen on the Iron Throne. How does Robb feel about it?”
That was an excellent question, and one Daenerys wasn’t sure she knew the answer to. To be sure, Robb had been nothing but a loyal servant since the moment she demanded his submission. But it must chafe for a man who had once been a king, to bend the knee to a woman. “He… I think he’s just glad to be on the right side of the Narrow Sea again.” She might have mentioned his affection for her, but somehow she doubted Sansa wanted to know how much of her brother’s time was spent with his tongue in Daenerys’ cunt, not when they had only just met.
“Many lords will not feel the same way. They will oppose you because you are a woman,” Sansa said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t see that they have much of a choice. The Tyrells and Martells are advancing a queen of their own, and no-one seems to doubt that it is Cersei and not Tommen who rules in King’s Landing.”
Sansa smiled thinly. “Myrcella is as much a puppet as Tommen. Doran Martell and Willas Tyrell are easier for men to follow than either Cersei or you.”
“But the Vale will follow you?”
“The Vale will follow Robert Arryn. And he will do what I tell him.”
Daenerys tapped a finger on the arm of her chair. It rankled to hear these things, but Sansa was only being honest. Men did not like women in power, she had learned that a dozen times over, all across Essos. Even now, the Northerners who had followed her south did so for Robb’s sake, not hers. And it seemed the Valemen would be much the same. What would happen if Robert Arryn proved less pliant than Sansa thought? Or some other lord who had bent the knee decided he did not like serving a queen? Once for blood and once for gold and once for love. Betrayal ever lurked, and even her dragons would not protect her from a knife in the dark. More than ever it seemed necessary to demonstrate her power. To make an example. The Twins had been a start, but Tyrion had been right. More castles would have to burn. Let the lords of the Seven Kingdoms know that their choice was not between a queen or a king, but a queen or the flames.
The realm’s castles were not going anywhere though, and Daenerys was not going to rush on their account. For two days she remained at the Eyrie with Sansa, planning the details. The High Road came down out of the Mountains of the Moon to meet the kingsroad just north of the Trident, so that was where the Vale’s army would join with Daenerys’ coming down from the north. Lord Yohn Royce would lead them. Daenerys had heard the name; Varys had named him a friend to House Stark. From what little she knew, he seemed a good choice.
The Lord of the Vale, on the other hand, concerned Daenerys from the moment she was introduced to him. Sallow and spindly, he behaved like a boy half his age. At least he was as devoted to Sansa as she had said – a small mercy, but a welcome one. Daenerys felt a sort of kinship with Sansa, a feeling that grew the more she spoke of her past, of her captivity in King’s Landing and her time hidden away here at the Eyrie by Lord Baelish. She imaged they had both been much the same once, timid little girls bartered away like things, and both of them had grown up and learned how to bite. For once she did not begrudge Robb his family.
When the time came for Daenerys to depart, Sansa saw her off. In the courtyard, with Drogon looming over them, Daenerys took Sansa’s hands in her own. “I’m sorry to go so soon, but with luck it will not be so very long before we are all together. You, Robb, and I,” she said with a smile.
“Tell Robb I can’t wait to see him again,” Sansa replied with a smile of her own. “And tell him winter is coming.”
“I will,” Daenerys nodded. Sansa’s hands slipped from hers as she turned to mount Drogon, and her stomach lurched inside her as he surged into the air. Sansa and the other figures in the courtyard dropped away below her, rapidly becoming no more than dots and then not even that as Daenerys rose into the cold sky.
The flight back to the west was as uncomfortably chilly as the flight eastward had been, and Daenerys was grateful when she descended from the Mountains of the Moon towards the kingsroad. Her army was not hard to locate from the air, and she swooped down, circling in broad loops lower and lower until Drogon landed with an impact that shook the tents. She made her way past knights and men-at-arms who bowed their heads, interested in little but the warmth of her own pavilion. Missandei was there waiting for her with the braziers already lit, and Daenerys eagerly accepted a cup of mulled wine. Even with gloves on her fingers were cold, and she held the warm cup between both hands, the warm wine filling her as she drank.
The sound of the tent flap opening made Daenerys turn, and the sight of Robb made her smile, though there was a grimness to him that was new and fresh. Still, the way he seemed to glow in her presence made her forget every doubt she had about him in an instant, even before he went to his knee, holding out a bronze crown set with iron spikes. “A gift for you, your grace,” he said. “It is yours to do with as you wish, as am I.”
Daenerys took the crown, turning it over in her hands. It was finely made, but harsh and cold. Even had Robb not described his crown to her before, she would have recognised it for what it was. A fitting crown for the King of Winter. And yet not at all right for the handsome young man with curly auburn hair who was looking up at her with those bright blue eyes. She tossed the crown aside, fixing Robb with her gaze. “I think I have a use for you tonight,” she grinned.