#daenerys details

[deadthncool]

╴𝖨 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗶𝗻𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲. ◟気;

𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 it as yours.

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗴 if you save.

[austyrinne]

Daenerys unleashing fire made flesh upon her whole world, forever changing history sure sounds similar to how Pandora opened her labyrinth and unleashed evil.

[7seasofem]

dany has freckles from her frequent sunburns while in the red waste its canon bc i said so

[beneaththeshadows]

I made this last year while trying to figure out how to shade. I had picked 3 chapters to sketch something about them, either a scene or something else, and for Dany V AGOT, I couldn't, for the sake of me, bring myself to do something I was satisfied with, so I decided to do something more on the "mystical" side of things and this was the result

[jon-sedai]

I have a few jumbled thoughts about the ending of the Long Night, especially as it would relate to the whole idea of “the dragon has three heads”. The Long Night represents a disruption in a larger, cyclical framework—a period where imbalance overtakes the natural order. And within this context, I see each ‘head’ of the three-headed dragon as uniquely responsible for restoring balance and bringing the world back into harmony. Each ‘head’ embodies a distinct facet of restoring balance to the world, yet they work together, either in tandem or sequentially, to set things right once more. So I’ve been trying to tie together some thoughts I have regarding what each being in this triumvirate is uniquely suited to do. Because I personally don’t think any one person will be responsible for being the hero, as that just seems so antithetical to this series; and I also think the Long Night is just way too multifaceted to be ended by a singular action or person. 

This is what we know about the Long Night:

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Old Nan said quietly, “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.” “You mean the Others,” Bran said querulously. “The Others,” Old Nan agreed. “Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation, and kings shivered and died in their castles even as the swineherds in their hovels. Women smothered their children rather than see them starve, and cried, and felt their tears freeze on their cheeks.” Her voice and her needles fell silent, and she glanced up at Bran with pale, filmy eyes and asked, “So, child. This is the sort of story you like?” “Well,” Bran said reluctantly, “yes, only …” Old Nan nodded. “In that darkness, the Others came for the first time,” she said as her needles went click click click. “They were cold things, dead things, that hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every creature with hot blood in its veins. They swept over holdfasts and cities and kingdoms, felled heroes and armies by the score, riding their pale dead horses and leading hosts of the slain. All the swords of men could not stay their advance, and even maidens and suckling babes found no pity in them. They hunted the maids through frozen forests, and fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children.” (Bran IV, AGoT)

We focus so heavily on the Others—understandably so—that we often overlook some crucial details. The Others don’t exist in isolation. They arrive in the wake of an extreme winter, which enables their existence for they are “demons made of snow and ice and cold” (Samwell V, ASoS). And with the sun and its heat gone, they move within the darkness. So confronting the Others in battle, in and of itself, does not end the Long Night. The true struggle lies in addressing the elements that allow them to exist in the first place. To fully defeat the Others, our heroes must first restore light and the balance of the seasons.

No single character in this series has the ability to achieve this on their own. Even the key magical protagonists are only equipped to address certain aspects of the conflict. That’s why the dragon must have three heads, each embodying a crucial responsibility: one to restore the natural cycle and end the long winter, another uniquely positioned as the antithesis to the Others, and a third tasked with confronting darkness by bringing light back into the world.

By now, you can see where I’m heading with this, right? I believe the three heads are Bran, who represents summer and stands as the antithesis to winter; Daenerys, whose dragons are the direct counter to the Others; and Jon, who occupies a more complex role as both the one who harnesses light and embodies it. Beyond this, each of these characters has been positioned as a chosen one, with distinct yet mirrored magical destinies that set them apart from the other POV characters.

I’m reminded of a quote from Arya’s POV in Dance:

One time, the girl remembered, the Sailor’s Wife had walked her rounds with her and told her tales of the city’s stranger gods. “That is the house of the Great Shepherd. Three-headed Trios has that tower with three turrets. The first head devours the dying, and the reborn emerge from the third. I don’t know what the middle head’s supposed to do….”

While I have more detailed thoughts on this passage, for now, I believe Daenerys represents the first head, Bran the third, and Jon the middle. Each head is tasked with a unique responsibility—one that is specific to them, that the others cannot fulfill. To end the Long Night, the three heads work together, but each plays a distinct part. There is some overlap, particularly with the middle head, who might serve as the balance between the extremes, yet each figure is positioned to occupy a particular space within this framework.

So I want to lay my thoughts here and see if we can get some wider discussion 👀 

The first aspect of the Long Night - and perhaps the most important if we’re thinking of what makes it happen in the first place - is the long winter that precedes it.

Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland…  (Bran III, AGoT)

This winter provides the very elements that sustain the Others: snow and ice. It’s this aspect that I believe extends humanity’s struggle during the Long Night. With an almost endless supply of ice and snow, can our heroes truly defeat the Others through direct combat alone? I really don’t think so. The abundance of snow, accompanied by a persistent cold, suggests that new Others can continuously be ‘created’. While this is largely speculative given how little we know about them, I find it compelling that the Others seem to materialize out of the darkness itself (see Prologue, AGoT). And when Sam kills the Other in Storm, it simply dissolves…

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too.

And that might not mean much in and of itself, but I’m inclined to think of the ADWD prologue:

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air.

The Other and the human skinchanger dissolving after “death” is so fascinating. And it raises many questions. Death wasn’t the end for Varamyr as his spirit went into his wolf. So is that the same with the Other who also dissolved into white air? As long as magic and suitable conditions (i.e., winter and all its elements) exist, then the Others can never truly die and thus could take on another form?

If that’s the case, then winter itself must be addressed to cut off the Others’ vital resources—along with the magic that sustains them, though we’ll get to that later. And who better to combat winter if not Bran Stark of “Winter-fell”?

Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. […] Bran touched his forehead, between his eyes. The place where the crow had pecked him was still burning, but there was nothing there, no blood, no wound. He felt weak and dizzy. He tried to get out of bed, but nothing happened. And then there was movement beside the bed, and something landed lightly on his legs. He felt nothing. A pair of yellow eyes looked into his own, shining like the sun. The window was open and it was cold in the room, but the warmth that came off the wolf enfolded him like a hot bath. His pup, Bran realized … or was it? He was so big now. He reached out to pet him, his hand trembling like a leaf. When his brother Robb burst into the room, breathless from his dash up the tower steps, the direwolf was licking Bran’s face. Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

Bran’s wolf, a reflection of his own identity, only receives his name after Bran glimpses his magical destiny. With winter’s horrors looming, Bran must become the summer that rises to challenge it.

As the Prince of Winterfell, Bran’s title and inheritance—rooted in the Stark legacy from the first Long Night and Bran the Builder—signify a dominance over winter. He is the summer prince, heir to the place where “winter fell, defeated”.

“And who is Summer?” Jojen prompted. “My direwolf.” He smiled. “Prince of the green.”

Prince. The man-sound came into his head suddenly, yet he could feel the rightness of it. Prince of the green, prince of the wolfswood. He was strong and swift and fierce, and all that lived in the good green world went in fear of him. (Bran I, ASoS)

Because winter brings death to the land, summer is needed to restore warmth, vitality, and breathe life back into the world. And that’s why Bran’s identity not just as the “prince of the green”, but as the last of the greenseers (of course once Bloodraven kicks the bucket) puts him in a unique position during the Long Night. 

He will be the one to end the winter.

I’m still piecing together what this might ultimately look like, as we need more information about greenseeing and how Bran may fully harness it. However, from what we do know, it seems greenseeing is extends to earth magic—shaping and manipulating the natural world, as seen with events like the Hammer of the Waters. Additionally, greenseers can perceive past, present, and future, which essentially aligns with the passage of time. And isn’t that what the cyclical nature of the seasons embodies? Time flows, and with it come physical changes in the land: winter brings barrenness, spring rebirth, and summer growth. Humanity needs someone who understands this cycle and possesses the power to influence the earth itself.

Since Bran has already glimpsed the heart of winter, it’s possible he will find himself returning there, perhaps retracing the steps of the last hero. Additionally, the Isle of Faces and the God’s Eye, rich with weirwoods and sacred significance, seem like fitting locations for him to play a pivotal role in restoring balance; especially when we consider his role as a Fisher King/Grail figure who is linked with the renewal of once barren land. Whether Bran has to dig deep into the earth’s roots or manipulate the flow of time itself, the Long Night cannot end without his dominance over winter.

However, while restoring the balance of the seasons is crucial, neutralizing the immediate threat posed by the Others and their thralls is extremely important- and that’s where Dany comes in!

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper’s rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. Some small part of her knew that she was dreaming, but another part exulted. This is how it was meant to be. (Dany III, ASoS)

I’ve argued before that, of our three chosen ones, Dany is the best suited to take on the role of military commander—and I don’t think that’s a far-fetched claim. She has one of the cleanest and most impressive military records in the main series, proving herself a formidable tactician. Not to mention, she commands the dragons—living embodiments of fire—who have been positioned as the direct counter to the Others, creatures of ice. While the Others bring cold and death, Dany and her dragons are fire made flesh, a force of life and renewal.

There are other narrative arguments for why Dany’s role is going to be so heavily militaristic. 

Until one day Prince Rhaegar found something in his scrolls that changed him. No one knows what it might have been, only that the boy suddenly appeared early one morning in the yard as the knights were donning their steel. He walked up to Ser Willem Darry, the master-at-arms, and said, ‘I will require sword and armor. It seems I must be a warrior.’” (Dany I, ASoS)

“No one ever looked for a girl,” he said. “It was a prince that was promised, not a princess. Rhaegar, I thought … the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. What fools we were, who thought ourselves so wise! The error crept in from the translation. Dragons are neither male nor female, Barth saw the truth of that, but now one and now the other, as changeable as flame. The language misled us all for a thousand years. Daenerys is the one, born amidst salt and smoke. The dragons prove it.” (Samwell IV, AFFC)

“Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor! The Warrior of Light, the Son of Fire! Come forth […]” (Davos I, ACoK)

Azor Ahai is said to be a warrior, and while Dany doesn’t fit the traditional image of what that means, she is still an active participant in warfare. Moreover, one of the central aspects of her character is her role as an agent of freedom:

“…this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all a rescuer.” (Tyrion VI, ADWD)

She has spent much of her arc directly combating slavery which might seem unrelated, but the Others come with their own type of bondage in their creations of undead. The slavery of the Others is not just physical, but spiritual, and Dany’s role in battling them aligns with her fight for freedom. She isn’t suited to combat winter itself, as Bran is, but her strength lies in physical battle, which Bran is not. To put it another way: if Bran is Frodo journeying into the depths of Mordor, Dany is Aragorn, turning Sauron’s eye with her dragons and leading the fight to defeat his armies.

But I don’t think her role ends there. 

The Others are not dead. They are strange, beautiful… think, oh… the Sidhe made of ice, something like that… a different sort of life… inhuman, elegant, dangerous. SSM

I’ve already mentioned that beyond the elements of winter—snow, ice, and cold—the Others are sustained by magic. Building on the idea of the Other dissolving into mist, it’s possible that magic is what binds these beings together: magic fuses a consciousness with snow and ice into a corporeal entity. So, in addition to battling them physically, our heroes—and Dany in particular—may have to confront this magic that gives the Others their form and power.

“Half a year gone, that man could scarcely wake fire from dragonglass. He had some small skill with powders and wildfire, sufficient to entrance a crowd while his cutpurses did their work. He could walk across hot coals and make burning roses bloom in the air, but he could no more aspire to climb the fiery ladder than a common fisherman could hope to catch a kraken in his nets.” Dany looked uneasily at where the ladder had stood. Even the smoke was gone now, and the crowd was breaking up, each man going about his business. In a moment more than a few would find their purses flat and empty. “And now?” “And now his powers grow, Khaleesi. And you are the cause of it.” “Me?” She laughed. “How could that be?” The woman stepped closer and lay two fingers on Dany’s wrist. “You are the Mother of Dragons, are you not?” (Dany III, ACoK)

The birth of Dany’s dragons seems to have strengthened fire magic, tying her deeply to the very fabric of magic itself. The AGoT bookend suggests that the Others’ ice magic and the dragons’ fire magic may be connected, part of a larger magical ecosystem, or perhaps opposing forces that coexist on opposite ends of the spectrum. Ice and fire, death and life—both seem bound by the same mystical forces. Given Dany’s connection to magic and the fact that the reemergence of her dragons parallels the resurgence of the Others, she seems best suited to combat the magic that enables the Others to take form—serving as an inverse to her bringing dragons to life. And this underscores her dual role as both a destroyer and creator of life

The specifics on Dany’s confrontation with the Others and the magic that creates them remains unclear. She could venture to the heart of winter/the Lands of Always Winter and face the source of their power, creating narrative symmetry between the dragons of the Lands of the Long Summer and the creatures from the Lands of Always Winter. Alternatively, she might find herself in the Isle of Faces if her dream of fighting the Others at the Trident is fulfilled literally. The Isle, with its rich magical ecosystem, would be a fitting place for such a climax.

Bran, too, seems destined to go to the Isle of Faces (I’m a firm ‘Bran, King at the Gods Eye’ truther). This could be where their paths cross and their roles intersect. Bran, with his deep connection to nature and time, might provide Dany with guidance on how to engage with magic and influence its effects on the world. With Bran’s knowledge and Dany’s firepower, she could then deliver the final blow. While much of this remains speculative, what is clear is that their roles complement each other.

And that leaves Jon, the “light bringer”.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night. “Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,” they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.” (Jon VI, AGoT)

It’s important to see Jon’s primary function as an extension of his current role. He is a man who watches for the night—a sentinel standing against the encroaching darkness. This role is deeply embedded in his identity, and it’s fascinating to see how it manifests in his prophetic dreams.

It’s black inside, and I can see the steps spiraling down. Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don't want to. I'm afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it's not them I'm afraid of. I scream that I'm not a Stark, that this isn't my place, but it's no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down, feeling the walls as I descend, with no torch to light the way. It gets darker and darker, until I want to scream." He stopped, frowning, embarrassed. "That's when I always wake." (Jon IV,AGoT)

Last night he had dreamed the Winterfell dream again. He was wandering the empty castle, searching for his father, descending into the crypts. Only this time the dream had gone further than before. In the dark he'd heard the scrape of stone on stone. When he turned he saw that the vaults were opening, one after the other. As the dead kings came stumbling from their cold black graves, Jon had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. (Jon VII, AGoT)

The Winterfell crypt dreams contain many intriguing elements, but I’ll focus primarily on two key motifs: death and darkness.

Jon is the most natural fit for the middle head of the dragon because he exists at the intersection of extremes: light and darkness, destruction and renewal, death and life.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGoT)

While Bran is connected to summer and warmth through his magical familiar, Jon possesses a unique sensitivity to death, embodied by his bond with Ghost.

He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.  Don't be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.  (Jon VII, ACoK)

Furthermore, Jon’s fate at the end of ADWD implies that through his death and eventual rebirth, he becomes a ghost in his own right—caught between life and death, existing yet not fully alive. This intertwines with his connection to darkness, as Jon straddles the boundary between light and darkness: a shadow.

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. (Jon VII, ACoK)

“I can show you.” Melisandre draped one slender arm over Ghost, and the direwolf licked her face. “The Lord of Light in his wisdom made us male and female, two parts of a greater whole. In our joining there is power. Power to make life. Power to make light. Power to cast shadows.” “Shadows.” The world seemed darker when he said it. “Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.” Jon glanced over his shoulder. The shadow was there, just as she had said, etched in moonlight against the Wall. (Jon VI, ADWD)

Shadows, like ghosts, are echoes of something once tangible. They arise from obstructed light, existing in a realm that is neither completely dark nor wholly bright, hovering between presence and absence. They highlight where light is absent. But shadows also exist only in the presence of light, revealing the delicate boundary between illumination and the lack thereof. 

So building on that idea, it’s significant that Jon’s frequent journeys into the Stark underworld, where death and darkness prevail, take a pivotal turn in ASoS when he becomes vividly aware of light fading in real time.

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness. "Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark…

This is particularly noteworthy because of a similar, parallel dreams:

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time . . . until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead. (Theon V, ACoK)

The fires that ran along the blade were guttering out, and Jaime remembered what Cersei had said. No. Terror closed a hand about his throat. Then his sword went dark, and only Brienne’s burned, as the ghosts came rushing in. (Jaime VI, ASoS)

The ASoS crypt dream runs parallel to Theon’s ACoK dream and Jaime’s ASoS dream, with a common element: the presence of death and growing darkness.

While the crypts are inherently dark, Jon perceives when other sources of light are extinguished—true to his role in the Night’s Watch, which is to keep vigil against encroaching darkness. This ability to sense the fading light underscores his ghostly nature, where he reflects light while simultaneously existing in a state of absence. It also highlights his role as a shadow, existing in the blending of light and darkness. As both a shadow and a ghost, he can navigate these dual states, acting within the world’s transitions between day and night.

Which brings us to what I consider a continuation of Jon VII; while that chapter is marked by a lack of light, this next chapter is characterized by an abundance of it:

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. ‘Snow,’ an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall, he sent them down to die again. He slew a greybeard, a beardless boy, a giant, a gaunt man with filed teeth, and a girl with thick red hair. Too late he recognized Ygritte. She was gone as quick as she’d appeared. The world dissolved into a red mist. (Jon XII, ADWD)

At some point between these two dreams, Jon found (or even created) light and he wields it as a weapon. And it’s clear that Jon’s sword in this dream is the actual manifestation Azor Ahai’s Lightbringer:

“In ancient books of Asshai it is written that there will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.” (Davos I, ACoK)

Lightbringer has two major requirements: to give off heat and to illuminate. Jon’s sword does both!

We’ve seen a number Lightbringer-esque weapons (e.g., Beric’s and Thoros’), but Stannis Baratheon’s sword is the most intriguing proxy.

Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos’s shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. “Ser Davos of House Seaworth,” the king said, “are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?” (Davos IV, ASoS)

While Stannis’ sword is visually dazzling, it is, in essence, a well-made fake. Its bright glow meets one of the two requirements for “light-bringer”, yet its impressive variety of hues with no actual heat serve as a clue that it is not the true sword of heroes. When the world cloaked in darkness, a weapon that shines as brightly as the sun is undoubtedly a powerful symbol. And Stannis’ sword is bright….

….but it’s almost too bright. His sword emits the wrong kind of light—one that is all glamor with little substance. This great conflict is referred to as the “war for the dawn”. So what humanity needs is a reminder of the dawn itself:

As a red dawn broke in the east, Grey Wind began to howl again. (Catelyn X, AGoT)

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. (Catelyn IX, AGoT)

Dawn and the sun are often associated with red hues in the text, a color heavily tied to fire (e.g., House Targaryen and R’hllor). Stannis’ sword gives off light, but it lacks the essence of true warmth. In contrast, Jon’s sword is the real Lightbringer: it is hot enough to burn against the cold and it radiates the actual red hues of dawn, thus illuminating the world around it.

Jon’s role as the archetypal fantasy protagonist necessitates a magic sword—Lightbringer will be his Excalibur; his Anduril. But more than just being a weapon, his Lightbringer symbolizes the transition from darkness to light. Dawn, a moment of transformation, begins with deep red hues that retain the shadows of night before blooming into the full brightness of the sun. Like the early dawn, Jon straddles the line between night and day, existing between life and death, darkness and light. As the middle dragon head, he embodies balance.

I’m not really sure how that plays out in the endgame; hell, I still can’t figure out how Jon will “forge” Lightbringer in the first place. But he has to end up somewhere for his arc to reach its magical climax. I’ve speculated that Bran and Dany might find themselves at the Isle of Faces or the heart of winter. The latter is a strong possibility for Jon, especially if he too recreates the last hero’s journey; not to mention his connections to snow and winter. But he could also return to the Wall, a mighty structure that symbolizes the boundary between life and death. The Wall is also imbued with ancient magic that radiates outward (e.g., strengthening Mel’s magic and prolonging Maester Aemon’s life). Therefore, it could serve as the ideal location for Jon to reignite and wield the light that has long been hidden.

Though Bran, Jon, and Dany each have distinct roles in restoring balance, their actions are deeply intertwined, with shared themes across their arcs. Jon and Bran connect through their existence in darkness, as seen in their ACoK dreams. All three share connections to death: Bran inhabits the realm of the dead (Mel I, ADWD; Jon’s ACoK wolfdream), Jon embodies a ghost-like nature that straddles life and death, and Dany is called the “bride of fire, daughter of death”. Additionally, Jon and Bran are linked to winter, and both Jon and Dany share the legacy of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, with dragon breath also echoing the red hues of dawn. Together, they are not just separate forces but three heads of the same dragon, working in concert to ensure that the Long Night ends and the cycle of life and death continues.

TL;DR:

The dragon has three heads, each with a unique role in maintaining the cycle of balance, despite their overlaps in common themes. Bran, the Prince of Winterfell, embodies summer and inherits the legacy of the kings of winter, making him the most suited to confront the Long Night’s origin: winter itself. The Long Night cannot end without Bran’s triumph, as winter represents death while summer signifies new life. Dany, linked to the ebb and flow of magic and the direct antithesis of the Others, is best positioned to engage them in battle and counteract the ice magic that enables their existence. As the perfect manifestation of fire magic, she serves as a powerful weapon, embodying the theme of destruction by being “breaker of chains”. Meanwhile, Jon straddles the boundaries of light and dark, life and death, destruction and creation. His unique position allows him to navigate these extremes, bringing forth the lost light while holding back the consuming darkness. As the embodiment of balance—dead yet alive, icy yet fiery—he ensures the proper equilibrium between these forces.

Dragons, symbols of life, fire, and summer, starkly contrast with the cold death represented by winter and its children. Daenerys, as the Mother of Dragons, embodies the nurturing aspect of life, actively bringing forth new existence by counteracting suspended states of life (e.g., awakening dragon eggs and freeing slaves). Bran, representing youthful vitality, symbolizes young life that is both born and maturing. Jon occupies a unique position in the middle; he is like spring, a new life emerging from darkness, akin to an awakened dragon—life once petrified but now revitalized. Together, these three form a multifaceted dragon that embodies various dimensions of life, each contributing uniquely to the fight against the Long Night.

[lvlynessy]

original art of emilia clarke

[thaliajoy-blog]

Working on some book 1 designs & that includes Irri & Jhiqui and I'm reminded of what a shame it is they're not more developped in the books unless GRRM has some plans for them in the future cause it's clear there are interesting stuff that could go with Daenerys' arc and be more than background stuff - both of them seem to struggle with their status & are sometimes weirdly detached from Daenerys' goals & values - Irri has sex with Dany seemingly mainly out of duty, probably because she's been taught to give sexual pleasure to those who own her, and it's a fucked up mindset which could be a bigger point of tension in Dany's part of the book as it reflects on their relationships ; Jhiqui calls Missandei Daenerys' "slave" in book 5, suggesting Dany's openly anti-slavery policy is somehow going over her head, which means she might still see herself as her slave (probably same with Irri...). Again this implies that they're not as close as we think and that their relationship is a bit more formal & less cutesy than usually considered by the fandom. Their journey towards true freedom is happening in the background and they're not even halfway through it apparently.

[zoecsarts]

‘khaleesi’. details

[thekimspoblog]

I've been sort of circling this point for a while now. But given how many remakes of public domain stories Hollywood has been putting out recently, I think it's kind of weird we haven't gotten any Animal Farm trailers yet.

Revolutions are hard, and ugly, and even if you win it's an uphill battle not repeating the mistakes of the previous regime. These are themes which are incredibly relevant right now, and yet most of the movies that have come out in the past 5 years discuss the overthrow of tyrants in very black-and-white terms, if at all.

I think what's important to keep in mind is that the farm WASN'T doomed from the start. That while the story has a downer ending, the idea that revolution is a crapshoot is a thought-terminating cliché and misunderstands the point of the book. There were times where it seemed like everything could have worked out for the better... then Snowball was chased off by Napoleon, and the focus shifted from citizen welfare to competing in the human economy, and a caste system began to reemerge. These were tangible missteps which give the reader a deeper appreciation for how hard it is to establish a true democracy. We study dystopias to think critically about or imaginings of utopia, not to simply bum ourselves out.

[jeynepoolelovebot]

[ID: Detailed fanart of Daenerys Targaryen from A Song of Ice and Fire. She is looking slightly off to the side, and is wearing a cream coloured sleeveless shirt with brown strips on the collar and shoulder ends. Over her stomach is darker cream colored wrap, with a gold ornament with little gold coins dangling on strings, and red and purple inlaid gems. Over her hips is a purple skirt tied with a gold ribbon. Over one of her shoulders is a red shawl with gold stripes, and she is also wearing a white dragon bracelet, a gold bracelet with purple inlaid gems, a gold armband with little gold coins dangling on strings, and a gold necklace with gold, purple, and red gems hanging from it.

Dany is wearing a gold crown with a swirling black design on the sides, as well as inlaid red and black gems. Hanging from the sides of the crown are two round charms, with a gold four-pointed star and red and black stones. The charms are hanging from gold strands, and they have little black stones hanging from them, that are also attached by gold strands. The front of the crown has three little dragon heads on it, one red, one black, and one white. She also has a gold nose ring in. Her hair is unbound and falls to just above her chest.

Behind Dany is her dragon Drogon. He is looking straight ahead, and has steam coming out of his nose and mouth. She has her hand on his chin. The background is light brown, with an arch on the top. On the two corners beside the arch are purple triangles with green plants and a white circle with red and pink designs in it. End ID]

Daenerys by Zacckiell on Twitter. Here's the artist's ko-fi.

[thesimline]

Following on from the simple modesty of the 1300s, female hair in the 1400s became a lot more elaborate thanks to the addition of hair pieces, ribbon and other decorations. Braided styles evolved into very detailed and decorative concoctions. Styles also became more flowy and romantic, often with curls framing the face. CC links under the cut.

You can find more of my historical content here:

1300s ✺ 1400s ✺ 1500s ✺ 1600s ✺ 1700s

1 - Larsa by Daylife Sims

2 - Beatrice by Simstrouble

3 - Shiro by Sim Lotus

4 - Camellia by Clumsy Alien

5 - Daenerys by Puderosims

6 - Hoppie by Simstrouble

7 - Emma by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

8 - Ye Medieval Dragon Queen by Nilyn (TSR)

9 - Leonarda by Melancholy Maiden

10 - Cecilia by Buzzard's Bits and Bobs

11 - Braid Snood by Melancholy Maiden

12 - Ye Medieval Braided Updo by Daisy Sims (TSR)

13 - Masquerade by Tekri

14 - Pai Chan Braids by FYSims

15 - Hekate by Naunakht

16 - Zelda by Simandy

17 - Ye Medieval Margot by Shimydim (TSR)

18 - Sophia by G

19 - Serea Hair V1 by Redhead Sims

20 - Mari by Wasteland Whisperer

21 - Daenerys by Birksches

22 - Lucia by Melancholy Maiden

23 - TSM Hair for TS4 by S3 Sage

24 - Aspen by Oydis

25 - Braid Dream by Redhead Sims

26 - Double Braid by Wasteland Whisperer

27 - Pearls Set by Daylife Sims

28 - Mhysa by Quirky Introvert

29 - Ye Medieval Nezetta by Leah Lillith (TSR)

30 - Rapunzel by Tekri

With thanks to some amazing creators: @daylifesims @simstrouble @simlotus @clumsyalienn @puderosasims @buzzardly28 @tekri @simandy @redheadsims-cc @wastelandwhisperer @oydis @qicc

[rhaegars-cervix]

the gender theme is very present in ASOIAF, especially comments on the oppression of women in a patriarchal society and the constricting gender roles present in the world GRRM crafted. many characters embody this commentary, especially ones like sam tarly and brienne (you should read this essay if you haven't already, it's inspired many of the points i'll talk about ahead). i'm making a case that this is also done subtly with rhaegar targaryen, which lends very easily to a genderqueer, specifically transfeminine, reading of the character.

of course we have to piece things other characters tell us secondhand about rhaegar together, and even these accounts are not entirely trustworthy for he was a very private person. people didn't know him, not even his closest friends.

(asos, daenerys i)

rhaegar excelled in swordplay, but it's known this wasn't his true joy; this was the expectation the world had thrust upon him as the heir to the throne and the standard he tries to uphold since he read something in a book as a child, allegedly a prophecy. he actually loved his harp over his lance, a trait regarded in universe as feminine.

(asos, daenerys i)

(asos, daenerys iv)

(agot, catelyn v)

this not only paints rhaegar in a gender non-conforming light, but it shows how he puts the will of the prophecy above his own, becoming something he's not, a warrior, to fit the archetype. to be the prince of the prophecy means you must be a man:

(affc, samwell iv)

this changes for a while after rhaegar meets lyanna stark, a lady who allegedly disguised herself as a knight, bent on escaping the expectations society has of her. all of this could be a post by itself, but to me it's clear why rhaegar would get so fixated on her of all people.

at last, a small detail: the closest you could ever get to understanding rhaegar is by his songs. it's said even when he's singing of, say, a dead family member who ran away for love dancing with her ghosts in a hall of kings, it sounds like he's singing about himself, but with female pronouns. which could mean nothing.

(asos, daenerys iv)

(asos, epilogue)

[k4marina]

— ix. The Dragon and the Wolf || Heart of the Dragon

synopsis: finally, the day of the long awaited meeting is here. while everyone prepares for the face off, you're left the wonder if things will play out like they have before or not.

warning: cersei lannister, explicit language, mentions of gore and rape (nothing too graphic), game of thrones cannon themes and violence

all dialogue in italics is Valyrian

series masterlist || next part

word count 9.8k

game of thrones x fem!modern!reader

[gif found on Pinterest]

The sun had barely broken the horizon when I was woken up. Today was the day we were meeting Cersei and presenting her with the dead. For the last few days there’d been a heavy weight on the castle as everyone got ready, deep in their own thoughts about what would happen, the good, the bad, and the worst. 

It was an almost unspoken rule to even talk about what Cersei’s reaction would be. Would she agree or was this a trap and she’d been planning to kill us all right there? The tension was almost palpable.

Surprisingly, my bath was lavishly prepared by the maids. I almost told them to go empty the bathwater out and fill it with regular water, but instead I was chastised and ushered into the hot water with essential oils and rose petals mixed in. 

When the fuck did we have lavender oil and rose petals?

“You’re going to go meet the would-be queen, you have to put her in her place so you must look your best,” one of the maids spoke as she dunked the water over my head. The other two maids eagerly nodded, the both of them adding in their own remarks. 

“Everything must be perfect. You cannot appear to be losing sleep over her and her plotting.” 

“But I’m not?” I gave a perplexed look at them. 

“Exactly!”

After the bath they skillfully braided my hair, brading the top and letting the rest flow down my back in loose curls with two pieces of hair framing my face. Instead of my typical dark clothes I wore a long burgundy coat with a fitted bodice and leather detailing with a flared out waistline. My shoulders were covered in textured leather pauldrons and my forearms were covered in matching leather braces. The coat was secured at the waist with a belt and my hands were covered in leather gloves with the fingertips cut off. My dark wool pants were stuffed into knee high brown leather boots and a chain that slightly resembled Daenerys’ was pinned from one of my shoulders and across my chest with a small dragon pin sat high on my other shoulder.

I glanced at myself in the mirror, nodding in approval when there was a knock. The doors opened to Daenerys walking in and holding something long wrapped in a black cloth. The servants quietly left the two of us, closing the door shut behind them.

“How did you sleep?” She asks. 

“Alright.” I replied. “Had some tea the night before. You?”

“I slept a few hours, but it appears that I should have done as you did.” 

I walked over to the armor stand. “Are you ready to finally meet Cersei?” I grabbed the belt and my weapons and then turned back to her. “It’s been a long time coming after all.”

“I’m nervous.” She watches as I place my dagger in its holster by my thigh. “I can’t believe the fate of the world relies on Cersei Lannister.” 

I nodded, reaching for my belt. “Crazy times we’re’a livin’ in.” 

She doesn’t reply, placing her hand atop of mine when I go to hook my sword. 

“Ever since you brought it back I’ve been thinking about what I should do with it.” Carefully, she unwraps the thing in her hands. “And I realize, after everything, I want you to have it.” 

She pulls out Dark Sister and moves my hand away from my sword and to the Valyrian blade, securing my fingers around it. 

“Daenerys.” My eyes flicked between her and the sword. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am.” She squeezed hand. “And I’m certain that the only person in this world that deserves to wield it is you.” 

I took in a breath, shakily exhaling. I already took a gamble going to that cave in the first place, but this was something I’d never imagined. Slowly, I pulled the blade out of its scabbard, seeing my reflection in the Valyrian steel blade. She’s had the sword polished and the handle cleaned of any rust restoring it to its true glory. 

This wasn’t Daenerys just giving me a sword, she was giving me a piece of her family's history, a relic that’s passed down from generation to generation. The amount of trust she had for me almost made me cry. I could feel the sword double in weight in my hands, a new wave of responsibility falling over me. 

I let out a breath and tightened my grip. “I swear to you, that I will serve you until my dying breath.” I took a moment before continuing. “I swear to be your shield and keep your counsel, by the Old Gods and the New.”

Daenerys’ eyes shimmered as she said the next part, nearly choking over the words. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

We both smiled, the both of us on the verge of crying. With a laugh we leaned in and embraced each other. 

I pulled back, sheathing Dark Sister and attaching it to my belt. “Alright,” I said, clearing my throat. “Let’s go meet Cersei Lannister.”

��–

The ship was ready to leave by the time I’d arrived at the island docks. The sails were set, the three headed red dragon standing out against the black background. Someone shouts aloud, a final call for everyone to board before they’d set sail.

I stepped onto the ship, wearing the same black cloak I’d taken to Eastwatch flowing behind me. The crew worked efficiently to set sail, raising the anchor and leaving the port swiftly. I stood at the front of the ship, looking out into the sea. 

“You seem the most calm.” Jon says, coming to stand by me. 

“Would it help if I was hysterical?” 

He looks forward. “No. It’s good that you’re composed. Someone has to be.” 

I slowly nodded. “How did your men take you pledging your allegiance to Daenerys?” 

He looks down. “They were confused to say the least, but there’s not much they could do about it now.” 

“I take it Ser Davos already told you how he saw it coming?” 

He nods, smirking. “You could say.” 

I turned around, spotting Tyrion and Missandei walking down to the lower deck towards us. 

“Okay,” I grabbed everyone’s attention. “Let’s go over everything one last time.” 

“Grey Worm and the Unsullied are already at King’s Landing and the Dothraki should be arriving shortly.” Missandei says. 

“When we arrive we’ll be escorted by the City’s Watch to the Dragonpit. We will all arrive first then Daenerys with her dragons.” Tyrion adds. “I’ll get up and we’ll continue with our demonstration and hopefully, Cersei agrees to help us.”

“Right well, that sounds promising.” Ser Davos muttered. 

“It’s better than nothing.” I said, leaning back on the railing of the ship's bow. “We may have agreed to a mutual armistice for now, but that doesn’t mean that Cersei won’t blow us up with Wildfire, like she did to the Great Sept of Baelor.”

Missandei glanced down at my waist and frowned. “Is that a new sword?”

“New? Not technically.” I brought my sword forwards. Tyrion's eyes raked over the sword before staring wide eyed at me. 

Jon, also quickly realized what I had in my hand.

“Is that?” Jon askes.

“Dark Sister.” I finished. I nodded, holding it closer to him. “Her Grace gave it to me.” 

Tyrion looked like his jaw was stuck open. “How? It was lost North of the Wall.” 

“And now I’ve found it.” 

Jon carefully eyes the sword, finally understanding. “This is what you were looking for beyond the wall?”

I nodded, “it was. Truth be told I wasn’t expecting it to be there, so imagine my surprise when I did find it.” 

“Forgive me, what is Dark Sister?” Missandei asked. 

Tyrion’s quick to reply. “It’s one of the two ancestral swords of House Targaryen.” 

“It was first wielded by Queen Visenya Targaryen and then hundred of years later, Brynden Rivers, the last one to wield it, took it with him beyond the Wall and since then it’d been lost.” I said. “When Jon and his men were going to Eastwatch I took it as an opportunity to go look for this, as well.” 

I sheathed the sword, my left hand coming to rest on it naturally. “We’ve got one of the two in our possession now.”

“You think you can get the other one?” Ser Davos asks. 

“Where is it?” Jon asks aloud. 

“If I recall correctly, Aegor RIvers took the sword with him when he went to live in exile in Essos; however, nothing is known about it after that.” Varys replied. 

“Forget about it.” I waved my hand, dismissively. “We have other things to worry about, like a certain Lannister queen.” 

––

The long hours had dragged on but we were finally there. In the distance, we could see Aegon’s hill and the Red Keep. Next to the castle’s harbor were all the remaining ships of Euron Greyjoy, who was still rotting away in Dragonstone’s cells. Tyrion, Theon, and Varys stood on deck, looking off into the distance at the castle. Jon, Jorah, Missandei, and I stood on the foredeck, also taking in the sight in front of us.

“How many people live here?” Jon asks Tyrion. 

“A million, give or take.” He replied. 

“That’s more people than the entire North crammed into that. Why would anyone want to live that way.”  

“There’s more work in the city,” Tyrion says. He turned to Jon. “And their brothels are far superior.”

I shook my head. “I forget you used to be a connoisseur of brothels.”

Once we were docked and unloaded we were led through King’s Landing by carriage. I pulled my hood over my head, concealing myself. The less attention I attracted, the better our plan would go. 

The carriage halted and one of the City’s Watch’s men opened the door. Everyone stepped out, glancing up at the remains of the Dragonpit. 

“Follow this path,” a Gold Cloak ordered. 

We walked ahead of the Dothraki guards we’d brought along. Jon, Tyrion, Jorah, Missandei, and Davos walked ahead while Varys, Theon, and Sandor and I walked further back. Sandor was in charge of making sure the crate was not touched by anyone other than him. 

“Why did they build it?” Missandei asked aloud.

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t.” Jorah explained, a slight sadness in his tone. “Land, livestock, children… Letting them roam free around a city was a problem.”

“I imagine it was a sad joke at the end.” Tyrion siad. “An entire area for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs. But in the beginning when it was home to Balerion the Dread, it must have been the most dangerous place in the world.”

We approached a crossroad, spotting Lannister guards marching from the road that led to the Red Keep. They were led by Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and accompanied by Brienna of Tarth and Pocrick Payne. 

“Welcome, my lords.” Bronn said. “Your friends arrived before you did.” 

The Dothraki and their leader, Qhono, looked at them with suspicion while Brienne and Sandor exchanged looks, the former surprised that the latter wasn’t dead. 

“I’ve been sent to escort you all to the meeting.” Bronn waves his hand and the Lannister guards part, clearing the path for us. Tyrion motions to Qhono to take the lead, the rest of the Dothraki moving forwards with the rest of us behind. 

“A pleasant surprise in an unpleasant situation.” Tyrion says to Podrick. 

“I never thought I’d see you again, My Lord.” Pordrick gives him a small smile. 

“Supporting the enemy, no less.” Tyrion jests. 

“Hard to blame you.” 

“Cersei will anyway.”

They share a glance before Podrick sets his eyes forwards. “I’m glad you’re alive.” 

“Come on!” Bronn looks back at the two. “You can suck his magic cock later.” 

The Lannister guards behind us eyed the crate with curiosity, muttering amongst themselves before one of them had the courage to ask. 

“What’s in there?” 

Sandro glared back at him and let out a gruff, “fuck off.” 

Ahead, Brienne slowed her pace to match Sandor’s, “I thought you were dead.” 

“Not yet.” He said. “You came pretty close.” 

“I was only trying to protect her.” She reasoned. 

“You and me both.” 

“She’s alive.” She turned to him. “Arya.” 

Surprised, Sandro asks, “where?”

“Winterfell.”

“Who’s protecting her if you’re here?”

Brienne shook her head. “The only one that needs protecting is the one who gets in her way.” 

“It won’t be me.” They both smiled like proud parents, falling into a comfortable silence between the two. 

Tyrion and Bronn shared quips at one another for the rest of the walk uphill. The remains of the once beautiful arena came into sight. Lannister banners were hung up high, as a show of power. Sandor attends to the cart that was transporting the wight, bringing it down to the lower level of the pit. 

“Anyone touches it, I’ll kill you first.” 

The rest of the party entered the ruined pits taking their seats while they waited for Cersei to arrive. Like clockwork, she, the Mountain, Qyburn, and Jaime arrived. Cersei and Tyrion exchanged glances, Cersei glaring daggers directly at him. The “royal” party seats themselves on their respective sides, stoic. The Hound and the Mountain glare at each other from across the pit ready for a throwdown. 

The Cleganes size each other up before the dais. 

“Remember me?” Sandor glared at his brother's bloodshot and glazed eyes. “Yeah you do. You’re even fucking uglier than I am now. What did they do to you? Doesn’t matter. That’s not how it ends for you, brother. You know who’s coming for you. You’ve always known.” 

With a final glare, Sandor walks away, the Mountain watches him go before taking his place behind Cersei. 

“Where is she?” Cersei asks Tyrion, who’s eyes had been on his fiddling hands.

“She’ll be here soon.” 

“She didn’t travel with you?” She nearly scoffs. 

“No.” Tyrion replied. 

In the distance footsteps could be heard, Cersei raising her head to see who it was. I walked up the stairs to the Dragonpit, my clock long left behind. I held her hostile gaze as I spoke. 

“Her Grace will be here shortly.” 

She masks her confusion well as I take a seat next to Daenerys’ empty seat. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs, my eyes staring running across the Lannister banners hung up on the ruined walls that were hung up just for the summit. 

I had to give it to Cersei, she was good at emotional warfare. Holding the summit at the ruined Dragonpit was a way for her to remind Daenerys of her family and their dragon’s fate in a subtle way. This is what happened to your family, and I’ll make sure that the same happens to you, is what Cersei was trying to say. 

Everyone waits, Cersei growing more agitated by the minute. She folded her hands on her lap, gripping them tightly. Then, just as she was about to speak, dragons screech. Cersei finches while Jaime and Bronn rush to stand up and crane their necks to watch the dragons flying overhead. Viserion and Rhaegal circled around the Dragonpit. Drogon lets out a deep roar as he flys down, powerfully landing on the collapsed walls of the pit and shaking the ground. Jon and Davos look on as Drogon takes in a deep breath and roars loudly, nearly shaking the ground. He roars again, directly at Cersei, lowering his head to reveal Daenerys on his back. 

“Beautiful aren’t they?” I said to Cersei, keeping my eyes on the dragons. Drogon climbs down and Daenerys begins to dismount. I turned to meet Cersei’s eyes. “They’re so big that it’s hard to forget that they’re only six years old.” 

All of us, except for Cersei and her party, raise as Daenerys walks up the dais as Drogon flies away. I cleared my throat, preparing to take another jab at Cersei.

“We are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains.” 

The two queens eye one another as Danerys takes a seat between Tyrion and I. The rest of us sit down after her, the meeting finally beginning. Missandei gives me an amused look, happy that I’d added more salt to Cersei’s wound.

“We’ve been here for some time.” Cersei says, angry. 

“My apologies,” Daenerys replied, lacking any sympathy and refusing to elaborate. Daenerys looks to Tyrion who stands up in response. 

“We are all facing unique circumstances.” He steps to the middle of the dais. “We are a group of people who do not like one another. We have suffered at each other’s hands.” He holds Cersei’s gaze. “We have lost people who we love at each other’s hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face.” 

“So instead, we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?” Sarcasm and venom drips off of Cersei’s words.

“We all know that will never happen.” Tyrion folds his hands in front of him. 

“Then why are we here?”

Jon stands and walks forwards to make his case, Tyrion standing off to the side. “This isn’t about living in harmony. It’s just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can’t negotiate with an army that doesn’t leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They’re about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead.” 

“I imagine for more of them it would be an improvement.” Cersei says, poking fun at the poverty in King’s Landing.

“This is serious. I won’t be here if it weren’t” Jon pressed. 

“I don’t think it’s serious at all. I think it’s another bad joke.” She turns to Daenerys. “If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you’re asking me for a truce.”

“Yes. That’s all.” Daenerys replies. 

“That’s all?” She almost laughs. “Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men.”

“Your capital will be safe until the Northern threat is dealt with. You have my word.” 

“The word of a would-be usurper.” Cerseir grits her teeth, 

“Like your husband?” I jabbed. “Or do you mean yourself?”

Quickly, Tyrion continued to negotiate. “There is no conversation that will erase the past fifty years.” He looks directly at Cersei and Jaime. “We have something to show you.”

The Hound walks up the steps from the lower lever of the pit, carrying the crate on his back, secured by ropes. He brings it to the middle of the summit, both Jon and Tyrion standing far off to the side. Sandor staggers to his knees, dropping the crate down. He removed the chains and pins that secured the crate one by one, throwing them haphazardly to the side. He pries off the lid, fumbling as he gets nervous of what was in it, before fully removing it and throwing it to the side. He takes several steps back, eyes not once wavering away and his hand grips the hilt of his sword. 

Everyone watches the crate, but when nothing happens he kicks the crate forwards to reveal the wight, who immediately charges forwards to Cersei, screeching loudly. Cersei recoils, leaning back in her chair and frozen in fear as it got only an arm's length away from her. It goes to reach out for her but it’s roughly jerked back and thrown onto the floor. The Hound holds the chain attached to the wight's collar while the other end is attached to the bottom of the crate. 

The wight then sets his eyes on the Hound, now charging at him. Sandor draws his sword and cuts the wight in half right through the waist, but it does nothing as its legs keep kicking. I glance at Cersei who’s had a mix of confusion, disgust, and fear written on her face. She was seeing something that everyone thought was impossible. The wight’s toros crawls towards the Hound, still screeching terribly. The Hound brings his sword up and slices through the wight’s rotted hand as it reaches for him. 

Everyone watches in horror except for Qyburn who wordlessly steps forwards to pick up the still moving hand and forearm, examining it with pure fascination. 

Jon, grabs an until torch and Ser Davos lights with a flint. Jon takes the hand from Qyburn. “We can destroy them by burning them.” He moves the torch to the hand, igniting it. The other halves of the wight squirm and let out a high pitch scream. Jon drops the hand as it burns and hands the torch back to Ser Davos. 

He draws a dragonglass dagger from his side and grabs the wight's other hand holding up its torso. “And we can destroy them with dragonglass.” He drives the dagger into the wight's heart. It lets out a screech, scrambling to get away before falling still, lifeless. 

“If we don’t win this fight, then that,” he points at the dead wight, “is the fate of every person in the world.” 

He steps closer to Cersei. “There is only one war that matters: the Great War. And it is here.” 

Cersei, for once, finds herself at a loss for words. 

“We were ambushed by them,” I said to her. “When we traveled North of Eastwatch. They were everywhere, some of us thought that we were about to join the Night King’s army.” 

“How many?” Jaime asks. 

“Nearly two hundred-thousand, and growing by the minute.” 

His face falls, the reality of the situation now dawning on them. Everyone watched on bated breath for Cersei to finally speak. 

She keeps her hands folded, eyes on her lap. “If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we’ve suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we’ve lost would be for nothing.” She raises her head to Daenerys. “The Crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy.” 

Relief floods everyone, grateful that she’d seen the truth. I eyed her suspiciously, careful to not get too optimistic. 

She turned to Jon. “In return, the King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North where he belongs, he will not take up arms against the Lannisters. He will not choose a side.” 

“Just the King in the North? Not me?” Daenerys says. 

Cersei gives her a bitter smile. “I would never ask it of you. You would never agree to it, and if you did I would trust you even less than I do now.” She turns back to Jon. “I only ask it of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word.”

Cersei watched him, expecting him to agree while the rest of us prayed he would lie and not say a word about his allegiance to Daenerys. 

“I am true to my word, or I try to be.” He takes a moment to find his words. “That is what I cannot give you what you ask. I cannot serve two queens. And I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.” 

Daenerys sucks in a breath, clenching her jaw and Cersei abruptly stands. 

“Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come for the North fist. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you.” She walks away from the gathering, her Queensgaurd swifty following her. Bewildered, Jaime scrambles after her but is stopped by Brienne. 

“Ser Jaime,” she calls. 

“It’s been good to see you. I imagine the next time will be across a battlefield.” Jaime quickly moves, but Brienne goes to stand in his way. 

“We both saw what just happened. We both saw… that thing.” 

“Yes, I’m not looking forward to seeing more of them. But I’m loyal to the Queen, and you’re loyal to Sansa and her dolt brother so-” 

“Fuck loyalty,” she hits his shoulder. Jaime stops in his tracks at her words. 

“Fuck loyalty?” He echos.

“This is beyond houses and honor and oaths.” She pressed him further. “Talk to the Queen.” 

Jaime looks over Briennes' shoulder to see Cersei watching him stand there with Breinne, a twinge of jealousy in her eyes.

“And tell her what?” He doesn’t give her time to reply, rushing back to Cersei’s side, leaving the Dragonpit.

Ser Davos, staring at Jon, shakes his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that.” 

“I’m grateful for your loyalty,” Daenerys stands in front of Jon. “But we’ve risked far too much for all of this to mean nothing.” 

“I’m pleased you bend the knee, but have you ever considered learning how to lie? Every now and then, just a little?” Tyrion sighed. 

“I’m not going to swear an oath I can’t uphold. Talk about my father if you want, tell me that’s the attitude that got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies. And lies won’t help us in this fight.”

“That is indeed a problem. The more immediate problem is that we’re fucked.” Tyrion runs a hand down his beard. 

“Any idea as to how we might change that state of affairs?” Davos asks. 

“Only one,” Tyrion says. “Everyone stays here and I go talk to my sister.”

Daenerys shakes her head, hating the idea. “I didn’t come all this way to have my Hand murdered.”

“I don’t want Cersei to murder me either. I could have just stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble.” Tyrion replied. 

“I did this, I should go.” Jon suggests. 

“She’ll definitely murder you.” Tyrion deadpanned. 

“I’ll go with him,” I stood from my chair, stretching out my back. Daenerys shoots me a glare, but I stop her from saything anything. “I’ll be there if she gets a little too trigger happy and stop it.” 

“You can’t. Neither of you can.” She argued. I grabbed her hand, leaning in so that only she could hear me. “Remember when I said that Jaime would be an asset?” She nods. “I think now might be the time.” 

“Besides,” I pulled away, going to stand my Tyrion. “If she even touches a hair on either of us you can burn down the Red Keep with her in it.”

“Shall we?” I look towards Tyrion. He nods, bowing to Daenerys and then the two of us were on our way. 

––

A group of Lannister guards stood outside the Dragonpit. Two Unsullied guards, who were sent by Dany, stood behind us. They glanced over to us as we stepped closer to them. 

Tyrion cleared his throat. “I need to speak with my sister.” 

The guards shared a few glances, but ultimately allowed it. They lead us down the hill silently, only sparingly glancing back to us. We walked along the Street of Flower to the Red Keep, the bustling city street rushing past us. Street vendors called out to potential customers, the merchant vendors flaunted their goods, and children ran up and down the street, playing with one another. 

“Not that I mind, My Lady, but you’ve come along to do more than make sure Cersie doesn’t put my head on a spike.” Tyrion glances towards me. 

“You are correct, My Lord.”

“Can I ask what your purpose is?”

“To talk to your brother and knock some sense into his big head.” 

“Ah, well, do have fun with that. It’s not as if I haven’t tried to do the same for my entire life.” He jests. He thinks back to the many times he’s had to sit down with his dear brother and talk him out of Cersei’s grasp, only for him to talk in circles and hit a brick wall, but something deep down told him that perhaps I might be the one to finally get him to listen.

The city streets of the Capital were far different than what I could have imagined. It was off putting, truth be told. I’d spent a good chunk of my life living in King’s Landing in the modern world, surrounded by cars, buses, skyscrapers, and highrises. Seeing how the city used to be hundreds of years ago was slightly dystopian. Everything seemed so familiar, yet so different, it was both off putting and comforting. 

We were led up into the castle through a side entrance, the Kingsgaurd not warning to grab any attention from the public anymore than they already had. We were led into an underground portion of the castle and down various different tunnels that Maegor the Cruel had built during his reign. It looked like over the many years as the tunnels were being rediscovered the guards had started to use them as a way of quickly moving around the castle. 

Out in the distance I could hear something shift around, as if it were trying to stay hidden from us. I paused, and looked around, catching everyone’s attention. I waited for the sound again, glancing around the tunnel. 

One of the Queensgaurd, annoyed, spoke up. “Keep walking, woman.” 

The Unsullied stepped closer to me, but I motioned for them to stand down, not wanting a blood bath. Just as I was about to give up, the sound arose again this time louder. I walked over to the darkness, where the torch's light couldn’t reach and peered into the darkness. 

Two feline eyes peeked out of the darkness, a low hissing sound coming from it. I crouched down, and held my hands open for the cat, having a sneaking suspicion I knew who it could be. 

“It’s okay,” I said as softly as I could. “No one’s going to hurt you. Come out, please.”

The cat hissing grew louder and louder, but the cat still cautiously stepped out of the shadows. It was a black tomcat with one ear. If you looked carefully, one ear was chewed and the other torn off. 

“It’s okay, honey, I’ll keep you safe. It’s okay to come out, Balerion.” 

The cat's hissing stopped, as if it had been pulled out of a trance. A look of familiarity glossed over the feline's eyes and its hostility dampened. After all these years he was addressed as “you” or “it” or “bastard” or anything else, he was finally addressed by his actual name. 

Balerion.

I reached out slowly and scooped the cat up in my hands, cradling it near my chest. Apprehensively, he turned itself closer to me, still worried that I might be a threat. I stood up and turned back to the men. One of the Queensgaurd shook his head and spat out a misogynistic comment and then started walking again. 

“I never took you as a cat person.” Tyrion said. 

“I like all kinds of animals, but this one,” I glanced down at the black cat, “this one's special.”

We finally emerged onto the Middle Bailey out by the armory and were led up the winding Serpentine Steps and into Maegor's Holdfast where the two Unsullied were told to stand outside. I handed off the cat to one of the men, ordering him to protect the cat with his life. The Mountain waited for us by the steps and wordlessly led us up the staircase to wherever Cersei was or possibly our death.

He led the two of us down a corridor of the Keep towards Cersei’s chamber. Oddly enough, the place hadn’t changed that much in my time. A portion of the Keep had been turned into a part of the University of King’s Landing, which I attended, and the rest was a museum. 

Tyrion looked up at the Mountain who towered over the two of us, and no doubt could kill either one of us. We turned to a corridor and at the end of it was Jaime, waiting for us, and the doors to Cersei’s chambers closed.

“You brought her,” Jaime's points out, eyeing me. 

I raised my hands up, showing I meant no harm to him. “Don’t worry, nothing up my sleeve. Just here as a delegate.”

“You spoke with her.” Tyrion states. 

“At her.” He corrected. “Until she kicked me out. She thinks I was an idiot to trust you. A lot of people seem to think that, actually.” 

“I’m about to step into a room with the most murderous woman in the world, who’s already tried to kill me. Twice. That I know of. Who’s an idiot?”

Jaime almost smiles, “I suppose we should say goodbye, one idiot to another.”

Tyrion nods and the Mountain opens the door. With a deep breath, Tyrion steps into the room to go speak with his sister with the Mountain following closely behind, closing the door behind him leaving Jaime and I alone. 

We stood in silence, the two of us glancing at each other when the other wasn’t looking. 

“I was there,” I began, leaning against the wall. 

Jaime frowns not knowing what I meant. 

“At Highgarden.” 

“On the other dragon?” He recounts. 

I nodded. “Yes and when you left Olenna’s room.” I said, catching him off guard. “I entered right after you’d left.” 

He suspiciously narrows his eyes towards me. “What are you trying to get at?” 

“Nothing, just wanted to give me condolences for the death of your child, well, all of them, really. Sweet Myrcella and Tommen, and I guess Joffrey too. No parent should ever have to outlive their children.” 

Jaime hardens his jaw, his throat’s apple bobs up as he swallows down. 

“But, I can’t help but wonder why you’re still with her. I mean, in some way she’s at fault for your kids' deaths, and you're still with her.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m afraid I do. Joffrey, he was a spoiled cunt, knew how to dress, but Gods still a cunt. He even tortured and murdered those prostitutes in his chambers just for sport. If she’d raised him right maybe he would have turned out better. And then Myrcella, Gods, poor her. Living her best life in Dorne only for her to be killed just so it would hurt Cersei. She died in your arms, right? You’d finally had that one father-daughter moment you’d been deprived of just for her to die in your arms. And Tommen, I mean what kind of mother is she? Rather than mourning the loss of her baby boy, like you were, she says that he betrayed her?” I shake my head. “I don’t get how you don’t blame her for their deaths, I know I would.” 

“How do you know all this?” He rasps out. 

Ignoring him, I continued. “I mean, I understand you fell in love with her when you were young. But when are you going to wake up and realize that she’s not the same Cersei anymore?”

“You’re wrong,” He shook his head. 

“No I’m not. Deep down, you know I’m right. What kind of “Queen” blows up the Great Sept of Baelor with hundreds of people in it? What kind of Queen allows her people to starve while she eats and drinks all day long? What kind of Queen puts her own ego above the good of mankind when faced with the Army of the Dead? A woman that doesn’t deserve to be a Queen.”

“And you think Daenerys is better?” He tried to defend Cersei. “She’s a foreigner-”

“She was born on Dragonstone and forced to live in exile or die. Her family has ruled Westeros for nearly three hundred years, and before that they lived on a little island in Blackwater Bay.” I said, exasperated. “I understand the Mad King has left some scars, and I don’t blame you for doing what you did, but you need to stop thinking with your cock and with your brain instead. They wouldn’t have let her live if she was on Dragonstone. That thing in there, the Mountain? He stabbed a little girl, her niece, over fifty times, bashed her little brothers head in and then raped their mother with their blood on them before killing her as well, and your sister parades him around as her Queensgaurd.” 

I took in a deep breath, composing myself. “Everything is laid out. You know which queen stands for what values and now it’s your turn to decide who you want to stand by.” 

The doors quickly open, revealing Cersei and Tyrion behind her. She looks between Jaime and I, but says nothing. Wordlessly, she walks, prompting the rest of us to follow her. The Mountain followed close by as we followed her out of the Red Keep and back to the Dragonpit. 

Jon and Daenerys were stood talking to each other when we arrived, shocked to see Cersei and her people back. 

“My armies will not stand down.” She begins. “I will not pull them back to the capital.” She paused for a moment. “I will march them north, to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We will face it together.” 

Shocked, everyone looks at Cersei and then Tyrion. “And when the Great War is over, perhaps you will remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you. I expect not.” She turns to Qyburn and gives the order, “call our banners. All of them.” 

With that, she turns to leave. Before Jaime can leave, I grab his arm, leaning in. “When she goes against her word, send a raven to me.” I let go of his arm and step up the dais to stand next to Daenerys, watching the rest of them leave.

––

Daenerys and I sat around the table watching Balerion walking along the Painted Table, knocking over the figurines we’d placed on it. It entertained himself well, pouncing on the Lion on King’s Landing and leaving an array of scratches on it, while it playfully toyed with the Dragon on Dragonstone.

“I can’t believe it.” Dany said. Her eyes never left the cat’s taking in it’s every move. 

I shake my head. “To think that that cat was the last living thing that saw your niece and nephew before their murder. I can’t imagine the horrors he’s had to see.” 

Balerion walked over to us and leaned in. Dany smiled and reached out to pet him only for him to recoil and hiss. Dany frowned, and moved her hand back, surprised. 

I laughed, reaching into my pocket. “I think he’s hungry.” I pulled a piece of dried fish out of a small bag and held it up to him. He sniffed the treat and immediately pounced on it. I handed another piece to Dany and encouraged her to feed him. Like before, Balerion sniffed the fish and then ate it happily.

The door’s opened and Jon and the rest of them entered, ready for the meeting. Startled, Balerion jumped down into my lap and hissed at the people who entered. I held him close, softly housing him as the others took their seat. I gave him another piece of dried fish as Daenerys started the meeting. 

“We’ve got our armies,” she spoke. “But how do we get to Winterfell?”

“If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the Kingsroad, they’ll arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight.” Jon suggested. 

Daenerys nods, “and the Unsullied?”

“We can sail with them to White Harbor and meet the Dothraki here on the Kings Road, then ride together to Winterfell.” Jon pointed to the long stretch of road that reached from the capital to Winterfell.

“Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Jorah stepped forwards. “You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow– he’ll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well placed bolt will make him a hero: The Man Who Killed the Conqueror.” 

Danerys nods, agreeing with Jorah's sentiments, and goes to speak, but is stopped by Jon. 

“It’s your decision, Your Grace. But if we’re going to be allies in this war, it’s important for the Northerners to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbor together, I think it sends a better message.”

She weighed her options, seeing the logic and faults in both arguments. She turned to Jorah. “I’ve not come to conquer the North. I’m coming to save the North.” She turned to Jon, nodding, “we sail together.” 

Jon bows his head, a slight smile on his lips and Jorah back’s down. 

“When we arrive at White Harbor, I’ll have to make a detour.” I said. 

“For what?” Daenerys asks. 

“A young wolf’s crown,” I said cryptically. “I need to go to the Twins, but I will rejoin you all before we’ve stepped foot in Winterfell.” 

Understanding, Daenerys nods. It’s not the first time I’d gone off alone, and every time I’ve come back I’ve brought back something that has benefited her. 

“How is the dragon's food?” She asks Varys. 

“We’ve got plenty of food, Your Grace. Lady Vellarys’ suggestion to appeal to the island villagers worked. Almost all of them have offered to give two or three of their livestocks.” He reported. 

“Have a few sail boats with food ready for King’s Landing, we’ll be needing them soon.” I ordered. 

“For the city?” Tyrion asks. 

“Yes, they’re starving and we’re going to be their saving grace, well, Daenerys is.” I turned back to Varys. “And keep your eyes open for any ravens coming from the Red Keep.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think she’ll send her army north.” 

I nodded, “I’m hoping she proves me wrong, given her current circumstance, but this is Cersei Lannister. She thinks she’s the smartest woman alive when in fact it’s the opposite.” 

The meeting ended smoothly, everyone knowing what they had to do now. I was the last to leave, spotting Jon and Theon having their long awaited talk. I decided to walk around the castle, needing to clear my head and plan what to do next. When I walked towards the docks I saw Theon giving orders to his men and Ironborn ships in the docks. 

“You’re leaving, I assume?” I asked. 

“Yes, My Lady. My sister has taken the Iron Islands and I must return to her.” He replied. 

“And your beloved uncle is going as well?” 

He nodded. “Euron will be punished for his crimes however Yara sees fit.”

“And your conversation with Jon?”

“Good,” he nods, fiddling with his hands. “We’ve..” He tried to find the right words. 

“Reconciled?” 

“Yes. Reconciled.” He looks down and then back up to me. “I want to thank you for.. that night. I almost.. lost my sister, and if it weren’t for your words I wouldn’t have found it in myself to speak to Jon again.” 

“There’s no need to thank me. I only said a few words, you were the one who found it in yourself to do those things.” 

An Ironborn, already aboard the ship, makes the final call for the crew, raising the sails. I stuck my hand out to Theon. “Stay safe, Lord Greyjoy.” 

Our fingers wrap around each other's forearms, giving a squeeze and light shake. 

“You as well, Lady Vellarys.” 

He walks up to the ramp of the ship, boarding and orders the vessel to start moving. I watched on as the Ironborn ships left the ports and further and further away. 

––––

It was late in the evening, Daenerys and I were sat together in her room, having our supper. The food was spread all over the table, meat, fruit, stew, bread, and deserts. A pitcher of wine sat in between us. I poured myself a glass, swirling the white almost golden wine and took a swig. 

“Arbor Gold,” I placed my glass down. “Do you know how much this would cost someone like me during my time? Thousands, hundreds maybe, millions. And here I am, sitting next to you, having dinner, and sipping on one of the finest wines in all of Westeros.”

“Now that we have control of Highgarden, you can drink all the Arbor Gold you what,” she smiled. 

“Oh, believe me, I will.” 

Daenerys sets her fork and knife down, folding her hands in front of her. “We’re going to be leaving for Winterfell soon.” 

“We will,” I mirrored her stance. 

“I want to know what I’ll be facing.” 

I raised my brows and thought back, “well. They don’t like you. Partly because of your father, but also because you’re an outsider, as in not being from the North. The main person you should be wary of is Sansa Stark, Ned’s eldest daughter. She, her father and her younger sister, Arya, traveled to King’s Landing almost seven years ago. Ned was to be Robert’s hand after Jon Arryn was killed and Sansa was Joffery Lannister’s betrothed, but we both know how that went. Her sister and her were separated the day of Ned’s execution and while Arya bounced around Westeros and Essos, Sansa was imprisoned in the Red Keep at Cersei and Joffrey’s mercy. She was humiliated and belittled by both and then forced to marry Tyrion-”

“Tyrion?!” She almost shouts, surprised.

I nodded. “Both of them didn’t want it, but he was a good husband, never made her do anything and defended her even at his own expense. After Joffrey was poisoned she escaped by the help of Littleginger, Pyter Baelish who’s a mess and a half himself, and the two escape to the Vale where Sansa’s aunt, Lysa, former widow of Jon Arryn, was waiting for them. Baelish and Lysa married, which made him Lord of the Vale, which was his main goal, and then he later killed Lysa, who killed her husband under Littlefinger's orders.” 

“What a charmer.” 

“Tell me about it. But don’t worry about him, he’s dead or should be by now.” 

“That’s comforting.” 

“Anyways,” I waved my hand. “After securing the Vale, he sells Sansa off to Ramsey Bolton, who’s one of the families that betrayed the Starks at the Red Wedding. Ramsey was a sadistic fuck, born a bastard and couldn’t seem to move past it and made it his entire personality. She was once again a prisoner, except in her own home. It wasn’t until Theon, who was also imprisoned and tortured by Ramsey, helped her escape as well as Brienne of Tarth, then she was reunited with Jon at Castle Black. Jon, enraged, pleaded to almost every house in the North for support, and got almost none, waged a war on Ramsey – we called it the Battle of the Bastards. Jon nearly died, but the Knights of the Vale came just in time to help, and Jon was able to take back Winterfell.” 

“I can’t imagine what horrors she’s seen.” Dany shook her head, her heart breaking for the poor girl. 

“We need to empathize with her, Dany. Share your experiences, show her that you’re not so different after all. Two girls, no family, alone in an unknown place trying to find themselves back home. It’s going to be difficult, she’s a Stark and Starks are hard headed, you’ve seen how Jon is.” 

She shakes her head, understanding my words and the importance of them. “You said her younger sister was in Essos?”

“Arya. She’s more like her aunt, Lyanna. Less “ladylike” and more “I want to be a knight and go on adventures,” her and Jon have a really close relationship. She went to Braavos to learn the way of the Faceless Men, once she did she came back to Westeros, laid waste to House Frey and then traveled to Winterfell.” 

“And what is her attitude towards us?”

“Positive, from what I recall. She still has her Northern mentality, but she looks up to strong female figures; Nymeria of Ny Sar and Visenya Targaryen to name a few.”

“And the Crown you referred to, of the wolf? Was it Robb Starks?”

“It’s still in the Twins, hidden in some treasure chest. I think if we give it to them, especially Sansa, as a sign of good faith to the Starks and the North they won’t be so hostile.” 

“And you think you can find it?” 

“I have to try.” I shrugged. “If I find it then we start off on the right foot with the Starks, if we don’t then we’re going to have to work harder.”

Daenerys’ eye trails off to the right, a servant just entering with a worried expression. 

“I apologize for the intruding, Your Grace, but a raven from King’s Landing has arrived for Lady Vellarys.”

–––

The tension in the room was palpable, everyone staring off, almost defeated. The message that we’d just received sat at the table in front of us. 

You were right. She’s refused to send the army North. Cersei has betrayed us. – J.L

 Jon stood at the end of the table, seething with anger, feeling foolish that he believed Cersei at all. Daenerys sat at the head of the table, hands folded in front of her. Tyrion looked defeated, a goblet of wine in one hand and the other ready to reach for the pitcher to pour more. Varys had an unreadable expression, standing there with his arms crossed and eyes on the floor. 

“Cersei said she’d send her armies North,” Tyrion muttered under his breath. 

Angrily, Daenerys turned to him. “You trusted her, Tyrion. You said that she would never betray family.”

“I believed her. I made a mistake– we all make mistakes.” His voice came out angry and defeated. 

Daenerys angrily stood up from her chair, the wooden feet scraping against the stone floor. Fire burned in her violet eyes. “She fooled you. You knew she was dangerous, but you still listened to her, trusted her.”

Tyrion shook his head, not at her words, but at his own foolishness, blinded by family. “I didn’t want to believe that she was capable of this. That she’d risk the fate of the world for the throne.”

Before Daenerys could lay into him even more I placed my hand on her shoulder, reeling her back. She turned to me and the look on my face was all she needed to know. 

“You knew.” She sneered. “You knew, and you still let us meet. How could you? You were supposed to help me–” 

“Daenerys.” 

“No! Tell me, did you–” 

“Of course I fucking knew!” I scoffed. “Did I have some hope that she’s turn a new leaf and be a good fucking human being? Yes. But deep down, just like all of you, I knew that that bitch would only think about herself.”

“What else do you think I’ve been preparing for?” I took in a deep breath, feeling a migraine approaching. Calmly, I turned to Daenerys. “We still have enough men, we still have the Dornish army, the Reach, three fucking dragons – Daenerys we have enough. We are going to win, and when we do we’re going to take the throne and put that whore’s neck on a chopping block.” 

I turned to Vayrs. “Put you little birds to work. Tell them what we know; The Army of the Dead march towards us and that Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow pleaded to Cersei Lannister to help defend the Realm, but she refused. Tell them that Daenerys is marching North to fight the dead with her army and dragons. Tell them to sing her praises. Tell them if anyone else wants to fight for all of humanity alongside the rightful Queen then to march North now. Send the ships filled with aid to King’s Landing, tell them it’s from their true Queen, that she can’t stand to see her people starving in the streets, that she thinks of them in her prayers while she’s off to fight against the Night King.”

Surprised at my outwards aggression, Varys stands there, shocked only snapping back to reality when Daenerys’ sharp eyes are on him He quickly bows his head, muttering a “as you wish, My Lady,” and scurried out of the room to do as he was commanded. I walked over to Daeneys, who was a bit more calm now than before, taking her hands in mine, reassuringly. 

“Don’t worry, we will prevail. Don’t let this get to you. You have to think forwards and to the battles ahead. I swear to you, we will win.” She closed her eyes as we brought our foreheads together. “Rest for now, I’ll handle everything.” 

Daenerys nodded. “Be sure to sleep, we have a long journey ahead of us.” She turns to leave, not sparing anyone a glance. Jon and Tyrion watch her go, wanting to say something but staying quiet at the end. 

I walked to Jon, “go, comfort her. She needs you.” Without a word he dashes out the room and towards Daenerys’ chamber.  

Exhausted, I take a seat at the table, closing my eyes. There's some shifting and metal clinking before Tyrion speaks. 

“You’re a lot better at being the Hand than I am.” I open my eyes and catch him placing a fresh cup of win in front of me. I reached over, taking it. 

“Trust me, I’m not.” I take a great swig, letting the Dornish Red run down my throat. “I wasn’t lying,” I played with the cup in my hand. “When I said that I believed her a little bit. I thought that after losing all of her children in horrific ways that she would join us to protect the one she’s pregnant with. But I guess not.”

“To be deceived by my sister,” Tyrion raises his glass as a toast. 

I grimace, raising mine in agreement. “Let's never toast to this ever again.” 

–––

Our day started off even before the sun had crossed the horizon. Begrudgingly, I got prepared for our long travel with the help of the servants. As the days went by, the weather got colder, and now with the Night King at our doorsteps, the days were going to get even worse.

Some servants hulled the last of my belongings down to the ships. I stood by the railing, looking down at the people working hard for our departure when Daenerys came to stand by my side. 

“You were right,” She says. “Deep down I knew that she was lying, but like everyone else, I believed her. I was deceived.” 

I turned to her, but spotted someone behind her. “Lord Varys.” 

He bowed, addressing us both. “You were right to prepare, My Lady. My little birds tell me that the people are growing more hostile to Cersei and favoring Daenerys. It won’t be long until riots start to break out and they storm the Red Keep.” 

“Do you think she will send her armies North now that the people have turned?” Daenerys asks me. 

“No. That woman fears no one, not even the Gods. If she sends her armies North now it would mean swallowing her ego and giving up the throne, which is inevitable at this point.” 

I glanced towards the oncoming sunrise. “By the time we’re finished with the Night King, the people of King’s Landing will open the city doors for us with welcoming arms.” 

––––

Snow falls from the sky, but that doesn’t deter the Army of the Dead from marching forwards. Nothing does. The wights come out of the treeline by the dozens, all itching to feed off of a living creature. They all stand there, mindlessly looking up at the seven hundred foot tall wall made of ice and magic, the only thing standing in between them and the Seven Kingdoms. 

Waves can be heard hitting the cliffside. The cold ocean wind carries all across Eastwatch. But that doesn’t do anything to them. The Army of the Dead relish in the bitter cold, they are the cold. They are the everlasting winter.

They part like the sea, letting the Night King and his entourage through. The snow crunched under the hooves of their undead horses. The Night King’s ice cold, glowing blue eyes took in the sight before him. Finally, after hundreds of years, after growing his army and his powers he was here ready to accomplish his task; utter annihilation of all mankind. 

And the only thing standing in his way was a wall made of ice, holding the same magic that ran through his frozen vines made by the same beings that birthed him into this world. 

He gets off his horse, leisurely walking to the ice wall. The White Walkers watch him bring his hand to the wall. He caresses it, taking in every second of this moment. Closing his eyes, he focuses his powers to a point under his hand, willing himself to break the wall. 

The ground violently shakes, trees rattling and swaying side to side, and a faint crackling sound grows by the minute. The wind blows around them, threatening to rip out the trees from the earth, it howls and lets out the deafening whistle as the Night King uses more of his power. He digs his nails into the ice and the chucks of the wall start to fall from the sky. Bit by bit, the wall crumbled, hitting the ground with loud thuds and shattering on impact to more ice shards. The Night King uses more of his power and the protective magic in the ice finally breaks causing the walls foundation to crumble and give away, finally collapsing.. 

The wights let out a shriveling screech and charge through the fallen wall, eager to feast and lay waste to everything in sight. The Night King walks back to his horse, mounting him and making his way over the remains of Branden the Builder's greatest creation. There’s almost an excited expression on his ice cold face. He grips onto the horse's leash and he can still feel the remnants of his power at the tips of his icy fingers. So close. He’s so close to finally achieving his goal. If he could, he'd smile triumphantly.  

Winter was coming. 

@wotcherpeak @music-luver25 @your-favorite-god @radiantdanvers @cluelessteam @daenerys713 @ministark @laanswife @idohknow @jromanoff @bdudette @bitchyfestivalbouquet @glitteryobjecttaco @cantbecreative @lovelyteenagebeard @the0twst0shrimp0mc @sucker4seresin @marytargaryen @naneko31 @9tailedfoxfire @iilsenewman @ivyrose9194 @coffee-is-my-oxygen @mysterypotatoink @bitchycolletorvoid @nattysplatty @wifiatthetrainstation @nymeriiiia @llynx7 @pookynknowntranger @riley-625-bell @myathegoat @evilunicorns4minions @honeycola-umbra @nen-nyy

a/n: i'm back from my little vacation which means more chapters :))

[jeynepoolelovebot]

[ID: Fanart of A Song of Ice and Fire. Daenerys Targaryen is sitting on stone steps in front of the house with the red door in Braavos. On either side of the door are two stone pillars, overgrown with ivy. Dany is sitting with her elbows resting on her knees, with her chin resting on her closed hands. Her hair comes to just above her chin, and she is wearing pearl earrings, as well her crown, which is gold, inlaid with blue pearls on either side. The front of the crown has a three-headed dragon on it, in the colors of her dragons (cream, black and red, and green). On either side of the heads are two red rubies.

Daenerys is wearing blue-green cape embroidered in an intricate pattern, which hangs over both shoulders and comes down to the ground. Underneath the cape she's wearing a purple dress with a gold belt, as well as matching gold bracelets and arm bands. Drogon is sitting on her shoulders, with his tail curled around her neck. He has his wings unfurled, and is screeching up at the sky. End ID]

“All Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.”

She is my favorite character from the books, I love her so much so I hope to have done a good job on this one

[thaliajoy-blog]

Yet another Daenerys outfit design, made to evoke her "Stormborn" name. And I'm giving her some tattoos again !

Originally made to be a pair with the Jon I drew like yesterday, as an ensemble piece.

[novaursa]

Legacy (sisters)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the north and the south

- Next part: drawing the lines

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

Tywin Lannister and Jon Snow sat opposite each other at the long table in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. A week of heated discussions and negotiations had brought them here, to a moment where a tentative agreement seemed within reach. The hall’s stone walls absorbed the low hum of voices as you sat at Tywin’s right hand, your presence a quiet but steadying force in the midst of it all. Davos Seaworth stood behind Jon, his weathered face calm but watchful.

The Painted Table between them was scattered with maps, letters, and reports, each detailing threats and opportunities. Tywin’s eyes fixed on Jon, who met his gaze with equal intensity.

“You’ve made your demands clear,” Tywin said, his tone measured. “Justice for your family, recognition of the North’s independence, and preparation for the so-called Long Night. You’ll find I am not a man who agrees lightly to terms that serve others more than myself.”

Jon leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve seen the signs. Your wife has told you of what’s coming, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The dead are marching beyond the Wall, and if we don’t prepare, it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne or which house rules the North. The living will fall.”

Tywin’s expression remained inscrutable. “You speak of an enemy that has not yet crossed into the realm. Meanwhile, a very real threat sails toward us from Essos. Daenerys Targaryen, has aligned herself with the Ironborn—a fractured fleet, perhaps, but still formidable. She comes with the Dothraki, a horde of savages, and the Unsullied, disciplined but foreign. She believes her claim to the throne outweighs that of my grandson, King Tommen, or indeed, my own children.”

Your breath caught at Tywin’s words, but you said nothing, your mind reeling with the weight of the situation. Jon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he absorbed Tywin’s dismissal of the Northern threat.

“You’d place her above your wife?” Jon asked sharply. “Above the mother of your sons?”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Do not presume to lecture me on loyalty or duty, boy. My wife is of Valyrian blood, the mother of my heirs. Her claim to the throne is stronger than her sister’s, but this does not negate the danger Daenerys poses. She comes as a foreign invader, not as a queen to unite Westeros.”

“She comes with dragons,” Jon countered. “And you’ve seen what dragons can do.”

At this, Tywin leaned back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And I also know how to harness that power, as you’ve seen here on Dragonstone. Do not mistake me for a fool, Snow. I’ve considered every possibility, and while your warnings of the dead may hold some truth, they are not my immediate concern.”

You placed a hand gently on Tywin’s arm, your voice calm but firm. “Jon isn’t asking you to ignore Daenerys. He’s asking you to consider the larger picture. If we’re divided, we’ll fall—to her, to the dead, to any threat that comes our way. The North needs the South, and the South needs the North. We can’t afford to be enemies.”

Tywin’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, though his tone remained cold. “Unity is a fine ideal, but it must be built on terms that serve both sides. Snow demands recognition of the North’s independence—what assurances do I have that he won’t sever ties entirely when it suits him?”

Jon’s eyes flashed with determination. “You have my word. The North will fight alongside the South against whatever comes. We’ll defend this realm, and we’ll remember who stood with us. But if you refuse to acknowledge the North’s sovereignty, you’ll leave us no choice but to stand alone.”

Tywin’s mind worked quickly. After a moment, he spoke, his tone clipped and decisive. “Very well. The North will remain autonomous in its governance, but it will not sever its ties to the Iron Throne. You will recognize Tommen as king, and you will not see again to crown yourself or any other Stark.”

Jon hesitated, glancing at you before nodding slowly. “Agreed.”

Tywin continued, his gaze hard. “In return, you will provide men and resources to defend the realm against Daenerys’s invasion. If your warnings of the dead prove true, you will lead the North’s forces in that fight as well.”

Jon’s voice was steady as he replied. “The North will do its part. But know this—if you focus all your attention on Daenerys and ignore the threat beyond the Wall, you’ll lose more than this war. You’ll lose everything.”

Tywin said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the Painted Table. Finally, he stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “Then we have an accord. Prepare your men, Snow. The battles ahead will test us all.”

Jon rose as well, his expression grim but resolute. “And the living will need every advantage.”

As Tywin left the room, you stayed behind with Jon. His shoulders were tense, his face etched with frustration. “He doesn’t understand,” Jon said quietly. “Not yet.”

“He will,” you replied, your voice soft but confident. “Tywin Lannister is not a man who ignores proof. He’ll see the truth when the time comes.”

Jon nodded, though his doubt was evident. “Let’s just hope it’s not too late.” The alliance between the North and South was fragile, but it was a start. And in a world on the brink of chaos, even the smallest hope could spark a flame.

The deck of the flagship swayed gently beneath Daenerys Targaryen as the winds carried the scent of salt and promise across the Narrow Sea. The rhythmic crash of waves against the hull provided a steady backdrop to the flurry of activity as her Unsullied soldiers, Dothraki, and sailors moved purposefully to prepare for their departure. Sails bearing the sigil of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen were being unfurled, their black and crimson hues stark against the endless expanse of blue.

Daenerys stood at the ship’s prow, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she gazed toward the horizon. Her dragons, Drogon and Rhaegal, circled overhead, their shadows passing over the fleet below. Their roars echoed across the sea, a reminder of her power—a power she intended to unleash upon Westeros.

Behind her, Tyrion Lannister approached, his footsteps light but deliberate. He came to a stop beside her, his gaze following hers toward the unseen shores of Westeros. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice tinged with caution.

“You know this won’t be the welcoming parade you might imagine,” he said, his tone diplomatic but firm.

Daenerys turned to him, her violet eyes narrowing slightly. “And why is that, Lord Tyrion? Westeros has suffered under unworthy rulers for years. They will welcome the rightful queen.”

Tyrion tilted his head, his expression both patient and resigned. “You forget, Your Grace, that Westeros has already had its fill of dragons. Your sister’s dragon, Viserion, has become a familiar sight. By all reports, the realm has grown accustomed to her presence, and to her rule alongside Tywin Lannister.”

Daenerys frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Viserion may be hers now, but that dragon was once mine. And my sister will see that this is our chance—our chance to bring justice to our family and take back the throne that was stolen from us.”

Tyrion’s brow arched slightly, his skepticism clear. “Justice is a noble goal, but Westeros doesn’t see you as a liberator. Not yet. You’re arriving with a Dothraki horde and an army of Unsullied. To the lords and ladies of Westeros, you’ll appear as a foreign invader, not a rightful queen.”

Daenerys’s eyes flashed with determination. “Then I will show them who I am. I will free them from their chains, just as I did in Meereen and Astapor.”

“And you’ll burn half the realm in the process,” Tyrion said bluntly, earning a sharp glare from Daenerys. He sighed, stepping closer to the rail. “Your Grace, I am not doubting your abilities or your claim. But the noble houses of Westeros are fickle creatures. They won’t bow simply because you have dragons. They’ll see you as a threat to their power, especially if you come with foreign armies at your back.”

Daenerys’s gaze softened slightly as she studied Tyrion. “And what do you suggest, Hand of the Queen? That I abandon my armies and fly to Dragonstone alone?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. I suggest you tread carefully. Your sister is a key figure in this. By all accounts, she is loved by the people, respected by the lords. If you can convince her to stand with you, to lend you her voice, it could change everything.”

Daenerys’s expression turned thoughtful as she looked out at the sea once more. “She will listen to me,” she said with quiet conviction. “She understands what was taken from our family. She knows the pain of betrayal, of loss. Together, we can restore the Targaryen name to its rightful place.”

Tyrion studied her for a moment before speaking, his tone laced with both hope and caution. “I hope you’re right. But don’t underestimate her ties to Tywin Lannister. Whatever her reasons for marrying him, she’s a part of his house now. And Tywin doesn’t let go of his allies—or his assets—easily.”

Daenerys’s gaze hardened. “She’s not an asset. She’s my sister. And I won’t fight her. If she stands with me, there will be no need for war.”

Tyrion exhaled softly, his gaze drifting to the dragons overhead. “Let’s hope she sees it that way. Because if she doesn’t… this could be the bloodiest campaign Westeros has ever seen.”

Daenerys turned to him, her voice steely. “I will take back the Iron Throne, Tyrion. With or without her. But I would rather have her by my side.”

Tyrion nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “Then let’s make sure she knows that when you arrive.”

The moon hung low over the Narrow Sea, its pale light reflecting off the gentle waves as the fleet sailed steadily toward Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen sat alone in her cabin, the sound of Drogon and Rhaegal’s distant roars echoing faintly through the night. A single candle flickered on the small table before her, its light illuminating the old and weathered maps spread across its surface.

Her fingers traced the outlines of Westeros, stopping at Dragonstone, then moving north toward the Eyrie, and finally to Winterfell. Her mind, however, was far from strategies and conquest. It wandered instead to the stories her brother Viserys had told her so many years ago.

Viserys had rarely spoken of their family with affection. His words were usually cruel, laden with bitterness for what they had lost. But when he spoke of their eldest sister—the sister Daenerys had never met—there had been a rare softness in his tone, an almost desperate longing that had always struck Daenerys as unusual.

She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, and the memories came unbidden.

“She was beautiful,” Viserys had said one night as they sat by the fire, huddled together in a dilapidated inn somewhere in the Free Cities. His voice was quieter than usual, almost reverent. “Hair like yours. Violet eyes. Everyone said she looked like Mother.”

Daenerys, barely seven at the time, had tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “What was her name again?”

“Y/N,” Viserys replied, his lips curving faintly. “The Flame of House Targaryen, they called her. Father’s favorite child… until she wasn’t.”

Daenerys frowned, her small hands tugging at the hem of her tunic. “Why wasn’t she his favorite anymore?”

Viserys’s expression darkened, the fleeting warmth in his gaze replaced by a familiar bitterness. “Because Father went mad, that’s why. He saw enemies everywhere—even in her. She was sent away before Robert’s rebellion could touch her. Willem said it was to protect her, but I think it was for something else.”

“Where did she go?” Daenerys asked, her voice small.

“To the North,” Viserys answered, his tone heavy with disdain. “To Winterfell, of all places. They struck some deal with the Starks. She was meant to be a ward, but it was more like a hostage. The Starks shielded her from Robert’s wrath after the rebellion ended.”

Daenerys’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t they love her?”

Viserys scoffed. “The Starks? Love a Targaryen? Don’t be foolish, Daenerys. They kept her safe because it suited them. But she… she was different. She thrived there, somehow. Made herself at home among wolves.”

His words hung in the air, and Daenerys had hesitated before asking, “Did you miss her?”

Viserys’s eyes had flashed with something unreadable—pride, sorrow, perhaps even guilt. “Of course, I missed her. She was my sister. Our sister. She held me once, you know. When I was very little. I barely remember it, but… it’s one of the only good memories I have of Father’s court.”

His voice had grown softer, his gaze distant as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “She sang to me. A Valyrian lullaby. I don’t remember the words, only the sound of her voice. It was… soft. Gentle. Like Mother’s.”

Daenerys had been quiet, unsure of what to say. It was rare for Viserys to speak so vulnerably, and she hadn’t wanted to break the fragile moment.

“Do you think she would have loved me?” she had asked after a long silence.

Viserys’s expression had softened, and he had reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. “She would have adored you,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with longing. “She would have fought for you, protected you. She was strong like that.”

The memory faded, and Daenerys opened her eyes, her chest tight with emotion. She stared at the map before her, her fingers tracing the path to Dragonstone once more.

Viserys had clung to those faint memories of their sister, holding onto them like a drowning man clutching driftwood. He had seen her as a symbol of what their family could have been, what it should have been. And now, Daenerys would finally meet her—this sister who had lived through the rebellion, who had found strength among wolves, who had become a mother and a queen in her own right.

But would she stand with her?

Daenerys’s gaze hardened, her resolve solidifying. She would remind her sister of their shared blood, of their shared loss. Together, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

Still, a whisper of doubt lingered in her mind, a quiet voice echoing Tyrion’s warnings. What if her sister saw things differently? What if she had truly become a Lannister in more than name?

Daenerys shook the thought away, her hand clenching into a fist. “She will stand with me,” she said aloud, as though speaking the words would make them true. “She must.”

The distant roar of her dragons was her only answer as the ship continued its journey toward destiny. The past was a weight she carried, but the future was a fire she intended to ignite.

The flagship of Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet cut gracefully through the calm waters surrounding Dragonstone, the rhythmic crash of waves against its hull echoing faintly over the expanse. Overhead, Drogon and Rhaegal soared majestically, their vast wings slicing through the air with powerful strokes. Their roars resonated across the sea, a declaration of their presence and their queen’s arrival.

Daenerys stood at the prow, her hair billowing in the wind, her eyes fixed on the rocky shore of Dragonstone. The castle loomed in the distance, its jagged towers like dark sentinels against the cloudy sky. Yet her gaze was drawn to the figure perched atop one of the cliffs near the shore—a massive cream-and-gold dragon with scales that gleamed like molten gold under the overcast light.

Viserion.

Daenerys’s breath caught as she beheld the dragon she once thought lost to her. But something was different. The she-dragon’s body was clad in intricate armor, the likes of which Daenerys had never seen before. The Lannister colors of crimson and gold adorned the plates, which were meticulously crafted to fit the dragon’s form.

The armor’s design was a marvel of engineering and craftsmanship. Interlocking plates of burnished steel and gold covered Viserion’s neck and shoulders, the joints flexible enough to allow full range of motion while providing impenetrable protection. Her chest and underbelly were shielded by overlapping scales of reinforced metal, forged to mimic the natural texture of her hide. Along her spine, a row of serrated ridges glinted menacingly, each tip fashioned into sharp points, discouraging any would-be attackers from climbing her back.

The armor extended down her legs, ending in polished steel greaves that encased her talons. The claws themselves were tipped with blackened steel, honed to razor-sharp perfection. Even her tail was armored, with segmented plates running along its length, ending in a deadly spike that could skewer any opponent foolish enough to get too close. The entire ensemble was both practical and imposing, a testament to Tywin Lannister’s meticulous attention to detail and strategic foresight.

Daenerys’s heart sank as she noticed the dragon’s posture. Viserion was not relaxed, nor was she welcoming. Her wings were partially unfurled, the tips trembling with agitation. Her tail lashed against the rocks, sending small pebbles scattering, and her golden eyes were fixed on the approaching ship with a look that could only be described as suspicious. The low, guttural growl that emanated from her throat sent shivers down the spines of everyone aboard.

“She doesn’t look happy to see us,” Missandei observed quietly, her gaze fixed on the armored dragon.

Tyrion, standing beside her, gave a dry chuckle. “No, she doesn’t. But then again, family reunions are rarely pleasant—especially this one.” His eyes scanned the delegation waiting on the shore, his tone turning sardonic. “And speaking of awkward reunions… look who’s decided to personally welcome us.”

Daenerys followed his gaze and spotted Tywin Lannister, unmistakable in his own crimson-and-gold armor, standing at the head of a Lannister delegation. His posture was rigid, his presence commanding even from a distance. His green eyes were fixed on the approaching ship, and though his expression betrayed nothing, there was an air of readiness about him, as if he anticipated a storm.

Beside Tywin stood Jaime Lannister. Behind them, a line of armored soldiers stood at attention, their faces impassive but their weapons ready. The Lannister lion banners fluttered in the wind, a reminder of the power and wealth that Tywin wielded.

Missandei frowned, her voice low. “They come prepared for a fight.”

Tyrion shrugged, though his eyes never left his father. “That’s Tywin for you. Always calculating, always cautious. He doesn’t trust anyone—not even his own blood.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened, her hands gripping the rail as she watched the scene unfold. “He doesn’t need to trust me,” she said firmly. “He needs to listen.”

Tyrion glanced at her, his expression skeptical. “He’s not exactly known for his willingness to listen. And you’re arriving with dragons and a fleet full of foreign armies. To him, you’re the embodiment of every threat he’s ever prepared for.”

Daenerys’s gaze remained fixed on Viserion, her voice soft but resolute. “Viserion will remember me. She’ll know I’m her queen.”

Tyrion’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I hope you’re right. Because if she doesn’t…” He gestured to the armored dragon. “I don’t think she’s wearing that armor just for show.”

Drogon and Rhaegal let out simultaneous roars, their massive forms circling overhead as they took note of Viserion. But the she-dragon was unmoved. Instead, her growls deepened, and her tail lashed with greater force, sending a clear warning. She lowered her head slightly, her golden eyes narrowing as she tracked the approaching ship.

“She’s agitated,” Missandei murmured, her concern evident. “She doesn’t recognize Drogon or Rhaegal as kin anymore.”

Tyrion sighed, his voice laced with dry humor. “Welcome to Westeros, Your Grace. Home of suspicion, hostility, and deeply complicated family dynamics.”

Daenerys ignored him, her focus entirely on Viserion. Her heart ached at the sight of the dragon, once hers, now clad in the colors of a family that had brought so much pain to her house. But she would not falter. She would remind the dragon—and her sister—of who she was and what they shared.

The ship slowed as it neared the shore, the waves lapping gently against the hull. The Lannister delegation stood their ground, unmoving, their presence a wall of unspoken defiance.

Daenerys’s expression hardened, her resolve burning brighter than ever. This was her moment. The pieces were in place, and now the game would begin.

The flagship docked, the gangplank lowered with a creak. But before Daenerys stepped off, she allowed herself one final glance at Viserion. The dragon’s growl rumbled through the air, low and menacing, and Daenerys knew without a doubt—this was going to be the most dangerous negotiation of her life.

The gangplank creaked underfoot as Daenerys Targaryen descended onto the rocky shores of Dragonstone, her boots striking the ground with deliberate force. Behind her, Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and a small contingent of her loyal Unsullied followed. The banners of House Targaryen snapped in the sea breeze, though they paled in the presence of the Lannister lion banners adorning the walls of her ancestral home.

The delegation waiting to greet them was as imposing as it was calculated. At the forefront stood Tywin Lannister, clad in polished armor, his keen eyes assessing her every move with an air of cool authority. Beside him was Jaime Lannister, his gilded hand glinting in the sunlight, his expression unreadable but no less intimidating. Around them, rows of Lannister soldiers stood at attention, their faces blank but their weapons gleaming.

Missandei stepped forward, her voice steady and formal. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains.”

The titles echoed across the rocky beach, but Tywin’s expression didn’t change. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on Daenerys as though she were merely another piece in a game he had already mastered.

Tyrion, ever the contrast to his father, stepped forward with a smirk that barely masked his animosity. “Father,” he said, his tone light but edged with sarcasm, “I must say, your hospitality never ceases to amaze. A Lannister welcoming another Targaryen to her own home—it’s almost poetic.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked to Tyrion, his voice low and measured. “Spare me your wit, Tyrion. You are here as a bystander, nothing more.”

Daenerys took a step closer, her eyes blazing as they shifted between Tywin and Jaime. The sight of the two men—one who had orchestrated her family’s downfall, the other who had murdered her father—stirred a fire within her that was hard to suppress. “You,” she said, her voice laced with venom as her gaze locked on Tywin. “The man who betrayed my house, my father. The man who shattered the Targaryen dynasty.”

Tywin met her glare with an unsettling calm, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your father shattered his own dynasty long before I played my part, girl. And as for betrayal—loyalty to a mad king is not a virtue.”

Daenerys’s fists clenched at her sides, but before she could retort, Tyrion stepped between them, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, now,” he said, his tone light but insistent. “Let’s not turn this into a battlefield. After all, we’re all connected now, aren’t we? By blood, by bonds. My dear aunt,” he said, gesturing to Daenerys, “and my dear father, united through the jewel of this dynasty: Lady Y/N and her sons.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, though his composure never faltered. “Spare me your theatrics, Tyrion. This is no family reunion.”

Daenerys’s eyes flashed, and she took another step forward, her voice unwavering. “I did not come here to bandy words with a man who has brought ruin to my family. I came to speak with my sister.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into her, his tone as cutting as steel. “Your sister will see you when it is appropriate. Until then, you and your entourage will be escorted inside under heavy guard.”

Daenerys stiffened, her pride bristling at the command. “This is my ancestral home. I will not be treated as a prisoner.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly, the closest thing to a smile he would allow. “You will be treated with the caution befitting your arrival. You come as a foreign invader, with dragons and armies at your back. If you expected open arms, you have miscalculated.”

Tyrion stepped in again, his voice tinged with urgency. “Perhaps we could all take a moment to remember the bigger picture here. The realm is on the brink of collapse—dragons, wars, winters, and all that. Maybe we shouldn’t start this family meeting with threats.”

Jaime’s voice broke through for the first time, calm but carrying a hint of curiosity. “It’s not every day we see a girl disembark with such confidence. I’d almost forgotten Targaryens had a flair for dramatics, Y/N rarely uses it.”

Daenerys’s glare shifted to Jaime. “And it’s not every day I stand before the man that murdered my father.”

Jaime’s face tightened, but he said nothing. Tywin, however, stepped forward, his presence commanding as he addressed Daenerys directly. “If you wish to speak with your sister, you will do so under my terms. Disregard that, and you will not step inside this keep.”

Daenerys’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. “Then lead the way.”

Tywin motioned to the soldiers, who formed a protective line around Daenerys and her delegation. Tyrion lingered by her side, his expression thoughtful. “This is off to a fine start,” he muttered, earning a sharp glance from Daenerys.

As they moved toward the castle, Daenerys cast one final glance over her shoulder at Viserion, who watched from her perch with a low growl, her armor glinting in the light. But Daenerys would not back down. Not now. Not ever.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was bathed in the amber glow of firelight, its ancient stone walls towering and imposing. The carved dragons that adorned the pillars seemed to loom larger in the flickering shadows, their fiery gazes mirroring the dread in the air. Daenerys Targaryen, flanked by Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and a small contingent of her loyal Unsullied, stepped into the hall with deliberate grace, her eyes scanning the space with equal parts determination and wariness.

At the far end of the room, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, stood near the Painted Table, his hands folded neatly before him. A faint smile played on his lips, his watchful gaze sweeping over Daenerys and her entourage. His expression bordered on amusement, though it was tempered by his usual inscrutability.

Tyrion caught the look and quipped under his breath, loud enough for Varys to hear, “You look far too pleased with yourself, Varys. Have you missed me that much?”

Varys’s lips twitched as he turned his attention to Tyrion. “Always a pleasure to see you, my lord. Though I must admit, I find the situation more fascinating than amusing.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Of course you do. This must be a feast for your endless curiosity.”

Before Varys could respond, Tywin Lannister, standing near the head of the hall, cleared his throat. The sound silenced the murmurs and brought all attention to him. “Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We have no time for your games, Varys.”

Varys inclined his head slightly, his tone unbothered. “Games, my lord? I merely appreciate the gravity of this moment.” His gaze flicked to Daenerys. “A reunion long overdue, I believe.”

Daenerys’s expression remained impassive, though her posture stiffened slightly. “And where is my sister?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with impatience.

Varys turned back to Tywin, his voice calm. “Ser Barristan Selmy is escorting her here as we speak. She will join us shortly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though he gave a curt nod. The hall fell into a tense silence as all eyes turned toward the heavy doors at the end of the chamber.

Moments later, the doors creaked open, and the sound of measured footsteps echoed through the hall. You stepped inside, your silver hair catching the firelight as you moved with quiet confidence. At your side, Ser Barristan Selmy walked with his usual air of calm authority, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Daenerys’s breath hitched as she saw you for the first time. The woman before her was undeniably Targaryen—silver hair, violet eyes, the unmistakable features of Valyrian descent. But there was something more, something distinctly your own. Your expression held a softness, a quiet warmth that seemed at odds with the guarded look in your eyes.

For a moment, Daenerys could only stare, her thoughts racing. This was the sister she had heard about in whispers, the one Viserys had spoken of with equal parts bitterness and longing. You were older, wiser, shaped by experiences Daenerys could only imagine.

You stopped a few paces from the gathering, your gaze sweeping over Daenerys and her entourage before settling on her. A faint smile touched your lips, though it was tempered by caution. “Daenerys,” you said softly, your voice steady but tinged with emotion. “We finally meet.”

Daenerys took a step forward, her own expression softening. “You’re… different from what I imagined.”

Your smile grew faintly wry. “And what did you imagine?”

“Someone like Viserys,” Daenerys admitted, her voice quiet. “But you’re not.”

Your gaze darkened slightly at the mention of Viserys, though you kept your tone light. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

Tyrion, ever the mediator, stepped forward with a flourish. “Well, this is positively heartwarming. The Targaryen sisters, reunited at last. It’s enough to bring a tear to the eye, isn’t it, Varys?”

Varys arched a brow but said nothing, his gaze shifting between you and Daenerys with quiet interest.

Tywin, however, was less amused. “Enough of this,” he said coldly. He turned his sharp gaze on Daenerys. “You wanted to meet your sister. Now you have. If there is more to discuss, we will do so on terms that serve the realm.”

Daenerys bristled at his tone but forced herself to remain quiet.

You placed a hand on Tywin’s arm, your touch light but firm. “Let us speak, Tywin. There is much to say.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly, stepping back to allow the sisters to move closer. You turned your full attention to Daenerys, your expression softening once more.

“Come,” you said gently. “Let’s talk.”

The tension in the Great Hall of Dragonstone grew thicker as the gathered parties settled into place. Daenerys, standing with her delegation, exuded an air of resolve, but the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes was unmistakable. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the Painted Table, his gaze flicking between the two sisters like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. You sat beside him, your expression calm but unreadable.

Daenerys inhaled deeply before stepping forward, addressing you directly. “I have come here to seek your support, sister. Together, we can reclaim what was stolen from our family. The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his disapproval clear. His eyes narrowed as he leaned slightly forward, but he said nothing, allowing you to respond.

You turned your gaze to Daenerys, your voice steady as you asked, “Why?”

Daenerys blinked, slightly taken aback. “Why?” she echoed, as though the question itself was absurd.

“Yes, why?” you pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Why do you want the Iron Throne? What is it that drives you to seek it?”

Daenerys’s posture stiffened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. She glanced briefly at Tyrion, who remained silent, watching the exchange with a mix of curiosity and caution. Finally, Daenerys straightened her shoulders and replied with conviction, “Because it is my birthright. Our family ruled Westeros for three hundred years. The throne was taken from us by traitors and usurpers. I was born to sit on it.”

You regarded her quietly, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Then, with a calm but firm voice, you replied, “You are mistaken.”

Daenerys frowned, visibly thrown off by your response. “Mistaken? How can I be mistaken? I am one of the last Targaryen born of our father’s line.”

You raised a brow, your tone unyielding. “By that logic, the claim does not belong to you. It belongs to me as the eldest surviving child of Aerys II, or to my sons, who follow me in the line of succession. Even if you pressed your claim further, the lords of Westeros would never accept you as their queen.”

Daenerys’s expression faltered, her lips parting as though to argue, but no words came immediately. Tyrion stepped forward, his tone light but edged with caution. “Siblings arguing about succession—a tale as old as the Iron Throne itself. But perhaps we should focus less on who deserves it and more on why it matters.”

Daenerys shot him a glance but turned her focus back to you, her voice more measured now. “I do not claim to be the heir above you, but you have not pressed your claim. You have allowed the realm to be ruled by Lannisters and usurpers. Do you not see what the Iron Throne represents? It is the heart of Westeros, the seat of power. If we do not reclaim it, who will?”

Your expression remained calm, though a flicker of something—pain, perhaps—crossed your eyes. “And what will you do with it, Daenerys? Will you sit upon that throne surrounded by the ashes of what you burned to claim it? Will you rule a kingdom of fear and fire, as our father tried to do?”

Daenerys bristled, her tone sharp. “I am not our father. I am not the Mad King. I seek to bring peace, justice, and freedom to the realm.”

You leaned back slightly, studying her intently. “Freedom… from what? From whom? You arrive on Westeros’s shores with foreign armies and dragons, demanding allegiance. The lords and smallfolk will see you not as a liberator, but as an invader.”

Daenerys’s voice rose slightly, her frustration evident. “You sound like Tyrion. He warned me of this, but what choice do I have? Should I stand aside while others rule a throne that should be ours?”

Your voice dropped, quiet but cutting. “The Iron Throne is cursed, Daenerys. It has brought ruin to everyone who sought it, everyone who sat upon it. Our father went mad clinging to its power. Our brother Rhaegar lost his life and his family for it. I lost everything to it.”

Daenerys stared at you, her breath catching at the raw emotion in your words. She tried to speak, but you raised a hand to stop her.

“I have spent my life cleaning up the ashes left by our father’s reign,” you continued, your tone heavy with conviction. “I have seen what the pursuit of that throne costs. And I will not see my sons burned for a seat of melted swords.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Tyrion seemed at a loss for words, his usual quips silenced by the gravity of the moment.

Daenerys’s voice was quieter now, almost pleading. “Sister, we could change things. Together, we could break the cycle of suffering.”

You regarded her for a long moment, your gaze softening but remaining firm. “Perhaps we can. But not by chasing a throne that has destroyed so many before us.”

Tywin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke, his voice calm but menacing. “This conversation is over for today. You will be escorted to your chambers. We will speak further when the time is right.”

Daenerys hesitated but nodded, her jaw tight as she stepped back. Tyrion placed a hand on her arm, guiding her toward the exit.

As she left the hall, her mind churned with frustration and doubt. The sister she had imagined for so long was not the ally she had hoped for. But Daenerys Targaryen was not one to give up easily.

And neither, it seemed, was her sister.