Chapter 31: The Dragon Queen's Shadow Over a Broken Land
Seven years. Seven long, grim years had passed since the day King's Landing became a monument of ash and glass, since Casterly Rock was unmade from the world. Seven years since Robb Stark, the King of Ash and Light, had delivered his terrible, absolute judgment upon House Lannister and its allies, and then upon the traitors within his own ranks. Westeros had been reshaped by a power that defied comprehension, its old order shattered, its future uncertain, hanging under the silent, watchful gaze of the Sun King in the North.
In the East, Daenerys Targaryen had not been idle. The whispers of Robb Stark's cataclysmic power, carried by Ser Barristan Selmy, had initially thrown her plans into disarray, her Targaryen pride clashing with a chilling, pragmatic fear. But Daenerys was a survivor, a queen forged in fire and betrayal. She had adapted. Meereen, after many trials, had become the heart of a burgeoning Essosi Queendom, Slaver's Bay pacified not just by her Unsullied legions and Dothraki screamers, but by the ever-growing terror of her three dragons. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion were magnificent, terrifying beasts now, their scales like living gemstone, their wings spanning scores of feet, their roars shaking the very foundations of her pyramids, their flames hot enough to melt steel and turn sand to glass. They were the ultimate weapons, the living embodiment of her House's ancient motto: Fire and Blood. And they were, she believed, finally ready.
Her council had also evolved. Ser Jorah Mormont, older now, his face etched with the weariness of endless campaigns and the unspoken sorrow of his exile, remained her steadfast, if often melancholic, advisor. Ser Barristan Selmy, forever marked by what he had witnessed in Winterfell, was her unwavering shield, his honor a beacon in the often-murky waters of her rule. Missandei, no longer a girl but a young woman of remarkable intellect and grace, was her most trusted confidante and interpreter of cultures. Grey Worm commanded her Unsullied with stoic perfection. Daario Naharis, his flamboyant charm tempered by years of genuine service, led her Stormcrows and often her heart, though she kept that part of herself carefully guarded.
And then there was Tyrion Lannister. The Imp, the last widely known surviving son of House Lannister (though his own allegiances were complex), had found his way to her court a few years prior, a bitter, cynical, brilliant wreck of a man fleeing the ruins of his family's legacy and the terrifying new order in Westeros. He had offered her his mind, his knowledge of the land she sought to reclaim, and his undying hatred for his sister Cersei (who, he eventually learned, had perished in Robb Stark's fiery judgment). Daenerys, after much initial suspicion, had accepted his counsel. He had proven invaluable, his insights into Westerosi politics and his sharp, pragmatic advice a necessary counterpoint to her own sometimes impulsive idealism. It was Tyrion who had most astutely analyzed the "Sun King" phenomenon, painting Robb Stark not as a mere tyrant, but as a strategic, if terrifyingly overpowered, anomaly.
In the North, King Robb Stark ruled a vast, silent kingdom. The North and the Trident were his, their borders sealed by his fearsome reputation. He had not ventured south of the Trident since his return from the Westerlands. His rule was said to be harsh but just, his laws strictly enforced, his productivity (thanks to agricultural and organizational reforms that Maester Luwin had once marveled at) surprisingly high. But it was a kingdom held in the grip of awe and fear. The King rarely appeared in public, and when he did, Rhitta was ever at his side, a constant, silent reminder of his apocalyptic power. His mother, Catelyn Stark, had faded some years past, her mind lost, and was buried with quiet grief beside her Tully ancestors in Riverrun. Bran, his crippled younger brother, was now a young man with unnervingly perceptive eyes, serving as one of Robb's closest advisors, his insights often bordering on the prophetic. Rickon was growing into a wild Northman, fostered with the Greatjon Umber.
Robb's true focus, the whispers from the North maintained, was not on southern politics, but on the Wall, and the ancient, icy threat stirring beyond it. He had poured resources into the Night's Watch, heavily fortified the ancient defenses, and even led expeditions himself into the Haunted Forest, his Sunshine-powered abilities reportedly holding back blizzards and shattering ice wraiths. He was preparing for a different kind of war, a war against a winter that had nothing to do with seasons.
The five southern kingdoms Robb had contemptuously "left to others" were a fractured, fearful mess. King's Landing was a shunned, uninhabitable wasteland, its destruction a constant, terrifying legend. The Stormlands were a patchwork of feuding minor lords. The Reach, under the cautious and now deeply isolationist guidance of Olenna Tyrell (Mace and Margaery having perished in King's Landing), had withdrawn into itself, its famed chivalry and bounty now hoarded behind fortified borders. Dorne, under Prince Doran Martell, watched, waited, and gathered its strength, its ancient enmity for the Lannisters sated in a way it had never imagined, now replaced by a profound wariness of the new power in the North. Stannis Baratheon still brooded on Dragonstone, his claim to a non-existent Iron Throne now a bitter jest, his Red Priestess perhaps looking for new prophecies in her flames, ones that accounted for suns walking the earth.
It was Tyrion Lannister, ironically, who finally convinced Daenerys that the time to act had come.
"Your Grace," he said one evening in the Meereenese twilight, as Drogon roared from the pyramid's peak, "Robb Stark has created a power vacuum in the south of Westeros. He has shattered the old order and shown no inclination to fill the void himself beyond his northern borders. The people are terrified, leaderless. They yearn for stability, for any respite from the fear his reign, however distant, inspires. Stannis is a spent force. The Tyrells and Martells are too afraid to make a major move. If you are ever to reclaim your birthright, or at least a significant portion of it, now is the time. Your dragons are grown. Your army is loyal. And Westeros… Westeros is ripe for a new narrative, a new ruler who offers something other than annihilation or fear."
"And Stark?" Daenerys asked, the name still sending a shiver down her spine despite her own growing power. "He threatened my dragons, Tyrion. He threatened me."
"He did," Tyrion conceded, sipping his wine. "And he is undoubtedly capable of carrying out those threats if provoked within his own domain. But his warning was specific: the North and the Trident. He essentially gifted you the other five kingdoms, albeit in ruins. Perhaps he meant it. Perhaps he truly has no interest in ruling the whole continent, especially not now that his vengeance is sated and he has this… northern darkness… to contend with." Tyrion, through his own information network, had learned much of Jon Snow and the growing threat beyond the Wall, a threat Robb Stark seemed to be taking with utmost seriousness. "A parley, Your Grace. Land at Dragonstone. Issue a proclamation. Offer to meet. See how he responds. He may be a monster to his enemies, but even monsters can be reasoned with if their interests align, or if they are left undisturbed in their lairs."
And so, after seven long years, Daenerys Stormborn, with her three colossal dragons, her legions of Unsullied, her Dothraki bloodriders, and a vast fleet, finally set sail for Westeros. It was not the triumphant invasion she had once dreamed of, but a more cautious, calculated return, her heart filled with a mixture of fierce determination, Targaryen pride, and a healthy dose of fear for the Sun King whose shadow lay heavy over the land.
She landed at Dragonstone, her ancestral seat. The island fortress, long neglected under Stannis Baratheon's grim rule, felt cold and unwelcoming, but the sight of her dragons – Drogon's black scales like polished obsidian, Rhaegal's emerald fire, Viserion's creamy gold – circling the smoking volcano filled her with a renewed sense of destiny. Stannis Baratheon and his few remaining followers had reportedly fled north to the Wall weeks before her arrival, seeking common cause with the Night's Watch, or perhaps asylum from the coming storm. Dragonstone was hers without a fight.
From its ancient stone drum tower, Daenerys Targaryen issued her proclamation to the Seven Kingdoms, or what was left of their ruling houses. She announced her return, her claim as the rightful Queen, her intent to bring order and justice to a broken land. And she addressed Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident.
"To Robb of House Stark, King in the North and of the Trident," her message, carried by raven and by swift ships to White Harbor, read. "I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Mother of Dragons, have returned to the land of my birth to reclaim my father's throne and heal a shattered kingdom. I have heard tell of your might, and of the great and terrible deeds you have wrought in the name of justice for your own house. The Lannister tyranny is ended, their heartland a wasteland, their capital a memory. This, I acknowledge."
"I make no immediate claim upon your declared kingdoms of the North and the Trident, so long as your rule remains just and your borders respected. However, the five southern kingdoms cry out for leadership, for a true sovereign to restore peace and prosperity. This task falls to me, the last of the Dragon Kings."
"I propose a parley, King Robb. Let us meet, under a flag of truce, at a neutral location – perhaps the Isle of Faces, sacred to gods old and new. Let us speak, not as conquerors, but as rulers who share a continent. There are threats that concern all mortal men, shadows that lengthen from both the distant East and the frozen North. Perhaps our fires, yours of the Sun and mine of the Dragon, might together hold back a darkness greater than either of us can face alone."
"Send your reply to Dragonstone. The Mother of Dragons awaits the word of the Sun King."
The news of Daenerys Targaryen's landing, her three full-grown dragons, her massive army, and her proclamation, sent fresh tremors of fear and excitement through Westeros. In Highgarden, Olenna Tyrell immediately dispatched ravens, not of defiance, but of cautious welcome and offers of… dialogue. In Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell watched, his intricate plans perhaps finding a new, unexpected variable. The lesser lords of the Stormlands and the Crownlands waited to see which way the wind would blow, or rather, which cataclysmic power would prevail.
In Winterfell, the raven arrived on a cold, windswept morning. Maester Luwin, older now and frailer but his eyes still sharp, brought the message to Robb Stark in the Great Hall. Robb, his iron-and-weirwood crown resting on his auburn hair, now shot with premature threads of silver at his temples despite his ageless physique, listened as the proclamation was read. Rhitta leaned beside his throne, its golden surface absorbing the weak morning light, a silent, potent sentinel. Bran, his face serene and unnervingly perceptive, watched his brother from a specially constructed chair.
When Luwin finished, a heavy silence filled the hall. The Northern lords present – Greatjon Umber, his beard now mostly grey but his eyes still fierce; Maege Mormont, a pillar of Northern stoicism; Wyman Manderly, his bulk now a symbol of the North's restored prosperity – looked to their King.
Robb's expression was unreadable. He remembered Ser Barristan's visit seven years ago. He remembered his own brutal warning. "Eat dragon for dinner." Had this Targaryen Queen forgotten? Or did she believe her lizards had grown large enough to challenge the sun?
He thought of the Wall, of Jon's increasingly desperate messages, of the Others, the true enemy. "Threats that concern all mortal men," her message had said. Had she learned of them? Or was it merely a diplomatic ploy?
"A parley," Robb finally said, his voice a low rumble. "She offers a parley, after landing an invading army on the shores of my continent."
"She lands on Dragonstone, Your Grace," Bran interjected, his voice strangely resonant. "An island. Her ancestral seat. She makes no overt move against your established borders. And she speaks of… greater threats."
Robb looked at his younger brother, whose pronouncements often held an uncanny wisdom. "And what do your 'dreams' tell you of this Dragon Queen, Bran?"
Bran met his gaze. "They tell me she brings fire, brother. Great fire. But whether it is a fire to cleanse, or a fire to consume all that remains… that path is not yet set. She is a variable. And a powerful one."
Robb considered. His warning to Daenerys had been absolute regarding his own kingdoms. Dragonstone was not part of them. Her offer of parley, her acknowledgment of his rule in the North and Trident (however conditional), her hint of greater threats… it was either a very clever trap, or a genuine, if desperate, attempt at coexistence or even alliance from a rival power who understood the new realities of the world.
Tony Volante's mind analyzed the percentages, the risks, the potential rewards. Escanor's pride chafed at any perceived challenge, yet also acknowledged a foe who commanded dragons might be… interesting. And Robb Stark, the King who had brought such terrible ruin in the name of justice, felt a flicker of something he hadn't felt in years: curiosity. And perhaps, just perhaps, a sliver of hope that he was not entirely alone in facing the true Long Night.
"Maester Luwin," Robb Stark said, his decision made. "Prepare a raven. The King in the North will meet with the Dragon Queen. On the Isle of Faces, as she proposes. Under a flag of truce. Each may bring a small honor guard, no more than one hundred men. And," a chill entered his voice, "she may bring one of her dragons, to demonstrate her… sincerity. I, in turn, will bring Rhitta."
He looked at his stunned lords. "It seems a new game is beginning after all. Let us see if this Targaryen Queen has learned the rules of the one that just ended."
The air in the Great Hall crackled with unspoken anticipation. The Sun King was going to meet the Dragon Queen. And the fate of Westeros, perhaps the world, hung in the balance.