Chapter 157: The Sword and the Direwolf

For the west and the Trident came a joint embassy: Kator as military representative, an old river lord as political one. Their gifts had been chosen with intent: fine goldwork and gems of the west, furs and strong drink of the Trident, and one piece apart, a ceremonial longsword reforged of Valyrian steel, sapphires in the hilt, and etched into the blade the direwolf of Stark beside the new-made arms of House Greyoak, friendship with the Starks and homage to the queen in a single object. In Lord Arthur’s name, as Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Trident, Kator tendered the highest respect and congratulations, and reaffirmed the west’s recognition and support of the Targaryen queen’s rule. He noted particularly that Lord Arthur held the fortunes of House Stark close, Jon Snow’s and Arya Stark’s above all, and had already extended necessary humanitarian aid at Maester Luwin’s request; and he briefly explained the garrison at Harrenhal, emplaced to clear banditry and secure the Riverlands and the western Crownlands, purely defensive in nature, and ready at any hour to serve the kingdom under Her Grace’s direction. Recognition and support, in a low and careful posture: the sensitive fact volunteered before it could be demanded, the action braided to aid for the Starks and the kingdom’s security, loyalty expressed, a sphere of interest quietly drawn, and the door to cooperation left standing open.

When he finished, something almost gentle passed over the queen’s face, and her eyes went once more to the ceremonial sword. “My thanks to Lord Arthur for his congratulations and his support, and for his care and aid toward House Stark. Of Harrenhal I have heard. The lord is Lord Paramount of the Trident; their security is his charge. Yet it is a strategic place, and I trust him to manage it properly, and let no further incident arise from it to trouble the stability of the realm.” Tacit acknowledgment of his hold on the Trident and the sense of the garrison, one thread of admonition woven through, and, in the mention of the Starks, notice served that she had seen the west’s special relationship with the North, and had chosen, so far, not to oppose it.

The Vale’s envoy came near the end, an elegant young knight with a smile on his mouth and measurement in his eyes, for Lord Petyr Baelish, bearing seed grain, fine timber, and several volumes of rare old books. In terms of extreme respect he praised the queen’s great achievements and kingly bearing, and declared the Vale’s unreserved support, ready at any hour to answer her call and help rebuild the order and prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms. And then, with practiced anxiety, he raised the recent disturbing rumors: wildling movements beyond the Wall, instability within the North; Lord Petyr, from pure concern for the safety of the realm’s northern marches, had strengthened the Bloody Gate and the Vale’s northern defenses, and stood willing to render every possible assistance, should Her Grace require it, against threats out of the north. The most polished and complete of all the professions of loyalty, and inside it, neatly folded, the pre-justification of the Vale’s border musters, and the groundwork for a future march north wearing the crown’s colors.

Daenerys’s expression did not alter as she listened, and when he had finished she spoke slowly. “I receive Lord Petyr’s loyalty. As for the North: the Night’s Watch and Winterfell have their appointed duties. The kingdom is newly settled, and its first need is recovery, rest, and the restoration of order. Let every warden keep his own duties, guard his own borders, and secure the peace of his own people; and let none resort lightly to arms, save at true need.” It had the sound of general principle, and it was aimed: concern would not be accepted as a warrant for intervention, the season was for healing, and she did not wish to see the North set alight again.

After these came the lesser embassies: for the Stormlands, exiled lords loyal to the Baratheon name under Dornish occupation; for the Iron Islands, the fractured factions of Victarion and Asha, still sorting themselves after Euron’s ruin; and for the North, a representative nominally of Winterfell and actually of Maester Luwin, who described the North’s misery plainly and asked for aid. To each the queen gave the ritual answer in its correct weight: sympathy for the Stormlands’ plight; a requirement that the Iron Islands swiftly choose a lawful ruler and pledge to the Iron Throne; and for the North, a promise to consider necessary humanitarian support.

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The audience ran long, and its air held throughout that fine balance of surface courtesy over moving water. Daenerys showed a composure past her years, neither sharpened by victory nor moved by flattery or fencing, holding always the position of the realm’s ruler above its quarrels, answering every probe with the great correct words, the kingdom’s laws, peace and stability, recovery and rest, which preserved the new crown’s authority and left every hard negotiation its room. When the last envoy withdrew and silence returned, her gaze traveled once more across those complicated faces, and crossed, briefly, with Tyrion’s and Varys’s.

She knew what the day had been: a beginning, no more. The Reach’s war with Dorne; the west’s unspoken weight in the North; the Vale’s appetite for it; the ownership of the Stormlands; the chaos of the islands; the desolation beyond the Neck; problem upon problem wound about the feet of the newborn dynasty like wet rope. And the strongest cards in her hand, the dragons and the Unsullied, could win any war, and might win her no peace and no love at all.

“Today’s council is ended,” she said at last, and her voice carried firm and clear to the walls. “I have received the congratulations and the good wishes of the envoys. May the gods grant the Seven Kingdoms a swift return of peace and plenty. You have my leave to go.”

The envoys bowed themselves out in turn, and as each passed into the courtyard and felt again the physical pressure and furnace breath of the dragons lying there, more than one heart shivered without permission. The queen who had come home on dragonback would be no one’s instrument. Under the shadow of those wings, Westeros was entering a new round of the oldest game, played now for the shape of everything.

The spring chill still bit at Winterfell, and old snow clung stubbornly to the heavy grey walls and towers. In the heart of the godswood the great pale weirwood stood silent as ever, the face in its trunk more weathered and more pitying under the broken sunlight, as if it carried an ancient patience and an ancient knowledge, and the air held wet earth, rotting wood, and the stubborn afterscent of war and death.

Jon Snow leaned against the cold trunk, wrapped in heavy fur. His face was still paler than most men’s, but the grey direwolf eyes had their focus back, and behind the focus lay a weariness and a pain deeper than any he had carried before, and a confusion that pulled at the seams of him. In his hand, gripped white-knuckled, was a scroll with lightly charred edges: a letter from King’s Landing, from the queen who had just taken the Iron Throne on dragonback. Not a public decree; a private message, in earnest wording under the royal seal, addressed to Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, formerly of House Stark of Winterfell.

Daenerys praised, at length, his immortal contribution to the defense of mankind at the Wall, and grieved, at length, for his wounds. Then she came, painfully, to the worrying state of the North: Winterfell ungoverned, the great houses divided, the free folk question unresolved, and famine spreading. As ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, she could not sit idle while the loyal people of the North starved. And so, a suggestion, which was to say an arrangement built to refuse refusal: she implored the Lord Commander to set aside, temporarily, the defense of the Wall, the letter implying gently that the Watch was defunct and the threat beyond it dormant, return to Winterfell, and, as a representative of House Stark and a leader the northern people trusted, act as regent for northern affairs. King’s Landing would at once ship emergency grain and medicine by way of White Harbor and Seagard. And she hoped he would assist the crown in rebuilding effective rule at Winterfell, pacify the great houses, settle the free folk question properly, and prepare to welcome the Warden of the North, or royal envoy, whom the queen would appoint, to jointly formulate a long-term plan for the North’s governance and reconstruction. She closed by repeating her respect for House Stark and her great trust in Jon himself, confident he would put the larger picture first and choose rightly for the peace and future of the North.