Chapter 98: Dragonstone’s Choice

Daenerys Targaryen received the northern news at Dragonstone.

It came by merchant ship, captured sellswords, whisper networks across the Narrow Sea, and sources Varys admitted existed with the humility of a man who expected no one to believe him. Jon Snow’s party had wounded the Night King at Howling Gorge. The ritual had been interrupted. The survivors were trapped. Arthur Greyoak and the Night’s Watch had sent rescue. Stannis Baratheon was at the Wall. The dead were pressing south.

At first, Daenerys dismissed most of it.

Not entirely. She was not a fool. But Westeros had produced many useful lies since her return. Northern lords and Night’s Watch men begging for aid had every reason to turn old stories into urgent policy. The Westerlands lord who had seized Casterly Rock and marched north had reason to make himself look like the shield of the living. Cersei had reason to lie. The Tyrells had reason to lie. Everyone had reason to lie. Politics, Daenerys had learned, was mostly men lying until someone brought soldiers.

Her eyes remained on the south.

King’s Landing.

The Iron Throne.

The stolen seat of her fathers.

Her Unsullied drilled on Dragonstone’s black shore. Her Dothraki grew restless beneath grey skies and stone walls. Her fleet waited in anchorages, sails furled, crews ready. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion flew above the island, living proof that House Targaryen had returned with teeth.

Then the reports became more specific.

Not just monsters. White Walkers.

Not just cold. Corpses that moved.

Not just battle. A king of the dead wounded by Valyrian steel and dragonglass.

Daenerys began to dream.

She saw blue eyes in darkness. She saw fire guttering beneath ice. She saw a throne covered in snow. She saw dragons screaming at something pale and crowned by cold. The House of the Undying had shown her many things, and most had been poisonous in the way prophecy liked to be. Yet the old words returned.

Ice and fire.

Her advisors divided themselves neatly, because humans under pressure enjoyed becoming problems with names.

Tyrion Lannister advised caution. “Your Grace, the North is a pit of fog, grudges, and very cold men insisting their problems are older than yours. We have not secured the south. Diverting dragons before King’s Landing falls is risky.”

“Risky,” Daenerys said. “A useful word. It can mean wise, cowardly, or inconvenient.”

“In this case, all three may apply.”

Varys advised opportunity. “The crisis at the Wall has drawn every major eye north. Cersei is consolidating. The Tyrells are watching. Dorne calculates. The Vale trades in advantage. If Your Grace is seen answering a threat to all living people, you gain what conquest alone cannot give: legitimacy beyond blood.”

Ser Barristan Selmy said little at first. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of old service.

“House Targaryen’s words are Fire and Blood. But fire was not only conquest. Dragons made the Seven Kingdoms, yes, but they also defended what they ruled. Prince Rhaegar believed deeply in prophecy. Too deeply, perhaps. But if he had heard that the ancient enemy had returned, he would have gone north.”

Daenerys looked at him. “And my father?”

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Barristan’s face tightened. “Your Grace is not your father.”

A kind answer. Also an evasive one. Both had their place.

The final argument came from her children.

The closer they came to Westeros, and the more the news from the North spread, the more restless the dragons became. Drogon flew north more often, circling high and roaring toward the cold horizon. Rhaegal and Viserion answered him. At night, they shifted in their sleep, claws scraping stone, smoke curling from their jaws. Once, Drogon tried to fly north alone, and Daenerys had to call him back with all the force of the bond between them.

What she felt from him was not hunger.

Not anger alone.

Recognition.

Hatred.

A deep, instinctive hostility toward something that should not exist.

That frightened her more than Varys’s whispers.

Daenerys stood atop the Stone Drum, sea wind tearing at her silver-gold hair. The horizon lay grey and hard before her. Behind her stood Tyrion, Varys, and Barristan. Above, Drogon circled with slow beats of his wings.

“If the legends are true,” she said, “what is the Iron Throne worth?”

Tyrion looked at her carefully.

“A great deal, to many people.”

“To corpses?”

“No. Corpses tend to have poor respect for institutions.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

“If those things threaten all Westeros,” she continued, “then a crown is an ice carving waiting to melt or freeze. Power means nothing if the world beneath it dies.”

Varys bowed his head. “Your Grace sees far.”

“I see enough. That is not the same thing.”

She turned.

“Arthur Greyoak and Jon Snow fight at the Wall and wound the Night King. Stannis burns himself for duty. Cersei sits in King’s Landing. The Tyrells calculate. Dorne waits. The Vale profits. If I hide in the south until others become saviors, what do I become? Another claimant with dragons and a better story about entitlement?”

Tyrion opened his mouth, then closed it. A rare event, and therefore worth appreciating.

Daenerys walked to the map table and placed her hand on the Wall.

“I am going north.”

The words landed hard.

Tyrion sighed. “Naturally. Because invading one continent was not enough; we must inspect the end of the world first.”

“The main fleet continues to Dragonstone and Claw Isle,” Daenerys said. “Grey Worm leads the Unsullied. Some Dothraki remain with him. They will create the appearance of preparation against King’s Landing and the Stormlands. Cersei must not know where my true attention lies until I choose.”

Varys nodded slowly. “A feint.”

“A useful one. You and Tyrion remain with the main force. Gather intelligence. Speak to whoever still has ears and ambition.”

Tyrion looked displeased. “You are taking the dragons.”

“I am taking Drogon, Rhaegal, Viserion, a small Unsullied guard, and my bloodriders. We sail fast to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. From there, I go to Castle Black.”

Barristan stepped forward. “Then I go with you.”

“No,” she said.

His face showed pain before obedience. “Your Grace—”

“You will serve me by helping hold the south. If I need a sword at the Wall, I will have dragons.”

“Dragons cannot advise.”

“Neither do they ask me to stay behind stone while men face the end.”

That silenced him.

The plan moved quickly after that. Three fast ships left under cover of night, sailing north while the main fleet continued its louder posture near Dragonstone. Drogon flew above Daenerys’s ship. Rhaegal and Viserion rested uneasily on the masts and decks of the other vessels, great wings folded, eyes glowing in the dark.

The voyage north was harsh.

Wind sharpened. Seas grew rougher. Drift ice appeared. Sailors who had crossed storms began muttering prayers when dragons snarled at the empty northern sky. The cold that reached them was thin compared to the Wall, but the dragons hated it. Daenerys could feel their disgust like heat beneath her own skin.

When Eastwatch-by-the-Sea appeared, crude and small beneath the impossible height of the Wall, Daenerys forgot to breathe for a moment.

No song had done it justice.

The Wall rose like the edge of the world, pale, cold, and ancient beyond human vanity. It made castles look temporary. It made thrones look ridiculous. Men had built it, or giants, or magic, or all three, and then had the nerve to forget why.

The Night’s Watch at Eastwatch nearly panicked when dragons descended over their harbor.

That was understandable. Men who did not panic at dragons were either dead, Targaryen, or lying for reputation.

Daenerys named herself and her purpose.

“I am Daenerys of House Targaryen, Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons. I have come to see the northern threat with my own eyes and to fight for the living, if the threat is true.”

The black brothers stared at her.

Then at Drogon.

Then back at her.

Wisdom arrived quickly.

A rider was sent to Castle Black. Daenerys did not wait for his return. She left most of her guard at Eastwatch to secure the ships and mounted Drogon. Rhaegal and Viserion took wing beside her. Below, a small party of bloodriders followed the road as best they could.

The Wall stretched westward beneath her.

Snowfields, frozen woods, black stone, pale ice, and the long line between life and the dead passed below. Daenerys flew toward Castle Black, and for the first time since crossing the sea, the Iron Throne felt far away.

Not forgotten.

Never forgotten.

Only smaller.