Dragonstone
Daenerys had returned to the Painted Chamber with the same company as before, though now there were additional faces present—Varys and Missandei among them. Missandei was neither an advisor nor the most experienced voice in the room, indeed she was the youngest by far, yet Daenerys valued her loyalty and insight too deeply to exclude her from such a discussion. They had all been waiting at the gate when she arrived, so she had commanded them to gather here instead.
Ser Barristan entered last, his expression as stony and disciplined as ever. From Tyrion, Dany learned that her Hand had personally escorted her nephew to the guest chambers. Tyrion had added, with a faint trace of irritation, that he had intended to send one of the Unsullied instead, but Ser Barristan had taken charge before he could voice the suggestion.
If that tidbit had been offered to stir distrust in her mind regarding her Hand, it failed utterly. Daenerys understood Ser Barristan well enough. The old knight had questions—many of them—and escorting Daeron himself would have given him an opportunity to gauge the young king more closely. That was not insubordination; it was diligence.
She had called this meeting because the situation demanded clarity. Meeting and negotiating with Daeron had been inevitable from the moment she learned of his existence. Yet she had not expected it to happen so soon—certainly not while her only foothold in Westeros was Dragonstone. The timing unsettled her. Worse still, he had saved her life—hers and Drogon's, though she was loath to admit how close she had come to disaster. In doing so, he had placed her in his debt, and he had not hesitated to make that fact known before her small council.
"What do you think of this Daeron, Ser Barristan?" Tyrion asked, folding his hands together as he turned toward the old knight. "Surely you have more than a word or two to offer. I am told the two of you were rather engaged in deep conversation on the way to the guest chambers." His mismatched eyes narrowed slightly, studying Barristan with open curiosity.
Ser Barristan's gaze sharpened at once, though the irritation passed quickly. After a heartbeat, he turned instead to Daenerys, seeking silent permission. She inclined her head. She wanted to hear this.
"King Daeron," Barristan began carefully, "is a man of few words—much like the man who raised him, Eddard Stark. In our brief exchange, I was able to discern that many of the rumors surrounding him are, at least in part, true—as he may have already told you, Your Grace."
He paused before continuing. "He is learning to accept his Targaryen heritage. Raised in the North, he would not have grown up hearing praise of House Targaryen. Discovering his bloodline as he did… it would not have been easy to embrace. Yet he does not reject it either. He does not speak as a man who feels entitled to the Iron Throne."
That drew subtle reactions around the table.
"He claimed, however, that a great danger is rising in the North," Barristan continued. "He believes the realm must be united to stand against it. That, at least, he spoke of with conviction. And said that is his cause behind going for the Iron Throne."
"Not much to build a strategy upon," Tyrion interjected lightly, earning himself another brief glare from the old knight.
Daenerys ignored the tension between them. "Did he say anything more about this danger?" she asked, her tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. As far as she knows, Aegon is not North to Daeron, so what danger does he speak of other than his enemy?
"Nay, Your Grace," Ser Barristan replied, bowing his head slightly. "Our time was limited. Before I could press him further, we had reached the guest wing. I deemed it unwise to question him too much just after meeting him, lest I instill distrust."
His apology was subtle but genuine.
"So he sees himself as the savior of men and not a conqueror," Tyrion mused, tapping a finger lightly against the edge of the painted table. His gaze shifted toward Varys. "I hope there is no priest or priestess whispering in his ear, as Stannis Baratheon once had. We have seen what such counsel can do."
The eunuch had been doing his best to fade into the background, as was his habit when attention turned dangerous. But when addressed directly, a strained smile curved across Varys's round face. The silken ease usually present in his voice was noticeably absent when he spoke.
"Nay, my lord. There is no need for a priest," Varys replied quietly. "King Daeron requires none. He knows more of sorcery than most priests dare claim in the name of their gods."
That made several heads turn.
"I once believed it to be rumor," Varys continued, his hands folded neatly before him. "Drunkards' tales born in some cold inn in the North. But since arriving at Dragonstone, I have heard songs and whispers alike. Such is the mastery King Daeron possesses that he is said to have drawn a man back from his grave with potions of unknown making and rites long forgotten."
Varys's eyes flicked meaningfully toward Ser Barristan.
"Who has returned from the grave, Varys?" Tyrion asked lightly. "White Walkers, perhaps? Shall we expect them at supper?"
"Not White Walkers, my lord," Varys answered evenly. "The White Knight of your Silver Prince. His closest friend. The greatest swordsman of that age. Ser Arthur Dayne is said to walk again—reborn, healthy as a horse and now sworn as the sole Kingsguard to King Daeron."
The words hung heavy in the chamber.
"Did King Daeron not share that with you, Ser Barristan?" Varys asked, raising one brow as his gaze lingered on the old knight.
"Surely you jest," Tyrion said, nearly choking on his wine. He leaned heavily against the edge of the table, staring at Varys in disbelief. When Varys merely shook his head, Tyrion's expression shifted from amusement to something far more unsettled. He poured himself more wine without ceremony and drank deeply, as if hoping it might steady the world.
Ser Barristan's face remained a mask of stone. Not a single flicker of emotion escaped him. Yet Daenerys knew the man well enough to understand what must be churning beneath that calm exterior. Barristan had spoken often—and with reverence and pride—of Arthur Dayne when recounting tales of her brother Rhaegar. The Sword of the Morning had been a legend even among legends. And Barristand was proud to call Arthur his sworn brother.
"I need not spell it out, Your Grace," Tyrion said at last, setting his cup aside. "If Arthur Dayne stands beside him and proclaims that Prince Rhaegar lawfully wed Lady Lyanna Stark, then few in the realm would dare dispute it. The Sword of the Morning's word carries weight beyond parchments and seals."
"Lord Tyrion speaks true," Ser Barristan added, his voice thick but steady. "If Ser Arthur Dayne has sworn himself to King Daeron, then I would not doubt that Daeron is the trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna. Arthur would not lend his sword—or his honor—to falsehood."
The chamber grew still.
Daenerys exhaled slowly, her frustration evident. "Does it matter?" she asked at last, her tone edged with impatience. "Daeron commands the support of three kingdoms already. And I have heard from the Reach that Lady Olenna and her grandson lean more toward him than toward Aegon—or me."
She moved along the painted table, her fingers brushing over the carved lands of Westeros.
"With the Reach behind him and that large dragon of his we all witnessed, there is little to prevent him from marching on King's Landing should he choose. The Iron Fleet lies at the bottom of the sea or burned to ash. Our transport plans are in ruins. I cannot move my forces as we intended."
Her jaw tightened.
"So instead of debating his legitimacy—proven enough by dragonfire and by the names that gather to him—I would rather hear how we gain leverage in the alliance I intend to propose."
Frustration colored her voice, though beneath it lay calculation. She reminded herself, alliying with her nephew is not defeat, merely forced to adapt. Around the table, her council straightened.
"Your Grace, if you wish to gain leverage over him in an alliance, we must first determine what you possess that he requires," Tyrion began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Before the revelation of Ser Arthur Dayne's return, I was inclined to believe that your hand in marriage could lend his claim the final sheen of unquestionable legitimacy. Now…" He trailed off, brow furrowing. "Now I am not so certain that legitimacy is something he lacks."
Daenerys studied him closely. Before her gaze shifted elsewhere, she saw a spark ignite behind Tyrion's mismatched eyes. His posture straightened, and his lips parted in sudden realization.
"There is one thing, Your Grace," he said quickly, a note of excitement entering his voice. "One thing that may grant you true leverage."
"What is it?" Dany asked, impatience and curiosity warring within her tone.
"Your army," Tyrion replied at once. "The numbers you can bring to the field. King Daeron spoke of a great danger, did he not? If such danger exists, then he will require men—many men. Westeros is bled dry from its recent wars. The Riverlands are shattered, the Stormlands weakened, the North exhausted. Even the Vale and Dorne, spared the worst of it, cannot muster the kind of force you command. With a single marriage, you offer not only dragons, but tens of thousands of disciplined soldiers—Unsullied, Dothraki, and the remnants of loyal Westerosi houses."
He gestured broadly toward the painted map table.
"I believe you can demand far more in return than simple recognition. He needs strength. You have strength. That is leverage."
Tyrion finished with a satisfied smirk and took a long, triumphant swallow of wine, as if savoring both the drink and his argument.
"My Queen…" Missandei spoke softly, her voice hesitant yet earnest. "Would you be content to marry him?"
Daenerys turned to the young woman and offered her a gentle smile, though there was steel beneath it.
"There may be no wiser path," she said quietly. "To refuse and pursue another course might lead only to dragon dancing in the skies—fire against fire, blood against blood. The last time such pride ruled the blood of the dragon, it nearly destroyed my house and stole our greatest strength, our dragons."
Ser Barristan inclined his head in agreement. "It has happened before, and it cost the Targaryens dearly. Neither King Daeron nor Your Grace seems foolish enough to invite such ruin when no feud stands between you. An alliance forged in strength would serve the realm better than a war of dragons."
Tyrion, glancing out through the narrow window toward the dark sea beyond, muttered, "I would not be surprised if Daeron's dragon preferred war to alliance. That dragon has the look of something born for battle. There is a hunger in it—a madness almost."
Dany's expression hardened slightly at that.
"I will not discuss marriage or alliance until I understand this 'great danger' he speaks of," she declared firmly. "Lord Varys, see that I am fully informed."
"There is no need to send me searching, Your Grace," Varys replied smoothly, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. "I already possess the answer."
Daenerys's patience snapped. Her hands struck the edge of the painted table with a sharp crack.
"And you did not deem it worthy to share until now?" she demanded, anger flashing across her face. "Must I ask for every truth you hold, Spider?"
Varys bowed deeply, his bald head dipping again and again. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I found the matter… fantastical. Almost childish. I feared to trouble you with what sounded like a tale from an old wet nurse ."
"Speak plainly," Dany ordered.
"The danger King Daeron speaks of," Varys said carefully, "is the Long Night. He claims the White Walkers have returned. That the dead march once more. He says he has seen them, fought them, and that they come for all the living. Not only he—wildling clans beyond the Wall support his claim. And more troubling still, Your Grace, he has brought forth the Children of the Forest to testify on his behalf."
A murmur stirred in the chamber.
"This is what my little birds whisper," Varys concluded. "A second coming of winter. Of wights, pale kings of ice… and worse."
Tyrion set his wine cup down with a dull thud. "Did your birds also sing of giants at this grand gathering of doom?" he asked dryly. "Because I confess, I have always wished to see one. Giants and dragons were my favorites as a boy."
Mockery coated his words thick as the gathering storm outside the windows.
Varys's lips curved faintly.
"Then perhaps your childhood dream might come to fruition, Lord Tyrion," he said. "One of my birds insists that a giant fought in the war for Winterfell—alongside King Daeron."
The room fell silent once more.