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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Braavos, Essos
The Iron Bank's chamber felt colder than the Braavosi morning warranted, its grey stone walls unadorned save for iron braziers that cast more shadow than warmth. Eddard Stark sat across from three key holders, their faces as expressionless as the ledgers stacked between them. Beside him, Lord Wyman Manderly occupied considerably more of his chair, his bulk a reassuring presence that somehow made the austere room feel less hostile.
"Lord Stark." The center key holder, a gaunt man with parchment-pale skin, tapped a long finger against the polished table. "Your request is... substantial."
"The North prepares for winter," Eddard said simply. "We require grain, preserved foods, and materials for defensive preparations."
"Defensive preparations." The key holder's tone remained neutral, but his companion, a woman with iron-grey hair pulled severely back, leaned forward. "Against the Crown's new taxes, perhaps?"
"No." The word came out harder than Eddard intended. He felt Wyman shift beside him, the lord's rings clicking softly against the table's edge. "The North feeds itself. We seek investment for our people's survival, not charity to pay southern demands."
"Indeed," Wyman added, his voice carrying the smooth confidence of a man who'd sat in this very room before. "House Manderly has dealt with the Iron Bank for generations. We've never defaulted, never delayed. What Lord Stark proposes benefits all parties."
The third key holder, younger than the others with sharp Braavosi features, opened a ledger. "The sum you request could fund a small war. How do you propose repayment?"
Eddard reached into his cloak and withdrew a rolled parchment, the wax seal of Winterfell still intact. As he broke it, he caught Wyman's slight nod of encouragement. "The North offers something we've never sold as common commerce. Ironwood."
The temperature in the room seemed to shift. The woman's eyes sharpened while the younger man's quill paused mid-stroke.
"Ironwood." The gaunt key holder's voice betrayed the first hint of interest. "The North has guarded those groves since before the Andals came."
"Circumstances change." Eddard spread the parchment flat, revealing detailed figures in Maester Luwin's precise hand. "Ten-year exclusive contracts. The Iron Bank would have first selection rights on sixty to eighty trees annually. The North will decide on the number depending on the year."
"A mere eighty trees?" The woman's skepticism was palpable.
Wyman chuckled, a warm sound that filled the cold space. "My lady, a single ironwood beam can support a keep's great hall for hundreds of years. Ships built with ironwood planking have tested storms fearlessly. Eighty trees, properly marketed to the Free Cities, would be worth..." He paused, letting them complete the calculation themselves.
"Considerable," the younger key holder murmured, his quill moving rapidly across parchment.
"Lord Stark and I have discussed this extensively," Wyman continued, his fingers drumming a merchant's rhythm. "White Harbor will manage the shipping logistics. My own ships, my own captains. The Bank needn't concern itself with transportation."
The gaunt man's eyes moved between them. "And what surety do you offer?"
"House Manderly personally guarantees this loan alongside House Stark." Wyman's voice carried the weight of gold dragons. "My coffers stand as additional collateral. The vaults beneath the New Castle hold enough to cover the first three years' payments should any... difficulties arise."
Eddard watched the key holders exchange glances, saw the shift in their posture. Wyman's backing had transformed negotiation into near-certainty. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Luke Skywalker bent over maps in Winterfell's library, as he'd pointed to trade routes.
"Scarcity creates value," Luke had said, his accent still strange to Eddard's ears. "You could flood the market with ironwood, but then it becomes common. Control the supply, and you control the price."
Eddard had been skeptical until he'd shared the concept with Wyman during the Harvest Festival. The fat lord's eyes had lit up like a child's on his name day.
"Brilliant!" Wyman had exclaimed, wine sloshing dangerously in his cup. "Ice houses at White Harbor alone could preserve our entire fishing fleet's catch! Do you realize what this means?"
Luke had explained further, those strange abilities of his making candle flames dance as he spoke. The ironwood harvesting would create sawdust, massive amounts of it. That sawdust, packed properly, could insulate ice houses. Ice houses could preserve food for months, even years longer than what they can do currently.
"The ironwood sales create sawdust, the sawdust preserves food, the preserved food feeds your people through the Long Night—everything connects." Luke's eyes had held that distant look, as if seeing things beyond normal sight.
Wyman had grasped it immediately. "We could supply the Night's Watch for years with preserved food. Smoked fish, salted meat, pickled vegetables, all kept fresh far longer than traditional methods."
"Lord Stark?" The woman's voice pulled him back to the present. "You seem distant."
"Merely considering the benefits," Eddard replied. "The loan funds would go toward new fishing vessels for our coastal villages, doubling our food production. Ice houses using the sawdust from ironwood harvesting. Infrastructure that extends our storage capabilities."
"A comprehensive plan." The gaunt key holder closed his ledger with a decisive snap. "With Lord Manderly's guarantee, the risk becomes negligible."
"Then we have an agreement?" Eddard kept his voice level, though relief flooded through him.
"We do." The younger key holder began drawing up documents. "Exclusive ironwood contracts as collateral, Lord Manderly's backing as additional surety, guaranteed minimum prices to protect both parties."
Wyman beamed, his multiple chins wobbling with satisfaction. "Excellent. Simply excellent."
As they signed and sealed the documents, Eddard thought of Luke's final words on the matter: "The coming darkness won't be defeated by swords alone. Empty bellies and frozen bodies break faster than castle walls."
The business concluded, they rose to leave. The gaunt key holder offered something that might have been a smile. "The Iron Bank will be watching this venture with great interest, Lord Stark. Ironwood has been a dream of merchants for thousands of years."
Outside the Iron Bank's imposing entrance, Wyman clapped Eddard on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man. "That went even better than we hoped, my lord. Your strange advisor's ideas have merit."
Before Eddard could respond, Hallis Mollen approached quickly, his boots splashing through a puddle. He leaned close, voice low. "My lord, Asher Forrester sends word. He wishes to meet with you. Says it's urgent."
Wyman's eyebrows rose like twin caterpillars. "The exiled Forrester boy? Here in Braavos?"
Eddard nodded slowly, mind already turning. Asher had been exiled for the Whitehill incident, but the boy had been defending his lover's honor. If he'd risked coming this close to Westeros, the matter must be serious indeed.
"Shall I accompany you, my lord?" Wyman offered, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Best I handle this matter personally. Hallis, Wyllem and Harlon will be enough." Eddard adjusted his cloak against the Braavosi mist. "Return to the manse. If I'm not back within two hours, send Andar Royce with more men."
Wyman nodded, understanding flowing between them. Whatever Asher Forrester wanted, it likely touched on matters best kept from too many ears.
As Eddard followed Hallis through Braavos's winding streets, he wondered what could have drawn the exiled Forrester back toward danger. The boy had always been wild but never too foolish. His hand drifted to Ice's pommel, finding comfort in the ancient steel's presence.
The coming darkness Luke spoke of seemed to touch everything now, drawing the most unlikely players onto the board. First mysterious visitors from the sky, then the dead walking, and now exiled sons emerging from shadows. Eddard quickened his pace, eager to learn what new complication awaited him in this city of secrets and canals.
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The tavern door groaned on rusted hinges as Eddard pushed through, the warmth hitting him like a physical thing after the cold Braavosi evening. Smoke from cheap tallow candles mixed with the smell of fish stew and unwashed bodies. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, scanning the crowded common room. Sailors hunched over their cups, speaking in the various tongue of the docks. A Tyroshi with a forked green beard argued prices with a Lyseni merchant whose perfume couldn't quite mask the stench of the place.
There, at the back near the kitchens. Asher Forrester sat with his back to the wall, exactly where a sellsword would position himself. The years in Essos had changed him—broader shoulders, sun-darkened skin, a scar along his jaw that hadn't been there before. Beside him sat a woman built like a warrior, dark-skinned with the kind of stillness that spoke of readiness for violence. The third figure remained hooded, small and slight, hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
Eddard moved through the crowd, Hallis and Wyllem flanking him while Harlon stayed by the door. The conversations around them didn't pause—this wasn't the sort of establishment where anyone paid attention to anyone else's business. Good. That was likely why Asher had chosen it.
As they approached, Asher rose in a soldier's manner, his movements still carrying the training of his youth despite the sellsword's swagger he'd adopted. "My lord," he said, voice carrying genuine respect beneath the Essosi accent he'd picked up.
Eddard extended his hand. A Forrester was still a Northman, exile or no. Asher's grip was firm, calloused from sword work, but there was something like gratitude in the way he clasped Eddard's forearm in the old Northern fashion.
"Please, my lord, sit." Asher gestured to the bench across from him, waiting until Eddard was seated before resuming his own place. The courtesy hadn't been beaten out of him by his years across the Narrow Sea, then.
"How do you fare, Asher?" Eddard asked, studying the young man's face. "The life of a sellsword suits you?"
A bitter smile crossed Asher's features. "It keeps me fed, my lord. Fought for the Company of the Rose for a time, then the Windblown. Good men, some of them. Most are just trying to survive another day." His voice carried both pride and regret. "I've seen Tyrosh, Lys, even the Disputed Lands. Beautiful places, if you don't mind the blood in the soil."
"You were a fool," Eddard said quietly, "not thinking before you punched Gryff Whitehill."
Asher's jaw tightened. "He was disrespecting—"
"I know what he was doing." Eddard's voice remained level. "And I don't agree with your father's ruling. But Lord Forrester is my bannerman, and I cannot override his justice in his own lands. You understand that."
"I do, my lord." Asher's fingers drummed once against the scarred table, then stilled. "I've made my peace with it. Mostly."
Eddard sighed, feeling every one of his years. "I wish I could allow you home, lad."
"I understand Lord Stark's position." Asher's voice turned serious, losing the casual tone. "But I didn't ask for this meeting for myself."
Eddard's attention sharpened. "Then perhaps you should introduce your companions."
The words seemed to pull Asher from whatever thoughts had claimed him. "Of course. My apologies." He gestured to the warrior woman. "This is Beskha, saved my life more times than I can count. Best blade in Essos, though she'd gut anyone who said it too loud."
The woman snorted. "Only because you keep picking fights with entire sellsword companies."
"And this," Asher continued, his voice taking on an odd quality, "is the reason I asked to meet you."
The hooded figure reached up with pale, delicate hands and pushed back the hood.
Eddard's breath caught. Silver-gold hair spilled free, catching the candlelight like spun moonlight. Violet eyes met his, proud and wary in equal measure. The Valyrian features were unmistakable—high cheekbones, that particular cast to the jaw that marked the blood of Old Valyria. But more than that, she had the look of her brother Rhaegar around the eyes, though thankfully none of Aerys's madness lurked there.
Daenerys Targaryen. Here. In Braavos.
He looked between Asher and the girl, words failing him entirely. His mind raced through implications, possibilities, dangers. Robert would burn half the Free Cities to ash if he knew she was this close to Westeros. And Asher had brought her to me. Why?
Asher's grin held a edge of satisfaction at Eddard's speechlessness, but the girl lifted her chin and spoke first.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen." Her voice carried defiance despite the slight tremor beneath it. "And you are Lord Eddard Stark, the Usurper's… friend."
Hallis shifted behind Eddard, hand moving to his sword, but Eddard raised a finger slightly, stilling him.
His lord's courtesies reasserted themselves despite his shock. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Princess Daenerys."
Her eyes widened slightly, the only indication of surprise at the title. She'd expected hostility, perhaps, or denial of her birthright. Not acknowledgment.
Eddard cleared his throat, working moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth. "Princess Daenerys, I confess your presence here is... unexpected. May I ask how you came to be in Braavos, and in Asher Forrester's company?"
She lifted her chin higher, violet eyes never leaving his grey ones. "I fled my brother's attempt to sell me to a Dothraki horselord. Ser Jorah Mormont helped me escape, and these two"—she gestured to Asher and Beskha—"saved me from bounty hunters sent by Illyrio Mopyr."
Ice flooded Eddard's veins at that name. "Jorah Mormont is with you?" The words came out sharp as winter wind. "That slaver has no place walking free."
"He saved my life," Daenerys interrupted, those violet eyes flashing with sudden fire. "Whatever his past crimes, he has been nothing but honorable in my service. I would ask you to consider pardoning him, Lord Stark."
"You would ask?" Eddard kept his voice controlled, though anger stirred beneath it. "The man sold men into slavery. Northern men. Even if they were criminals, even if they were poachers, they were still men. Not cattle."
She leaned forward, and for a moment Eddard saw not a frightened girl but something else, something that had steel beneath the silk. "And what of your friend, the Usurper? How many children did he murder? Rhaenys was three. Aegon hadn't seen his second nameday. Yet you call him brother." Her voice trembled now, caught between fear and defiance.
The tension thickened like morning fog off the canals. Asher shifted uncomfortably while Beskha's hand drifted toward the curved blade at her hip. Even the nearby conversations seemed to quiet, though perhaps that was just Eddard's imagination.
The accusation sat heavy in his chest, a stone he'd carried for years. Elia's screams still visited his dreams sometimes, though he'd only heard them described. The blood on the throne room floor. The small bodies wrapped in Lannister cloaks.
"It was Tywin and his men but I don't excuses Robert as his sins are his own," he said finally, each word measured. "And they weigh on me. But I am not here as Robert's friend nor Tywin's. I am here as Lord of Winterfell, and you sought this meeting. What is it you want, Princess?"
The defiance wavered, cracking like ice in spring. "I... I have nowhere to go. Essos will hunt me for Illyrio's gold. Westeros..." She swallowed, and suddenly she looked very young. "I dream of a great wall of ice, of dragons soaring above fields of snow, of two boys dueling—one with dark hair, one with auburn. There's a man who carries a blade of pure light, who moves things without touching them, whose very presence feels like standing near a heartfire in winter. I know they sound strange and…"
Eddard's stillness was absolute. She was describing the Wall. Describing Jon and Robb's training. Describing Luke Skywalker.
"The dreams tell me I must go North," she continued, voice barely above a whisper now. "But I am the Mad King's daughter. How can I trust that your honor extends to me? That you won't deliver me to your king for his justice?"
"You dream of them and the Wall?" The words came out strangled. Something shifted in Eddard's understanding, pieces clicking together like Myrish puzzle boxes. "These dreams... when did they begin?"
"When I received these." She pulled back her cloak carefully, revealing a leather bag at her side. "Dragon eggs, from Illyrio. Dead stone, he called them, but they sing to me in my sleep. They show me visions of ice and fire meeting, of a war that will determine the fate of all living things."
Luke's words. The coming darkness. Ice and death marching south. And now this girl, the blood of the dragon, dreaming of his sons and the Wall. The gods had a sense of humor darker than a moonless night.
"Princess, I believe—"
Asher's entire body went rigid. "My lord, we have company."
Eddard's, fully alert now, stood with his hand found Ice's pommel. He counted eleven men rising from various tables, moving with the coordinated ease of professionals. They'd been there all along, scattered through the crowd, waiting.
"Forgive me, Princess," a gruff voice called from the shadows near the stairs. Jorah Mormont stepped into the flickering light, his hand already on his sword. "I know you commanded me to stay away, but old habits die hard."
Daenerys's face flushed with anger. "Jorah! I told you—"
"To remain at the safe house, yes." The exiled knight's eyes never left the bounty hunters. "But a knight who abandons his charge to follow orders blindly is no true knight at all."
Eddard's jaw clenched. The slaver dared speak of knighthood? But there was no time for that argument now.
Daenerys's face drained of color, then flushed with rage. "So this was a trap! You have no honor, Usurper's dog!"
"These are not my men." Eddard stood slowly, drawing Ice partially from its sheath. Ice whispered against leather, and the nearest sellswords stepped back. They knew that look of Valyrian steel, knew what it meant.
One of them, scarred and gap-toothed, grinned at Asher. "Should've killed me when you had the chance, Forrester. Would've been cleaner."
Beskha cursed in what sounded like three different languages. "I told you we should have gone after him. But no, you wanted to send a message."
"What is this?" Eddard demanded, though he suspected he knew.
"Bounty hunters," Asher explained quickly, hand on his sword. "We saved the Princess from them earlier. Let one go as a warning to the others."
"Seems they didn't take the warning," Beskha added, her blade already half-drawn.
Eddard pulled Ice free entirely, the Valyrian steel catching what little light the tavern offered. The blade was too long for indoor fighting, but that had never stopped him before. "Leave now, and keep the peace."
The lead bounty hunter laughed, though his eyes never left Ice. "Give us the girl, Lord Stark, and we'll keep your peace. You can go back to your frozen wasteland, we get our gold, everyone's happy."
"No."
The word hung in the air like Ice itself, sharp and final. Eddard gripped the great sword with both hands, feeling the familiar weight, the perfect balance that only Valyrian steel could achieve. His voice carried the full weight of Northern authority, the kind that had made Stark words law for eight thousand years.
"The girl is under my protection."
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"Oh." The word escaped Daenerys's lips, soft as a breeze. Heat flooded her cheeks, shame burning hotter than dragonfire. Lord Stark stood defending her with Ice drawn, shoulders squared against men who'd come for her head. These weren't his hunters. The realization struck her, washing away the rage and leaving only mortification in its wake.
She pressed her palm against the rough wooden table, steadying herself. "Lord Stark, I... forgive me. I spoke in haste."
The great lord of the North actually grinned—a quick flash of teeth that transformed his solemn face. "Save your apologies for after, Princess."
The lead bounty hunter's scarred face twisted. "Your funeral, Stark."
They moved as one.
The tavern exploded. Tables flipped, sending tankards spinning through the air. A serving girl shrieked, diving behind the bar as steel rang against steel. Daenerys pressed back against the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs as Lord Stark brought Ice around in a devastating arc. The massive blade moved like water in his hands, impossible grace for something that size. A bounty hunter tried to duck beneath it but Lord Stark's sword caught him at the shoulder, shearing through leather and bone with obscene ease.
Asher fought with savage efficiency beside him, his blade a blur. Beskha moved like a dancer, her curved sword opening throats with delicate precision. Jorah fought like a man possessed, protecting her with fierce determination, his blade singing through the air.Even Lord Stark's men fought well, though one took a blade to the thigh and went down cursing grabbing a lantern on his way down.
Oil splashed across the floor, and flames leaped up like hungry fingers, racing along the spilled alcohol from overturned cups. The heat pressed against her back, smoke already thickening the air.
Move. You need to move.
She started forward, but movement flickered in her peripheral vision. Despite Jorah's best efforts, a hunter with pockmarked skin had slipped past the melee. His blade swept toward her. She twisted, but not fast enough. Fire lanced across her upper arm as steel parted silk and skin. Blood welled immediately, hot and wet.
"There's a good girl," he leered, grabbing for her with his free hand. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking hard enough to bring tears. "Illyrio pays extra if you're breathing."
She shoved him with both hands, fury giving her strength. He stumbled backward—and her bag dropped. The eggs spilled across the floor, rolling toward the spreading flames. Even through her terror, she felt them pulse, their shells seeming to glow in the firelight.
The bounty hunter's eyes went wide with greed. "Dragon eggs? Real ones?" He forgot her entirely, lunging for the nearest—the black one that always felt warmest.
Daenerys didn't think. She planted both hands against his back and pushed with every ounce of strength she possessed. He pitched forward into the flames, his scream high and terrible. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled her nostrils, making her stomach heave.
Lord Stark appeared at her elbow, Ice dripping red. Two bodies lay behind him, their blood mixing with the spreading fire. "We need to leave! Now!" His hand closed around hers, calloused and strong, pulling her toward the door.
The cool night air hit her face, blessed relief from the smoke. But as her feet touched the cobblestones, a terrible realization crashed through her.
"My eggs!" She wrenched free from Lord Stark's grip. "No!"
"Princess! Daenerys!" Lord Stark lunged for her, but she was already running.
"Princess, come back!" Jorah shouted.
She plunged back through the doorway. The heat should have driven her back as she knew it should have. Flames licked up the walls, turning old wood to char. The smoke should have choked her. But it didn't.
The fire kissed her skin like a lover's touch. Her dress blackened and fell away in burning scraps, but her flesh remained untouched. She walked through the inferno as if through a warm bath, the flames parting before her.
Fire cannot kill a dragon.
Her eggs lay in the heart of the blaze, glowing like coals pulled from a forge. She dropped to her knees beside them, ignoring the burning floorboards beneath her. The black egg pulsed against her palm, its shell cracking. Her blood from the sword cut dripped onto it, sizzling.
Fire and blood.
Quaithe's words echoed in her mind, finally making sense. She pressed her bleeding hand to each egg in turn, feeling their shells fracture beneath her touch. Life stirred within.
The ceiling groaned above her, beams cracking. She gathered the eggs against her bare chest, their heat matching her own. A massive timber crashed down beside her, sending sparks spiraling upward.
Three heads emerged simultaneously. The black one first, scarlet eyes blinking in the firelight. Then the green, bronze-tinged in the flames. Finally, the cream-and-gold, its scales like molten sunlight.
Her dragons. Her children.
They chirped—soft, almost musical sounds that she felt in her bones. The black one nuzzled against her breast, its tiny tongue lapping at a drop of her blood. The others pressed close, their bodies no larger than cats but radiating heat that had nothing to do with the fire around them.
Another beam crashed down, jolting her from her wonder. She stood, cradling them against her chest, and walked toward the door. The flames bent away from her passage, as if acknowledging their queen.
She emerged into the night naked but for ash and soot, three impossible creatures clutched to her breast. The crowd that had gathered gasped—some fell to their knees, others backed away in terror. She barely noticed them. Her attention fixed on Lord Stark, who stared not at her nakedness but at the dragons in her arms. His grey eyes held no fear, only a kind of grim understanding.
Beside him, Jorah had fallen to one knee, his face a mixture of awe and devotion. "Princess…" he breathed.
Lord Stark recovered first, yanking his cloak from his shoulders in one fluid motion. The heavy wool enveloped her and the dragons both, his hands careful not to touch her skin as he wrapped it around her.
"We leave Braavos. Now." His voice brooked no argument.
She nodded, still feeling disconnected from her body, from reality itself. The dragons made soft chirping sounds against her skin, their claws pricking gently as they settled. The black one—already she thought of him as the oldest—wrapped his tail around her wrist like a living bracelet.
Bells began ringing in the distance. Fire bells first, then the deeper tones of guard bells. The Sealord's men would come soon, asking questions that had no safe answers.
"Can you ride?" Lord Stark's voice cut through her daze.
"Yes." The word came out stronger than she expected, her voice carrying an authority she'd never possessed before. She was no longer just Daenerys, the frightened girl sold by her brother. She was the mother of dragons.
They moved through Braavos's twisting streets at a pace just short of running. Lord Stark led, his men forming a protective square around her. Asher and Beskha brought up the rear, watching for pursuit. Jorah stayed close to her side, his presence both protective and questioning, awaiting Lord Stark's judgment. The dragons stayed silent against her chest, as if understanding the need for secrecy.
They passed through the Drowned Town, where the poorest Braavosi lived in houses that flooded at high tide. No one looked twice at a group moving quickly through the night, such sights were common enough here. The smell of low tide and rotting fish masked the smoke that still clung to them.
"My lord," Hallis gasped, favoring his left side where blood seeped through his jerkin. "The Sealord—"
"Will have questions I cannot answer." Lord Stark's voice was granite. "We board the ship. We sail tonight."
"The Iron Bank—" Wyllem started.
"Has their contracts. The rest can be handled by raven. Send a message to Lord Wyman to head to the harbor immediately."
They reached the harbor as the moon broke through the clouds. Lord Stark's ship sat at anchor, its Northern lines distinctive among the Braavosi vessels. Sailors scrambled to prepare for departure as they approached.
As they neared the gangplank, Lord Stark turned to Jorah, his grey eyes hard as winter ice. "You may board, Mormont. But we will speak of your fate once we're at sea. Your actions tonight have earned you that much, nothing more."
Jorah bowed his head. "I understand, my lord. And I thank you for your mercy."
"It's not mercy yet," Lord Stark said coldly. "Merely a delay of judgment."
Lord Wyman Manderly stood at the gangplank like a mountain of flesh draped in sea-green wool, his small eyes taking in their bloodied, smoke-stained group with the rapid calculation of a man who'd survived decades of Northern politics. His gaze locked onto the shapes beneath Daenerys's cloak—the subtle movement, the unnatural warmth radiating in the cold harbor air.
"Seven fucking hells," he breathed, his jowls trembling. Then, louder, voice cracking like a whip across the deck: "Cast off those lines! Now! Every man to his station!"
Sailors who'd been half-asleep scrambled like startled gulls. Manderly's bulk moved with surprising speed up the gangplank, wood groaning beneath him.
"Lord Stark," he wheezed, grabbing Ned's arm with fingers like sausages. "Tell me those aren't what I think—" His words died as one of the dragons shifted, a wing edge briefly visible through torn fabric. The color drained from his florid face. "Mother's mercy. You brought her here. You actually brought the Targaryen girl." His eyes widened further as he spotted Jorah. "And Mormont! The slaver!"
"Get us moving, Wyman." Ned's voice carried the kind of iron that brooked no argument. "I'll explain when we're clear of the harbor."
"Raise anchor, you lazy shits! Unfurl those sails! Move like the Stranger himself is on our heels!"
The ship lurched into motion, ropes singing, canvas snapping taut in the night wind. Manderly's eyes never left Daenerys, a mixture of awe and calculation flickering across his features.
She could feel her children's heartbeats—rapid as hummingbird wings, hot as forge-fire."Princess." Lord Stark stood beside her at the rail as the ship pulled away from the dock. "Those creatures... do you understand what you've done?"
She looked down at the three small heads poking from his cloak. The cream-and-gold one yawned, showing rows of needle-sharp teeth. "I've brought dragons back into the world."
"Aye." His voice was heavy. "And Robert will burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash when he learns of it."
Fear should have gripped her then, but it didn't. She felt the dragons' warmth against her skin, their complete trust in her, their mother. "Then perhaps it's fortunate I'm under your protection, Lord Stark."
"Below deck," he said finally. "All of you. Before someone with a spyglass gets curious." He fixed Jorah with a hard stare. "You as well, Mormont. We have much to discuss."