The Chamber of the Painted Table, Dragonstone
Daenerys sat in the raised chair positioned near Dragonstone's Painted Table. From here, she could see the whole map laid before her—everything from the great keeps of lords to the smallest settlements of the smallfolk. Yet one thing the table lacked were the borders that divided the kingdoms. Dany wondered why. How could such a detailed map, crafted with such skill, omit something so important? Or was it no flaw at all? Had her ancestor ordered it made so—a vision of a realm without borders, a single kingdom whole?
The very thought sent a shiver down her spine. If Westeros were united as one, it would surely stand among the strongest realms the world had ever known, remembered in history alongside Valyria itself.
But a moment later, she returned to her senses, realizing how impossible such a dream was. Westeros had been divided into seven realms for tens of thousands of years. Not even Aegon the Conqueror had truly forged these seven into one. And yet… looking at the Painted Table, recalling the fractured state of those kingdoms now, perhaps it could be. The woman or man who would do this would etch their name in the annals of history forever to be remembered.
"Your Grace," came the voice of her Kingsguard, breaking her train of thought. Dany turned, but not before letting her gaze linger one last time upon the Painted Table. "Tyrion Lannister is here."
"Yes, Ser Barristan. You and Lord Tyrion may enter. I need counsel from both of you," Dany said, motioning with her hand. The Lord Commander of her Kingsguard and the only King's Guard she has for now nodded, opening the door wide enough for himself and the dwarf to step through. Once Tyrion was inside, the door was shut quietly, keeping their words safe from curious ears. Not that many ears are even allowed to come here; few were permitted entrance this high in the Stone Drum tower.
Dany gestured for them to sit, to make themselves comfortable, for this would not be a short discussion. Servants moved swiftly: wine for Tyrion, water for Dany, and Barristan.
"So," Tyrion broke the silence, as she had expected he would. "When do we strike King's Landing, Your Grace? Does the fleet sail on the morrow?" He could never sit still in silence for long.
"Yes. The fleet leaves on the morrow, and I in three days' time. You, Lord Tyrion, will go with them. Aid Grey Worm and the Lord Admiral in whatever they require. Ser Barristan will join you as well, to see that the Dothraki do not stray too far into Flea Bottom once the battle is done," said Dany. This was the plan—or at least its outline—if Cersei refused to surrender. And according to Varys, she would not.
"A Greyjoy Lord Admiral," Tyrion muttered with dry amusement. "I would have dearly loved to see that pretty Velaryon's face when he heard this one. A pity Melisandre keeps me too busy to witness it." He chuckled, but it soon faded as his eyes sharpened. "Though, in truth, I would not trust a Greyjoy with the admiralship of the fleet. Seven hells, I would not trust a Greyjoy with an empty vault in the Red Keep. They would find a way to steal the doors and sail away with them. The Ironborn know only how to reave and kill. There have been a few black sheep in that brood—black krakens, if you will—but Victarion Greyjoy is no such exception. That much, I think, even you know."
"Yes," said Barristan gravely. "And that is why every move he makes is reported back to Her Grace. We have already learned that the Gold Kraken has been agitated these past days, sending many letters back to Pyke. Though none were answered, I doubt there would have been any raven in Pyke, least of all any Measter. There may be a plot, though we cannot yet say for certain if it is betrayal. That is why the Queen will fly overhead with us, not to be seen, of course. One misstep, one hint of treachery from Victarion, and he and his captains die. Should it come to that, we abandon King's Landing and make way at Duskendale instead. From there, after some days of rest, we would go strike at King's landing."
Tyrion studied them both, realizing precautions had been laid with care. He gave a slow nod.
"It is not the matter of King's Landing that I summoned you for," Daenerys said at last. "That we have already discussed. It is my nephew from the North—Daeron. He has reached Harrenhal some days past. Varys tells us the riverlords, with what little strength remains to them, have gathered there, too. What do you think his next move will be? The Reach? Or King's Landing?"
She leaned forward, her eyes on Tyrion. "You told me once you and he were close. Tell me then—what will he do?"
Though if Daeron did march upon King's Landing, with all his armies, it would still take a fortnight before he arrived.
"We were old friends—or perhaps we were, once. My friend was the bastard son of Eddard Stark, not the trueborn son of the Last Dragon. The last time we spoke, he was still only a boy, desperate to carve out a name for himself, to become something more than the shadow of his birth. Every Northerner who looked at him wondered who his mother was, and what qualities she must have had to make even honorable Eddard Stark forget his vows and elope with her. And seeing the boy's beauty, all agreed—she must have been beautiful indeed.
But the boy himself was lost. A lost and honorable boy. He thought donning the black would cleanse him, that becoming one of the Night's Watch would erase the stain of bastardry he carried all his life. That was Jon Snow.
I have spoken of him, Your Grace, and I have learned of him as you commanded me to, from Melisandre. But what I have learned is that Jon Snow is dead—slain by his black brothers. What came forth from his funeral pyre is Daeron Targaryen. I have never met this Daeron, only heard of him through the Red Woman. Of his strength and speed, of how he rides a dragon larger than Drogon, of how ruthless he proved in the Battle of the Bastards.
So, no, Your Grace—I cannot tell you with certainty what Daeron Targaryen will do next. He is no longer the boy I knew. But if I were in his place, I would march upon the Reach before Aegon Targaryen could get his hand on its men and wealth."
Tyrion finished with a curt tone and raised his wine cup to his lips.
"Your Grace, we should ask Varys—" Ser Barristan began, but his words were cut short by the harsh, cold cry of a raven echoing through the chamber. All turned toward the sound. The bird shrieked again, and soon others joined it, sweeping into the tall windows, perching wherever they could. Their caws filled the air, grating and unrelenting, until the noise clawed at Dany's patience. She was about to order the servants to drive them away when frantic knocking came from the door.
Dany met Barristan's questioning gaze and gave a sharp nod. The Old Knight rose, crossing the chamber with a deliberate calm, though Dany could feel the trepidation rising in her chest. Something ill was coming—she could feel it. Barristan opened the door. From her chair, Dany glimpsed only a man in armor, but she recognized him at once—the sworn man who shadowed Aurane Waters everywhere, clad in that distinctive steel. His words came fast, frantic, his face a storm of panic and rage. Barristan's expression darkened as he listened, then closed the door with a weary sigh.
The walk back to the table seemed to take an age. Dany was nearly on her feet when Barristan finally spoke.
"Your Grace, Victarion Greyjoy has acted as we feared. For reasons unknown, he seized several dragonseeds from Dragonstone—by force. Three Velaryon men lie dead by his hand."
"Dragonseeds?" Tyrion pushed himself upright, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Does he mean to carry them to Viserion and Rhaegal? To try and forge riders from captives? By the gods, I did not think a man could be so delusional and dumb as not to learn from the past. Then again, he is a Greyjoy. What I don't understand is that even if by some miracle he succeeded—how would he ever hope to master dragonriders taken unwillingly?" Tyrion's mouth twisted. "The man is madder than I thought. And what of these ravens? Why in the seven hells are they flocking here in such numbers? Dragonstone's gloom has always kept them at bay. I've not seen so much as a crow dare near this keep."
Dany ignored Tyrion's mutterings and turned back to Barristan. "Did anyone go after him?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Grey Worm sent his best to the Iron Victory, where Victarion fled. He and Aurane took to Aurane's ship as well, to cut him off at sea. They ask for your aid."
Dany nodded once, rising from her seat. "Then it is time to end the Kraken, once and for all."
But just as she stepped forward, a sound caught her. A tune—melodious, haunting, magnificent. The song filled the air, every note burning into her bones. It warmed her flesh, her blood… her very heart. A moment after realisation sank in, it was the Song of Fire. Though no words were sung aloud, lines formed in her mind, and her lips moved to speak them:
Blood for Fire. Fire for Blood.
Daenerys was entranced, oblivious to the terror gripping the rest of Dragonstone. Across the island, the sound was heard—the sound of a horn, but no ordinary horn. It was the sound of a thousand men and women screaming in endless torment. It chilled the marrow of every soul who is not Daenerys, it scorched their flesh, and though no flame touched them, all felt as if they were burning alive.
The faithful whispered of the Seven Hells, for only in the depths of damnation could such a sound be forged.
And yet none but those aboard the Iron Victory knew the price of unleashing it. They alone saw the dragonseed's heart consumed in fire, his hair blazing like molten silver until it seemed aflame. A sight both beautiful and pitiful—the man burning from within, devoured by some dark sorcery.