A/N: Looks like someone is back and the plot progresses. If you are enjoying this story, please leave a review! Thank you!
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The morning light slanted through the solar's narrow windows, catching motes of dust that drifted like snow through still air. Sansa stood beside the great oak desk that had once been Father's, her fingers resting on the smooth wood worn by generations of Stark hands. Through the thick glass, she watched Robett Glover's men form ranks in the courtyard below, their breath misting in the cold as they prepared to march home.
Ghost lay curled by the hearth, his massive form rising and falling with each breath. The direwolf had barely left her side since Jon's departure, as if the wolf understood his master had left them both to guard what remained of the pack.
"The grain shipments should reach Last Hearth within a fortnight," Wyman Manderly said, his bulk settling into the chair across from her with a creak of protesting wood. He spread a parchment across the desk, his thick fingers tracing routes along the White Knife. "The Iron Bank's manifest accounts for every bushel. Lord Umber's people won't starve through the evacuation."
Sansa studied the numbers, though her mind kept drifting to the window, to the courtyard where northern lords were leaving. Each departure felt like watching pieces of Jon's carefully assembled alliance scatter to the winds. "And the mountain clans?"
"Hugo Wull departed at dawn. Took his Bucket men back to their hills." Wyman's voice held approval. "Said they needed to prepare their families for the journey south. The old man understands what's coming better than most."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Satin entered, his pretty features drawn with exhaustion. The boy had been Jon's steward at Castle Black, and now he carried that same role here, managing the endless logistics of housing thousands in a half-ruined castle.
"My lady, Lord Hand." Satin inclined his head, those dark eyes moving between them like a man testing ice before stepping onto a frozen pond. "The last of the Free Folk families have been settled in the east barracks. They're... not pleased about sharing space with the queen's men, but they'll manage." He paused, teeth worrying his lower lip. "Mance Rayder wants a word with you, my lady. About the remaining Free Folk coming south."
"I will speak to Lord Mance soon but see that they do more than manage to keep the peace," Sansa said, keeping her voice softer than the command warranted. "Have the kitchens send extra rations to both groups. Full bellies make for fewer quarrels."
The tension in Satin's shoulders eased, though he still held himself like a man expecting a blow. "As you say, my lady." His gaze slid to Wyman, then back. "There's another matter. Lady Selyse has stopped requesting meals for her daughter."
Sansa's fingers found the desk's edge, gripping until she felt the grain of the wood bite into her skin. "How long?"
"Shortly... after the King departed." Satin's words trailed off.
"The queen's been in the sept," Wyman said, his jowls quivering as he shook his head. "Praying from dawn to dusk with the red woman and those other followers."
Sansa thought of Shireen Baratheon, the girl with the greyscale scars and the gentle smile. She'd glimpsed her only once since arriving, a small figure watching from a tower window. "Where is Ser Davos?"
"Practically sleeping at the girl's door," Wyman said, and something like approval colored his tone. "The Onion Knight knows his duty, even if his queen's forgotten hers."
"Make it formal." The decision came easily, the kind of choice Father would have made. "Ser Davos Seaworth is Shireen's sworn shield. He answers to her, not her mother. See that the queen understands this."
Wyman nodded slowly. "Aye, that's wise. Though Lady Selyse won't take kindly to you giving orders instead of the King."
"I do not require her to take kindly to it." Sansa kept her voice level, though something cold had settled in her chest. She'd watched Joffrey's cruelty and Cersei's paranoia. She knew what happened when madness wore a crown. "I require her to accept it."
"We might have another solution," Wyman said, his shrewd eyes studying her. "Ser Justin Massey. He was one of Stannis's men, loyal to the king until the end. The queen trusts him, and he's shown... pragmatism regarding the King's nature."
Sansa remembered Massey from the courtyard, a lean knight who'd watched Jon's transformation with wonder rather than horror. "You want him to assist Davos?"
"Two guards are better than one, especially when one of them can speak to the queen without raising her suspicions." Wyman's fingers drummed against the armrest. "Massey can be our eyes and ears, make sure Selyse doesn't do anything... rash."
"See to it." Sansa turned back to the window, watching Maege Mormont's broad form moving through the departing soldiers. The She-Bear would reach Bear Island in a fortnight, would begin the impossible task of convincing her people to abandon their homes. "Is there anything else?"
Satin shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "The Skagosi refugees, my lady. It will take tim—"
The door burst open hard enough to crack against the stone wall.
Lady Selyse Baratheon stood in the doorway, her gaunt frame trembling with barely contained fury. She'd aged since Sansa had last seen her, new lines carved deep around her mouth, her eyes burning with the fervor of the truly faithful. Or the truly mad.
Ghost's head snapped up, a low growl rumbling from his chest. The direwolf rose to his feet, white fur bristling along his spine.
"My lady," Sansa began, her voice a careful study in calm. "We were not expecting you."
Selyse's gaze swept past her, ignoring the direwolf, and fixed on Satin. "You. The whore boy. You would house my husband's sworn swords, knights of the Seven Kingdoms, beside godless, savage wildlings?"
Satin went pale but held his ground. Ghost took a single, deliberate step forward, placing himself between the boy and the enraged woman. The growl deepened, a promise of violence that made the air feel thick. Selyse flinched, her hand instinctively flying to the seven-pointed star at her throat.
"Ser Satin is the King's steward," Sansa said, her voice cutting through the tension. "He speaks with the authority of the crown in these matters."
"This is an insult," Selyse hissed, her fury now directed at Sansa. "To King Stannis's memory. To the Lord of Light. You would see his most faithful knights treated as common criminals, forced to break bread with savages who worship nothing but their own filth."
"They are the King's people now," Sansa said quietly. "All of them. The Free Folk fought at His Grace's side at Winterfell. They bleed for the North, same as your husband's men."
"They are heathens!" Selyse's voice cracked. "They do not kneel. They do not pray. They are no better than animals. My daughter's soul is in peril every moment she remains under a roof shared by such creatures."
"Your daughter is nine years old," Sansa replied, her voice softening to pity. "And she is under the King's protection. She is safe."
"Safe?" Selyse's laugh was a brittle, ugly thing. "Here? In this castle full of wildlings and monsters?"
Ghost's growl turned to a snarl, his lips peeling back to reveal fangs as long as a man's finger. He took another step. Selyse stumbled backward, her frantic gaze darting from the wolf to Sansa.
"Enough." The word was a whip crack. Ghost fell silent, though his hackles remained raised, a crest of white fury. She met the other woman's crazed eyes. "You are a guest in Winterfell, my lady. You will remember that."
Selyse's mouth worked, but no sound came out.
"The King's sworn men will be quartered where he deems," Sansa continued, her voice devoid of warmth. "If they find that insulting, they are welcome to make their own camp in the snow. The Free Folk will take the barracks. They will be housed, fed, and armed. Is that clear?"
Selyse trembled, her knuckles white around her star. "When the great darkness falls, when the true enemy comes, you will regret this. Only the Lord of Light can grant us victory."
She turned and fled, her footsteps a frantic, fading echo down the stone corridor.
Sansa sank back into her chair, exhaustion washing over her like a wave. Her hands were shaking, she realized. She pressed them flat against the desk, willing them to stillness.
"That went well," Wyman said dryly.
Despite everything, Sansa found herself fighting back inappropriate laughter. "See that Ser Davos and Ser Justin understand their duty. Shireen is not to be left alone with her mother. Not for a moment."
"Aye." Wyman rose with a grunt, gathering his parchments. "I'll see to the Skagosi as well. The Dreadfort's got room enough for now."
"Thank you, my lord." Sansa waited until he'd left before allowing herself to slump forward, her forehead resting against her hands.
"My lady?" Satin's voice was hesitant. "Are you... that is, should I fetch someone?"
"I'm fine." She straightened, smoothing her skirts with practiced grace. "Just tired. It's been..." She gestured vaguely at the window, at the courtyard where the last of Glover's men were disappearing through the gates. "A long few days."
"Yes, my lady." Satin moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth... what you said to the queen. Thank you."
Sansa studied him, this pretty boy who'd sold his body in Oldtown's brothels before taking the Black. "Jon trusts you. That's enough for me."
When he'd gone, Sansa rose and moved to the window. The courtyard was nearly empty now, just a few servants hurrying about their duties. Ghost padded over to join her, pressing his massive head against her hip.
She rested her hand on his fur, drawing comfort from the solid warmth of him. "He'll come back safe," she whispered. "Won't he?"
The wolf made a soft sound, something between a whine and a growl. Sansa chose to take it as agreement.
Below, a figure emerged from the Great Hall. Sansa recognized the blonde hair, the confident stride. Val, the woman Jon had... what? Claimed? Sansa still wasn't entirely clear on their relationship.
The woman glanced up, as if sensing Sansa's gaze. Even from this distance, Sansa could see her smile.
Then Val turned and headed toward the kitchens, and Sansa realized she hadn't had anything to eat in hours.
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The private dining alcove near the Great Hall was a small room, barely large enough for a table and four chairs, tucked behind a tapestry depicting the Kings of Winter. Servants used it for quick meals between duties, and Sansa had claimed it as her own refuge when the castle's demands grew too heavy.
A tray waited on the table, bread and cheese and cold meat, a flagon of watered wine. Simple fare, but Sansa's stomach growled at the sight. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten.
She'd barely settled into her chair when the tapestry rustled and Val stepped through.
The Free Folk woman moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd never learned to ask permission. She wore practical furs, well-made but simple, and a bone knife hung from her belt. Her blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her blue eyes held that knowing gleam Sansa was beginning to recognize.
"Heard you had words with the mad queen," Val said, helping herself to a chair without invitation. She reached for the bread, tearing off a chunk and biting into it. "Whole castle heard it, truth be told. Woman's got a voice like a crow's when she's riled."
Sansa poured herself wine, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "Lady Selyse is... grieving. Her husband died only recently."
"Her husband died because he was a fool who marched into winter with half an army." Val spoke around a mouthful of bread, utterly unconcerned with courtesy. "And she's not grieving. She's angry. There's a difference."
"Perhaps." Sansa sipped her wine, studying the other woman. Val had been at Jon's side when he'd transformed, had flown with him to Hardhome according to the whispered stories. "You were there when Jon first... changed."
"Aye." Val's smile held a hint of pride. "Saw him burn brighter than the sun. Saw him tear apart an ice dragon with his bare claws. Saw him nearly die doing it."
The casual way she spoke of impossibilities made Sansa's head spin. "And you're not... frightened? Of what he is?"
"Frightened?" Val laughed, the sound rough and genuine. "Girl, I've seen the dead walk. I've watched the Others ride their ice spiders across frozen lakes. Your brother turning into a dragon? That's the first bit of hope I've had in years."
Sansa set down her cup. "But it's more than just hope."
It wasn't a question, but Val answered anyway. "Aye. Though he's still working that out, I think. Man's got a habit of not believing good things can happen to him."
"That sounds like Jon." Sansa found herself smiling despite everything.
Val studied her for a long moment, then nodded as if coming to some decision. "You've got sharp words. Like watching someone skin a rabbit with a butter knife. Slow, but effective."
"I learned from the best." The words came out bitter. "Cersei Lannister taught me how to wound with courtesy. Littlefinger showed me how to smile while plotting. Joffrey..." She stopped, old memories threatening to surface.
"You did." Val leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving Sansa's face. "But here's the thing about sharp words, girl. They're good for keeping people at a distance. For making them think twice before crossing you. But when the dead come? When some bastard gets his hands around your throat? Words won't save you."
"I have guards. Jon left people to protect me."
"Jon left us to guard your pack," Val interrupted, her voice taking on an edge. "You and me both. And I can't do that if you're hiding behind guards and pretty speeches."
Sansa set down her cup with more force than intended. "I'm not a warrior. That was always Arya's role. I'm a—"
"Talker. Aye, I know." Val's smile turned sharp. "And you're good at it. But tell me something, Sansa Stark. What happens when words fail? When some Karstark decides your brother's a demon and comes for you with a knife? When a wight breaks through your door in the middle of the night? Will you curtsey at it? Offer it wine and clever words?"
"I..." She stopped, unsure how to finish.
"You hate violence," Val said, her voice gentler now. "I can see that too. You've had enough of it done to you..." She left the sentence unfinished, but her eyes held understanding. "You survived by being small. By not fighting back. By making yourself into what they wanted to see."
"It kept me alive." The words came out defensive.
"It did." Val reached across the table, her calloused hand covering Sansa's smooth one. "But those days are done, girl. The Long Night's coming, and it won't care how pretty your words are. Won't care that you're a lady. It'll just care that you're warm and breathing, and it'll want to change that."
Sansa pulled her hand back, old instincts screaming at the casual touch. "What would you have me do? Take up a sword? Join the men in the practice yard?"
"No." Val's smile turned almost fond. "You'd be shit with a sword. No offense, but you've got the arms of a sparrow. You'd tire after three swings and get your head taken off."
"Then what do you suggest I do?"
"I'd teach you how to survive those three seconds." Val leaned forward, her eyes intense. "How to use a small blade. How to create space between you and whoever's trying to hurt you. How to scream loud enough that your guards actually hear you. How to turn your weakness into a weapon."
Sansa looked down at her hands. Soft, manicured, the hands of a lady. She thought of Joffrey's rings cutting into her cheek, the bruises he'd left that Cersei had made her cover with powder.
"I won't be helpless again," she whispered.
"Then stop acting like you are." Val stood, snagging an apple from the tray. She bit into it, the crunch loud in the small room. "Finish your wine. We're going to the yard."
"Now?" Sansa glanced at the window, at the weak afternoon light. "I have duties. The castle—"
"The castle will manage without you for an hour." Val's grin was all teeth. "Besides, your brother left me to guard you. Can't do that if you're as soft as butter."
Sansa stood slowly, her heart hammering. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to return to the safety of ledgers and logistics. But she thought of Jon, flying away on dragon's wings. Thought of the wight in the dungeons. Thought of Selyse's mad eyes and the darkness that was coming.
"One hour," she said.
Val's smile widened. "That's all we'll need for today. Come on, Lady Stark. Time to find your teeth."
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The training yard lay in a secluded corner of Winterfell, tucked between the armory and the broken tower. A handful of Free Folk spearwives practiced at the far end, their voices carrying across the cold air as they called instructions to each other.
Sansa followed Val across the yard, acutely aware of the eyes tracking their movement. A few northern soldiers paused in their work to watch, curiosity plain on their faces. She fought the urge to smooth her skirts, to retreat behind the mask of courtesy that had protected her for so long.
Val led her to an empty corner, away from the spearwives and their sharp eyes. She pulled a wooden practice dagger from her belt, the blade dulled but still solid enough to bruise.
"Here." She pressed it into Sansa's hand. "Get a feel for it."
The wood felt foreign against her palm, heavier than she'd expected. Sansa wrapped her fingers around the hilt, testing the weight. "It's... awkward."
"It's supposed to be." Val circled her, studying her grip with critical eyes. "You're holding it like it's going to bite you. Firm up. There. No, not that tight. You'll tire yourself out."
Sansa adjusted her grip, trying to find the balance Val described. The dagger felt like an extension of her arm, but wrong somehow, like wearing someone else's glove.
"Now," Val said, stopping in front of her. "Forget everything you know about fighting fair. Forget honor and courtesy and all that southern shit. When someone comes at you, there's only one rule: survive."
"But how do I do that!"
Val moved faster than Sansa could track, her hand shooting out to grab Sansa's wrist. She twisted, and suddenly Sansa was off-balance, the wooden dagger clattering to the packed snow.
"Dead," Val said quietly. She released Sansa's wrist and stepped back. "Try again."
Sansa retrieved the dagger, her cheeks burning. She'd known she would be bad at this, but the reality of her own helplessness stung worse than expected.
They tried again. And again. Each time, Val moved with casual efficiency, disarming her, pinning her, demonstrating how easily Sansa could be killed. The snow grew trampled beneath their feet, and Sansa's frustration mounted with each failure.
"Stop thinking like a lady," Val said after the seventh attempt. "You're too worried about looking foolish. About falling. About getting your dress dirty."
"I am not!"
"You are." Val's voice held no judgment, just observation. "You move like you're afraid of taking up space. Like you're trying to make yourself smaller. That might work in your solar, but out here? It'll get you killed."
Sansa stood in the trampled snow, breathing hard, the wooden dagger heavy in her hand. Everything Val said was true. She was afraid. Afraid of violence, afraid of pain, afraid of being the helpless girl she'd been in King's Landing.
"I do not know how to be anything else," she admitted.
Val's expression softened. "Then learn. Start small. Just... take up space. Plant your feet. Act like you belong here."
Sansa tried. Widened her stance, straightened her spine. It felt wrong, too exposed, but she held the position.
"Better." Val nodded. "Now, I'm going to come at you again. This time, don't try to block me. Don't try to fight fair. Just do whatever you need to create space. Kick my shins. Throw snow in my face. Use your dress to hide the blade. Whatever works."
They faced each other across the trampled snow. Sansa's pulse hammered in her throat, her hands slick with sweat despite the cold. Val moved forward, and instinct took over.
Sansa stumbled backward, her heel catching on her skirts. She felt herself falling, saw Val's hand reaching to steady her, and something clicked in her mind.
She let herself fall. Let Val lean forward to catch her, off-balance for just a moment. Then Sansa drove her shoulder up and into Val's ribs, using her momentum to push the woman back. The wooden blade came up, pressing against Val's side.
They froze in that position, Sansa on one knee in the snow, Val bent over her, the practice dagger digging into soft leather.
Then Val started laughing.
"That was a lie!" She stepped back, her grin wide and genuine. "You made me think you were helpless, then used it against me. I like it."
Sansa rose slowly, snow clinging to her skirts. Her heart was racing, but not from fear. From something else. Something that felt almost like triumph.
"You told me to do whatever worked," she said.
"I did." Val retrieved the practice dagger, turning it over in her hands. "And you listened. That's good. That's the start."
They stood together in the trampled snow, breath misting in the cold air. Across the yard, the spearwives had stopped their practice to watch, curiosity and approval plain on their weathered faces.
"Again?" Sansa asked.
Val's smile widened. "Again. But first, let me show you how to hide a blade in those ridiculous skirts of yours. If you're going to use your 'weakness' as a weapon, might as well do it properly."
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Stepstones, The Narrow Sea
The Narrow Sea wore its grey like a funeral shroud. Daenerys stood at the prow of her flagship, fingers curled tight around the salt-worn rail, watching the water chop against hundreds of hulls spread across the horizon. The fleet stretched in all directions—Meereenese traders converted to war galleys, Ghiscari dromonds with their hulking frames, even a handful of Dothraki-crewed vessels that still reeked of horse and grass despite weeks at sea.
Black leather creaked as she shifted her weight. No silk today. No flowing tokar or delicate slippers. She'd armored herself in hardened leather and mail, practical as any sellsword. The Mother of Dragons had shed her peacock feathers.
And good riddance.
"Your Grace." Tyrion Lannister's voice carried from behind her, accompanied by the uneven thump of his gait. "Grey Worm reports the vanguard has spotted something. Ships, six of them, limping near the Grey Gallows."
She turned. The dwarf stood beside Grey Worm, both men watching her with that careful expression she'd come to recognize.
"Slaver ships?" she asked.
"War dromonds," Grey Worm replied in his precise Common Tongue. "Heavy vessels. Battered. Sails torn."
Daenerys looked skyward. Drogon and Rhaegal circled high above, their shadows racing across the water like hunting hawks. Her children sensed her mood, had been restless since dawn. The loss of Viserion sat between them like an open wound, a missing piece that made their formations feel wrong, incomplete.
Three heads of the dragon. The prophecy mocked her with its absence.
"Show me," she said.
They moved to the ship's elevated stern, where a Meereenese captain pointed toward a cluster of rocky islands. Daenerys squinted against the spray. There—six massive vessels, their hulls listing, oars working in uneven rhythm. One trailed smoke from a blackened deck.
"Survivors of something," Tyrion observed. "And recent, by the look of it."
Daenerys felt her jaw tighten. The Stepstones bred pirates and slavers like flies on corpses. She'd half a mind to simply burn them and be done with it.
Then the ships struck their banners.
Every vessel, almost in unison, hauled down their colors and raised white flags. The sight was so unexpected that Daenerys actually laughed.
"They surrender before we've even attacked," she said. "How very considerate."
"They've spotted your children." Tyrion shaded his eyes, following her gaze upward. "Hard to miss two dragons circling like vultures."
"Shall this one prepare the Unsullied?" Grey Worm asked.
Daenerys considered. Six ships. Battered, desperate. Either a trap or an opportunity. Her instincts, honed sharp in Meereen's snake pit, whispered caution. But curiosity had always been her weakness.
"Bring their captain aboard," she said. "Under guard. If this is treachery, I want to look it in the face before I burn it."
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The man who climbed the rope ladder moved with a swagger that belied his circumstances. Daenerys watched from the quarterdeck as he hauled himself over the rail, flanked immediately by four Unsullied with spears leveled at his throat. He didn't flinch. Instead, he straightened his salt-stained doublet and swept her a bow that would have suited a royal court.
Handsome. The thought arrived unbidden. Silver-gold hair caught the weak sunlight, hanging to his shoulders in a style that whispered of Old Valyria. His features were aquiline, almost delicate, marred only by the scruff of several days without a razor. He wore his beauty like armor.
"Your Grace." His voice carried the polish of highborn breeding. "Aurane Waters, at your service."
He started forward, hand extended as if to kiss hers, but the Unsullied spears crossed before him. The man stopped, smiled, tried again from a different angle. Again the spears blocked his path.
Daenerys remained perfectly still. She watched him with the same expression she'd given her enemies—cold, clinical, utterly unmoved.
"Mother of Dragons," he continued, undeterred. "It is providence that brings us together. Blood calls to blood, they say, and here we stand as two children of Old Valyria, meeting in these ancient waters where our ancestors once ruled."
Destiny. She'd heard that word before. From Daario, from Hizdahr, from every man who thought flattery could replace loyalty. The memory of Daario's ashes scattering in Yunkai's wind brought a familiar coldness to her chest.
Aurane Waters took her silence as encouragement. "I have heard tales of your beauty, Your Grace, but the songs do you injustice. To see you in the flesh, commanding dragons like the dragonlords of old is inspiring."
"My dragons ate the last man who tried to flatter me with lies."
The words came out flat, without inflection. Daenerys watched his smile falter.
"Your Grace, I assure you—"
"You smell of fear." She descended three steps, close enough now to see the pulse jumping in his throat. "Not destiny. Fear. And desperation. Tell me, are you a king or a beggar? Because you look like a beggar wrapped in stolen silk."
The swagger crumbled. Just a little, just enough. Aurane Waters's hand fell to his side, and something real flickered behind his eyes. Anger, perhaps. Or recognition that his performance had failed.
A snort came from her left. Tyrion stepped forward, his mismatched eyes bright with the sort of amusement a man found in watching another man's ruin.
"Your Grace," he said, "allow me to make proper introductions. This is Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark. When last I saw him at court, he'd just bent the knee to my nephew after fighting for Stannis at the Blackwater. A turncloak who traded his allegiance for a pardon."
Daenerys felt something cold settle in her chest. "A turncloak."
"One who knew which way the wind blew," Tyrion continued, his tone conversational. "Though I confess, I lost track of him after that. The royal fleet, you say? My sister gave you ships?" He looked Aurane up and down, taking in the salt-stained finery, the desperate eyes. "And you stole them."
"I took what was mine by right of conquest."
"By right of theft," Tyrion finished. "How many ships did you manage to pilfer before you fled? Twenty? Thirty?"
"Ten." The words came out through clenched teeth.
"Only ten? And now six." Tyrion's smile was all teeth. "She rides dragons, Lord Waters. I doubt she's impressed by a man who couldn't even hold onto stolen boats."
The silence stretched. Daenerys watched Aurane Waters's face—the way his jaw worked, the flush creeping up his neck, the hands that had gestured so grandly now curling into fists at his sides. When he spoke again, the honeyed tones had burned away, leaving only bitterness.
"You want the truth?" His voice came out raw, scraped clean of performance. "Fine. My kingdom is ash. My fleet is broken. Days ago black sails appeared on the horizon, and with them came beasts from the deep."
The change in him was complete. No swagger, no practiced charm. Just a man who'd seen something that had carved the arrogance out of him and left only the hollow space where it had been.
"Beasts," Daenerys repeated.
"Krakens." The word fell like a stone into still water. "Four of them. Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow of his flagship and summoned them from the depths. They rose from the water, tentacles thick as masts, and they cracked my galleys like a man cracking eggs."
Daenerys felt the world narrow to a single point. "Greyjoy."
"The Crow's Eye himself." Aurane's hands shook as he spoke. "He wore a crown that seemed to drink the light. When he raised his hand, the sea obeyed. My men fought. Four ships tried to ram his flagship. The krakens pulled them under, and the screams…" He stopped, swallowed. "The screams lasted too long."
Victarion Greyjoy. The ironborn captain with his cursed horn, stealing her child, turning him against his own blood. And now this, another Greyjoy, commanding sea monsters like the dragonlords of old had commanded their beasts.
"Where?" Daenerys asked immediately. "Where is he now?"
"West-by-southwest when I fled." Aurane's voice steadied slightly, sensing he'd found something she wanted. "He didn't chase us. His fleet turned toward the coast."
"Toward where?"
"Dorne, Your Grace. The Iron Fleet has to be raiding the Dornish coast now."
The pieces fell into place with terrible clarity. Euron Greyjoy now commanded powers that bent the sea itself to his will. And while she sailed north to reclaim her father's seat, he was burning the lords who should have been her allies.
Rage coiled in her belly, hot and sharp.
"How many ships does he command?" The question came out clipped, controlled.
"Fifty, perhaps more." Aurane's throat worked. "Iron galleys, every one. Fast. Deadly. And whatever sorcery he's wielding Your Grace, I've seen storms and sea serpents in these waters. I've never seen anything like those krakens."
Another enemy. Another obstacle between me and home.
"Your Grace." Aurane's voice pulled her back. "I offer you what remains of my fleet. Six war dromonds, the finest ships Cersei Lannister's gold could buy. Heavy enough to transport cavalry, fast enough to outrun most pursuers. In exchange, I ask only for your protection. And perhaps—" He hesitated. "Perhaps recognition as Lord of Driftmark, when you take the throne."
"You want me to legitimize you," Daenerys said. "To displace your trueborn nephew."
"My nephew is a child who's never commanded a fleet. I've sailed these waters for years. I know every current, every hidden rock." His eyes met hers. "And I know how to fight Ironborn. I can help you hunt Euron Greyjoy."
Tyrion cleared his throat. "Your Grace, might I suggest we discuss this in private?"
But Daenerys was barely listening. Her mind raced ahead, calculating. Dragonstone could wait. The Iron Throne could wait.
She turned to Grey Worm. "Accept his surrender. Put guards on his ships. If any of his men make trouble, throw them overboard."
"Your Grace—" Aurane started.
"You'll get your legitimacy when you've earned it," she said. "Prove yourself useful in hunting the Crow's Eye, and we'll discuss Driftmark. Betray me, and you'll learn why dragons don't suffer thieves."
She looked at Grey Worm. "Signal the fleet. We're changing course."
"Your Grace?" The Unsullied commander's expression remained neutral, but she heard the question in his tone.
"We're not going to Dragonstone." Daenerys felt the decision settle in her bones like prophecy. "We're going to Dorne. We're going to find Euron Greyjoy. And we're going to remind him what happens when you wake the dragon."
Tyrion stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Your Grace, is this wise? Chasing one madman when we are so close to shore?"
"This Crow's Eye thinks to burn Dorne while I sail past like some merchant counting coppers?" Her words came out flat. "If I were to ignore it, how would Dorne submit to me? Tell me true, Tyrion Lannister, would you counsel patience?"
The dwarf's mouth twisted. "No, no I would not."
"Then we are agreed, we hunt." Daenerys turned to the rail, looking out across her fleet. Hundreds of ships, thousands of men, two dragons circling overhead. An army built to conquer Westeros, now turning south to pursue vengeance.
Is this madness or justice? The question whispered through her thoughts. Am I becoming what they said I would, another mad Targaryen, burning anyone who crosses me?
But then she thought of Viserion's eyes as Drogon's jaws closed. Thought of the ironborn captain laughing as he rode her stolen child.
"Signal the fleet," she repeated. "All ships turn west. We sail for Dorne."
As the orders rippled outward, flags rising and falling across hundreds of masts, Daenerys allowed herself a cold smile. Euron Greyjoy had woken the dragon. Now he would learn the price of that mistake.
Come then, she thought, feeling Drogon's presence high above. Let's see how your sea monsters fare against fire made flesh.
The hunt had begun.
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