ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The news from Howling Gorge reached the south in pieces.

Ravens, merchants, spies, frightened sailors, and men who pretended to know more than they did carried it across Westeros with impressive speed. Jon Snow had wounded the Night King. Jon Snow had cut off his arm. Jon Snow had killed him and been killed in turn. The Wall had cracked. The Wall had held. Stannis had knelt to Arthur Greyoak. Arthur had crowned himself King in the North. Dragons were coming. Dragons were not real. The dead were real. The dead were only wildling lies.

Rumor did what rumor always did. It found truth, robbed it, dressed itself in brighter clothes, and ran into every hall in the realm.

In King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister listened from the Iron Throne.

The throne remained ugly, cold, and uncomfortable, which suited rule better than most cushions. Cersei leaned against its twisted back with a gold cup in one hand, Dornish red dark inside it. Varys stood below, hands hidden in his sleeves, voice soft enough to make bad news sound like court gossip.

“Jon Snow, the bastard of Eddard Stark, led a mixed party of Night’s Watch men and Battanian Rangers beyond the Wall,” Varys said. “Reports claim they reached the Night King during some ritual at Howling Gorge. A Valyrian steel sword and dragonglass were used. The creature was severely wounded in the right arm, perhaps crippled. The ritual was disrupted. Snow and the survivors are now trapped, though Lord Arthur Greyoak has sent an elite rescue party.”

Cersei let the wine rest against her lips.

“A bastard and a few barbarians wounded the king of the dead.”

“The details may be embellished, Your Grace. The wound itself has been confirmed by several sources.”

“Sources freeze in the North. Perhaps their brains froze first.”

Varys bowed his head. “Perhaps. Yet the defenders at the Wall believe it. Morale has risen. That alone has value.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “To whom?”

“To all of us, if the dead are real.”

She smiled without warmth. “Careful, Lord Varys. You sound almost sincere.”

“The world is discouraging enough without my help.”

Cersei looked toward the doors of the hall. The North, Stannis, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Vale through Baelish, all turning their eyes toward the Wall. A disaster, yes. But disasters had handles if one was willing to grip the bloody parts.

“If the North burns itself fighting dead things, Arthur Greyoak weakens,” she said. “Stannis may die. The Stark remnants bleed. The Riverlands stay frightened. The Vale looks south. That sounds almost useful.”

“If the Wall falls, Your Grace, the usefulness will be brief.”

“I am aware.”

She did not sound pleased to be aware.

“Oberyn,” she said. “Summon him.”

“The prince remains cautious.”

“Then remind him caution is more profitable when paid for. Tell him I wish to discuss common interests. Dorne cannot sit under its sun forever pretending winter is a northern superstition.”

Varys bowed.

“And Qyburn,” Cersei added. “Tell him to hurry his work. If the realm is filling with monsters, I would rather have some of my own.”

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Varys’s expression did not change. That was one of his more irritating talents.

Far to the east, in the Eyrie, Petyr Baelish read the same news from four different hands and smiled at all of them.

The mountain wind tore at his cloak as he stood on the high balcony. The Vale spread beneath him, cold, distant, and difficult to touch. That was why he valued it. Power was safest when most men had to climb to reach it.

“Jon Snow,” he murmured. “Ned Stark’s bastard, playing hero at the end of the world.”

He looked north.

A wounded Night King was useful if true. If the dead could be hurt, they could be killed. If they could be killed, then fear of them could be measured, traded, used. The North and Westerlands had been pulled toward the Wall. Edmure Tully remained dependent. The Vale remained intact. Cersei needed friends, and people who needed friends often paid with titles, trade, and silence.

Petyr gave instructions quietly.

Strengthen secret correspondence with King’s Landing. Watch the Vale houses still fond of House Stark. Contact northern exiles who might sell knowledge for coin. Open discreet talks regarding grain and protection. Offer nothing for free, because free things made men suspicious and paid things made them grateful enough to lie.

At Sunspear, Doran Martell sat before his cyvasse board.

The secret letter from Oberyn lay open beside the pieces. It described Cersei’s invitation, the northern news, and the strange claim that a Night’s Watch bastard had wounded a creature from legend. Arianne stood nearby, restless in the way only the young and intelligent could be when forced to watch patience work.

“Jon Snow,” Doran said, tapping one swollen finger near the northern piece. “A bastard of the Night’s Watch nearly kills the Night King. Westeros grows more theatrical each year.”

“Cersei wants us,” Arianne said.

“Cersei wants everyone. That is one of her problems.”

“And Oberyn?”

“Oberyn thinks working with Cersei may give Dorne a stronger hand in the south. He is not wrong. He is also enjoying himself, which makes him dangerous even when correct.”

Arianne looked toward the north of the painted board. “What of the White Walkers?”

Doran’s face revealed little. “Let the Northerners, the Westerlanders, Stannis, and the Night’s Watch worry first. Dorne’s sun does not shine that far. If the Night King can be wounded, perhaps he is not the end of all things yet.”

He moved a piece.

“Write to Oberyn. He may continue discussions. Our terms remain clear: Myrcella’s betrothal to Quentyn must be recognized by the Iron Throne and proclaimed before the realm. Dorne receives a seat of weight on the small council. Certain old grievances will be acknowledged in writing. We will offer moral support to the Wall and limited aid through merchants, nothing more.”

Arianne frowned. “Moral support is cheap.”

“That is why it is popular.”

In the Reach, Olenna Tyrell dismissed everyone but Margaery.

The reports lay across a table in Highgarden. Olenna tapped her cane against the floor, each tap sharper than the last.

“Jon Snow. Stubborn blood, those Starks. Like weeds in a neglected yard.”

“If the Night King was wounded,” Margaery said, “the Wall may hold.”

“Yes,” Olenna said. “And if the Wall holds, Arthur Greyoak becomes something worse than a conqueror. He becomes useful. Perhaps even beloved. He has the Westerlands, influence over the Riverlands, alliance with the North, and now the chance to be named savior of mankind by every frightened fool with a quill.”

“Then we help?”

“We appear to help.”

Margaery smiled faintly. She learned quickly. That was why Olenna loved her and feared for her.

“Grain and medicine,” Olenna said. “Not from the Reach officially. Through neutral merchants. In your name, perhaps. Let the realm hear that Margaery Tyrell thinks of the Wall while Cersei thinks of herself.”

“And Randyll Tarly?”

“Stays where he is. Pressure on the Westerlands-Riverlands border remains useful. A rose must smell sweet and keep thorns. Otherwise, it is just expensive decoration.”

Across the Narrow Sea, near Volantis, a different rumor became visible enough to cast shadows.

Three hundred ships filled the horizon: warships, galleys, transports, and heavy vessels with dark hulls and sails marked by dragons. Above them flew three living shapes that turned the sky into a thing men feared to look at.

Dragons.

Not stories. Not bones in a vault. Not skulls beneath a throne.

Dragons.

They circled over the fleet, black, green, and pale gold, their wings beating heat into the air. One dove toward a reef and bathed it in fire until stone cracked and steam roared upward from the sea. The port of Volantis fell into a silence that had nothing to do with peace.

On the prow of the largest ship, Balerion, stood Daenerys Targaryen.

Silver-gold hair moved in the wind. Pale violet eyes looked west. She wore simple black leather armor, not silk. Around her, soldiers and sailors moved with the care of men near power that could burn them by accident.

Westeros waited beyond the water.

A throne. A stolen birthright. Old blood. New wars. Ice in the north and madness in the south.

Daenerys had returned with Unsullied, Dothraki, allies, ships, and three dragons growing larger by the moon. She had come for blood and fire, for oaths and vengeance, and for the dawn she believed only she could bring.

The Seven Kingdoms had just begun to understand the cold.

Now fire was crossing the sea.