Chapter 33: The Dragon Queen's Bitter Resolve: Forging a Kingdom from Ashes
The return voyage to Dragonstone was a funereal dirge played out on a grey, indifferent sea. Daenerys Targaryen stood on the prow of her flagship, the wind whipping her silver hair, her violet eyes fixed on the eastern horizon, though her heart remained shattered on the misty shores of the Isle of Faces. Drogon, her black dread, her fiercest child, was gone – not slain in glorious battle against a worthy foe, but casually, contemptuously unmade by the Northern King who commanded the sun's fury. Rhaegal and Viserion, her two remaining dragons, were broken, their magnificent scales blistered and cracked, their roars now whimpers of agony, their spirits as wounded as their bodies. They lay chained and sedated in the ship's hold, a constant, painful reminder of Robb Stark's terrible power.
Humiliation warred with incandescent rage within her. She, Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, had been dismissed, threatened, her power revealed as tragically insufficient against this… this Sun King. His words, "I will dine on their roasted hearts," echoed in her mind, a barbaric vow delivered with the chilling certainty of a god.
Upon reaching the dark, volcanic shores of Dragonstone, she immediately convened her council in the Chamber of the Painted Table. The great stone table, carved in the shape of Westeros, seemed to mock her now. The North and the Trident, the lands Robb Stark claimed as his own, were clearly demarcated. The rest… the "five southern kingdoms and their ruins" he had so contemptuously offered her… they seemed vast and empty, yet also poisoned by the shadow of his power.
Her advisors gathered, their faces grim. Ser Barristan Selmy, his eyewitness account having already spread like wildfire through the fleet, stood stoically, the weight of his message still heavy upon him. Ser Jorah Mormont watched his Queen with pained solicitude. Tyrion Lannister, surprisingly subdued, observed the proceedings with keen, analytical eyes, a flagon of wine already in his hand. Missandei was a quiet presence of sorrow, while Grey Worm and Daario Naharis radiated a mixture of bewildered anger and a new, unwelcome fear.
"He killed Drogon," Daenerys stated, her voice flat, devoid of its usual fire, which was perhaps more terrifying. "My fiercest son. He crippled Rhaegal and Viserion. He stood before me, a boy younger than Aegon was when he forged this kingdom, and he threatened to eat my children." Her hands clenched. "And he has… unmade… my capital. My birthright."
"Your Grace," Ser Barristan began, his voice hoarse, "I have seen many terrible things in my long life. I have served mad kings and fought in desperate battles. But I have never seen power like Robb Stark's. He is… more than a man. He is the sun's wrath given form. His axe, Rhitta… it is a weapon of the gods themselves. To challenge him for the North or the Trident, with our current strength, or perhaps with any strength we could ever muster… it would be to seek utter annihilation. He was not boasting, Your Grace. He was stating a fact."
"So, we flee?" Daenerys snapped, a spark of her old fire returning. "We abandon Westeros to this… Stark… and his solar fury? I am the last Targaryen! I will not be chased from my own lands by a Northern usurper!"
"No one speaks of fleeing, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said gently. "But Ser Barristan speaks truth. The Robb Stark who commands the sun is not the honorable Ned Stark's son we once knew or imagined. He is… changed. Transformed by whatever power he wields, and by the grief of his father's murder. But his words… his warning was specific to his declared kingdoms." He hesitated. "He also said, did he not, Ser Barristan, that she was free to 'fight over the remaining five kingdoms and their ruins'?"
Barristan nodded grimly. "Aye. Those were his words. Delivered with a contempt that chilled the blood."
Tyrion Lannister swirled the wine in his goblet. "A fascinating turn of phrase, Your Grace. 'Ruins.' He acknowledges the state of much of the South. King's Landing is gone, its hinterlands likely falling into chaos. The Westerlands, my own ancestral home, he has personally… redecorated… into a barren wasteland. My esteemed father and ambitious sister, along with my nephew the boy-king, are less than ash. He has, in his own terrible way, cleared the board of most of your immediate rivals for those southern territories."
"He offers me a kingdom of cinders and sorrow!" Daenerys cried, her voice laced with bitterness.
"Perhaps," Tyrion mused, his mismatched eyes glinting. "But even cinders can be coaxed back into a flame. And sorrow can be fertile ground for a new beginning, for a Queen who offers a different path." He took a long drink. "Consider this, Your Grace: Robb Stark has effectively decapitated the Lannister regime and terrified every other southern lord into submission or hiding. He has done your dirty work for you, albeit in a manner that makes the Mad King's worst excesses look like a summer fête."
"And you suggest I pick through his leavings?" Daenerys asked, her pride stung.
"I suggest, Your Grace," Tyrion said, his voice surprisingly earnest, "that you consider the board as it is, not as you wish it to be. The North and the Trident are, for all intents and purposes, a separate, unassailable entity ruled by a demigod. To challenge him there is madness. He has, however brutally, defined his borders. He has also, by his very words, indicated a profound disinterest in what lies south of those borders, so long as it does not trouble him."
Daario Naharis, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke, a grimace on his handsome face. "That Stark… he is not like any man I have fought. When he looked at your dragons, Khaleesi… it was not with fear. It was with… hunger. Like a wolf looking at a flock of sheep. His threat to dine on them… I believe him. Some men collect trophies. He collects gods."
Grey Worm nodded, his normally impassive face tight. "The Unsullied fear no mortal man, Your Grace. We would die for you. But what Ser Barristan describes… our spears, our shields, would be as mist against such power. If he leaves other lands for the taking, perhaps wisdom lies in taking them, and avoiding his… sun."
"And what lands are these?" Daenerys demanded. "The Stormlands are leaderless and ravaged. The Crownlands are a smoking pit. The Westerlands are his personal wasteland. What is left? The Reach? Dorne? Will they welcome me with open arms?"
"The Reach," Tyrion said thoughtfully, "is ruled by the Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell, now that her oafish son and ambitious granddaughter are… no more. She is a pragmatic woman. She will be terrified of Stark. She might see you, and your dragons – even wounded – as a preferable alternative, a power she can perhaps negotiate with, rather than an elemental force she cannot comprehend. Dorne, under Prince Doran Martell, has long awaited an opportunity to strike at the Lannisters and their allies. With them gone, he too will be reassessing. He might see in you a chance to restore Targaryen ties, or at least a bulwark against the North."
"So, I am to be a queen of lepers and frightened sheep?" Daenerys's voice was still bitter. "Begging for scraps from a continent ruled by fear of this Sun King?"
Missandei spoke then, her voice calm and clear amidst the turmoil. "Gracious Queen, all great empires begin with a single step, often onto uncertain ground. What this King Robb has done is terrible, yes. But he has also created a… void. Nature abhors a vacuum, as do kingdoms. He has stated his sphere of influence. Perhaps your destiny lies in forging a new queendom from the lands he has scorned, a queendom built not on the ashes he has made, but on the hope you can offer to those who remain."
"Hope?" Daenerys laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "What hope is there when a man can unmake mountains with a gesture?"
"The hope, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said, his gaze steady, "that not all rulers are like him. The hope that fire can also warm, and not just consume. You are the Mother of Dragons, yes. But you are also Mhysa, the Breaker of Chains. Show Westeros that there is a difference between a queen who commands fire, and a king who is fire."
Daenerys paced the Chamber of the Painted Table, her mind a battlefield. Robb Stark's words, his power, his contemptuous dismissal of her claim to his North, warred with her lifelong ambition, her Targaryen pride, and the dawning, terrifying realization of her own limitations in the face of such might. Drogon was dead. Her heart ached with a mother's grief. Rhaegal and Viserion would take months, perhaps years, to fully heal from their terrible wounds, if they ever regained their full former glory.
To challenge Robb Stark now was to invite her own annihilation, the end of her line, the death of her remaining children. But to abandon Westeros entirely… that was unthinkable.
She looked at the Painted Table, at the shape of the continent. The North and the Riverlands, claimed by the Sun King. But below them… the Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne, the Vale (though that was its own fortress of isolation), even the blighted Westerlands and Crownlands… they were leaderless, broken, terrified.
He offered me five kingdoms of ruins, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth. Perhaps… perhaps from those ruins, I can build something new. Something that is mine.
"Tyrion Lannister," she said finally, her voice hard with a new, painful resolve. "You know these southern lands, these lords. Which of them is most likely to accept a Targaryen Queen who offers stability and order, rather than the terror of the Stark sun?"
Tyrion looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly masked. "Dorne, Your Grace. They have always held a certain… affection… for House Targaryen, and a deep-seated hatred for my family – a hatred now, ironically, sated beyond their wildest dreams by your Northern rival. Prince Doran Martell is a cautious man, but he plays the long game. He might see an alliance with you as his best hope for Dorne's future in this new, terrifying Westeros."
"And the Reach?" Daenerys pressed. "The Tyrells are headless, but their lands are rich, their armies still largely intact, if leaderless and terrified."
"Olenna Tyrell is a survivor, Your Grace," Tyrion said. "She will want to protect Highgarden and its bounty. She will want to ensure her house endures. If you offer her peace, protection from Stark's potential future whims, and perhaps a significant role for her house in your new order… she might be persuaded. Especially if your dragons recover and offer a credible alternative to Stark's solar devastation."
Daenerys nodded slowly. A path was forming, a bitter, compromised path, but a path nonetheless.
"Then it is decided," she announced to her council, her voice now firm, though laced with a sorrow that would perhaps never leave her. "Robb Stark has his North. Let him freeze in it with his sun, if such a thing is possible. We will not provoke him further. He has drawn his line. We will respect it. For now." Her eyes flashed, a hint of distant fire. "Our immediate concern is the five southern kingdoms. We will bring them under my rule. We will offer them order in the face of chaos, hope in the face of Stark's terror."
She looked at her advisors. "Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, you will help me draft proclamations to the lords of the Reach and Dorne. We will offer alliance, trade, and protection under the Queen's peace. Tyrion Lannister, you will advise me on their houses, their strengths, their weaknesses. Grey Worm, prepare the Unsullied. Daario, your Stormcrows will scout. Missandei, you will be my voice to these new peoples."
She paused, taking a deep breath. "We will land in Dorne. We will treat with Prince Doran. From there, we will build our kingdom. It will not be the Seven Kingdoms my ancestors ruled. Not yet. But it will be a kingdom. And it will be mine."
Her gaze drifted west again, across the Painted Table, towards the distant, unseen North. A cold, hard resolve settled in her heart. "One day, King Robb Stark," she whispered to the empty air, "one day you may find that even suns can be challenged by dragons who have tasted ash and grown strong in its shadow. This game is not over. It has merely entered a new, more patient phase."
The Dragon Queen had accepted a bitter draught, but her fire, though momentarily dimmed by the terrifying radiance of the Northern Sun, was far from extinguished. It was merely banked, gathering strength, awaiting a new dawn.