Chapter 103Notes:Hey! Sorry for missing the update last week, I had a family member in the hospital. They're stable and out of the hospital now, but I was kinda overwhelmed with helping out for a few days there. Thank you for the kind words in the comments last week when I didn't update on schedule, it means a lot.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter TextSansa stood in the courtyard to welcome back Tormund and the team she'd sent both to hunt and cull as many of the bears and other dangers further North as possible as her armies marched and prepared the region for war. The fewer men eaten by bears the better. And the meat of said bears would be welcome in their stores. The elk, moose, and deer were a boon as well. But she'd wanted the predators as culled as could be done from the Wolf's Wood. Too many men would be marching there. And already creatures from beyond the Wall were roaming southward.
The large, rough-hewn carts made their way into Winterfell, the cold biting in its sharpness from the wind. The snow caught at the wheels. Already her men were changing the wheels out for sled runners. The snow near five feet deep already. It would only get deeper, their frozen world colder.
Leading the portion of the hunting party that had returned was Tormund. His red hair shone out amongst their furs and leathers. Kissed by fire. The term felt more real in the white, between wind and snow falling leaving some details of the party hard to see. They could only hope the snow ceased long enough for more men to be sent out soon.
"Queen Stark!" Tormund bellowed as he lept off of the cart and onto the ground, striding towards her, arms open wide.
A smile came unbidden to her face. "Lord Giantsbane."
He let out a loud roaring laugh. "Fuck that, I'm as much a Lord as you've got a cock."
Sansa ignored the vaguely horrified faces of a few of her court that'd followed out for this minor greeting. She waved Wagstaff forward with the bread and salt. "Welcome back to Winterfell, it is good you arrived before this storm could set in properly."
"You call this a storm?" He grabbed a chunk of bread, dipped it in salt, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. "You southern shites don't know a good storm."
"Well, you are most welcome either way." She found that she liked the loud-spoken man. And she knew that his speaking to her in this manner was no insult. The majority of the men and women in the courtyard were Free Folk, and that Tormund was reporting to her, taking her offer of guest rite, that he treated her as a person worth acknowledging, was important. The Free Folk didn't bend easily, and she was not what they sought in a leader. "I trust you killed more bears than you tried to bed since you still live." She arched a brow, her face remaining near placid.
Tormund laughed. "Oh, you've got a sharp tongue today." He waved forward Meera Reed from the cart. Woman looked like she was considering stabbing Tormund with the dagger strapped to her belt. "But we brought you a gift!"
Sansa's eye turned to the burlap sack that Meera was carrying…carrying in arms with leather hides wrapped around them, and holding the bag as far away from her body as possible. It was moving, and that was certainly high-pitched growls and snarls coming from it. And Sansa knew in her heart of hearts exactly what was in that bag. She felt it as much as she thought it.
Tormund grabbed the sack and dragged out a reddish-brown wolf pup. For its size, and the adorably massive paws it could be no ordinary wolf, a direwolf. It's eyes were a bright amber as it snarled, desperately trying to bite and savage Tormund's hand where he had it by the scruff. It was wild and vicious, and afraid. Lashing out was the only way it knew to protect itself. "He's a mean little bugger. But thought our wolf Queen should have a wolf same as the rest of you fucking Starks."
Sansa hurt looking at it. But her arms automatically caught the mass of fur that Tormund dumped in her arms. No doubt he thought it'd be rather funny if she was bit once or twice. The Wildlings would think that. But the pup was startled at the sudden transfer. And Sansa's arms moved automatically, memories from when Lady had been a pup, from her siblings' wolves when they had been pups.
She easily caught the pup under each of its forelegs and found herself suddenly staring straight into its amber gaze. Its snarls were silenced as it looked back. Sansa stood there as they regarded one another. Absently she was aware of Ghost circling around her, sniffing at the pup. But she didn't look away. Neither did she shake, she wasn't afraid of a wolf pup. Not even a grown wolf frightened her, there were far worse monsters in the world. And this was a pup, it barely looked old enough to be fully weaned, likely hadn't been.
But she knew she'd be keeping it. A gift from the leader of her newest subjects, whose fealty was questionable at best, could not be refused. And her soul recognized this wolf just as she knew her siblings, as she knew their wolves, and she knew Nymeria's pack that had taken residence of the woods and fields outside their gates. This pup though, it was afraid. But also a gift from the Wildlings.
"Fuckin' Starks." Tormund snorted as he stepped back, clapping Meera on the shoulder. "Told ya' the pup'd know its own."
Sansa sighed as the pup softened in her hands. She brought it to her chest, wrapping her arms around the furry lump that'd gone pliant with exhaustion. No doubt it'd be asleep within minutes. "Come, there is a meal prepared and the halls are warm."
Meera began pulling off the leather wraps from her arms. "Do you plan to name him, your Grace?"
"I do." She looked down at the wolf pup, knowing her words were being listened to. "Brandon Breaker, King of Winter once fought side by side with Joramun, King Beyond the Wall." She looked up catching Tormund's eye. "Let us honor that alliance once more." Her lips curled. "And from those teeth marks perhaps Joramun will suit him."
Tormund just shook his head. "Good name that. Now, you still have that pisswater excuse for a drink around here? Or you finally started making something that can put hair on a man's chest?"
"I'm sure you can attempt to let Fitz allow you at the drink he's brewed." Sansa replied dryly as she turned to walk towards the entrance back into the keep. It was interesting though, there was something like interest in every Wildling's eyes in the courtyard. Something had happened when she'd accepted the gift, possibly the name. But whatever it was had given her better standing with them. There were two actual awkward, shallow, bows as she swept into the keep. She would handle that later. She looked to Wagstaff, her guard behind her left shoulder. "Go, fetch warm goat's milk, a clean cloth, and a bone from the kitchen and meet us back in the Great Hall."
"Your Grace." He bowed and then vanished in a swish of his green cloak.
Sansa turned her attention back to Tormund who was loudly boasting of his various kills lugging something rather large under his arm and clearly trying to get Brienne's attention from her post behind Sansa's right shoulder. Sansa felt a pleasing warmth at the display as her fingers lightly scratched at the soft fur of the now slumbering wolf pup in her arms. Joramun…well, at least Rickon would have time to train the poor thing. Might even keep Rickon from getting throttled by Bethany Blackwood. He was due for another attempted murder by an enraged girl. And she had brothers to help her with the throttling.
Sansa scratched at Ghost's ears, the poor wolf was pouting about Joramun deciding that Ghost's larger bone was for him and promptly claiming it for his own. No doubt she looked rather absurd. Ghost was staring longingly at his bone the pup was gnawing on contentedly. Joramun was quietly pleased with a stomach full of warm milk and some bits of meat from the bone and had snarled at everyone who got within five feet of him. Rickon had snarled back and was now happily reading while leaning against Shaggydog who was possessively seeing to his own bone. Of course, the crown prince was sitting on the floor with the wolves. She held in a sigh.
All in all, she was surrounded by wolves and that didn't seem to be something soon to change. Arya had raised a brow and slunk off to go bother Greatjon. Bran had not come down for supper, and in the end, it was a quiet affair. At least Nymeria was not in to add to the furry chaos that no doubt was soon to become a more prominent event in her court. But she was glad, this brief peace would not last much longer.
////
Petyr Baelish watched the changing of the tallies of food brought in, hunted, and scrapped from these thrice-cursed and frozen hills. "You are very diligent, your Grace."
"No more than my people require." Sansa replied absently as she set her newest numbers aside. "You're quite early for the council meeting, Lord Baelish?"
He met her Tully blue eyes. "Only doing my duty. And it would be poor manners to leave you toiling alone."
Sansa looked at him. "Duty." Her voice held weight. "Duty is to submit to the needs of others no matter the cost to oneself. You are many things Lord Baelish, but dutiful is not one of them. Or do you think me stupid?"
"No, I do not think you stupid. A figure of speech if you will. But I would be dutiful to you, if you permitted it, Sansa." He dared her name, the guard would not intervene.
She set her work aside, focusing on him utterly. "What do you want to ask? I don't have time for your clever words tonight."
Petyr tipped his head in deference. He had perhaps trained her too well, though for all that it would make her all the more glorious once wed to him. "What do you want that you do not have?"
"Peace and safety for mine. Do you think you can give that to me?" She stared at him, challenging and dismissive all at once. Of course, she knew she'd named too high a thing for him to easily procure it. Or even procure it at all. Fascinating, but then his own dreams he'd whispered in her ear were nearly as unattainable after all.
He felt smug, she had not lost her spark of ambition upon receiving her wants. Had not allowed it to be snuffed out by what was required to achieve it. "I can aid you in that if you would confide in me. You know this."
"I do." Sansa's eyes watched him. "Ser Creighton Redfort."
Petyr thought of the young man. "The spare?" What would Sansa want with the man? He was hardly an appropriate marriage option, lacked the power either his father or older brother who were both in the North could provide, and was really rather nothing much to think on. Of course, he could still be useful, everyone could be useful even if only for their corpse. Perhaps an addition to her royal guard? That possibility certainly had promise.
"Indeed, if you are so eager to serve, bring him to me in the next few days." Her eyes were sharp.
He could push, she might tell him, but likely he would irritate her. Her patience for him was greatly reduced since Ramsey, even if he had been making strides in making himself more useful to her. Making himself indispensable. He bowed. "It shall be done, your Grace."
Some hours later he unclothed himself for a bath. The one time he was warm in this miserable place. So Sansa Stark was beginning to sink her claws into the Vale. She'd avoided it to some degree outside of alliance against the Dead. Something had changed perhaps? If her lover had brought her news that changed the Targaryen position in regards to the Vale, Sansa was playing it close to the chest. Or perhaps she meant to make the position stronger to leverage the Vale more solidly in her favor with negotiations.
He pulled his thick black outer garments away from himself, setting them on the bed. Sansa seemed content to limit her power with the coming Dead. It was a gamble. However, better a strong foothold come summer than to reach too far and fall now. He considered his options as he unlaced his shirt. If Sansa was as ambitious as he thought, she would mean for this peace to only last a season. The Vale would need bend the knee to her come spring.
Petyr slid the last of his clothing off before stepping into the bath. To bind the Vale to the North, securing his position by brokering it, send some feelers to the Westerlands, and Reach for loose ends the Targaryen would be unable to catch in time. Gather power and strings to pull. To be indispensable. He closed his eyes. Gods or demons or monsters from story didn't matter. Let other men worry on that. He would have spun a web to make The Spider proud by the time better men returned. If they did. Some he would need to make sure never did.
////
Wynafryd Manderly sucked on her finger with a sigh. Needlework was difficult after the sunset, especially with her Grace having strictly limited the amount of candles, lamps, torches, and tallow lights permitted at one time. Whole swaths of Winterfell simply became dark with the setting of the sun. A thing no doubt quite a few people took advantage of. Her eyes flicked to Mira Lovewell, oh she may not know the exact nature of the woman's duties to the Queen. But only an idiot thought it only as a simple lady in waiting.
"You're going to get frown lines." Her sister Wylla remarked as she continued her stupidly easy running stitches on the simple gown she was making. "You'll be old."
Wynafryd narrowed her eyes, her sister was getting a bit too cheeky with the 'old' comments. She was three and twenty, not ancient. Besides her marriage had been delayed purposely. "At least my hair is not green."
"Her Holiness's hair is blue." Wylla replied with a flip of her long green hair.
Wynafryd rolled her eyes. "A single streak that is hardly noticeable if she hasn't pulled some of it back. It's hardly comparable to a whole head of green."
"I don't know how you were able to convince your grandfather to let you keep it." Alys Cerwyn remarked from where she was carefully using the majority of the light to write out the newest orders to be sent to every house. Or well, they were more reminders that every man, woman and child over the age of ten was to be taught to wield a dagger at the least. It was not a duty to be shirked without consequence.
Mira hummed. "The green is certainly an interesting choice."
"I like it, and I don't give a fig what anyone else thinks." Wylla's lips curled.
Wynafryd sighed, honestly, her sister was going to be the death of her. "It wouldn't kill you to try, we are part of a royal court."
"Speaking of the court," Mira pulled the conversation away from them, "any thoughts on if we should prepare another gown or two for the Queen? What with the southern court surely coming our way within the year?"
Alys hummed. "Less than, once the marriage agreement between his Highness and the Targaryen is arranged I doubt they'll wait a full moon's turn to see them wedded, bedded, and the army on the march to aid us against the Dead."
"So a few gowns fine enough to keep the southerner's mouths shut?" Mira checked.
Wynafryd frowned. "Would her Grace even approve the cost and labor of such a thing?"
"She will, her Grace is mindful of what her dress says about her. We'll likely need at least one formal dress for the princes and princess as well." Mira frowned as she clearly had begun to put together how much effort such an undertaking would be.
Wylla lowered the running stitches she'd been working on. "What if we made something with layered hardened leather."
"You want us to make leather armor for the Queen?" Wynafryd asked dubiously.
Wylla squared herself challengingly. "You think our Queen is going stay here when the war comes?"
Mira made a sound of deep resignation. "She won't, not when she can leave Prince Rickon as the Stark in Winterfell. Even if she's not on the frontlines…"
"So armor bodice then. Maybe something that can be worn over some of the tighter-cut upper bodice gowns she already has?" Wynafryd suggested as she set her sewing aside and walked to the table Alys was writing on, took a seat by the precious light, and pulled out a sheet of paper. They would need specific materials for such a project.
Alys nodded thoughtfully, pausing in her own writing to think on it. "The dark grey gown could be adjusted for such a thing, a single new black gown and we simply use the armor to make her plainer dress appear more complex?"
"Aye, that would work." Wylla grinned. "We can press images into the leather as well. Direwolves of course." A wicked gleam glinted in her eye. "At least one eagle."
"Wylla! That's improper! Without permission from her Holiness that could be taken as an insult!" Wynafryd snapped at her sister. "You could see her Grace humiliated if her Holiness takes it badly."
Wylla snorted. "Her Grace got her lover to crack the headboard of her bed. And did you see the vest her Holiness put on that's Stark colors? Hells, we're making a matching tunic to go over it once she returns."
"Wearing Stark colors is not the same as permitting her Grace to wear her sigil." Wynafryd glared at her younger sister.
Wylla pointed at the box of jewelry of the Queen's on the table where they'd organized it into its new boxes. "Hair comb with an eagle."
Mira cleared her throat. "It's not just the comb, she has a pendant as well. Has been wearing it under her shift most days. I'm unsure of how long she's had it. There is also the ring. If it's subtle, I believe it unlikely her Holiness will be anything but pleased."
"We should still consult with her Grace before we press an eagle into expensive, cured leather." Alys said with careful assuredness that said she would be bringing the idea to the Queen even if they imagined attempting to make the garment without the approval of the Queen.
Wynafryd marked it on the page. "We'll add it to the morning list for her Grace then."
"It's so romantic." Wylla sighed, slouching in her seat. "And it's shut up the things men muttered about her Grace before the Bolton's fell."
Wynafryd grimaced at the reminder of that. "Grandfather had anyone who uttered that filth whipped."
"Men think cruel things, and say worse." Alys said on the matter, her face said she'd certainly heard what Wynafryd and her sister had heard.
The dark words of how the Bolton Bastard had ruined her. That she'd be broken, if the Boltons were removed perhaps some lower House could be given her. Who would want a woman deformed as surely Ramsey would leave her? It'd all been foul, and Wynafryd was grateful her grandfather and seen to it any who uttered it were whipped. But they hadn't moved to aid the Queen for all that.
"Well, the Queen's certainly proved the fuckers wrong," Wylla said decisively.
Wynafryd stepped into her grandfather Wyman Manderly's solar. "You asked me to see you, grandfather?"
"Ah! There you are." Grandfather smiled warmly at her. "Your sister handling being amongst the Queen's ladies in waiting well?"
Wynafryd smiled back at him. "Aye, not by southern standards."
He chuckled. "Well, that's all that matters then." He fell more serious. "I wished to speak with you about your marriage. The Queen has opened an opportunity for two matches for you. I thought you might like some input."
Her eyes widened slightly, but she took the seat across from her Grandfather. "What did you trade to her Grace for such a thing?"
"Nothing yet, though I'm sure she'll call on the debt eventually." He waved off the concern. "She's rewarding loyal service. And with our position awarding more land to our House would leave her heirs in a dangerous position should your heirs turn treasonous. I doubt she will ask anything of us we are unwilling to give when the time comes."
Wynafryd nodded to her grandfather's words. "Then what are these options?"
"A son of House Lake, or a son of House Redfort." He replied, his sharp gaze watching her response.
She frowned her finger tapping on the wooden arm of her seat. "House Lake would make internal trade routes for our House deeper, and a stronger claim to the North as our home." Her eyes narrowed. "But House Redfort of the Vale? They're blood of the first men, yes?"
"They are." He didn't offer more.
Wynafryd ran through what she knew of the Vale House, it was less than she would have liked. "They've allied with House Royce this generation which would encourage safety for our ships in Royce harbors. They're the greater House as well." She looked at her grandfather.
He nodded. "Very good, and more importantly, if something should happen to Lord Baelish, who will become regent of the Vale till their Lord comes of age?"
"Lord Royce." Wynafryd didn't comment on the implication something might happen to Lord Baelish. He'd wronged their Queen, selling her to the Boltons. If he were to simply step foot outside of Winterfell and his guest rite, she had little doubt he'd never be heard of again. The wolves in the hills around them might even do it for the Starks. Which meant, being tied to the ruling House of the Vale for several years. Crucial years when various trade deals could be drawn up and approved to be favorable to House Manderly. "You mean to accept the offer of a son from House Redfort then."
He smiled. "Well reasoned, and I do. You'd best learn what you can of your future husband's House. And Wynafryd, when not with the Queen and the other ladies in waiting, I expect you by my side. You'll rule our House when I and your father are gone. There is still much for you to learn." His smile grew. "Especially if we mean to keep the position of Master of Ships in the family."
"Of course Grandfather." She felt a thrill at that. It'd gone from a dearly hoped for possibility to a certainty that she would be allowed to remain as her father's heir with a Queen on the throne. Her chest filled with pride. "And no doubt you wish to hear what information may aid our House I learned today?"
He raised an interested brow. "Oh, and what information is that?"
"The hair comb her Grace was given by her lover is the third piece of jewelry with an eagle on it that has been gifted to her." Wynafryd saw the understanding on her grandfather's face. After all, their Queen was further untouchable with that. Loyalty to the Starks truly was the only sensible choice. It certainly felt nice to have that belief justified, however.
Notes:So since it keeps coming up in the comments, the sex thing and everyone in fic assuming Daisy would even consider or would hook up with someone who isn't Sansa. It's because people in a feudal system use sex to demonstrate/prove power. It's not even about the sex itself. It's a symbol. It's why we know which Kings didn't have mistresses because it was considered weird. So weird it actually lost them political power. It's why you know everyone in the Books who is a man who doesn't use sex workers or have affairs or mistresses. Because if they're not it's worth mentioning. Politically if Daisy had sex with one of the Tyrells it wouldn't be seen as her just hooking up with someone. It would be a political gesture that she can, that the Tyrells are beneath her, but also a show of favor to their House. It's the whole 'Everything is about sex except sex, sex is about power' thing. Like obviously not true, sometimes true but not always, but in a feudal system it's more true. Especially for nobility.
It's not that the Tyrells or anyone are stupid. It's that they are expecting Daisy to act like just a more powerful King, and she's not. Not to mention Daisy is missing some of it because A. She grew up poor and rich powerful people shit is not something she's used to. Like on a mission sure, but long term not really. B. Feudal medieval culture is not her culture. And C. She doesn't think of herself in terms of what base level respect she generates. She knows her skills, and what she can do and be recognized for doing, but she's never had a high baseline of respect. Ever. So it's throwing her.
Daisy is a bit of an aberration because all of her hard political power is from what she herself can do. That's not how political power usually works. Typically you gain soft power that gains you hard political power. But because her political position is dependent on who and what she is and is capable of, and has almost nothing to do with how she engages politically, it means she's functioning in a manner that is using hard power to get soft power. It's backward of literally everyone else. The closest to her would be Dany with her dragons, but even Dany has to play political ball.
Chapter 104Notes:Yo! Happy friday everyone!
Chapter TextDaisy leaned against one of the sturdy wooden weapons racks as she watched Jon trying to teach his three new squires how to hold a sword properly and some basic blocks. It was interesting, and also quite clear that Luthor and Mors had had lessons before. Garth on the other hand had clearly had far poorer lessons. It wasn't helping that Garth was clearly the youngest of the three boys. They'd been at it for a while too. She could see they were flagging.
She stepped over, ignoring how every Reach man stiffened at the movement. "Arms up." Daisy stepped in front of Garth.
His eyes widened as he lifted his arms up from where they'd been dragging down.
"Finally going to help then?" Jon shot her a look.
Daisy grinned. "Just seeing what you're working with." She watched poor Garth trying to keep his sword even as he ran through the rote practice of an upper-side slash for the nth time. Turning to Jon she held out her hand. "Toss over your sword."
"Should I be alarmed you're not just telling them to run?" Jon chuckled as he tossed his practice sword. It and all the swords they were using were blunted.
She caught the hilt out of the air and turned to face Garth once more. "Do you know why you need to keep your arms up?"
"So I don't… learn it… wrong, Holiness?" Garth managed between panting breaths.
Daisy shook her head lightly while raising Jon's sword. "You're tired, your arms hurt because fighting is hard. Attack me."
He hesitated, but then he made the move to swing at her. His face screwed up with determination, though his mouth opened to suck in air.
She blocked his attacks, not striking back, but rather shifting to force him to use the strikes Jon had been teaching, over, and over. "Keeping your hands up is the hardest part." She struck out then, not hard, but enough that he was struggling to get his sword up in time to block. "Because you'll be tired." Daisy kept her strikes blatantly telegraphed, slow enough to track easily, and directed towards his head. It forced him to block high. "And if you don't fight through it," She swung and locked their blades as he barely managed to block, "You'll die."
Sweat was streaming down his face as he barely could get air to his lungs fast enough. But he was putting his weight into it since he didn't have the muscle to do much.
"Good." She released the locked swords, stepping in and catching his elbow before he could face plant.
Garth looked up at her. "I…can…keep goin'."
"You also can get some water before you get heat stroke." Daisy smiled, making sure he'd done well. "Come on, water." She gently steered him to a bench with a bucket. Daisy watched him half collapse on the bench before she turned to face the other two squires. And yup, about what she'd expect of cocky tween boys of a higher social status watching their weakest member, and lowest ranked member, get singled out. Luthor to his credit also looked faintly worried for Garth, so not hopeless. "Let's save time, both of you, now."
Daisy did the same as she had with Garth, she forced them to keep their arms up, though not actually hitting them, well not much. It didn't take long for them to be exhausted, also honestly they were more a threat to each other with some poor swings than anything else. "Mors, arms up doesn't mean leave your whole torso open." She whacked him lighting in the ribs to prove the point.
Turning she caught Luthor's attempt to whack her while she was focused on Mors. "Better, legs braced, your footwork is getting sloppy." She hooked his ankle with her own and sent him stumbling forward a few paces. Her eyes narrowed as she swung back, catching Mors' strike. "Move your feet!"
Daisy purposely pressed with a bit more strength, forcing him to move his feet. "You're all young. You won't go winning a contest of strength with anyone for a few years. Don't act like a rock." She hit and nearly struck Luthor's nose. "Faster, in a real fight, your enemy won't go easy because you're tired."
Daisy passed the training sword back to Jon while watching the three squires, utterly wrecked, slumped by the now-empty water bucket. "What do you think, worth a couple hours off?"
"Aye, did you have to run 'em into the ground that hard?" Jon looked at her, though he was clearly amused.
She shrugged. "No, but they won't complain about drills for a while."
"I don't know how your Order haven't all died from how much you make them run." Jon shook his head. "If we'd had you at the Wall you'd have turned us all into the finest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Daisy eyed him. "We both know half the reason I'm scary has nothing to do with how good I am at fighting." She grinned though. "I am getting really good at swords though."
"Is there anything you're actually terrible at if given a half chance to learn it?" Jon asked a certain bemused bafflement to his voice.
She stared at him. "Lots of stuff, like chemistry, not great at languages, horrible at faking accents, I set the oven on fire last time I tried to make something, keeping my mouth shut, I was a terrible student, never tried gardening but I don't see that going well…or sewing? I don't know how anyone does that without going crazy."
"That's not comforting." Jon shook his head. "Well, what do you think about the boys? Horse riding in combat won't be useful to 'em for a while. Not with the snows coming, so that can wait. Jousting and all that would be useless too, till spring comes again."
Daisy fell serious, "You can't take them to war Jon, they're kids." She felt nauseous already at how young the 'men' at arms at Winterfell were.
"They chose it." He met her eyes. "I know their families did, but they could say no. I tried to get them to do it. But they won't. It's their right to choose it if they want."
Her teeth clenched, but she gave a nod. She would do something if he tried to drag tweens to the front lines. But that didn't mean she had to like how close to those front lines they would be getting. "Teach them what they need to be useful behind the front lines." She sighed. "And archery. They'll get overrun in a real fight."
"Thank you." He watched as the three boys were desperately trying to pretend they weren't recovering enough to maybe move. Some survival instincts at last.
Daisy leaned into Jon, nudging him a bit. "You were joking earlier, but running them up and down some stairs every day would probably be a good idea."
"I never want to meet the sadistic bastard who trained you." Jon's considering expression clearly meant his squires would be hoofing it up some stairs in the near future.
Daisy snorted.
////
Willas hated that walking was nearly impossible this morning. He was trapped in the library study, and Garlan and his grandmother were forced to calm the household. Lomys had had to drain his leg the night before. So he was trapped, with nothing useful to be done save reports of the progress of his forces mustering. Reports on the remains of the Tarly lands and forces.
He was writing a letter of instruction for his force securing the Tarly lands when he heard the sound of the wooden shutters for the window briskly opening. His head snapped around, and there was Goddess Quake. "Holiness!" Willas tried to rise only to be gently pressed back down by an invisible force.
"Jesus don't get up." Quake hopped off the ledge, her eyes pointedly flicking to the bandages wrapped around his leg where it had been drained. "You can fight with your maester and your mom over walking or whatever, but don't hurt yourself just to be polite to me."
Willas flushed in shame, his eyes looking down. "That is very kind of you, Holiness."
"Fuck." She slid onto a low settee across from him, folding her legs underneath herself in the weirdest manner. "Look, I'm a soldier, not being a dick about someone being injured is just basic human decency." She clearly saw something on his face. "Coulson lost his arm, got cut off by an axe so his whole body didn't turn to stone." She shrugged. "Took him a couple of years to find a prosthetic arm he liked and to stop complaining about the nub itching. Elenna lost both her arms in a fight, she's still one of the scariest people you'll ever meet in a fight. Mike is…I'm not sure if he's more prosthetic or fleshy parts at this point." She frowned slightly. "And that's just like the lost limbs. Jemma complained that making any of us follow orders so we could heal was like herding cats."
He couldn't lie, that she never looked at him with pity. When she did seem to notice his leg it was more like…well…she was making sure her presence wasn't harming him. "Even you, Holiness?"
"I'm terrible about going easy when I'm hurt." She laughed, her eyes crinkled at the sides. "I'm not sure what horrified Jemma more, the time I slid down her door leaving a trail of blood, or any time she had to look at my arms."
Willas thought of the reports from servants who were assigned to attend to their divine guest. He knew she had quite a few scars. Scars that for a mortal would have been fatal. But, none was mentioned as being on her arms. And of what he'd seen about her wrists there was little damage if any. "Your arms, Holiness?"
"Randal Yellshire was kind of a bitch about it." She shifted, touching her forearm with one palm. "I used to do that to myself on accident just…all the time. Mostly my arms though." Her smile was tight. "They had to make gauntlets for my forearms so I didn't snap my bones when I fought. Kinda like casts, you could fight in."
He stared in horror, reports of the agony that had left Randal near incoherent with pain in his head. Lomys description of the damage. "You fought with those injuries?"
"Well yeah?" Her head tilted slightly before suddenly false humor slid across her face. "The people who need to be stopped don't stop just because you're hurt. And I had the power to do something. What's pain to that?"
And he couldn't know what expression was on his face as he stared at her. Horror perhaps? Awe? Reverence?
"Pain sucks." She turned amused once more. "I think this is a 'do as I say, not as I do' moment. Or proof I can be a raging hypocrite sometimes."
He felt the tension draining from him. Her words may be horrifying, but he understood the point. It wasn't subtle. "Thank you."
She smiled, and it was genuinely kind. "So, hiding from idiots who'll think pain means weakness?"
"Yes…and I don't wish for their pity," Willas admitted, no matter how much he hated to do so. He looked at her. "Why come to see me like this? I doubt you wish only to speak of my infirmary."
Quake gave a nod. "I assume you have a plan to prevent panic from yesterday." Her eyes were sharp. "These aren't my people, and I could make things worse without meaning to."
Willas wondered if this being of unthinkable power would ever cease to amaze him with her capacity for empathy? Her sense of responsibility. He doubted it. "Would you be willing to speak with some men of the Faith?"
"Well, that'll suck." She sighed, leaning back. "Sure."
Willas had seen that expression a thousand times. "Not fond of men of Faith?"
"Grew up with them." She had a softness to her. "As long as you make sure whoever you find isn't a self-important jackass, it should be fine."
He nodded, a darkly amused chuckle in the back of his throat. "So not cut from the same cloth as Yelshire?"
"Pretty much." Quake huffed in amusement. "But I'm sure we both know powerful priests or septons or whatever tend to care less about people and more about the power the higher they go."
Willas grimaced slightly. "You are not wrong. Perhaps if you spoke with a less powerful septon who could speak more honestly with you and ensure any discussion with a more powerful man did not go…irrevocably badly?"
"I assume you have someone in mind?" She wasn't tense or seeming to think of it as anything too terrible of an ask.
He hoped his friend did not kill him for this. "Septon Tristan Flowers, he is a good man. A kind one and not an angry one."
"Then I'll talk to him." She paused, her warm brown eyes seemed to burn where they looked upon him. "And Willas, I know you would have never let what happened in the garden yesterday happen if you had had the faintest clue it was going to be an issue."
Willas could have cried at the absolution, the compassion. If he had been a younger and less practiced man he would have. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I am grateful for it, Holiness."
"Daisy." She rose to her feet. "And I'll see you this evening then."
Willas was struck dumb as she vanished out of the room, surprising his guard on the other side who likely hadn't been aware she was even in the room at all. The weight of it. She'd given him leave to use her name. To not speak her title if he wished. That…even if it was not meant to be used outside this room it was…there was no doubt that he and his had not lost favor. Had rather gained it somehow. He hadn't the faintest idea how. But it felt like despite the pain of his body he could breathe.
Willas forced his face to remain placid, only slightly apologetic as the Queen swept into the study. "Your Grace, I would stand but as you can see," he waved to his leg, "that is rather impossible unless you wish me to fall shortly after."
"Of course, there is no need to harm yourself, my Lord." Daenerys was ethereal as she swept in, her loyal guard just behind her, and Lord Tyrion as well. "You requested to speak with me?"
He dipped his head as respectfully as he could while seated with his leg stretched out and covered lest his injury displeased the Queen to see. Not that he thought a conqueror would care, but it was still polite. "About the Faith of the Seven, I've written and sent men to ensure it's done. But within a week three of the senior members of the Faith should be here."
"Ah, you've worked quickly." Tyrion settled himself in the chair with a grating level of comfort for a guest who was merely tolerated.
Daenerys made the seat she had taken appear like a throne more than a simple wooden seat. She certainly had the presence of royalty in her. "Do you believe her Holiness will agree?"
"Yes." Willas relaxed. "I believe that your course of action will work, your Grace."
Tyrion's eyes sharpened as he steepled his fingers before him.
"You approve then?" Daenerys asked as the servant poured and offered wine.
Willas accepted his own cup of wine after Daenerys. He was interested to note Tyrion did not take the drink. But he'd been asked a question. "I believe it is perhaps the only time gaining control of the Faith will be possible, your Grace."
"You've already done something to begin this scheme then?" Tyrion spoke up. "More than just procuring men of the Faith."
He tipped his head. "Her Holiness stopped to speak with me and agreed to the idea. She has agreed to speak with a minor septon later this evening so that a minor accord can be met before anyone important says something unwise."
"I wouldn't have sought that conversation out." Tyrion chuckled, a knowing expression on his face. "I must say, daring of you to speak of it so soon after yesterday?"
Willas wished he could order the dwarf thrown into a cell beside his sister fucking brother. He ignored the emotion, it was unproductive and unwise. "No, I didn't seek it out." He gestured to his leg. "I'm rather unable to do so and not even I would dare attempt to summon a Goddess to gain favor with my Queen."
"Wise man." Tryion agreed. "Now, who exactly should we be expecting as a possible new High Septon?"
Willas wished he could stab him for daring to order him like that. It was one thing to be given orders from a Queen. Honor to and privilege to it. Not so from a man he hated. However, they had the manner of this plan to discuss. "That is not a certain thing-"
////
Daenerys was exhausted as she stood on the hill outside of Highgarden, her son curled around her. She closed her eyes, one hand laid on Drogon's snout, as she grounded herself. It was…not what she had expected. She hummed as Drogon shifted, a deep rumble in his throat. Turning she opened her eyes looking at what had caught her son's attention. Down the hill was the familiar dark figure of Jon. He was clearly giving her children a wide berth.
She smiled faintly in amusement. Well, his wariness of her children was certainly justified. In fact, she was surprised Daisy wasn't hovering. Her smile grew, oh, he hadn't told his god what he was planning. Dany felt rather like laughing. Turning back to Drogon she spoke. "Go hunt."
Drogon pushed into her, nearly knocking her back, and then pulled back, turning and taking flight. The ground shook faintly, the great gust of wind from his wings like a physical weight. As he climbed into the sky he cried out, his brothers replying from where they'd been feasting on cattle brought for them by the Tyrells.
Dany stood, watching as they curled and swooped in the sky. It was beautiful here, in a golden way. Everything here felt like a warm summer day turned into a physical place. She longed for the harshness of Dragonstone, or even the scorching heat of Essos. It was too pleasant, and she would be glad when the diplomacy needed here was at an end and she could leave.
"Your children are impressive, your Grace." Jon's northern voice came from not far behind her.
She turned back to her possible betrothed. "Does Daisy know that you dared come so close to my children?"
"No, she'll be…unhappy when she finds out." He grimaced. "I shouldn't have asked her to help train my squires."
Dany had no doubt Jon would be sporting some new bruises. "I was surprised she didn't kill that fool who dared insult her so grievously. I'd have fed him to my children if he'd spoken to me in such a manner."
"Destruction doesn't suit her, not really." Jon sighed. "You have said nothing of a betrothal between us since you agreed?"
She shared his frustration. "My advisors insist on time, at least until the religious matter between the Faith of the Seven and Daisy is settled."
"Fair enough." He clearly didn't like the answer but was accepting it nonetheless. "You call her by her name?"
Dany looked back at the glittering walls of Highgarden. "With you, I doubt she cares for a formal manner of address."
He chuckled. "Aye, she really doesn't." Jon offered his arm. "Would you allow me to escort you back to Highgarden?"
She accepted, the longer she spent in Westeros the more she was coming to appreciate his easy honesty. "My advisors have brought up a concern for a possible union between us."
"What is that?" Jon asked, clearly intending to fight whatever that concern was to the bitter end. It was rather amusing.
Dany raised a brow, watching him curiously. "That you're fucking Daisy."
His shoulders slumped and a miserable-sounding groan came from his throat. "Why does everyone insist on thinking that? I would never." Jon's head snapped to her suddenly. "I swear, I have never and would never dishonor you in such a way. Nor would I dishonor my sister."
"I thought so." Dany looked away from his earnest expression. She'd thought it unlikely no matter how things seemed to imply it. "You are aware you touch her quite freely, claimed to be able to calm her rages and speak to her without title?" Her voice was dry as out of the corner of her eye she saw him cringe.
Jon sighed. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" She found it revealed as much about him as it did Daisy watching them interact.
He frowned, clearly trying to explain it. "We understand each other. And I think…she is very lonely. We're friends, and what everyone else thinks won't change that."
"I wouldn't expect anything could change your mind." Dany found that oddly reassuring. And…she could understand that. "You do know marrying me will separate you from those around you, separate you from your home, your family?"
Jon's too-serious grey eyes that sometimes seemed nearly purple were inescapable as he looked at her. "Aye, but we'd have each other, and you have Missandei, we wouldn't be entirely alone."
"No, we wouldn't be." She felt ever more secure in this decision. Her advisors would come to her perspective.
Chapter 105Notes:Did I almost forget to post? yes, But I have remembered!
Chapter TextSepton Tristan Flowers was going to murder Willas Tyrell if he survived tonight. His piety could go to the seven hells, he'd strangle Willas with his bare hands for sending him to speak with an angry dark goddess of ruin, and if he survived this, to mediate between said dark goddess of ruin and the puffed-up pillocks in line for the title of High Septon. If he had a choice he'd have run. Just fled into the night. He didn't have a choice.
As such he walked towards his doom. Such a lovely stage for his impending death…or worse. There shouldn't be things worse than death, but there were. It was a lovely balcony looking out over the fields and gardens. The air was thick with the scent of roses and goldenrod. The evening light as the sun set lit the fields with gold as the sky looked as if a painter had spilled out his paints across it. Truly, a gorgeous sight. And the balcony was no less so. Small sweet cakes set out on gold painted fine ceramics, vines spilling out over the railing, lovely delicately and intricately carved chairs with fine cloth of gold embroidered pillows. It looked like a scene from a dream or a song.
But the people were what Tristan was focused on. The two familiar twin guards that followed Lady Olenna everywhere were at the entrance, though the tart-tongued woman was absent, thank the gods. Sitting at a small table to one side were two men playing a game of cyvass. He may never have met them before, but a bald man in robes with a blonde, scarred dwarf could only be two men: Varys, Master of Whispers, and Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. Looming over the shoulder of the Lannister dwarf was a Northern man. He was handsome, had a distinctive pin upon his breast, and could be none but the Northern Prince.
Tristan swallowed thickly. He did not belong. A high-pitched, hysterical part of him was screaming out in his head that he was just a bastard. That just breathing the same air as these people would see him dragged out. But oh there was worse than just royalty and members of the small council. Because there by the railing was the worst.
Standing, half leaning upon the railing were Garlan and Leonette Tyrell. They were truly a handsome couple, likely a sign Lord Willas would not be appearing. But standing between them, laughing as she spoke in quiet tones with them was the Goddess. She was…well she was certainly a strikingly beautiful woman. The setting light left her near glowing, with confidence and comfort in her stance that was rare to see in any. No wilting flower, she was the power here, and she knew it.
He immediately bowed at the waist, burying his hands into the sleeves of his simple robes to hide their tremble.
"Ah, Septon Flowers!" Garlan's voice would have been perfectly politely jovial if Tristan hadn't known him better. There was a thrum of perfection to that tone that only came when he was faking his mood, at least in part. "You are most welcome."
Tristan straightened, praying the Seven would preserve him. "My Lord, it is an honor to be asked here."
"Please, you do us the honor by being here." Garlan carefully moved with the fluidity of practice as he gently gestured to the people here. "May I present Lords Varys and Lannister, as well as his Highness Prince Stark, and of course Her Holiness, Quake." He waived to Tristan. "My Lords, your Highness, your Holiness, may I present Septon Flowers."
Tristan bowed to the Goddess once more. "It is an honor."
"It's nice to meet you, Septon Flowers." Her voice was warm and remarkably human as she spoke. "You have some questions for me then?"
He barely kept from cringing. Because while true, who would dare phrase it like that?! She was a Goddess for gods' sake. Tristan straightened, though kept the faint dip to his head he'd mastered as a young boy when in the presence of his social superiors. "I seek only what wisdom you wish to give that the people's fears might be gentled, your Holiness."
"Look," She didn't step away from the railing, instead remaining leaning against it as she waved to a chair near to her person, "don't go off about me being a witch or abomination and don't say anything disgusting about Sansa Stark and you should be fine. I'm not an angry person."
Prince Stark gave the Goddess a bemused expression. "You ought to take insult a bit more."
The Goddess rolled her eyes. "Again, what even would be the point?"
"Idiots being dead before they get to the part where they can call my sister a whore or insult your family, character, and intentions?" The Prince's voice held the air of speaking a well-worn argument. "And prevent Umbers from getting so at ease around you they start speaking of things so crude you break their noses for it."
She laughed. "I don't think anything would help an Umber."
"Fascinating as this all is, I do believe this poor man was asked here for a reason?" Tyrion Lannister stated with a truly attentive expression as his eyes skipped between the Prince and Goddess.
Goddess Quake gave a nod, her attention flicking back to Tristan. "Right, do you want to sit before you pass out?"
"I…thank you, your Holiness. But to sit in your presence when you do not would be unacceptable." He tipped his head in respect to her.
There was something on her face as she looked at him, but she did not insist. "If you change your mind you won't insult me. But to the idiocy of Yelshire, or whatever. What do you want to know?"
Tristan stepped ever so faintly closer, lest she be forced to keep her voice louder than simple conversation dictated, but not so close as to encroach upon her space. "As a member of the Faith of the Seven, I must express my deepest apologies and regret that a man of our most sacred order would dare speak to you in such a vile and untoward manner, Holiness."
"I know a single person almost never speaks for the group. But apology accepted, even if you really didn't owe me one." Goddess Quake replied with a sort of exasperation in her tone. It should have been dangerous, but it didn't quite feel that way.
Prince Stark looked like he was in pain. "They owe you more than an apology."
"Really don't." She looked positively fond as she looked at the bafflingly confounding Prince who was arguing with her.
He threw his hands up. "You're infuriating. If you keep ignoring insults, I will have to start punching people for you!"
"I can defend myself?" Her head tilted slightly as she stayed focused on the Prince.
He made a sound of frustration before taking a seat and staying stubbornly silent.
Tristan was…what in seven hells? He cleared his throat. "I thank you for your mercy, we do not deserve it, Holiness."
"For fucks sake." She sighed. "Look, I don't have a quarrel with your Seven. I've never met them, never heard of them even before I got dragged here. And I've been in your septs, not a single bit of anything to indicate they consider that inappropriate."
He swallowed, well, that was…that was certainly a good step. "You do not find it insulting that we would worship gods who are not yourself in your presence, Holiness?"
"No." Goddess Quake crossed her arms, her posture remaining loose. "I don't know what to do with the people already worshiping me. I mean what's the point of it? I can't hear prayer, I can't bless or curse anyone. I mean…" She frowned, seeming to consider it. "I guess apparently the other gods can get my attention if they want. You're better off praying for them to get ahold of me than to me." She shrugged.
Which that was…the possible position of this Goddess that implied was terrifying. "You wish for no worship, or sacrifice, or reverence due to your divine person, Holiness?"
"God no." Her nose crinkled. "What would I even do with a sacrifice? Like..what some dead animal? It's not like I can cook…and what..drink its blood? That's disgusting. I know the Old Gods feed on blood, but honestly, that sounds so gross. And like prayer or whatever doesn't do anything either so like…gross or pointless. I really would rather everyone not."
He felt a shiver down his back. "You hold no animosity with our Seven then?"
"Eh," She wiggled her hand slightly, "Not really? I mean in general no. But some of the crap you all have as rules is ridiculous and if they actually believe in it we wouldn't get on well." She shrugged. "I seriously doubt any god actually gives a crap about your sex lives or weird gender rules."
Tristan just knew this was going to go horribly if he had to mediate this position with the political fools of powerful septons. "Why would you believe these teachings are inaccurate?"
"Besides the gross orgy in the capital city of the gods' Omnipotence? Which, never been, never plan to go, but like it's a thing. But immortal people get…weird about sex? And I've yet to meet a god who gives a crap about the gender or genders anyone has sex with. Loki, god of mischief and lies is kinda famous for seducing various men and women. He's a monster, and if I ever run into him I'll turn him to paste." Her eyes weren't smiling, her mouth's smile suddenly showing her teeth. "But he's royalty for two courts and nobody cared. The Kree don't care, I'm not even entirely sure what's going on with Skrull gender. There are a lot of beings out there whose gender is…wibbly? Xandarians and the Nova empire, in general, don't care." She winced. "They do either run screaming or try to kill me on sight though."
Prince Stark spoke up. "Why?"
"Because they waged a super long war against the Kree, I'm part Kree, and my entire race was made to be god killers for their armies. And to be fair, the Kree are assholes and I have yet to meet one that wasn't an absolute dick." She frowned. "Or I guess, Vin-Tak wasn't terrible, he was trying to murder me, but not a terrible person."
And it seemed Prince Stark was outraged on the goddess's behalf? "Why?"
"Because the Kree fucked up making my species. And making an entire species of god killers was kind of a super terrible idea." The Goddess sounded disgusted with the Kree. And it…
Tristan held himself rigidly still. "You are a god killer, Holiness?"
"It's what I was made for." She seemed more serious. "Whether that makes me a god or something else I don't know. But not really the point. The gods are kind of assholes mostly. I think Sif and Enoch are the only ones I've met who weren't to at least some degree. At least half of those types of gods think of humans as chattel. I think Asgardians consider humans basically the same as goats."
Lord Lannister spoke then. "And you, do you find us chattel?"
Prince Stark jolted, glaring at the Lannister dwarf as if to defend the Goddess. But the Goddess spoke before he could. "Considering my father was human it'd be depressing if I did." She had a spark in her eye as she looked at the dwarf. "I was born part god or what have you, didn't end up more than that till not too long ago."
"Oh." Tristan blinked and then stepped and dropped into the chair that had been offered to him before. He shouldn't be the one having this conversation.
////
Olyvar Martell bowed as he entered the Queen's chambers. He neatly ignored the grumpy Queensguard or sworn sword or whatever the man was, and the admittedly gorgeous translator and advisor. Instead, he focused on the Queen alone. "Your Grace."
"Prince Martell, do you know why I've called you here?" Daenerys' voice was crisp, ah, she'd gotten tired of his games then.
He straightened. "I could guess, but I do not know. After all, it is your right to summon me as you please, your Grace."
"Guess." It was an order.
Olyvar's smile was sharp if you knew how to look at it. "You're tired of my contrariness and want me to state my intentions, your Grace."
"And yet, even now you are purposely difficult?" It was rather impressive how she managed to look down on him despite being smaller than him even when standing, which she was not.
He tipped his chin up, he was 'the' Prince of Dorne, unwanted and unexpected though that title might have been. "I wasn't sure I liked you."
"Liked me." She repeated, and oh that had riled her even if she wasn't furious. "Then why bend the knee?"
"Vengeance." He replied with a flicker of hesitation. "I want our pound of Lannister flesh, and if the rumors about the Mountain are true, I want his head on a pike in Sunspear. And if any of my traitorous bastard cousins are still alive in King's Landing, I want them to face Dornish justice for murdering their kin and taking what they had no right to take."
She stared at him, purple eyes narrowed. "And after your vengeance?"
"I and my people would remain in our sands, and when your army was returned to Essos, scattered, or dead I would unbend the knee and remind you House Martell has killed more than one dragon before and we do not forget." He let the truth of it ring out in his tone. "However, I think I do like you, so no need for all unpleasantness, your Grace."
"Is that what you call treason?" Her voice was sharp. "It sounds as if you wish for me to feed you to my dragons, your Highness."
Olyvar knew he'd pushed as close to the line as was advisable, possibly further. "No, I would call it honesty. Something I believe you prefer from those around you? Or would you rather I tell you pretty nothings that lose you entire kingdoms driving your conquest into the ground?"
Her jaw tightened, nostrils flaring slightly. But the point had hit.
"I will be blunt your Grace." He spoke before she could decide to say something they would both regret. "I do not wish to die by a rotting corpse, I do not think you wish to die by a rotting corpse. The death by rotting corpse as a threat is a miracle that will save you from the bungling mess your initial invasion has been. Your advisors plotted your conquest of a world that didn't exist. You should have hit King's Landing hard and fast, your Grace."
Daenerys leaned back in her seat, her finger tapping on the arm of her chair. "And kill tens of thousands of innocents?"
"Yes." Olyvar refused to flinch. "Do you think this war you face now won't kill tens of thousands of innocents? It is the cost of war. Better a short siege and horrific losses than a drawn-out campaign with ten times that many dead. Better those that die not be of your armies. Or do their lives matter less than anyone else's, your Grace?"
"Explain fully, now."
He straightened his spine. "Your campaign here in Westeros was dependent on being welcomed with open arms. Or nearly so. I can see why your advisors might have thought such a thing possible even if it is stupid. Your advisors save Lady Olenna have a common trait, they have some claim to a kingdom, and they have some degree of support from that kingdom. But every single one of them was depending on you to secure their positions. Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes were kinslaying bastards all. Your Targaryen name and vast army and their Martell blood may have bought you Dorne for a few years. Perhaps when we'd finished killing them for their crimes you might have kept our loyalty, mayhaps not."
"Your Lord Hand has no friends, allies, or hold on the Westerlands save his claim as the second son of their Lord he murdered. It would have and still will cost you thousands of your soldiers to deliver up the Westerlands to him, and it will cost you thousands to hold it for him. Varys is a spymaster who finally stabbed so many masters and allies in the back he requires a new power to be willing to re-secure his position. The Greyjoys are a House at war with one another. The Crownlands and Stormlands are leaderless and require pacification." Olyvar stood steady, he would not bend at delivering the truth. "No doubt the plan for your conquest was quite simple."
He didn't bother to hide his scoff at his words saying it would have been simple. "Seize Casterly Rock and with it the financial lifeblood of the West as well as the symbolic power of the West. Send your forces to secure Dorne. Then with armies raised from Dorne, and the Reach sweep through the Riverlands. The Vale is utterly incapable of standing against dragons, take some token force from there and a few political hostages, and move downwards sweeping through the Stormlands and Crownlands, securing them to your banner under the force of not just your own armies but also the banners of the Westerosi Lords."
"The North of course, well they're broken and devastated with a new Queen, younger even than yourself. Surely they would bow, unable to think of doing anything but. Some token force would ensure Northern fealty was secure, and some gesture of loyalty was given as a show of consent to be ruled by you. Whenever Euron Greyjoy's fleet showed up, well you have dragons, such a thing should be easily dealt with. And then all that would be left is a simple march of a united Westeros under a Targaryen banner to a city forced to survive with supply lines cut off by the day, living under the rule of the mad bitch who blew up the Sept of Baelor and doesn't have a drop of royal blood. They'd assuredly throw the gates open for you." He clapped his hands together, the sarcasm was thick in his voice. "Very overwhelming, very neat, such a merciful conquest."
Olyvar knew his face was not kind. "Of course, a single thing fails to occur how you wish it and you're left with a bloodbath, a drawn-out civil war, entrenched opposition, and fields of ash. Risky, and beautiful in its goals; I can see why it gave you ground with the Northern party. I can even see why you would wish for it. Certainly evidence you lack the paranoid insanity of your ancestors. But the world is different than your plan required. And unless I'm gravely mistaken, you've realized that already, your Grace."
The room was deadly silent. Daenerys was still, utterly unmoving. Her voice was deceptively calm as she spoke. If ever there were still waters hiding terrifying depths it was her at this moment. "And what would you advise me to do then, since you have so many thoughts?"
"Marry Jon Stark immediately. A month at most, and the day after you're wed have your forces prepared to go North. Be the hero Queen who fought the Dead, prevent us all from dying by the Dead ripping us to pieces, and gain the favor of a god. Likely also the Vale. The majority of your forces able to fight in the North will be from House Tyrell. While they and you are gone leave the rest of your forces under orders to begin securing the Westerlands, Stormlands, and Crownlands. The time to strike King's Landing and win has passed, instead a long siege. When you return the city will be on the brink of falling. Remove Tyrion Lannister as your Hand, and leave him to secure the Westerlands, it'll take a decade at the least for him to secure them. He cannot do that while being by your side in the capital."
Daenerys's voice didn't change in the slightest. "And what do you want from me, Prince Martell?"
"Two positions in your Queensguard to men of Dorne, a position on your small council, men of Dorne in your city watch, various minor positions through King's Landing, favorable taxes on imports from our goods, Dorne being used to secure the Stormlands, a monument and royal symbol of grief for Elia Martell, Aegon Targaryen, and Rhaenys Targaryen, and the crown to pay for the tomb of Prince Doran Martell and his children." Olyvar tipped his head slightly. "However I am open to negotiations, your Grace."
Daenerys stood then. In the fading light of the sun coming through the open windows, she near glowed like flame. "Ser Jorah, if you would see the Prince to his chambers. He has said his piece." Her voice was cutting. "I thank you for your honesty, your Highness."
He bowed at the waist. He'd made his gamble, if he was right, one more failure and her current advisors would fall. When they did, he would be the Prince who had been honest and upfront about his intentions from the start. A thing that would be more valuable than gold when others got men killed for their own agendas. No, he only had to wait. And well…hope the dragons weren't hungry for a few weeks.
Olyvar strode into his rooms. He grit his teeth. Now the truly unpleasant part of all this, to arrange a meeting with Willas Tyrell. After all, he knew which way the wind was blowing, and his dislike of the roses had no place in the snake pit.