Legacy of the Last Dragonlords

It had been two weeks since arriving at Dragonstone. Two weeks since assuming the role as acting monarch - which by his birth to some and his actions to most was fully within his right and garnered little protest.

Two weeks since Dany…

Aside from the training yard, several Dothraki and Unsullied nursing painful bruises thanks to him, the dragon had yet to be woken. Relegated to a slumber as the icy direwolf reigned supreme. An icy steel by which Jon handled all matters that were coming to him.

"I presume we can consider all north of Hayford Hall to be under our control?" Jon asked the two trusted members of Dany's small council. With Ser Davos still not here, he was forced to rely on them. They hadn't done anything insolent or stupid, but Tyrion's blunders and Varys' not so subtle words for him the night of his arrival hadn't strayed from his mind.

Nursing the flagon of watered wine in his hand - Jon's warnings taken quite seriously - Tyrion gestured to the Westerlands atop the painted table. "They are still hostile, my Lord. My ancestral lands won't bend the knee, and they have enough grain to last them the winter…"

"And they have no troops, Tyrion," Jon shot back. "All are clustered in and around the capitol, correct, Lord Varys?"

"That is the song my birds are singing," replied the eunuch. "Six thousand men of House Crakehall, three thousand assorted forces that survived the Goldroad. Twenty thousand among the Golden Company, and another fifteen thousand sellswords."

Jon sighed. "Forty-four thousand…" His head throbbed. "And we have ten thousand Dothraki, three thousand Unsullied, three thousand Northmen, two thousand Riverlanders, two thousand Free Folk, and five thousand men of the Vale. Twenty-six thousand?"

"And two dragons," Varys stated flatly. "The first Aegon fought with far less men." A subtle nudge. "My correspondence with the Lords of the Reach and Dorne have borne fruit. Lord Hightower of Oldtown and Lord Dayne of Starfall are marching a relief force of ten thousand to Harrenhal within the next fortnight."

Wide eyes stared at Varys. "When did you request these men?"

"Before our party left White Harbor, your Grace." Far less subtle. "Both loyal men of House Targaryen - they will likely support the claim of the true King." All subtlety dropped.

Jon's eyes narrowed. "What did you say, Lord Varys?" Neither man knew this, but it was the same tone he used on Janos Slynt. Tyrion melted back into his seat.

"I serve the Realm. And the Realm needs a ruler that can grant it peace and prosperity. Her Grace is my Queen and I serve her, but…" Everything after the word 'but' is horseshit, Jon remembered his father telling him. "Perhaps her strengths are more suited to an... advisory or executive role underneath the true ruler?"

There was a silence so tense, one could hear a fly land upon a carpet. An unreadable expression crossed Jon's face - but both Tyrion and Varys recognized it from the past. The look of Ned Stark when trying his damndest to keep from exploding in anger. For Jon Snow - Aegon Targaryen - the caging of his inner dragon. "Are you implying, Lord Varys, what I think you are implying." He watched the impassive, plump face shifting in thought. Lips tucked inwardly as he prepared to answer. "Choose your answer wisely."

Varys knew plenty of how to navigate raging infernos. Serving under both Aerys and Joffrey tended to quickly separate the men from the boys. "I mean no ill will to her Grace, but you are the true King, Aegon."

Jon's fists clenched. "My name is not Aegon."

Isn't it?

The beautiful face of Daenerys - his Dany - flashed in his mind. Of the pain… and then the simmering anger when he rejected the Targaryen name.

"Our blood is as part of you as their blood is…"

"It technically is, your Grace." Tyrion's lips were in a deep frown of resignation. "Daenerys is only useful to my sister as both a pawn and as insurance. As long as she is there, the dragons will not attack." Tyrion would never underestimate her cruelty and bitterness again. "As soon as you reject negotiation and the ambushes for Rhaegal and Drogon are established… our Queen will die."

Two fists slammed on the table. "Do not say that!" Jon hissed. Tyrion's statement reminded him of Sansa, dismissing Rickon and leaving him to Ramsay Bolton. It tore his heart out seeing Rickon die just feet from him. I will not let Dany suffer the same!

"None of us wishes the Queen to die, your Grace." If Varys was lying, he was damn good at it. "But the Targaryen fire and blood isn't the measure of peace and prosperity as the songs portray it as. Rebellions, cruelty, vicious wars of succession... The Starks know this first hand."

They did, Jon conceded. My grandfather and uncle burned by my other grandfather… all over a lie.

"Pure Targaryen blood is dangerous, and will only invite chaos and bloodshed if left unchecked. Perhaps… the Targaryen greatness is best deployed in someone with the temperment of another, more... circumspect animal." Varys' eyes twinkled. "One outwardly a dragon but inwardly something far more dispassionate... A direwolf perhaps?"

Tyrion saw a fire flare in Jon's eyes before it disappeared, ice returning. Only proving Varys' point… I'm afraid. The spider was vicious that way - once his mandibles latched onto something they were tough to dislodge. "Daenerys is my Queen. We will be loyal to her to the end, understood?" At least there was steel in his voice."

The Imp butted in quickly. "Understood, my Lord. We shall leave you to things."

As Tyrion left, Varys clasped his hands together. "I see Ned Stark in you, young Aegon. Smarter and less trusting than he, but the honor and modesty still remain. The perfect combination for a King."

The door closing, leaving the true King to brood alone, Tyrion turned to Varys. "You are playing a very dangerous game, my cockless friend. The Queen promised to burn you if you betrayed her."

"The Queen isn't here, I'm afraid," Varys responded. "Only a King reluctant to rule can rule properly. If, gods forbid, our Queen were to see her people rally behind another… I am confident all will be well." Watching the Master of Whispers walk away, Tyrion wished his wine was not watered - and that he had far more than a mere flagon.

"Watch it!" So confined to his own thoughts, Grey Worm hadn't noticed the supply cart barrelling down at him till the snarling shout of the wagon driver. "Fuckin' foreign scum!"

Grey Worm only glowered in anger, hands behind his back and resuming his walk to the Unsullied camp at the other end of the ruins of Harrenhal. By Jon's orders, they had quickly landed and marched overland at double quick time to reach the main Targaryen host before Golden company riders spotted them. Indignant though he was at the Northern Lord taking control in his Queen's name in spite of the two's love affair having ceased, Grey Worm accepted that Jon Snow had a head for tactics.

At least he respects us, unlike those he used to rule over.

Not completely accurate. The Wildlings were fine, Grey Worm supposed. They respected strength, leading to considerable fights between them and the Dothraki - as well as a camaraderie that extended past the battlefield. After meeting with the band leaders at their tents, Grey Worm lost count of the number of Dothraki and Free Folk rutting out in the open. It amused him slightly to see the great wildling leader, Tormund, claim two Dothraki beauties as his own while the man's son and two daughters cheered along with dozens of Dothraki screamers and Free Folk spearmen.

The rest of the Westerosi only gave him looks of contempt for the most part. Ones Grey Worm shot back. Queen Daenerys lost a dragon for them. Lost Jorah the Andal. Lost her freedom. And it seemed the only ones who cared were Lord Snow and the Free Folk. He couldn't wait for the war to be over and to sail to Naath with Missandei.

"You!" Grey Worm stilled, body tensing. "You there, stop!" That tone… the sharp bark, designed to make the slave stop instantly. Turning, he saw two northman approach him. One young, rather comly in the rugged, dark northern way - like their Lord Snow. The other was older, scars pockmarking his face. It had been the latter that spoke. "You, foreigner! What's your name?!"

Grey Worm met the man's gaze, hand close to his short sword. "Grey Worm," he said evenly.

"You belong to the Unsullied?" The man's voice wasn't as loud, but still as gruff.

"I am Unsullied." Missandei had improved his common tongue, but he made sure to lay the accent thick. "Their commander."

The freedman planned for many eventualities. What he did not plan for was how the burly Northerner a head taller squeezed him in a bear hug. "You magnificent son of a bitch," he laughed, crushing Grey Worm's ribcage.

Watching the commander's face, the companion laughed as it alternated between complete confusion and agony as his eyes bugged out. "Let 'em down, Marden. Seven Hells."

Barking out a laugh, the large northerman dropped Grey Worm with slap on the back that sent the freedman staggering. "Sorry about that, mate. Just 'ow we northerners are."

Grey Worm fought the urge to vent his stomach - he was not about to look any weaker before them… "I… see." He still eyed them suspiciously, if not openly hostile.

Recognition flashed on the younger man. "Oh, forgive me for the slight. I am Ser Eddard Cassel, sworn sword to His Gra… The Lord Jon. This is my sworn sword Marden Tanner."

"Cause my grandpappy was a tanner," Marden laughed. "Glad to finally meet the fuckin' beast that saved our ass back there!"

Grey Worm's anger flashed at the word 'beast,' but it softened back into confusion as the man's tone. "Saved your asses?"

Marden rolled his eyes. "Don't need to be a fuckin' slave soldier anymore, mate. Those cunts are dead." He snarled out the oblique reference to the masters of Slaver's Bay, causing the ghost of a smile to cross Grey Worm's face. "Stop being so fuckin' modest. If it weren't for you and the other cockless bastards, all our eyes 'ad've been glowin' blue." He slapped Grey Worm on the back again, this time the Unsullied commander ready for it.

Much as he… did not expect the praise, his upbringing did render Grey Worm's self-aggrandizement nonexistent. "Well… I am glad my men fought and beat the dead. But we only follow what the Queen tells us."

"Thank the fuckin' old gods for her," Marden commented. "She and the King, fuckin' heroes if you ask me. Didn't get into the big feast in the great hall, or I would've told them myself."

This stunned Grey Worm. "You… but the Lords…"

"Pfft," Cassel waved him off. "Bunch of grouches with sticks up their asses."

Marden nodded. "Anyone who didn't fight against the fucking Lannister-licking Bolton cunts with our King lost the right to yammer bout Northern Independence." The old man grew wary, eyes sad. "Lost my wife to the post Bolton famine… almost lost my little ones." Grief crossed his face, before molding into gratitude. "Dragon Queen saved em' from becoming those fucking monsters, so I owe her everything. Same as you, I gather."

Blinking, Grey Worm was speechless. "I… yes. She gave us freedom, a choice. After years of slavery, we choose her."

"Did the same for Lord Snow a while back. Never regretted it." Sadness leaving him, Marden motioned to a smattering of tents. "Cookin' a deer I shot with mi' mates. Bring your officers, got plenty to go around."

For the first time since the Greyjoy ambush at Dragonstone, Grey Worm smiled genuinely. "Perhaps I take up on that."

"Will you fuckers untie me," Jaime Lannister calmly stated. Here he was, a man that had fought off the fucking white walkers, captured by a patrol of thugs in the wods just south of Hayford Castle. So embarrassing for the infamous knight. "Would you want to tell the Queen that you roughed up her beloved twin brother?"

"We know exactly what the Queen would do after seeing her twin brother," laughed one of the soldiers, making Jaime wince. "But I'm envisioning the gold she'll give for a spy for the Dragon Bitch. Don't all Lannisters shit gold?"

"Well, since I'm a Lannister and shit like everyone else, I know for a fact they don't." Jaime couldn't help the cheeky arrogance. He had been that way for so long it came naturally - before her, that is.

The guard closest to him slammed his fists into Jaime's gut. "Shut the fuck up." Without the cloak of his highborn blood, the arrogant Jaime may not have survived long enough.

Ahead, the Gate of the Gods drew closer and closer, looming over the horseback patrol like the Colossus of Braavos. "Who goes there?!" demanded a guard from atop.

"Got a Targaryen spy!" the leader of the patrol said, proudly.

"Well it's your lucky fuckin' day. Got a highborn here with us. He'll make sure you're paid!" The guard looked back inside. "OPEN THE GATE!"

Creaking open, the iron-paneled oak swung aside to reveal three men on horseback - two carrying lion banners and the other a large man in full plate armor, plume of horsehair topping his helmet. Jaime hid a grin, knowing that figure anywhere.

The patrolmen bowed on their horses. "We have a Targaryen spy to present to you, mi'Lord." He rose, rotten teeth bared in a sneer, thinking of all the riches they would get.

Trotting over, eyes masked by the helmet visor, the highborn knight watched the men suspiciously before he stilled. The visored face stared at Jaime for seemingly minutes before he pulled off his helmet - revealing a gruffly handsome face with a thick handlebar mustache. "Ser Jaime!"

"Good to see you again, Lyle. I wish it was…" He lifted his bound hands. "Under better circumstances."

"Get this man untied you fools!" Ser Lyle Crakehall hissed. The patrol just stared at the heir to their leige lord, slack jawed. The dirty, disheveled man caught in the bushes outside Hayford Castle was the Kingslayer? Unbelievable. Such silence flushed Ser Lyle a furious red. "Are you cunts hard of hearing? Do it before I have you flogged!" With a reputation that rivaled the Mountain, the 'Strongboar' of Crakehall was not one to be challenged.

"Feels good to be free of those binds," Jaime mused nearly half an hour later, rubbing his still sore wrists.

"Sorry about that, once again, Ser Jaime," replied Lyle. Surrounding them was a full escort of the elite Crakehall shock forces - the only men still at full strength, having been ahead of the main army during the Goldroad. The man had squired for the great Lannister knight, such breeding a great respect and lasting friendship. "Fucks probably didn't expect you."

Rolling his eyes, Jaime snorted. "The golden hand should have said something." Looking around, he noticed the streets deserted. Nothing but rats and the occasional scrawny street urchin broke the foreboding serenity. "Where is everybody?"

Lyle grimaced. "Your sister put the city on direct military rule, but with Harry Strickland in charge." Jaime winced. The Golden Company was known for its… rather uncompromising tactics. Lyle looked around, leaning to Jaime's ear on horseback, dropping to a whisper. "Things aren't good, Jaime. Between you and me, the Queen is unpredictable. You need to calm her down, cause I don't trust Strickland or the damn Ironborn to have what's best for all of us at heart."

Looking at his old squire, Jaime nodded. If I do what I need to do, I think Lyle can have my back. The men of the Westerlands were loyal, but not monsters. Tywin earned their respect by returning the loyalty with generosity and honor. Jaime doubted Cersei knew what the latter words meant.

Neither did I… until… He shook the name from his mind. Thinking of her would only depress him.

Ser Lyle had left him at the approach to Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei's Queensguard taking over from there. Men who had long left the bounds of chivalry behind, adapting well to the bounds of brutality. He missed Ser Barristan, and Ser Arthur… men of honor. There was none left among the Red Keep these days.

Surprising him, the Queensguard guided him not to the throne room, but to Cersei's private solar. It was heartening, hope welling inside Jamie that she wouldn't execute him immediately - that he could bide his time for the right moment. Outside the room - one he knew… quite intimately from the time before Highgarden - Ser Aerys Oakheart took Widow's Wail from him. "Just a precaution, Ser Jaime," the man apologized. Nodding, Jaime entered the solar to await what would come of him.

The first thing he noticed was the towering figure of Gregor Clegane, still in his black and silver armor with the white lion emblazoned on the front. Red eyes stared at him… unsettling. Malevolent. Jaime didn't know whether these or the blue of the wights unsettled him more. Beyond Ser Gregor, leaning against a loveseat, was Cersei. Hands clasped together and resting upon her black dress. Belly swollen with their child. She wasn't lying. Love filled him for the innocent babe within, while he suppressed a burning hate for the woman that had put him in this mess.

"You returned."

He sighed. "Aye, I have." Jaime stepped forward, only to be hated by her raised hand. Need not threaten the Mountain. "I swore to fight the dead, but I am still a Lannister." A Lannister always pays his debts. Cersei was yet to pay hers.

"You still left. To fight alongside her." Cersei's voice was cold. Not a flicker of the former love and sweetness he had known.

"What do you want me to say, Cersei? You saw that thing in the Dragonpit. I saw those monsters over a hundred thousand strong. They swarmed over the fucking dragons. Humanity needed our men, and you kept them south."

Her eyes narrowed. "Doesn't matter. The 'dead' are truly dead now. All that remains are the living, and you betrayed the side of such that truly deserves to rule." Cersei clapped her hands. "Men, restrain Ser Jaime." Four Queensguard rushed in, hands gripping Jaime tightly. Despite his thrashes and wild punches, they had managed to hold him in place. Ser Boros Blount extended his arms, Jaime realizing what was going on. "Those that betray me get the same punishment. Ser Gregor." The massive beast drew his sword, readying it to come down upon Jaime's arms.

Eyes scrunching shut, Jaime gritted his teeth… not willing to give any of these scum the satisfaction of seeing a Lannister Knight cry or scream...

The Mountain's blade fell, the crunching sound of metal sheared in two echoing through the solar. But no pain. Not even the numb feeling that Jaime knew happened in the immediacy of a wound. Eyes fluttering open, he saw that his gold prosthetic had been chopped in two - his intact left arm remained just that. Intact.

Cersei stared at him, eyes hard. "Betray me again, and it won't be metal that I have Ser Gregor decapitate." A tense silence hung in the air before her scowl morphed into a loving smile. The Queensguard broke apart as Cersei embraced him. "Oh Jaime… my lion. I missed you."

Familiarity and over two decades of love caused Jaime to almost melt into the embrace. The woman he adored for so long - fought, struggled, murdered for, back in his arms and feeling just as soft and lovely as ever… Stop it, Lannister. "I missed you as well, sister," Jaime replied, Cersei then pulling him into a kiss. His honor, the renewed purpose built up in him in the last few years, reasserted itself. This wasn't the sweet girl he grew up with. No, this was the monster that broke her oaths, didn't cry at Tommen's death, and blew up the Sept of Baelor without a second thought. One who'd burn the city down if it didn't back her. Her tongue danced against his, and he reciprocated, hiding the disgust he felt.

Kiss breaking, no recognition on her face of Jaime's disgust, Cersei grinned seductively and slipped her fingers around his bicep. "Do not fret, my love. I shall have the royal smith get to work forging another hand for you. One far grander and befitting of a lion."

"You are most kind, sweet sister," Jaime answered, allowing her to guide him out of the solar and through the hallways. The plodding feet of Ser Gregor echoed behind them. "I couldn't help but notice all the ballistae lining the walls of the city and the keep."

"Ah those." Cersei laughed merrily. "Qyburn made sure to place enough to ward off any dragon assault, though… I wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. The dragons will not attack."

Jaime was confused by the statement. Neither Daenerys or Jon would be inclined to burn civilians, but there was always the possibility that the Dragon Queen would grow impatient and just attack until their forces surrendered. "Why is that?"

The grin that she gave Jaime made him inwardly shudder. The look in her green eyes one he had only seen before in purple - pure madness. "Because, the neither the Stark Bastard nor dragons would not dare attack us while Daenerys Targaryen dwells within the black cells."

Oh fuck...

Sharp clangs echoed in the Godswood, steel on ice as Jon fought for his very life. Staring into the blue malevolence of the Night King, an icy rage filling both. A furious swipe of his sword went for Jon, only for Valyrian Steel to parry it at the last minute. Jon saving himself only just - but an opportunity not wasted, using the opening to drive his foe back.

All had come to this. His resurrection, meeting Dany… Seven Hells, even his heritage… How Rhaegal summoned his strength to charge at Viserion's undead corpse in the courtyard - the sounds of their titanic battle booming. How Theon gave his life. How the wights all around them had their eyes glowing a pale white, assaulting the walkers and keeping them off Jon.

Rage burning beneath his eyes, Jon snarled as he swung and hacked and thrust at the Night King. Ready to end this.

Ready to claim his destiny.

The Night King spun his ice blade in his wrists, twirling behind to both feint a slash and actually thrust for Jon's open stomach. But Jon was no slouch, the master swordsman quickly knocking back the attacking sword to the ground… Karl Tanner's lessons coming to roost as he waited not to kick the Night King in the chest. The demon staggered, chest exposed to Jon as he swung Longclaw. Slashing. One miss. Slashing again. Another miss. Slashing a third time, the tip of the blade grazing the ice monster's cuirass, cutting through it to leave a long scratch upon his open torso. Snarling, Jon readied a final blow that would destroy the Night King...

Out of nowhere, a right hook to the jaw sent Jon reeling, the northern warrior sprawling on the ground. Everything hurt, dragonfire burning in his vision. "Jon!" He heard Bran yell, emotion finally filling his long lost brother. Pushing onto his feet, he could see the boy was not alone, joined by the Lady Melisandre.

"Do it, my King," she breathed, baring her breast to him. As the slow footfall of the Night King stepped toward him, a vision flashed through Jon. Bran stood next to him as they watched a man - a mane of silver hair flowing from his head, tears in his eyes - plunged a molten sword into the breast of a woman. A woman giving herself willingly, her screams of ecstasy echoing through the small hovel while the sword burned a bright red. In an instant, the vision was over. Knowing what he had to do, he grabbed Longclaw and rammed it into Melisandre's heart. Feeling the explosion of heat...

Behind, Arya Stark watched with horror. Dodging the wights and wakers, she raised Catspaw high and charged out of the void, screaming the battlecry of northern warriors past as she leapt at the Night King. Determined to save her beloved brother.

Quick on his feet to confront the new threat, the Night King caught Arya by the throat. Eyes boring into her. Enraged. Cold fire swirling through the ice crystals that made up his body. The young woman's eyes bugged out. Her battlecry morphing into gasps of fear.

With a cry of his own, Jon felt a great fire ignite along the finely rippled metal of Longclaw. Valyrian steel consumed with fire as he drew it from Melisandre's breast. Fire engulfing his very core. Fire consuming his soul. Too concentrated on Arya, the Night King turned his head - eyes widening at the very last second in belated realization - just as Jon thrust his trusty blade straight for his torso. Flaming steel slicing through the enchanted ice as a knife through butter. Eyes dark with anger and grit as he watched the Night King's expression contort with pain and surprise before dissolving into nothingness.

And before him, all the walkers exploded. The dead collapsed into heaps of bone and flesh. Sounds of a dragon battle ceasing as one warbled shriek abruptly cut out - punctuated by a roar of triumph that somewhat calmed Jon's beating heart. Slowly, surely, he stood. Breathing deeply, numb to the world. Arya clutched her neck - Jon was quickly beside her, taking his sister in his arms. "You alright?"

"Yeah…" Arya couldn't help but grin. "Ya' stuck 'im with the pointy end." Jon chuckled, despite himself. At points like this, one could only either laugh or cry.

Looking back at Bran, the young Stark gave him a small smile.

The Long Night was over.

They had brought the Dawn.

But only one thing was on Jon's mind. "Go to her," Bran stated, urging him. Jon didn't need to be told twice. With whatever energy he had left, he raced out of the godswood to find his love.

Staggering, fatigue overwhelming him in a sudden wave, Jon nevertheless trudged the last steps up the hill. Boots crunching in the snow. Bones and broken corpses surrounding the summit - where Daenerys knelt. The ethereal white of her coat streaked with soot, torn in several places. A discarded dragonglass blade resting beside her. "Oh Dany," he breathed.

He stood over her, finally seeing the body of Jorah. A son of the North - laid to rest in the North. Jon would have found it fitting, if not for the sobs that wracked his love.

"Dany…" he spoke softly, touching her shoulder.

"He's dead Jon…" she choked out. "They're all dead…"

Falling onto his knees, Jon pulled her in his arms. Letting her cry on his shoulder. "We're alive…" he breathed, stroking her back as she wailed into his neck. "We're alive…"

Hooting a mournful cry, Rhaegal and Drogon landed, kicking up clouds of snow as they encircled their wings around their riders….

Eyes flew open as Jon woke, gasping for breath. The racing of his heart began to calm, spotting the flickering candles and the parchment he had his cheek pressed against not one minute before. "Fuck…" Jon cupped his head, skull throbbing. "Never again…" Ale… too much ale. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never fucking again."

The gentle clatter of a bronze serving cup jolted him. Nearly sending the acting ruler off his chair. "Do not worry, my Lord." Bloodshot eyes gazed up to find the serene, slightly guarded gaze of Missandei upon him. As nonthreatening a person as one could find. "The servants informed me of the food and drink you requested to your chambers last night." The fact that the orders were all of the latter and that the chambers he took as his own were the Queen's did not pass her lips, though Jon knew they were thought. "Chilled spring water. Better than anything for an afterpain."

Jon accepted the cup, taking a sip. The cold liquid soothed his dry throat, nourishing feeling coursing through his body. "Thank you," he said softly, feeling his headache slowly ease to a dull throb. "Did we receive any ravens?"

Missandei pursed her lips, sighing. While the Queen was always up for a chat, whether about history, philosophy, or even personal matters, the former King in the North was more introverted. Always quiet, only speaking if it regarded important matters of state or war. Even alone, he worked, often with the brooding scowl that all were now accustomed to. Except when he was with the Queen… Only then did Missandei ever see Jon Snow lsmile. He truly does love her. "One raven, my Lord. From Harrenhal."

One eyebrow rose. "And?"

"It was from Lord Royce. They've set up at Harrenhal."

His brows furrowing, Jon drained the remaining water. "Cersei must want to keep her forces as one single unit. Smart, if she has ballistae around the capitol… or mobile ones." Neither Cersei nor Euron were excellent land tacticians, but Qyburn was crafty and Roland Crakehall and Addam Marbrand were excellent generals. He wouldn't underestimate them. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Royce moved half of his knights - including his own force from Runestone - to Sow's Horn north of the Dusken River. Joining them were a third of the Riverlanders under Lord Piper and several houses of the Crownlands that defected."

"Which ones?"

"House Mooton of Maidenpool, House Rykker of Duskendale, and House Velaryon of Driftmark."

"Cersei's losing support in her home base." House Rykker, still loyal to the Targaryens. "The Westerlands are essentially cut off, and so is she." He grimaced. "That could hurt us though, for she's now a cornered rat…" And we only have one dragon… He felt his headache returning. "That will be all, Missandei." He just wanted to be alone. To brood until he could leave this dark, empty prison - without her, it was nothing but a crypt to him.

Turning her back for a moment, halfway to the door, Missandei turned. A frown adorned her face. "I heard what Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion discussed with you."

Had Jon had any water left to drink, he'd have choked on it. As things stood, he almost fell out of his chair a second time.

"Lord Tyrion has gotten old, and drunk. No longer makes sure to check if the door is closed." To Missandei, it didn't matter if his name was Stark, Snow, or Targaryen - but she would be damned if she'd let him drift away from her Queen. "You should not be worried, Lord Snow. I shall say nothing." She stepped towards him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "But I am worried about you. What you will decide to do with this information."

Grief filled his face, an indecision that normally did not come to him. "I don't want to rule. Tyrion says I should, and Varys says I must. Sansa and the northern Lords do not trust Daenerys, and if Cersei doesn't kill her then I'm afraid someone will…" A thought came to mind, one that shattered him for even thinking such… but it came nonetheless. "Could anyone follow a Queen that burns men alive?"

There was silence, neither one speaking. Jon did not know how long, but it was Missandei that broke the silence. "Let me tell you two stories, Jon Snow," she said quietly. "In Astapor, the Unsullied were trained by the so-called 'Good Masters.' I saw the training personally, they…" She winced, imagining Grey Worm suffering so. "They forced each recruit to take a slave baby and kill it in front of the mother…"

Jon paled, absolutely horrified. Ramsay Bolton would be proud.

Missandei continued. "Daenerys bought the Unsullied with a trick, then turned them on the Masters, killing them all. Some may call it madness… but I call it justice."

Lips a thin line, Jon nodded as well. "I would have done the same, Missandei. Monsters like that…" Images of Ramsay, his face being beaten in by Jon's fists - he regretted none of it. Ramsay deserved what he and Sansa gave him as the masters of Astapor deserved what Dany gave them. "I do not find her 'mad' for doing what I would have done."

"It isn't just her sense of justice, Lord Snow." Wiping a tear from her face, Missandei looked at the Targaryen sigil adorning the wall. "There were a few slaves, crucified." The preferred method of killing slaves in the Ghiscari tradition. Just thinking about it made Jon's blood boil. "The Queen did not hesitate. She grabbed a ladder, and gave the dying souls a drink. Without even asking." She looked down at Jon, awe on his face - the dour northman, his brooding armor pierced through stories that Dany herself was likely too modest to discuss. "Daenerys Targaryen is two sides of the same coin. Great strength, but also great kindness. Anyone who would deny her one side of that identity is a fool… and one you should not trust, Aegon Targaryen."

Long after Missandei had left, Jon still remained at the desk, head in his hands. Everything a mess… everything. His mind as jumbled as ever before.