Shielding Their Realms Forever by GreedofRage, Longclaw_1_6
Chapter by GreedofRage
Brynden
It almost felt wrong to be so far away from the battlefield just waiting for daylight to come. But Jon Snow's plan was ingenious. He had just as good a strategic mind as Robb did, and perhaps a better tactical one. More lives could be spared and won over if this worked.
Brynden gripped the hilt of his sword still resting in its scabbard. He must have sharpened it half a thousand strokes each side. His breathing was slow and shivering from the cold of the North.
"Nervous, Blackfish?" Smalljon asked with an eager grin. He and his men were fidgeting with anticipation to draw blood.
Brynden was just right enough to not show that he felt the same. He and his Rivermen were too busy trying to keep warm but since discretion was key, no fire could be lit yet. "Hungry."
"If we live through this, I think I'll devour an entire boar by myself."
"My belly is full. It's my hunger for vengeance that needs feeding. Your armies weren't there, were they?" He still didn't have much trust in Smalljon. He had half a mind to geld him the moment he heard about his capture and imprisonment of Rickon.
A small but hard grimace formed on Smalljon's face. "No. We were ordered back North with a few other Houses to kill Ironborn and gather more men. My axe took many squid heads. Didn't really feel like it meant much after the Red Wedding." He raised his head to scan over the barren branches of the surrounding trees before drawing his sword. "Here's for the fallen."
Brynden could also see that first light was beginning to creep over the horizon and the snow covered hills. He drew his sword and his men behind him did the same. "No more running.'' He chimed the plane of his blade with Smalljon's sword and turned to his men. "It's time! Move quietly and kill every man wearing that fucking flayed cretin."
Smalljon did the honors of bashing in the large oak doors of the secret passageway to Winterfell. The bloody thing was in splinters when the entirety of the Umber and Tully hosts moved into the tunnel. It was wide enough for six men to walk shoulder to shoulder. If Jon Snow's source in Winterfell was true then there would be fewer than a hundred men against a thousand.
Very few torches were lit to guide the way underground. A set of black stone stairs withered by time turned into a path of hard packed dirt riddled with rats while hanging from the ceiling were the bats.
They were more than a league from Winterfell when they descended into the shadows of the passageway but the walk in the darkness felt far greater in distance. But being hidden from the sight of eyes outside, they could light their torches and bask in the warmth while they could.
Brynden and Smalljon came to an almost dead end. The opening of the other end was walled over but half crumbled. Instead of careful picking and placing, the wall was shoved through and it collapsed with ease behind an empty section where a tomb would be in the crypts of Winterfell.
The hallways filled with resting Kings of Winter and fallen Starks were illuminated by outside light. The torches were doused and the infiltration force marched softly.
Brynden kept his eyes forward, focusing on the objective. But his eyes stole a few seconds to glance at the tomb of Lord Rickard Stark and Ned Stark. They were the only Starks he had the chance to call his friends. Robb was his nephew, the son of his dear Catelyn. He tried to be a loyal soldier for his King and a proper counsel for his kin. But whenever he could, he tried to watch over him when Ned couldn't. And where was he when his nephew needed him? Out taking a piss when the slaughter began.
The entire force halted at Brynden's command when they came to the stairs leading out of the crypts. Brynden and Smalljon took the lead and ascended the stairs as quietly as they could.
They came to the entrance and both peaked outside. The Bastard had taken his men already and just like Jon said, he left enough to withstand an outside attack but not an inside.
"Well, Blackfish," Smalljon grinned, "whoever gets less kills pays for the ale after."
Jon
The air felt so much lighter than it did the first time. The stakes and risks were not as high, and there was not a child for Ramsay to use as entertainment before murder.
Ramsay's army looked far less imposing. Without the Umbers added to their ranks it was like a chunk was missing. Regardless of numbers, the crack Bolton troops still assembled themselves in good formations and had everything set up as before.
Jon looked past the flaming crucified corpses and kept his eyes on Ramsay. Without Rickon, Ramsay had nothing to draw him in range of the Bolton archers. They were going to attack with a wave cavalry charge and have the archers and infantry pick off what would be left.
At least, that was the bastard's plan. Jon was at the head of two and a half thousand men and a giant. The Manderlys were hiding in the trees to the west and the Knights of the Vale were hidden behind the hills to the east. Both forces equal to Jon's were waiting for his command.
But the waiting was finally at its end. From the battlements of Winterfell, three torches were alighted to signal that the Blackfish and Smalljon had succeeded.
Jon dismounted his horse and walked forward until he was singled out from his army in clear view of the Bolton and Karstark forces. He took hold of a horn he had at his side and pressed the mouthpiece to his lips. He wasn't much of a musician but the sound that came forth was victorious and mighty. The blast echoed all the way to Winterfell and stirred movements among Ramsay's troops.
A few moments passed before the shuffling of horses and soldiers began to quietly rumble from the east and the west. The Knights of the Vale revealed themselves from over the hilltops astride their horses in mighty formations. From the east, the Manderlys infantry and heavy lancers came forth from the trees and completed the box of the Stark army.
A horn replied from Winterfell and a banner of a direwolf stood tall over the walls. Both were clear signals to Ramsay, letting him know that he had nowhere to go.
The movements of the Bolton-Karstark force made it obvious that they were not expecting this and they did not know what to do.
"What's happening, Bran?" Jon whispered. He felt The Raven's magic course through him and with it he was able to see through the eyes of the soldiers closest to Ramsay and Harald Karstark.
"How did they get into the castle?" Harald puzzled nervously, pointing his sword at the fully armed battlements of Winterfell. Every soldier caught in the middle of the trap appeared on the verge of pissing themselves.
"How the fuck should I know?!" Ramsay nearly shouted. He was in such a fury that Jon had never thought to see him in. It was too much like a spoiled child. No… a man so smug made for a fool. "The bastard wants blood, he'll get it."
"We can't win against this!" Harald argued. "The numbers and strength are too many. It was over before it even began."
Ramsay's fire had gone cool and he stared at Harald coldly. "Really? Shall we lay our arms down then, my lord?"
"If we want a chance of living then y-" Harald never got the chance to finish his sentence. Ramsay had pulled a knife and stuck the tip deep into Harold's left eye. The Lord of Karhold squirmed as the dagger was twisted and pulled free then fell dead to the cold ground.
"Karstarks!" Ramsay shouted to all of Harald's men who were stunned and frozen from what they just witnessed. "Either die to me or die to them!" Ramsay pointed his dagger to the Stark forces.
"Bran," Jon hissed.
'I know.'
One of the Karstark men was taken over by the Raven and raised his sword up. "Fuck the Boltons!" All it took was a single voice to start and encore. His cry was followed by many others before the fighting began to avenge their murdered lord.
Jon returned to himself and could clearly see the internal fighting of Ramsay's force with Harald's and it perfectly marked the battle lost before it even began. Shouts from both sides filled the air as did the sounds of their weapons clashing and killing each other.
The time for hesitation was over. Time to finish this before the bloodshed grew worse, Jon drew Longclaw and raised it up. "Protect the Karstarks!" He shouted to his men.
A horn was blown twice and the entirety of the Stark army began its charge to join the fighting. They need not worry about archers or shield walls. There was too much conundrum to organize such lethal attacks.
The thundering of charging horses blocked out every other sound. Jon had his sights dead set on the soldiers marked with the flayed man on their armor. He lost sight of Ramsay when the bastard shuffled into the middle of his troops.
Jon let out a mighty war cry as his forces neared the Bolton soldiers too disorganized to put up any effective resistance. Some tried to form a shield wall, some of their cavalry charged out, others were still fighting the Karstarks.
Jon swung Longclaw at the first man coming for him, a rider who foolishly waved his lance around as he was greener than grass. Longclaw's blade cleaved the lancer's head clean off and immediately Jon swung his sword again at a foot soldier, carving through his armor and into his chest, killing him instantly. Three, four, five. Every Bolton soldier he saw he killed without question, all the while looking for Ramsay.
Swinging and cutting anything and anyone coming for him. Longclaw's blade was turning red with blood, shields were splintered into pieces before the arms that held them were hacked off.
Jon leaned down off his saddle to reach a Bolton nearly about to spear a Karstark soldier through the gut. His sword went clean through the neck and immediately Jon pulled himself up to parry a sword of a Bolton rider.
The screaming and yelling was drowned out by Jon's focus to get this over with. He fought through it once before, falling for every trap Ramsay laid for him. Not this time.
He could see that his army walled in the Bolton force and the soldiers that took over Winterfell were pouring out of the castle to join the fight. Wun Wun had picked up two soldiers in each hand and used them as weapons. The bodies were nothing more than sacks of mushed meat and shattered bones by now. Every swing was so powerful that those who were hit were thrown from their feet into the air.
He kept hacking at slashing at every man coming for him. Blood began covering every inch of his legs and his destrier. It was mere minutes before the Bolton force that was once near four thousand was now shrinking to less than half that number.
The Karstarks had also suffered heavy losses, being just under a thousand against five times their strength. But Jon's men got to them as fast as they could to protect them. Such action would gain him further favor with Alys. But dammit, if Harald weren't betrayed.
Even an army as elite as the Bolton bannermen knew what certain death looked like. It started with a single man, but soon hundreds were throwing down their weapons and surrendering, hands held high. The sounds of clashing steel died down and the roaring battle was growing still.
Some of them were survivors of Stannis Baratheon's army and victims of the Red Wedding who desired life over death. In the end, they were merely pawns. At Jon's command, the fighting died down and his forces began surrounding them. "Victory!" Jon raised Longclaw high up. "We have victory!" Every man fighting for him raised their weapons up and cheered huzzah for the battle was won in such a short time and a powerful strike. This would certainly be a start to a fearsome reputation for himself that may help gaining allies and striking fear into enemies, anything to help gain the turn of the tides.
Jon reared his horse back and ordered the survivors, both Karstark and Bolton, to be rounded up but only the Boltons were given a nasty treatment of it all, being shoved, punched by fist or pommel, and forced to kneel together. As long as they weren't killed, it was the way of the world.
As the last of the survivors was sent with the rest, Jon scanned through all of them, looking at the fear and anger. But out of all of the soldiers, Ramsay was not among them.
Jon rode to the front of the surrendering soldiers with a steady fury. "Where is Ramsay!?" He demanded.
The Bolton men looked frantically among themselves to find their bastard lord. No one said anything. Ramsay was gone.
'He slipped through the fighting.' Jon's head whipped over the forest not far from the battlefield and a faint trail in the snow leading into it. 'But he won't get far. He's being hunted.'
Ramsay
Fuck his scouts for failing to see the bastard's real army. Fuck his father for being so weak and not ruling ruthlessly enough. And fuck that Stark bitch for slipping through his fingers!
He ran through the trees, getting as far away as he could. His only chance was to make for the coast and get a ship out of the North. He could go south to King's Landing and offer his services to Queen Cersei. She of all people would accept him and his skills. In her services, Westeros would learn what it truly means to be afraid of the name Bolton. But first he needed a healer. The only ones who would consider helping him are the Whitehills. If Gryff still held Ironrath then he would obey without question.
Ramsay tripped over a bushel and fell into a small creek, the cold water stinging at his fingers and the sudden pressure on the gash in his side sent surges of pain into his body. He remembered the face of that Wildling goat fucker that barely got him with that axe. When he returns, he'll flay that savage alive and feed the skin to him!
'I'll make them wish they were all flayed alive when I'm done with them!' He picked himself up and just kept running. Fuck Winterfell, Jon Snow could have it. And while his army is there, he'll lead what men he can find to pillage and burn every traitor's keep he could before getting south.
They wouldn't find him in the woods. He spent half his life as a hunter and knew exactly how to disappear even in the snow and with a wound like this. No man would ever be able to find him.
A sudden rustle stopped Ramsay in his tracks. His eyes darted to the shadows of the trees all around. There was an animal nearby, maybe dinner. Perhaps Jon Snow sent some hunters after him. No, they should be too busy with the remainders of his men. He should have a good hour head start by the time they are done.
Ramsay drew his knife that was still stained with Harald's blood and crept over to the bushes near where the sound came from. If it was a rabbit then that would be perfect. Anything bigger would slow him down. He scanned through the leaves and the snow looking for what made the noise. In all the snow, there was a white figure and two enormous red eyes attached to it. Seven Hells, it was the bastard's white direwolf.
Ramsay didn't care about dinner more than he cared for a direwolf skin cloak now. He held his dagger tightly. If he did this just right, the beast would be dead in-
A large black wolf emerged from the shadows and almost loomed over him. It was bigger than the white one and bore its sharp teeth and growled terrifyingly. Ramsay locked his pale eyes with the large green ones staring back at him. "Fuck." He hissed.
He raised his dagger to counter any type of bite the black wolf would attempt, but in the time he took his eyes away from the white one, it had silently dashed and with one snap of its jaws ripped Ramsay's arm off.
Before Ramsay could scream, the black wolf sank its teeth into his neck, ripping out his throat but not killing him. Both wolves began tearing into his body ravenously. And all Ramsay could do was squirm and squeal helplessly as his blood was all he could see.
Jon
'It's done.' said The Raven.
Jon took his eyes away from the woods where Ghost and Shaggydog had run into, knowing full well they would be taking their time to get back.
He turned to all the survivors that had stood against them. The Bolton force was at spear and sword point, either kneeling or sitting, but all of them helpless to do anything. Seventeen hundred men to be taken to a block or hanged… or something not as wasteful. It was up to Jon to determine who went to the gallows or take the black. And it was up to them to show some sort of loyalty to their conqueror. But first he had to deal with the remaining Karstark soldiers. Despite making the first move and being supported by all of Jon's men, only a fifth of the Karstarks survived.
More than last time, ironically enough.
Their leader, Harald's only surviving captain, stood next to a small cart where Harald's body was put. They wrapped their lord in a banner of House Karstark. Harald's blood stained through the white sun, putting a red face on it.
"What's your name?" Jon asked him.
"Efraim," the man answered as he fell to his knees, along with the rest of the men gathered around their fallen lord.
"I'm sorry it came to this. I had truly hoped Harald would have changed his mind sooner. You are all free to escort your lord back to Karhold to give him burial befitting a Northern Lord."
Efraim bowed his head in respect to Jon. "You are most honorable, Lord Snow. I thank you dearly."
"Hm," Smalljon began, "you know I've been meaning to point out if you're gonna keep being a Snow or start being a Targaryen anytime soon." The Karstark and Bolton men who heard all shared the same confusion.
"It's going to take some getting used to, but… let's all catch our breath first before we get into that." He looked to Efraim. "Lady Alys is at our encampment to the North, where the ravine empties. Escort her to Karhold so she may mourn for her brother with her people." He looked back to the Bolton prisoners. "We'll be sending you some of these to escort to the Wall after we go through them all."
"Uh, my lord, there's too few of us to contain these numbers, even if they are beaten and haven't a place to go. One riled up man could start a rebellion and then a small army will be on the loose in the North."
Jon looked back at the Bolton soldiers, discerning faces that were guaranteed trouble and those who were simply waiting for what would happen next. "I know, I'll be providing some aid with that." Tormund was right next to him. "Can you send twice the Wildlings to join them?"
"Aye. I think Sigorn and his Thenns will do." Sigorn, the name was not as familiar to Jon as it is now because Sigorn and most of his Thenns died at the Battle of the Bastards the first time. Now they had lived and would be a fine strength to have. Sigorn was pacing in front of the prisoners with an axe exactly like Styr's. "And tell them to stay as far the fuck away if you want. I fuckin hate Thenns."
"They've sworn off being cannibals, Tormund. Time to start enjoying what we have instead of grumbling about it."
"I ain't grumblin nuthin," Tormund said. "I just fuckin hate them. Bunch'a scarred headed cunts."
Smalljon chuckled as Jon walked past them to where the Blackfish was overseeing the prisoners.
"When do the heads start rolling?" Brynden asked.
"Once we sort them out. I think there is loyalty among this lot, and those without can go to the Wall." They fought well, and Jon wasn't about to punish some farmer or shepherd's son for the actions of their Lord. "Those who were at the Twins will die." Jon looked at all of the prisoners again and hundreds of pairs of eyes looked back.
Brynden nodded. "This is going to be a long afternoon."
With The Raven's help, Jon was able to begin looking through the Bolton army for those who had to be weeded out, either to be sent to the Wall or to a noose or block. All the while he did, a detachment of his men began to clear the field of battle of the dead, search for wounded, and gather the arms of the fallen and surrendered.
'The Wall,' The Raven said.
Jon tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him with Longclaw. "Night's Watch," he moved onto the next one.
'Next.'
The man sighed in relief as Jon passed.
'Next.'
Again he moved.
'The Wall.'
Another tap. "Night's Watch," Jon kept going.
'Death.'
Jon pointed, "Death." Two of Brynden's men came and hauled the man away. The bastard kicked and yelled for mercy. The Raven was the judge right now. If a man was to die, he had to truly have not a single good thing done in his life to let the black save him.
In the end, two hundred and forty three were to be killed for their brutality and crimes at the Red Wedding, some of them already being hanged or beheaded while seventy-one would be taking the Black for committing crimes less severe but still making them untrustworthy to be a soldier of the North.
At the end of it, Jon faced all the remainders of the Bolton army. Roughly fifteen hundred nervous and terrified soldiers.
"Hear this!" Jon shouted as loud as he could that maintained an authoritative voice and not that of a crazed preacher. "House Bolton is dead and the Dreadfort is gone! Your fates rest with me. You can either tear off those pins you wear or keep them on as you walk to Castle Black. What will it be?"
Almost immediately, several men at once scuffled to tear off the pins of the flayed man that resided on their armor. They all came forward and threw the pins at Jon's feet, and they were not the last to do so. Almost every man came forth to surrender their pins and other forms of the flayed man emblazoned on their armor. But there were those who did not, only a handful.
"You are soldiers that followed the orders of your Lord, who's to blame for the travesties that befell the North under Ramsay's command? Your commander is gone but the damage remains. You will restore what was lost, that I swear you shall." Jon turned away from them to the Blackfish. "Keep them under watch for now. We'll decide what to do with them all later. Let's get everything else cleared up."
Jon walked into Winterfell, a place he had not been back to for so long. He did not count when he and Drogon fought off the Night King's army to get everyone else north of the Wall. He burned his own home to the ground, but here it was, back up and welcoming him with open gates with hardly a drop of blood on them.
He did it. Damn the gods, he did it. The Wildlings, the North, all had hardly suffered to reclaim Winterfell. And Wun Wun was alive and perfectly fine. The giants would live on just that much longer.
He found a water trowel and decided to make use of the water. He took off his armor and his gambeson which were both covered in blood from the battle. He cupped the ice cold water in his hands and splashed his face, cleaning what he could to at least be presentable when Sansa and Rickon get here.
The drops on his face trickled and fell back in the trowel. He breathed the cold air and sighed heavy. "Easy part's over." His attention was drawn to the sound of a horse's snort. Sansa and Rickon, along with Brienne and Podrick close behind them, had just rode in.
Jon smiled fondly at them as he walked over. His family dismounted just as he reached them. "Welcome home." He was glad to give Winterfell back from the Boltons. But he still had doubts pulling his thoughts to hope he wouldn't regret giving it to his cousins.
"Jon," Sansa began, "where is he?"
The answer came swiftly after she answered. Shaggydog and Ghost both returned from their hunt and Shaggydog had presented what remained of their kill. Ramsay was nothing more than half a bloody skull, half a neck, and half a torso with only his left leg as the remaining limb attached.
Sansa replied with naught but a shuddering sigh and a nod.
It took the whole day to clear the dead from the battlefield and lay them to rest but only an afternoon to cast down the banners of House Bolton and hang the direwolf of House Stark from the walls of Winterfell once again.
By nightfall, the Lords, Ladies, captains, and chieftains all gathered in warmth of the Great Hall each with a goblet, cup, or horn of drink in their hand raised high.
Jon arose from the center seat, now dressed in fine clean clothes provided by Lady Barbrey. Rickon was given a similar attire, except his leather tunic was embroidered with grey direwolves at the collar. "Hail the victorious dead!"
"Hail!" all chorused together and drank. With the dead honored, all took joy in the victory and return of House Stark.
The merriment began with cheer and music. Many men and women mixed and mingled together to share tremendous stories amongst themselves.
Jon didn't feel the joy of it though. Being back in the home he grew up in, with many people he once respected and called friends, it meant so little to him now. All of those loyalties, those friendships, gone when he needed them and yet he was always there for them.
"I nearly forgot," Jon said to Sansa as he pulled the dagger and sheath out from under his belt and set it on the table in front of Sansa. "This was Baelish's, the one he sent to kill Bran with. Since he doesn't need it anymore and I've already got a sword, maybe you should have it. Even your mother was smart enough to carry a blade with her."
Sansa grasped the dragonbone handle and pulled the dagger free. "I… I don't know how to use these."
"Don't worry. I can show you how. I'm not making you into a warrior, but every wolf needs sharp teeth."
Sansa sheathed the dagger back and left it on the table in front of her. She looked at him with uncertainty. "Why are you so glum?" Sansa asked. "You're the hero who made this possible for us all, Jon."
"I'm not a hero," Jon argued back, halfway slumping in his chair. "We have a victory, but there's still much to do. We can gather our strength again, but we need more-"
"Stop it. This isn't a bloody war council, it's a celebration. Did you forget how to have those?" Sansa joked and went to drink more of her wine.
"Yes."
Sansa stopped and looked at him, unsure whether or not he was being serious.
He left the high table, he couldn't stand being back up there. Walking past the Northmen and Knights of Vale, smiling emptily at those that clapped him on his back, he found his way to the Free Folk, the ones who he knew would not deceive him.
"There he is!" Tormund greeted with an open arm and some of the other Wildings, Osha included, scooted over to make room for him to sit with them. "The White Wolf graces us lowly savages, boys!"
Jon rolled his eyes and reached out for Tormund's horn. "Pass it over, I need the strong stuff."
Osha's head perked up at him. "Oh, lad. You dare with a real Northern drink?" She asked with her own horn in hand.
Tormund gave a great toothy grin and passed over the horn of fermented milk. Of course he was expecting Jon to cough it out and grimace at the smell but utter surprise took over all the leaders when Jon started drinking deeply.
When Jon finished, he raised it high with a proud and satisfied smile and the men cheered for him. "Can't believe I've missed this stuff." He passed what was left back to Tormund. "But I don't think you'd be able to handle a southern beer like Umber's personal drink. He brought four barrels of it."
Tormund blew a raspberry. "You southerners put too much spice and sweet in your drinks. Takes away the best part." The Free Folk cheered on to agree that their drink was the mightiest for warriors.
Jon smirked and looked over his shoulder. "Smalljon!" he called out, "bring us a few of your drinks. You've been challenged."
The Smalljon and three of his men walked over with stern looks after being called out like that. A hard stillness became of the Free Folk and the Northmen. "These goatfuckers think they know what real ale is?"
Osha hissed at the Smalljon. "Perhaps I'll ferment your own blood if you come any closer, Umber."
Jon raised his hands up. "That's enough. We're all allies now. Let's worry about the dead first and then decide what's worth arguing about. But Smalljon, once you've had theirs, it's hard to try anything else." One of the Wildings poured a new horn with the milk and offered it to Smalljon with a wicked smile. The Lord of the Last Hearth looked to Jon first then to the horn, taking it and taking a smell.
"Ugh, is this ale or arse juice?" He slowly took a sip, grimacing as he did, before attempting a mouthful but ending up choking on it and spitting out on the floor.
Jon and the Freefolk erupted in laughter. He then took the horn from Smalljon and finished every last drop, putting a fallen expression on the Smalljon's face as well as his men's.
"Come on," Jon insisted, "see if your brew can choke a Wildling." Smalljon locked eyes with Tormund who looked well confident in his liquor. He nodded to his right hand man and soon presented a pair of maplewood flagons filled to the brim with foaming beer and gave one to his Lord and the other to Tormund.
Tormund gave the drink a sniff and his eyes almost rolled back. "Ooh… I've never dreamed of scents like this. Everything you lads gots been frosty pig shit until now." Tormund stood up and face the Smalljon. "To a good death after a good drink," he held the flagon out somewhat but kept his eyes on Smalljon who didn't break contact or blink at Tormund. Both men lightly clanked drinks together and each drank deeply but didn't stop before the other. Both finished their cups and had foam mustaches dripping from their beards. "I'd rip the whole Wall down for more of this."
Finally, after twelve years since he left across the Wall, Jon could find himself truly happy for a night.
Daenerys
Daenerys breathed in the late night air. The sun was setting in the west and the Great Pyramids were faint silhouettes against the light as they shrunk in the distance as her ships sailed onward. After so many years, she was going home. With the Martells and Yara Greyjoy's ships added to her fleet, they were enough to carry her army in four journeys. She would have been pleased if they could have found another House of Westeros to add to her fleet but they were blessed with the allies they had. Maybe it wasn't too late to find more, however. Sellsails were scarce since Stannis Baratheon lost most of them in his war. She had optimism about the Houses that would welcome her.
But there was a pit in her stomach she could not ignore. The Mad King's daughter returning to Westeros. How many Houses would take up arms against her? Her hands tightened their grip on the wooden railing. She has been waiting to go home all her life and soon she finally will. No one had the right to deny her return.
To save time in the journey, half the Dothraki would be traveling to Volantis and await for a shorter voyage. The ones coming with them were the strongest of stomachs when it came to the sea.
Her dragons soared overhead the flagship, leading the way to their destination. Unfortunately the entire voyage would not be without stops but luckily it would be only one. Volantis. While they were there, Daenerys would make sure that the message of free men and abolishing slavery reached the cities outside of the former Slaver's Bay that practiced such.
She stood at the front of her flagship with her friends and advisors behind her. The wind would catch her hair and push it back but she could feel that it was pulling her home. She felt such great excitement while at the same time determined. Her journey to rid the world of tyranny and corruption was so close to beginning.
"I've always loved the brisk of sea voyage," Tyrion said next to her, "the smell of the salt, the nights so full of stars you could hardly count them all in a single lifetime."
"It's the sunrise for me," Daenerys confessed, "watching the golden light make its first break over the horizon. It looks as though it suddenly just appears."
"I wish my father were still alive so that I could see his face when the fleet and three dragons suddenly appear on the horizon. He always held great doubts in the threat of them."
"I suppose you'll have to relish in your brother and sister's reactions when we arrive." There was an uncomfortable silence that followed. Daenerys knew that Tyrion still held feelings for his brother, and maybe even for his sister on some level, but now was not the time to address them. This was a moment of triumph for her and she didn't want it spoiled. "It has been a long day for all. I'm going to retire for the night. I suggest you all do the same."
Daenerys made for bed and with Missandei's help she was quick to get to it. She wanted to wake up to see the first sunrise of their voyage. The bed was not the finest she ever had, but she felt more comfortable than she ever slept previously.
Her dreams took her from awakeness to sleep.
She was in a place she had been once before in a vision long ago. The throne room of the Red Keep was the same as it was before. The roof collapsed in some places and rubble piled up while a light layer of cold snow covered everything.
But when she looked at the Iron Throne, it was gone this time and instead there was a pool of molten metal hardening from the cold. And standing in front of it all, looking at Daenerys with eyes filled with sadness, misery, and betrayal, was herself. This apparition of her dream was so different. She looked sickly and there was a tear in her clothes over her heart and blood stains around it.
Daenerys approached this stranger that was her, not knowing what or who could have done this. But she remained silent. She could only look at herself in caution.
"In the end, it wasn't my enemies or the ones I trusted that destroyed me." Her apparition said. "I tried to be different from our history, but I was just more of the same." The apparition approached and placed a hand over Daenerys's heart where her wound was. "You can change. I couldn't, so you'll have to do it for me."
Daenerys awoke in a fright, sitting up fast and drenched in cold sweat. She clenched at her chest where she saw the stab wound and almost felt a pinch there. She collected her breath and looked out her window. It was nearly dawn and yet it felt like she didn't even get a wink of sleep. The dream was haunting her even as bit by bit, it started fading from her memory until soon she could only remember fragments. The one thing she couldn't forget was the dagger plunged in her heart and the words of her apparition.
She took a deep breath and tried to push these feelings aside as she got out of bed, put on a light robe, and strode outside to the main deck. The vast many ships behind her obscured the horizon of the east, but there was enough in sight that she could barely see the edge of the sun creep out.