Chapter 10: The Queen Across the Sea
Sunspear – Prince Doran's Solar
The parchment was old.
Not aged from time, but from distance.
It bore no sigil. Only black wax, melted unevenly, and a folded note sealed tight as bone.
Doran's fingers trembled slightly as he broke it open. The courier who had brought it waited outside, breathing hard, refusing even water. He had ridden weeks nonstop from Lys.
Michael leaned beside the map table with Arthur standing at his right, the weight of their coming journey to the North hanging between them like a drawn blade.
Oberyn swirled wine with one hand and a dagger with the other. Elia watched Doran's face closely.
Then his breath caught.
"What is it?" Elia asked.
Doran didn't speak. He read the letter once more.
Then he looked to Michael. "Daenerys Stormborn. She's alive."
The silence cracked like thunder.
Arthur stepped forward. "That's not possible. The last we heard, she and her brother perished in the storm off Dragonstone."
Doran's eyes narrowed. "That was the tale Robert's spies sold across Essos. But it was a lie. Viserys survived. So did the girl."
Michael crossed his arms. "And no one questioned it?"
"No," Elia said softly. "Rhaella was in labor when they fled. A storm broke over Dragonstone. The castle was sealed, and no ravens escaped. They said the sea swallowed them all."
"They let the world believe it," Doran added. "Because Robert wanted it so. One child escaped was bad enough. A second? A girl of royal blood? A threat to his line."
Michael stepped forward. "Where is she?"
Doran unfolded the second parchment—the courier had delivered two—and laid it on the table. "Lys. No longer. She's crossed the Shadowed Sea. With… dragons."
Arthur straightened. "Lies."
Oberyn chuckled dryly. "Three, they say. Hatched in fire and blood."
"They're more than tales," Doran murmured. "There are sightings. Merchants speak of a pale queen who cannot burn. A silver-haired girl with fire in her wake and a khalasar behind her."
Michael stared at the page, then looked to Aegon—who had just stepped into the room, summoned by Elia.
He stood tall, sword at his hip, but there was a flicker of something human beneath his composure.
"What did you say?" Aegon asked quietly.
Elia's voice was soft. "Your aunt lives, my son."
Aegon stepped forward, heart pounding beneath his ribs. "She… she lives? But how?"
Doran gestured toward the parchments. "Survived. Hidden. Sold in marriage by Viserys to a Dothraki warlord, Khal Drogo. Now she rules the East in his name. Some say he's dead. Some say her dragons are larger than horses."
Michael's voice broke through the disbelief. "It changes everything."
Arthur nodded. "The world believes she died. She hasn't. And now, we have two dragons instead of one."
Aegon's eyes stayed on the letter. "She has dragons. I have a claim."
"She has fire," Michael said. "You have the realm."
Oberyn grinned. "Perhaps the gods are playing chess. We only just moved our knight—and now the queen appears on the other side of the board."
Doran leaned back in his seat. "This makes the North more vital than ever. We must offer not only unity, but stability. If the realm hears of Daenerys… there will be factions. Fanatics. Spies."
Michael stared at the map. "Then we act before the game becomes a war."
Doran turned toward Aegon. "You will not write to her."
"What?" Aegon asked.
"You will wait. We must know her intent. Whether she marches for fire or peace. Whether her dragons burn cities or light the way forward."
Elia nodded. "If she returns as conqueror, the realm will fear her. If she returns as a Targaryen… she may be your greatest ally."
Michael exhaled slowly. "And if she returns as a queen who wants no king?"
"Then the dragon will face itself," Doran said softly. "And the world will burn again."
Later That Night – Sunspear's War Room
The room was smaller. Quieter. Just Michael, Arthur, Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys.
A final meeting before Michael and Arthur would depart.
Scrolls and ravens lay open before them.
"First letter," Michael said, "goes to Winterfell. To Eddard Stark."
Aegon nodded. "What will you write?"
"I'll tell him the truth," Michael replied. "That I followed my oath. That I bled to protect innocents. And that I've watched the crown poison every good house in Westeros."
Arthur handed over a sealed scroll. "Use that. My name still holds some weight in the North."
Michael pocketed it.
"Second letter goes to Riverrun," Elia said. "The Blackfish may have no love for Robert."
Michael looked to Aegon. "And third?"
Aegon hesitated. "You wanted a North–Dorne alliance. How do we begin it?"
Michael smiled faintly. "With a hand, and a promise."
Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. "Whose hand?"
Michael didn't blink. "Yours."
A stunned silence followed.
"You'd marry the North?" Arthur asked her directly.
Rhaenys shrugged. "If it keeps my brother alive and puts him on the throne… then I'll wear snow if I must."
Elia gave her daughter a proud look.
"We start with the Starks," Michael said. "Build trust. Then propose the match."
Aegon nodded slowly. "And the dragons?"
Michael looked back toward the sea.
"Let her fly, if she's meant to. But while she burns across the East… we'll build a kingdom in the West."
Elsewhere – East of Qarth
A desert storm rolled across the red dunes.
Daenerys Targaryen stood barefoot atop a sandstone cliff, her white hair whipping behind her like a banner of snow and flame.
Before her, Rhaegal circled in the distance, wings stretched like sails. Below, thousands of Unsullied drilled silently in sand, while grey ships prepared in the bay.
Jorah stepped beside her.
"My queen," he said softly, "the raven returned. From Lys."
Daenerys took the scroll. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
A name.
Aegon Targaryen.
A seal: a dragon coiled around a burning sword.
And a note beneath it:
"You are not alone."
Her breath caught.
Viserys had lied. Or perhaps he'd never known. Her brother's madness had been a fire all its own, but now a truth older than flame smoldered before her.
"Aegon," she whispered. "He lives."
Winterfell — Two Weeks Later
The snow hadn't stopped in four days.
It drifted down in thick, lazy flakes, coating the training yard in white silence. The great hall burned with fire, but it did little to warm Eddard Stark's bones.
He stood by the window of his solar, fingers wrapped around a cup of cooled mulled wine, untouched since morning. Catelyn had gone to check on Bran's cough. Robb was in the yard, drilling with Theon and Ser Rodrik. Sansa and Arya were arguing about stitches again.
The world moved quietly in Winterfell.
And yet, Ned couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Something old. Something heavy with blood.
Then came the knock.
Maester Luwin stepped in, breathless. His grey robes were dusted with snow.
"My lord," he said, voice tight. "A raven from Sunspear."
Ned turned sharply.
"…Sunspear?"
"Yes, my lord. Black seal. No house sigil. The bird arrived just minutes ago. It bears a name written in High Valyrian and the Dornish tongue. I… I had to cross-reference both."
Ned took the scroll, his fingers immediately noting the coarseness of the parchment. It had traveled far. Too far. The sand still clung to the edges, as if reluctant to part.
"How long would it have taken to arrive?" he asked quietly.
Luwin did the calculation aloud. "From Sunspear… through the Prince's Pass, then to Oldtown to reach the northern rookery lines. Possibly longer due to the early storms. At least six weeks, my lord. Perhaps seven."
Ned nodded, opening the scroll carefully. His eyes moved over the writing—elegant but steady. Warlike in its structure. A soldier's hand.
Then he saw the name.
Michael.
And below it, another.
Ser Arthur Dayne.
He dropped into his seat, stunned.
Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning.
Dead at the Tower of Joy. That was the tale… the one he helped write.
He read the letter twice.
The words were cautious but pointed. No threats. No demands. Just truths.
Michael's voice was clear through the ink: "I have protected the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen. The children live. Elia lives. They are in Dorne under the Martell banner, guarded, safe… but not for long. War will come again. I offer peace. I offer truth. I ask for alliance—not for thrones, but for oaths. From one man of honor to another."
The second letter bore Arthur's seal. It said only one line:
"He's not lying. And I still owe you answers."
Ned let the paper rest on the table. He stared into the fire.
So much came back all at once—the Tower. Lyanna's blood-soaked bed. The cries of a newborn. The shame he'd carried for years. The silence.
He looked to Luwin.
"No one sees these letters. Not even my wife."
"Yes, my lord."
"Send word to the Ravenry. Draft a response. Tell them… I believe them. And if they wish to parley, I will receive them under the ancient laws of guest right."
Luwin bowed. "What of the boy?"
Ned's eyes narrowed. "Aegon Targaryen. If he truly lives… then everything we've done, everything Robert's reign was built upon…"
He trailed off.
Outside, the wind howled.
The Dreadfort — That Same Week
A hooded figure rode through the gates of the Dreadfort, dragging a cart full of severed heads.
Roose Bolton watched from the ramparts.
"Bring him in," Roose said coldly.
"Who is he?" his son Ramsay asked, voice curious.
The messenger had no name. But he bore a scroll like the one that went to Winterfell—intercepted, copied, and sent to someone in the Vale.
Someone watching. Waiting.
The spider's web had been tugged.
Back in Sunspear – Two Days Before
Michael stood at the balcony outside Aegon's chambers, looking out over the orange dusk that bathed the Dornish sands.
He could feel the ripple through the world. Ravens carried more than words—they carried momentum.
Arthur stepped beside him. "Do you think he'll answer?"
"He's Ned Stark," Michael replied. "If anyone would, it's him."
"And if he doesn't?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "Then we walk into the North ourselves. And I'll drag peace from their bones if I have to."
Arthur looked over with a raised brow. "That's not peace."
Michael smirked. "Then it's a prelude."