A/N: It was difficult to get Daenerys where I want her to be so if you have an opinion if I can make it better please let me know! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like :)
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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Castle Black, The Wall
The wind cut sharp across the moors as Eddard traveled the Kingsroad, ice crystals stinging his cheeks like tiny needles. Beside him, the Greatjon Umber rode his massive destrier with the easy grace of a man born to the saddle, though his usual booming laughter carried an edge of concern.
The Greatjon shifted in his saddle, and Ned caught the unease rolling off the larger man like heat from a forge. "The raids have become more frequent the last two years, but the strangeness of these raids keep me up at night," He hawked and spat, the glob freezing before it hit the ground. "They aren't normal Wildling raids, they seem to be running from something."
"Where are they going?" Ned kept his voice level, though something cold that had nothing to do with the wind settled in his gut.
He leaned closer, voice dropping. "My trackers followed the trails for two days. All heading the same way—south and west, away from the Wall. Away from whatever's beyond it." The big man's eyes, usually bright with battle-lust or mirth, held something Ned had rarely seen there: genuine fear. "What makes wildlings run from their own lands?"
"The ranging parties we've sent..." Benjen's voice carried the rasp of a man who'd been shouting orders into howling winds. "Half don't return. The half that do—" He broke off, spat into the snow. The saliva crackled as it froze. "They speak of empty villages. Not raided. Not burned. Just... empty. As if the folk simply walked into the snow and never stopped walking."
The Greatjon's destrier stamped, steam rising from its nostrils. "How far north?"
"Started at Hardhome." Benjen's black cloak snapped in the wind like raven wings. "Now we find abandoned camps a day's ride from the Wall. Whatever drives them south grows bolder." His grey eyes—so like Ned's own—fixed on his brother. "Or hungrier."
Eddard pulled his cloak tighter, the wolf fur lining doing little against the northern wind. Luke Skywalker's warnings echoed in his mind—ice and death marching south. At the time, he'd thought it poetic exaggeration. Now, riding through lands that felt too empty, too silent, he wasn't certain.
"We shall get the answers soon enough." Eddard promised.
The journey to Castle Black from Last Hearth took three days through increasingly desolate country. Each night, Eddard found himself staring north into the darkness, remembering that deserter's wild eyes, his talk of White Walkers. The man I beheaded swore he saw them. Swore it on his life, for all the good it did him.
Castle Black rose from the snow like a collection of broken teeth, its towers crumbling, its walls patched with whatever materials the Watch could scavenge. The smell hit first—unwashed bodies, horse dung, and the acrid smoke of poorly ventilated fires. In the practice yard, black brothers drilled new recruits with the enthusiasm of men going through motions.
One recruit caught Ned's eye—a fat boy who held his sword like it might bite him, flinching away from every half-hearted swing his opponent made. The master-at-arms barked insults that would make a septon blush, but the boy only cowered more.
"Fresh meat from the south," Jeor Mormont's voice came from behind him. The Lord Commander stood in the doorway of the King's Tower, his raven perched on his shoulder. "Lord Tarly's firstborn. Sent to us because his father couldn't stomach a craven heir."
"He'll not last a week beyond the Wall," Ned observed.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Mormont's eyes were sharp as his raven's. "Come, Lord Stark. We have much to discuss."
The Lord Commander's solar was warmer than the yard but barely more comfortable. Maps covered every surface, marked with pins and notations in Mormont's cramped hand. The raven hopped to its perch, fixing Ned with one black eye.
"Wine?" Mormont offered, already pouring two cups of something that smelled more like lamp oil than anything from the Arbor.
Ned accepted, the liquid burning his throat. "The Greatjon tells me of empty villages."
"Aye. And my rangers tell me worse." Mormont settled into his chair with the careful movements of a man whose joints protested the cold. "Mance Rayder has crowned himself King-Beyond-the-Wall. The wildlings flock to him by the thousands."
"Mance Rayder." Ned knew the name. "He was one of yours."
"The best ranger I ever trained." Bitterness crept into Mormont's voice. "Until he decided a crown suited him better than black wool. Now he unites clans that have feuded for centuries. The Thenns march beside the Hornfoots. The ice-river clans break bread with the cave dwellers."
"What does he want?"
"What all kings want—power, glory, a legacy." Mormont paused. "Or perhaps he wants what any sane man would want. To get his people south of the Wall."
The words hung between them. ned set down his cup carefully. "You speak as if he flees from something."
Silence stretched long enough for the raven to grow restless, ruffling its feathers with a sound like parchment."Corn! Corn!" Mormont's weathered face seemed to age another decade as he stared into his wine.
"Tell me, Lord Stark," he said finally, "what do you know of the things that walk in the night?"
Ice and death marching south. Ned's hand gripped his mug tightly. "I know what the deserter claimed. I know my brother Benjen spoke of strange happenings. And I know..." He hesitated, then pressed on. "I know a man who claims to have seen darkness gathering in the true North."
"Your brother has the right of it." Mormont's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "My rangers—the ones who return—they speak of things that shouldn't be. Wildling camps found frozen solid in high summer. Men who died beyond the Wall seen walking again, blue-eyed and silent. Shadows that move against the wind."
"White Walkers." The words tasted of childhood nightmares.
"We don't know what they are." Mormont's fist clenched on the table. "But something hunts the Wildlings. Something that turns brave men into frightened children. Half my rangers won't venture past the Skirling Pass anymore."
"And the other half?"
"Don't come back."
The raven croaked once,"Cold!" a sound like mocking laughter. Eddard felt the weight of the North settling on his shoulders, heavier than any crown.
"The Night's Watch will have whatever Winterfell can spare," he said. "Men, supplies, steel. I'll send ravens to every house sworn to me."
"You believe, then?"
"I believe in being prepared." Eddard stood, his decision crystallizing. "I'll leave within the week. The North must ready itself for whatever comes."
Mormont rose as well, extending his hand. His grip was still strong despite his years. "The Watch remembers, Lord Stark. When winter comes—"
"The North remembers too," Eddard finished. "And we'll be ready."
As he left the solar, Eddard caught sight of the fat boy in the yard again, still fumbling with his sword while others mocked. We'll need every man, he thought. Even the cravens. Especially if the real enemy isn't wildlings at all.
The wind howled through the Wall's ice tunnels as he made his way to his quarters, and in that sound, Eddard heard the promise of worse to come.
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Outskirts of Pentos, Essos
The drums pounded like a second heartbeat in Daenerys's chest, each strike reverberating through her bones. She sat rigid on the platform of honor, silver-gold hair whipping in the evening wind that carried the stench of roasted horsemeat and fermented mare's milk. Below, the Dothraki wedding feast sprawled across the grassland like a living thing—writhing, violent, beautiful in its savagery.
I am the blood of the dragon, she told herself, though the words felt hollow as another scream pierced the air. A man fell, throat opened by a curved arakh, his blood soaking into earth already drunk on violence. The other warriors laughed, passing wineskins over his cooling corpse.
Khal Drogo sat beside her, magnificent and terrible as a storm given flesh. His bells chimed softly when he moved, each one a death, a victory. He hadn't touched her yet—not like the other men touched their women in the grass, rutting like animals while the feast roared on. But his dark eyes promised that would come. When the sun died completely. When the moon rose to witness her shame.
No. Not shame. Escape.
Her fingers found the hidden pocket in her wedding silks where Doreah had sewn a small knife. The blade was no longer than her smallest finger, but it would serve if needed. For herself, if nothing else. She'd rather bleed out in the grass than—
"More wine, Khaleesi?" Doreah appeared at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The Lysene woman's movements were liquid grace, but Daenerys caught the tension in her shoulders, the quick dart of her eyes toward the tent where they'd hidden supplies.
"Please." Daenerys held out her cup, though she'd barely touched the sweet Tyroshi pear brandy. Every sip threatened to come back up. "And see that my brother's cup stays full."
Across the feast, Viserys held court with a group of Drogo's bloodriders, gesticulating wildly as he no doubt explained how he would take back his throne. The dragon crown Illyrio had given him sat crooked on his pale head. The Dothraki smiled at him the way men smiled at dancing monkeys.
Let them mock. Let him drink himself stupid.
"Your brother grows bold with wine," Drogo rumbled in accented Valyrian. His voice was deep as distant thunder. "He speaks of dragons. Of fire and blood."
"My brother speaks of many things." Daenerys kept her voice steady, though her pulse quickened. Had Drogo noticed the dragon eggs were missing from the display of wedding gifts? They'd been moved to the tent hours ago, wrapped in rough cloth and hidden beneath traveling supplies. "The wine makes him... generous with words."
Drogo's laugh was sharp as his arakh. "Words. Yes. Your brother has many words." He turned to her then, and she fought not to flinch from the intensity of his gaze. "You have few words, moon of my life. But your eyes..." He reached out, one callused finger tracing the line of her jaw. "Your eyes speak of storms."
If you only knew. She forced herself to lean into his touch, playing the blushing bride. "I am... overwhelmed, my sun-and-stars. Your people's ways are strange to me."
"You will learn." It wasn't a suggestion. His hand dropped to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse. "When the moon rises full, I will teach you to ride."
The double meaning wasn't lost on her. Her stomach clenched, but she managed what she hoped looked like a shy smile. "I... I would ask a favor, great Khal."
His eyebrow arched.
"Might I... that is, before we..." Heat flooded her cheeks, and she didn't have to feign the embarrassment. "I would prepare myself. To wash the road dust away. To... to be worthy of a Khal."
Something flickered in his dark eyes. Amusement? Approval? "You would make yourself beautiful for me?"
"I would try, my lord." The lie came easier than expected. "If you would grant me a small time? My handmaid knows the oils and perfumes of Lys..."
Drogo studied her for a long moment. Around them, the feast grew wilder. Two women fought over a warrior, tearing at each other's hair while men placed bets. Someone's throat got cut in the shadows beyond the fire. The drums never stopped.
"One hour," he said finally. "When the moon touches the grass, you will come to my tent."
"Thank you, my sun-and-stars." She pressed her lips to his hand, tasting leather and blood and smoke. "You are generous."
He pulled her close then, crushing her against his chest. His lips found her ear. "Do not make me wait longer, moon of my life. I am not patient like your sunset lords."
When he released her, she could barely breathe. But she smiled, nodded, played the part of the eager virgin bride. Inside, her mind raced. One hour. Less, if Viserys notices I'm gone.
She rose carefully, gesturing for Doreah to follow. The Lysene woman's eyes were bright with understanding. As they picked their way through the feast, Daenerys forced herself to move slowly, pausing to accept congratulations from Drogo's bloodriders, to smile at the women who would tomorrow teach her to braid bells into her hair.
If there is a tomorrow for me here.
Jhogo, youngest of Drogo's bloodriders, caught her arm as she passed. "Khaleesi." His common tongue was rough but understandable. "You go?"
"To prepare for my lord husband." She kept her voice light, though his grip made her bones ache. "A bride's duties."
He studied her with eyes like chips of obsidian. For a heartbeat, she thought he knew. Then he released her with a grunt. "The Khal is fortunate."
The Khal is drunk. As are you. But she only smiled and moved on.
The tent was blessedly quiet after the chaos outside. Doreah immediately went to the corner where they'd hidden everything—traveling clothes, water, dried meat, and most importantly, the three dragon eggs wrapped in cloth.
"Quickly, Khaleesi." Doreah pulled out the rough-spun dress of a merchant woman. "We haven't much time."
Daenerys's fingers shook as she struggled with the clasps of her wedding silks. The fabric was worth a fortune—Illyrio's gift, sewn with silver thread and tiny pearls. She let it fall to the ground like shed skin.
"Your brother?" Doreah asked, helping her into the simpler clothes.
"Deep in his cups. He was challenging one of the bloodriders to a dance." She'd seen Viserys like this before, wine making him bold and stupid. "He won't notice until—"
A sound outside made them both freeze. Footsteps. Uneven, stumbling. Then singing, slurred and off-key. One of the warriors, drunk and looking for privacy to piss.
They waited, barely breathing, until the footsteps moved away.
"The eggs," Daenerys whispered. The bundle was heavier than she remembered, but she clutched it to her chest like a child. Through the cloth, warmth pulsed against her skin. "Do you have the—"
"The coin purse." Doreah pressed the leather pouch into Daenerys's hand. "Illyrio's gold. Enough for passage."
They slipped from the tent into darkness thick as wool. The feast fires burned like distant stars, casting writhing shadows across the grass. Daenerys's heart hammered against her ribs as they crept toward the horse lines. Every sound—every drunken shout, every clash of steel—made her flinch.
The horses stood tethered in long rows, most dozing despite the chaos. Doreah had marked two earlier: a brown mare and a grey gelding, unremarkable mounts that wouldn't be missed immediately.
"Can you ride?" Doreah whispered, already working at the mare's tether.
"I'll manage." Daenerys had ridden exactly twice in her life, both times with Viserys holding the reins. But she'd rather fall and break her neck than return to that tent. To Drogo. To the life of a khaleesi.
The dragon eggs weighed heavy in the saddlebag as she struggled onto the gelding's back. The beast shifted nervously, sensing her inexperience. She gripped the reins with white knuckles, thighs already aching from the unfamiliar position.
"This way." Doreah led them away from the main camp, picking a path through the darkness. "The port road. If we can reach—"
A horn blast split the night. Then another. And another.
No. Not yet. The hour isn't—
But of course Drogo hadn't waited. Why would he? She was his property now, bought and paid for. The moment she'd left the feast, someone had been watching. Counting the minutes until their Khal grew impatient.
"Ride!" Doreah kicked her mare into motion.
Daenerys clung to the gelding's mane as it lurched forward, following the mare by instinct more than her clumsy guidance. Behind them, the camp erupted. Torches flared to life. Men shouted in Dothraki—harsh, guttural commands that needed no translation.
Hunt. Find. Bring back alive.
The road appeared like a pale ribbon in the moonlight. Daenerys's teeth rattled as the gelding's gait jarred every bone in her body. The saddlebag with the eggs bounced against her leg, each impact sending warmth through the leather.
Hoofbeats thundered behind them. Closing fast.
"Khaleesi!" The voice cut through the night like a blade. Not Dothraki. Common tongue, accented with the North.
Ser Jorah Mormont drew alongside them on a massive destrier, riding as if born to the saddle. His face was flushed, eyes wide with something between panic and determination.
"Stop this madness!" He reached for her reins, but she jerked the gelding away. "You must return. The Khal—"
"The Khal will rape me." The words tore from her throat, raw and honest. "Then his bloodriders. Then any man who wants a turn with the dragon whore."
"Princess, please." Jorah's voice cracked. "If you run, they'll hunt you. All of them. There's no—"
"Then I die." She met his eyes, surprised by her own steadiness. "I die free. Not on my back with a savage between my legs."
Something shifted in his weathered face. Shame? Recognition? His hand went to his sword hilt, then fell away.
"Seven hells," he muttered. Then louder: "Follow me. Quickly!"
He wheeled his destrier around, leading them off the main road onto a smaller track. "There's a Pentoshi merchantman in the harbor. Captain Groleo. He owes me a debt."
"Why?" Daenerys couldn't help asking as they rode. "Why help us?"
"Because I've done enough evil for one lifetime." His voice was bitter as turned wine. "Because—" He glanced back at her, and in the moonlight she saw tears on his cheeks. "Because you're a child. And I'm tired of watching children suffer."
The port materialized from the darkness—a cluster of warehouses and taverns clinging to the water's edge. Ships bobbed at anchor, their masts swaying like a drunken forest. Jorah led them through twisting alleys, past sailors too drunk or indifferent to mark their passage.
"There." He pointed to a wide-bellied cog flying Pentoshi colors. "The Saduleon. Groleo's a good man. He'll take you to Braavos."
They dismounted at the dock. Daenerys's legs nearly buckled, muscles screaming from the ride. She clutched the saddlebag with the eggs, their warmth the only thing keeping her upright.
"Groleo!" Jorah bellowed up at the ship. "Groleo, you wine-sodden bastard! I need that favor!"
A grizzled head appeared over the rail. "Mormont? What in the Stranger's name—"
"No time. These women need passage. Now."
"The tide's not—"
"Now, Groleo!" Jorah's voice brooked no argument. "Unless you want to explain to a Dothraki khalasar why you're harboring their Khaleesi."
That got the captain moving. Within moments, sailors were lowering a rope ladder. Doreah went first, nimble as a cat. Daenerys followed more slowly, the egg-filled saddlebag making every movement treacherous.
As her feet touched the deck, she heard it—the thunder of approaching hooves. Many hooves. The dock trembled beneath their fury.
"Cast off!" Groleo roared. "Cut the lines if you have to!"
Jorah stood on the dock, sword drawn, facing the darkness. Ready to buy them time with his life.
"Ser Jorah!" Daenerys called down. "Come with us!"
He looked up at her, and for a heartbeat she saw not the disgraced knight but the man he might have been. Could be again.
"I..." He glanced back at the approaching riders, then at the ship pulling away from the dock. The gap widened. Five feet. Ten.
"Jump!" she screamed.
He sheathed his sword. Took three running steps. Leaped.
His hands caught the rail as the ship lurched into deeper water. Sailors hauled him aboard, cursing and laughing in equal measure. He collapsed on the deck, breathing hard, staring at the receding shoreline where torches now swarmed like angry fireflies.
"My thanks, Ser." Daenerys knelt beside him, the dragon eggs warm against her chest. "For your honor."
"Honor?" He laughed, bitter and broken. "I just helped steal a Khal's bride. There's no honor in—"
"There's honor in choice." She surprised herself with the certainty in her voice. "In choosing to be better than we were."
On the dock, she could make out riders now. Dothraki screamers, arakhs raised to the sky. And there—was that a flash of silver hair? Viserys, screaming something lost to wind and distance.
Goodbye, brother. May you find the throne you want so badly.
As Pentos faded into darkness behind them, Daenerys clutched the dragon eggs and wondered what lay ahead. Braavos first. Then... where? The visions had shown her snow. A wall of ice. That was for later. For now…for now…
She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and she was finally free.
----------------------------------------------------
Winterfell, The North
Sansa sat at her window seat, needle forgotten in her lap, watching the grey clouds gather over Winterfell's towers. Her fingers traced the fading yellow-green marks on her wrist—the only physical proof that Prince Joffrey had ever touched her.
How blind she'd been. How stupidly, willfully blind. The signs had been there from the moment the royal wheelhouse rolled through Winterfell's gates. The way Joffrey's lips curled when he looked at the servants. How his green eyes lit up when the kennel master's boy tripped and scattered the prince's arrows across the muddy yard.
"Clumsy oaf," Joffrey had said, voice sweet as honey. Then, when King Robert turned away to speak with Father, the prince had ground his heel into the boy's fingers. Sansa remembered the soft crunch, the strangled whimper the boy tried to swallow.
She'd told herself it was an accident. Princes didn't step on people's hands on purpose.
Except they did. Joffrey did.
The memories came flooding back now, each one sharp as broken glass. Joffrey "accidentally" loosing an arrow near where Bran practiced climbing, close enough to make her little brother flinch and nearly fall. The serving girl who'd spilled wine on the prince's sleeve during the feast—how Joffrey had smiled and said it was nothing, then whispered something in the girl's ear that made her flee the hall in tears.
And stupid, stupid Sansa had thought him gallant for not making a scene.
Her stomach churned. She'd wanted so desperately to be a lady in a song, to have her golden prince, that she'd painted over every ugly thing with pretty lies. Even when he'd grabbed her wrist, when she'd felt that wrongness inside him like rot beneath gilded armor, part of her had tried to excuse it. Maybe she'd misunderstood. Maybe she'd done something improper.
No. The word rang clear in her mind. Father said I did nothing wrong.
A soft scrape of leather on stone made her glance toward her door. Had she left it open? The hallway beyond lay dark, evening shadows stretching long fingers across the floor. She should close it, but her legs felt heavy, her mind still tangled in memories of cruel green eyes and honeyed words hiding poison.
She turned back to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Somewhere out in the yard, she could hear Jon and Robb practicing. The steady clack of wooden swords seemed to mock her—they were learning to fight real battles while she'd been playing at songs and stories, too foolish to see the monster behind the pretty face.
The floorboard behind her creaked.
Before she could turn, a rough hand clamped over her mouth, yanking her head back. The smell hit her—sour wine and onions and unwashed skin. A blade kissed her throat, cold as winter steel.
"Such a shame," a voice rasped in her ear. "Slit the throat of such a pretty face. But he paid good coin, he did. Said to make it quick."
Sansa's heart hammered against her ribs. This couldn't be real. This was Winterfell. She was safe here. Safe—
Sansa's teeth sank into flesh. Salt and dirt flooded her mouth as the catspaw jerked, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench her head sideways. The blade scraped her neck—a burning line of pain.
"Fucking—" His fist caught her temple. White spots burst across her vision as she stumbled forward, knees hitting stone. The metallic taste of blood coated her tongue.
Rough fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. The dagger's point pressed beneath her jaw, and she felt warm wetness trickle down her throat. Not deep. Not yet.
"Should've kept still, little girl." His breath was hot against her ear, reeking of rotted teeth. "Now I'll have to—"
The door burst inward with such force it cracked against the wall.
Green light flooded the room, brilliant and impossible, turning the shadows acid-bright. The hand over her mouth jerked, the blade at her throat wavered.
A sound like nothing she'd ever heard—a deep, thrumming hum that seemed to vibrate in her bones.
The catspaw screamed.
From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw movement. The hand that had held the dagger—it wasn't there anymore. Just wasn't. The catspaw's arm ended at the wrist, the stump glowing orange-red like a fresh brand. No blood. Just that terrible, cauterized end where his hand should be.
The severed hand hit the floor with a wet thump, fingers still curled around the dagger's hilt.