The air in the study was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sharp, resinous smoke of a pine-wood fire. Alysane Mormont paced the length of the room, her voice a low, rhythmic rasp as she recounted her odyssey across the Narrow Sea.
"Our first landfall was Pentos," Alysane explained, her brow furrowed as she struggled to maintain the thread of her narrative. "We found Jorah there, but he was a ghost, moving in the shadows of Magister Illyrio's manse. He kept a low profile, and we never found the opening to corner him. We followed the trail to Astapor, and then finally to Meereen."
Alysane's logic was occasionally buried under her visceral descriptions of foreign customs, the heat that felt like a physical weight, the cloying scent of strange spices, and the casual brutality of the slave pits. Beside her, Dacey Mormont sat in a high-backed chair, her grey eyes fixed on Eddard Karstark.
Dacey felt a persistent sense of unreality. She remembered the muddy camps outside Riverrun, where she and Eddard had served as Robb Stark's personal guards. They had even brawled once over a perceived insult. A few years had passed in a blink, and while she remained a sworn shield to Bran, the man before her was now the Regent of a kingdom and the architect of the West's fall. A second son who had carved a throne out of chaos.
She took a long, cooling gulp of wine, her gaze tracking the way the firelight played across Eddard's silver plate armor.
"Are you saying," Eddard asked, his voice cutting through the crackle of the hearth, "that Jorah suggested the Dragon Queen ally with the North, and she actually agreed? And now Bran has sent you to ask for my counsel?"
"That is the truth of it, Your Grace," Alysane nodded.
Eddard leaned back, his fingers drumming a rhythmic pattern against the weirwood table. This was a significant deviation from the history he remembered. In the original timeline, Jorah and Barristan Selmy, disguised as Arstan Whitebeard, would have spent this time exposing each other's past sins. Jorah would have been outed as Varys's informant, and Barristan as the turncoat who served the Usurper. That clash should have ended with Jorah's exile to Volantis.
My revelation of Jorah's location changed the board, Eddard mused. By sending his family to find him, I gave him a bridge back to his own blood. I've inadvertently given the Dragon a Northern advisor who actually has something to lose.
"Everyone knows the Starks were the ones who helped end the Targaryen line," Eddard said. "Can Daenerys truly shake hands with the family that helped kill her father?"
"She told us the grievances of the previous generation should end with them," Alysane replied. "As long as Bran acknowledges her as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and supports her reclamation of the Iron Throne, she will respect the North's rights."
Eddard let out a short, sharp laugh. It was a remarkable piece of political acumen for a girl of eighteen.
"My answer is no," Eddard said firmly. "Lady Alysane, tell Bran this: The North defeated the Targaryens with the blood of our fathers to avenge a Lord and his heir. We defeated the Lannisters and the Baratheons to achieve our current independence. All that sacrifice was not for the sake of finding a new Queen to kneel to, especially not one from a dynasty we just finished purging."
Eddard had no interest in reversing the course of history. He intended to dismantle the corrupt feudal structure, not reinforce it with a fresh coat of dragonfire.
"But she has dragons, Ned!" Alysane blurted out. "I saw them. The black one, Drogon is already larger than a warhorse. His wings spread twenty feet, and his fire can turn a goat to ash in a heartbeat."
"I know the dragons," Eddard said, his expression turning solemn. "Drogon, Viserion, Rhaegal. I know their colors and their temperaments."
He stroked his beard, his mind calculating. Dragons were inherently magical; with the return of the Magic Tide, their growth was limited only by the amount of meat they could consume. Once they reached full maturity, they were airborne siege engines capable of melting stone.
Preparations must be complete, Eddard thought.
Before his campaign in the West, he had already ordered the Harrenhal smiths to craft giant bows for his Sun-Glow Legion. The limbs were made of flexible, high-carbon steel; the strings were twisted steel wires that required a giant's strength to draw. The arrows were triangular, armor-piercing bolts with deep blood channels.
Coupled with the [Enchanted Blade] spell, he was confident that two hundred giants firing simultaneously could bring down anything with wings. But a war with dragons was a war he'd rather win with words.
"After the coronation," Eddard told Alysane, "I will lead a fleet to Slaver's Bay to meet this Queen personally. You will come with me. We will discuss an alliance, not submission."
Alysane looked stunned but nodded quickly.
Eddard stood to leave. He had more immediate guests to attend to. Intelligence from the capital confirmed that the Tyrells were moving, and Stannis Baratheon was on his way to Harrenhal to discuss the threat of Euron Greyjoy. To defeat the "Crow's Eye," Eddard needed the naval support of White Harbor and the remnants of the Redwyne fleet currently docked at Sisterton. He had already tapped Jason Mallister to command the upcoming naval push.
The day before the coronation, the King of the Seven Kingdoms arrived.
Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron and shadow. Unlike his brother Robert, who would have arrived with a hundred musicians and a dozen mistresses, Stannis rode a plain black stallion at the head of a disciplined company of Stormlands knights. There was no "wheeled palace," no gold-threaded banners, only the rigid silhouette of the King and the Flaming Heart of R'hllor.
Davos Seaworth dismounted beside his King, whispering urgently, "Your Majesty, remember: you don't need to lead the talking. Just nod or shake your head. Let me handle the bickering."
"I will not argue with a Karstark on his own wedding-fief, Davos," Stannis replied, his voice a dry rasp. "But do not ask me to enjoy the sight of too many kings in one room. It is a sign of a failed state."
Eddard came out to the main gate to greet them personally. "Lord Stannis, thank you for traveling so far. In the matter of saving the realm, we share the same aspirations."
Stannis looked up at the melted stone of the Kingspyre Tower, his face a mask of stern judgement. "We shall see, Eddard Karstark. But one day you will understand that I am the only legitimate King of this world."
"We shall see," Eddard repeated with an indifferent smile. "Come, Sansa has prepared the royal suites for you. You look like you need a fire."
Stannis nodded curtly and walked into the massive throat of Harrenhal without hesitation. The pieces were finally on the board.
[System Notification: Narrative Pivot: The Essos Envoy.]
[Project: 'Dragon-Bane' Giant Bows progress: 40%.]
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