As the night progresses and more wine is consumed, the atmosphere of the Hall becomes one less restricted by politics and more like that of a true celebration. A constant thrum of pure joy pervades their senses, and smiles are more easily exchanged than ever before in the past ten years of war. They won. They defeated the Dead. Politics can wait for the morning. And with time, the people that are certainly the closest—the Northerners—find themselves huddled close together, reflecting on all their shared battles and adventures over the course of these years.
At the front, they sit like a united force of Northern strength with none other Gabrielle Stark perched on the arm of Sansa's chair, the red-haired lady laughing gaily with the rest of them. Robb stands to their side, ever merry as Jon rests happily against the table, all focused on the persistent antics of Tormund Giantsbane as he tempts Jon to drink the goat's milk.
The previous king cringes at the stench as Tormund shoves the drink under his nose, the others laughing with due hysteria as Tormund prompts, "All of it. Go on."
"No, not in one go," Jon shakes his head with laughter, feeling the effects of the wine but not so much as to not feel revolted by the other drink.
"I believe in you," Sansa pushes him, prompting Jon to look over at his cousin, laughing loudly for the first time that all can see. And her smile is truly radiant—that much is true—as Gabrielle falls into her side with her own laughter at Sansa's taunting, equally relieved to feel the absence of tension in the moment.
But with her joy—more empowering than even the strongest ales—Gabrielle feels her confidence in sure enormity beneath her cold skin, smirking at Jon with, "I'll take it if you won't."
"That's the spirit! You were always the most wildling of these southern cunts," Tormund cheers as the lot laughs, clapping Gabrielle on the back before passing her the horn. And she grins like she always used to...only widening as Tormund furthers the truth, "We have to celebrate our victory."
Robb shakes his head though a grin brackets his cheeks, biting, "Vomiting is not celebrating."
"Yes it is," the wildling responds with an utter sincerity that makes the others burst into more laughter—even as he rises from Gabrielle's previous seat and gestures to the grinning Targaryen herself, "To the Dragon Queen!"
Everyone in the room rises and cheers as the woman stands up with a wide grin—feeling the love of these people for the first time. And as such—between the praise and the wine—Daenerys sees it fit to cheer on the woman who truly made it possible, toasting, "To Gabrielle Stark, the savior of Winterfell!"
The room rises in another wave of excitement, watching as Gabrielle raises her horn of goat's milk to Daenerys Targaryen with the hate between them momentarily forgotten. Smiling lightly with intoxication, the newly made Stark watches with both disgust and humour as Tormund starts shouting nonsense and chugging his drink. But unlike the man, Gabrielle simply sips at hers without the true intention of vomiting this night, Sansa doing the same at her side though with the ale of the Northernmen. And as they watch and laugh at the wildling, neither notice the stares of Jon Snow to the new Stark, watching as her eyes light up with pure and unadulterated amusement. Hope bursts in his chest that maybe she will be okay—as if laughter is the true medicine to her condition.
And yet, it is.
But the oblivion of Sansa does not last long as her gaze casts sideways to notice both the glances of Jon towards Gabrielle and the Dragon Queen towards Jon. And yet—as if feeling the icy gaze—Daenerys turns to lock eyes with Sansa, staring with a perpetual challenge that she despises. Sansa's smile falls at what persists to always be a threat, but all the same, she does not wish to be the one to ruin the fun by reminding them of the hazard.
So, she shifts by Gabrielle and stands to her feet, moving around their gathered party and into the general crowd as the Mock Queen notices but fails to care in the moment. But with Sansa's absence, Jon shifts closer towards her—as if tempting her—and Gabrielle searches for anything to distract herself from his presence, only to be saved by Tormund.
"I saw him riding that thing," Tormund drunkenly slurs as he wobbles on his feet, pointing at Jon and they can only assume he means Rhaegal.
But grinning gaily at such an act, Davos pieces in with humor, "We all did."
"No. No, I saw him riding that thing."
"That's right, you did," Gabrielle echoes with suppressed laughter and forgotten charisma.
"I did," Tormund verifies as he meets her eyes—as if believing she understands him and prompting her thus to laugh. But the man ignores her as he turns to the wildlings gathered around them, shouting, "That's why we all agreed to follow him. That's the kind of man he is. He's little. But he's strong. Strong enough to befriend an enemy and get murdered for it! Most people get bloody murdered, they stay that way. Not this one."
The men laugh at Tormund's proclamation. And maybe it's because they aren't worshiping him for his resurrection—as if he had a choice—but Jon actually relaxes at the wildling's words, biting back, "Yeah, I didn't have much say in that."
"Ah! He comes back and keeps fighting. Here, north of the Wall, and then back here again. He keeps fighting. He keeps fighting. He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought. What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman or a king!" Tormund calls to the likes of all those listening, including the Dragon Queen herself who's starting to see the challenge that rises from the men before her.
Yet, not wishing to succumb to the political battle tonight, Gabrielle ignores the look Daenerys must be wearing as she laughs and rises to grab more ale from nearby. Passing the empty horn of goat's milk to Tormund—who hoots in wonder—she is not so lost from her true self to whisper in Jon's ear, "I'd say a king."
Jon looks at her with something akin to awe and confusion, yet her eyes dart away in a silent gesture towards Daenerys who looks to be leaving. And yet, Gabrielle continues—because he must understand the game that begins tomorrow—"Because those who don't want the throne are often the better rulers than those who do."
As if just a snide comment or an off-handed brag, Gabrielle walks away from Jon with the cessation of her words, feeling the pulse of the man's eyes on her head as she nods knowingly at Varys from across the room. And in that moment—even as she avidly avoids them—Jon is brought back to the politics that will always fester in his home, whether he likes them or not.
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The Hound watches the Little Bird with something akin to awe at the changes he sees in her...more than just the visible ones. Indeed, while the pretty girl had transformed into one of the most beautiful women Sandor has ever seen—it is her character that truly throws him and makes him want to hear more. She killed Ramsey Bolton with his own ploys—and to Sandor, that is perhaps one of the most striking yet hilarious aspects of her change. Long gone is the bird who feared men in armor...and here sits a Lady who set the dogs on her husband and enjoyed watching.
Indeed, the Hound had always seen Sansa almost mimic the behavior of Gabrielle during their youth, as if a cover for her own weak self. And while the woman's eyes and mask seem just a stone-throw away from Gabrielle's at her political peak, Sansa is unique with her own Northern mentality. Yet they still adorn the scars of women who have faced too much.
"You've changed, Little Bird," he imparts the obvious, the Stark nodding with a slight grin. To his words, she does not hide the experiences that made her change as he notices the length of her sleeves and strength of her brow to not be hurt again. But all the same, he reminisces on what could've been, "None of it would have happened if you'd left King's Landing with me and Silver Tongue. No Littlefinger, no Ramsay...none of it."
"Without Littlefinger, and Ramsay and the rest, I would have stayed a Little Bird all my life. Gabrielle taught me to believe in myself, I just needed to chance to prove it," Sansa responds, rising purposefully to her feet with such a thought that this could have ended differently.
Because, despite all that's happened, she is glad for it...glad to be here now.
And as if called by the thoughts of what gives her contentment, Gabrielle sidles up beside her as Sansa vacates the room, feeling the eyes of more than just the Hound on their backs as they leave. The man remembers how much everything's changed since the two women last left together like this—Joffrey is dead, Cersei is queen, the Dead marched on and they destroyed them, and the Dragon Queen fights for her throne—but that this relationship between two females of very different backgrounds persists through the greatest challenges. A friendship of two women—a Little Bird and a Silver Tongue—that now basically rule these lands. Two women that came from powerlessness, but who have risen to be the greatest allies he's seen in all his years.
Sansa does not feel for her safety with Gabrielle at her side, nodding off her guards that Stannis deemed necessary—'Daenerys could kill you'—and feeling all the more relief for it. Who needs a guard then she has the Night King's daughter to protect her? And even now, Sansa carries her own daggers from various eras of her life—then and now—capable of protecting herself.
But even as they walk 'unguarded,' their guarded facades do not fall given the lurking eyes of others. Of course, there is a weightlessness that they are together again, walking in due course to their chambers as Sansa reflects on the biggest news of the evening. Gabrielle Stark. Daughter of the Night King and Children of the Forest—not even a human before today...and now a Stark.
"Gabrielle Stark. It sounds nice, does it not?" Sansa echoes her thoughts that she knows Gabrielle shares, the woman grinning at her words but keeping her eyes locked to the ground. Her feet move steadily in the pace she sets—skimming through the lengths of her skirt in pursuit of doors to hide their secrets. But with each step, she sees the sparkle of embroidery on the shining velvet green, depicting the tales of six wolves as they gallop through the forests, taller than horses and fulfilled finally by history.
And while it's beautiful—more so than any of her dresses—that's not the point. And as such, she asks the woman next to her, "You remember when you gave me this dress?"
"The day before we left Castle Black for the March on Winterfell," Sansa responds with certainty and not a moment of thought—that moment sticking with her for some reason...though she supposes Gabrielle knows why.
"Aye, and it will always be the greatest gift I've ever received," Gabrielle decides, turning to Sansa as the woman echoes her movement, feeling the chill of Gabrielle's skin as she grabs the red-haired woman's hands and presses them to her heart, expressing, "You made me a Stark when you adorned me with your direwolf sigil and accepted the love I have for you. It was not Daenerys Targaryen and never shall I credit her with giving me this family and the joy of our times together. I love you, Sansa."
Sansa stares at her with the emotion the woman speaks of, stepping closer to her dear friend, forever family, and practical replica. And she responds with due emphasis on the likeness she feels, "You will always be a Stark to us. I love you too."
Gabrielle smiles with the simplicity of true feelings, pulling the woman by her hand as they rush off with a lightness in their steps and joy in their hearts—despite the upcoming war.
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The room did not clear out gradually but all at once. Daenerys Targaryen was first and then went Bran and Ned Stark with Robb behind them. Gabrielle and Sansa were next—as appropriate in their inability to be separated. And just a moment after them, Jon Snow vanished from his position at the front of the room, leaving only the collection of Lannisters, wildlings, and themselves. But Stannis is starting to feel the exhaustion weigh heavily upon him, and he supposes he too will retire soon.
Stannis was standing there because he had yet to truly speak with Davos in weeks, missing the old friendship that was lost due to his own stupidity. But all the same, Davos is there for an entirely different reason, watching in humor as the crowds fall steeper into their drunkenness and begin to chant for random people. And—of course—at the head of that crowd is Tormund who, at that very moment, meets eyes with the Onion Knight and decides to grace them with his presence.
Wobbling over, the wildling leans himself against the wall nearest the previous king, wondering aloud to the man, "How're the demons?"
Struck, Stannis stares at the man with potent confusion as to what possibly could he have to do with demons..and what demons? As far as Stannis remembers, he has never even seen a demon, nonetheless inquired into their welfare. And none of it makes any sense as he barks aloud, "What?"
"The ones in your head," Tormund points to his own red hair before pointing at Davos—and Stannis should have known. "He said you've got them in your head."
Davos refuses to meet the sharp blue gaze of Stannis, obviously waiting for an explanation or at least a recollection of how that came up. But Davos refuses to when the humor bubbles up in his lungs, and he laughs at that old memory. Rebuking the wildling, Davos explains, "It was a figure of speech."
"What?" Tormund asks, now looking like the confused one—as only fair.
"There's not actual demons," Davos smiles and yet sighs, "I meant that he had a darkness to his thoughts at times."
If possible, Stannis's glare becomes more intent upon Davos's skin, asking harshly, "What—?"
"A darkness?" Tormund interrupts, now as if questioning what all men really should know.
Davos—now weary at this conversation—explains with a huff, "A darkness that's made him do terrible things in the past."
"A darkness? Like demons?" Tormund asks again—as if that's the more reasonable explanation.
"No—oh never mind," Stannis wants to explain, but he knows the wildling is simply incapable of understanding for more reasons than one. But still, he meets the man's eyes as he just accepts, "Yes, I had demons. Yes, they are gone. Yes, I am healed."
The wildling pauses—as if weighing Stannis's words for truth—before asking in complete seriousness, "What were they called?"
And Stannis loses it, throwing his arms in the air at this madness before stomping from the room. This is what he gets for retiring late. He leaves the two without another word—not that they care—as Davos grins at the wildling's innate ability to irritate the other man. And since he left...Davos grins almost maniacally as he launches into the story of the demon's names and families.
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With his shoulder pressed against the hearth of his chambers—those that he's held since youth—Jon stares at Daenerys Targaryen with nothing but disgust and hatred of himself...for even letting her into his room...for drinking far too much. He truly should've known better—that she would try to press her love for him—but Jon is not so intoxicated to have fallen for such a farce as that—knowing, drunk or not, that Gabrielle is the only one for him.
And yet, he fails to understand the emotions of Daenerys, or even females in general. Her eyes shine with an air of hopelessness that her love will never be returned, especially now. She has lost the man she knew just one night—a night that changed her forever. And as for their alliance? ...She doesn't know.
"Is this because of the Mock Queen?" her heart asks from within its internal struggle as Daenerys tries to feel the anger she holds for that woman—but feeling only pain in this moment. And at the mention of Gabrielle Stark, Jon's eyes come to reflect a love he has never shown for Daenerys but for the monster herself...a monster who also saved her child.
Honestly, what can she think of the woman at this point? Physically broken into a nearly normal woman with the death of her father. Betrayed by her lover. Destroyed by her own choices and forced to reconcile her sins for morality. Changed forever. Daenerys wants to feel bad...but she cannot. Not when Gabrielle still holds Jon's heart...not when she has a family...and certainly not when she has Viserion's devotion.
She struggles with it in that moment—what to feel—but Jon stares and knows he feels pity for this woman whom he has hurt, offering, "It was unfair of me to lead you forth with my impulses. For that, I can never be more apologetic. But Gabrielle has been and will always be the only one for me. Ever."
"I've never begged for anything but I'm begging you," she practically cries to him as she steps towards him and—for once—he does not step back. Empowered by his struck expression at her begging, Daenerys takes her last chance and pleads, "Don't do this. Please."
He lingers as he stares into her grey eyes that truly are so pretty, feeling struck by such a thought and in the moment of weakness she sees, Daenerys attempts to step closer...only for Jon to move entirely away and out into the cold of the room. Muttering earnestly, he meets her eye: "You are my queen. Nothing will change that. And she is...they are my family. We can live together."
But his words...Daenerys finally feels the spark of anger beneath her skin as the man tries to finagle his loyalties into the realm of her belief. He cannot be loyal to Daenerys and her enemy. And as she steps closer to him—raging—her eyes seem to warn him against stepping back, jaw tightening in savagery with the threat, "We can. Should you fight for my kingdom and never tell a soul of your heritage...you'll never have to fear dragon fire here in your home again."
She storms from the room then and leaves Jon to silence...not that he would have been capable of anything else. She threatens his family—the Starks—and she threatens Gabrielle. And while Jon is not one to back down from a fight, he is also not one to pick a fight...even for his family.
So—as he locks his door tightly and collapses on the bed, Jon worries more about the fate of his family than what he can do to stop her.
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Jon Snow is an idiot to think her blind to his plots. Powering down the halls of Winterfell like the storm of her namesake—Daenerys Stormborn—she is not done with her political plight that has her navigating around the Starks in every way she can. Ned has betrayed her. Sansa hates her. Arya would absolutely kill her. Bran is not easily manipulated. Jon is inept. Gabrielle is a necessary evil. And that only leaves the first born of the children—Robb Stark.
Their first conversations, while informative, left her feeling more disturbed by the Stark's cult-like performance than anything else. He is one of them...And yet, Daenerys realizes—Robb is like Jon: they've seen things the others have not. And beyond that, Robb saved her life—saved her from a cruel fate she'd never want for herself—even when he himself lived that fate.
And so, Daenerys finds herself in front of Robb Stark's door, knocking lightly in a way that does not foretell the storm inside her—intending not to be seen by any of the lingering spies. Not having to wait long, the man opens it to the grey-eyed queen who looks a bit of a wreck, surprise echoing across his face before he bows lowly and greets her, "Daenerys."
It's ironic that the man who should be most loyal to Gabrielle treats Daenerys with more respect than any other Stark. And yet, she knows such a comment will not serve her purposes, instead nodding her head with the greeting and question. "Robb. Can I come in?"
Robb stares at her—as if she's lost her sense—and then, as if coming to his own, he nods and silently opens the door for her. Gesturing to the seat near the hearth—like all Starks do—Robb verifies there are no lingering eyes in hallway before shutting the door firmly behind the Queen and following her to the warm hearth.
As they sit and shuffle, attempting to make themselves comfortable in the awkwardness of this moment, their eyes meet in a clash of Tully blue and Targaryen grey, the strong characters of both pressing into each other like a challenge, yet not one that scares Daenerys. But provoked not to sit and stare at the handsome man all evening, Daenerys turns her head to the fire with the matter on her lips, "I came here to thank you...for yesterday."
"Of course, my Queen," Robb replies, bowing his head at the reminder he saved her life. And yet, Robb also knows that her life was in jeopardy not because of her own blatant ignorance but due to a loss that he deeply understands. And thus, he offers her the only thing he can, "I am sorry for your loss."
"As am I. He was my first advisor, my first friend," she explains, looking to Robb and seeing the understanding in his eyes. "He saved me from every danger I ever faced. What is a queen without her guard?"
"A strong woman," Robb is quick to respond, and Daenerys sends him a questioning look, knowing he does not mean to insult her. But his eyes duck with the tilting of his head, a breath breaking from his lips as he offers, "I could teach you to fight, you know...how to wield a sword."
And despite who he is, Daenerys smiles at the man's kindness. He barely know her, and yet he wishes to help her. Feeling the same embarrassment, Daenerys ducks her own head before shifting it to look at the flames as she reminisces, "My husband, Khal Drogo he was called...he tried to teach me how to fight like the Dothraki do, but I fear I never was very good."
"Probably because you are not built like a Dothraki. You are built like a Westerosi, a Valyrian, a Targaryen. I could teach you how to fight as our ancestors did," Robb responds, the woman turning to see his face bracketed in a handsome grin of exceeding kindness.
Smiling lightly at him, she responds, "I would like that."
Robb nods, and silence lingers as the fire cracks in the cold of the night, not waning despite the end of the Night King—and maybe then, Winter came on its own. But in this moment—as Robb is facing a woman who could be his enemy or his friend—he feels the need to bridge the gap in their understanding...so that he can decide whether she is truly a threat they all warn him against. So, he requests, "Tell me more about this Khal Drogo."
"Well," Daenerys sighs, leaning into her chair as her eyes meet his, and she tells her old tale, "my brother sold me to him for an army to take Westeros—something I suppose was fulfilled although at my own hand. I married him, and despite all of the horrors I witnessed, I fell in love with him. I was the moon of his life, and he was my sun and stars. I was pregnant with our child—a stallion who would mount the world—when Drogo was injured and developed an infection. Being foolish as I was back then, I believed that by sacrificing my son to a witch, I could save my husband. I lost them both...but through them, I gained an army and my dragons."
Robb stares at her, feeling the pain of her loss as the story paints itself across her face. And yet, it is clear that she has moved on from her losses with what he supposes to be many years to ponder them. But all the same, he offers his apologies, "I am sorry."
"...You had a wife as well," Daenerys reminds him, not wishing to see the pity in his eyes and taking any cue to divert his attention.
"And a child," Robb nods, the woman looking at the emotion that is potent in his eyes.
And yet, she still prompts him, "Tell me about them."
"Talisa was born to a wealthy Volantis merchant," Robb remembers as if this was just a few months ago—because to him, it was, "but she never let that dictate her fate. She left home with nothing and became a nurse. I met her after battle when she was stitching up some of my men, and she was radiant. I quickly fell in love with her, but I had to convince her to see past my crown and my war. We married under a heart tree, and she was pregnant with our child. If it was a son, we would've named him Eddard..."
And while she did not realize it at first, Daenerys sees the pain in his expression, and she recognizes that this loss is fresh for him when five years have passed but he was dead during them. But she knows—from experiencing it herself—Robb needs to speak on the pain, to have a listening and understanding ear to his misery. And so, she asks, "What happened?"
Robb sighs, "I—I had made a deal with Walder Frey to cross the Twins. Part of the deal was I'd marry one of his daughters, and one of my sisters would marry one of his sons. Looking at it now, it was stupid to betray him...but moreover to think he would get over it. They called it the Red Wedding. We were trapped in the feasting hall, my mother's throat was cut to the bone, I was shot by arrows and stabbed in the gut by Roose Bolton, and Talisa...they stabbed her through her stomach—through my child— at least a dozen times. I had to watch her die—and that was even more painful than my own death."
Daenerys stares at the man with shock at the sheer brutality of the killings he saw and experienced. And she guesses then that she can understand why Robb is so close to his family—having lost all other anchors. He wishes not to part from them because he was parted from his own. He wishes to protect them as he was unable to protect his wife, son, and mother.
And yet, there were other players involved, and she has to ask with a vengeance in her tone, "Your sister killed the last of the Boltons. But what happened to the Freys? What happened to them?"
"Arya killed them," Robb explains, and his eyes reflect a joyous vengeance that these people died at the hand of his sister. "All of them."
Daenerys truly wonders at the strength of Ned Stark's children. Robb was the first King in the North at seventeen. Sansa Stark is perhaps the fiercest and most threatening woman Daenerys has ever met. Arya Stark is apparently a mass murderer and potentially an assassin. And Bran Stark is something called the Three Eyed Raven that can see all of history.
And yet—Daenerys can understand how they've come to be this way. When children are forced to fight for their lives at young ages, it refines their edges into something far more potently dangerous than those children with easy lives. It happened to her, and it happened to them.
But Robb...Daenerys thinks he is perhaps the strongest of the lot...to overcome his own death and take the mantle of fighting against the dead—knowing it will not benefit him. And as such, she remarks bluntly, "The things we do for family."
"Aye," Robb stares at her deeply, "the things we do for family."
And Daenerys knows that while Robb will never betray his family...he is not so lost as the others to not support Daenerys and her cause.
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While Cersei Lannister had always believed she held the best mask over her feelings—firm and unwavering and fooling even the sharpest—the opposite was actually true. Indeed, as she watches the peasants of King's Landing march into the courtyards of the Red Keep, her face is screwed with a look of disgust that would not fool even the dumbest. But it matters not when she is Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, standing high in the tower of her home as she hears the shuffle of Qyburn closer to her side. Turning to him, she silently commands to know the reason for his presence.
The man coughs uncomfortably but bluntly, "Your Grace, it seems like the godswood tree has risen from its dormant state."
She turns to him, seeing the man's level of disbelief that a tree has returned to life 6,000 years after being cut down. And even she, as calm as she is nowadays, cannot help the confusion that wracks through her at such a strange incidence she never would have predicted. Reassuring she heard him correctly, she asks, "It's growing?"
"Yes, and quite rapidly," Qyburn replies.
And she bites back, "Well we ought to cut it down to a stump again, shouldn't we?"
Cersei turns away from the man to gaze out the window once more. Looking further down and towards the coast, she actually sees the red of the weirwood tree, bright and almost singing of hope in this rebellion she now faces. Rebellion...and if there is one person to embody that...Qyburn coughs again, "That's the thing, your grace, we've cut it down twice now and it keeps returning."
"Curious," Cersei replies, although this time with a smirk as she has a lurking suspicion of the cause. But all the same, she has to wait and see, turning instead to her Hand with the command, "Well then, rip it out root and stem. And then burn the ground for good measure. Let's see how the Old Gods like that."
They won't.
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Things are starting to pick up, and the next few chapters here will be exciting with all the political scheming that takes place. You will be seeing some more changes to the GoT season 8 script that I hope better fulfill the saga itself.
Let me know what you think of this chapter!
XO
Patagonian