Chapitre 1631: 47
Chapter 47: Interlude IIINotes:
This is the last interlude and we may have only 4 or 5 chapters left.
Thank you as always for following this story.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
47.
Interlude III
The Neck
Maybe I am dead and I haven't realized yet.
Daenerys was there again, in the throne room. The dreams —visions? — had become recurrent in recent days, like an incessant pang warning her of impending danger. The throne room in ruins, the open ceiling revealing a sky devoid of color and the pillars rising like statues of kings past. Only instead of the Iron Throne it was the red door atop the dais.
The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness.
It was in that unclear way that dreams used to be, as she did not remember the Throne Room having such a structure. She remembered! In one of the tomes Jorah presented her as a gift in her first wedding, there was a painted picture, the tall pillars carved with the tall form of Warriors-Kings, in the halls of Red Keep before the Dance.
Jon said she talked in her sleep sometimes. He had that habit — a bad habit, plainly—, of a light sleep, one that Dany supposed he gained from his years in the Night Watch. He was the first to drift off notwithstanding.
They had settled on clearer terms since his return. It was a relief not only for them both but for those hoping that they could continue to be King and Queen. She confessed the truth to Ser Jorah and Jon had done the same to Ser Davos.
"He threatened me, you know? I should execute him for his audacity," he said one night softly and without the conviction in his voice to carry a threat. They still lay together, legs and arms entwined. "It's not even his effrontery that angered me..."
Dany looked up waiting for him to continue.
"I hate him because he's right," he finished.
"Hate is such a big word, Jon," Daenerys wearily crossed him.
It was one conversation of many, in a pleasant habit they had taken up of saying as much and as little at the same time as they had not previously allowed themselves to enjoy. They still would avert the slightest deviation that could drop them to the past they'd left behind.
The threat of the dead persisted. Jon eventually did tell Daenerys what Bran warned him about that night. The reason why he had so frantically burn Winterfell to the ground. They went to Bran to finally learn about what transpired that brief moment before Jon found him.
"I thought he wanted you dead," Dany said.
"I thought the same," Bran answered. "Our magic stems from the same source. He's tried before, to take it from me, but he's only been able to access it through me, not on his own. That night something changed. He changed. Mayhaps it is the knowledge of his certain failure that drives him but now he portends a secret and very dangerous knowledge. There was a time when the world belonged to other creatures besides the men. Westeros was a hard place to conquer in the end. But finally...when the First Men arrived, there were not only Children of the Forest and Direwolves. There were dragons. Ice dragons."
Daenerys sucked in a shivering breath.
"Do you know why there were so many Winter Kings sitting on their thrones with their swords thrust to the ground beneath Winterfell? because they were guarding the tomb of the last Ice Dragon."
***
The faint light tinged the bleak moorlands with greys and lilacs as the bleeding dusk gave way to night. The stars glittered, eerily bright in the misty gloom, like a thousand eyes looking down from above. Jon's been reunited with the War Council, going about the new strategy, and shared rather blunt words with the Lord Redwyne (or was it Tyrell now?).
He accused Jon, in a tedious speech, of taking over Daenerys' place.
"Where is the Queen?" the bold, stupid Southron asked him.
"She's unwell, not that her affairs are of your concern, my Lord. And mind that bloody vein of yours and do well to remember I'm her husband and thus, your King."
He did not bother to continue after that, preferring to walk with Ser Davos around the camp and keep abreast of the day-to-day happenings since their establishment. The old sailor was in the middle of explaining why they would need a new fleet when Jon caught the unmistakable figure of Daenerys coming out of the healers' tent. She didn't notice them and moved on, perhaps going after the dragons. Every day Daenerys checked on them at least three times. Jon did not always accompany her, but when he did, the weight of the ongoing war was lighter on his shoulders as she would talk to him, plain and simple, about whatever subject their conversations turned about.
But something had been troubling him for some days and the sight now only aggravated that unease.
Jon left Ser Davos behind with the promise that he would heed his advice and headed for the dragons' lair, where he knew he would find her. She was a lovely sight to behold, indeed, whatever the occasion but much more beautiful when she was the most at peace. Being with the dragons who she considered her children was one of those moments.
She heard him coming and turned around with a concerned expression.
"Have you noticed?" she pointed out, "that Rhaegal is a little restless?"
Jon cocked his head. "Ser Davos reckons these two were engaging in rather inappropriate behavior, of late," and he let a hint of amusement creep in, as he nuzzled Rhaegal's scaled neck. The heat soaking into his skin soothing his cold-stiffened joints. "Have you never considered that it might be a...her?"
Eyes wide open, Dany stepped back to examine Rhaegal up and down.
"No, I—" she cut herself off, blinking, "I never quite knew what set them apart in that respect. Drogon never laid a clutch, for instance. I mean, never in over twelve years."
Twelve years. Two words. The reminder of the life she'd led without him.
"Maybe it was the lack of other dragons around," Jon tried to rationalize.
At first, he didn't notice but she withdraw.
Daenerys walked away from him and turned her back. Jon could see that her shoulders stiffened.
"Are you all right, Dany?"
She turned sharply.
"All those years," she began, "I thought the Gods had given them to me for a purpose and only for a limited time." Her expression soured. "What if I can't change that, Jon?"
Jon strode the distance between them, the dragons mindful of their riders as they hovered over them.
"You've already changed almost everything," he tried to reassure her.
"What cannot be cured must be endured," she whispered.
"We're talking in riddles now?"
She laughed weakly.
"It's been so long in silence."
"Only because you thought you were alone in the world." Jon lifted his hands and cradled her face, making her look into his eyes. "You'll never be alone anymore."
Her eyes avoided him. Her eyebrows twitched in a disgruntled way. Her lips parted shakily.
"There's one matter we've never spoken of again, Jon," she said, sad and forlorn eyes, "You remember I can't have children, don't you?"
Jon dropped his arms and looked away. His jaw tightened with the thought nagging at him.
"I remember you saying so, yes." He turned his face with a severe expression. "I have seen you, too, collecting moon tea from the healers' tent."
Dany's whole face changed in a second. From sadness, she turned to dismay.
"I have not terminated a pregnancy. I am preventing it," she quickly crossed it. "Have you known this and believed I was willing to kill your child in my womb?"
Jon took a deep breath.
"It's your womb," he said unconvincingly.
Silence fell between them. The wind whistled an indistinct song as they both became self-absorbed.
"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before," Dany whispered the prophecy with a vacant stare and an equally vacant half-smile. "Mirri Maz Duur was not speaking in riddles, Jon. She was trying to list all the improbabilities that would bring Khal Drogo back to me."
Dany looked down, hand around her neck.
"But when I died," she said, and Jon closed his eyes with the bitterness of that memory, "I found my husband and my son again, for a brief moment. The witch kept her word," and this time her voice was light, almost content.
Jon turned around with a frown.
"The curse is no more?"
"It's not something we can afford to prove true or wrong, given the odds." She said and ducked her shoulders. "It would be too inconvenient, don't you think, can't we at least agree on that?"
Her gaze was a hopeful one and Jon forced himself to chase away the pernicious thoughts that loomed to tell him that he was not worthy of even her respect. But here they were. And they had come this far without being able to avoid feeling how they felt and acting accordingly.
He needed her and reached out to caress her cold and soft cheek.
"If we were free to choose, would you still choose me?"
Dany watched him closely. It was cruel to give him hope, but not because she didn't want it. She thought of telling him about her dream, about the lovely life that awaited him if only he would allow it to come.
But for that, they still had to overcome this threat.
Then Dany simply said honestly, "Always."
***
Sansa clenched and unclenched hands strongly clasped into themselves as she oversaw the boarding of the ship that would take her back to King's Landing. A gentle girl stood by her side, her clothes were scraps of wrapped-up garments. Her name was Calla and she had decided of her own volition to become a little lady in waiting. Sansa knew she was an orphan who had run away from the care of the only children's home in the North.
"Do you need me to do anything for you, m'lady?" Calla asked her, her gaze dark and harsh like all Northmen.
"Thank you very much, Lady Calla. You may go up and inspect that the berths are suitable," Sansa replied, speaking through tattered teeth. It wasn't just the biting cold — she was anxious. Her skin crawled anticipating the return to the city like a dog many times beaten whines seeing its master's hand raised over it.
When the last stragglers had climbed up, it was time for her own boarding. Sansa began her slow passage down the pier, where Arya and Bran, Jon and Daenerys were lined up in a sort of farewell procession. She reminded herself again that she might never see them again.
"You once left the city as a runaway. You will return as its ruler," Bran said, his voice thick.
Sansa looked in the direction of the true monarchs. Jon frowned. Daenerys looked away.
"And when I leave again it will be on better terms, I hope," was all she could answer. A prospect she looked forward to. Though that itself was a difficult matter given that Winterfell was no more and she had no home to return to.
"King's Landing is the greatest and most important city in Westeros and you have earned the right to rule them until their rightful rulers are available," Arya extended. Her sister's hand reached out to hers. Her big eyes glowed with unwavering faith. "You'll do good. I'm sure."
Sansa swallowed hard and looked down. Arya took the chance to encircle her in an embrace.
"Don't be brave. Be alive," Sansa's muffled voice pleaded.
Arya did not promise her anything.
Sansa made the rest of the way to Daenerys and Jon, curtseying as she stood before them.
"My Queen. My King. I look forward to the announcement of your victory.
In the meantime, I will do all in my power to see that your providence is enforced both in King's Landing and in the rest of the Realm."
Jon wore a grim expression, his queen next to him staring off to the sky with lost eyes.
"Would you ever forgive me?" she asked him, driven by an unclear feeling of contrition.
Daenerys' head whipped up.
"What for?" she asked back.
"I don't think I need to go over our tense start." However, Sansa looked at Jon with special attention. "I can see that I have hurt your trust in me with my absurd hostile behavior and the constant persecution of your decisions. It is not the way Father would have wanted it to be. It is not the way I want it to be."
Jon cleared his throat and averted her eyes.
"It's time to prove your worth. You do well in taking the reins of the Realm and there will be no need to return to old, petty squabbles. All is settled."
Silence fell as the wind blew out whistling.
"These..." Daenerys spoke, bringing her attention to the scrolling parchment between her hands, "These are some points on which your brother and I agree on what must be seen done and what must be undone or prevented. Their observance is unquestionable, Lady Sansa."
Sansa accepted the scrolls with a gentle nod.
"These documents also state there that you have been legitimately appointed regent, by the will of the two of us," she remarked. "I wish you good fortune, Lady Sansa."
"I thank you and I wish you not only good fortune." Sansa shook her head, trying her hardest to convey the truth of her statement. "I wish your swift return. And I shall pray that this war is over and you two are safe and sound."
***
King's Landing
An annoyed snort behind him.
Baelish turned around to see Captain Waters slump into a chair and lift his feet onto the desk. They were locked in the Tower of the Hand, the place they'd arranged to keep out intruders.
"You seem far too untroubled for your own, Baelish," he commented scornfully.
"Patient," he considered instead. "We have to keep our mettle. Our plan is a most judicious one, its execution depending on one single, precise move." Littlefinger sat at the table once occupied by Ned Stark. "It is essential that when Queen Daenerys returns to the city — if she returns at all — that no one in the city knows of our mediation in the events to come."
"The burning of the city, that is," Aurane said, "Fires across the city to frame the dragons."
"From below, it doesn't matter who starts the fire as the fire itself." Baelish continued, "You resent the confinement and the hiding but remember that once in history, Queen Alicent Hightower locked the rotting corpse of her dead husband to keep his death a secret while the Green Council crowned her son. Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, a short journey away at Dragonstone, unaware, both of them. Time is a fundamental weapon, and few know to use it."
"How long will it take for her to realize you've emptied her coffers, then?"
Littlefinger grinned.
"In time to face an angry and hungry crowd. If the very fire they breathe does not consume her dragons, surely the city will know how to take initiative when the possibilities are reduced to two options: a slow and agonizing death by starvation or a dignified and liberating one by their making. Chaos will reign."
Notes:
The red door was so far ahead of her, and she could feel the icy breath behind, sweeping up on her. If it caught her she would die a death that was more than death, howling forever alone in the darkness.
(This is George, not me...)
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone