Chapter 529

Making room for a few hundred Unsullied was simple enough. Accommodating two fully grown dragons, however, was a much greater challenge.

Fortunately, every guard and servant in Winterfell now served under Aegor’s command, and since it wasn’t their own castle, they had no reservations about clearing space. Walls were knocked down, furniture relocated—whatever needed to be done was done without complaint or argument. When all was said and done, not only had the dragons and their accompanying forces been settled, but even the Godswood and the ruins of the old keep—where Jaime and Cersei Lannister had once indulged in their forbidden trysts—had been repurposed for storage.

Ironically, the excuse Aegor had given Roose Bolton for denying his men entry—not enough room—had now become reality. Not only were the Bolton forces forced to remain camped outside, but even the Gifted Lands army had to select over a thousand men to make camp beyond the walls, grumbling all the while.

After half a day of settling accommodations, Daenerys finally had time to convene a small, informal meeting in a makeshift council chamber within Winterfell’s great hall.

For reasons of trust, the recently sworn northern lords were not invited.

Seated two places to the Queen’s right, Aegor swept his gaze across the room.

To his left, seated in the Hand’s position, was Petyr Baelish. Across the table, Varys sat alone—he had joined Daenerys a year earlier, making him one of the longer-serving members of her inner circle. Missandei stood behind Daenerys as always, while Grey Worm and the rest of the Queen’s council remained in the south.

Even six months ago, Aegor never would have imagined himself sitting among this group, participating in the highest level of political strategy.

Politics was an entirely different battlefield from the Long Night. Living enemies were far more dangerous than dead ones. The transition from Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to one of Daenerys’ most trusted advisors was akin to skipping past practice matches and jumping straight into professional tournament play.

And yet, beneath the lingering tension, a fire burned in his chest.

He might lack the political finesse of the two old hands seated across from him, but he had what they did not—a powerful army, the Queen’s trust, and secrets they could neither predict nor control. That was more than enough to balance the scales.
----


“Well done, Lord Commander,” Varys remarked as soon as he settled into his chair, his voice tinged with admiration. “To take Winterfell in a single night, and then to secure the allegiance of the North’s most stubborn house—such feats will surely be recounted in The True Dragon Chronicle for generations to come.”

Though framed as praise, the words irritated Aegor immensely. Whether deliberate or not, Varys had subtly reminded Daenerys that House Stark had not bent the knee willingly.

Every such remark, every passing suggestion, would gradually erode the Queen’s trust in the North.

This wasn’t outright slander—it was far more insidious. Over time, the accumulation of doubt could become irreversible, and when the right spark appeared, it could send events spiraling in an unfavorable direction.

This kind of poison was far more dangerous than a blatant accusation.

“You flatter me, Lord Varys,” Aegor replied smoothly, forcing a smile. “I am neither a great strategist nor a silver-tongued diplomat. I merely persuade people with the truth.”

Aegor saw no need to deny that the Starks had surrendered under duress—he wasn’t about to insult Daenerys’ intelligence. Instead, he subtly reframed the narrative.

“Lord Stark is a pragmatic man,” he continued. “That alone saved us considerable trouble.”

The locals in the room wouldn’t catch the reference, but Aegor himself found the irony amusing. He hadn’t done much persuading. Gunpowder and Catelyn Stark’s maternal pleading had done far more work than his words ever could.
----


“Her Grace may have reason to distrust the Starks,” Littlefinger interjected smoothly, “but I swear upon the gods, old and new—those descended from the First Men take their oaths seriously.”

He smiled, turning slightly toward Daenerys. “The good news is, Winterfell is already in Your Grace’s hands. Whether or not you trust them is irrelevant. As long as you hold their fortress and their lord, their forces are bound to you. Even if they secretly harbor resentment, they will have no choice but to obey.”

Aegor narrowed his eyes.

While he disliked Littlefinger, he couldn’t deny the man’s usefulness in this moment. Unlike Varys, who was subtly eroding Daenerys’ view of the Starks, Baelish was countering the poison with his own brand of persuasion.

It was ironic—Aegor had no personal alliance with Littlefinger, and had, in fact, actively sabotaged him in the past. And yet, here they were, unknowingly working toward the same goal.

Politics truly made for strange bedfellows.
----


“Enough about House Stark,” Daenerys interrupted, frowning. “The North has sworn its loyalty. I cannot expect them to love me overnight, nor do I need to. What we do need to discuss is our next course of action.”

Aegor seized the opportunity to steer the discussion.

“We must gather our forces and march south,” he said firmly. “Winter’s duration is uncertain, but the weather has slightly improved. If we do not seize this window to leave the harshest part of the North, we risk being trapped by worsening cold or an unexpected blizzard.

“Winterfell’s food stores are ample—we will not starve—but the time lost, the strategic opportunities missed, and the unknown developments occurring further south are far greater threats.”

Varys nodded in agreement. “A wise observation, Lord Aegor. Time is indeed precious.”

But then, with a knowing smile, the Spider added, “However, we must ensure that we move forward carefully. I do not doubt Lord Stark’s personal honor, but the North is vast, and its lords many. Who among them can guarantee their loyalty?

“Let us not forget—the very same lords now expected to fight for Your Grace were once the ones who fought to overthrow your family.”

Aegor clenched his jaw.

Damn him.

Littlefinger, ever eager to counterbalance Varys, immediately replied, “We do not need every northern house to fight for us. As long as we hold Winterfell and march with the Starks’ army, their vassals will not openly rebel. And that is enough.”

Aegor felt his irritation subside slightly—Littlefinger had voiced his own thoughts before he could.

He added, “The North is already engaged in war against the Ironborn. Even if they were inclined to send troops south, they do not have many to spare. Not to mention, winter strains resources—raising a massive army would only create supply issues.”

He met Daenerys’ gaze. “Instead of forcing them to field soldiers, we should have them contribute supplies. We already have the Gifted Lands army, the Unsullied, and your Free Folk battalions. Rather than dragging half-hearted northern levies into battle, let’s ensure we have proper logistics and leave the excess troops behind.”

For a moment, Daenerys seemed to consider this.

Then Varys, always prepared, struck his final blow.

“Your Grace,” he said solemnly, “if you march south too quickly, you risk repeating your mistakes in Slaver’s Bay. Do you not recall the chaos in Astapor and Yunkai after you left? The suffering of the people?”

Aegor cursed internally.

The moment Daenerys’ expression darkened, he knew it was over.

“I will not repeat those mistakes,” she declared. “We stay. We listen. The North must accept me before I move on.”

Aegor could only watch in frustration as Daenerys—his greatest weapon—became the very obstacle blocking his path.