The next morning, the echoes of the feast were swept away by solemn purpose. The war council chamber in Winterfell—once a place of old lords and colder secrets—had been hastily repaired. The great map table had been reassembled, and fresh markers carved from blackstone and bone replaced the lost pieces. Dragonstone sigils now hovered ominously near King's Landing.
Around the table stood the newly forged circle of power: Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, Varys, Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Ser Davos Seaworth, Grey Worm, Prince Martell, and Lord Paxter Redwyne.
Daenerys leaned over the table, her eyes burning with conviction. "Now is the time to strike. The people will rally to us—we have vanquished death itself. Cersei has no claim to the throne, not anymore."
Tyrion exchanged a glance with Varys before speaking, his voice measured. "Your Grace, I do not doubt the righteousness of your cause. But half our soldiers are wounded. They need rest—time to grieve. If we march now, we may win a throne but lose the realm."
Daenerys turned sharply. "And if we wait? What then? Do you believe Cersei will offer us the same courtesy? She'll use every moment we hesitate to fortify herself—to turn the people against us."
Varys stepped forward, his voice gentle yet firm. "Your enemies are counting on your fury. Do not give them that satisfaction. A queen who rules with restraint will always outlast one who rules through fear."
Daenerys's expression hardened. "Fear kept King's Landing from turning on her, and it will keep them from turning on me."
She turned to Jon. "What do you say, Aegon Targaryen?"
Jon's face tightened. He looked from Daenerys to the others in the room. "I made a vow. If Daenerys lent her army to fight the dead, I would stand behind her."
His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed doubt. "She kept her promise. And I will keep mine."
There was a beat of silence. Tyrion looked away, the pain of resignation flickering behind his eyes. Varys gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.
Sansa stepped forward next, hands folded tightly before her. "The North has bled. My people have given everything. We need time to rebuild. Let the others march, but the North will stay behind."
Daenerys did not hide her annoyance. "You mean to fracture the unity we've built? You would let others die while the North recovers in comfort?"
Sansa met her gaze evenly. "The North remembers. And the North heals in its own time."
The silence that followed was tense. Arya's eyes flicked between the two women but she said nothing. Grey Worm, expression unreadable, stood stone still.
"Lord Redwyne," Daenerys said suddenly, breaking the stillness. "What are your thoughts?"
Paxter clasped his hands before him, his tone even. "Your Grace, we face a war of attrition. The supply lines are strained. Grain stores are low, armor damaged, and winter has not loosened its grip. If we move south, we must do so wisely."
He stepped around the table and pointed to the map. "Let the fleet sail from the Reach and Dorne—strike the capital's ports from the south. Meanwhile, your ground army advances through the Kingsroad. Two fronts. One purpose."
Tyrion looked over Paxter's shoulder at the markers. "It would stretch Cersei's defenses. She'd have to divide her forces."
Prince Martell nodded. "We have the ships. I'll sail with Paxter and ensure the southern coast is secured."
Daenerys considered this, then looked again to Varys. "And you?"
Varys's expression was unreadable. "Cersei won't wait. She'll strike first if she senses hesitation. Paxter's plan buys us a tactical edge—but only if we act soon."
One by one, the council members nodded. Even Sansa, while withholding her full support, offered no further objections.
"So it's decided," Daenerys said. "The march begins within the week."
The meeting dissolved, but the unease lingered like smoke.
Outside the chamber, Jon caught Daenerys's arm. They stood alone beside a window overlooking the courtyard.
"Are you certain this is the right way?" Jon asked.
Daenerys studied him for a long moment. "Victory must be claimed, or everything we fought for was for nothing."
She reached for his hand, but he did not take hers. They stood close, yet a void had opened between them, invisible but vast.
Later that night, Jon stood with Sansa atop Winterfell's battlements. Snow fell gently, catching in their hair.
"You don't trust her," Jon said.
"And you do?" Sansa replied. "You always want to see the good."
"That's not a crime."
"No. But it might cost us everything."
They were silent for a moment.
"I swore myself to her," Jon said, the words heavy.
"And if she becomes something we can't stop? Will that vow matter more than the realm?"
Jon rested his hand on hers. It lingered, a flicker of the bond they had as children, before the wars and betrayals.
Elsewhere, in a quiet alcove near the hearth, Paxter sat beside Varys and Tyrion. All three nursed half-empty goblets. The fire crackled low.
"She's growing more resolute," Varys murmured.
"And less willing to listen," Tyrion added, rubbing his temple.
Paxter swirled his wine. "You fear she may win—and become something worse."
Tyrion exhaled slowly. "I fear she may win and forget why she started."
Varys leaned forward. "I have served kings and queens, and I have seen what power does. If she becomes the very tyrant she sought to replace..."
"Then who stops her?" Paxter asked.
Tyrion stared into the fire. "That's the question no one wants to answer."
The flames snapped in the hearth, their reflections flickering in three sets of troubled eyes. Outside, the wind howled softly, as if echoing the question they dared not say aloud.