Chapter 182 — The Greatest Advantage
Before sending troops north, they needed a plan that guaranteed their rear would remain secure. Otherwise, not only would the cities they had just taken be lost, even Dragonstone itself might fall under attack from King's Landing.
After a moment of thought, Daenerys Targaryen turned to Tyrion Lannister. If anyone could navigate the problem of dealing with Cersei Lannister, it was him.
Tyrion took his time before speaking.
"For now, the only option is a temporary truce with Cersei—and we must find a way to make her commit troops. If we alone fight the dead, even victory will come at a devastating cost."
The council murmured in agreement. It was the most rational solution.
The real problem was how to make it happen.
All eyes turned back to Tyrion.
Studying the map table, he hesitated briefly before continuing, "We draft terms for a ceasefire and send them to King's Landing. At the same time, we try to persuade her to send forces north."
Oberyn Martell immediately challenged him.
"You really believe Cersei will send help?"
He had spent enough time in King's Landing to know how the court thought. When the Night's Watch had previously sent warnings—when the wildlings threatened the Wall and the dead stirred beyond—Cersei had dismissed it all as nonsense.
She had even mocked the Watch, saying they were too ignorant to realize the realm was already at war.
Tyrion met Oberyn's gaze and gave a bitter smile.
"I don't know."
That answer drew frowns across the room.
If even Tyrion—one of the few who truly understood Cersei—had no confidence in her cooperation, then this plan was far from reliable.
Still, they drafted the terms of a truce and prepared to send them.
Normally, such negotiations would require envoys. But time was a luxury they didn't have. Tyrion proposed sending the message by raven first—if Cersei agreed, they could arrange a formal meeting afterward.
At the same time Dragonstone received the desperate message from the Wall, ravens carrying the same news reached King's Landing and the great houses across Westeros.
This time, the reaction was different.
They had ignored such calls before.
But now—the Wall had fallen.
For years, many had dismissed the Night's Watch's warnings about the dead as exaggerations or outright lies. Even after Stannis Baratheon marched north to support them, most still paid little attention.
Now, barely a month later, the news arrived:
The Wall was gone.
A fortress that had stood for thousands of years—defended by ancient magic and commanded by a seasoned war leader like Stannis—had fallen in mere days.
That was no exaggeration.
That was reality.
And it forced them to reconsider everything.
If the Wall could fall… then perhaps the White Walkers truly had returned.
Across the realm, the great houses turned their attention toward two powers:
King's Landing.
And Dragonstone.
What they did next would decide the fate of the world.
In King's Landing, the small council convened.
Seated at the head of the table, Cersei Lannister watched her advisors with a casual, almost indifferent expression, waiting for them to speak.
No one did.
Each man had his own thoughts—but they all knew their opinions meant little compared to hers.
Seeing the silence, Cersei frowned slightly, already preparing to dismiss the meeting—
when Kevan Lannister suddenly stood.
"I believe we should call a temporary truce… and send aid to the North."
He already knew what his niece would decide.
But he had to speak anyway.
From the message alone, he could feel the scale of the threat.
Cersei's expression hardened instantly.
"We are not the ones who need a truce," she snapped, her voice edged with anger. "It's Daenerys Targaryen who's been attacking us—not the other way around."
Since Daenerys had landed in Westeros, Cersei had been on the defensive. Every move had been a reaction. The one time she attempted a counterattack, it had nearly ended in total disaster.
The memory still burned.
And now Kevan wanted her to send troops north—after she had already lost tens of thousands of soldiers?
Cersei's frustration boiled over.
For a moment, she almost questioned whether Kevan was truly a Lannister at all.
Kevan, however, said nothing more.
He had made his attempt.
It had failed.
And he knew better than to press further.
So he sat back down, turned his head aside—and fell silent.
Just as Cersei Lannister was about to dismiss the council, a knock sounded at the door.
Her brows immediately knitted together. The guards outside knew full well she was in a council session—yet someone still dared interrupt. The irritation she had just suppressed surged back up.
The acting Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Meryn Trant, opened the door, took a sealed letter, and brought it inside, handing it to her.
Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly as she recognized the seal of the Hand of the Queen. Breaking the wax, she unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly.
After only a few lines, her expression darkened—and she flung the letter onto the table in anger.
The councillors exchanged uneasy glances. None of them knew what was written, but the reaction spoke volumes.
Kevan Lannister, seated closest to her, picked up the letter and read it before passing it along.
The message, sent by Tyrion Lannister on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen, laid out the situation clearly.
It described the threat of the White Walkers and proposed a truce.
Both sides would hold their current territories and cease hostilities until the Night King was defeated.
Each side would commit two-thirds of their forces to stopping the army of the dead.
When the letter had been read, all eyes turned back to Cersei.
She remained seated, silent for several minutes, her anger still simmering.
She had just rejected Kevan's suggestion to aid the North—and now, almost immediately, Daenerys sent a letter asking for the same thing.
How could she not be furious?
Worse still, she already knew that House Stark—the same wolves she blamed for her son's death—had pledged themselves to Daenerys.
Even if the dead truly swept through the North, why should she care?
Let the North burn.
Let it become a wasteland.
It meant nothing to her.
"Send a reply to Daenerys," she said coldly. "A truce is acceptable. But if she expects me to send troops… she's dreaming."
With that, she stood and left the chamber without another word.
The remaining councillors exchanged glances. None of them were surprised by her decision—but many wondered what Daenerys would do next.
Would she really march north alone… and leave Cersei untouched?
Not long after, Cersei's reply arrived at Dragonstone and was laid out upon the map table.
The answer was exactly what they had expected.
Even so, Tyrion found himself at a loss.
If Cersei refused to send troops, the burden of facing the dead would fall entirely on Daenerys's forces.
Stannis had held the Wall with over thirty thousand men—and still failed to last more than a few days.
Dragonstone might command an army of one hundred and thirty thousand—but without a defensive stronghold like the Wall, even that might not be enough.
And they couldn't send all their forces north.
Slowly, Tyrion's gaze shifted—to their greatest advantage.
To the black dragon perched on Daenerys's shoulder.
Perhaps… only Drogon possessed the power to destroy the Night King's army in the North.
Drogon met his gaze.
Of course, he understood exactly what Tyrion was thinking.
But the truth was far less comforting.
The White Walkers—and the Night King—were not nearly as easy to defeat as they imagined.