Chapter 185 — The Nephew's Might
Inside the Red Keep, Tommen Baratheon watched his mother sit motionless by the window after sending her reply to Dragonstone.
There was little sympathy in his eyes.
Ever since Cersei Lannister had restored the Faith Militant—ignoring his desperate pleas—and thrown his queen, Margaery Tyrell, into a dungeon… whatever warmth remained between mother and son had withered away.
To her, he was nothing more than a puppet.
Worse—an inconvenient one.
Even after House Tyrell marched with the Vale and Margaery was released, Tommen felt no real joy.
Margaery herself had changed.
The warmth she once showed him was gone—replaced by quiet distance.
And when he saw Drogon shrug off scorpion bolts and tear apart the walls of King's Landing—
he didn't feel fear.
He didn't feel grief.
What he felt… was a faint, guilty satisfaction.
As if the dragon had taken revenge on his mother—on his behalf.
—
Lost in those conflicted thoughts, Tommen noticed a guard hurrying down the corridor.
The reply from Dragonstone had arrived.
—
Cersei read the letter.
Her expression didn't change.
No relief.
No satisfaction.
After Drogon had burned down the eastern gate and delivered his silent threat, she had immediately convened an emergency council under pressure from Kevan Lannister and the other advisers.
Euron Greyjoy was dead, absent from the meeting.
Aside from Cersei and Qyburn, everyone else had agreed:
They should fully accept Daenerys's terms and send troops north immediately.
But Cersei refused.
She insisted on committing only half her forces—
and demanded the release of Jaime Lannister.
She knew perfectly well that whether King's Landing kept half its army or a third of it made little difference in the face of Drogon's overwhelming power.
And yet—
she clung stubbornly to that decision.
Even she couldn't fully explain why.
Perhaps it gave her a fragile sense of control.
Or perhaps…
she simply refused to bow completely to Daenerys Targaryen.
—
As for Jaime…
A rare flicker of softness crossed her thoughts.
She missed him.
Missed having him by her side.
In her mind, once he led the army north, defeated the army of the dead, he would return to her.
Safe.
Victorious.
She didn't doubt it.
Because after witnessing Drogon's devastating power, she couldn't imagine the White Walkers standing against him.
—
Deep down, however, her hopes were darker.
She wanted Daenerys's army and the Night King's forces to tear each other apart.
If both sides were crippled—
she would win.
Even the impossible thought crossed her mind:
What if the Night King killed the black dragon?
But after what she had seen…
Even that seemed unlikely.
—
Because she knew one truth now.
When the army of the dead was destroyed—
and Daenerys returned victorious—
That would be the day King's Landing changed hands.
…
The next morning, at Duskendale—a modest port town between Dragonstone and King's Landing—both sides gathered to sign the truce.
In a simple open square, representatives from both factions were already present.
Only two people were missing.
Daenerys Targaryen… and Cersei Lannister.
—
Five minutes later, a massive shadow swept across the sky.
A black dragon descended—
with Daenerys seated upon its back.
As Drogon landed beside the square, Tyrion Lannister and the others rose to their feet.
Drogon spread his wings, allowing Daenerys to step down gracefully.
Once she took her seat at the head of the table, Tyrion leaned in and whispered something.
She glanced across the table—slightly surprised.
Cersei was not there.
Though the presence of Tommen Baratheon made the agreement legally valid, Daenerys still felt something was missing.
—
Drogon, too, noticed.
No Cersei.
He wasn't surprised for long.
This wasn't truly a negotiation.
It was a forced agreement—half a surrender in all but name.
For someone as proud as Cersei, attending in person would mean humiliation.
So she chose absence—
Leaving her son and uncle to bear the disgrace.
—
With all parties present, four figures stepped forward to the long table:
Daenerys, Tyrion, Tommen, and Kevan Lannister.
Tyrion drafted the agreement on the spot.
As he handed it across, he offered Kevan a faint, restrained smile.
Their relationship had always been… distant.
Kevan had never mistreated him like Tywin Lannister did—but neither had he ever truly acknowledged him.
To Tyrion, it was nothing.
To Kevan—
It was everything.
Watching Tyrion now, wearing the Hand of the Queen's brooch, Kevan felt a deep, complicated weight in his chest.
Once, Tyrion had held the same position under Tywin—but that had been due to his birthright.
Now?
He stood here by his own merit.
After witnessing Drogon's overwhelming power, Kevan had already lost faith in the Lannisters' chances of winning the Iron Throne.
When Daenerys ultimately claimed it…
The only Lannister who might ensure the family's survival—
would be this nephew he had once overlooked.
As for himself…
And Cersei…
Whether they would even live to see that day was uncertain.
—
The agreement was reviewed by all.
With no objections, Tyrion prepared a second copy.
Daenerys and Tommen each signed and sealed their copies, then exchanged them and signed again.
The truce was sealed.
—
Shortly afterward, Jaime Lannister—freshly released and cleaned—joined the table.
The discussion shifted immediately to the war in the North.
The broad strategy had already been outlined:
Three routes.
First route — by sea:
Fleets would sail north to White Harbor in the Bite, then travel inland via the White Knife River to Winterfell—the fastest and most efficient path.
Second route — by land:
Cavalry would advance first as a vanguard, with infantry following behind at a slower pace.
After Euron's death, the Ironborn were now led by Victarion Greyjoy. Cersei had committed all of them to the campaign, joining the fleet under Daario Naharis.
Meanwhile, Yara Greyjoy had already retaken the Iron Islands. After securing them, she began sailing north, planning to land along the northwestern coast of the Neck and march inland.
Third route — Dothraki advance:
Led by Jorah Mormont, the Dothraki riders would spearhead the overland push.
—
Of all the great houses, none were more desperate than the Starks.
The North was their home.
Their people—their bannermen—were already dying… rising again as wights.
The moment news of the Wall's fall reached them, Robb Stark had requested immediate departure.
Granted permission by Daenerys, he had already marched north—likely past the Neck by now.
Following him, the Vale dispatched five thousand troops.
As one of the Seven Kingdoms, they too had received the Night's Watch's plea.
And with both Dragonstone and King's Landing committing forces—
they could not remain idle.
—
The war for the North had begun.
And this time—
every road led to it.