FrenzyAren
patreon
SLW Chapter 61 : War Council
🕑 Added 2025-04-20 22:13:39 +0000 UTCDragonstone — The Painted Table Room
Night winds howled against the ancient volcanic stone. Shadows danced along walls lit by flickering torches, and in the center of the war room, the legendary Painted Table stretched like a map of conquest, carved in the shape of Westeros. The gathered voices of the living and the undead echoed across history’s most fabled war chamber.
Daenerys stood at the head of the Painted Table, her eyes fixed on the miniature carved keeps and cities. The flicker of firelight glinted off her silver hair, her expression regal and unreadable. To her left stood Missandei and Grey Worm, silent and watchful. Ser Jorah stood to her right, arms folded, eyes ever on Aeron.
Aeron Grim leaned against the edge of the table, his shadow coiling lazily at his feet like a living thing. Tyrion and Varys stood off to one side, hushed, both watching, both calculating.
Suddenly
“About time you remembered we were here, nice of you to leave meereen without checking on me or the men that came with you.”
A familiar voice rang out, sharp and laced with something between sarcasm and hurt. Heads turned. At the far end of the room stood Raya, arms crossed, a Northern scowl planted firmly on her face. She strode toward them without hesitation.
Aeron blinked once, then scratched the back of his head, awkward in a way none had ever seen before.
“I really had no time,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. In fact… I still have no time.”
“Really…” Raya stepped closer, eyes narrowing, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. Her gaze pinned him where he stood.
Tyrion looked toward Daenerys, dry amusement written across his face.
“Northern women,” he murmured, “apparently are still scarier than shadow-wielding terrors.”
Aeron shot him a flat, withering look. Tyrion simply smirked.
Daenerys, who had been watching Raya and Aeron with the same intensity she reserved for battlefield foes, suddenly turned, voice clipped, cutting through the tension.
“Well... Aeron, you mentioned the Stormlands.”
Aeron exhaled and stepped forward. His finger traced the map on the Painted Table and landed on Storm’s End.
“Yes,” he said. “I took the keep. Destroyed some Baratheon banners in the process. But I wouldn’t say I’ve conquered the entire Stormlands… yet.” He looked up. “My soldiers still hold the keep. And they will continue to do so, unless I call them back.”
Varys spoke next, his voice smooth and unsettlingly calm.
“We’ve heard… whispers. Of your immortal wraiths holding Storm’s End. Word is they humbled Kevan Lannister and a full host of allies.”
Tyrion gave a low whistle, half-impressed, half-terrified.
“Poor Uncle, hard to inspire loyalty when your men piss themselves at the sight of a shadow,” he said. “Still, credit where it’s due. Storm’s End is no easy keep to take. Let alone hold.”
Daenerys nodded, lips pursed in thought.
“It’s a strong foothold. From there, your conquest could reach east, west, or north.” She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “If conquest is what you seek.”
Aeron’s smile was faint, razor-edged.
“I’ll give everyone a chance to bend the knee. The North already has. The Stormlands…” he glanced at the carved castle again, “is as good as mine.”
“And the West?” Tyrion asked, arching a brow.
“Stubborn.” Aeron replied. “But I like that about them.”
Tyrion gave a short chuckle.
“Gods help me, I think you mean that. The West only respects strength… and gold. If you lack the second, you’d better give them a terrifying demonstration of the first.”
Aeron turned, shadows curling at his back like wings.
“And as for the others…” his voice darkened. “They’ll follow the strong. Right now, I’m still just a ghost story to them. Whispers in the wind. They haven’t seen your dragons.”
His violet gaze locked with Daenerys. His voice dropped, but it thundered in every heart.
“We show them both of our might.”
Daenerys studied him long, silent, eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, she stepped forward beside him. Fire met shadow.
“You’re suggesting a show of power,” she said, tone careful. “An alliance of fear?”
“An alliance of truth,” Aeron said. “Let them see the dragon and the Shadow walk side by side. Let them see the fire that burns cities and the darkness that swallows armies.”
Missandei shifted slightly. Jorah’s brow furrowed. Grey Worm tensed, but said nothing.
“You want to show them we are not conquerors,” Dany said softly. “But inevitability.”
“Yes.” Aeron met her eyes fully now. “Because when the strong stand together… the world doesn’t just kneel. It breaks.”
A hush fell over the Painted Table. Even the wind outside seemed to quiet.
Tyrion finally exhaled.
“Well then,” he said, raising an imaginary glass, “here’s to terrifying partnerships and kingdoms shitting themselves.”
Aeron turned, the flickering candlelight catching the edge of his dark coat, shadows clinging to him like armor. His eyes found Raya, still standing tall, still unshaken despite the kind of people around her.
“You shall be my general,” he said, voice calm but absolute. “And I mean general of the living. You’re a strong Northern woman afterall.”
Raya raised a brow, crossing her arms.
“Am I?”
A beat passed. Aeron stared at her and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
“…Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, her voice lowering just enough for the sarcasm to creep in.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Aeron tilted his head slightly, a small smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
“Why would I do that? You’ll lead an army of the living, and a sizeable force of my shadow soldiers.”
A chill ran through the room at the mention of the shadows. Missandei glanced toward Grey Worm, who remained stone-faced, hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
Raya exhaled sharply, a sigh full of grudging acceptance and veiled concern.
“I can’t refuse you, can I…” she muttered. Then louder, with a smirk of her own, “Fine. I’ll do as you say, ‘Aeron Grim of Bear Island.’ But you better pay for this service.”
Aeron’s lips curled into a true genuine smile.
“I will.”
There was a sudden cough, awkward and cutting. Everyone turned. Daenerys, whose face had been unreadable for moments now, finally stepped forward, her voice clear, if a little tight.
“Very well, Raya,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to Aeron before returning to the Bear Island warrior. “You shall take my Unsullied alongside Grey Worm. Land at Storm’s End. From there, take the Stormlands. Secure every banner and castle.”
Grey Worm gave a silent nod, his presence like a blade drawn halfway.
Aeron looked over the Painted Table once more, as if plotting on the bones of old kings. Then, without warning, he turned his eyes to Raya.
“Once that’s done,” he said, his tone shifting from formal to deliberate, “I’ll give you further instructions. Personally.”
And then he stepped closer to the table, eyes glinting with intent as his hand hovered over the miniature models of Westeros.
“As for my self and Dany,” he said slowly, his voice growing darker, deeper, prophetic,
“we take to the skies. You and I. Dragon and Shadow. And we pay a visit to the Vale. The Riverlands. The Reach. The Westerlands.”
His fingers tapped the map, each name punctuated like a war drum.
“Let them tremble. Let them witness the new order rising. One born of fire… and death.”
Varys’ hands folded tighter in his sleeves, the corners of his mouth barely twitching.
“A bold gesture,” he murmured, “but fear can be a powerful tool… when wielded carefully. Or a fire that burns out of control.”
Tyrion raised a brow, walking slowly around the Painted Table.
“You want to drop in on the great Houses like some terrifying welcome tour?” he said dryly. “Not exactly subtle, is it?”
Aeron smirked. “Subtlety won’t win a kingdom.”
“True,” Tyrion admitted. “But nor will madness. Just don’t expect a warm reception in the Westerlands.” He glanced at Daenerys. “They may be more scared of you than even your dragons… especially if you two arrive together.”
Daenerys stepped beside Aeron, her expression now resolute, her voice commanding.
“Fear not, we are not going to cause chaos.”
The fire in the room seemed to burn hotter. The air felt heavier. History itself had turned to listen.
Tyrion shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath.
“Gods… Westeros is not ready for the two of you, so please.. Don’t do anything you might come to regret.”
Aeron looked at Daenerys, the shadow of a grin still playing on his face.
“Don’t worry Dwarf.. we won’t do anything unnecessary.”
