As they traveled, all there was to give them company were rotten corpses and desolate camps. Each mile they rode only angered her further, until by the time they reached the abandoned Rosby, all that was left in her innards was white-hot rage.
“Some of the remains are from the War of Five Kings,” Varys told her, when they had all settled in the castle. “I insisted to Lord Tywin whenever I could, but at the time, he was too occupied with Tyrion’s trial.”
Daenerys’ laugh was ice. “No,” she said. “Of course not. Gods know he was too worried about the death about his dwarf son to care for his subjects. At least he does not have a history of, say, sacking King’s Landing. Nor must I begrudge Cersei for her lack of heart. For her, the big men play, small ones die. Varys,” she said suddenly, “let no commoner needing shelter from the cold be denied a roof here.”
“I appreciate your, spirit, Your Grace,” Varys began diplomatically, “but we cannot trust all-”
“If you appreciate my spirit,” she said quickly, “you will obey my commands. I need to trust my subjects before asking them to trust me.”
Varys left just in time for the vomit to creep up her throat again. The journey had been a hard one, and Daenerys’ stomach had never really settled since she rode Drogon to Barrowton. The rage did not help it either. I must be calmer.
When Varys came with Qhono, Grey Worm and Missandei for the Dragon Council, Daenerys spared no time. “Did the journey from Riverrun to Rosby lose us any men?”
“No, Your Grace,” Varys said. “After we left the Blackfish with the remaining Tyrell men and Lord Paxter Redwyne, we are left with eight-thousand Unsullied and forty thousand Dothraki. We have also heard from Ellaria Sand,” he added hastily. “She has conquered the Stormlands and killed Gilbert Farring with ten-thousand men to spare.”
“Good,” she said. “I intend to leave three-thousand Unsullied here, to guard you and Missandei when I march for war. Forty-five thousand from my side and ten-thousand from hers should be enough for us to win this war.”
“I hope so. Cersei has sixty-five thousand men, fifteen-thousand of them Windblown, but I imagine the sellswords will scatter when they see the shadows of a dragon on the capital.” He hesitated. “King’s Landing is very populated, Your Grace. Are you sure you intend to use the dragon?”
The rage, which Daenerys had hidden while the Council was underway, was back. “And win the throne how?” she said. “By asking nicely? I don’t want things to go this way, Varys, truly not, but hard decisions need to be made. The people have been tolerating hell for too long. They crave revolution. Cersei tricks them with reforms, while Westeros reaches the pinnacle of its decadence. Only fire and blood can purge it from oblivion. For those who wish for the heads of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, I will not give them half-hearted reforms.”
Before Varys could rebut, Daenerys turned to Qhono, “Blood of my blood,” she said in Dothraki, “war will shortly be upon us. You know how we plan to attack. I advise you that, when the time for war comes, the greatest war we may fight in our life, we do it right. After we have taken the city, I do not want to hear reports of looted houses or raped women. The only ones who will suffer are those who deserve it. For what they did to my house, to Tyrion, to the Starks, the Tyrells and Martells, the Lannisters will be repaid their debts a thousand times over. This mummer’s farce has run its course. My people deserve their fairytale.”
*
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