Chapter 136: Preparing for Total War
Daenerys wasn't truly concerned about Eddard Stark's two daughters.
What she was really considering was this—if the Eyrie refused to hand them over, would Cersei Lannister send her armies to attack?
If so… that would give her another potential ally.
"Lord Tyrion?"
When Daenerys received no response, she realized he had drifted off in thought.
"Hm? Your Grace—what did you say?" Tyrion blinked, having missed everything.
With a hint of confusion, Daenerys repeated her question.
Not long ago, Tyrion had told her that Lysa Arryn—Catelyn's sister—would never send troops to aid Riverrun.
Yet in just a few short days, Lysa had died. Petyr Baelish had died as well, in the Eyrie. And now Sansa and Arya faced the danger of being handed over.
Too many sudden changes.
Tyrion didn't know what exactly had happened in the Vale. With Lysa gone and young Robin too inexperienced to rule, it was impossible to predict the Eyrie's decision.
So he answered honestly.
"Your Grace, I cannot say. Without knowing what has truly transpired in the Eyrie, I can't determine whether Sansa and Arya will be surrendered."
Daenerys felt a flicker of disappointment.
Her gaze shifted slightly toward her shoulder—but no answering thought came from Drogon.
So she pressed on.
"If the Eyrie refuses… will your sister send her armies into the Vale?"
Tyrion didn't hesitate this time.
"If it comes to that, Cersei will march—whether for revenge over Joffrey, or simply to preserve the authority of King's Landing."
On this, he had absolute confidence in his sister.
Daenerys nodded, clearly satisfied.
Turning to Daario, she asked, "My Master of Ships—how many warships are ready for battle?"
"Your Grace, including Yara's fleet, we now have over seven hundred and twenty ships," Daario replied after a brief calculation.
Daenerys smiled, then looked toward her young advisor.
"Missandei—how many soldiers do we have?"
"Fifty-four thousand two hundred, including twenty-eight thousand new recruits," Missandei answered without hesitation.
"Good."
Daenerys then turned to her master of coin.
"Jalabhar, with our current treasury, can we support a campaign? And do you believe the former slave masters of Slaver's Bay have truly submitted to me?"
Jalabhar straightened at once.
"With the tribute recently taken from Ghis, our finances are more than sufficient to support this campaign."
Then, glancing briefly at Drogon perched on her shoulder, he added:
"There is no one left in Meereen who dares defy your command. I believe the same is true of Yunkai, Astapor—even Ghis itself."
As he finished speaking, Daenerys reached up and gently stroked Drogon's smooth back.
She knew full well—
The absence of dissent was not due to her alone.
It was because of him.
"Then… can I cross the Narrow Sea and return to Westeros?"
She turned to her Hand, Tyrion Lannister.
Tyrion hesitated.
He still wanted to advise caution—but he also knew this was not the moment to oppose her outright.
After a pause, he said carefully:
"If we do not divert north to the Wall—to face the wildlings and the White Walkers—then we should be able to establish a foothold in Westeros."
At the mention of wildlings and White Walkers, Daenerys's rising ambition dimmed by more than half.
Fifty thousand troops sounded impressive—
But more than half were raw recruits.
From what she had seen during the fighting in the arena, two new soldiers were barely equal to one veteran—let alone Unsullied, who were rigorously trained and fearless in the face of injury.
In reality, her effective fighting force was far smaller than it appeared.
The others in the room exchanged uneasy looks.
Tyrion had told them before about the wildlings and the White Walkers.
They understood the wildlings well enough—just people living beyond the Wall in the frozen north.
But the White Walkers…
That was another matter.
The dead rising again?
In vast numbers?
Nearly impossible to kill?
It sounded absurd.
If such things truly existed—
What chance would humanity have?
It felt like an impossibility.
Seeing their expressions, Tyrion knew they didn't believe him.
Not really.
Tyrion's understanding of the White Walkers was limited.
What he knew came only from stories told by the Night's Watch during his time at the Wall, along with fragmentary intelligence sent by Varys.
He had no concrete proof—nothing compelling enough to truly demonstrate their terror.
And deep down, even he found it hard to believe the tales were entirely accurate.
If the White Walkers were truly as unstoppable as the legends claimed…
How could humanity have survived this long?
They had existed thousands of years ago, even before the Wall was built. Wars had been fought against them—and yet, after the Wall's completion, they had vanished without a trace.
Now, with their sudden reappearance, perhaps they were nothing more than the remnants of that ancient conflict—embers flaring back to life.
Having personally witnessed the sheer scale and grandeur of The Wall, Tyrion found it hard to imagine any force capable of crossing it in large numbers to invade Westeros.
"Prepare for total war. Begin readying for our crossing of the Narrow Sea."
Daenerys had waited long enough.
She would wait no longer.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
The assembled ministers bowed in unison.
Ser Barristan watched the scene with quiet satisfaction—the ambitious queen, and the loyal council working tirelessly in her service.
As Daenerys stepped out of the council chamber, intending to return to her duties, Drogon suddenly leapt from her shoulder, grasped her hand, and began pulling her toward the lower levels of the Great Pyramid.
"Drogon, where are you taking me?" she asked, half walking, half being led along.
Drogon didn't answer through their mental link.
Instead, he guided her out of the pyramid entirely—into the open plaza.
Gesturing for her to stand back, he activated his transformation.
In an instant, his body expanded, covering nearly half the square.
Those passing between the pyramid and the plaza had heard that Drogon could change his size—but few had ever witnessed it firsthand.
Today, they stood frozen in astonishment.
From the size of a pigeon… to larger than a mammoth—in a single heartbeat.
It was nothing short of miraculous.
People gathered at a distance, staring in disbelief, as if trying to find traces of the tiny dragon he had been moments before.
Seeing him grow, Daenerys immediately understood.
He was taking her flying.
Stepping onto his dark crimson wing, she climbed carefully onto his broad back and settled into place, giving his scales a light pat.
Drogon rose to his feet, slowly spreading his massive wings, forcing the crowd to retreat.
With a few powerful beats, he lifted into the air—soaring upward before turning north, toward the vast Dothraki Sea.
"You're taking me to the Dothraki Sea?" Daenerys asked, already guessing his destination.
After Khal Drogo's death, she had stepped into the flames and hatched three dragons.
With only a small khalasar—barely a hundred Dothraki who chose to follow her—she had crossed the Red Waste, a land known as the land of death, before finally reaching Qarth.