THE DRAGON QUEEN [ Jon Snow ]

VIII.

CHAPTER EIGHT
[ dragonstone ]

"DRAGONSTONE IS TOO CLOSE TO KING'S LANDING," Howland Reed argued during their poor excuse for a small counsel meeting. He began his argument the moment the doors shut behind the last man— Quentyn— and had not ceased in the minutes since. "We could never hope to hold it."

"We will hold it," Visenya told him. "We are twenty-thousand strong. What have the Lannisters after the Blackwater?"

"Aye, Your Grace, but with the swords the Tyrells have supplied, they are stronger. They will not allow you to remain on Dragonstone for more than a moon before they begin a siege."

"We can withstand a siege."

"Her Grace is right," Oberyn said, interrupting. "We have enough food and weapons to break a siege."

"Even so, Prince," Howland continued, "we could be tied up in a siege for a year or more. If Her Grace wishes to expand her lands it will take much longer than it otherwise would."

"But I would have Dragonstone," Visenya said, "and Dragonstone is mine by rights. More than King's Landing or all seven bleeding kingdoms, it is mine."

"If it is your wish, Your Grace, I will obey. I only offer my counsel—"

"And I appreciate it, my lord," she interrupted. "I hear your counsel and am grateful for it. But you must know how important this is."

"I do, Your Grace." Howland nodded, conceding his argument.

"Dragonstone, then?" Arianne said.

"Dragonstone," Visenya confirmed.

"And from there?" Doran asked.

"My home. The North." She had found she missed the cold dearly, almost as much as she missed the people. "I know that the Boltons hold the North now, but northerners are loyal, and when a Stark calls, they will answer."

"But, Your Grace," Doran said, "you are not a Stark."

She glanced down at her feet, where Grey Wind laid, asleep. "Aren't I?"

THE SIEGE BEGAN IN TWO MOON'S TURNS. Though it was not so much a siege as a sack. The castle fell before the day was done. Stannis' men came to meet them on both sea and sand, and Dornishmen fearlessly greeted them. In the end, with ships burning and bodies littering the sand and water, it was Visenya standing amongst her men in front of the gate.

Her face was splattered with blood, and wet sand was caked onto every inch of her skin. She wore mail forged by the finest smith in Dorne, and her hair was pulled up and away from her face, braided at the top and falling loose down her back. It too was covered in blood and sand. Her hand gripped her sword as they approached the castle gate, trying desperately to stop it shaking.