The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

37.

Chapter Thirty-Seven.
The Rage of Women

"So you've met her, then?" Elon Estermont asked, looking to the Lady of Storm's End. "The Dragon Queen."

"I have." Her eyes flickered to him. "In passing."

"And what do you think of her?"

"She's a Targaryen."

"Yes, but would she make a good Queen."  Lord Pennick Wylde butted in behind them. "What kind of Kingdom would my son be growing into?"

"I cannot say, Lord Wylde." Renfri called to him over her shoulder. "As I've said. We will observe how she acts during the war in the North, and decide as one people whether to join her in the South."

Renfri fidgeted with the stag-antler headpiece that sat over her hair, a gift from Lord Musgood. Intricately carved oak that sat atop the crown of her head, the antlers stopping about an inch above the center of her forehead. It was reminiscent of Tommen's crown, the only reason she wore it. Apparently it had been her great-great-grandmothers wedding present from the Musgoods, and it had been returned to them upon her death.

"We're getting close, now." Tyrion's voice silenced them. "Organize your banners."

The two Lords fell back, calls whooshing through the massive crowd to fall in line. Renfri and Tyrion exchanged a glance.

"Command suits you." He noted, raising his eyebrows. "I've never seen someone who fit so naturally in front of an army of fifteen thousand."

"They're not all soldiers." She pointed out. "Some are farmers, handlers. I negotiated with House Trant for a thousand pounds of crop, ten pigs, twelve cows, and forty chickens in exchange for them staying in the Stormlands."

Tyrion's head snapped towards her.

"You didn't consult me?"

"I don't need to consult you." Renfri reminded. "You're Queen Daenerys' advisor, not mine. These are my people, not hers."

"Right." Tyrion eyed her, uneasy. "And that bit about rebellion?"

"Only if they want it." She nodded. "I won't advocate for it personally, but I will not hinder them from their desires if they seek for the Stormlands to be an independent Kingdom."

"You do understand that I am forced to tell this to Daenerys, yes?"

"I do." Renfri looked away from him, the castle appearing on the horizon. "You have your duty, Tyrion, but I have duty of my own."

Tyrion pursed his lips, dropping the subject, although his nieces words still nagged at him. 

"Shall I send a detachment forward to scout the path?" Tyrion asked finally, eager to clear the air. 

"No need." Renfri smiled softly. "I remember the way."

And she did. As they neared the castle, Renfri recalled that seasick feeling she had had in the carriage she shared with her siblings all those years ago. Joffrey, making some snide quip about their father. Tommen jumping in to defend him. Myrcella, resting her head in Renfri's lap.

In the distance, a horn blew, men calling to each other from the gates. 

Inside the castle, Sansa Stark sat beside her brother in front of a great hall filled with angry Northerners. 

"I will protect the North." Her brother argued over bickering voices. "I chose the North."

"If anyone survives the war to come," Davos Seaworth stepped in, looking antsy in front of the dozens of Northerners. "You will have Jon Snow to thank. He risked his life to show everyone that the threat was real. Thanks to his courage, Queen Daenerys has brought with her the greatest army the world has ever seen. She has brought two full-grown dragons."