A Song of Ash and Smoke | a continuation of A Song of Ice and Fire

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐧

The carriage croaked in protest as it rolled over the hard rock and twisted tree roots that made up the Kingsroad. The North was much colder than King's Landing and so, his steward had layered him with various skins and furs. Bran, never really one for words, had been watching out the window quietly, but now that they were only a week's journey from Winterfell, he had some things to discuss. "Halt," he ordered his steward, who relayed the message to the commander of the Kingsguard. Brienne of Tarth held up a gloved hand, surveying the entirety of the troops they'd brought with them. "Brienne, fetch Tyrion."

"At once, your grace," the lady knight said and brushed off.

Brienne the Beauty, they called her, though that name came with different connotations through the years. It was once the insult of petty boys in a yard, now a damning revelation. A beauty she was, to anyone who had seen her fight. She was graceful in a way most men could not be, more flexible, and quicker on her toes. And she was tall, too, even towering over some of her foe. The way she weaved and ducked could cross her opponent's eyes until he was seeing stars. Bran had seen her swing the sword many a time. She was one of the best swordsmen he knew.

Tyrion climbed into the carriage and sat across from Bran, careful not to spill wine from his gilded goblet.

"We need a new Master of Whispers," Bran announced to him as he entered. "I have received word from the Red Keep that Lord Kell has succumbed to his illness."

"How unfortunate for Lord Kell," Tyrion said, topping his wine off. "He was the only one who didn't know it was coming."

"He was an old man, my Lord, I'm sure he knew it better than you."

"He was ineffective," Tyrion insisted. He wasn't entirely wrong, the late lord was sporadic with news of the East and never seemed aware of what was going on right under his nose. A poor Master of Whispers that old man was.

"He is the reason we know of Danaerys's existence," Bran reminded him anyway. From what Lord Kell had gathered before his untimely death, the Dragon Queen was stowed safely in the court of Mereen. She had never made any attempt to reclaim her power, nor to return to Westeros. So Bran had let her live. Besides, something in his intuition told him that her end was not his to bring.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Some help that is."

"She could have brought Drogon back to execute all of us in her own name," Bran said. "It's good to know."

"Surely you did not interrupt the fine time I was having napping this journey away to talk about a new Master of Whispers," Tyrion interjected. He was right, of course.

"Danaerys being alive is relevant once again," Bran stated. "As you know, I sent Arya to discuss this comet with Sansa and Jon. As long as Danaerys remains unaware that there are dragons on Dragonstone, we can maintain peace with her as we have."

"Have you been able to discern how many are there?"

"At least five," Bran said. "Maybe more. It seems to be another each time I return."

"Sam found something odd in the books," Tyrion mused. "It seems in his journeys, that Ser Duncan the Tall discovered a dragon egg, and was informed there may have been more on Dragonstone."

"Those must be the ones that hatched," Bran affirmed.

"No, there's more. See – there was said to be at least three left on Dragonstone. The others disappear from the stories. They were hidden away. And even more, there was a time when I served Dany where Drogon was not by her side. Now you know as well as I do-"

"That dragons can shift form to reproduce as needed," Bran said breathlessly. "But the dragons were young... if Drogon laid a clutch of eggs, they should have been petrified."