Chapter 31 — The Iron Maiden
"Drogon… remember to visit me often, okay?"
Shireen stroked the little dragon's neck, reluctant to let him go but refusing to cling.
Drogon understood.
On Dragonstone, Shireen had no one except the Onion Knight.
She wasn't allowed to roam outside, had no children her age to play with, and spent her days buried in books.
If Davos wasn't released soon, she would remain trapped in this lonely prison.
He had to get her out of here — before something irreversible happened.
Leaving Shireen behind, Drogon launched himself into the sky and headed for King's Landing.
He wanted to check whether Varys had left any new messages.
An hour later, he arrived over the capital and descended toward the hidden message drop — a filthy, sewage-stained street in the Flea Bottom slums.
Exactly where he and Varys had agreed.
He scanned the surroundings. No one.
Drogon slipped a claw between two bricks and pulled out a loose red stone.
Inside the hollow space behind it lay a rolled piece of parchment.
He took it and flew to a nearby rooftop before carefully unrolling it.
Varys's latest intelligence:
Joffrey's wedding is imminent.
Tyrion is now betrothed to Sansa.
To sabotage Highgarden's alliance with the North, Tywin plans to marry Cersei to Loras Tyrell.
Prince Oberyn Martell has arrived in King's Landing — likely with hostile intentions.
Drogon actually liked Oberyn — wild, passionate, loyal to his own, a man who scattered bastards across the continent yet managed to care for each of them.
A shame he died because of a single moment of arrogance, crushed by the Mountain…
and that death eventually dragged Tyrion down with him, handing victory to the Lion Queen.
Drogon sighed and returned to the report.
After finishing the message, he remained perched on the rooftop, analyzing the shifting tides in King's Landing.
Soon, two blood-soaked weddings would reshape the fate of Westeros.
He didn't care whether the little monster Joffrey lived or died.
But he could not stomach seeing Catelyn Stark and Robb Stark butchered like cattle.
They didn't deserve that fate.
After thinking it through, Drogon dipped his claw into ink and wrote his reply:
"Walder Frey has secretly struck a deal with Tywin.
They will slaughter the Stark mother and son, along with the northern and riverland lords, during Edmure's wedding.
Roose Bolton will betray them as well.
Shae is also in danger — but do not try to separate her from Tyrion.
Forcing her to betray him would come at too high a price."
He paused, then added another line:
"Do not let Oberyn get too close to the Mountain. A moment of carelessness will kill him."
Drogon knew Varys had once tried desperately to save Ned Stark — persuading him to acknowledge Joffrey's legitimacy so he might live.
Ned died anyway, but Varys had done what he could.
He had also attempted to help Sansa escape King's Landing, only to have Littlefinger snatch the opportunity away.
If Varys learned the Starks were marching toward a massacre, he would not simply watch them die.
Drogon didn't warn him about Joffrey's "Purple Wedding."
Joffrey's death? That one he was happy to let happen.
Nor did he mention Littlefinger spiriting Sansa away.
Without Tyrion's protection after Joffrey's death, Sansa would only fall into greater danger.
Finally, Drogon finished writing everything he intended to tell Varys…
---
After finishing the warning, Drogon slid the parchment back into the gap between the red bricks and left it there—waiting for the great upheaval soon to sweep through King's Landing.
Then he turned north and flew toward the Wall, matching the landscape below with the map he carried in his memory.
He soared over the famous Trident, skimmed past the nearly unassailable Eyrie, and traced the long bridge of Twin Rivers, where Robb Stark once paid for passage with a marriage pact.
He crossed the swamps of the Neck, swept past the ancient barrow fields of the First Men, and finally drifted to a halt above Winterfell.
Winterfell was a ruin.
The once-bustling fortress of the North now lay blackened and broken, its courtyards quiet, its towers scorched. Only the thick stone walls and a few large structures remained. A handful of workers moved about, patching what they could.
Drogon knew Theon Greyjoy was being tortured by Ramsay Snow at this very moment.
He didn't intend to interfere. Theon's misery was his own making — even if he hadn't actually killed Bran and Rickon.
Just as Drogon prepared to resume his flight north, something at the edge of the nearby forest caught his attention.
Dozens of figures huddled under the trees — moving like hunters, but armed and tense. They were not locals, and their movements were anything but casual.
Someone planning trouble for Winterfell?
The North was nearly defenseless now. The Karstarks had not yet returned, and few forces remained to oppose Ramsay.
Curious, Drogon veered into the forest canopy, gliding soundlessly toward the group.
They were clad in dark, weather-beaten leathers, each carrying at least one blade. Most rested in the tall grass while a few kept watch.
From the treetops, Drogon edged closer until their whispers drifted clearly to his ears.
"Saving that useless worm—what's the point? Made us march all this way for nothing," one guard muttered.
"I heard the Lord of Pyke didn't even want him back. Says Yara insisted on coming. Look at us—just a handful of men."
Yara.
The name snapped Drogon's focus. He peered more closely until he spotted her: solid build, hair slicked back, posture sharp as a blade. No casual glance would mark her as a woman — but Drogon recognized her instantly.
He recalled the rest of the tale:
Ramsay Snow had driven the Ironborn out of the North on Roose Bolton's orders.
He'd sent Balon Greyjoy a box containing… pieces of Theon — along with a threat.
If the Ironborn didn't withdraw from the North, Theon would continue to arrive in installments.
Balon, who had never thought highly of Theon and intended for Yara to inherit the Isles, naturally refused to bargain for a mutilated son who could no longer continue their line.
But Yara… Yara couldn't leave her brother to suffer. She had come anyway, leading a small force to rescue him.
She didn't expect that when she finally broke into the kennels and reached the cage where Theon — now Reek — huddled…
he refused to go.
Broken in mind and spirit, he had rejected her rescue. The attempt had nearly cost Yara her own life.
Judging by their current posture, they must have just arrived, preparing to infiltrate Winterfell under cover of night.
Drogon remembered what happened next:
After Yara failed and returned to the Isles, the Ironborn would soon face the arrival of their newly returned "king" — Euron Greyjoy, perhaps the most deranged man in Westeros… second only to Ramsay himself.
The thought made Drogon uneasy.
Euron, who defied his own brother;
Euron, who claimed to have sailed the smoking seas and walked the ruins of Valyria;
Euron, who whispered in the language of mad gods.
Since fate had brought him across Yara's path today, Drogon decided to… create trouble for Euron early.
He flew deeper into the forest, landed in a small clearing, and took out parchment, ink, and a stick of sealing wax.
This time he had prepared thoroughly; he even brought wax specifically for sealing messages.
He wrote swiftly, stamped the wax seal, and returned above the Ironborn.
Spotting a bearded warrior snoring beneath a tree, Drogon released the scroll.
It hit the man squarely on the head.
"Someone's here!" he hissed, jolting awake.
The entire group surged to their feet, weapons drawn, scanning the trees.
The bearded warrior quickly handed the scroll to Yara as she strode over.
"What is this?" she demanded.
"I—I don't know. It fell on me," the man muttered uncertainly.