House of the Dragon: Daemon’s Bastard Son Who Hatched a Dragon Chapter 113: News in the Small Council

In the days that followed, King Viserys summoned the Hand and the rest of the Small Council to convene on how the realm should answer the crisis at the Wall.

At first, the reaction was much as Viserys had expected. The lords of the council listened in composed silence, brows furrowed more in courtesy than in true concern. Like the king himself when he had first heard the tidings, none of them believed the matter urgent. Wildlings had raided before. Alarming reports from the far North were as old as the Wall itself.

That calm dissolved the mont Viserys spoke of giants, and of creatures born not of flesh, but of ice.

Disbelief rippled across the table.

"Giants?" scoffed one councilor, leaning back in his chair with a thin smile. "And beings whose bodies are solid ice? Has Prince Baelon been lost too long in the snows? Dreams cling to n who stare at the White Wasteland for too many nights."

Otto Hightower was the first to give voice to his doubts in earnest. He folded his hands upon the table, his expression asured but skeptical.

In recent months, Otto had labored diligently to restore order to the streets of King's Landing. As reward for his efforts, Viserys had allowed him to return to the council and resu his place among the king's advisers. Born and raised in Oldtown, Otto prided himself on learning. He had studied at the Citadel in his youth, poring over chronicles and half-forgotten histories.

"In all my reading," Otto said carefully, "I have found no credible account of such beings. Giants, perhaps, in old tales. But creatures of ice, slain only by Valyrian steel? Forgive , Your Grace, but this sounds like northern fancy."

"I knew you would not believe it," Viserys replied, his voice even. He sat straighter in his chair, his fingers drumming once against the armrest. "That is why Baelon did not return with words alone. He brought proof."

He clapped his hands.

The sharp sound echoed through the chamber. A guardsman stepped forward at once, straining beneath the weight of a long wooden chest borne between two n. They set it down before the council table. When the lid was lifted, a breath of killing cold poured out, as if winter itself had been trapped inside.

Several councilors flinched. One hissed softly through his teeth.

Within lay the corpse of a strange creature. Its shape was vaguely eagle-like, though twisted and wrong, its wings stiff with ri. Frost coated its limbs in thick layers, and its skull had been crushed into shards of ice and bone.

"This," Viserys said, rising to his feet, "is what Prince Baelon slew beyond the Wall before pressing onward, escorted by Tyraxes and the northern lords who rode with him. Only after they saw fields strewn with corpses did Lords Stark, Karstark, Glover, and Whitehill accept his warning as truth."

The councilors leaned closer despite themselves, then recoiled as the cold bit through wool and velvet alike.

To silence further doubt, Viserys reached for a longsword from the guard at his side.

"Your Grace?" Otto said sharply, half rising from his seat. "What are you doing?"

Viserys did not answer. He raised the blade and brought it down.

The sword shattered the instant it struck the frozen corpse, steel snapping cleanly in two. A sharp crack rang through the chamber.

Viserys let the broken hilt fall.

"Well?" he said, his gaze sweeping the table. "Does this seem like so trick of ice ant to deceive us? This is no foe an ordinary man can face."

He drew the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt. With a quick flick of his wrist, he struck again. The creature's frozen wing sheared off cleanly and slid across the stone floor.

"According to Baelon's intelligence," Viserys continued, "these beings radiate a cold beyond natural ice. Common steel freezes solid upon contact and shatters. Only Valyrian steel can truly kill them."

The ministers crowded closer once more, then hastily stepped back, sleeves raised, breath misting in the air.

"And there is more," Viserys said, his voice low and grave. "The Night's Watch has been attacked by the wildlings and utterly destroyed."

For a while, there was only silence.

Then the chamber erupted in shocked cries.

The Night's Watch. Annihilated.

Such news would have shaken the entire Seven Kingdoms.

In its pri, during the reign of Aegon the Conqueror, the Night's Watch had numbered more than ten thousand sworn brothers. Even in its long decline, it still boasted four to five thousand n. Their armor might have been patched and their castles half-ruined, yet they remained a hardened force, forged by cold, hunger, and ceaseless vigilance.

Four thousand n.

Even the slaughter of four thousand animals would take days. How, then, could a horde of wildlings have destroyed them all in a single stroke?

And not a single raven had been sent south.

The thought settled over the council chamber like ash.

"Your Majesty," said Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, leaning forward with quiet urgency plain upon his face, "we can command the noble houses of the realm to contribute n at once. A small levy from each lord would suffice to rebuild the Watch. The Wall must not be left undefended."

Before Viserys could answer, Jason Lannister spoke, his voice cutting through the air.

"No. That is impractical."

The Master of Coin rose from his seat, one hand braced against the table. His green eyes were sharp, his tone edged with certainty.

"Even setting distance aside, the great lords will never commit their n to permanent service so far from ho, not when it drains their coffers and weakens their own defenses."

He turned slowly, eting each gaze in turn.

"My lords, answer honestly. If His Majesty commanded you to send your banners north, and to maintain them at your own expense for years on end, would any of you agree?"

No one spoke.

So looked away. Others stared down at the polished wood of the table.

Of course they would not.

Sending n was one thing. Feeding them, arming them, and paying them for a lifeti of cold and danger was another matter entirely.

"Your Majesty," Otto Hightower said at last, his voice asured, his fingers steepled before him, "may I ask whose forces presently hold the Wall?"

Viserys turned his gaze upon him. "Prince Baelon's army," he said. "The Northern Alliance remains there for now. Their supplies are furnished by the northern lords, though Baelon has pledged repaynt in full."

A faint light entered Otto's eyes.

"Then why burden the entire realm?" he asked smoothly. "Prince Baelon's host is already in place. They have proven themselves capable. Why not have them remain and garrison the Wall permanently?"

The chamber fell into a heavy silence.

Better that one man bleed than all.

Such thinking had guided Westeros for centuries.

"No," Jason said sharply, rising to his feet. "Absolutely not."

He faced Otto squarely, his jaw tight.

"Prince Baelon led the Northern Alliance north, crushed the wildlings, and saved the realm from disaster. That is already service beyond asure. To deny him reward would be shaful. To bind him to the Wall would be worse than ingratitude. It would be punishnt."

Otto did not flinch.

"Who says there would be no reward?" he replied calmly. "His Majesty could grant Prince Baelon the Wall itself. Full military command. Administrative authority. A lordship unlike any other."

Jason laughed once, harsh and humorless.

"Spare your honeyed words, Otto," he snapped. "You know exactly what the Wall is. You know what kind of 'reward' that would be. That is exile dressed in honor."

He struck the table with his palm, the sound echoing through the chamber.

"Your Majesty," Jason said, turning toward the Iron Throne, his voice blazing with fury, "this is unacceptable. You would be sending Prince Baelon to the Wall to rot and die. No heirs, no return, no future. I will not stand for it."

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