Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell, they're all just spokes on a wheel. This one's on top and that one's on top and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground. We're not going to stop the wheel. I'm going to break the wheel.

Daenerys Targaryen

Breaking the Wheel

It was cold in the North.

She'd expected that. She'd been in the North before, when she'd temporarily resided at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. She'd flown to the lands beyond the Wall – the "True North" as the Free Folk called it. She'd sailed on a ship over the Shivering Sea bound for Dragonstone, feeling the chill of losing a child, of ice piercing her heart, and freezing her veins. On the same boat she had found warmth, before a bitter wind returned to the world. Thus, she was in the North, standing on the battlements of Winterfell. Watching how the snow fell down from the heavens, covering the land in snow. Watched the throng of humanity before her – a sea of banners bearing the lion, the dire wolf, the eagle, and the dragon. Reflecting on how the people were saying this was the worst winter in living memory. Reflecting that even south of Eastwatch, it felt colder here. As if winter had increased in ferocity since the Wall was breached.

Living memory. She sighed, her breath appearing in front of her before dispersing into nothingness. Her living memory could offer nothing on the winters of Westeros. And while she had learnt about the Seven Kingdoms through the writings of learned men, she couldn't comment on how this winter might fare against those of recorded history. Or even that of the unrecorded kind, stretching back to the Long Night and beyond. It occurred to her that even if the living triumphed over the dead, the world for which they fought for might finish the job.

"So, you're the Dragon Queen eh?"

She turned to find the source of the voice – so did the two Unsullied that accompanied her. The armies of the living that had assembled at Winterfell had welcomed the dragons she had brought to the North, in the knowledge that they would be invaluable against the Army of the Dead. They were far less welcoming to the Dragon Queen herself, the one who would sit upon the Iron Throne, and reunite the Seven Kingdoms under Targaryen rule. Many here would have gladly plunged a dagger into her back, given the opportunity – desperate times made men do desperate things, and some might be so desperate as to try and kill Daenerys Targaryen now. But, she reflected, looking at the source of the voice, the girl didn't look desperate. She didn't even look armed. If this was an assassination attempt, it was a paltry one.

"The Dragon Queen," Daenerys said. "That is one of my titles."

"How many do you have?"

The tone was condescending, but Daenerys found herself smiling. "More than I can count. It's why I usually have someone to read them out for me."

"Hmm. My mother told me that titles are just a way of making someone seem more important than they are. Any lord or lady needs one title to get the job done."

Daenerys still smiled. "And where would your mother be now?"

"Dead. Body's probably somewhere in the Riverlands. Killed by the Freys in the last war that House Mormont took part in." She glanced out over the battlements. "Or, the second last? Some are calling this the Great War, or the Last War, but where does the Battle of the Bastards fit in? Well, who's to say?"

Daenerys's smile had faded. She gestured to the Unsullied to leave, and with a moment's hesitation, they did so. It briefly occurred to her that this could be a trap, that the girl in front of her was just getting her attention while a second assassin came at her from behind, or shot at her with a bow. But she didn't think so. There was something...honest, she supposed, about the girl. Everything she'd just heard could have been a lie, but she doubted it.

"You fought for Robb Stark," Daenerys began.

"I didn't." The girl looked back at her. "House Mormont did though – we were among those who named him King in the North, and we were among those at the Red Wedding. And we fought for Jon Snow against House Bolton, and we will fight again in the war to come."

"And what is your name, child?"

The girl's eyes flashed. "I'm not a child. My fourteenth name day was but a month ago. My name is Lyanna Mormont, daughter or Maege Mormont. And No child would be the Lady of Bear Island."

So a child, Daenerys reflected. But she didn't say it. She'd been a mere two years older than the girl was now when she was sold off to Khal Drogo. When she'd become a khaleesi. Now, seven years on, she was at the head of two armies, and on the verge of becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, the Army of the Dead had to be defeated first, but then...

Well, what then? If the living triumphed over the dead, and the armies of Stark, Arryn, Lannister, and Targaryen found themselves still alive, what then? The Starks hated the Lannisters, the Lannisters hated the Starks, and she, the last Targaryen, was hated by nearly everyone. She could change that perception over time, but time wasn't on their side. The Army of the Dead had breached the Wall. A hundred thousand dead men surged southward to add the living to their ranks, and they were accompanied by a dragon. Viserion. Her thirdborn, but no less loved then her other children. To the living, two dragons were scarcely less terrifying than three, but she wondered...She returned her gaze to the fields outside Winterfell. Of snow that may soon be stained by blood, or burnt by fire. The living had to decide where to make their stand, and they had to decide soon. She would be there herself. She would ride Drogon, and return the dead to whatever hell spawned them. She would, she reflected, have to deal with Viserion as well. Looking up at the sky, she could see Drogon and Rhaegal flying. Their movements had become more sluggish since the death of their brother, and their cries carried the sound of pain rather than joy. To those around her, even Jon and Tyrion, her dragons sounded the same as they always had, but she knew the difference. A mother knew. She could hear it in their cries, and see it in their wings. They loved their brother. They missed their brother. And before fire could come out of their mouths to avenge their brother, a eulogy had to be composed first.

"Nice things, dragons."

She glanced at Lyanna. She was looking up at Drogon and Rhaegal as well. A moment later she was looking at Daenerys again though, and the look was far from charitable.

"Tell me," Lyanna said. "When this is over, and the dead are fully dead, and all's right and just in the world, will Jon Snow bend the knee again?" Daenerys opened her mouth, but Lyanna kept talking. "Yes, I know my history Dragon Queen. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to your ancestor. He gave into the dragons rather than fight them. So, will you make Jon bend the knee again? Or is he bending over for you already?"

Daenerys winced. Either Lyanna Mormont really was just a child, or she was the bravest woman she'd ever met. She knew she could walk away. If she followed the example of her father, she could have this girl burnt here and now, and lose only a few dozen men from a doomed house. But she wasn't her father, and she hadn't come this far by walking away. If she was to be queen, if she was to change the world...she would have to engage with the people of that world.

"You aren't fond of me, are you?" Daenerys asked.

"No."

She hesitated – she'd hoped for a slightly longer response than that, though that hope now seemed foolish in hindsight. "May I ask why?"

"Because when the Targaryens first came to Westeros, the North lost its freedom. When a Targaryen last sat on the throne, the war was plunged into a war to put yet another southern lord on the Iron Throne to rule us from a thousand miles away."

"That is true," Daenerys said. "I will not deny the atrocities of my father. But Targaryen rule brought peace to the Seven Kingdoms in a manner no other ruler has managed."

"Bully to the Seven Kingdoms," Lyanna said. "I'm a child of Bear Island. A child of the North. Do you think I care what happens in some shithole beyond my homeland? The North is my home. The only home I'll fight for. From what I've heard, you'll help us fight for it, but after that, you'll go back to trying to put your arse on the Iron Throne."

"Would you rather have Cersei Lannister sit on it?"

"I'd rather have no-one." Her eyes flashed, and she met Daenerys's gaze. "I bent the knee to Jon Snow of House Stark. To the King in the North. As my mother did to Robb Stark, has House Mormont did to Starks of ages past. I never bent the knee to any lord or lady who would rule from the south. Why should I give a damn what name you carry, or who sat on the Iron Throne before you."

"I-"

"Why are you even here?" Lyanna asked, and in an instant, the fire in her eyes disappeared, replaced by ice. By sorrow. "Why...why can't you leave us alone?"

And there it was, Daenerys reflected. A child. 'Why?' The question every child would ask. Few ever asked 'why' in this world. Those who were not children accepted the world for what it was – they never asked "why" it was the way it was, they just accepted it. Daenerys returned her gaze over to the field before her, wondering how best to answer. Looking down, she saw a cart carrying barrels of pitch. Its left wheel fell off, causing no small amount of cursing from the men-at-arms pushing it. Lannister soldiers, given the golden lion on the banner held by one of them. Men who were further away from home than anyone here bar the Unsullied or Dothraki. Men who still had a tyrant queen waiting to send them to another war. She watched as they began to put the wheel back on. Watched until she turned to look back at Lyanna.

"I am here..." Daenerys said, "to break the wheel."

"The wheel?"

"The wheel," Daenerys said. "The wheel that turns, and grinds up everyone under its spokes. The wheel that placed a Baratheon on the Iron Throne after the death of my father. The wheel that put a Lannister on the throne after him."

"And a Targaryen again after Queen Cersei?"

"Yes," Daenerys said. "I am not so naive as to think the wheel will be destroyed overnight. But after all, your current king had to slaughter hundreds of Boltons to unite the North. Men died, but would you rather have a Bolton asking you to bend the knee?"

"What do you know of the Boltons?" Lyanna asked.

"Little," Daenerys admitted. "But little good."
"Funny," she said. "I could say the same for you. And I could also say that many conquerors thought they were saving the world while they were burning it."

Daenerys didn't concede the point. It was hard to imagine the future when the present was so terrible. There might not even be a future at all, if the Night King won the battle to come, and winter spread to consume the world. But, she had to believe. Even if people like Lyanna Stark didn't.

"Breaking the wheel," Lyanna mused. "You know, I could say that the Night King is trying to do the same thing."

"What?"

"Well, think about it. If we become his subjects, we get eternal life. I mean, dead life, or unlife, but still, life or a kind I suppose. And if the White Walkers do win, there'll be no more houses, no more wars, no more people being burnt at the feet of mad kings. No Starks, Arryns, Lannisters...or Targaryens."

Daenerys stared at her. She could understand men not wanting to follow her. Even men wanting to kill her. But to even consider that the Army of the Dead could in any way provide a future for-

"Of course," said Lyanna, smiling. "I don't really think that."

Daenerys fought back a sigh of relief.

"I'd rather stay alive, actually. And while the North doesn't look kindly on Torrhen Stark, I suppose he did save us all from being burnt alive. So if Jon Snow has to bend the knee from us being burnt, or frozen, or both, well...I'll leave that to history." She did a curtsy – the worst curtsy Daenerys had ever seen, but she suspected that was the point. "Your grace."

Lyanna walked away, her cloak dragging in the snow behind her. Daenerys watched her until she disappeared into the nearby tower. She sighed – her breath appeared in front of her again. No fire. Just cold vapour. She returned her gaze back to the lands of the North. Thinking about the future. About what Lyanna had said. Wondering how she could fight for the future when the present had so much woe in it. Wondering, and searching for answers that she knew wouldn't come easily. Her gaze lingered on the cart.

The wheel had been fixed.

The wheel was turning again.

A/N

There's apparently a fan theory floating around that the White Walkers are actually an egalitarian force for Westeros - as in, they give everyone eternal life, free them of houses, or war, and make everything fine and dandy. I've never encountered that theory directly, but while I think (hope?) it's tongue in cheek, it did give me the idea to drabble this up.