Hers Is The Fury

Poisoned

[Winterfell - Great Hall]

A soft, pink hue filled the great hall of Winterfell as the first rays of dawn crept through the leaded glass windows. The air was crisp and cold, carrying with it the promise of another brutal winter. On the dais at the far end of the hall, Queen of the North, Morgana Baratheon, her raven hair, littered with silver streaks, flowing freely around her shoulders, leaned in close to her husband, King Robb Stark. The tension between them was palpable, their whispers barely audible over the crackling fire in the massive hearth. They were discussing the impending battle against the Night King and his army of the dead, and the weight of the responsibility rested heavily upon their shoulders.

As they spoke, the other members of the council gathered around them, each offering their own counsel and strategies. Lord Clifford Swann, a seasoned warrior himself, suggested that they should focus on strengthening the defenses around Winterfell, while Lord Oberyn Martell, the exotic and enigmatic prince of Dorne, advocated for a more offensive approach.

Meanwhile, Jon Snow, once known as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, shared his knowledge about the White Walkers and their army. He warned them that they were not ordinary enemies and could not be defeated with traditional tactics. "We must find a way to destroy the Night King himself," he insisted, "for it is he who commands the dead."

Tyrion Lannister, the cunning Hand of the Queen, leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a knife. "We cannot afford to underestimate their numbers," he said. "We must make use of every resource at our disposal. The wildlings, the Unsullied, the Northerners, even the people of the south. This is a battle for the survival of all humanity, and we must fight it together."

As they continued to strategize, the tension in the air grew thick as molasses. It was then that a gasp echoed through the hall, drawing everyone's attention to the far end. There, atop the dais, lay Daenerys Targaryen, her milky-white skin ghostly against the crimson of her blood-soaked dress. Her once regal bearing was now twisted in agony, her fingers clawing at the empty air as if trying to grasp something intangible.

"She's been poisoned!" cried Missandei, dropping to her knees beside her beloved queen. The others exchanged worried glances, their eyes darting from Daenerys to Morgana, seeking some reassurance or guidance. But the Queen of the North remained calm, her expression unreadable.

"We must get her to the maester at once," Morgana commanded, her voice steady. "See to it that she is brought to the infirmary and assessed. Find out what she has been poisoned with."

As the servants scrambled to obey, the tension in the hall seemed to escalate. Jon Snow and Daenerys had been close, learning they are aunt and nephew, an even marrying to secure an alliance. Now, as she lay there, the fate of not only the Seven Kingdoms, but all of humanity itself hung in the balance.

Davos Seaworth, the former smuggler and staunch supporter of Stannis Baratheon, exchanged worried glances with Varys, the cunning and mysterious eunuch who had once served as Master of Whisperers under Robert Baratheon. They knew that time was of the essence, and they could only hope that the maester would be able to save her.

In the midst of the chaos, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, moved to stand beside her mother. Her eyes were filled with concern, and she could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down upon her slender shoulders. She knew that, if anything were to happen to Daenerys, the future of the Seven Kingdoms would be thrown into further turmoil.

Daenerys was already weary of the North for failing to secede their indepence for her to reign over the Seven Kingdoms; instead installing their own monarchs, Robb and Morgana. Morgana, who, as the only trueborn heir of former King, Robert Baratheon, also had a claim to the Throne.