Queen Daenerys drew a breath and squared her shoulders. "Then we cannot sit idle," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She looked around at those assembled. "Jon, you have brought us this warning. What do you propose we do?"
Clearly, she deferred to the King in the North on the matter of the undead. Paxter again noted the growing respect between the two monarchs. Not long ago, Jon Snow had been a stranger and former rebel. Now Daenerys was treating him as a trusted equal.
Jon lifted his chin, resolve hardening his features. "I have to go," he announced. "To Eastwatch. To the Wall. I have to defend my people and face the Night King's army."
Daenerys took an abrupt step toward him, her lips parting in protest. "You cannot mean to leave now," she said. "We are in the midst of war with Cersei—"
She caught herself, her voice tightening. It was clear to Paxter that the Queen knew she had no authority to command Jon Snow, not when it came to the North's defense. Still, the thought of him leaving struck her hard. Her hand twitched, half-reaching out, as if she might physically hold him back.
Jon's expression softened at her concern but remained firm. "My people come first. This threat is bigger than crowns and thrones, Your Grace. Bigger than any of us."
Tyrion drummed his fingers on the edge of the Painted Table. "If Jon leaves… what of the truce we hoped to arrange with Cersei? She won't listen to anyone else from our side, not about White Walkers." He grimaced. "Frankly, she likely won't even listen to Jon—unless he brings the bloody thing's head to King's Landing and drops it in her lap."
The imp's words hung in the air, and Paxter noticed a strange flicker in Varys's expression—a spark of calculation behind the calm.
"That…" Varys said slowly, "might be exactly what we need to do."
All heads turned toward the spymaster. Ser Jorah's brow furrowed. "Capture one of the wights?" he asked, voicing what they were all thinking. "Bring it south as proof?"
His tone made it clear just how dangerous and unthinkable that sounded. A stunned silence fell over the chamber.
Paxter felt his stomach twist at the very notion—venturing beyond the Wall to capture a creature of nightmare, and somehow transporting it alive—or undead—across hundreds of leagues. It was madness. And yet, as he glanced around the Painted Table, he saw something forming on the faces of Jon Snow and Davos Seaworth: resolve. Even Tyrion looked pensive, not dismissive.
"It could work," Jon said at last. His voice was low but steady, as if he'd already committed himself to the idea. "If we can show Cersei an actual wight—something even she can't deny—maybe she'll agree to a ceasefire, long enough to deal with the real enemy."
He looked to Daenerys again. "It's a risk. A terrible risk. But I see no other way to convince her. Ravens and envoys won't be enough."
Tyrion nodded, albeit reluctantly. "My sister has a talent for seeing only what she wants to see. But if we put a shrieking monster under her nose… even she might pause."
He rubbed at his scarred nose as he spoke, already calculating.
Ser Jorah Mormont stepped forward. His eyes glinted with familiar determination. "Your Grace," he said to Daenerys, "I'll go. I'll go north of the Wall and find one of these creatures… and bring it back, if it costs me my life."
There was no hesitation in his voice. Paxter admired the knight's courage. Jorah had only just returned to health after surviving greyscale—yet here he was, volunteering for another impossible task.
Daenerys looked stricken. She opened her mouth to object, but Jorah pressed on. "You need not go yourself. As your Queen's Guard, let me undertake this."
Jon Snow stepped closer, addressing both Jorah and the Queen. "You won't go alone, Ser Jorah," Jon said firmly. "I'm going with you. I've fought them before. I know the terrain beyond the Wall."
He managed a grim smile. "And I don't plan to let the dead keep one of your best men, Your Grace."
He inclined his head respectfully to Daenerys. Paxter saw something pass between them then—a look of mutual worry, and something more. Daenerys's cheeks paled, and she turned slightly away, as if hiding the emotion welling in her eyes.
"You are the King in the North," she said quietly. "Your place is with your people… here, preparing for the fight to come. Must you do this yourself?"
It was the first time Paxter had ever heard Daenerys sound uncertain. She who had ridden dragons and conquered cities was nearly begging this northern king to stay safe.
Jon's voice gentled. "My people will prepare, with or without me. My sisters are at Winterfell. The Night's Watch is still at the Wall. What they need most now is proof—proof that will bring help. This, I must do."
Daenerys looked at him for a long moment. Finally, she gave a stiff nod.
"Then you have my leave to go," she said, barely above a whisper. "Both of you."
Her face was composed and regal, but her fingers gripped the edge of the Painted Table so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Paxter did not miss it. It was plain as day—Daenerys Targaryen cared deeply for Jon Snow. More than she might even realize. There is more than alliance in that look, Paxter thought, watching her gaze linger on Jon. She fears for his life.