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Chapter Text

JON

Jon felt the cold edge of a knife pressing against the base of his throat. With a swift shove, he turned and freed himself from the hand that held him. Unfortunately, not fast enough. The knife had cut one side of his neck, and as he reached to assess the depth of the wound, he could feel the red liquid spurting from the cut.

‘I've been stabbed’ thought the young Lord Commander.

He turned around and tried to draw Longclaw from its sheath, but his fingers were clumsy from the cold, and his gloves were slippery with blood. Wick Wittlestick, still holding the bloodied knife, averted his gaze from Jon as he heard footsteps behind him. His nerves began to spiral out of control as he felt a hot pang in the middle of his stomach, a sensation akin to the arrows Ygritte had shot at him the day they parted before the Battle for Castle Black but deeper, more painful. He looked up to see the satisfied face of Alliser Thorne.

"For the Watch," Thorne whispered.

If Jon had thought the first stab hurt, the knife slicing through his flesh made that sensation seem like a caress. Longclaw slipped from his fingers once again, and warmth started to spread across his stomach as colors seemed to fade from his vision.

Another searing stab pierced beneath his ribs.

"For the Watch."

After countless instances where the gods had chosen to confront him with his own mortality, this seemed to be the final one. Jon thought of Winterfell—the kind eyes of his father, the stern look from Lady Stark and Sansa, and tried to imagine how the eyes of his mother may have looked like, but he failed. He thought of the last hug he gave Robb, his eternal rival, his best friend, his brother.

‘Maybe I should have died with him at the Red Wedding or on the battlefield. Instead, I die at Castle Black. For doing what's right. At the hands of my sworn brothers.’

"For the Watch."

Another red-hot fang pierced between opposing ribs. Jon thought of Arya, asking him to undo the braids the handmaidens had done so she could play with wooden swords. He thought of Bran practicing with a bow under his father's watchful eye and Rickon, with innocence in his eyes, asking the handmaidens for a sweet.

He remembered Ygritte—her hair kissed by fire, her stubbornness, but also her smile, and the way she made him laugh. If this was his end, could he see her on the other side? 'You know nothing, Jon Snow,' she used to say. Perhaps now was the time to finally know.

He thought of Ghost, his loyal companion. That turncloak Theon had dubbed him ‘the runt of the litter’, yet he had survived not only his siblings but also dozens of dangers beyond the Wall. Jon tried to speak, perhaps to accuse his 'brothers' of betrayal, of being murderers, oathbreakers, but none of those words escaped his lips.

"Ghost."

Jon didn't even feel the fourth knife, only the cold.

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TORMUND

Two days had passed since those damn traitor crows had killed Jon. Luckily, when it all happened, he, that old man Davos, and the Red Witch had retrieved the body, supported by some Free Folk who remained loyal to the lad. They had to hide like rats in the Lord Commander's quarters, surrounded by the traitors and their sympathizers, caught in a standoff with the crows still loyal to their commander, even in death.

The situation had been resolved thanks to the Free Folk, of course. As if it wasn't obvious that any of them would avenge the crow who had saved thousands at Hardhome and even killed one of those ice fuckers with his own sword. Killing Jon in front of so many people indebted to him had truly been a cunt’s move, but, of course, intelligence has never defined the crows on the Wall, not many of them at least.

The Red Witch had proposed madness: "I must resurrect Jon Snow, for he is the Prince that was promised, Azor Ahai." Regardless of what that shit meant, the old man, Davos, had hated the idea, but in the end, he had agreed to it. The ritual had lasted hours, with the witch incessantly speaking in a language that sounded like trying to scratch stone with fingernails, but nothing had worked.

So there he was, placing the final oil-soaked logs on the pyre that would hold the little crow. They burned him out of fear that the man might wake up with blue eyes and serve the Others, but the size and appearance of the pyre represented the respect both crows and Free Folk had for the little fucker.

He wasn't sad, no, the Giantsbane didn't get sad, the Lord of Honeyed Hall in the Red Keep didn't know melancholy, and the Wall would melt before the Hornblower felt regret. But it was true that Tormund would miss Jon. Fortunately, Tormund knew all too well that vengeance and fermented goat's milk could kill that feeling just fine.

When everything was ready, and the three-story pyre made of oak, pine, and fir, filled with straw and resin, stood solemnly in the central courtyard of Castle Black, a crow named something like Edd the Pains approached with a torch and spoke with a bitter voice.

"It's time."

Tormund, Edd, old Davos, and the Red Woman stood at the forefront of Free Folk and black crows alike, and Jon's white wolf, who had been acting very strange since his owner's death, stood in front of them, not making a single sound but with a mournful expression.

The pyre was lit.

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MELISANDRE

The ritual had lasted for hours. Melisandre had tried with all the strength she possessed. Every plea in the language of old Valyria had been used, every prayer to R'hllor, the God of Fire, the Lord of Light, the Red God, had been ignored. Jon Snow was Azor Ahai, the Prince that was promised, the son of Fire and Ice.

Only the cold remained in him, and a strange mist had begun to envelop the room, disregarding the lit fires.

And now he lay on a bed of wood and sap, about to be incinerated, bid farewell, sent to R'hllor, the Old Gods, or any of the Seven Hells. Just as life had abandoned young Snow, faith had abandoned Melisandre.

Soon, the Great Other would strike. And without a hero capable of bringing the dawn wielding Lightbringer, all hope was lost. Stannis had fallen, Jon Snow had fallen, who remained? Was Daenerys Targaryen the last hope, far away in Essos?

"Only death can pay for life."

It was the rule of all magic; was Lord Commander Snow the coin? Had another hero been born somewhere in Westeros? Perhaps away from it? If this was it, what had been the purpose of all the visions, apparitions, and prophecies she had seen in the flames?

"I beseech my God to show me a King, the one who was promised, but He only shows me Snow."

The flames did not take long to engulf the pyre. There lay Jon Snow, in Night's Watch armor without a cloak, and around him, orange and red flames danced in ritual, caressing him like tongues of fire. His clothes had begun to catch fire when the fiery spear tips covered him completely.

 Then she saw it.

A new vision, clear as the moon on a clear night. A tower, a sword, a wolf. A crow, shadows, a dragon. A falling star. A beast covered in silver, another in ebony, a union in crimson red. Black ice armor lifting a sword of red fire. A voice without a mouth.

 ‘’Māzigon naejot issa, aōha gaomilaksir iksos toliot rȳ mōrī’’

Her feet moved on their own, in a trance, the red arms of the flames ready to embrace her. For hundreds of years, she had seen again and again people being released, enveloped by flames, sent to R'hllor. For hundreds of years, she had begged for fire, sometimes receiving embers, other times ashes, and other times the Fourteen Flames. She had dedicated her life, her longevity to her God, sacrificing herself for the life of Jon Snow, to save the realm of men, but be remembered as the Witch who burned Shireen Baratheon was perhaps a fitting end.

" Hae ao jaelagon, kirimvose, issa āeksio."

The fire kissed her in pain and ecstasy, and ashes followed.

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DAVOS

After being responsible for Stannis's death and burning his kind and sweet daughter, Shireen of House Baratheon alive, Ser Davos Seaworth would have given more than his fingers to see the Red Witch burn.

Still, he couldn't contain his surprise when he saw her approach the flames emitted by the pyre, being swallowed in a bite by the fire, as if Balerion the Black Dread himself had decided to use her as snack.

Some members of the Watch tried to stop her, but they couldn't. Her pace was solemn and determined, her gaze lost, and she whispered something in the language she had used when trying to resurrect young Jon.

How much melancholy had he felt seeing him cold on that floor.

In just a few years, Ser Davos had lost his son during the Battle of Blackwater, a girl he cherished as his own daughter, his King, and the person who had made him believe that there could still be honorable leaders in the world.

With a final burst, the flames illuminated the night sky, growing so much that it seemed they sought to caress the moon.

No one, not in a million years, could have prepared the Onion Knight for what he was about to see. A shadow rose from the burning coals and fiery hairs. A man, his clothes burned, his body intact. His gaze lost on the moon, his breath strong, as if the air was fleeing from him, on his body four red scars open but without an ounce of blood, yet one on his neck. On his head, a few strands of hair had lost its color, now pale as silver.

It seemed to him that Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, had returned from the cold clutches of death.

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JON

Jon remembered Melisandre's words.

‘Knives in the darkness, Jon Snow.’

Jon tried to recall something else, but a wall of black ice stood in the way.

His head was about to explode, the muscles in his arms pulsating, making his fingers tremble, and the air in his chest felt as if Weirwood roots had settled inside him.

Breathing heavily, the cold of the North began to leave him, replaced by scorching fire, then cold swallowed him again. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he found himself surrounded by fire maidens inviting him to dance and shadows lurking behind them. In the center, a white shield, solemn, hiding the sight of the blue eyes of death.

‘The moon shrieks in pain.’

His legs regained some strength, and he rose to reach the silver plate.

The flames stretched farther than ever…and vanished. His skin covered in ash, except for three marks adorning his abdomen, one on his heart, another on his neck.

‘Knives in the darkness.’

Jon's memories returned, with a new guest: perhaps it was anger.

Looking around, he saw the Night's Watch, the Free Folk, Tormund, Ser Davos, Ghost. Their faces of astonishment and fear alike made Jon feel dizzy, sick to his empty stomach. He tried to walk toward them, leaving his burnt bed behind.

As he descended to the ground, old Davos picked him up.

"S... er...vos…"

"Jon, son, you..."-The man turned his face to the rest of the spectators and shouted, "Bring him a cloak! Something! your Lord Commander needs of your aid."

...

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…

Jon was in the Lord Commander's quarters, standing, facing his desk, on which Longclaw laid, unsheathed. The time to go on with his duty approached, a choice the young Snow had never enjoyed making. Ghost was asleep near the fire in the hearth, being able to rest now that he had finally returned. Jon scratched the place between the direwolf’s ears.

‘You’re a good boy, Ghost.’

Another remembrance pierced his head like an arrow.

‘He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. If you cannot look a person in the eyes and hear their last words, perhaps that man does not deserve to die.’

These were his father's words, or at least, that’s how Jon remembered them. Ned Stark, the man whose honor had served to inspire unwavering loyalty and his own death simultaneously. The same honor that had killed him. What would Ned Stark have done if he could’ve come back and look into the eyes of his murderers? Those who called him a traitor? Would he have listened to their last words? Many things had emerged from that pyre along with Jon's consciousness; perhaps honor was no longer one of them.

A knock on the wooden door. Jon's fingers instinctively reached for the handle of Longclaw, a pang of pain in his chest.

Without warning, Tormund entered with a solemn step and, as he rarely showed, a serious face. Tormund had been the link between Jon and the Free Folk during their recent encounters, after the Battle of the Wall and what happened with Mance Rayder, and in earning the trust of the Free Folk during the incident of Hardhome. Gradually, he had come to consider him a friend, especially after Ser Davos had told him how Tormund was one of those who protected his body from the traitors of the Watch.

‘’Is everything ready?’’

‘’All those fuckers and traitors are waiting in the main yard, chained.’’ - The wildling paused. - ‘’Did you hear, crow? Now my people think yer some kind of god. They call you 'The man who returned from the dead, the undying’.’’

Jon looked at him with an expression tainted with regret.

‘’I'm not a god, Tormund.’’

‘Bastard, oathbreaker, motherless, damned. Those might be better descriptions.’ - Jon thought. Tormund displayed his typical mocking smile.

‘’Aye, of course yer not. I saw your pecker when you rose from the pyre. What kind of god would have a pecker that small?’’ Jon tried to smile but didn't have enough strength to remove the cold expression from his face.

‘’It's time then.’’

Jon strapped on his sword and headed for the quarters' exit with the wildling warrior. Once he opened the door the cold northern wind and the silence felt like a horse just kicked his chest. Wildlings and Night's Watch turned their gaze to young Snow. In their eyes, he saw everything, from respect and joy to admiration, veneration, and even fear. In the center of the courtyard, the snow had been cleared, and on a wooden platform, those who had stabbed him just days ago stood, chained, facing a fragment of an oak trunk. Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwick, Wick Wittlestick, and Alliser Thorne tried to keep their gaze forward, but their faces revealed the realization of what had happened, the harshness of death.

Once he reached the platform, Tormund and Edd climbed up with him to help carry any traitor to the oak block. Two steps later, Bowen Marsh was on his knees, his face almost pleading.

‘’It's not fair, you were dead. It's not right.’’

Jon had to exert himself not to spit, unbelieving and disgusted. ‘Neither was killing me.’ - he thought. Instead, he repeated what he already considered the last words of these men. After that, nothing mattered.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Snow lowered his sword quickly. Blood splattered on the ground.

Two more thumps, and Yarwick was in the same position as his predecessor.

‘’Please, I have a family, tell them I died fighting against the wildlings.’’

‘I wish you deserved such a thing.’ - Jon thanked that the man couldn't hear his thoughts and simply spoke.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Another cut tore through flesh with a dull sound.

Wittleswick tried to resist, but Tormund knocked him down with a strong blow to the stomach and put his foot on the man's back. Only pleas and mumbled insults reached Jon's ears. He saw a man brave enough to stab him in the back but not to curse him in the hour of his death.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - The edge of Longclaw once again cut more than just the air as it began its path.

Finally, Alliser Thorne walked towards the oak, to Tormund's dismay, who would have wanted to be able to hit him. The man didn't kneel but looked Jon in the eyes, who held his gaze while the blood dripping from his sword hitting the platform counted the seconds of silence.

‘’I had to make a choice, 'Lord Commander,' betray you or betray the Night's Watch. You, who brought an army of murderers and rapists to this side of the Wall. If I could go back, knowing where I would end up, I'd pray to make the right choice again.’’

The man spoke with contempt. The same contempt that he had directed towards Jon Snow throughout his time at the Wall, and who had ultimately killed him. During all that time, the steward had kept silent out of respect for the chain of command and the service Thorne had given to the Watch. All of that was now of little importance.

‘’I'm sure you would’ve, Ser Alliser.’’ - Jon talked about betraying him again, of course. Alliser Thorne wouldn't hesitate to let more men, women, and children join the Others in favor of his pride. After all, it was pride that brought him to the Wall.

‘’I fought, I lost. Now I rest.’’ - He paused, and the ghost of a smile crept to the edge of Thorne's mouth. - ‘’But you, Lord Snow, You’ll be fighting their battles forever.’’

Perhaps telling Ser Alliser Thorne that pretending pride while dying as a traitor was pointless would have been a good response. Or that calling the Free Folk rapists and murderers was forgetting that a large percentage of the Night's Watch ended up on the Wall for the same reasons. But no. That required an energy that Jon Snow no longer had within himself. After all, what better response than:

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Thorne didn't even get to kneel. In gratitude for his years of service to the realm of Men, Jon offered him the chance to die standing. Just as, in gratitude for being a traitor, he had relieved him of the weight of his head. The veteran's body fell to the ground quickly, and Jon Snow sheathed Longclaw, after wiping it on the Lord Commander's cloak. Without giving another glance to the bodies, he began to descend from the platform as the spectators of the execution dispersed. Edd caught up with him when they had already left the wooden stairs.

‘’Jon, what will you d-’’ - Dolorous Edd couldn't finish his question, as Jon threw the Lord Commander's cloak into his hands.

‘’What do you want me to do with this?’’

‘’Burn it, bury it, whatever you choose. I won't stay to freeze and rot in Castle Black.’’

Edd's expression of horror and incomprehension almost drew a laugh from the northerner, as if the reason wasn't obvious.

‘’You made an oath, Jon, 'For all the nights to come', remember?’’

‘’'I shall live and die at my post.’ I remember that part too. I believe I fulfilled both when my brothers murdered me, Edd.’’ He turned away in an almost violent manner.

‘’My watch has ended.’’

…

His fingers returned to the hilt of his sword when someone announced that a figure had approached the gates of Castle Black. Perhaps a deserter from Stannis' army seeking refuge, perhaps someone looking to convey a message from the Bolton’s. Friend or foe, Jon had to respond. After climbing onto one of the platforms above the gate, Jon saw a solitary figure on a brown horse. The figure was hooded and covered with a long black cloak. A shout came from the top of the castle.

"Who goes there?"

With shaking hands, the figure pulled back the hood, revealing hair kissed by fire, red as autumn leaves. As she looked up, the eyes of a woman met Jon's gray orbs. Could it be another red priestess seeking to continue Melisandre's work?

The woman's face lit up, incredulous, and for a moment, Jon saw a face he thought he had long forgotten.

Sansa.

Chapter Text

Jon hurried to the gate, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind filled with doubt. There was still the possibility that what he had seen might be a mirage, a jest by the gods who had decided to mock him with images of family.

The last he had known of her was her disappearance from King’s Landing, only to reappear as the wife of that spawn of Bolton, thus claiming Winterfell and the necessary legitimacy against any discontented northern house. Just the thought of the atrocities that monster might have inflicted on Sansa made him want to decapitate him, as he had done with his murderers, or perhaps rip out his throat as Ghost would do when accompanying him in his battle against the Thenns who had tried to take the Wall.

Finally, the gates opened, allowing the figure with reddish hair to enter. The girl dismounted, still trembling, and fixed her eyes on Jon again. Her face no longer retained the innocence of childhood, but her clear eyes and Tully fiery hair were unmistakable in Westeros.

Sansa Stark was alive and standing just a few meters away.

The girl's expression was a range of emotions. Admiration, regret, happiness, relief. When her eyes rested on the boy's head, the Stark saw fragments of white. Then, those same eyes began to moisten violently. Jon removed his mole-skin gloves and threw them to the ground. With quick steps, they embraced in a desperate hug.

Gone was the Sansa who only addressed him as 'half-brother,' imitating her lady mother's behavior. Both wolves had suffered much in their journey through this life, and there were probably more challenges ahead, but for today, now, that didn't matter.

Jon couldn't go back to the past. He couldn't save his father or his brother. He couldn't know if Arya, Bran, or Rickon were still alive, and he couldn't find his uncle Benjen beyond the Wall.

But he could protect the one in front of him. Or at least, he could try.

...

Inside the Lord Commander's quarters, both sat by the fireplace. He had changed his black armor for a dark brown and gray one, perhaps similar to what any Stark banner-man might have worn once. She wore an additional cloak, over which hung the skin of a wolf, while sipping venison soup from a wooden bowl. After a few sips, Sansa smiled slightly.

‘’It's good soup.’’ – The ghost of a smile appeared on Jon's lips, slowly turning into a genuine one. – ‘’Do you remember those liver pies Old Nan used to make?’’

‘’The ones with peas and onions, aye.’’ – Jon gazed at the fire after a pause. – ‘’We should have never left Winterfell.’’

‘’I wish I could go back to the day we left. I'd want to scream at myself, 'Don't go, you idiot.'’’

‘’We had no way of knowing.’’

The fire-kissed girl looked back at Jon, an expression of uncertainty on her face.

‘’...I've also spent time thinking about what an ass I was to you.’’

Young Snow tried to remember; he really did. Memories barely formed in his mind, turned into a layer of fine sand lifted by an indifferent breeze. Sometimes, memories slipped away from him. ‘Had it been so long since those happy years?’

‘’We were children.’’ – Perhaps years ago, he would have held a childish grudge, but none of that mattered now.

‘’I was awful, just admit it.’’

If he thought about it, that could be a …fairly adequate description. A chuckle and a sigh left his lips.

‘’You were... occasionally awful.’’

‘’Can you forgive me?’’ – He had already done so, during the times he had asked the Old Gods to see any of the Stark children again, regardless of the cost, and they had responded with silence. ‘Until now, that is.’

‘’There's nothing to forgive.’’ – But Sansa didn't stop her insistence, with a playful tone, and in the end, snow gave in to autumn. – ‘’Okay, I forgive you.’’

Sansa Stark extended her hand and raised her eyebrows, pointing her eyes towards the horn of ale Jon held in his hands, to the surprise of the northerner.

‘Had the refined Lady Sansa abandoned wine in favor of ale?’

After the first sip, he heard a clumsy cough.

‘I guess not.’

‘’One would think that after thousands of years, the Night's Watch would have learned how to make a good ale.’’

Slowly, Sansa's gaze turned to one of concern, and she began to speak almost in whispers.

‘’Where will you go?’’

That was a difficult question. Jon wanted to be in many places and, at the same time, in none. The Wall was not an option. He would likely hate anywhere in the South. And if he chose to go, it would only be with the certainty of being able to use Longclaw to pierce the throat of Walder Frey or Cersei Lannister. Perhaps his destiny should be any of the Free Cities. If only the threat of the Others did not loom over his head like a sword ready for execution, perhaps living beyond the Wall, in the True North, would be the solution to his problems.

However, he was clear about one thing: he wouldn't leave his family behind.

‘’Where will we go?’’ – Jon tried to joke, but the girl didn't seem to find it amusing. – ‘’If I don’t watch over you father’s ghost will come for me and murder me, I’m sure... And I can't stay here. Not after what happened.’’

The mere allusion to what had happened just days ago made him feel pain in his scars, and it almost seemed as if a cold breeze had passed through them.

‘’There's only one place to go. Home.’’

Young Snow had to contain a bitter laugh. Home? He was a bastard. Such a thing never existed for him. Not really.

‘’I doubt the Boltons will decide to leave Winterfell in honor of our old alliance.’’

‘’We’ll take it back from them.’’

‘We?’ – Jon began to see where this was going. More duty, more leadership, more death.

‘’I don't have an army.’’ Sansa let out a long sigh. Her gaze now inquisitive.

‘’How many wildlings have you saved?’’

‘Of course.’

‘’The Free Folk haven't come this far to serve me, Sansa. They don't kneel.’’ – The girl got up from the chair.

‘’It doesn't matter if they kneel or not. They owe you their lives. None of them are safe while the Boltons are Wardens of the North.’’ – He tried to interrupt her, but the Stark wasn't done. – ‘’Winterfell is our home. It’s ours. Arya’s, Bran’s, Rickon’s. Wherever they may be. It belongs to our family we must fight for it.’’

‘Fight? Fight!? What does she know about fighting!?’ – Now it was him who stood up, gray eyes oozing anger.

‘’I'm tired of fighting. It's all I've done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch, I've killed wildlings, I've killed men I admired. I've sacrificed my honor and broken many oaths.’’

Quickly, anger gave way to disappointment, and the words of an enemy.

‘’I fought. And I lost.’’

‘But you won’t rest. And now you must fight another battle.’ – His mind spoke on its own, bitterly.

‘’If we don't take back the North, we'll never be safe, Jon. I need you to help me. But if you don't, I'll do it myself.’’

The Wall would melt before he allowed that. Jon had spent enough time with Tormund's people to know that their gratitude and respect toward him were enough to follow him into battle, but that didn't mean he should. Enough innocent blood had stained his hands at Hardhome, and even though their numbers were by the thousands, he hadn't brought them to this side of the Wall to use them as soldiers

And yet, to the shame of the former Lord Commander, a spark of pride ignited in the depths of his frozen heart. Similar to that time when his dreams led him to proclaim himself ‘Lord of Winterfell’ and behead an image of his brother Robb. Retribution. Justice. Vengeance. The Boltons had been the enforcers of the Lannisters. It was the Bolton knives that pierced the Heart of Robb Stark and slit the throat of Catelyn Tully. Jon wanted to see their house extinct with Roose Bolton's head on a pike, Ramsay Bolton's throat hanging from Ghost's fangs, Bolton blood dripping from the edge of Longclaw. To have executed Ser Alliser Thorne in cold blood but allow the traitors who had tried to extinguish the Starks to continue breathing was a hypocrisy too great for Jon to allow.

He wasn't a Stark. He hadn't died like one. But he could defend the North as if he were. Let the northern houses know that Ned Stark fathered four sons, not three. And let winter come for House Bolton.

For the first time in her life, Sansa looked into Jon Snow's eyes and saw fire.

...

It was that dream again.

He had been here more times than he could count, one of the few solid memories at the back of his mind, though perhaps not as solid as he had anticipated. He was back in Winterfell, only the corridors and rooms were arranged…unnaturally. The castle was empty, and Jon wandered breathlessly in search of someone. He opened every curved door, walked on the cold stones tirelessly, shouting with all the might his throat allowed.

Once again, there was no answer.

Except now, for a whisper drawing near. Harmonious like a lullaby, at the same time as horrible as the creaking of thin ice beneath the feet. The whisper turned into a voice, into a command, into a call, then into a scream. His head was about to explode and the castle burned in blue flames.

He found himself in the crypts.

Every ancient King in the North seated with a direwolf at their feet and an iron sword on their lap. Again, Jon sought someone, and his steps led him to the deepest part of the crypt, where none of his dreams had allowed him to venture in. His steps sounded like a gravedigger's shovel hitting freshly dug earth, and the farther he stumbled into the black jaws, the more the cold claimed his bones. His breath showed white spectral clouds with each exhale, and now the scars on his body ached like wildfire.

One step, another step, another step.

The darkness finally engulfed him, and the sound of dirt was replaced by something soft. Torches with blue flames lit up, and the crypt floor had been changed to a bed of Winter Roses. Even deeper down the path, a silhouette writhed uncontrollably in its form. A statue, a sword, a statue again.

The silhouette burst into black and red flames, then orange and green, finally blue and gold.

Behind him, he felt a freezing wind threatening to peel the skin from his bones. As he turned, he saw twelve swords, and behind them, blue eyes pierced his soul.

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Not many years ago, if someone had told Jon Snow that he would have to venture into a wildling camp and face their elders, he would have declared them crazier than King Aerys himself. Now, a green boy no more, that wildling camp felt more like home than probably any castle south of the Neck.

In a wide circle on the camp's open ground that the Free Folk had established outside Castle Black, there were Ser Davos, Sansa, and him, along with a series of elders dressed in tanned sheepskins and, of course, Tormund. Not to mention the giant who had sat down to listen, causing Sansa to stifle a scream.

One of the wildlings spoke, his long red beard, now showing grey traces, waving in the northern wind.

"We agreed to join the fight when the time came, Crow King. But this wasn’t the deal. These are not wights or any of the Others. This is not our fight." – Tormund interceded without hesitation, his voice without a hint of mockery.

"If it weren't for him, none of us would be here now. We'd be rotting pieces of meat in the ranks of the dead. Or maybe a pile of charred bones like Mance." Some heads bowed, still in respect for the deceased King beyond the Wall.

"Do you remember Mance's camp, Tormund? It stretched to the horizon. And look at us now. Look at what's left of us. If that disappears, we’re gone. Dozens of tribes, hundreds of generations. As if we had never been at all. The end of the Free Folk."

There was truth in the man's words, but the rest of the truth could not be ignored.

"That's what will happen if we lose." – Silence took the circle, and all eyes turned to Snow. – "The Boltons, the Karstarks, and the Umbers know you're here. They know your women and children are here. And they will come for you, as their ancestors have done for generations. I know you don't want to come to Winterfell with me, that maybe I shouldn't ask you, and that this wasn't our deal. But I need you all to defeat them, and you need to defeat them to survive. And that makes it our battle."

The silence lingered, and with a long sigh, Tormund began to walk around the congregation, with a somber expression uncharacteristic of him.

"The crows killed him. Because he spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerner would. He died for us. If we're not willing to do the same for him, we're cowards." – The listeners straightened their posture. – "And if that's what we are, then maybe the Free Folk deserve their end."

The ground shook as the silent giant rose too. The wildlings who had wanted to respond to Tormund fell silent once more.

‘Gods.’ – Jon thought, as the air tried to abandon him unconsciously. The giant's eyes showed intelligence behind the frozen strands of hair that concealed them.

"Snow." Was all he said. The earth shook once more as the giant left, his pace calm.

As if the Old Gods themselves had spoken, the elders began to nod. And the one who had spoken against the situation approached the once Lord Commander of the shadows on the Wall and extended his hand. The handshake signaled a new alliance between northerners, wildlings, and giants, as perhaps, if old Nan's tales were true, Bran the Builder had done millennia ago. The circle dispersed quickly, and only Giantsbane remained.

"Will they really fight, Tormund?" The characteristic mocking smile returned once more to the redhead's face.

"We aren't like yer clever southerners. When we say we are doing something, we do it."

…

…

…

As soon as Jon closed his eyes, another pair opened at the same time.

Ghost’s eyes.

When his dreams didn't drag him to the dark crypts, his mind and that of the direwolf became one.

The white wolf had departed half a day ago towards the woods surrounding the wildlings' camp, likely with hunting in mind, not just for sustenance but for the thrill of satisfying its instincts, the thrill of the hunt. Jon could often feel it through their inexplicable bond, something that, if he let himself get distracted, would even sway his own emotions.

The most challenging to combat, his bloodlust.

Ever since he had been betrayed at the Wall and returned, Ghost had been restless. The animal had proven to be tremendously intelligent—would it comprehend the concept of revenge? Jon Snow was certain of it, but with his betrayers now reduced to ash in the winter wind, the direwolf alleviated his frustrations on unsuspecting animals, hidden beneath the cloak of night and, true to his name, making no sound at all.

Hundreds of different scents assaulted his nose like a turbulent sea, yet his mind was not overwhelmed but able to select and track any he wished. His paws moved with precision and speed. His ears could discern even the slightest rustling of branches moved by the breeze. His eyes could see with absolute clarity in what would be complete darkness for any human, thanks to the clouds veiling the moon.

The sense of freedom that came with surpassing the limitations of a human body couldn't be matched by anything in the world, he was certain of that too.

Ghost's snout caught the unmistakable musk of a boar. A male, all alone. As he approached the source of the scent, Jon was careful with his step, mindful not to make any branches creak or displace any stones. When the prey was almost within sight, the scent of the animal shifted to a very distinct one.

Fear.

There was something inexplicable in the feeling of knowing with certainty that something feared you. People could avoid showing fear to each other through discipline and practice. An external expression of fear wasn't always noticeable, and no one could hear the other's heartbeat or read their thoughts. But in Ghost's body, the activation of the boar's survival instincts was as obvious as blood in the snow.

The pursuit began.

Ghost followed his prey at a distance for a while. His goal wasn't to catch it, no, but to wear it down, corner it.

Finally, they reached an area where a series of rugged rocks formed a crescent shape. The animal was trapped, its hindquarters against the rocks, breathing heavily, contemplating an attack.

Jon avoided a direct frontal assault, ensuring he wouldn't face the prey's terribly sharp tusks head-on. He decided to gradually circle the animal, ruby eyes always connected with its pools of brown. With no other option, the boar charged at the wolf, still clumsy from lack of breath. Maintaining distance, Jon began to take note of the condition of the ground beneath his paws each time he leapt backward.

After the fifth charge, he noticed it. A depression in the terrain hidden by the snow. The showdown was over before it began.

The last thrust of the boar made its front legs sink into the hole, branches and snow collapsing under its weight.

The wolf simply feinted to the right and leaped to the left.

The fangs of the white direwolf tasted the blood, warm and sweet like no other.

…

…

…

Among all the ravens they had sent to northern houses, only one had responded so far, willing to accept them.

House Mormont.

The house of bears, from which the former Lord Commander before Jon, Jeor Mormont, had originated. The Old Bear had chosen him as a steward, gifted him with his Valyrian steel sword, Longclaw, and had taught him much about leadership until his death in a mutiny by fellow Night's Watch brothers. It almost seemed as if betrayal was a tradition as ancient as defending the Realms of Men from the Others.

Once he, Sansa, and Ser Davos had arrived at the fortress, they were met by Lady Lyanna Mormont, the heir to Bear Island, along with two advisors.

Lyanna was barely 10 years old, but the girl's eyes displayed the coldness of the North and the hardness of steel.

After introductions and mentioning the Old Bear and the ancient King in the North, it seemed that the young She-Bear's patience had run out.

"Enough small talk. Why have you come?"

"I have come with my sister to request the allegiance of House Mormont."

The silence was deafening. The young girl leaned in to hear the whispers of her advisors.

"As far as I understand, you are a Snow. Your sister is a Bolton, and formerly a Lannister."

‘The North remembers... what it wants.’ – Jon’s mind spoke, bitterly, once again.

"I did what I had to do to survive, my Lady," Sansa intervened. "I am a Stark, and I will always be a Stark."

"If you say so."

Truly, the Old Gods had exhausted their reserve of ice when they made the Lady of House Mormont. The girl continued.

"I understand that you have not come only to claim my alligeance but also any men that can fight."

"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to remain as the Lord of Winterfell, my lady. You must understand—"

The girl didn't even wait a second to interrupt him.

"What I understand is that I am responsible for Bear Island and for every person living on it. So why should I spend a man's life in someone else’s war?"

'Because the real war won't distinguish between any of us. Ramsay Bolton is just the beginning.' - Jon thought, but he didn't say a word. He could defend himself with a sword, but with words, it was more complicated, especially considering he was in a verbal skirmish with a girl who possessed a pride equal to perhaps Maegor Targaryen at his peak.

"If it pleases my Lady, I understand," Davos interceded from the shadows. "I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth. It's a recently made house, in case you want to ask your Maester about it."

"And how, Ser Davos of House Seaworth, do you understand?"

"Perhaps because you never imagined reaching the position you're in, my lady. To have the responsibility of protecting so many people at such a young age. I was a crabber, then a smuggler, and now I find myself talking to the leader of a great house in times of war, but I'm here because this is not someone else's war. It is our war."

The girl nodded, her expression slightly softer.

"You may continue, Ser Davos."

"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made Jon his steward. He chose him as a successor because he knew he had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life for it. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow understand that the real war is not between some petty houses. It is between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my Lady, the dead are coming."

Lyanna's eyes turned steel.

"Is that true?"

"Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost."

The icy blue eyes flooded Jon's mind, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"With the Boltons in Winterfell, the North is divided, and a divided North will have no chance against the Others. You want to protect your people, I understand. But there is no hiding. We must fight. Together."

'Thank the Old Gods, R'hllor, and the Seven for Ser Davos Seaworth.'

"House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years. It will not break faith today."

Jon took a step forward.

"Thank you, my Lady. Truly. How many men can we expect?"

"Sixty-two."

'Sixty-two.' Silence filled the hall.

"House Mormont is a small but proud house. Each of our men fights with the strength of ten."

"If they are half as fierce as their Lady, the Boltons are doomed."

Indeed.

…

…

…

Lord Glover had received them but rejected them all the same. His house had suffered great losses after the end of the War of the Five Kings. The faith he had placed in Robb Stark was shattered when he discarded the promise made to House Frey, leading to the death of Lord Glover's brother and son, among many others. He appreciated the help he received from Stannis when the Ironborn attacked his stronghold, but with Stannis dead, Glover had no reason to believe in them.

A beggar bastard and a beggar daughter of a Warden. That’s all they were now, it seemed. And as it appeared, swearing allegiance is done with much more confidence when it's easy to do so.

Jon, his companions, the thousands of wildlings, and the sixty-two men from Bear Island had set out on their march toward Winterfell. They hadn't faced the constant blizzards that Stannis had endured, but the path through the snow had taken days. Finally, from an elevated position, they established the last camp. When the spawn of Bolton learned of it, he sent a raven, exhibiting the arrogance befitting one who had lost a significant portion of his forces facing the Baratheon army. The letter presented itself with red ink, sealed with pink wax in the form of an upside-down flayed man.

'I pity you, bastard of the traitor known as Ned Stark. It seems you seek an useless endeavor, just as you false king did. For your audacity, I should flay you and tear your bastard heart out, but the legitimate Warden of the North must set an example, and I am a merciful man. Besides, I know you bring with you my dear wife, Sansa, whom I terribly miss.

Let us meet tomorrow in front of the walls of Winterfell, kneel before me, bastard, and swear me loyalty. The wildlings you brought will not survive, of course, but you can return to the Castle Black with your head on your shoulders. I demand your answer at once.

Ramsay Bolton. Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.'

Jon would accept the meeting. Of course. He wanted to remember well the face of the man he would encounter on the battlefield. He wanted to be sure it was the right person when he plunged his sword into his neck. He wanted to know whose heart he was about to rip out. The man without skin withers when winter comes. But the wolf, bastard or not, survives.

They met on a wide plain from which the walls of what was once their home could almost be seen. 

Jon arrived on horseback along with Ghost. Behind him, Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund, Lyanna Mormont, and two more people from the Free Folk accompanied him.

He watched as five black specks approached, gradually turning into five men on horseback, their trot proud and steady. Once face to face, the former Lord Commander saw in detail who he was facing.

Eyes as clear as dirty ice, characteristic of the Boltons, glanced at him from head to toe. The man's face showed sores on his cheeks, and his skin resembled that of a deceased person who had been locked in the ice cells beneath the Wall. And, of course, his expression displayed a chillingly proud smile. He wore a dark blue armor with a chestplate that showed a red crucified figure.

Just by looking at him, Jon's blood boiled so much that he could swear his armor almost caught fire, and he felt in his bond with Ghost how the direwolf only desired an order from him to tear the man's throat. Ramsay Bolton spoke with a voice that sounded like the pour of fermented goat's milk.

"It's a pleasure, bastard. I'm glad to see you brought my wonderful wife, as I asked in my letter. I have certainly missed my beloved Lady Bolton. Now, kneel before me and declare me the legitimate Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will allow you to return to the Night's Watch, and I will forgive these Lords and Ladies for betraying my house. You don't have the men, bastard. Not the horses, not Winterfell. Why bring so many souls to a certain massacre? Kneel before me, and all will be forgotten, for I am a man of mercy."

The muscles of Jon's face contracted into a smile; the wolf's ruby eyes remained fixed on the usurper.

"You are right. There doesn't have to be a massacre. Thousands of men don't have to die, only one us, Bolton. Let's settle this the old way. You, against me."

The wolf's smile met the flayed man's.

"I've heard many stories about you, bastard. People talk about you in the North. The best swordsman who ever walked. Capable of winning a duel even against death. Perhaps you are that good, maybe not. I don't know if I would beat you, but I know my army can beat yours. I have six thousand men in my service. What do you have? Half... of wildlings?"

Their numbers were not as disparate as the man suggested. More from the Free Folk had escaped from Hardhome than seemed at first glance, and the Usurper of Winterfell had lost, among others, all his Frey forces in the battle against Stannis Baratheon.

"I've heard stories about you too. A skilled man... against chained men. A brave man... when facing unarmed people. I don't know if your men will be willing to fight for you when they hear that you wouldn't be willing to fight for them."

Bolton's smile widened even more before fading like a lit candle in a blizzard.

"You are good... very good. But careful now, my patience has a limit. Now you will kneel and—"

Jon was about to unsheathe Longclaw when the She-Wolf of the Starks decided to speak; her words almost turned into arrows that obscured the sky.

"Tomorrow is the day you will die, Lord Bolton. Sleep well."

There was nothing left to say. Both groups turned away to their respective places; in their next encounter, only steel, blood, and snow would speak in their place. And if Jon fell, at least this time he had the certainty that there was no Red Witch nearby to bring him back. That was all the freedom he needed.

Tomorrow, at dawn, winter would come for House Bolton once and for all, and he swore it by the memory of every Stark dwelling in the crypts.

And for his mother, wherever she may be.

Chapter Text

JON

In a large tent at the center of the camp, Jon, Ser Davos, Sansa, and Tormund discuss around a big table. On it, a rough map of the North has been painted, with bone pieces symbolizing the two forces that will clash in the battle.

Dark gray eyes had been staring at the table for so long that they were starting to ache.

"If Ramsay were smart, he would stay in Winterfell. He'd only have to wait for reinforcements while we wouldn't have the necessary tools for a siege, and we'd also be facing the arrival of winter."

Ser Davos shook his head. "He will come out. The entire North is watching this battle. If he shows weakness, the northern houses will stop fearing him, and fear has been his first weapon since he declared himself Warden."

"And that's not his only weakness. There are still northerners loyal to the Starks who joined him to protect their families. If they see the battle going in our favor, they'll lay down their arms."

Tormund shook his head and clicked his tongue, possibly with a bitter memory in his mind. "His soldiers don't scare me; it's his horses. I've seen what mounted knights can do to us." He nodded towards the old man. "You and Stannis cut through us like piss in the snow."

"We can dig trenches with spears on our flanks, so they can't attack in a double envelop formation."

The red-haired man didn't even blink.

"A pincer movement."

Giantsbane still didn't respond, perhaps all that fermented goat's milk had finally taken its toll on the mind of the 'lover of bears.'

"They won't be able to attack us from the sides."

"Fine."

‘Seven hells.’

"We must be patient." Ser Davos pointed to the table. "If we let him charge towards us and take the center, we'll be able to surround him."

Tormund looked incredulously at Jon. "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?"

"Of course not. But I wanted to anger him. Make him make a mistake, charge against us for attacking his pride. Unfortunately, I know the mind of a bastard."

The old man sighed. "We should get some sleep." Tormund agreed. "Rest now, Jon Snow. We need you sharp tomorrow."

Quickly, everyone left the tent. Everyone except Sansa. A horn with ale seemed more appealing than ever to Jon Snow, and his throat felt dry.

"So, is that it? A conversation with the enemy is enough to draw your battle plans."

This was going to be another difficult conversation, of which Jon was tired.

"Aye."

"Then you sit here with your advisers and devise plans to defeat someone you don't know. I've lived with him. I know how he thinks. Have you considered that maybe I have some insight?"

"At one point, you suggested using the thousands of people who trusted me to save them as soldiers, and here I am, here we are. Don't accuse me now of ignoring your words."

The girl's eyes opened imperceptibly, trying to hide her surprise, but she kept her composure.

"He won't fall into your trap; he's the one that sets them. He plays with people physically and mentally. And he's better than you because he's been doing it all his life."

‘Better?’ – A thud was heard on the table, and the map trembled.

"What have I done all my life, Sansa? Play with broomsticks?" – He could even feel Ghost getting angry in their bond. "I've fought beyond the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. I've defended the Wall against worse than Ramsay Bolton. And with fewer men."

"You. Don't. Know. Him."

‘And I don't know you anymore.’ – Jon's guts spoke again.

"Then speak, Sansa. What should we do differently?"

The girl took a step back.

"I know nothing about battle strategies, just... don't do what he wants you to do."

If that was a joke, Jon didn't find it funny.

"Good advice, aye. I think that was a bit obvious, Sansa."

"If you had asked for my advice, I would have advised you not to attack Winterfell until we had more men. Is that a bit obvious too?"

"And when will we have more men?! We've begged at every house that has received us! The blackfish won't save us! We're lucky to even have this number of men!"

"It's not enough, Jon."

"Of course it's not enough, but it's what we have! And if we wait for winter to come upon us, we'll end up like Stannis." – His breath was heavy, the branches of weirwood had returned inside him, and bloody leaves threatened to come out. In fact, they had been luckier than expected, considering that a small group of men from House Hornwood had joined them. – "Battles have been won against worse odds. I've seen it."

The blue gaze turned moist. For a second, he saw the eyes of a frightened girl, perhaps, deep down, that's all she was.

"If Ramsay wins, I won't go back there alive. Do you understand?" The image of Sansa taking her own life while he died in the mud flashed briefly in the darkest corner of his mind.

That wouldn't happen.

"I won't let him touch you, not one hair. I swore to protect you."

The she-wolf turned and began to walk away.

"You can't protect me. No one can protect anyone."

...

There was still an hour until dawn, but he didn't seem able to sleep. Nor did he want to, as he couldn't risk being taken to the crypts. The dream had stalled once it reached the bed of Winter Roses, and he saw the statue in flames. He had heard his father say once that the mausoleum under Winterfell contained ancient magic, inherited from the ancient Kings in the North. Was it true? Or worse, was there something in those depths waiting for him? If he didn't meet the Gods tomorrow, perhaps he should descend to the resting place of the Starks, if only to pay his respects.

After finishing a horn of ale, the young Snow stood up in his tent, and his eyes settled on the fire from one of the large candelabras that illuminated his tent, which had been given by the Mormonts.

The fire twisted incessantly, often forming three large peaks that struggled to escape the object. At one point, the flame resembled a trident, in which rubies were stirred by the storm, or perhaps three heads of a fierce animal wrapped in flames. The proximity to the fire made the scar on his heart ache, and it began to ooze heat as if the wound were still open.

Perhaps he had gone mad because, for a split second, he saw amethyst eyes staring at him.

Footsteps were heard near the entrance of the tent, and Jon's fingers brushed against the hilt of Longclaw, always by his side. A red-haired figure entered the place.

"It’s pretty late already, Sansa. I don't feel like arguing again."

"You should be sleeping."

Apparently, the one who had been raised to be the future Lady of Winterfell was not accustomed to being rejected by a bastard. Jon's dark gray eyes turned away from the fiery dance.

"Old habit from when it was my turn to guard the top of the Wall, I suppose."

His gaze returned to the fire as he looked away from Sansa, this time, he saw nothing, and he was thankful.

"I know you might not want to answer, but how... how was it?" – Now clear eyes also contemplated the flames. –  "Did you see something? Them?"

He would have liked to say some words of encouragement. To say that Robb, Ned, and even Catelyn welcomed him with open arms. That the Old Gods welcomed them when their time came.

Sansa was no longer a child, and Jon would do her a disservice if he lied to her. He saw nothing, and if he saw anything, he didn't remember.

"I saw nothing. I just felt the cold. Then... there was no after. Then I woke up."

The fire crackled once more.

"Once, on the Wall, when you were Lord Commander, did you have to ally with people you didn't want to, who you might have preferred to kill, for a greater good?"

The question took the young Snow by surprise. Did Sansa harbor the same resentment toward the Free Folk as houses like the Umbers or the Karstarks?

"Many times. In the Night's Watch, there were people who hated me, yet the chain of command sometimes forced me to obey them, sometimes to fight alongside them. I had to live with the Free Folk for a long time to avoid death; at first, they were just savages to me, but over time, I understood that they were as human as I am. They just had the misfortune to be born on the other side of a Wall." – Ygritte's face manifested in Jon's mind, and for a moment, a nostalgic smile wanted to settle on his lips, but it didn't.

'The dead need no lovers,' – Tormund had said, and he was right. Now there was only moving forward.

"Whether I like it or not, the gods have led me to leadership; the least I can do is protect those under my command, even if it means doing things I don't want to do. Why do you ask this?"

"It was nothing. We never had enough time to talk about... it, that’s all. Rest."

The girl left the tent quickly and without giving any other explanation. As if she could smell it, the lie in her words did not go unnoticed by Jon. Was she plotting something? Did it matter anymore?

Jon lowered his head. And in silence, he tried to remember if he had seen anything while he was... dead. Nothing came to his mind.

Jon looked at the fire again.

…

…

…

Dawn arrived. And the soldiers marched.

In a wide field, both armies stood, and just an hour before the battle, it had started snowing. In front of Winterfell, the Bolton army was positioned, employing a horseshoe formation with Karstark and Bolton infantry at the front, while behind them were spearmen and soldiers with pikes and Bolton shields. On the sides, rows of archers extended the army's width. Thousands of banners of the usurpers of Winterfell eagerly awaited the movements of the others.

On the other side of the field, Jon's troops formed a wider horseshoe formation, placing Mormonts on horseback in the center, hundreds of Hornwood with some horses at the ends, and the thousands of Free Folk filling the gap between both formations. Their placement wasn't the most disciplined, but it would have to do. In front of the Mormonts and just behind Jon were Davos, Tormund, and a wooden structure a few feet long and wide with rough wooden wheels on the sides. On the structure were the best archers from each group, barely twenty archers, but once both armies clashed, if the archers stayed behind, they would be useless as the arrows would fall on their own troops without any possible reinforcement. Ghost stood beside Jon's horse. He had tried through their bond to make the direwolf leave. The magnificent creature didn't have to risk dying in a stupid battle; it had been loyal since he found it, and the animal deserved to know freedom, to form a pack. Everything he could never do. The direwolf had steadfastly refused. If this was the end for the outcasts of the litter, it would be together.

In the snowy plain, a metallic sound echoed throughout its expanse.

Valyrian steel being unsheathed. He threw the sheath to the ground, knowing that the chances of the sword returning to its scabbard were slim.

Longclaw felt like it was burning in Jon's fingers.

A war cry.

Jon Snow charged forward.

He arrived ahead of everyone at the clash, and he saw how his sword was the only thing standing between him and the Karstark cavalry. When the animals collided, he plunged Longclaw into the chest of an enemy, and both went flying as wood, steel, and flesh met on the battlefield. The impact against the ground knocked the air out of his lungs and made his head spin, even though he landed against a body. The damn Karstark had slightly wounded Jon's leg in the impact, but he forced himself not to limp through the pain.

Young Snow leaned backward to dodge the swing of a mounted enemy. With quick turns, he saw how the cavalry on both sides continued crashing into each other, causing a cacophony of human and animal crashes alike. Another knight tried the same, but Jon had already seen that move. A spin and a cut of the Valyrian steel made the leg and half the guts of the mounted man jump to the ground, staining the half-Stark's legs with mud as half a body fell into the mud. He saw how a Bolton-armored man fell backward, and ignoring the sharp pain in his leg again, he ran to bury his sword in the man's chest. Another one who saw this happen came running with his sword raised, ready for a downward strike. Jon parried the blow with both hands on his hilt, sending the enemy sword flying. With a horizontal cut to the abdomen, Jon Snow's hands felt the warmth of enemy blood.

A rain of arrows whistled violently, reaching soldiers from both sides. Ghost pulled on their bond, letting him know he was alive and checking if Jon was too. For a moment, he could feel the direwolf's stress, but also its bloodlust. Even in such a horrendous situation, it must feel good to unleash one’s instincts.

Before the enemy fell backward, Jon charged with his shoulder against his body, seeing another man running to stab him. This one stopped for a brief moment as he saw his companion's body crash headfirst, and the former Lord Commander took advantage of his confusion to run his sword through his throat. The momentum generated by the rush of the second made both lifeless bodies fall onto Jon, and he used them as a momentary cloak as arrows fell around him. Crimson liquid splattered forcefully on the side of his armor, luckily, this time wasn’t his.

He dodged another swing from a mounted soldier, and when he passed by, he saw another Bolton running toward him with a short sword and shield in his hands. After avoiding the man's sword, Jon saw an opening under his shield that he exploited with a cut to the liver. The enemy tried to react but slammed one of his knees to the ground, and young Snow leaped behind him to slash his neck using his bastard sword. In his peripheral vision, he saw a Hornwood crossing swords with a Karstark, and after a large stride, the half-Stark buried his steel in the back of the former bannerman. It hadn't been an honorable attack, but amid the black guts of death, honor had been buried long ago.

Another rain of arrows pierced the snow.

The Hornwood who had stood in front of Jon received a bolt in the neck and another in the head, and his body collapsed. Jon advanced with deep, heavy breaths towards two Boltons who were momentarily celebrating the death of a Free Folk member. With a swing, one man's skull split in half, and the other could barely react before another slash of Longclaw opened his neck like a log split in half. Another enemy soldier approached with anger in his eyes, wielding a one-handed axe in his right hand. Both blades locked together, but Jon headbutted the man enough to release his sword and drew a small dagger, thrusting it through the center of the man's neck. Another Bolton came closer as he picked up his sword, but a horse with the Mormont banner collided head-on, knocking him down. Without time to waste, Jon advanced and buried his newly retrieved sword in the enemy's face, again and again, until his face was just a bloody soup.

The smell of mud, water, and blood on his face was intoxicating. Another volley of arrows pulled him out of his thoughts. Struggling through the snowfall that was turning into a blizzard, he saw a fragment of the field on his right, where the archers on the wooden platform threw away their bows and drew swords and axes alike. The trunks of the platform exploded in all directions, revealing with a fierce roar Wun Wun, the last giant and king of his kind, carrying a long oak trunk with large nails embedded in it. The roar made horses shriek, and many enemies stopped with frozen blood and terror in their faces, something the allies of the Free Folk quickly took advantage of.

Jon continued to advance across the battlefield as he saw a Karstark approaching him, pointing his sword at him, seeking a thrust. The blood-soaked half-wolf parried to his right, and taking advantage of the man's slip, he dealt a downward blow, cutting his back and leaving it open like a reddish gate. In the mud, he saw a bloodied Mormont shield, and his instincts made him grab it as a man with a muddy face approached, wielding two axes that he tilted to the same side. He dodged the first axe and blocked the second with Longclaw. With his left arm free, he delivered two shield blows to the man's face and a slash of his sword, now free, drew a crimson necklace on the Bolton's neck. Reflexively, he let go of the shield and grabbed his sword with both hands again, as maneuvering with only one hand made his forearm burn.

Another volley of arrows whistled in his ears; that one had been close. Jon Snow cut another neck. Pierced another heart. Tore open another stomach. Blood splattered his armor like handfuls of snow thrown against stone. His arms, his legs, his chest burned like dragonfire; his eyes, irritated from the cold, begged for rest.

There was no respite, only death.

Jon shouted with all his might as he completely pierced the chest of another enemy. He quickly pulled out his sword as another person approached. This one delivered two cuts that he easily blocked, after the second, he realized that the Bolton had advanced his left leg too much, and after a feint, Jon cut his thigh. When the enemy knelt to the ground, Jon buried Longclaw completely in his jaw and, levering it, completely opened the deceased's skull.

Gods, truly Valyrian steel was sharp. Those had been the words of Qhorin Halfhand before he died. Or at least, that's how his memory painted them. Once again, a rain of arrows pierced through the snow. Jon saw a Free Folk warrior and his enemy falling to the ground; before he could help, the wildling already had the bloody jugular of the man between his teeth, but a dagger on his chest. His back collided with something, and as he turned with his sword raised, he found himself face to face with a bloodied Tormund, wielding a curved sword in his left hand and a short axe in the other. Both stopped for a fraction of a second.

'Crow!'

'Torm-!'

They both moved out of each other's way. Jon swung his sword with all his might at another enemy soldier, who tried to dodge the blow but saw more than half of his side open, as Jon stretched his arms fully at the last second. At his back, he heard flesh being torn and Tormund's grotesque laughter, and he prayed to the gods that it meant his triumph. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Wun Wun again, swinging his trunk from side to side, and in his other hand, the headless and armless body of what seemed to be an enemy soldier. The giant's robust chest had numerous arrows and a spear stuck in his shoulder, and he was visibly exhausted, but that didn't stop his blows or roars.

By just an inch, Jon dodged a blade and caught the hands of the enemy with the guard of his sword. Now both were side by side with their weapons pointing in the same direction. Remembering what he had seen before, his teeth opened by instinct, and he found a gap in the enemy's armor, sinking his bite into the exposed flesh of his neck. Hot blood stained his entire beard, and he spat with disgust as the man now writhed in pain on the ground. The young Snow, who now must have looked more like a rabid wolf than a man, silenced his screams with the edge that once belonged to Jeor Mormont.

The sounds of heavy footsteps began to be heard above the shouts, metal, and horses. When Jon looked around, he saw that a hundred people with large shields painted with an upside-down flayed man and long pikes were advancing quickly, trying to surround them. He quickly turned to his back, trying to find Tormund, and found a large pile of corpses impaled by arrows. If the shield formation closed, they would be trapped.

Jon ran as fast as his legs would allow in the direction where the shields began to close, cutting one soldier after another, while in a desperate and heartbreaking scream, he tried to command his troops.

‘'Rally to me! Push to the left!'’

His vision seemed to mimic the tunnel under the Wall, which he had crossed so many times. By his side, some Free Folk heard his cries and tried to warn the others. With each step, more shields were set up, and the gap on the left of the formation became smaller and smaller, but by the sound of footsteps in the mud and snow, he could assure that more people were joining his lateral advance.

The edge of Longclaw was now a sunset red in its bearer's vision. The pommel of the white wolf was now a shapeless beast, coated in mud, bathed in black.

He cut, bled, beheaded, cut down, butchered.

A wrong step from the enemy was enough to get another corpse on the ground.

Another kill, another kill, another kill.

The shield wall closed more. More. More.

At the last moment, like a dark meteor, a wooden fragment accompanied by a guttural cry landed with an impossible force in the shield formation. Wun Wun's mace had been thrown in an attempt by its bearer to create an opening, and thanks to that, a stream of Northern soldiers had found their way through. Jon's accompanying soldiers forced the spearmen to turn in the opposite direction, creating gaps in their formation that could be exploited. Amidst the chaos, he saw Ghost leaping between shields and pikes, tearing off a head with his teeth as he passed, and decided to follow the direwolf. He cleaved a spear with a sword strike and, while pushing aside the heavy shield with one hand, Longclaw found its mark. As Jon cut down two more spearmen, he could see in the crowd that Tormund was caught in the macabre dance of armies, and a rough-looking man had started repeatedly headbutting the wildling kissed by fire.

Jon swiftly turned on his heels, and navigating through the corpses, he tried to approach his friend, but it was impossible. The snow had turned into a blizzard, the mud was too deep, blood adorned every fiber of his being, and his armor grew heavier. A shove pushed him against a shield and his own men, who threatened to trample him for attempting to break free from the pit of shields and pikes.

The space closed more and more; Jon could barely breathe, and Tormund was only a few feet away. Jon Snow managed to get half his body above their ranks, looking at the sky, searching for an answer from the gods.

The answer came in the form of a horn.

In the distance, a gray and brown wave descended unnoticed until it was too late. They were undoubtedly cavalry. If they were enemies, this was the end of everything, but who could it be? Some Frey camp sent from the Twins? A Lannister army? Sellswords?

The tide crashed into the Bolton spearmen first, just as Stannis had demolished the Free Folk at the Wall; these cavalry soldiers were aiding them with the same tactic. The eagle and crescent moon on blue banners could be seen. The Knights of the Vale, belonging to House Arryn, had arrived. Confusion quickly spread through the enemy lines, and Jon saw how Tormund Giantsbane took advantage of this to plunge his sword into his enemy's eye and then tear the vein from his neck with a bite. The redhead shouted to the sky in a sign of victory. One by one, the enemies were being annihilated in a pincer movement, now caught between two armies, one without the fatigue of battle and with its numbers intact, the other thirsty for blood and revenge.

Jon continued cutting down men, some of whom barely had the will to fight. But that was no excuse, not when they stood between him and Ramsay Bolton.

Ramsay Bolton.

He gazed at a small hill revealed by the sudden cessation of the snow. Three figures were riding towards the fortress of Winterfell. In the open field, he saw Wun Wun, even more wounded than before, and Tormund running alongside him. They were closely trailing the mounted figures and were too far from Jon; he wouldn't be able to reach them on foot before they retreated to the fortress.

He felt a tug on his bond with Ghost. The direwolf appeared on his left, with a large cut near his left eye and another on the right side. The white wolf lowered his head, presenting his back at Jon's waist level. As if pushed by magic, Jon mounted the animal with a jump.

The pursuit began.

...

Finally, they reached the gates of Winterfell, but Jon had no time to observe the old castle or dwell on memories of home. Wun Wun placed his arrow-covered arms in front of his face as he ran and, like a battering ram, shattered and opened the gates. Tormund, along with some Free Folk and Mormont men, joined to kill the few men inside, and in a few seconds, the main courtyard was empty and silent.

Jon entered the gates on the back of Ghost, slowly, with his gaze fixed on his target. Everyone saw as a black shadow took Winterfell on the back of a white ghost. The giant fell to his knees, shouted one last time, in victory and rage, and collapsed, his large body next to a shield depicting a bear on a green background. Among the hair that still hid the eyes of the last giant, Jon Snow saw a smile.

"You suggested a man-to-man combat, didn't you?" Ramsay Bolton spoke with a smirk. "I've changed my mind. I think it's a wonderful idea."

Jon barely heard his voice. He only heard the blood dripping from the edge of Longclaw.

Ramsay loaded his bow with an arrow and aimed quickly. The half-Stark crouched down and picked up the shield just in time to block the first arrow. He walked confidently, without any hurry, with a clear goal, like death itself did.

Another arrow hit the shield. Ramsay Bolton's fingers began to tremble. His back was now against a destroyed straw cart.

Jon's steps continued.

The shield stopped the third arrow. A fourth one slipped from Ramsay Bolton's fingers. When he managed to catch it, it was too late. A shield strike, a punch to the face. Shield and Longclaw clattered on the ground.

After all the death, betrayal, and pain the Boltons had inflicted on his family, everything ended here.

With Bolton on the muddy ground, Jon Snow clenched his right fist and began to strike him like a blacksmith striking metal.

One, and another, and another, and another, and another.

He felt the monster's teeth starting to dislodge, his knuckles burned, but it didn't matter.

Another blow, another, another.

One of his eyes, colored as dirty ice and now tainted with crimson, was no longer visible; it was now a pool of red. A scream erupted from Jon's depths, and his blows accelerated until he lost count.

"Jon!"

A voice snapped him out of his trance.

He looked at the still-living though battered spawn of Bolton, who grinned toothlessly, then at his bloodied fist. Sansa had arrived.

As much as he would have liked to do it himself, there was someone who deserved to swing the sword more than him.

He stood up, carefully grasped Longclaw by the midpoint of the blade, and extended the hilt toward Ned Stark's daughter.

The girl's confused look vanished quickly. She approached him, took the sword with clumsy, unpracticed fingers. A stab and a gurgling of blood were heard shortly after.

The banner of the flayed man fell to the cold mud, and the wolf rose once again.

...

...

...

Days had passed since the battle. The news of the outcome of the so-called 'Battle of the Bastards' spread through the North in flocks of ravens, and all the lords of the northern houses came to pledge allegiance to the rightful winners of Winterfell.

Lord Petyr Baelish was also present, now acting as regent in the Vale of Arryn until Robin Arryn, its heir, was old enough to take the position. This leech had managed to climb the social order from the lowest to where he was now through deceit, lies, and betrayal, and now, with the North in his debt, only the gods knew what his next move would be.

It had been Sansa who had called for aid from the knights of the Vale, behind Jon's back, and they had answered. Much blood of the Free Folk, Mormonts, and Hornwoods could have been spared. The mere thought of that notion made his blood boil like wildfire, and to avoid a confrontation he might regret, he had avoided Lady Catelyn's daughter during all those days. Instead, he took care of burying the fallen and expressing his gratitude to the elders of the Free Folk. The conversation with Sansa would come, and it would be an ugly one, but for now, it was better to show unity to the northern lords. Also, though it was hard to admit, the Arryn cavalry charge had prevented more deaths in an unresolved conflict and had ended the battle.

Now, in Winterfell's great hall, he and Sansa presided over the place, while the rest of the North debated long-standing issues, now devoid of significance, tainted by the pride of tradition.

"I refuse to have the knights of the Vale allied with a group of invaders." accused a tall man with graying hair, wearing armor engraved with an eagle. Tormund stood up to respond.

"We didn't invade. We were invited."

"Not by me." the Arryn man sat back, angered. This dispute needed to end now. The bulk of the army, these 'invaders', had as much merit in the retaking of Winterfell as any other Northerner.

"The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won because of it. I remember my father, Ned Stark, saying that true friends are found on the battlefield."

Another man stood up.

"The Boltons have been defeated. The war is over. Winter has come; we should go home and wait for the storm to pass."

‘That storm will end us all.’

"The war is not over. And I assure you, friend, the enemy will not wait for the storm to pass. The enemy brings the storm. The dead, the White Walkers, the Others. It doesn't matter what name tradition has given them. They come for all of us."

Perhaps in the South, the old legends were just tales to scare children, but in the North, words mattered, the old ones more than any. Murmurs and disagreements once again filled the hall. Young Lyanna Stark stood up, drawing everyone's gaze, and spoke, addressing a man with white hair and a long beard.

"Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly, but you refused the call to arms." She looked at the bald Lord Glover. "Your house swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, and in its hour of greatest need, you refused the call." She now looked at the one who had spoken earlier. "And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton, still, you refused the call. But House Mormont remembers. The North remembers." The she-bear now looked into Jon's eyes. "We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark."

He heard Sansa's agitated breathing, but that breath abruptly stumbled upon the words that followed.

"I don't care if he's a bastard. Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He is my king, from this day until his last day."

‘By the Gods...’

Lord Manderly stood up.

"Lady Mormont speaks harshly and truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I never thought I’d see another king in my lifetime. I didn't want to join your cause because I didn't want to see more Manderlys die for nothing. But I was wrong." – The old man drew his sword, then knelt. – "Jon Snow has avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf. The King in the North."

The hall erupted with some voices of approval; now, Lord Glover was standing.

"I didn't fight by your side on the battlefield. I will regret it until my last day. A man can only admit when he is wrong and ask for forgiveness."

Once again, loyalty was sworn when it was easy to do so, and that silently angered the once Lord Commander. But he was not Ramsay Bolton, and he wouldn't lead with fear. He was also not Alliser Thorne to deny an ally out of sheer pride, not with winter upon them. This time, he would make an exception.

"And a man can accept his apology." – Lord Glover drew his sword and knelt too.

"There will soon be more battles to fight. House Glover will fight alongside House Stark, as it has for a thousand years. And I will fight alongside Jon Snow. The King in the North!"

‘The bastard of Winterfell.’ - Wildings joined their voices too.

"The King in the North!"

‘The Lord Commander.’ - Ser Davos stood up, his sword on his hand.

"The King in the North!"

‘Jon Snow.’

"The King in the North!"

Chapter Text

JON

The snow had stopped a few hours ago, although the storms had become more frequent. These were tough times for the North, after so many wars in succession, so much death. The current King in the North was doing his best to adjust grain and food distributions. Slowly but surely, the North was stabilizing. Alys Karstark and Ned Umber now led Karhold and Last Hearth, as Lady and Lord of their respective houses. Both had sworn allegiance to Jon. Alys, ashamed of how her uncle Arnolf Karstark had followed Ramsay Bolton into battle, accepted to bend the knee and was married to Sigorn, the current Magnar of Thenn. On the other hand, Ned Umber had recognized Jon as king with the aim of honoring his namesake, inspired by Ned Stark.

Sansa had been against that decision, and she had almost questioned him in front of the other Northern Lords. However, Jon had quickly nipped that in the bud, arguing that the ultimate goal of eradicating House Bolton was a united North against the Others. If he blamed two heirs for the sins of their uncles or grandfathers, expelling them from their ancestral homes, the cycle of hatred would continue, and the North would kill itself, paving the way for the true dead.

Taxes had been reduced for House Mormont and House Hornwood, as a momentary thank you for their assistance. Once winter passed, perhaps some sanctions would be imposed on the houses that favored the Boltons, but for now, the absence of strong negative reprisals would ensure a much-needed peace.

During the last few weeks, no raven had arrived from the South. Nothing, as if everything that wasn't the North had evaporated. Members of the Free Folk who didn't want to head to Karhold were also granted the home of the extinct House Bolton, The Dreadfort, now renamed as The Wildfort. Being close to Hornwood and Last Hearth, if there was any kind of revolt or discontent for any reason, they would have nearby allies. Meanwhile, Jon had overseen the training of the Free Folk in weapons and provided maesters capable of sharing knowledge with them in healing and agriculture.

He had spent the entire morning practicing until he was exhausted. The Free Folk didn't have refined sword techniques, but their stamina was unending, they had courage and strength, and that was more than enough of a foundation. Now, in the main courtyard of Winterfell, a group of twelve was practicing what they had learned that morning, while Jon walked towards one of the balconies. Tormund didn't take long to join him.

"I see you also like to play Crow Commander here, or should I say King Crow," . The red-haired man said with a satisfied smile.

"Someone has to teach them. The Free Folk can't live another hundred years tearing out jugulars only with their teeth."

"What can I say, Crow? We are good at killing; that's why we have survived for so long."

''Aye,'' – the dark gray eyes turned away from the courtyard. – ''Have you thought about what I proposed?''

''Ha! I have, and my answer remains no. You are my friend, Jon Snow. Of all of us. But we are not kneelers like the rest of you. Even though it would be tempting for people to have to call me 'Lord Giantsbane, Lord of the Wildfort' among my other well-deserved titles.''

''Magnar Sigorn founded House Thenn; you will always have that right too, my friend.''

''Maybe I'll reconsider if you find a Northern lady who isn't afraid of the ‘Mead-King of Ruddy Hall’.''

Jon smiled at the outlandish idea, just as two Free Folk threw their wooden swords and began to hit each other, rolling in the dirt. When he was about to go to separate the fight, Tormund slapped him on the chest and spoke with a mocking laugh.

''Please, allow me, Your Grace.''

The kissed by fire descended to the training ground, shouting at his comrades if anyone had the courage to face him and show what a little crow had taught them.

Seeing that the situation might be under control, Jon changed his clothes, donning his gray gambeson, his dark gray Stark armor, and a metal gorget with two wolves engraved on its middle section. Then he walked slowly to the place he always went before the end of the morning.

The godswood.

Even within the fortress walls, three acres of woods solemnly surrounded the great Weirwood tree, with its pale trunk and crimson leaves, and its characteristic face with bleeding eyes in the middle of the trunk. The ghostly tree was surrounded by two large pools of water, now frozen by the winter cold. Since the defeat of the Boltons, Jon had gone to this sacred place every day to honor the Old Gods, as he remembered seeing his father do once. He knew that in the meantime, Ghost was also in the godswood, hunting but always with one of his crimson eyes on his companion, who was equally attentive to their bond.

He sat on one of the knots in the tree roots, on the edge of the small frozen side, and unsheathed Longclaw from its new scabbard. He used the sturdy tip of the sword to create a sizable hole on the edge and, after removing his gloves and placing them on his right side, began to collect the cold water with his bare hand like a bowl. Carefully, he poured the water along the length of the Valyrian steel blade, and polished It with a whetstone, just as Ned had done with Ice, the Stark family sword.

A sword that, if the gods willed it, would one day return to its original form and, if possible, into the hands of a Northerner worthy of it.

Soft steps crossed the door, treading on the snow delicately. She followed the dirt path, now covered in snow, between the two water pools until she stood in front of the seated Jon, who was now drying the sword with his cloak.

''You know, when I came in, I almost thought I saw father sitting here.''

Jon lifted his head to meet two clear eyes and hair like weirwood leaves. This time, he could do so without a problem, as he had decided to start tying the upper part of his hair in a bun, while the lower part covered his nape and neck. In this way, it was easier for him to ignore the white hair fragments he had gained after his... resurrection.

''And I almost thought it was Lady Catelyn speaking to me.''

The girl chose to ignore the ambivalent nature of the comment with a shy smile.

''Jon... we need to talk.''

The King in the North sighed heavily.

''There was time to talk, and you deliberately chose not to.''

''You've been avoiding me since the battle. You said we needed a united North if we were to-‘’

Jon sheathed Longclaw and stood up, facing his half-sister.

''The only opportunities we've had to talk, you've either tried to challenge me in front of the Northern Lords or to share whispers with that leech Littlefinger.''

Blue Tully eyes narrowed.

''The Karstarks and the Umbers fought against you. The only loyalty you rewarded was that of those sav-… the Free Folk.''

''The Mormonts and the Hornwoods have also been rewarded, and you know it. Tormund and his people have been loyal to me from the beginning. They protected my body when...! – Jon couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud at that moment. – ‘’And you let me go on an almost suicidal attack without telling me that more reinforcements could come to our aid.''

''I didn't know if Littlefinger would come to our aid! You yourself said that sometimes we had to ally with people we hated for a greater good. If you had known that we could count on a larger number of men, you would have changed your strategy. Ramsay would have seen it and would have withdrawn to Winterfell. We couldn't have won a siege.''

''The fight was not yet decided! His shield formation had failed. And we still had a giant and the trenches under the snow!''

''I saved your life!''

''And I fought for you! Me and the people who had trusted me to save them from a much worse threat! To regain your home! Because you are my family, even though for you, I have always been your 'half-brother.''' – Jon had also done it for other reasons this time, Revenge. Against the Boltons, against the Night's Watch, against those who had filled their mouths vilifying the bastard of Winterfell. Where were they all now? Most of them were buried meters underground. But of course, he wouldn't admit that out loud. Not in front of Sansa, at least. – ''I know you've suffered horrible things, and you've had to learn to do horrible acts yourself to survive. But the North has chosen me to lead them. And I plan to do so for as long as I can.''

''You could have rejected it.''

''And I could have died on the battlefield, making way for the Queen in the North, couldn't I?''

The girl looked at him as if she had seen a corpse rising from its grave.

''I would never do such a thing. Even less after what our entire family has suffered; the last thing I want is to see more Stark blood shed. I... I can't explain to you why I didn't tell you. I was scared, ashamed, and a part of me was ambitious too. But I'm glad you're here. I do. And if you never forgive me, at least I want you to-‘’

Sansa put her hand under her cloak, just as a guard from Winterfell, named Orren, entered through the gate, breathing heavily.

''I-I apologize for interrupting, my King, Lady Sansa, I bring urgent news.'' – Jon straightened up and took a step in front of Sansa.

''Speak, Orren.''

''A man requests an audience with the King in the North. He claims to be an old friend of your father. He says-’’

''My father earned the friendship of many people; most of them died accompanying my brother to war. Has he said what his name is?''

''No, Your Grace, but his armor bears a brooch showing the lizard-lion, house Reed's sigil.''

...

...

Jon approached the large gates of Winterfell's outer wall and ordered them to be opened. Behind him were four soldiers with prepared bows, including Orren. Although the North had relatively well received the change of power in the territory, one could never be cautious enough, as neither the Guest's Right nor a wedding seemed to guarantee one's safety anymore.

A hooded figure entered the courtyard on horseback, covered in a thick but worn cloak of mud-green color. Seeing the guards, he dismounted with a heavy snort. Once clear of the horse, he pulled back his hood, revealing the face of a man who had not yet entered his worst years, but whose countenance showed the fatigue of battles and responsibility. He wore an eye patch made entirely of worn leather, and his dark brown hair, short but with some gray strands at the temples, was visible. Beneath the thick cloak, fastened by a brooch depicting a green lizard-lion, a mix of loose pieces of armor, bones, and worn green leather was exposed. On his left hip, a thick stick with stone spikes tied to its end, and on the right, a sword whose scabbard was made of some animal's hide.

''Your grace,'' – said the man with a half-bow.

Jon only knew of one crannogman that could call himself a friend of Eddard Stark, and that was Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, the only person to survive the battle of the Tower of Joy besides his father. Claiming to be that person was not a jest he might find funny in any way. Slowly, he rested his hand on the hilt of Longclaw.

''My guards told me an old friend of my father requested my presence. You may speak your reasons.''

''Right, forgive me, Your Grace. I've spent a great deal of time traveling in solitude, and my manners when meeting royalty betray me. I bring valuable information not only for you but for the Stark family in general, and I would like to share it in private.''

Unfortunately for the supposed frog-eater, that would not be enough.

''As you already know, the North is still recovering from the battles and power changes that have occurred in it. One can never be cautious enough when winter is upon us. Is there any proof you can provide here and now that what you say is true?''

''I have it, Your Grace.'' – The man began searching his bag, and Jon and his guards tensed their bows. – ''Besides the scar that runs through my chest, caused by Dawn, the sword once wielded by Arthur Dayne, at the Tower of Joy, I have this.''

The man pulled out a scroll wrapped with a black string and sealed with gray wax. With a quick motion, he tossed it to the King in the North, and as if the wind carried it on purpose, the paper landed directly in his hands.

''This seal is...''

''The direwolf seal, and behind it, the last words written by Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. Words addressed to Jon Snow, and signed by Catelyn Tully, Edmure Tully, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister, Greatjon Umber, and Galbart Glover.''

Jon ordered the guards to lower their bows.

...

...

In one of the castle's halls, four figures sat around a table: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Ser Davos Seaworth, and the newcomer, Howland Reed. The latter was offered rabbit stew and ale, as well as a hot bath. The crannogman postponed the latter, saying that mud on the clothes had never bothered his people, and talking was of higher priority.

''Lord Reed, this is Ser Davos Seaworth, my most trusted advisor. –''The man from Flea Bottom lowered his head in a sign of respect.'' – And this is my sister Sansa, Lady of Winterfell.''

''I had no doubt about that, Your Grace. Any Riverlands inhabitant can recognize a wolf with Tully features.'' – The girl responded with a half-smile and spoke.

''My brother said you summoned us because you say you bring something important for the Starks, and if you really were a loyal friend to my father, there are questions you'll have to answer, my Lord.''

The mud-covered man took a sip from his ale horn and nodded.

''That's right, my Lady. I'll start by telling you where my role in this matter begins. I began by holding any Lannister trying to cross the Neck, by order of Robb Stark. While leading my men in the bog surrounding Greywater Watch, I sent my children Jojen and Meera to renew our vows of loyalty to the King in the North, which they did. Soon after, I encountered her, the matriarch of Bear Island, Maege Mormont, who had been tasked with finding me on Robb's orders.'' –The man coughed and took another sip of the horn. – ''That was when the Red Wedding happened, and the sacking of Winterfell...''

Ser Davos, being a father too, spoke with solemn voice.

''Then your children...''

''They... survived Winterfell and, if I've interpreted their messages correctly, managed to escape with Bran and Rickon Stark.''

Jon's breath stirred, and Sansa's eyes widened.

''But, how is that possible?''

''We crannogmen have our... methods.'' – The man dressed in green cleared his throat again. – ''With so many enemies of the Starks on the rise, I left Lady Maege in Greywater Watch under guard, and I set out on my way to find any of your siblings. Between Last Hearth and The Gift, I began to hear rumors of a small child accompanied by a large direwolf, who had been abandoned on the island of Skagos.''

The air escaped Jon's lungs once more, his heart constricting. Skagos had become known for its legends of unicorns and... cannibals.

"I managed to reach the island, but a fierce snowstorm wrecked my boat on the shore. That's when I lost this." – Howland pointed to his eye covered by the leather patch. –  "I found other survivors from a previous shipwreck, and we tried to venture into the island in search of natives, but the terrain became too rugged at a certain point. It wasn't until a ship bound for Oldtown saw us that we managed to return, leaving us at Widow's Watch. That's when I learned about everything that had happened in the North since then." – The man reached into his satchel for the parchment roll. "This could be all the legacy that’s left of House Stark, Your Grace."

Jon's head was spinning. If there was a chance that either of his two brothers were still alive, they had to be found. But without any news from the South, the threat of the Others in the North, and Littlefinger's machinations in Winterfell, any move could be fatal. Sansa was quick to intervene.

"If you demand the Manderlys to send a search party by sea, they must respond." – Unintentionally, a sigh escaped Jon's lips.

"Every household in the North needs wood to make fire. The Maesters have announced that this will be the coldest winter in hundreds of years. I won't deprive thousands of homes of warmth to build a fleet to such an unexplored place as Skagos based on rumors. As much as it pains me not to." – Young Snow turned to the green-clad man. – "Do you believe it's possible? That Rickon, that Bran are alive?"

The man emptied his horn quickly. – "The blood of the First Men runs through the veins of my children, and through the veins of your brothers, as well as the blood of wolves. I trust the Old Gods watch over them, and I trust in their abilities. No one would believe a Snow could be King in the North or that a wolf pup would survive in a nest of lions, eagles, and hounds. Yet here you are."

It was hard to argue with that reasoning, and although Sansa was not satisfied, such a large-scale search was not possible at the moment.

‘But then again, She never was.’

Moreover, Howland Reed's story reminded Jon of Sam, who the last time he saw him was heading to Oldtown, seeking to train as a Maester and gather more information on how to defeat the Others.

"Now, Your Grace, I think the time has come." –  Howland Reed placed the parchment on the table. –  "With us present as witnesses, you must read this."

Jon's hands didn't tremble, but perhaps his thoughts did. These were the last written words of Robb, his rival as a child, the one who had always been his brother. They had promised to see each other again when he wore the black of the Night's Watch, and Robb was on his way to becoming the Warden of the North. Breaking that seal would be like accepting that he was dead, that he was gone.

But a King had to fulfill his duty. From one King to another, from one brother to another.

Under the watchful eyes of Davos, Sansa, and Lord Reed, he broke the seal and began to read.

‘In view of the ominous fate that has befallen my father, my brothers, and my sisters, if I, Robb Stark of Winterfell, son of Lord Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark-Tully, were to die in the battlefield without offspring or heir, name the next person who shares my blood as my heir: Jon Snow.

With this letter, and the power conferred upon me by the lords of the Northern houses as King in the North, I release my half-brother Jon Snow from his oath to the Night's Watch, and legitimize him as the heir, naming him Jon Stark and delegating to him the territories of the North and the Riverlands. I show here my signature and my personal seal, along with the signatures of the witnesses of this will.

 Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident.

Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.

Greatjon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth.

Jason Mallister, Lord of Seagard.

Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte.

Catelyn Stark-Tully, Lady of Winterfell.

Robb Stark, King in the North .’

Jon couldn't breathe, though he tried with all his might not to show it. His body was leaning against one of the walls by the blazing fireplace, and his eyes scanned the words over and over again; the voices in the room seemed distant.

"Jon, Jon, what does it say?"

Summoning more strength than it took to wield a sword against the skeletal figure of a White Walker, he read the letter aloud without his voice trembling. Sansa's already pale face paled even more.

"Ominous fate? Robb thought I was dead too?"

Ser Davos cleared his throat. – "Perhaps my memory fails me, my Lady, but during that time, your marriage, albeit forced, to Tyrion Lannister had already taken place."

"It would have been the only way to prevent the Lannisters from extending their control to Winterfell."

One of the things Jon remembered most vividly, even after coming back to life, was that since he was a child, he had dreamed of being Jon Stark and becoming the Lord of Winterfell. One day, while playing with Robb as children, pretending he was Aemon the Dragonknight, Robb reminded him that he could never be the Lord of his home because his lady mother said so. Once, Stannis Baratheon had tempted him with legitimizing him and going to war, but Jon had remained faithful to his oath and to the Night's Watch.

Now, with the title he bore on his shoulders, was a name what he aspired to? Did it make sense? Probably, king or not, to the rest of the lords, he would always be a Snow, a bastard. He had used that title as armor, so its use would no longer hurt him. Getting rid of it was like discarding an armor that had stopped more blows than he could probably remember.

There was also a political component. When the time came, he would have to gather not only Northern lords but also the Riverlands and the mountain clans of the North. Would they respond to the call of a Snow better than that of a Stark? Probably for the mountain clans, he would simply be 'The Jon', although it was true that historically, such clans only united under the call of a Stark.

And lastly, now as a King, he would have to consider concepts like an heir.

An heir.

Often, those around him had reminded him of the significance of forming a family, of having a wife, a child. Uncle Benjen, Maester Aemon... Both had tried to make him see reason about one thing: duty to an oath should not be confronted with the love of a family. For a king, there was a duty to form a family, whether there was love or not.

‘And who would want to marry a bastard?’

'The dead need no lovers, Jon Snow.'

Had he wanted to marry anyone since then?

Maybe that was his destiny too. If he managed to defeat the Others. A loveless marriage. Duty to his people. At least, he could raise his child, and he would do it the best way he knew and could. With the values of Lord Stark.

‘I could name him Robb...’ –  Jon felt that he had lived this before.

"Did you say that Maege Mormont, Lyanna's mother, is still alive?"

"With certainty. On her way to Greywater Watch, she was intercepted by Frey men. That old she-bear is hard to kill, even if she arrived with wounds that wouldn't allow her to return to Bear Island for a while."

Sansa raised one of her eyebrows, inquisitive.

"And couldn't she have sent a raven, letting her daughter know that she had survived?"

"My Lady speaks sense. Greywater Watch's greatest advantage is its difficulty to be found. To many, it's a moving fortress. A raven could betray our position to the Freys or the Lannisters, so we chose not to use them if we didn't know if Lady Mormont would survive her injuries."

Ser Davos, a family man, couldn't help but show a smile.

"Young Lyanna has proven to be a strong and just leader, as well as a determined ally. I'm glad she can reunite with her mother, if the Gods allow it."

The letter and Lord Reed's testimony were crucial. If Maege Mormont, who was listed as a witness to the will, could also vouch for it herself, then the decision was final.

Jon would be Jon Stark.

"Sansa, Lord Reed. Could you leave me alone with Ser Davos for a moment?"

The crannogman stood after bowing his head, while the she-wolf stood up with an indescribable look, half surprise, perhaps half disappointment. Once they were alone in the room, Jon stood up and began to walk back and forth in the room, under the watchful gaze of the old sailor.

"What's going on in your head, lad?"

The weirwood branches extended from his lungs to his throat.

"All my life, I've wanted to be a Stark. Because I wanted to stop being my father's shame, to be recognized as a brother to my brothers. And now it's within my reach because they thought there was no one else left. My father isn't here, probably not even my brothers."

"Maybe it's because you've grown beyond the need for a name. I'm not talking about titles, but as a man."

"Bastardy is not something that can be easily forgotten in Westeros. They call the battle with Ramsay 'The Battle of the Bastards', not ‘the Battle of Winterfell' or the 'Snow-Bolton Battle.' There will be lords who consider me unworthy. So maybe I would be threatening the hard-earned peace and unity in the North out of selfishness."

Ser Davos stood up.

"You did not join the Night's Watch in pursuit of power or glory but to honor your father. Even as just a steward, you led the charge and defended the Wall. You did not seek to become Lord Commander, yet that mantle was bestowed upon you. As a commander, you've been the first to unite Northmen and Free Folk in centuries, saving thousands of lives at the risk of your own standing. You rallied untrained men and humble houses, reclaiming your home and that of your forebears. And with the name of a bastard, you were chosen to be a King. It seems to me that you have become a clear testament that a man's 'worth' is not dictated by his name but by his deeds."

There was truth in Davos Seaworth's words, and Jon knew it. Throughout his life, he had harbored ambitions but forced himself time and again to suppress them. Enduring Lady Catelyn's words, never asking to be legitimated, refraining from joining Robb in the War of the Five Kings, parting from Ygritte, rejecting Stannis's offer. The aspirations of a boy who believed he only deserved to stand in the shadows, to never speak of his own name.

But the boy died, bled out in the frost. Though not precisely, the words of Maester Aemon had come to pass. Winter was upon them, and the man must be born.

Jon told Sansa and Howland Reed to return to the room, then summoned the raven keeper. There were letters to send to many lords.

...

...

...

He dreamed once more.

Yet, this did not seem like his usual dream. Neither Winterfell nor its crypts were in Jon's sight. He stood in a strange cave with cracks in the ceiling allowing beams of sunlight to get in. The walls were covered in white branches, nodes dripping red sap that looked like fresh blood. The red drops fell rhythmically, their echoing imitating the slow pace of a solemn lullaby.

His legs carried him through the cave, and his steps sounded wet, yet nothing rested on the floor, only dancing shadows. After countless steps, he reached an arch, resembling a chamber. At the end, amidst lights and shadows, he saw a throne made of white branches, buried in a mound of skulls.

Wet footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned, trying to reach for the hilt of his sword, but Longclaw was not there. A cadaverous figure surrounded by blood and feathers stood, almost real. Its form was entirely dark, except for a rift where one of its eyes should have been. The shadow spoke with a drowned voice.

"It has never been there, and yet, it has waited for a long time. The other must be for her. From your hand it comes, to your hand it returns."

The shadow turned into a familiar-looking statue.

Jon wanted to utter a word. No sound emerged from his mouth.

...

He awoke from the dream in cold sweats, although his body burned to the touch. Awkwardly, he threw off the heavy blankets from his bed and staggered to the nearest table where a bucket of water stood. After splashing his face, he regained his breath heavily, his eyes frenetically fixating on the scars on his torso.

A few knocks sounded on the door. Jon dressed in loose black trousers and donned a dark brown shirt under his gray gambeson. Maintaining a facade of calmness, he opened the door. It was Orren, wearing a pale expression as if he had barely dodged death itself.

"I hope I did not wake you, my King. Two ravens have arrived with missives from the South, almost at the same time."

What could these missives bear that troubled the young Northerner so much?

"Are you well, Orren? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

The trembling hands of the young man held the two parchment scrolls and extended them to the King in the North.

"It’s the seals, my King. Both have come from different directions, but both have the seal of the three-headed dragon."

Jon took the scrolls, and a shiver that felt like the winds of winter run through his spine.

Chapter Text

JON

‘To the King in the North, Jon Snow,

Word has reached my ears of the wars in the North, how your people have suffered and endured the tyranny of a now-extinct house until someone with a just cause could reclaim power. I seek the same that you have recently gained. My father fell in battle against a usurper. My mother and sister fell victim to a heinous crime when there was no one to defend them. I was fortunate enough to be saved, but another was sacrificed in my stead, a burden that haunts me still. I reach out to you seeking an alliance, to overthrow the legacy of said usurper and reclaim the Iron Throne for my house and blood.

I am Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of my name. I seek vengeance against Cersei Lannister, daughter of Tywin. I seek to avenge the memory of my sister Rhaenys, my mother Elia Martell, and my father Rhaegar. The Valyrian sword of the Conqueror, Blackfyre, has been entrusted to me. I possess the training and teachings to be a king. I am supported by the wielder of Dawn, Ser Gerold Dayne, and I have the backing of the Golden Company and the vassal houses of Storm's End, as I have secured the alliance of legitimized Edric Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands. The allies of the legitimate king of Westeros grow each day.

Bend the knee, and you shall be legitimized as Jon Stark, named Warden of the North. Furthermore, you can bring winter to the house that has caused so much pain to our families.

Aegon VI of House Targaryen, the Reborn, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the Iron Throne. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm.’

Jon placed the parchment on the table and broke the next seal of the three-headed dragon.

‘To Jon Snow, King in the North,

After years in exile, I depart from the Bay of Dragons in Essos to return to what was once my home, Westeros, and the place of my birth, Dragonstone. And I see that tragedy has befallen my home. Political machinations, hunger, and war have brought death at the hands of leaders who should protect their people.

My advisors spoke to me of Jon Snow. A person also wrapped in tragedy, who has moved forward in the face of adversities and has proven to be a just leader.

I am the first person to bring dragons into the world in almost 150 years, yet I do not wish to be queen of the ashes. I wish to break the wheel of inequality and injustice that has plagued these lands for so many years. That is why I propose an alliance, Jon Snow, so that Westeros can thrive with people who hold power not for the sake of power itself but to protect those under their command.

Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, and Rightful Queen to the Seven Kingdoms.’

Both parchment fragments now rested on the table, unlike the thoughts of the Northerner, which waged a swift war within.

During his time at the Wall, he had heard rumors about the ‘Dragon Queen’. A woman of ethereal appearance with white hair who had brought into the world a legion of dragons. Though the members of the Night's Watch did not use those exact words, it was common for them to invent such things to ward off boredom. Now, according to her words, those dragons were real. Perhaps it was due to the things he had seen beyond the Wall or his bond with Ghost, but the notion didn't seem strange, though perhaps terrifying.

What he knew nothing about was this 'Aegon the Reborn.' The son of Rhaegar and Elia had died during the sack of King's Landing, and the sword Blackfyre had been lost decades ago without a trace. Moreover, King Robert was supposed to have extinguished the house of the Dragon, and now a Baratheon he had never heard of was supporting a Targaryen he had also never heard of, along with the Golden Company.

If there were two dragons hunting the Lannisters and the Iron Throne, wouldn't it be normal for them to marry to unite their armies and keep the blood of their houses pure, as they had done for centuries?

Given that both claimed legitimacy to the throne, they might not desire to share the seat.

Aerys Targaryen had burned his uncle Brandon and his grandfather Rickard alive, Rhaegar Targaryen had supposedly abducted and raped his aunt Lyanna. Lord Stark never spoke much of any of them, but especially, he never spoke of his sister, except once when he mentioned Arya's striking resemblance to her.

Gods, how he missed the little Arya with tousled hair and honest eyes.

He forced himself to think again about the ordeal of the three-headed dragon house, and now his confusion danced with some anger and indignation. Both claimants to the throne were seeking his alliance and loyalty when their family had turned members of his into ashes and tragedy?

But there was a truth he could not deny: the Others.

Though it was said that the Wall had been built with magic, perhaps the spectral beings also possessed magic that could destroy the colossal construction. Destroying them was necessary for the safety and survival of humanity, of everything that was alive. And for that, they needed armies, they needed weapons like the one found at the Fist of the First Men, and they needed fire.

And Daenerys Targaryen possessed dragons. Creatures that were more fire than flesh.

With the recent news of his legitimization, would the Northern lords accept him heading to the island of Dragonstone to try to convince a Targaryen queen to fight for them against death? They would likely deem him a Foolish King. Someone who would be burned alive as soon as he set foot on their shores.

And perhaps they were right.

Any decision was too important to be taken lightly. And he was now a king, but a king who forgets and ignores his advisors is not one fit to lead.

He gathered both parchments and walked out the door of his chambers, in search of Ser Davos and Sansa. He might have wished for the counsel of the elusive Howland Reed, but the man had hurried back to Greywater Watch, as his land needed its lord, and he had to ensure safe passage for the recovered Maege Mormont.

...

The three were now in one of the castle's halls. Jon had read the missives for both, and he had seen their faces pale. Sansa leaned more towards indignation, and Davos towards terror. The old man was the first to speak.

"I thought we were living in times of change, but this... Even though the arrival of dragons might not be so strange considering what you've seen on the other side of the Wall, eh?"

"Years ago, I would have thought she was exaggerating, but now... aye, I believe that dragons have returned to the world."

Sansa threw Aegon's missive once again against the table.

"What I don't understand is how the son of Elia and Rhaegar could have escaped. Everyone knows what the Mountain did during the Sack. And they ask for the Starks' help when our father fought against the Mad King who burned Lord Rickard and our father's brother, Brandon."

The King in the North sighed once more.

"Aegon claims to have Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel sword. And between the Golden Company and the houses of the Stormlands, he seems to have the largest army, in addition to what seems to be the new 'Sword of the Morning’. Daenerys doesn't focus so much on the military aspect in her missive, but she must have the Dothraki with her and a fleet if she has managed to reach Dragonstone."

"And she may have sellswords or slave soldiers in her ranks, says she's leaving from the 'Bay of Dragons,' probably the old 'Slaver’s Bay,' probably." - Deduced the Seaworth house's sailor. - "Without a doubt, both aspire to destroy the Lannisters, and they have a very good chance of doing so. Although I still don't understand why they haven't tried an alliance between them first; after all, a marriage between nephew and aunt would not be unusual in the Targaryen dynasty."

"You are not thinking of bending the knee to either of them and going to fight their battles, Do you?" - The redhead attacked.

He would not bend the knee, not even to save his life. If Mance Rayder was willing to die unbowed but he wasn't, then he wasn't worthy to call the Free Folk his friends. But, if Daenerys threatened to turn the North into a mere pile of corpses and fire, he might be forced to. Just as Torrhen Stark had done in the face of Aegon the Conqueror. He had earned the epithet 'The King who Knelt,' yes, but he had saved the lives of thousands of Northerners.

Deeds were recounted throughout history with a peculiar morality. It seemed that the implications mattered less than the act itself.

"I will not betray the trust the Northern people have placed in me by bending the knee to another. But we must make a decision and take action. The threat of the dead in the North gains strength every day, and at some point, power in the South will change hands. Perhaps we won’t be in a position to ask if we do not give something before that happens."

"Then what do you propose? Going yourself with the hope of simply negotiating? You could try to send messengers or simply respond with a raven."

"We have to try to convince someone who has just set foot in Westeros that farther north there are creatures without bodies wielding ice swords and reanimating the dead. And that our only hope is for them to fight with us. It must be told by someone who has seen them and has the authority to speak to a king or queen face to face." – Davos spoke with reason. – "Perhaps addressing the person who supposedly already has contact with some kind of magic is our best chance."

Now it was Sansa who sighed. The conversation was truly draining the life force of the three without mercy.

‘’It wouldn’t be surprising if people disapprove you favoring a Queen instead of a King. The Dance of Dragons originated from that same choice and, to be fair, it doesn’t seem like the people of Westeros has changed their minds in that regard.’’

Jon shrugged while closing his eyes. – ‘’Nobody thought they would name a bastard their King, yet here we are. I think they’ll reconsider once we face the dead and they have dragons to protect them.’’

‘That is, if she sides with us.’ – His thoughts reminded him.

"So, the King in the North sides with Daenerys Targaryen. You surely may have a better chance."

"What do you mean exactly, Sansa?" – Jon raised an eyebrow. His sister's unflinching gaze met dark gray orbs.

"I meant when bringing up the conversation about magic of course, your grace."

Although he wasn't exactly convinced, Jon decided to let the matter rest.

"Ser Davos, are the ships still ready to sail?"

The fleet that had remained from Stannis had passed to House Seaworth, although they needed to be careful. If Aegon Targaryen had named a Baratheon heir, the one called Edric, there might still be loyalists of the stag house in the fleet.

"The storms surely hit them like the rest of the coast, but they are ready in White Harbor, yes."

"We will take one; if the negotiation does not go as expected, or storms engulf us, fewer men will lose their lives. Besides, I doubt that Dragonstone is willing to harbor an entire fleet."

"I still don't like the idea of the King in the North leaving the North, Jon. Your people also need you here."

The young Snow-turned-Stark rose to wander around the room, overcome by his restlessness.

"I am willing to face dragonfire for my people. I cannot be a king who hides behind servants to negotiate, just as I do not hide behind walls to protect my people."

He instructed Ser Davos to write a message to his captains and mentally noted that he needed to find a raven keeper and calculate food and water for the journey. Someone would take care of the North in his stead, and the decision had only one option, both Starks knew. But first, Jon had to deal with a craven bird that lingered in Winterfell, overstaying his welcome.

…

Jon walked quickly, Longclaw still sheathed in hand, searching with quick eyes for the slender figure of Littlefinger somewhere in the main courtyard. He had seen a raven arrive at the tower, and it was very likely that it was for him, as he needed to give instructions to young Robin, even from Winterfell.

Jon's intuition was correct. He saw him walking at a leisurely pace, an air of superiority about him, over the snowy terrain. In just a few steps, he caught up with the acting guardian of the Vale of Arryn.

"Lord Baelish! Good to find you here. I see a raven has arrived; I hope it brings good news."

The man looked at him, managing to hide his surprise.

"It does, Your Grace, just details about the management of supplies, young Robin Arryn is becoming a more capable leader every day. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

Jon stood in front of the schemer, knuckles white from holding the hilt of Longclaw.

"I was just heading to pay respects in the crypts, would you mind accompanying me?"

In theory, no one who did not have Stark blood was allowed to descend to the resting place of the old Kings of Winter. But it was a place where he could ensure no one heard or saw their conversation.

Plus, there was only one way out.

The two descended into the dark jaws of the crypts, step after step until the voices from the courtyard were just a distant memory. The daylight was replaced by the flickering glow of torches. After a few moments of uncomfortable and sepulchral silence, both men stopped next to the statue of Eddard Stark, and Jon rested his two hands on the wolf pommel of his Valyrian steel blade. Littlefinger was the first to speak, with a self-satisfied smile.

"I was the one who managed to deliver his bones back here, to his home. Your father and I had our differences, but we both loved Lady Catelyn very much."

"Is that so?"

The schemer turned his head, still smiling.

"I was expecting a thank you."

The King in the North locked eyes with the false eagle.

"No one spoke up to prevent his murder in King's Landing. Bones cannot hear our thanks."

Now Baelish's body also pointed at Jon.

"I meant for the battle, of course. We saved you from being massacred by the Boltons, although perhaps you should thank your sister for that."

Jon's anger began to rise at such an accusation. But he had to be clever, and so he waited.

"It was a miracle what happened. Your appointment as King in the North. Our last hope against death, isn't it?"

"Miracle is... one way to put it." – Steps were heard from the darkness. – "Soon I will have to embark on a campaign. And I am relieved to know that my sister will stay here and lead in my stead."

The eyes of the schemer widened, eager for a better opportunity to manipulate the Lady of Winterfell.

"Tell me, Lord Baelish, how much do you know about us, the Starks?"

They heard footsteps again.

"To which aspect do you refer, your gra-"

"To our ancient history. To a characteristic trait of me and my siblings."

Littlefinger took a step back, cautious.

"Honor. Honesty. Courage." – Another detail jumped into the supposed Lord's mind. – "And..."

"The direwolves."

More steps in the darkness. Complete silence. From the corner of his eye, Petyr Baelish saw two hungry rubies gleaming with rage, and he felt a chill down his spine.

"Our history speaks of ice in our veins, along with the blood of wolves. The direwolf represents our ancestral power as kings of winter. They are the eyes and ears of our ancestors. Mine. They were wary of outsiders." – Ghost's snout emerged from the shadows, baring his gums, and sharp knives reflected the torchlight. – "Besides, accidents happen. Servants speak of a ghostly figure roaming the castle. It would be a shame if, in my absence, you got so distracted in taking care of the Vale men that something inexplicable happened to you, don't you think? Although, of course, they are just tales and legends."

Lord Baelish wanted to respond, but Ghost took another step forward, his eyes shining brighter in the underground. The Lord's voice was interrupted for a moment, and he nodded with his eternal smug smile, though this time feigned. A voice was heard from the depths of the crypt.

"Lord Baelish! A new raven has arrived from the Vale."

With a forced half-bow and a 'Your grace', he began to retreat in haste.

"Oh, and Lord Baelish." – Jon called him one last time. – "Lay a finger on my sister, and I will kill you myself."

The false eagle left the depths, and Ghost approached his guardian. Jon stroked his head between the ears, then ran his fingers over one of the wolf's scars.

"The South is too warm for you, boy, and you'll have to take care of Sansa while I'm away, can you do me that favor?"

Jon felt that his direwolf didn't like the idea of being so far away from him, but he snorted, determined to take care of the red-haired she-wolf from snakes and birds of prey.

"Thank you." – He noted through their bond that the wolf was hungry, and his senses were heightened as he hadn't allowed him to kill the schemer, so he let him return to the Godswood to quell his instincts.

As if summoned by an invisible force, the Stark turned his head to the left, his eyes gazing down the narrow path toward the end of the crypts. He briefly recalled the dreams he had been having for some time. He always found himself there, in that same place, always moving towards the depths of darkness.

Would there be something for him there?

But above all, he remembered the last one. He had never seen that cave, nor the shadowy figure with the fractured eye.

‘It has been there for a long time. From your hand it goes, to your hand it returns.’

He had probably gone mad. But, even if it was to silence his mind, he had to try and discover it.

He grabbed one of the torches and walked aimlessly, venturing into the depths. The torches on the walls were weaker here, so the visibility of the floor had almost disappeared. Finally, he reached the last statue. A woman with a long face, dressed in a gown that reached the floor, but with armor pauldrons on her shoulders.

Jon merely recognized the statue.

Lyanna Stark.

The woman his father never spoke of. He must have loved her a lot, as her memory always saddened the expressions of his Lord father. She sat, with a wolf at her feet and a sword across her lap, but the hands of the sculpture were closed over her stomach, and between them, a Winter Rose rested, not withered, but petrified by the passage of time.

‘It has been there for a long time.’

Undoubtedly, the statue had been. And since Ned himself had left the place, the effigy of his sister had been neglected. Although not by much, Jon could start by renewing the rose.

Upon touching it, one of the petals turned out to be sharp and cold as a thin ice blade, pricking Jon's hand and causing, in surprise, his torch to fall to the ground. Quickly, he bent down to pick it up to better see the stab he had received in his palm.

Then he saw it.

There was a reflection behind the stone chair where the effigy rested. It had barely been a small reflection, but if you looked from a certain angle, it could be seen again. It looked like a small, fragmented sphere. No, not fragmented.

Scaly.

Carefully, he reached out his hand. Attached to the sphere, there was a thick jumble wrapped in a piece of black cloak, very similar to the fragment they had found at the Fist of the First Men. Judging by the shape and feel, it looked like a sword. Could it be a saber made of the same rock-glass material they had found? It would undoubtedly be a great gift to have a weapon that could kill White Walkers.

He began to unwrap the black cloak, which was rough from time and frost that still covered it, in addition to some garnet stains that had solidified. Whether it was blood or not, Jon did not know.

Gradually, the material came off, revealing a steel blade. It looked very sharp and in perfect condition, despite the age of its wrapping. The edge ended in a point, although at its beginning it had a straight indentation on each side. The fabric finally came loose from the hilt.

The guard adorned with two silver dragon wings.

The handle of black leather.

The pommel showed a silver dragon egg.

Jon had heard of the dragon sword, Blackfyre. The Valyrian steel sword of the conqueror. Which now seemed to have returned to the hands of an Aegon in search of conquest.

This could not be that sword.

It did not have the bright colors of the king's sword.

He stepped back and cut the rose. Which cleanly split in two.

‘Old Gods, It’s still sharp.’

This must be the other one.

Although it was impossible. With reverence, he observed the sword illuminated by the flames.

The memory shook his temples violently. The last person to wield it had been a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch who had gone north of the Wall and never returned, Brynden Rivers. Bloodraven.

He had read about it in the Lord Commander's book when he himself had been granted the title.

But it was Valyrian steel. There was no doubt about it. The feel, the weight, the edge. It was just like Longclaw.

Dark Sister.

His dreams had spoken to him. What other answers would the visions hide when he closed his eyes? Even with his thoughts running wild, he sheathed the glorious blade into its black resting place and, as best he could, strapped it to his back using Longclaw's belt, hiding it beneath his thick wolf cloak.

With steps and accelerated breath, Jon left the crypts.

...

...

...

The King in the North had finished training another group of the Free Folk, this time with Tormund involved. Although the 'Husband to Bears' had too much pride to accept teachings, that same pride also encouraged him to show that he possessed better skills than the 'Crow King.' They ended up leaving the fight in a draw, after both friends had also ended up exchanging blows, though in a friendly manner, of course. Jon was increasingly sure that a punch to the throat was the Giantsbane's way of showing camaraderie.

Now, he was in the Godswood, as he had been every morning. After leaving the ethereal Dark Sister hidden in his chambers, that is. Longclaw's edge had been wet, and the whetstone ran over the blade again and again. Not that Valyrian steel needed sharpening, but Jon increasingly understood why his father did it in life. The place was quiet, strangely peaceful, as if it were in a bubble. And the repetition of sharpening the sword cleared the mind. Something the Snow-turned-Stark urgently needed these days.

Silent steps entered the Godswood once again. Perhaps Jon's peace ended shortly after it began.

Sansa, dressed in a black woolen dress and a gray wolf cloak, approached him with her hands behind her back and a serene look in her clear eyes. With a gentleness that barely disturbed the snow, she sat on another of the knots of the roots of the white tree.

"I'm beginning to understand why you spend time here. Why Father did it. It feels like the world outside doesn't exist."

The sound of the whetstone against the steel echoed to the wind's rhythm.

"It's a quiet place. Certainly. Lately, such places seem scarce in Westeros." - Both siblings smiled with melancholy.

"Are you finally going to Dragonstone?"

Jon sighed deeply at the memory.

"Aye. I don't wish to, but it's our best option."

‘More war. More death.’ - His treacherous mind whispered.

"I'm afraid something might happen to you. I put you in danger once, I wouldn't want that-"

Jon interrupted her, sheathing his sword after drying it on his cloak.

"This was not your doing, Sansa. You don't have to bear that responsibility. I chose for myself."

Sansa looked at the clouded sky.

''I need to ask. Is there another reason you were so sure about choosing Daenerys over Aegon? Without even knowing them?''

He thought for a second. There was a reason, yes. One that he didn't really admit to himself until now. One that might sound stupid, but after coming back, made sense for him. Maybe Sansa was not the correct person to listen to It, but he was tired of that burden.

''Its the letters.'' 

His sister didn't understand. - ''The letters?''

''Aye. Maybe its on purpose, maybe not. But when they both state their reason for taking the throne, they speak of different things. Once talks about revenge, the other of justice. One talks about blood, the other of changing what has come before.'' - Jon sighed, looking at his sword. ''When I executed the traitors of the Night's Watch, I thought about revenge. And also while fighting for Winterfell. If there's going to be a new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I would want it to be someone better than me.''

The she-wolf turned to him, her expression broken by concern.

"Jon, I know you don't trust me. You think I don't trust you. That I believe I would be a better queen. And perhaps at some point it was true that I thought so. But the North is recovering, healing thanks to the things you've done. And now you're risking your life again for them. If nothing else, you have to know that I respect that. Even if it's hard for me to have hope in people."

Jon stood up, turning his back to her, and she stood up as well, her hands hidden under her own cloak.

"I know you're aware that Littlefinger is up to something. I may still not trust you. But I trust that you don't want to hand Winterfell to that leech. And that's why you'll be Warden of the North in my absence."

Although she must have already known, the girl's breath caught with some surprise.

"Jon, there's something I want to give you, as a sign that I acknowledge you as my brother."

‘’Sansa there’s no need to-‘’

The she-wolf took her hands out of her cloak, revealing a dark wooden box, with its lock broken and corroded.

"I found it in Father's chambers when we took the castle. Apparently, Roose Bolton had occupied the Lord's chambers. And then Ramsay did too."

With a trembling hand, Sansa opened the box.

"I have tried to reflect, on everything that has happened. Robb always considered you his brother. Something I used to deny. I think it makes sense for you to have this."

In the box, there was a thick metal circle. The circle had engraved lines that made it appear as if the metal were braided. And along the said metal, pointing upwards, there were ten small swords. In some parts, there were tiny rust spots, but overall, the surface still gleamed with the characteristic dark gray of steel.

It was the crown of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. The King in the North.

"Besides, let the people of Dragonstone know that the one who is going to have an audience with their Queen is nothing less than a King," – his sister concluded, showing a smile, for the first time in what appeared to be ages, filled with pride.

Jon wasn't the most emotional person in the world. Broody, perhaps, from time to time. But he couldn't help his eyes moistening for a fraction of a second.

"I appreciate it, Sansa, truly. I do" – And he smiled a full smile, maybe since forever, too.

There was still a gap that separated the two Stark siblings. And perhaps it would never be fully repaired.

But that was a good start.

...

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...

It took them a full moon to reach Dragonstone. Considering the days it took to get to White Harbor and that, in their journey by ship, the winter winds had been both favorable and contrary. During the extensive trip, Jon had taken the opportunity, at Sansa's insistence, to read books that compiled the history of the Targaryen dynasty, as there might be beneficial information in them to convince the Dragon Queen to fight for the North.

Jon was exhausted. Ser Davos even more so since, despite his extensive experience at sea, the years did not spare the sailor's body. The twenty men Jon had brought with him were also exhausted, but now was not the time to show weakness or fatigue. Docking the ship, the crew divided into boats, and not a man was left without rowing, not even the king.

After a few minutes where Jon's arms burned from the effort, as the tide was still rough so close to the shore, Jon's boots touched the gray sand, and he took a moment to smell the sea air, mixed with the sulfur from the volcano known as the Dragonmont. The White Wolf had left his jet-black hair, now streaked with loose white arrows, loose, but kept away from his face with the use of his steel crown. He wore black boots and pants on his legs. His torso wore a pale brown gambeson under a dark gray Stark armor, and his silver gorget with the two direwolf heads in the middle. On his back, he wore a black and brown wolf-skin cape, and while Longclaw rested on his waist, another sword was hidden at his back.

Two groups of three guards soon arrived. One of them had men in black leather armor with an almost imperceptible dark blue tone, carrying a round shield and spear. On the other side, three men in clothes made of strips of leather and animal skins arrived, long dark braids in their hair, and bushy beards giving them an appearance very similar to that of the Free Folk, if they did not live in the icy North, that is. One of them, tapping his spear on the damp ground, spoke with a direct voice, as if giving a military order.

"Follow us. The Queen awaits you. Touch your weapons, and you will die."

Without more to say, the men communicated among themselves in a strange language unheard to him, and they headed back to the rocky castle. After exchanging a glance with Ser Davos, who displayed the same expression a man would wear after being poisoned, Jon set forth, accompanied by the Northerners under his charge.

Dragonstone's castle was both impressive and imposing. The dark stone, geometrically shaped, adorned the cliff's ledges like a dragon's claw just landing on a small hill. Amidst the mist, gigantic dragon effigies stood guard, ever watchful, always ready. The fortress rose eternal, almost magical, and legends spoke of magic overseeing its construction, much like the tales of the Wall where he had resided for so long. From the base of the wall, endless steps traversed the hill, serpentining around it.

The walk seemed endless, with the mountain on each side making it feel even longer, until they finally reached a grey stone clearing and faced the castle gate. The heavy doors opened upon a signal, allowing the group to pass. As they entered the main building, Jon could distinctly hear a noise resembling the heralding of the end of days, or that the very sky was about to fall upon their heads. But he didn't look back or at the sky, as it was not the time to hesitate.

It was a colossal wingbeat. Of that, he was certain.

Once inside, the guards signaled for the ship's crew to follow, and only he and Ser Davos continued ahead.

If they were to be killed, this was definitely the moment.

After climbing some stairs, they reached a high-ceiling gallery with black walls. The rock walls bore engravings depicting what he deduced were ancient deeds of House Targaryen, as he recognized the colossal creatures and the draconic helms that appeared in them. At the end of the hall, as if carved from the same obsidian formation, stood a crude throne of volcanic rock.

In his peripheral vision, Jon saw a head of blonde hair much shorter than the rest. A head of greyish hair accompanied by a beard of the same color. Also curls resembling a dome, chestnut brown like the bark of an oak tree.

But all of this was blurred, for Jon's eyes couldn't divert their gaze from the one who occupied that throne. Ethereal silvery hair swaying in the salty breeze entering the place, and eyes violet as amethysts gazing toward his very soul.

The King in the North took a deep breath, wondering, if this might be his last sight.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

She was having that dream again.

The dream had repeated almost unchanged since shortly after she set foot on the gray sands of Dragonstone. She found herself atop a strange, twisted tower. In the center, a pyre maintained blue flames that illuminated her surroundings.

She had tried to peer over the edge before, but could discern no ground below, only shadows clawing at the slick dark stone that composed the structure. The sky was a wall of darkness, but from the shadows at ground level, she could see hands reaching out for help, their fingers dripping with the crimson of blood.

She could also hear a tumultuous ocean and the sound of a horn, but neither of these was visible from her vantage point.

Only the hands, only the blue fire, only the shadows.

Finally, something changed in the dream.

From the bowels of the tower, cries began to echo. Unceasing wails that threatened to burst Daenerys's temples, cries that felt familiar, though she had never heard them.

They were the cries of a woman.

After what seemed like an eternity, the cries ceased, and a weeping began to sound.

Someone had brought a child into the world.

Perhaps this is how it would have sounded if poor Rhaego had entered the world with breath and heartbeat.

Oh, what she would give to dream of him once and hold him in her arms.

She blinked, and the tower and the night dissipated. A distant wolf's howl made her feel more alone than ever. She was now in a wide field, much like the Great Grass Sea where Drogon had taken her. But the grass had lost its green hue, turning as white as a ghost. Jorah had once spoken to her of Ghost Grass, a Dothraki legend, which spoke of whitish grass that cut to the touch and would spell doom for humanity if it were to cover the earth. The strands reached her neck, and just ahead, she saw something above the grass, a dragon, but not one of fire and scales, but one of paper and cloth.

"Beware the Mummer’s Dragon, Daenerys Targaryen." – Quaithe's voice said, only this time, she continued speaking. – "And beware those who seek it."

She had changed location. She was in a cave, of that, she was sure. Gaps in the ceiling allowed sunlight to filter through, reflecting off the water that pooled on the floor at ankle height. She was barefoot, yet clad in armor of polished black metal, its texture mimicking the scales of a dragon.

She walked through the cave until she reached a clearing, where pale tree roots extended to a throne, upon which sat a figure, one that was difficult to distinguish, as they were almost one with the wooden throne they occupied.

"Daenerys Targaryen. Slayer of lies. Breaker of chains." – the figure spoke with a strained voice, as if there were sand lodged in their breath.

"Who are you?" – The man's right eye began to drip what looked like blood. – "Do you know where I am?"

Blood threatened to flood the old man's mouth, yet he spoke, staining his teeth.

"This is the last one, the one I always knew would come. You must believe him. He who bears my gift. Ice to fire and fire to ice." –The pale wood consumed the man so much that it was difficult to see the rest of his body on the throne.

"To whom—? You speak in riddles, just like her. Who are you talking about?" – Nothing about the strange being made sense, just like all the charlatans who spoke of prophecy. Daenerys's mouth moved on its own. – "Speak. The Queen commands it."

"Ah, her. My Star of the Sea, of the Shadow. So far and yet so near. I wish I could have seen you again." – Beyond the cave walls, voices of the beyond and knocks shook the walls. – "They are chained, too."

Dany tried to speak, but her voice was drowned out by the collapsing walls of the place.

...

She rose from the bed drenched in sweat, her platinum hair strewn across the pillow, her skin burning hotter than usual, just as knocks sounded on the other side of the door.

"Your Grace, the sun has risen, may I enter?"

The unmistakable voice of the kind Missandei paused in anticipation. After an affirmative response, the woman from Naath entered the chambers. Two more handmaidens entered with the necessary equipment for a hot bath, boiling even, honoring the title of Unburnt. Missandei began to brush and then braid her hair in its characteristic style, a symbol of her victories as Khaleesi, while speaking with a voice of concern.

"Are you well, my Queen? When I entered, you looked... distressed." – The girl was not only kind, but perceptive as well. Unfortunately, she couldn't explain the visions she had been having all this time, so she simply said.

"A bad dream, that's all." – Her friend didn't seem entirely convinced, but let it be for now. In no time, the Naathi woman finished the braids and left the room.

Once in the bath, the mind of the Mother of Dragons couldn't help but wander. Her situation was undoubtedly a difficult one, for every thing she had backing her, it seemed as if her enemies had an equivalent.

Her bloodriders and Grey Worm's Unsullied were undoubtedly two armies of considerable strength and skill, in addition to their numbers. But Pretender Aegon had the Golden Company and the Stormlands houses on his side. She had forged alliance relations with House Tyrell, which would provide her with both supplies and a good number of men, as well as the cunning of the Queen of Thorns, fueled by anger over the death of her progeny in King’s Landing. However, after the unintentional death of Quentyn Martell, there were reasons to believe that the guerrillas of Sunspear would join the cause of the puppeteer’s dragon. Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold was Captain of her Kingsguard, and Tyrion had proven to be a shrewd and loyal Hand, but Aegon also had the new Sword of the Morning and the council, or manipulation, and information from Varys the Spider. And then there was the problem of the divided House Greyjoy. Her true advantage laid in her children, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, but their unchecked use could cause even greater disaster for the realm.

That's why she had been persuaded by Tyrion to contact the King in the North, Jon Snow, who in his response letter had identified himself as Jon Stark, without explaining his reason. The main idea was an alliance mimicking those of yore, similar to that of Torrhen Stark and Aegon the Conqueror, but many questions about the King in the North still remained unanswered.

The Lannister had described him as someone honorable and honest, with a broody expression and dark eyes.

‘There is much of the North in him.’ – the blonde had said with a smile as he drank wine. Did he refer to his manners, or to the stubbornness that characterized the inhabitants of the cold lands of Westeros? Clearly, she also wondered about his appearance. What color would his hair be, or the tone of his voice? She had also heard that Jon Snow had taken Winterfell riding a great white wolf, with the help of wildlings. Would he resemble a beast, a barbarian? Perhaps they were just exaggerations and legends, like those of every people who admire their leader. Daenerys couldn't help but wonder what he might have heard about her.

Probably nothing good.

If anything else, she hoped that Jon Snow or Stark would be someone reasonable. And of course, there were the dreams and visions. She had often heard prophecies and divinations. In the Tower of the Undying, or in the Red Temple. And she had dreams with strange symbols and words. But since she had arrived at her ancestral home, the visions she had while sleeping had not stopped haunting her, and they were becoming more direct, yet cryptic at the same time.

‘Believe in the marked.’ –the strange being on the wooden throne had said. Did he refer to any of her advisors? To some enemy? Daenerys didn't know for sure. A mark could mean many things. The most obvious could be a scar like the one Tyrion bore on his face, or the one the Sons of the Harpy had left on Ser Barristan's side, perhaps the mark of Missandei's old collar or Grey Worm's. But there were also other kinds of marks, those of our memories.

And there was no one free from those, no.

When the boiling water began to lose too much temperature, the she-Dragon rose from the water, and again two handmaidens entered, drying her off and then removing the bathtub, bringing her breakfast as well. She had not seen any ravens arrive from her window, so perhaps, with a bit of luck, this would be a quiet morning.

When she had barely finished eating and had begun a glass of wine diluted with water, another knock sounded at the door. A tall man with ash-colored hair entered the room.

 "My Queen, pardon the disturbance, but you should prepare yourself. A ship has appeared on the horizon of Dragonstone, bearing sails with a white direwolf. The King in the North has arrived."

The tranquility had died as quickly as it had been born.

...

Daenerys sat on the obsidian throne that inhabited the back of the main hall of the castle, waiting.

She had dressed in a long black woolen dress, which in the torso drew a spiral pattern of red wool that extended from the hip to the neck and sleeves, with the center of the spiral over the heart. Over her shoulders, she wore a cloak as red as blood, which featured a pattern resembling dragon wings, extending from her back to the floor on one side of the rough obsidian throne. Her platinum blonde hair was mostly gathered in a net of braids, except for two long strands that fell on each side of her temples. On her forehead, she wore her crown of gold and silver that mimicked dragon scales, and in the center of that crown was a fragment of emerald, attached to another of black obsidian, which in turn joined a gem as white as the dawn, in honor of the scales of her dragons, the only children she would ever have.

When two figures entered the hall and stopped short of reaching the steps before the throne, Missandei delivered her announcement solemnly.

"You are now in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Lady of Dragonstone and rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, Breaker of chains, Mother of Dragons."

She gave a slight smile of gratitude to her advisor and friend, and then fixed her eyes on the younger-looking man.

The man wore a dark gray armor made of leather plates, along with a piece of metal with two wolves under his neck. His pants were black, as were his boots, which still contained sand from Dragonstone's beach. A brown wolf cloak concealed much of his figure, but it could be seen that his shoulders were broad. Over a fine face was a dark beard, which matched his hair full of unruly dark curls like the wings of a raven. The man stood in a darker part of the room, but to Daenerys, it seemed that his hair showed streaks of white. Nestled amidst his curls was a crown of interlaced steel, molded to hold a number of swords aloft.

The King in the North did not look like a barbarian or a werewolf, but as she might have imagined a northern king, if someone had asked her to imagine such a thing, and she was surprised to see that his icy expression showed anything but the haughtiness one might expect from someone with his title.

A man who seemed to be in the autumn of his life, with a head of hair and beard more gray than black, cleared his throat and spoke with a characteristic accent.

"Here stands Jon Stark, King in the North," – he paused, then continued, as if he had remembered something. – "The White Wolf, Lord of Winterfell."

The Targaryen raised an inquisitive eyebrow. The possibility of a verbal combat was finally beginning, and there were doubts that needed to be resolved.

"Jon Stark. I hope the winds have been favorable to you on your journey. Although I remember my Hand mentioning a Snow, one who was part of the Night's Watch, your missive did not explain this change."

The King in the North nodded.

"That's correct, Your Grace. After being named King in the North as a Snow, the Lord of Greywater Watch and the Lady of Bear Island delivered to me the last will and testament of the last King in the North, my brother Robb, before he was butchered at his own wedding by the Boltons. In it, he released me from my oath to the Watch and named me a Stark, preventing any other house from having access to Winterfell." –The Stark's expression soured, likely at the memories of what happened to his brother. Would his time at the Wall have increased the number of bitter memories as well? It was very likely.

Tyrion had told her how during that time, he had been forcibly married to Sansa Stark, who would be the northerner's sister. Perhaps because he had been indirectly mentioned, the Queen's Hand spoke.

"Is there any proof of such a will? It is known that Lord Reed and the adult Lady Mormont were missing after the... Red Wedding." – he said with a hint of shame in his gaze.

"Maege Mormont was ambushed by Frey troops, but she survived and was found by Howland Reed. He took her to Greywater Watch while searching for one of my brothers. His search took him to Skagos but was…unsuccessful. Both can testify to the will if necessary."

The amethyst orbs of the mother of dragons turned back to the gray orbs of Jon, trying with all her might not to show any expression of uncertainty about what she was about to say.

"Then, I must assume you have come to lay down your crown and join the North to my cause."

The King in the North didn't even flinch.

"I have not." –  A sepulchral silence filled the hall, and only the breeze was heard for a moment. –"The lords of the Northern houses have entrusted me to lead them, to help our home heal, and I bear the same crown that my brother once wore in life. If I were to surrender it, I would surrender more than a piece of metal, I would surrender their loyalty, their trust."

‘That is unfortunate.’

"So you have made such an extensive journey, alone, to break faith with House Targaryen? The presence of a king beyond the Iron Throne signifies open rebellion."

As if he had read her mind, Ser Barristan seemed to straighten up, and he rested both hands on his sword. Daenerys did not wish for spilled blood, but it was good to know that the veteran remained alert.

"Aerys II burned my grandfather and uncle alive. My father fought to overthrow the Mad King. Perhaps it was House Targaryen who broke faith with the Starks in the first place."

If Jon Stark had anything, it was courage, that much was clear. And he presented a difficult question, one that felt like they had dragged Daenerys along a long road. She often felt the burden on her shoulders of what being a Targaryen meant, not for the power, but for its legacy. The three-headed dragon had harbored illustrious and horrible people alike, and her father had been one of the horrible ones.

A small, intrusive part of her wanted to put her pride first, but she dismissed it completely. How could she call herself a just leader if she defended the actions of a tyrant who had caused so much harm?

Even if that tyrant was the father she never knew.

"My father was an evil man. His actions caused death and pain to many innocents, including his own family, and in the name of House Targaryen, I offer you my apologies. In my letter, I spoke to you of breaking the wheel of oppression, and that is my goal. I know I ask that a daughter not be judged by the crimes of her father, but I do so while trying to rectify the sins of an entire bloodline. Even if it means being the last of my house to survive the wars to come."

"Is that why there has been no alliance between the two Targaryens vying for the throne?"

"My Hand met the supposed Aegon Targaryen VI during his journey to Essos. He may not be a bad person, but he has been raised and directed by puppeteers and the Spider of King's Landing, Lord Varys. The realm has no need for a king controlled by strings, even if his intentions are good." – She remembered well the words of the blond man, speaking of the 'Pisswater prince', and how, although temperamental but noble, he was surrounded by people twice his age, guiding him towards their interests. Unable to help herself, an inquisitive look settled on the girl's purple eyes. –"Why have you not allied yourself with the puppeteer's dragon, Jon Stark?"

The Stark shifted slightly, in an expression that Dany interpreted as discomfort, perhaps.

"A man I admired taught me that in order to learn to lead, I must first learn to serve. Someone groomed for power does not necessarily make good use of it. I decided to see for myself if Daenerys Targaryen is who the realm needs, and if she is, to ask for help."

Ser Barristan, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up.

"And you are willing to come here, risking your life, to personally meet someone who could be an enemy and ask for aid? It is honorable, I admit, but not something I would have advised."

"I do not ask people to do anything for me that I am not willing to do myself. For better or for worse."

For a moment, Jon Stark seemed like a person difficult to believe it existed, for men with the attitude of an honest hero lasted little in the world they inhabited. Was it all an act? It could be if it were through a letter, but presenting himself in person would be a contrivance manufactured by a very skillful actor or a very stupid one.

"Ser Barristan speaks the truth; it is a plan with great risk. Besides, I understood that the Boltons had been eradicated, and your territory is now at peace. What urgent help could the North need?"

The former member of the Night's Watch stepped forward, stepping into the light of one of the windows, and Dany could confirm that his hair had streaks of white hair, very similar to hers, and that on his face he bore scars, which enhanced his eyes even more, two dark gray orbs that seemed to be peering into her soul. After taking a deep breath, he began to speak.

"Your Grace, you said you had spent your life in Essos, a continent different from this one, and that you had traversed it. During that time, you managed to bring dragons back into this world. Something that was believed impossible. During my time at the Wall, I went beyond it, and I too witnessed things I believed impossible, too."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed again, and she arched an eyebrow.

"I fail to see what this has to do with anything, Your Grace."

"During my journey, I have been reading about your house and its involvement with magic, apart from dragons. Like when Daenys the Dreamer saw the destruction of Valyria more than a decade before it happened, saving the Targaryens from the Doom. I read that Queen Alysanne tried to cross the Wall with her dragon three times, and three times the creature refused to do so. I think I know why now. For generations, the construction of the Wall and the creation of the Night's Watch have been attributed to tales, but everything is real. Beyond the Wall of ice, creatures of cold and frost dwell, wielding blades of ice, with the power to create storms and raise the dead. I have seen them, I have fought them. Thousands of people have seen them, all the wildlings who followed me to this side of the Wall, my men in the Night's Watch. They are coming, and they do not stop, they do not tire, and they do not feel."

The Hand of the Queen stiffened suddenly, nervous. He opened his mouth to speak, but the old man accompanying Jon began before him, introducing himself as Ser Davos of House Seaworth, a house which, truth be told, Daenerys had never heard of.

"I know all this sounds like nonsense, maybe madness, I don't blame you for thinking so. I've also met people who have spoken to me about supernatural beings and have taken them for fools. Perhaps it's my old age, or that I've survived battles from which I was sure I wouldn't emerge, but I begin to think that there are things that happen for a reason. Your Grace, you were the first to bring the Dothraki across the Narrow Sea." – The old man pointed to the young Stark. – "And he was the first to establish an alliance between wildlings and Northern men. I've seen the dragons flying above us, and it is said that you rode one of them when you returned to Dragonstone, just as I saw Jon Snow ride a white direwolf when he reclaimed his ancestors' home. He became Lord Commander and King in the North for the same reason he has decided to come here: because he himself protects those under his care. He has seen those... things, he has fought them, it took a knife to the hea-"

The King in the North interrupted his advisor's speech with a voice as cold and rigid as ice.

"Ser Davos. That's enough."

A knife. To the heart. Was that what the old man was about to say? Did they expect her to believe that the King in the North had defeated death? It must be a metaphor for these ice creatures. That, or perhaps these two men believed they could make a fool of her.

And frankly, the Mother of Dragons was not in the mood for jokes.

Once again, silence filled the room, but it was interrupted by footsteps, those of the Dragon Queen, descending the stairs slowly.

"My house has always been associated with inexplicable events, it's true. Dragons were our power for generations. And once the dragons disappeared, magic became our bane, through prophecy. I cannot say that what you speak of is unthinkable, although perhaps difficult to believe. But I stand by what I said about fixing the mistakes of my ancestors. If I let myself be swayed by another prophecy, I am lost," –her steps took her to stand in front of Jon, and she could feel her guards tensing up. – "The dead you speak of may or may not exist, I do not know you well enough to know if I can trust you, but I do know that the threat is real: Cersei Lannister, Aegon, Euron Greyjoy. I know that it is true that the realm is on the brink of chaos, and that more hunger and death await it. If I were to send my armies to the North now, not only would I risk falling into a trap or starting the battle Tohrren Stark prevented. But I would also be turning my back on people whom I too have sworn to protect. However, would the North help against this threat if I were to ask?"

It did not give her any pleasure to respond in this way; the King in the North did not seem like a bad person, and although she assumed something difficult to believe and act upon, the most reasonable move was to distrust. Sometimes one had to make difficult decisions or cling to their principles when so many people depended on them. That was one of the lessons she had learned during her rule in Bay of Dragons. Often intentions or honest words were strangled by protocol, and a Queen sometimes had to know how to give orders that did not seem like orders or make threats that did not seem like threats.

Now she was aware that by descending the stairs she had placed herself very close to Jon, and she could see his features clearly. His face was fine and his skin smooth except for the scars that adorned it, his beard was short but dark, just like the black curls contained within his crown, sometimes broken by silver strands. It was as if Jon Snow bore the night sky in his hair. His eyes in the shadow seemed black too, but now, in the light streaming into the throne room, she could see two pools of iron gray.

The expression of the King in the North was soft at first, but slowly his brow began to furrow, and he opened his mouth slightly to speak, but that would not happen. It was the first time they had even known of each other's existence. Perhaps time was running out for them, but alliances had to be forged in trust, and trust required time.

And time, they would have.

"But, I ask you to forgive me. Your journey must have lasted at least a full moon, you have come voluntarily to my castle, and I haven't even offered you food or something to drink. What alliance can be built without starting properly?" –She finally stepped away from Jon's intense gaze and began to ascend the stairs again. –"My guards will escort you to your quarters, and lunch and baths will be prepared for you and your men. When it's over, you can visit any area of the castle and the island if you wish. I'll try to join you when my meeting with my council ends." – Now back on the throne, she saw Stark move uncomfortably.

"Even our ship, Your Grace?"

‘A very good question, but unfortunately...’ – Her mind began to talk even before her mouth.

"Your ship is in our harbor, being cared for and repaired by my shipwrights. Why, King Jon, do you wish to leave Dragonstone's hospitality so soon?"

With time, she had also learned that sometimes a question was a trap.

The King in the North performed what seemed to be one of his favorite reactions again: furrowing his brow, then relaxing it and smiling with a half-smile.

"Of course not, Queen Daenerys."

With a small bow, the northerner turned around, and in an instant, both he and his advisor were no longer there.

...

...

Now, with the sun in a lower position, Daenerys stood beside the Painted Table, proudly representing the lands of Westeros, with small wooden figures representing the actors and armies currently fighting for control of the territory.

Green roses in the Reach, orange suns in the desert, yellow lions in King's Landing, blue and gray krakens in the Iron Islands, black dragons in Storm's End, and red dragons on the island of Dragonstone. Red dragons among which now stood a white wooden wolf.

Around the table were Grey Worm, Missandei, Ser Barristan, and Lord Tyrion, with furrowed brows except for the latter, who seemed considerably content as he poured himself a glass of wine.

"Well, Missandei, any worrying news from Yunkai, Astapor, or Meereen?"

"No, my Queen," – the Naathi concluded with a bow. – "Both Ozirri from Yunkai, Erri from Astapor, and Davralli from Meereen have reported that everything is running smoothly. Trade flows better than ever now that the cities sell products made by skilled workers instead of slaves. In Meereen, Commander of the Guard Daario and the Second Sons patrol effectively, and although they sometimes encounter an old master trying to gather followers of the old regime, it doesn't seem to be taking root in the rest of the people."

Undoubtedly, that was a relief. Ensuring the proper functioning of the three cities in her absence had been a priority for Daenerys since she returned from Vaes Dothrak atop Drogon, with a massive khalasar following her.

She knew that although loyal, Daario Naharis would always be a mercenary at heart, so leaving the cities of the former slavers in his charge could offer inconvenient results, hence the idea of a 'King Daario' had been quickly discarded. However, Daenerys had also brought the Khaleesi of Vaes Dothrak with her, after burning the other Khals who threatened to leave her there for life. Those were wise, intelligent women, highly respected and capable in open field battles, for they had been Khaleesi like her. And they also fit the ideal of a respected woman by anyone with Ghiscari culture, due to their resemblance to the Graces, the priestesses she had seen in Astapor and Meereen. Even though in the end, the Green Grace had proven a schemer, leading the Sons of the Harpy from the shadows, which led to her death.

Thus, keeping the Dosh Khaleen administering the city, and the sellsword Daario in a position of power where he could wield his sword and then visit any brothel he pleased, Daenerys Targaryen had left the free cities behind. The leader of the Second Sons had almost begged her not to leave him behind, to take him to Westeros where he could be with her and fight for her, but it had been in vain.

She had already experienced what a marriage with mere political interests could be like, when she had to marry the late Hizdhar zo Loraq. And although she hadn't enjoyed it, it would be too naive to think that another to ensure some authority in Westeros wouldn't happen. But there was also a remote possibility that her mind refused to discard: falling in love, perhaps. She appreciated Daario, but she didn't love him, and he loved being able to occupy a Queen's bed, and to hold power, but he probably felt nothing towards Daenerys Targaryen.

So no, in one way or another, Daario Naharis was a past she couldn't afford to keep looking at. And she didn’t want to.

"Ser Barristan, Grey Worm, regarding our armies, any suggestions on our next moves? Olenna Tyrell has agreed to lend us support from Highgarden, although we still have no response from Dorne."

The Knight known as the Bold stood up and went to the other side of the table, pointing to the lands of the Reach.

"Taking into account the presence of Aegon's Golden Company in the Stormlands, and the information Lord Tyrion has provided us with regarding the pretender's plans to quickly take King's Landing, we have several options." –The man began to move pieces along the mapped table. – "On the one hand, we could try to take Casterly Rock by way of the Riverlands, gaining a better position to assist Asha Greyjoy if she needs resources in the capture of the Iron Islands. We could also try to pursue the Company's trail and crush them against the walls of King's Landing in the Kingswood, on one side with our fleet and on the other with the troops of the Tyrells, although we risk a direct attack by the Martells, in case they seek revenge for what happened with Quentyn."

"What are the best options to stop the Martells in case that happens?" – Daenerys's temples began to pound, but she pushed the sensation from her mind.

"House Tarly has proven to be useful regarding military strategy; Randyll Tarly was one of the few to get Robert Baratheon to retreat in battle. Perhaps they can form a line with the men of the Ashford and Peak houses."

‘’And perhaps the good old 'Arstan Whitebeard' can help expand the line with the assistance of House Selmy.’’ – the Queen's Hand said from one side of the room, with a half-smile as he recalled Barristan's nickname, which made the old knight somewhat uncomfortable.

"Although I'm here, House Selmy is still a vassal of the Baratheons, I'm not sure if they'll be willing to betray the newly appointed Edric if I ask them, but perhaps I can contact an old friend."

Once again, the Lannister approached the table. –"If Aegon's army uses the Kingsroad and passes through the Kingswood, we could use dragonfire to turn the forest into a trap, and when they try to leave the trees behind, we can face them in open field with the Dothraki."

"The Golden Company will likely try to avoid the forest; the terrain would be too narrow for their elephants." – Grey Worm concluded with a furrowed brow, and Ser Barristan took over.

"They might divide their troops to meet again on the Goldroad; the forest option remains viable. Although I'm still not sure neglecting Casterly Rock is a good option."

Lord Tyrion poured himself more wine, with a bored expression. –"As tempting as it sounds to take the home my father cared so much to occupy, I don't think it's necessary right now. My sister has nearly dried up the mines, and the vassal houses of the Westerlands probably won't rise in arms when they're surrounded by Ironborn, vassals of the Tullys, and vassals of the Tyrells." – He took another sip of wine, and a slight devilish smile crept onto the dwarf's lips. – "Besides, we still need to talk about the island's favorite gossip, the King in the North."

All eyes turned to Daenerys almost simultaneously.

"The North has been battered by both external and civil wars for a few years; they will be reluctant to fight. I imagine that if their King orders it, they will, but I think Jon Stark will stand his ground for that matter. Although the support he has from House Arryn, Tully, and Reed could be useful to us if we corner Aegon upon his arrival in King's Landing."

Once again, the Stark's gaze crossed Daenerys's mind until she was interrupted by Tyrion.

"I have the impression that, although slightly changed, Jon remains the honest boy I saw join the Night's Watch. Besides, he's a Northerner at heart; he doesn't seem to like detours and protocol. If you ask him what he wants from you, he'll probably answer from the heart, so it will be easier to approach him."

The Dragon Queen pinched the bridge of her nose with her two fingers.

"He has been very honest about what he wants. My armies, my dragons."

"Of course, but even he knows that's not something you'll just give him. Take the first step, if just by talking, and maybe he'll also be willing to concede something in return later," – the dwarf said, covering his mocking smile with another sip of wine. – "Who knows, it might even work too well."

That last comment made the Targaryen raise an eyebrow suspiciously, but she preferred to let it go for the moment. – "Although there is still the question of what... they have seen beyond the Wall."

"Do you really believe it, Your Grace?" – the old man asked.

Did she? No. Yes. She didn’t know. Her mind wasn't in the right place to know. Not only because of the impending war, but also because of the dreams that tormented her rest.

Daenerys was exhausted, perhaps she had been for a long time. But if her enemies didn't tire, didn't stop, and didn't feel, neither did she. The House with the Red Door had also been left behind, and every morning she swore to herself that she would return to it, even if she had to build it and paint it with her own hands, but now she had to worry about something else. About a crown too heavy, about a backstabbing throne.

Her mind wandered again.

"I... do not know. Right now, it doesn't matter. King's Landing is our goal, and if the King in the North is not willing to bend the knee for his mission, I won't abandon the realm to its fate for his either." – She stood up from the table. – "Missandei, send a raven to Olenna Tyrell requesting that she prepare her men and begin moving them to the outskirts of the Reach, and that if she wishes, she can come to Dragonstone to take a seat in the council. Another raven must be sent to House Mooton to secure their loyalty to the Tarlys, and therefore to us. The territory they rule is ideal for my Bloodriders to pass through to the outskirts of King's Landing; if they accept, promise that none of my men will commit any looting or danger to their lands. Lastly, seek contact with Yara Greyjoy and House Velaryon; we need any galleon we can get, especially if they have skilled navigators. Ser Barristan, if possible, contact someone trustworthy in House Selmy; we need information on Aegon's troop movements as soon as possible. Even knowing what the people think of this 'Edric Baratheon' may be useful." –She finally looked at Grey Worm. – "Torgo Nudho, keep the Unsullied ready for battle and for embarkation; if the Baratheons abandon the Stormlands, I want your men to take the lands of House Bar Emmon to advance towards the capital. My children and I would escort you from the air to avoid an ambush on our way through the peninsula."

One by one, all the attendees spoke. – "It will be done, my Queen."

"If no one has any further observations, the meeting is adjourned, my friends."

Quickly, everyone left the room, and Daenerys unconsciously headed to the balcony in the chamber. The balcony was supported by four pillars of obsidian, and as she leaned on one of them, her cloak, as red as blood, fluttered in the sea breeze. Sometimes, gazing at the sea made her forget everything, especially from the balconies of Dragonstone. There was something about this place, a calmness, a mysticism, a foreboding. It was indescribable. Perhaps because this had been the home of her ancestors for generations, or perhaps simply because the sound of the sea, mixed with the warmth radiating from the Dragonmont, was pleasing to her.

It was in moments of calm like these that her mind seemed to escape her. And she would end up returning to her dreams and visions, as if trying to climb a staircase, only to stumble and return to the first step.

The strange wooden figure on its putrid throne. The shadows pleading for help, chanting her name. The cry of a lonely child.

‘The Marked. He who bears my gift.’ – The more she thought about those words, the more her anger seemed to grow. While other Targaryens seemed to have concrete dreams that had driven them to madness, hers were becoming increasingly cryptic.

Was she going mad? She prayed she wasn’t.

She needed to leave the castle, if only for a moment, to be with her children. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion hadn't tugged at their bond all day, although she had noticed them behaving oddly when the Stark ships had arrived at the coast, probably alert to the arrival of people they had never sensed on the island. Aside from that, the three dragons seemed to be relatively calmer since they had arrived, probably because they found the volcanic area much more comfortable to nest in than the arid territory of Essos. And sometimes, that tranquility was contagious for the Dragon Queen.

With determined steps, she began to move through the castle, through the corridors, greeting the servants whenever she passed them, and also acknowledging the Unsullied who showed reverence as she passed. They treated her like a Queen, like a general, but they fought for her by their own choice because she was also Mhysa, it was her duty to protect everyone, and it was also her duty to know their names and to grant them a good life. They were willing to give their lives for her, what kind of queen wouldn't do the same for those who followed her?

Before she knew it, she had already exited the building and was passing by the sculptures of dark dragons carved in stone. Two Dothraki bloodriders followed her at a prudent distance, far enough to give her space but close enough to prevent any danger.

Although she doubted there would be any; no one would be foolish enough to try to enter the jaws of a dragon.

Or in this case, four of them.

She tried to reach out to the bond she shared with Drogon, knowing that if he came, his brothers would follow, but the creature that sometimes seemed like Balerion-born-again refused to respond, seemingly focused on something else. Probably on pouncing on some prey, but still, she knew they were close. Very close. Always vigilant.

With her scaled son's refusal, she continued walking down the steps that led to the cliff. Trying to keep calling him, to no avail. That's when she saw him.

She saw him.

She was on the stairs to his left, but one level below, while the King in the North stood above, leaning on the railing.

He watched the sea, still as a statue, with one hand hidden behind his wolf cloak, the other holding a scrap of parchment. But what caught Daenerys' attention the most was his face. His eyes narrowed, his brows in an indecipherable expression. Half peace, half anger, half sadness. Tyrion had once told her that Jon Snow was broody and serious, but...

What could possibly be going through Jon Stark's mind?

Perhaps he missed his home. Or maybe he was remembering some bad episode of his life. The sight of the sea had that power over her sometimes too if she got too distracted looking at it.

As if in a trance, her steps continued. When she was barely six steps away, the entirety of Stark's body jerked, and he turned towards her with a quick movement, his breath catching, his right hand quickly resting on his left side. After realizing what he had done, the northerner returned to his initial position, with what seemed like a blush on his cheeks to Daenerys, probably from the scare.

"My apologies, your grace, I didn’t mean to startle you," – She said. Looking at her for a moment, he attempted a smile on his face before turning his gaze back to the sea.

"It’s quite alright. Just an old habit," – he said, glancing to where his sword should be, though nothing was there now, and then back to the sea.

"Is everything alright? You seem a bit distracted, perhaps." – she inquired.

Jon's gray orbs narrowed even more. – "It's nothing to worry about, Queen Daenerys. The view is nice, and Lord Tyrion probably mentioned to you that I tend to be... broody. Besides, these stairs, the wind... they remind me of the Wall."

The great Wall of ice that bordered the North. That place had claimed quite a few years from the King in the North. Perhaps what she had theorized he might be thinking had some truth to it.

"I've heard the stories about the Wall. Being atop it must be... quite a view."

"It's one of the things that made being in the Night's Watch worth it. Although I imagine it doesn't compare to riding a dragon."

"That is also... quite the view, yes." –both leaders smiled cordially, and nerves began to crawl up Daenerys' back. What was she supposed to say now? The scrap of parchment intrigued her, as did the thoughts of the Snow-turned-Stark, but perhaps it was foolish to ask such things when they had just met. Until now, the people with whom Daenerys had formed a true friendship had started as if fate had intended it, first through loyalty, and then giving way to trust. But how could she expect the same process when the King in the North really had no reason to owe her loyalty? Perhaps the fact that he wanted her help to fight something beyond the Wall, but that was not the loyalty she sought. If someone were to follow her, to accompany her, it had to be because they believed in her. Just like Missandei, or Grey Worm, or Ser Barristan, or Tyrion. What reasons did Jon Stark have to believe in her? A name? Dragons? Her word?

Perhaps, was this how the King in the North also felt when he had spoken to her in the Throne Room?

"In fact, I was distracted-" –the King in the North spoke, snapping her out of her thoughts, and he pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket. – "A good friend of mine, Samwell Tarly, went to the Citadel in Oldtown to train as a Maester, and to research artifacts to combat... the creatures beyond the Wall. He has found useful information, undoubtedly."

"Isn't that…good news?"

"In part, yes. It just... reminded me of old times, that's all. Sam has always had a knack for finding solutions. It was thanks to him that I was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, truth be told."

Had that been the only reason he had been chosen? For whatever strategy this Samwell had devised? Daenerys found it hard to believe, but if there was one thing the King in the North seemed bad at, it was praising himself. That, she was beginning to understand.

"It must be something he enjoys. I suppose it's natural to enjoy the things we're good at." –she said, and now they were looking at each other, though their bodies still pointed towards the railing, separated only by the sound of the waves and the sea breeze. –"Did you find any joy in your Command? Did you enjoy it?"

The Stark's expression turned nostalgic for a second, and Dany could notice it.

"Not particularly. But I learned that it doesn't always matter. I had a duty, and people I cared about and had to protect. I had to choose. Even though It’s hard most times, even though It’s... tiresome."

She couldn't help but nod. – "It's tiresome, indeed. But we try, even if we sometimes fail. We still try. We must."

She and Jon had not met with the motive of loyalty uniting them; this was something completely different. She had met other kings, other leaders, other commanders, but the Stark was the first whose journey and philosophy resembled... hers. The little that she knew, at least.

Perhaps, this was the starting point from which an alliance that brought prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms could be born. The one she had tried to address in her missive.

An alliance between two leaders, who desire a better world, and are willing to fight for it. For now, it wasn't a bad start.

Just as the King in the North was about to turn around to speak once more, a thunderous noise that seemed to seek to split the sky in two echoed across the island, causing the northerner to, once again, bring his gloved hand to his left side, almost dropping the piece of parchment. A colossal flap was heard shortly after, and three winged figures threatening to hide the sun forever pierced the clouds adorning the sky, beginning to flutter around the castle's towers, making it seem as if the draconic sentinels of black stone had come to life.

Her children had returned.

She turned and could see the amazement and perhaps fear on the former Lord Commander's face.

"They are magnificent, aren't they?" – she asked, pulling the northerner out of his astonishment.

"T-they are indeed, your grace." – he replied, his mouth still slightly open. – "Are you leaving?"

She began her descent down the stairs, not before taking one last look at him. – "I'm afraid I must leave you with your thoughts, yes. The dragons are like my children, and they are wary of unfamiliar people who get too close to me."

Still amazed, the young Stark nodded. – "I... I understand that well, yes.’’ – Now did he, she wondered. – ‘’Where are you headed? Perhaps later we can continue our conversation."

She couldn't help but let the corners of her lips lift a little. – "Flying, Jon Stark. Do you wish to come along?"

The King in the North also smiled slightly, then leaned back on the railing. "I think this time I'll decline the offer, Queen Daenerys. Have a safe journey."

‘An understandable choice indeed, even for the King they say is heading into battle riding a giant white direwolf.’ – She thought. Perhaps the northerner could be less broody when he willed it so.

…

…

…

…

Hours later, Daenerys found herself back in her chambers at Dragonstone Castle, having shed her royal attire. She dined simply in a black dress adorned with two small golden dragon heads on each shoulder, connected across her chest by a silver chain. Her crown had been placed in a chest on one of the room's shelves.

The flight atop Drogon had been just what she needed, allowing her to enjoy the air, the sense of freedom, the speed. Apart from being able to better observe the island and the castle from the air, she had watched the sunset while riding on the back of the red and black dragon, much like many of her ancestors had done before. With each flight, her connection with her children grew stronger, and her maneuvers became more precise. If only they had a few more years before they had to go to war, so that Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion could reach greater maturity. Probably they wouldn't even have to worry about war, as the sheer size and movement of the creatures would be enough to deter any opposition, as had happened during the reign of Jaehaerys I Targaryen.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, so any improvement in the bond with her dragons was a general improvement in the situation. Now, with the sun giving way to a beautiful full moon, she found herself sharing dinner with Missandei, her faithful companion, friend, and advisor. They spoke calmly, something that hadn't happened much since they had arrived at her birthplace, as administering and preparing the area had been very time-consuming.

"So, what impression does he give you?’’

Missandei took a sip of wine, hiding her expression. – "He seems like a good person, and although what he mentioned beyond the Wall is yet to be seen, the stories about his wartime campaigns seem credible, I would say. Although he's also someone calm, and he seems to have taken a liking to Aegon's Garden and the library."

"Is that so? Do we know what he's been reading?"

The Naathi took another bite of her dinner. – "According to the library master, he has requested books about 'volcanic rock.' Something unusual, don't you think?"

"It is, indeed. Jon Stark manages to enclose mysteries, and most of the time he doesn't seem to be aware of it." – Daenerys said as she took a sip of wine. Missandei nodded.

It was certainly unusual. What could Jon Stark be concerned about regarding volcanic rock? Perhaps he feared a collapse of the castle or tunnels leading to his chambers? Daenerys didn't know, but she would try to ask the next time she had the opportunity to speak with the northerner. Maybe it was just boredom, and he was trying to pass the time. In their next conversation, she would let him know that he could practice with swords along with the men he had brought from Winterfell, if he wished. Besides, did Jon Stark have any faith in any gods?

Truly, there were many things about him that she didn't know, but everything had its time, even though at this precise moment time seemed to be running a bit against her.

"Missandei, my friend, for tonight I won't need anything else, so if you wish, you can go to Grey Worm, you know that, right?" – She said with an empathetic smile once she saw their plates empty. She knew well that her advisor had hardly been able to visit the commander of the Unsullied, who had also been busy preparing his troops.

"Yes, but, my Queen—" – The Naathi girl tried to argue, but upon seeing Daenerys' expression, a huge and genuine smile filled her face, understanding everything. – "I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. If you need anything throughout the night—"

"I'll let you know, I promise. Have a good night, my friend."

The dark-skinned woman showed a reverence. – "Rest well and have a good night, my Queen."

And with that, the girl left the place.

…

…

…

Barely an hour went by since the Hour of the Wolf had passed, and Daenerys found herself leaning against the window once again, feeling the cool sea breeze and the warmth emanating from the fire burning in the hearth. She had once again had one of those damned dreams. This time, there was no trace of the strange figure of rotted wood or Quaithe's prophecies. But the tower had returned, and with it, the shadows calling to her from the ground floor.

She had woken up with a start, his tiredness leaving her completely, so she had decided to stare at the sea once more. It was then that she had seen a terrible storm brewing on the horizon towards Dragonstone. It was a huge, furious, unnatural storm. And Daenerys hoped it was not a bad omen. Although it wouldn't be enough to harm the Blood of the Dragon, the creatures of Fire made Flesh did not enjoy rain and thunder at all. Perhaps descending to the library would calm her mind and help her sleep.

However, at that moment, any plan was interrupted by a knock on the door. On the other side of the wooden structure, she heard the voice of Ser Barristan the Bold, and his voice sounded hurried, nervous.

"Your Grace, are you awake? I bring urgent news."

"Come in, Ser Barristan." – The old man entered the room, clad in his black and gray armor, a sword sheathed at his hip and a helmet in his left hand. In the center of his chest, his armor displayed the proud three-headed dragon sigil. This was not an ordinary visit – "You may speak, Captain of the Queensguard."

The man offered a half-bow before straightening up again, his gaze brimming with determination.

"We have received a herald from House Velaryon. Their ships were patrolling the southern coast when they spotted it. Ships bearing the banner of the Red Kraken, shrouded in fog and storm, are heading towards Dragonstone. Our troops are preparing for battle or siege, including the King in the North, Jon Stark. How do you choose for us to act?"

Quickly, Daenerys approached the chest on the shelf and placed the crown atop her platinum blonde hair, now loose without the characteristic braids of a Khaleesi.

"Let them find us at Dragonstone. My children and I will greet Euron 'Crow's Eye' with Fire and Blood."

...

Chapter Text

JON

‘’Where are you headed? Perhaps later we can continue our conversation.’’ – He tried to maintain composure as he asked. The conversation was going well, wasn't it? He didn't think he had said anything that might have offended the Mother of Dragons. Luckily, the girl turned around, and he saw her smile slightly.

‘’Flying, Jon Stark. Do you wish to come with me?’’ –Riding on the back of a dragon would have been tempting, if he were a madman, of course. As unique as the experience would be, and surely it would be unique, since it was very likely that he would plummet to his death as soon as the creature took flight, he preferred to stay on the ground. The smile of the Queen of Dragonstone was contagious, and he felt the corners of his mouth lift slightly, too.

‘’I think this time I’ll decline the offer, Queen Daenerys. Have a safe journey.’’ – And with that, he watched her leave, leaving behind a scent of lavender in the air, and the King in the North alone once more. His body leaned on the railing of the rocky stairs, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him. Perhaps it was due to the fright the three dragons, as large as a small fortress, had given him just moments ago.

Although, truth be told, Jon had not felt fear at the sight of the winged creatures, but rather a strange chill down his spine that had thrown off his balance. A chill very similar to the one he felt when—

She had said he should 'leave him alone with his thoughts,' and truth be told, that had been an accurate expression, for the former Lord Commander had much to ponder. On one hand, he remembered to thank Ser Davos later for his advice, as it had been the old sailor who had advised him to ‘take the first step’ and speak frankly with the girl with amethyst eyes.

‘She has a lot going on, lad, and so do you. I’ve seen her treat everyone in this castle as an equal, she addresses you as a king even if it goes against her liking, and is trying to fight evil off this realm without just turning the world into a fireball with her three dragons. I don’t know if can say that much about the many kings this shit realm has had. Take a chance, and give her one too.’

The man from House Seaworth had not been wrong; Daenerys Targaryen did not seem like a bad person, and yet Jon had not dared to speak to her about what he had written in the letter he had sent to Sam, even when she had used the same words he had.

Maester Aemon.

‘Did you find any joy in your command?’ – She had asked, while the old Aemon had assured him that, in his command, he would find little joy, if at all, or at least, that's how he remembered it. Remembering the old maester had been a small stab in Jon's chest. Oh, what he would give to be able to bring him before Daenerys.

‘A Targaryen, alone in the world, is a terrible thing.’ – They hadn't been alone. And now, they weren't still, considering that Aegon claimed to be the would-be nephew of the Dragon Queen.

Was it a good idea for both to fight? Was there no other way, even to honor the wish of Aemon Targaryen?

No, there wasn't. Jon had made a choice, and he would live with that choice.

He pulled out Samwell's letter from his pocket once again and read it, as if that would change the ink staining it.

‘To Jon Sn Stark, The King in the North.

Greetings, Jon. It has been a long time since we last saw each other, and I see that not only my journey has been eventful, but yours as well, only tenfold. Unfortunately, although I have enough paper, I lack the time to tell you in detail about my journey, but I can tell you that I am glad you are safe and sound, and that you deserve whatever good has happened during this trying time.

My search regarding what we can use to combat the Others is mainly based on the dagger you found at the Fist of the First Men. Sta As we knew, it is not just any crystal, but one of volcanic origin. According to Archmaester Gyldayn, a large accumulation of them is found under Dragonstone, in Old Valyria, and in any volcanic formation that may be found not only in Westeros, but beyond the Wall or any other continent. The easiest to obtain would be under the mines of Dragonstone, although it may be difficult to obtain them without getting direct permission from Daenerys Targaryen, who seems to have claimed the island. Fortunately, considering that this material only kills the Others, and not the wights they reanimate, we wouldn't need as much as good steel; in case of facing them in direct combat, arrows and daggers should suffice.

On another note, I still have the horn you gave me, which we also found at the Fist, but I haven't found any information about it, although several horns appear in legends and tales like the one Mance Rayder used to tell. It doesn't seem that any Maester has bothered to try to specify such information. Just as none has deigned to search for a cure for Greyscale. Sometimes one wonders how far the hypocrisy of the Maesters throughout history has gone, and how reliable they have been.

But anyway, I digress, a fleet of ships has arrived at the Citadel, probably to distribute the already formed to their respective houses, who knows, perhaps by the time this raven reaches you, we won't take too long to reunite, my friend.

Take care and good luck on your upcoming travels, Samwell Tarly.’

Jon had lost track of when he had last seen Sam, many moons ago, that was for sure, before the... betrayal of the Night's Watch. The last thing he had spoken to him about was the passing of Maester Aemon, on their way to the Citadel, as they sailed the Narrow Sea.

‘The poor man was so close to his distant kin and didn't even know it.’

Should he speak to Daenerys about the kind Aemon the next time they spoke? Perhaps he shouldn't, as it would be like rubbing salt in the wound that the girl must be feeling when facing what could be her last living relative. But at the same time, it was his duty to honor the memory of the old man, and the Dragon Queen perhaps deserved to know that another illustrious person from her bloodline hadn't been as far away as she thought.

And that brought him back to Daenerys. There didn't seem to be any animosity between the two rulers, but there was nothing more either. They had the capacity to understand and respect each other, that much was clear. But he owed her nothing, and she owed him nothing.

Asking her army to turn their gaze away from the capital to go defend the Wall was too much, he knew. What could the King in the North offer the Mother of Dragons in return? The North had barely emerged from a civil war, and winter was coming. The crown he now wore also gave him legitimacy in the Riverlands, through the Tullys, and he had the loyalty of the Reeds, whose territory had largely remained unscathed in recent years. Although, of course, the whereabouts of Brynden Blackfish remained unknown, and Howland's men could not descend south without crossing the Twins, which still remained under the control of the treacherous Freys.

Could that perhaps be the ideal exchange? Offering the men of the Riverlands and the Crannogmen in exchange for help besieging the Twins? Perhaps.

And to obtain permission to mine the Dragonglass, what could he offer?

He felt a weight behind him shift.

Dark Sister.

The price of a Valyrian steel sword was incalculable, yes, and it also served to kill the Others. Probably someone with three dragons under their command wouldn't notice much change by having one more sword in the upcoming wars, but this was Dark Sister, and Daenerys was a Targaryen. Perhaps just for what it would mean to her to have a family legacy that superseded Aegon's Blackfyre, Jon could get many more weapons to kill White Walkers, and perhaps, in passing, some more well-sharpened steel for the wights, who were the truly dangerous ones, as they made up the armies of the icy creatures beyond the Wall.

The young King in the North couldn't help but feel somewhat…guilty; he could only imagine the emotions he would feel if someone offered him to wield Ice, just as when Sansa offered him Robb's crown. Was he going to use those feelings as currency with Daenerys? He didn't really have another option, and with a bit of luck, she wouldn't be emotionally attached to that sword, it would just be protocol, procedure, symbolism.

One way or another, Jon Stark would live with it.

Although, how could he explain how the sword had come into his hands if they asked him? Supposedly, Lord Commander Rivers had taken it on his ranging beyond the Wall never to return. How had such a legendary blade ended up behind the effigy of Lyanna Stark in the crypts of Winterfell? Mance Rayder had managed to infiltrate the capital of the North without being discovered; could Brynden Bloodraven have done the same? Or perhaps Maester Aemon, by order of his uncle?

Probably those answers would elude him for the rest of his days.

Although he would have liked to stay on the steps to contemplate the sunset, he had to return to the castle, mainly to tell Ser Davos how the talk with the Queen had gone, and perhaps to inquire about some of the parts of the castle as well. Did Dragonstone Castle have a weirwood tree too? It was curious how much he had grown accustomed to sheltering under the branches of the bleeding tree, and how he had missed it on his sea voyage.

Jon began to descend the steps when on a nearby plateau near the castle, he saw the three winged creatures rise into the sky with a powerful roar. One of them with white and gold scales, another with green and bronze scales, and the last and largest with black and red scales, this one carrying a small silver figure on its back.

‘The mother of Dragons, indeed.’ – The person who had brought magic back into the world was a girl with platinum blonde hair and lilac eyes, who had become a conqueror, liberator, and leader, and while holding immeasurable power in her hands, she always strived to try to create a just world, starting with those who followed her and believed in her. Honestly, Daenerys Targaryen seemed like a person who was hard to believe existed.

Suddenly Jon felt somewhat embarrassed, praising someone he barely knew in his mind.

His steps led him back into the interior of the castle, once again passing by the dragon statues, which always seemed to watch him with unwavering black eyes. Once past the throne room, he turned left in search of Ser Davos, who, as he recalled, was staying in a room nearby his. After a couple of turns, he didn't find the sailor, but instead, two maidens, and Jon recognized one of them, the Queen's advisor who had introduced her earlier, Missandei.

The girl with bronzed skin and chestnut brown hair finished speaking with the other girl in a language Jon didn't understand, but which sounded smooth and sweet to him, and then looked at him. She put a smile on her face, crossed her hands over her belly, and gave a small bow.

‘’King Jon, I hope your settlement in Dragonstone is peaceful. Is there anything you need?’’ – She stared directly into the former Snow's eyes. – ‘’If you wish for an audience with the Queen, I'm afraid she has left the castle.’’

‘’Thank you, I was looking for my advisor, Ser Davos. Although now that you ask, Lady Missandei, is there a weirwood tree in this castle or anywhere on the island?’’

The girl looked at him as if he were almost crazy. – ‘’A weirwood, Your Grace?’’ – It was said that the mysterious trees were found throughout Westeros, but Jon, erroneously, had assumed that something similar would be found in Essos, or perhaps the girl had heard of it. He tried to explain.

‘’As far as I know, there is no such thing on the island, no, but if you're looking for a peaceful place with vegetation, I recommend Aegon's Garden, a small garden in the northwest wing of the castle. I find it quite... comfortable.’’

With another bow and a smile with closed eyes, the girl left, and Jon made his way back to his chambers, and then to the northwest wing of the castle.

There would be time to talk to Ser Davos.

...

Although it took him a bit to find the place, as the castle occasionally proved labyrinthine in its construction, Jon finally arrived at the garden.

Aegon's Garden.

The place was spacious, with grass covering its expanse, and although it seemed that the vegetation in it had seen better times during the spring, the arrival of imminent winter had not ended the wild roses that grew chained, or the pines that stood tall around the garden. At one side of the garden, sheltered under a tree, was a gray stone bench. Jon made his way and eventually sat down on the bench, took Longclaw out of its sheath and the whetstone from his left pocket, and closed his eyes as he felt the stone brush against the edge of the Valyrian blade.

If he concentrated, the cold wind and the scent of pine reminded him of the forests of the North.

Shortly after, the sound of the whetstone was replaced by footsteps, and he saw the figure of Ser Davos entering the garden with a nostalgic look like few times he had seen in the man. Realizing that he was here, he made his way to the bench, and then sat down with a heavy sigh.

‘’I'm glad you found the garden, lad. It's one of the few places in this castle that remembers that there is something beyond sand, sulfur, and stone.’’ – The old man fixed his gaze especially on an almost withered bush in the center of the place.

‘’Aye, that’s true.’’ – Once again, Jon saw shades of pain in Davos's eyes. – ‘’I sense the castle is not much of your liking.’’

The man sighed again.

‘’It's just... memories of the last time I was here, when I was still in service to Stannis. In this castle, he named me Hand of the King too. Young... Shireen loved coming here to play or smell the wild roses or see the berry bush that grew in the garden. She...’’

Jon put a hand on his shoulder, understanding. Sometimes he forgot all the pain the man had gone through in recent years, too great an injustice for such a noble man. – ‘’I'm really sorry, my friend.’’

‘’It…doesn't matter. We must focus on the present. But I appreciate it, Jon, truly.’’ – The man sighed once more and tried to compose himself. – ‘’Did you speak with the Queen?’’

‘’Aye, I did.’’ – Jon sheathed Longclaw once again. – ‘’Nothing is agreed yet, but we were able to speak cordially without the tension of a throne and its war council present. It's... a start.’’ – As if by magic, lilac eyes crossed the mind of the King in the North once again.

‘’Well, it's better than what I expected on the first day.’’

He looked at the Seaworth, raising an eyebrow. – ‘’And what were you expecting, Ser Davos?’’

‘’To be burned alive, Your Grace.’’

Ser Davos Seaworth was a man of sincerity and honesty, no doubt.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Jon recounted the contents of Sam's letter to his advisor, and they discussed the idea he had regarding the problem in the Riverlands. Clearly, he had to leave out the information that he possessed one of the legendary Valyrian swords of the Targaryens, but Ser Davos assured him that it was very likely that the Dragon Queen would offer him the volcanic glass beneath the castle since an old knight of Stannis, Ser Rolland, had already mined some shipments and deposited them in carts in the mines, so some of the work would be done already. They both agreed to start drafting ravens to the houses of the North, especially House Manderly, as they were most likely to have more wealth than they were boasting, considering they owned one of the largest port cities in Westeros. On the other hand, a raven needed to be sent to Winterfell, to ensure that everything was going according to plan regarding supplies, the placement of the Free Folk, and the possible machinations of Littlefinger that might be happening under Sansa's regency. With a bit of luck, the Old Gods would allow him to dream into the body of Ghost.

Ghost.

On instinct, he tried to pull on the bond he had with the direwolf. All that returned was a slight nudge, like the already dispersed ripples that a small stone leaves once dropped into a river. It was good to see that Jon's faithful white wolf was still safe, as the tug had not been one of tension or impatience, but rather one of slight melancholy. How he wished he could bring the loyal white wolf to Dragonstone, but it was possible that the creature wouldn't have fared well in the damp yet hot temperature of the volcanic island, a heat that the cold sea breeze couldn't balance even for the King in the North, or perhaps the almost constant smell of sulfur on the volcanic island would have been unbearable for the creature's sharp sense of smell.

Both men stayed a while longer in the garden, Jon being the first to leave, after realizing that Davos might have come to the garden in order to reflect and remember, on his own. He wandered around the castle for a bit, immersing himself in the reality of where he was, the rock walls, the dragon carvings and great feats, the banners of the house of the Dragon. The place felt strange but familiar, as if he had once seen it in a distant dream, while resting on the hard pallets given to the stewards on the Wall, or perhaps it was simply that he could feel the mystic and ancient that laid behind the hot rocky walls of Dragonstone. After a while, he encountered the friendly brown-eyed advisor again, and asked her for directions to a library within the fortress. The girl led him to the place, a room with a very high ceiling, and shelves made of both stone and wood held tomes of all kinds, some more neglected, others seemingly recently read. The library was surprisingly cozy, with a large fireplace in which a fire was burning, and to counteract the height of the windows, from which not much sunlight was passing anymore, there were torches around every corner of the place, providing a comfortable yet somehow... nostalgic light, if it could be called that.

His search focused on topics related to the Dragonmont and how the volcanic situation of the place could affect its mines, more specifically the rocks that formed there, but his search was not as fruitful as he had thought. Apart from what he already knew, he found some rumors that Daemon Targaryen had hidden dragon eggs somewhere in the depths of the mountain, which, of course, had never been found, and the curious fact that Dragonglass could vary in color depending on certain conditions. Advisor Missandei returned once asking if the King needed anything, but Jon could tell she had a curious look when she saw the 'object of his study', fortunately, her courtesy didn't make her ask. And so, the rest of the day passed, reading and thinking about how to draft the ravens he had discussed with Ser Davos.

The Snow-turned-Stark rose from his chair. Then the Gods called him back.

Pain.

Pain.

His body felt again as if Bowen Marsh had plunged his knife into the chest of his Lord Commander. The claws of a fierce animal dug and squeezed into his chest and throat, and one of his knees hit the ground.

‘For the Watch.’ – His mind reminded him.

What in the Seven Hells was happening to him? Were they killing Ghost? Could he feel it if they were? He was sure he could, and he prayed to the Gods that that wasn't what was happening, not to Ghost. Was it Baelish doing? What about Sansa?

The scars that adorned his body and his face burned intensely, especially the one that traced a rift over his heart, in successive waves, although it was not like when he burned his hand grabbing a lit candelabra on the wall.

It was the burning of dark ice against the skin.

And as soon as the pain had come, it was gone, leaving the King in the North hunched over, but on his two legs, just a few feet from the library door. His mouth tasted like ashes and sweat dripped coldly from his brow.

What in the Seven Hells just happened to him?

It had barely been a fraction of a moment, yet he could hardly recall the last time he felt anything like it.

The pyre.

Perhaps it had only been a reminder from the Lord of Light that time was running out, and that he had brought him back for a reason he must not forget. Maybe a maester should examine his body, but that had not been mundane pain, no, but rather an unnatural one; what was it supposed to tell him? For now, he would limit himself to returning to his chambers, with any luck, some food would restore him.

...

...

...

Finally, he arrived at his room in the labyrinthine fortress, and before long, his supper was brought to him, a generous plate of smoked fish with spices, along with grilled potatoes and a glass of ale. Eating undoubtedly made him feel better, though the feeling that the stabbing pain could return at any moment unsettled him, and it had left him tired, very tired. Lazily, he removed his thick cloak and laid it on his plush bed, then unfastened the gorget bearing the sigil of the direwolf that he always wore around his neck, unfastened his belt, and left it, along with Longclaw, leaning against the headboard of the bed.

For some time now, he had grown accustomed to having a blade nearby at all times, especially when sleeping.

It wasn't that he feared whatever death might offer him, for he had already seen that deep abyss, but the betrayal that had stolen his breath and pierced his heart had instilled in him reflexes that would never fade, and a pride that refused to let any other man kill him again. It had been agony for him to begin his walk down the castle stairs without the Mormont blade hanging at his hip, even when he would have spoken with Daenerys. He had trusted that it would be safe, even under the possibility that the Dragon Queen would have executed him then and there or plunged a knife into his back.

Although, of course, Jon had not been completely unarmed.

On the mattress, atop his cloak, the shape of the legendary Valyrian blade could be discerned. Unable to resist, he approached to grasp the sword. Perhaps he could wield it. But he mustn't be distracted, and practicing with a sword he wouldn't use in combat might be a waste of time. Although both were remarkably light, Longclaw was a hand and a half longer than Dark Sister, as well as thicker. Though similar, Jon keeping in mind the necessary distance to wield the bastard sword was crucial in combat. Seeing that the blade remained hidden in case someone entered his room unannounced, Jon sat at his table and began writing the raven that he would send to Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor.

...

...

...

...

Well past the Hour of the Wolf, his eyes had begun to close again, after having dreamed of strange, drowned words and inexplicable, horrible images in the dark depths of some unknown place. In the distance, he could hear the distant thunder of a storm, and he tried to focus on it to be able to sleep once more when--

Hastened footsteps sounded on the other side of his door. His eyes snapped open, and his right hand touched the hilt of Longclaw, and for a moment he forgot where he was. A hurried call at the door, and the voice of a man, who opened the door quickly. Ser Davos entered the room with wide eyes, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, and his breath coming in quick gasps. Jon feared the worst: betrayal.

"Jon lad, it's awful late I know, but you better pick up your sword and pick up your armor. We're under attack."

The King in the North barely needed to know one thing.

"Who?"

The Onion Knight swallowed hard.

"Red Kraken's ships. Ironborn, with a storm behind them."

Only one name crossed the former Lord Commander's mind. – ‘Theon Greyjoy. Traitor. Turncloak.’ – Something reignited deep within Jon, a sensation that had seemed to extinguish all those days on the ship, or even before leaving Winterfell.

Jon Stark would wield Longclaw gladly against the Ironborn. One of them had ravaged his home, and although not with his hands, had managed to kill his brothers, and now he would take his revenge.

Just as he had done with Alliser Thorne.

Just as he had done with Ramsay Bolton.

…

Barely seconds later, in the Painted Table room, were Daenerys, Ser Barristan, Tyrion, Missandei, the captain of the Unsullied named Grey Worm, Tyrion Lannister, Ser Davos, and him, around the table. On the horizon, but ever closer, a colossal storm was looming, charged with lightning and black clouds like the walls of the very room. Jon had put on his armor again, only this time with a black gambeson similar to one of the Night's Watch and without his cloak, thus leaving the Targaryen sword hidden in his chambers, for not only could he not carry it concealed, but if he fell, such a relic could be lost forever or fall into Greyjoy's hands.

Jon's gray eyes locked with Daenerys', who had also discarded her crimson cloak, replacing it with two silver dragon-shaped shoulder pads that rose slightly covering her neck, and leather bracers on her wrists that caught the large sleeves of a black wool coat, a sky as black as the night sky, a sky only broken by the black armor breastplate bearing the three-headed dragon in the center surrounded by rubies. Clearly, though the Dragon Queen did not wield steel, she was still a warrior. Her scaled horse in the sky, her sword a blazing fire that never extinguished. She stared at him as the raspy voice of Ser Barristan began to speak, pointing to the coast of the Crownlands and the Stormlands with his gloved hand.

"According to an emissary sent by a fleet of Velaryon fishing boats, the storm that can be seen from the coast hides a fleet of Ironborn ships, and they have seen that the banners belong to Euron Greyjoy's side, nicknamed the Crow's Eye." – The old knight moved one of the pieces. – "They are heading towards Dragonstone from the South, skirting around the Isle of Tarth. If my knowledge of them remains true, they will not seek a siege, probably not even approach the castle. But the port village... will not be so lucky. As far as I know, their customs discard the use of bows, in favor of close combat weapons, so it is almost certain they seek a direct confrontation."

The Lannister dwarf, who perhaps for the first time in their meetings, had moved away from his wine goblet, spoke with a half-mocking smile. – "The Ironborn are…rough in their thinking, that's for sure, but I don't think they are that stupid. They can't expect to raid a village that sits right below powerful armies... and three dragons that can reduce their fleet to ashes. There must be an intention behind this... Or perhaps Euron Crow's Eye is a mad cunt, whatever goes."

"Perhaps they rely on the storm to hinder the flight or vision of the dragons." – The King in the North intervened.

The Dragon Queen nodded her words like a block of iron falling into the snow. – "They have made a mistake if they think that dragons may fear a storm then. I can mount Drogon and sink their fleet before they set foot on Dragonstone's sand. Nonetheless, just in case." – The Queen turned to the soldier with dark skin and a serious face. – "Grey Worm, prepare groups of Unsullied and divide them throughout the village, let every citizen retreat into the city, Missandei, have the maidens who speak the common tongue go with them. When you have as many as possible, we will try to direct them towards the castle. And let the Dothraki wait on the outskirts of the fishing village, they will move better in open field."

Jon was sure of the damage dragons could cause to an unprepared fleet, but there was something about the mass of clouds that sent shivers down his spine, and made the scars on his body feel tense. He had seen something similar once, not so long ago.

The blizzard that devoured Hardhome. The blue eyes of death.

Jon leaned on the table. – "So we'll wait for them at the harbor, to fight those who try to step on land, right?"

All attendees, including Ser Davos, looked at him. Tyrion, seizing the silence, this time got up, heading towards the nearest pitcher, his back to the group.

"You're on a... diplomatic mission far from home, Your Grace. Something happening to you would be tremendously unfortunate, and it could be seen as a plot on our part to rid ourselves of the unyielding King in the North."

The King in the North felt his brow furrow. – "The Greyjoys would try to kill me anyway, regardless of the reason I've come to Dragonstone, my Lord. I know your soldiers are capable, but we're talking about innocent lives at stake, and we don't know for certain how many ships are heading towards you. I won't stay behind a wall while others fight for me."

Jon spoke from the heart, but there was a reason he had left out: that a certain Greyjoy he had grown up with had betrayed his brother Robb and had tried, and possibly succeeded, in killing his other two brothers, Bran and Rickon.

And for that, Jon Stark wanted to use Longclaw against kraken flesh, just as he had cut down the flayed man until there was nothing left of him.

Daenerys looked at him as if she could read his thoughts, but said nothing.

With any luck, it was because she knew she couldn't convince him.

...

As they moved through the castle corridors seeking the exit, Jon had offered Ser Davos shelter in the castle, and had warned his men that they didn't need to join him on the front line. But these were northerners, whether out of loyalty to their king or because the Ironborn's habit of raiding northern coasts had fueled their resentment, they were all ready to fight. So, armed with their swords, shields, and bows, they followed Jon.

Once again, the former Lord Commander tried to convince Davos to at least join the groups that were supposed to organize the citizens, as he would be one of the few who could speak the common tongue and inform them of what was happening. At that logic, the Seaworth had agreed, not without first swearing to Jon that as soon as he saw enough people on their way to the fortress, he would wield his sword and walk towards the beach.

It would have to suffice.

...

The King in the North did not take long to reach the humble village.

At the end of the endless stairs, if one turned towards the South face of the beach, there was a large expanse of houses. None were particularly tall, although perhaps wide, and all were separated by wide sandy pathways, which had large wooden planks resting on the ground to stabilize the terrain. In the streets, there were carts or wagons, some canoes, barrels, sacks, and fishing nets hung over some porches. At the end of the houses, all the roads converged on another segment of the beach, which led to a trident of wooden planks above the waters, with each branch very far apart.

Jon had positioned himself next to Grey Worm, right at the end of what were the village houses, surrounded by the Unsullied soldiers, who were in formation and awaiting orders. The storm was closer to them than they were to the castle, and yet Jon could not distinguish any ships, let alone their sails, in the dark shelter of the night. Had the Velaryon's emissaries been wrong?

The storm was approaching.

The seahorse's house had served Stannis in his departure to the Wall, and what if they had conjured a plot to leave much of the castle unprotected and try to attack Daenerys? Behind him, he could hear the wind, and the villagers moving at the speed their numbers allowed. If he concentrated, he could hear Ser Davos, or perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him.

The storm was approaching, too fast.

Jon felt his scars tighten, icy, one of his hands grasped the hilt of Longclaw, anxious, frightened, furious, impatient. He could hear, from somewhere on the Dragonmont, three calamities taking flight, parting the sky and the clouds in their wake. The King in the North didn't know if he wished the Queen were riding one of the creatures, or if she had waited in the castle, under Ser Barristan Selmy's protection.

The storm had almost swallowed them whole.

Just a blink later, from the immense wall of rain and clouds that was the storm, the hooves of a dozen ships appeared solemnly. The vessels were painted a deep black, only broken by golden rivets, and not a sound came from them. The hulls resembled the jaws of great wolves, baring their fangs and ready to devour whatever lay on land. The sails were enormous, with the effigy of a crimson squid threatening to swallow the island. Three roars that sounded as one broke the silence once more, and as an uncountable number of men shouted with sword or axe in hand and leaped towards the beach, Jon saw the figures of three winged dragons dive into the stormy wall, spitting fire into the bowels of the behemoth.

The battle had begun.

...

The first Ironborn to approach Jon did so in long strides, a curved sword raised in his right hand, shouting, his eyes wide open, his mouth drooling as well. The King in the North, who had already drawn Longclaw, used his bastard sword to parry with its edge horizontally, then used the momentum of the clash to spin the Valyrian sword and cut while throwing his body forward, reaching the pirate's neck and leaving half of his head hanging, collapsing to the ground and soaking Jon's arms with blood. Another kraken man approached with a two-handed steel axe, and their blades clashed, one, two times, until the man was knocked to the ground by the timely spear of an Unsullied, causing the axe to slip from his grip; he tried to turn around in the sand to pick it up, but the tip of Longclaw had already descended towards his rib before that happened.

At the sound of another cry, Stark turned his head and moved his body back with his guard low, another swordsman was coming for him, this one calmer than the previous ones, with his sword low and determined step, a face of rage hidden under a face full of deep scars. The man made an upward cut that Jon dodged again, then made a downward cut that made both steels meet halfway. The clash broke when the Ironborn, who was bigger and stronger than him, tried to put his weight on his sword, making Jon react by moving aside again. As the pirate leaned forward, unbalanced by his weight, Stark took the opportunity to make a deep cut in his enemy's leg, causing him to groan in pain as he faced another Unsullied in his way. He had to do the same when another Ironborn carrying two knives charged at him, superficially cutting his chest with one of his daggers, while the other got caught in the Valyrian blade. With a quick twist, Jon used Longclaw's guard to strike the raider's face, which had gotten too close, and, taking advantage of his daze, the Mormont's blade tip pierced another raider's flesh. The storm had finally swallowed everything definitively, and the rain, mud, and blood covering the King in the North's hands and blade made his movements heavy and his vision fragmented. He could see more ships arriving at the island, and in the background, past the first lines, the figures of Daenerys's dragons could be seen spewing flames over the waters and the ships alike, making the men's cries heard.

Jon turned to one side, and saw the tall bearded man with whom he had clashed weapons before coming back for him, now more bruised and with the round shield of a eunuch soldier in his hand, while holding his sword in the other. He parried his strike with Longclaw, but immediately felt his face struck by the front blow of the shield, and it was only by a handbreadth that he dodged the descending cut of the bearded man, Jon struck again with a horizontal cut that was stopped by the buckler, but supporting his left hand on his own blade, he was able to stop the next blow coming from his right. The raider pushed him to pursue him again, the former Lord Commander saw his movement, and feinted a step to the left, then went to the right and cut, when the Ironborn tried to cover his body with the shield again, he realized he had erred, as the blow, which had been lower than it seemed, had aimed at his armed arm, cleanly slicing it. His head followed shortly after.

Jon Snow had returned to the Battle of the Bastards on that wintry field. The cold and snow replaced by water and moisture, the smell of blood and the sound of cries and steel were almost the same. It was chaotic, intoxicating, terrifying. The dragon's fire emitted a heat that made the King in the North find himself again.

Jon, Stark or Snow, killed, stabbed, butchered. He was losing count of how many Ironborn were falling, and how long he had been fighting. Did Euron Greyjoy's subjects have so many ships and men to withstand combat and dragonfire? Every cut he received, he returned it and more. A raider tried to draw a dagger while their steels clashed, taking advantage of the little range he had, Jon kicked it away as he cut. For a second, he saw the face of Qhorin Halfhand when he observed the crimson pearl necklace that his enemy wore with eyes out of their orbits. Jon split another axe with an angled cut, and Longclaw's tip found the other end of a jaw, blood splashing his face. His body fell to the ground when an Ironborn tackled him, knocking him down, wielding the broken tip of a spear in his hand. His left shoulder began to burn. He narrowly dodged the spear tip again, and when he heard it sink into the sand, Stark's reflexes brought his teeth to his enemy's throat, closing forcefully like a gate blown by the wind, the warm blood of the kraken man quickly choking him. An attack unfit of a king, but very much so of a wildling.

He got up as fast as he could.

‘’Jon. Jon!’’ – He turned his head, distinguishing in a clearing the gray hair of Ser Davos, and coughed and spat out all the blood that threatened to make him vomit. – ‘’Almost- won- Stannis's or- Order of-!’’ – The sailor focused his attention on another Ironborn, and they began their duel, while he tried to approach his advisor, also dodging and cutting along the way. He felt the scorching cold on his shoulder and chest again, and realized that walking was becoming difficult. Ser Davos, now closer, spoke to him again. – ‘…space for Daenerys! The dragons-!’’ – Jon felt the fire again, very close, and heard masts creaking. It wasn't enough yet, he hadn't seen if Theon Greyjoy was among the attackers. It wasn't enough yet.

Then, he heard it.

Jon Stark's very bones shook when the whole island was ravaged by that sound. An infernal scream. Any of the Seven Hells themselves opening up. The souls of billions in torment, as if someone had decided to execute a continent. Everything seemed to stop for a moment, even the battle itself. The noise was maddening, repulsive, demanding, but also anguishing, grieving. It was like he wanted to scream when he found out that Ned or Robb had died. His temples felt like they were about to burst, or maybe he would bleed out first, as if the scars on his chest had torn completely. He staggered, struggling not to cover his ears, his grip on Longclaw weakening, and he could hear the dragons in the sky again, roaring, but it wasn't their usual roar, it was one that almost seemed mournful, if such powerful creatures were capable of making such a sound. He saw a stream of fire heading in all directions, as if it had lost balance in mid-flight. Or maybe it was his mind spinning. A wave of concern flooded him.

‘’Daenerys-‘’

The whistling of a blade entered his peripheral vision, far enough away not to sever his head, but nothing more, his movements slow in the rain. A sting cut across Jon's cheek and part of his shoulder.

‘Have I lost my eye?’ – He wondered.

Between the pain on his face, and the rain, mud, and blood, there was no way to know for sure. Jon's anger burned even more. He saw another cut, which he struggled to parry, using the blunt part of his sword, but the enemy blade descended, cutting into his wrist. The Ironborn facing him surely believed victory was his, but his anticipation fell short when, for his next strike, Jon was no longer there, but instead thrusting his sword through his opponent's stomach from side to side. The King in the North pushed him, getting him out of the way of Mormont's blade, with a heavy sigh. Now his wrist was burning too, as well as other points on his torso or legs. But no, Jon had already tasted death, and this sensation didn't resemble that.

 Or perhaps, once again, his memory was betraying him.

He could no longer distinguish most of what was happening on the beach. On his way, he cut with all his strength, regardless of whether they were coming for him or some eunuch soldier, whether they were facing him, had their backs turned, or were writhing on the ground. The Valyrian steel cut squids and krakens alike. Another one approached with an axe raised, Jon opened his stomach and pushed him with his shoulder, watching as he fell to the ground; another crossed swords with Stark, who punched the ugly face of the pirate directly, then made a cut on the leg he had forward and pierced his stomach with a thrust. The pommel of Longclaw no longer even looked like a wolf, now soaked with crimson blood and black mud.

Then he heard it, again.

The thousands of tormented souls split the sky in two once more, and the dragons responded. The storm turned to water and fire, while wood burned, and steel continued to clash. The sound was dreadful, and it was capable of paralyzing the battle once again, but it wasn't just that, there was something in Jon's heart. Hardhome. the Others. Knives in the darkness. A pyre. The moon splitting in half. A sword. A fortress. A vow. A gate.

‘’JON!’’ – Upon feeling a hand on his shoulder, he almost used Longclaw to defend himself with a stab, but he recognized the face of the Onion Knight just in time. After a moment, he realized how ragged his breathing was, his eyes wide open, his jaw sore from clenching his teeth. – ‘’WE HAVE TO MOVE!’’ –The man grabbed him firmly and pulled him away from the shore.

He looked around and realized that Daenerys's forces were overwhelming the Ironborn, and pushing them back. A line of arrows and spears drew a clear wall between the two sides, and the storm seemed to start dissipating at an unnatural rate, even faster than it had come. Three colossal winged shadows descended for the last time, and thus, the fleet of the Red Kraken exploded in tongues of red-black, greenish, and pale flames. Once the rain had dissipated, the three dragons continued to spew fire into the sea, searching for more ships hidden under the nighttime cloak, but there seemed to be none, only debris and bodies.

The battle finally stopped, and Queen Dragon's troops raised their spears to the sky, then struck the ground with them, the cries of celebration from what Jon imagined were the Dothraki soon followed, and among the soldiers, he could see scattered Northern members.

With the night still high, and the port city illuminated by fires and the moon, the battle had been won.

...

...

...

The soldiers had waited until the break of dawn to withdraw, establishing a camp near the fishing village, and ships had been placed to patrol the waters near Dragonstone, in case the Ironborn wanted to return to battle, and to ensure the safety of the citizens returning to their respective homes.

The Snow-turned-Stark had kept his post despite Ser Davos's insistence that he go to a healer as soon as possible, after seeing his wounds. With the first rays of dawn, he had accepted, and allowed his wounds to be disinfected, and those that needed to be stitched were sewn, luckily none required on his torso, as the one that received there was superficial, so the remnants of the betrayal of the Night's Watch would remain hidden, as they should be. The wounds that required the most attention were his wrist, his leg, and his face, which required shaving. He hadn't lost his eye and hadn't been disfigured, but now his left cheek bore a new cut, matching the others.

Jon stepped out of the makeshift tent and felt the cold wind on his face, for the first time in many years, since before he joined the Night's Watch. He had left his armor, gorget, and gloves behind, so he was only wearing his boots, pants, his black gambeson, and Longclaw strapped to his waist. Before he could even look around, he saw the rising sun completely overshadowed, and shortly afterward, the ground shook, and cheers were heard all along the beach. He moved slowly until he reached the place.

Daenerys had returned to the beach of Dragonstone, and three proud dragons had positioned themselves behind her. The queen had kept her braids and crown intact, although he saw in her eyes a weariness that she was trying to hide. The silver breastplate she wore now was as black as coal, and one of her pauldrons hung at her back, but nothing about her seemed injured, and for that, the King in the North felt... relief. Upon her arrival, the Dothraki and Unsullied, cheered in unison.

‘’Mhysa! Mhysa! Mhysa! Khaleesi! Khaleesi! Khaleesi!’’ – Jon understood the meaning of Khaleesi, ‘she who led the Dothraki’, but as for what Mhysa could mean, the northerner had no idea. He watched as Grey Worm and Ser Barristan approached her, the latter dragging a heavy limp, yet both knelt before her. The mother of dragons spoke solemnly.

‘’Ānogar kipagīros, mentyr, jemome. Tubī ao vēttan iā sȳrkta vys, lēda egros se egrio, rȳ perzys se iēdar. Ipradagon! Mōzugon! Ēdrugon! Vāedagon! Jemome gūrogon ziry, tubī ērinnon iksis īlvon. Kostagon bisa vīlībāzma dohaeragon hae zūgagon syt lī qilōni nābēmagon skoros īlon mīsagon, se lyks syt lī qilōni glaesagon gō ondor ōregon hen pirta korzoti!’’

Again, the northerner didn't understand a word of that strange language, but he could understand what the Queen meant, as the numerous soldiers erupted into more cheers, with spears pounding the ground, arakhs waving in the air, and cries of Khaleesi and Mhysa.

For just a second, he was once again in the great hall of Winterfell, at a time when lords and soldiers alike celebrated the end of the struggle.

…

…

…

As the morning passed, Jon had decided to leave his gorget, gloves, bracelets, and gauntlets in his chambers, along with letting Longclaw rest on his table. After eating something and drinking all the water his stomach allowed, he put on his gray gambeson, his crown of swords, and his brown wolf cloak, and decided to leave the castle, much to Ser Davos's dismay. The sailor was right, and he needed to rest, but after spending the night in the jaws of war, the former Lord Commander needed solitude and time to think. Still, just in case, he sheathed Dark Sister under his cloak again, just in case someone from the castle decided to clean his room in his absence. He walked beyond the walls, and past the stairs where he had had his conversation with the Targaryen Queen. Stone was left behind in favor of grass and earth, facing almost face to face with a cliff formed like a scaly, hard slope. There the wind was less humid, and somewhat colder, especially noticeable on his face and on his wound, but it all balanced out with the clouds, which vied with the sun that refused to give in, producing shadow and divided clarity in streaks along the field.

Jon was tired. He had thrown himself into battle for many reasons: to help, for the people of the fishing village and the castle, because it was what he had to do. For the past, for the Sack of Winterfell, for Bran and Rickon, for Robb Stark the King in the North. For retribution.

He had always desired, had wanted, and had made sure to control it, to accept his role in the world. To be Lord Snow.

At what point had he started simply acting on what he wanted? Since his resurrection, he had seen more blood stain his hands than he had in the rest of his life. Was that what he sought? To be Jon ‘the Red’, 'The King of ambition'? Perhaps Ser Alliser was right, and he would always fight others' battles, so the least he could do to prove the traitor wrong was to long for those battles, so that they became his own.

The doubts shouldn't matter; now he was King, Lord of Winterfell. Whether in Dragonstone or not, he had to continue to take care of the North, he had to return, soon. Even if Daenerys-

But he also had to get the Dragonglass, and steel, and food. He had to negotiate, with Dark Sister, with the loyalty of the North.

Was it the same for his father Lord Eddard? For Robb? For Mance Rayder? For Stannis?

Jon wanted to talk to his brother.

He felt a push on his ribs, and he couldn't help but remember the terrible sound he heard on the battlefield during the storm. No one had spoken to him about it, had he heard it alone? It sounded like the sky and hell were tearing themselves apart, like pain and ecstasy, the entire combat had stopped, and he had seen the dragons... howl. The Dragon Queen should have heard it better than anyone, right? He would have to ask her as soon as he saw her.

"I was told kings celebrate with their men or rest after a battle. Never heard about sulking." - He turned to see, precisely, the Dragon Queen, now without armor or bracelets, but with her black and red dress with golden rivets. - "But then again, I haven't been in Westeros for that long of a time." - Her voice seemed to blend with the sound of the waves against the rocks.

She wore the ghost of a smile on her lips, paired with the faint weariness in her lilac eyes.

"I thought it best to hold the celebrations for now. I might sleep until next summer if I drink ale after all the medicine I've been given," – Against that answer, she lowered her eyes, and so Jon tried to correct it. – "Your healers have done well, your Grace."

The Mother of Dragons began to walk slowly, positioning herself beside him but a couple of arm's lengths away. Her platinum hair swayed in the wind, which wore away the rocks beneath the grass.

"You didn't need to put yourself in danger to defend the island today, yet you did. I am grateful for that. I am… sorry that you were injured. The least I could do was offer you help in return." – said, her gaze now fixed on the clouds.

"There is nothing to be sorry for. I'm healing. My men are well. There's not much more I could ask for. What about the Unsullied and the Dothraki?"

"The casualties have been... minimal. Ser Barristan sustained damage to his leg, but he's as stubborn as he is bold; he will recover."

He nodded slightly. – "That is good to hear."

She turned around, her eyes now meeting his. A strange rocky noise seemed close.

"Today we fought together, as allies. You fought alongside a foreign Queen to protect an island outside your kingdom. I want to reward that alliance. Lord Tyrion had... ideas about what you might ask for, as did Ser Davos, but I believe it's best to ask the King in the North directly. Name a price." –she said.

"Queen Daenerys, there's no need—"

Everything happened too quickly. A dark shadow emerged from the precipice like a beast on the hunt. Jon's body moved on instinct, pulling Daenerys away from the edge of the ground, placing her behind him, and feeling pain in the back of his hand. Both leaders stumbled backward, wary of who or what the shadow was.

A man stood before them. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in drenched leather armor and fragments of black metal. His face seemed to have a thick black beard, but the rest of his face was obscured by a helmet from which metallic squid tentacles extended. The shadow, wielding a thick machete in his left hand, spoke with a deep, choked voice, pointing his weapon at the Targaryen. She wanted to step forward to confront him, but Jon stretched out his arm and held it firm. That, he couldn't allow.

"You... dragon whore... My brother knew you'd be here, but not—" –The burly man choked on his words, spitting seawater. – "You and your... winged serpents... were going to be mine. The horn was supposed to—" He coughed again.

Jon wanted to slowly move his hand towards his hip, to reach for Longclaw, but the Mormont sword wasn't there; it was in his room. Now he only had—

The Ironborn spoke again, now pointing at Jon. – "And you... yes... my brother also talked of you. I recognize you... bastard wolf." – Jon's hand, which had tensed in front of Daenerys, began to move behind his cloak. He wasn't in top form to fight now, and the milk of the poppy made his eyes heavy, but at least he could keep him busy until Daenerys' guard arrived, if they appeared.

The man used his left hand to remove the kraken helm and throw it to the ground, revealing his black beard, a head with long dark hair, and half a face of melted flesh, barely recognizable. His hand also looked deformed, but with a disgusting blackish hue, akin to greyscale.

"Two kings, both unarmed ... The Drowned God or the Red one..." – The man began to walk with heavy steps. – "Today they serve me: Victarion. Captain of the Ir—"

The man swung his machete diagonally, and Jon stepped forward drawing Dark Sister. The blade was lighter and more maneuverable than Longclaw, and despite having less range, it came out of its sheath much faster and with greater speed. It was as if the blade was alive.

Both steels clashed, and Jon felt his wounds scream, but apparently, Victarion felt the same.

It all ended almost on the draw of a sword.

Jon tried to slash at the Ironborn's leading leg, but he stopped the blow, attempting to thrust at the left side of the northerner's chest. Jon dodged it, and turning Dark Sister upwards again, half of the raider's hand was no longer able to grip his blade as it had been severed from the rest of his body. While the man choked a scream and fell to his knees, Jon also screamed against his reopened wounds, turning the Valyrian blade again to impale his enemy's right shoulder.

He fell to the ground, defeated, but not entirely fallen.

Amidst deep groans, the Ironborn spoke once more. – "The horn sounded. The horn, the horn, the hor—" – Another horrible cough escaped his burned face. – "You are now... bound, as Moq—" Victarion put his hands on the ground. "Late, Euron... but I understand now..."

Daenerys took a step forward.

"Speak of Euron Crow's Eye's plans, if he did not die yesterday on the coast, and I will offer you a swift death."

From the depths of the man of the kraken came a choked laugh, like the sinking of a ship. And he raised his head once more.

"You don't need to know, pretty girl. Soon you'll see. A fire capable of rivalling the sun," –the man spat dark blood on the ground. – "The tower. The Citadel. Everything belongs to the bloody Crow's Eye now. And the screams of those… focking Maesters will be heard from ‘ere."

Victarion Greyjoy began to laugh and cough, his face wild with madness.

And Jon had already looked into his eyes. And he had already heard his last words.

‘Oldtown. Sam.’

The Stark pulled his sword from the Ironborn's body and swung horizontally, freeing his head from the rest of his body.

Jon, with his breath ragged and consciousness wanting to leave him, looked into Daenerys' eyes, which showed an indescribable expression.

First, he glanced at the Ironborn’s body.

Then at Jon’s face.

Lastly, at the Valyrian steel he held.

And as he heard the hastened steps of the approaching Dothraki guards at the cliff, the Dragon Queen spoke wistfully.

“I…recognize that sword.”

Chapter Text

JON

"I...recognize that sword."

Only then did Jon realize what his hand held, though his grip grew weaker and weaker. He heard footsteps behind him that seemed distant. Daenerys had recognized Dark Sister, which was logical. If the Targaryen knew of Blackfyre, the sword of Visenya or Daemon the Rogue Prince would also fall within her knowledge.

Would she see it as an insult for a Stark to wield the sword that rightfully belonged to her? It was possible, and there was nothing he could do.

"Da... en... rys." – his tongue failed him, the milk of the poppy flooding his nerves.

The emotions of the battle abandoned him, as did his strength, fleeing from him like his blood soaking the snow.

He tried to walk toward her, but no longer felt the hilt in his fingers. His knees failed him too. He saw the Dragon Queen stretch out her arms, trying to hold him.

Jon tried to keep his eyes open.

And Jon lost again.

...

...

...

DAENERYS

It was the first time she had seen him fight, kill, up close. Perhaps there was truth in the stories that talked about the ‘White Wolf’.

The King in the North collapsed, and she barely reached him before he touched the ground. Jon's head fell into her lap, and as she tried to remove his crown, she realized the man's forehead burned, perhaps to the point that if she were not the Unburnt, she would have had to withdraw her hand.

Beside him, wrapped in the grass, was the sword he had pulled from his cloak, the one with which he had killed the Ironborn named Victarion.

Daenerys recognized the blade with just one glance. The dragon-wing guard, the pommel fashioned like a dragon egg. The description matched Visenya's sword, which had been lost long ago.

Could it be possible that the legendary sword had ended up in the hands of the King in the North? It must be an imitation. Perhaps just a commission to a blacksmith by a king. Was it a way to insult her? Making her remember a lost legacy, while the Puppeteer's Dragon carried the Conqueror's sword? Why had he decided to carry the sword hidden beneath his cloak?

She contemplated the Stark's face and the scars that adorned it. And the image strangely felt... familiar.

Close enough now, she could see Ser Barristan arriving with two Unsullied, the old Queensguard completely ignoring his previous limp. Quickly, Daenerys pulled the sword towards herself and concealed it under her long black cloak.

"Your Grace, what happ—" – Ser Barristan saw the scene, with the unconscious King in the North supported by the Queen... and the lifeless body, separated from its head, of an Ironborn hanging from the cliff. The man knelt quickly with a grimace of pain, but there was no time for formalities or apologies. Not now.

"Rise, Ser Barristan. Have a Bloodrider bring me a horse and send a healer to the chambers of the King in the North. There will be time to talk when the one who just saved my life is safe."

...

...

She took charge of bringing the Stark back to the castle, making use of a horse. Upon entering the castle, the advisor, Ser Davos, had paled to the color of the moon upon seeing the scene, but she had explained everything before the man's heart stopped from the shock. While the healers took the northerner to his chambers, Daenerys had ordered a more intensive patrol of the island and the surrounding waters, in search of possible survivors from the battle, and the Ironborn's body had been swiftly dispatched.

Ser Barristan's limp had returned, along with the remorse evident in the man's eyes. Not only had he spent the entire night without sleeping, fighting as in his heyday, but he had also ensured the search for injured soldiers and the relocation of the village's citizens, all with a great wound in his leg. She herself had asked the Selmy to tend to his wounds, and that she had promised to meet the King in the North alone, so what had happened on the cliff was not the Queensguard's fault. Still, she could see in his eyes the conflict and lack of self-forgiveness, which had worsened when he had seen the state of the unconscious northerner.

It was as if, for just a moment, Ser Barristan Selmy had seen a ghost. Probably that of a young Ned Stark, in Jon's now shaved face. Memories were deadly for any man, even if that man was Ser Barristan the Bold.

Now, she stood in front of the door to the northerner's room, waiting. The healer hurriedly exited the room when she noticed her presence, and after a bow, whispered in Ghiscari.

"He is feverish, my Queen, but he will recover. Of that I'm sure. There's no need for you to keep guard. You, too, deserve some rest after battle."

Unfortunately, that would not happen. The unyielding King in the North had tried to shield her from death. The least she could do was ensure he remained alive.

"It's quite alright, Thirri. I'll stay. Ser Barristan is still wounded yet refuses to rest, please, treat him. Orders of the Queen."

"It will be done, Mhysa." – And with a bow, the woman disappeared.

She entered the chamber slowly, with silent footsteps, as if trying not to break the snow beneath her feet. Without making a sound, she sat on a nearby chair by the bed where the northerner lay. The fire in the hearth still burned brightly, so now all that was left was to wait.

Daenerys paused to look at Jon, suddenly flooded with a wave of concern. The boy breathed, though sometimes a bit labored, with beads of sweat adorning his forehead. Now, up close, she could see the white streaks fighting against his smooth black-as-night hair. Had the white patches increased in size? Perhaps she simply hadn't noticed until now. She observed his fine face and the scars that adorned it, each one telling a thousand stories. Beyond the Wall, in the snowy fields of Winterfell, in the sands of Dragonstone. His face was young, but sometimes that was disguised behind his expression. A melancholic expression, an attitude with a sense of... doom. Daenerys had seen something like it before, but she couldn't remember where. She looked at the base of his neck and almost choked on a sharp breath. A cut adorned a stretch to one side of his neck, the line was red, pungent, almost seemed recent, but it was impossible that Thirri had overlooked such a wound, especially since there was no blood near the cut. Perhaps she should get up and go to the healer again.

A weight shifted in the Dragon Queen's cloak. One she had almost forgotten.

Dark Sister.

Assuming it was the true draconic sword, forged with the shape and Valyrian steel, of course.

Jon, Stark or Snow, was someone inexplicable, filled with opposites. Handsome, yet always silent, with cold in his veins, but with stories of fire behind him, wielding both a sword with a wolf pommel and one with dragon wings, wearing a crown, yet uncomfortable with his titles.

Daenerys tried to imagine him stripped of his cloak and crown, devoid of the wolf symbols, all replaced by sober black leather and a crow cape. A shield in the Realm of Men. A shadow on the Wall.

A young, comely, shifting shadow. Like that of—

The King in the North stirred, abruptly pulling her from her thoughts. His breath was labored, his right hand quickly moving to his chest. After a moment, he noticed her presence in the room, and his posture relaxed back into the bed, perhaps, his strength leaving him again. Had he had such a bad dream from his fever? Perhaps.

"Daenerys. Are you alright?" – His voice was a raspy whisper, so she handed him a small jug of water.

‘Was she alright? She wasn't the one who had to fight with a sword while injured, with milk of the poppy forcing her into sleep.’

"I am. Thanks to you, of course." – His eyes closed with relief. – "The maritime patrols have increased, so that what happened does not repeat. It seems that for now, everything is in order."

The Stark's gray orbs landed on the table, where his sword with the white wolf pommel and his crown of swords rested. She knew where the northerner's thoughts would go next.

"The sword..."

She pulled aside one side of her cloak, silently rising to place the dragon-forged blade on the table, next to the northern sword. Daenerys noticed there was no sheath to protect it. That needed to be solved.

"It's a curious design, but flattering all the same. Whether it's authentic or not, I appreciate it."

She sat back down next to the man, her eyes now linked to his.

"It's authentic. My other sword, Longclaw, is Valyrian steel too. I recognize its weight, its edge. I know it's hard to believe, but…it is."

"But...how? The last to wield it was..."

He averted his gaze again, looking nowhere this time. – "Brynden Rivers. Bastard son of Aegon IV. Hand of the King. Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." Daenerys thought the records might be wrong, that after all, her co-kin did not take it with him beyond the Wall.

"Where did you find it?"

Jon hesitated for only a second before speaking, and Daenerys wondered if his time in the Watch had been so bitter that every time he mentioned it, the former Lord Commander seemed to feel a stab in his gut. – "At the Wall, in the oldest Ice Cells. Shortly before my departure from It."

She nodded, with a slight smile. – "Then perhaps someday I should approach the Wall, to thank it for keeping it safe for so long."

"I think... you should have it. I already have enough with a sword that I feel doesn't belong to me. It's from your family, I know what it feels like to lose such a legacy." – Jon's pupils danced in confusion, and his breaths were staggered, the result of fatigue, or perhaps fever.

Just like that? Without arguing about it? Was the King in the North capable of giving up a Valyrian steel sword merely because it was the right thing to do? Perhaps it wasn't fair to have this conversation in the state the King was in. His thoughts may not be in order.

"I refuse to accept it without offering you something in return, Jon Stark. You're not my servant, you're an ally." – She decided to soften her tone. – "There will be time to talk about material things when you are in better health. Besides, I hadn't finished thanking you for your help in defending the island, and then you decide to save my life. And you almost die for it, again. I understand that by proximity you would also be defending your interests, but why risk so much?"

"It was me who walked away too far from the castle, I’m also at fault. He wanted to…kill you. I couldn’t let that happen."

‘A humble King, for better or for worse.’

"The North needs you to lead them. You must not be killed either."

"I’ve already seen It. Maybe I’m losing the fear of It." – The boy's eyes closed, his breathing suddenly tranquil.

"Seen…what?" – The words of Ser Davos, the northerner's advisor, threatened to surface in her mind. A kni—

The former Lord Commander's face lost all expression.

"Death." – His eyes opened again, aware. – "Beyond the Wall, I mean. I’ve seen it since my first ranging, long ago." – Jon's hand slid to the right side of the fur blanket, grasping the fur.

Memories filled Daenerys' mouth with a bitter taste, akin to the ashes of an extinguished fire. Perhaps the King in the North wasn't referring to the deaths of Night’s Watchmen or Wildlings, but something darker: the 'Dead Men' he claimed to have seen in the wintry lands.

"I suppose then I have seen it, too." – From a young age, she had also seen death, probably closer than many men could claim in their lifetime. Now it was her hand that touched the fur of the blanket, hesitant. – "As soon as you can stand, I think it's appropriate for us to discuss negotiations or gifts. For now, you should rest, I can call for Ser Davos to—"

As she threatened to withdraw, she felt a hand over hers, grasping it gently. Jon Stark's hand was larger than her own, his fingers slightly thin but calloused, likely from the use of the sword. His touch was kind, without restraint. The purple orbs of the Dragon Queen met the dark gray eyes of the King in the North, in an inscrutable yet familiar gaze.

"If only for a while, could you stay?" – He didn’t state his reason, and right now, she had no need for any.

"Of course."

Her heart now was pounding, and everything felt ablaze, in a familiar sensation.

Drawing on her courage, she refused to withdraw her hand, unable to fully explain why.

The northerner's eyes, which still seemed somewhat weary, showed a subtle, almost hidden expression of gratitude.

She wondered how many people could claim to have seen that from someone so often discreet.

"Thank you, Daenerys."

Still, the humble king.

"And thank you, Jon."

…

…

…

…

The King in the North could walk again as the second day passed.

By the fifth, he had resumed training with his sword.

On the seventh, the rhythmic sound of metal had led Daenerys to Aegon’s Garden, where she found the Stark, almost in a trance, running a stone along the edge of his sword. Jon did it calmly, without furrowing his brow. An unusual sight, no doubt.

She had approached, and somehow, they had ended up discussing topics related to the history of Westeros. Jon seemed to have a respectable knowledge of the House of the Three-headed Dragon, and she, at Missandei's suggestion, had begun to inform herself about the ancestry of the House of the Direwolf and the legends surrounding the animal. They had talked about Aemon, the Dragonknight of the Kingsguard, a legendary swordsman and perhaps the noblest knight ever, and she had mentioned Cregan Stark, The Old Man in the North, and one of the finest swordsman of his time, who even crossed swords amicably with Aemon himself.

Daenerys, in her moments of solitude, realized she was... tired. Yet she kept moving. Her grip on Drogon's scales remained firm. Her vision clear, the recognition of her advisors and soldiers always on her mind. Missandei was a loyal and intuitive friend. Grey Worm was disciplined and noble, Ser Barristan was wise and still formidable, and Tyrion was cunning and smug, but cunning all the same.

But, even with all that, sometimes she felt alone. The crown rested on her platinum hair, and her purple eyes fixed on a horizon. Her dreams plagued by images and memories. But she was alone. She longed to return home. To reclaim what would have been hers. To help Westeros heal.

Her. Alone. Daenerys Targaryen.

In the void, conversations with the broody king with black curls like the night had been what she looked forward to. Did he have the same memories of Winterfell as she did of the house with the red door and the lemon tree?

Either with a crown or crownless, everyone wanted a home.

"The North is… rough, but it has something to it. Winter roses grow in the snow, the trees are covered in ice, but the sun makes them glow sometimes. The lands beyond the Wall take one's breath, but at the same time allow you to breathe... freely. The people, they’ve suffered, but they endure, they hope. In their stubbornness, they manage to survive winter." – The Stark had said.

"It's understandable that you miss it, it is your home, after all. I miss Meereen too. I wasn’t born there, but it feels like home all the same."

"How is living in Meereen? In Essos, really? The South of Westeros feels so different from the North, I can only imagine another continent."

She had closed her eyes, trying to remember everything, the silk dresses, the sun on her skin, the smell of the flowers. – "At first, it might seem overwhelming. Slavery had its root all around the cities, to a foreigner, the names of the nobles might not make sense, or be hard to pronounce. Instead of castles, labyrinths or pyramids are more common to be built in order to show power. But it’s just a trick of our minds. Things can be changed and still be respected. The people there are good, its inhabitants kind. The Dothraki are… rough too, but they are fiercely loyal. In Essos, there are shadows behind every corner, but there’s also magic, and beauty. The weather is hot and harsh, but it never bothered me, I can’t help it, I guess." – Dragons weren’t bothered by heat, after all.

The King in the North had let out a deep breath. – "I would like to visit it one day, if... everything around us allows it. Even though the heat would probably kill me, and Ghost."

"Ghost?"

Jon had spoken of his silent, white direwolf, with eyes of ruby. A pale shadow in the snow. Found when he was still with his family as just a pup, long ago, and had been the most loyal companion of the Stark ever since.

"Sometimes he does things without me really telling him to, and regardless of where I am, he knows how to find me again. It’s almost as If..."

"As if you were connected, I understand. It seems that the story of Jon Snow riding a great white wolf through the gates of Winterfell is true." – She tugged at her bond with Drogon, then called Viserion and Rhaegal. Her children responded with a roar, circling the highest sky of Dragonstone, always within reach. Although lately, the emerald-colored dragon was more... active than usual, spending less time than his siblings in the Dragonmont's nest. Maybe It was too much to ask for none of her children to behave rebelliously, although that usually fell on the role of the red and black-scaled dragon.

"Aye, Ghost has helped more times than what I think I deserve. I know he's keeping things in order in the North along with my sister Sansa. I know."

"Then I'll be delighted to meet them both, when I visit the North, I mean."

The Stark nodded and fell silent again, as he was accustomed to doing.

There was a need she felt to know more about the young Northerner. About what he had lived through, what had made him who he was. Jon had spoken honestly during the time they shared in his chambers, although there were still answers that eluded her. Why had he asked her to stay? Perhaps to quell the horrible sensations or thoughts of a fevered mind.

Daenerys looked at Jon, immersing herself in the dark gray pools of his eyes, which looked back at her.

"Do you remember what we talked about after Victarion's attack?"

The pine branches stopped swaying.

"I do." – The King in the North drew in a deep breath. – "And I’m glad you stayed."

She felt warmth again. – "So am I." – She glanced at the Northerner's hand, barely resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. If only she could reach it as easily as he had done.

She yearned for more answers. About the sword he said he ‘didn't deserve’, about his life, his family, about a knife in the heart. But perhaps it was too early to seek them all now.

Fortunately, the silence between them didn't seem uncomfortable.

It would have to do for now.

...

After ten days, negotiations had begun. In the painted table room, Jon, Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion, and she had gathered. Also on the table was Dark Sister, now with a black leather sheath with ruby-red rivets at its tip.

"And to think I thought the Pisswater Prince admitting to having Aegon the First's sword was an ironic coincidence, turns out the King in the North had Dark Sister. It leaves me speechless, which is impressive, considering how difficult I've been told it was all my life." – The Lannister opened. – "How did you say you got it?"

Jon sighed. – "Shortly before my departure from the Night's Watch, I found it hidden among rags in the depths of the Wall, in a very old ice cell. I do not know why Bloodraven left it there before his disappearance, but it seemed to me an insult to leave a blade rotting in the ice, my Lord."

"A most correct thought, your Grace." – The dwarf's smile was evident again.

Seaworth leaned against the table – "The price of such a sword was incalculable, even for that cunt named Tywin- erm, no offense, Lord Hand."

"Believe me, none taken." – The dwarf said as he poured his first glass of wine.

After clearing his throat, Ser Davos continued. – "If I understand correctly, the exchange is the sword in exchange for food and steel for the North, enough to endure while the fields recover."

"That's right, Olenna Tyrell is rallying her bannermen as we speak, and their estimates suggest that the Reach has enough food to supply almost twice their soldiers. On the other hand, the Free Cities trade has agreed to send food and weapons through their connection with White Harbor, so there would be no problem in delivering that amount."

Jon had risked his life for her, already on two occasions. Valyrian steel sword or not, the North deserved a token of gratitude. Moreover, if they were to join her in the wars to come, having good steel and enough food for their armies was beneficial in equal measure.

"Definitely the Manderlys will be busy during this campaign." – The sailor said, looking at Jon, who seemed to have been absent from the meeting in terms of attention.

"Aye, they will." – The King in the North cleared his throat and looked at her. – "Your Grace, there is one more thing we need."

She nodded slightly. – "Go ahead then."

Stark pulled out a scroll from one of his pockets, carefully stretching it out on the table, trying not to disturb any of the wooden figures.

"Regarding the creatures beyond the Wall, apart from Valyrian steel, there is a material that manages to harm them. A rock of volcanic formation called Dragonglass. According to the maesters of the Citadel, a large batch is located under Dragonstone. Although an encounter with the Others is difficult, we would like to mine that material and make daggers with it, so that as many soldiers as possible possess them."

"Such terrific creatures slain by glass. It seems the world is so full of irony today." – The dwarf remarked, unable to contain himself.

"As long as mining it does not destabilize the castle's foundations, agreed, I think that... Dragonglass is of no use to me. I can provide you and your men with tools for mining."

"Thank you, your grace. Truly. About the Northern armies-"

She raised a hand. – "Please, let's leave the war strategies for when my generals join us, later this afternoon. If that is all, you can return to your duties."

Jon nodded to address the sailor. – "Tell the men to be careful with today's training; they'll need to be available when we go to mine the Dragonglass."

The old man nodded vigorously, and after addressing both monarchs and the Hand of the Queen, he bid farewell.

Now, the Lannister, grabbing a jug full of wine, was the one to bow. – "I'll have to take advantage of this wine if we're going to have to meet with Ser Barristan and Grey Worm later; I have a feeling they're plotting to send me to the Wall if they see me with a chalice in hand during another meeting." – With a mocking smile, the blonde slipped out the door while saying. – "Have fun, your graces, just be careful with the table; I'm sure it's expensive."

Certainly, if anyone in Westeros was capable of giving good advice and at the same time annoying her to madness, that was Lord Tyrion Lannister.

The King in the North did not offer the Lannister a glance, but instead stepped away from the table, his brow furrowed, his gray eyes scattered, to head towards the columns overlooking the sea. Shortly after lunchtime, the sun was shining brightly, although the winter winds increased the waves and prevented one from enjoying the radiant rays on their skin.

She stood up, approaching him, but keeping her distance.

"Something troubles you, Jon Stark, do your wounds still ache?"

He looked at her over his shoulder, trying to muster a smile. – "Your healers have done a good job as always, Queen Daenerys, I’m almost at full form again. I've been thinking about what the attack, that horrid horn, about what the Ironborn said."

The sound of thousands of pained screams. Then the Citadel. A fire so tall it would be seen from Dragonstone.

"I must admit I wonder about how they managed to create such a... repulsive sound, but it turned out just a shadow of a trick. And about the attack on Oldtown, we’ve alerted the Redwyne fleet, and now they patrol the shores of House Hightower. If any attack takes place, we will answer, with dragons if necessary."

"Aye, I know that. Still, my friend is there, unaware, and I can’t help but worry. He has an inclination for getting into trouble….Even though I’m sure he would say the same about me."

"I would have to agree, then."

The King in the North smiled again. – "And I couldn’t blame you for it." – He turned around, now facing her. – "Thank you for allowing me to mine the dragonglass, even if the Others are hard to believe in, it means a lot."

"Anyway, I don't think I would need it for anything, I don't see why I wouldn't allow it. Although, if by some chance you find dragon eggs in the catacombs, let me know. As a courtesy."

He nodded. – "It’s a promise, then."

She walked towards Stark, accompanying him, and causing them both to now look out at the sea. Just as they had done on the cliff, before that terrible interruption.

"Moreover, you brought back one of the most important symbols of my house with a Targaryen. I’m sure many of my ancestors are grateful. And so am I."

"Have you ever used a sword?"

"I have had others who did it for me... and three dragons." – She replied with a wry smile, perhaps similar to the ones Tyrion used to wear. – "But maybe it's time to learn, if only to honor the memory of the Dragonknight. Besides, I think Ser Barristan might want to remember the old days by teaching someone, or perhaps the King in the North had someone in mind?"

Jon cleared his throat.

"I have taught recruits at the Wall... and my sister Arya. But if the Dragon Queen has already chosen her master-at-arms, I suppose we will meet in the training yard when she feels skilled enough, that is."

She couldn't help but laugh a little, seeing that the silent and broody son of the North knew how to be smug from time to time.

"I’ll look forward to it then, King Jon."

Both remained on the balcony, looking again at the waves, letting time pass, as moments of calm were rare, and would increasingly become so.

...

This time, everyone was in the same room at the legendary table. She had dressed in a black dress, entirely outlined with red metal studs, her dragon-shaped crown resting on her hair, tied in a large braid, except for two long locks on each side of her face. Ser Barristan wore his Queensguard armor, silver with the dragon symbol, and the Northern King had opted for a plain dark brown Stark armor, besides wearing his crown of swords. There was something both men wore equally: furrowed brows from one end of the room to the other. The conversation had already lasted a few minutes, but Ser Barristan and Stark seemed unable to reach an agreement.

"Dividing ourselves like this could destroy our chances of overwhelming those heading to the capital through the force of numbers added to the dragons. It's an unnecessary risk."

Although much a younger commander, Jon didn't back down. – "I wouldn't need a large detachment of troops, with the ones you can bring plus the Tullys, and maybe the Blackwoods from the south, and the Reeds in the North, we could crush any remaining Freys and Lannisters in the Riverlands from both sides."

The old man held the bridge of his nose with his fingers. – "The Freys still hold Edmure captive, and the Tullys have lost their zeal after the Blackfish's disappearance. A siege would tie up troops for too long, and Aegon could take clear advantage of that."

Tyrion seemed amused by the scene, but she wasn't going to let the conversation continue between the two stubborn men until they decided to hack each other to pieces.

"While it is true that at some point we will need the Twins passage, inevitably, and it is true that it is not the best time to separate a fraction of my armies without knowing the exact number of Aegon's forces. But, as far as I know, House Frey couldn't be further from being a symbol of honor or duty. I doubt they are willing to die for the losing side of the crown, and if there are any Lannisters left there, knowing that reinforcements won't arrive from the capital, they may surrender or try to retreat to Casterly Rock."

"Probably a dragon could persuade them. No matter how greedy or stupid you are, and I'm sure Lord Frey fulfills both, nobody wants to be the next Harren Hoare." – The Hand of the Queen argued.

She couldn't just order Viserion or Rhaegal to head to the Riverlands, hoping they would attack the right target, while she rode Drogon to confront the Golden Company and the Lannisters.

That would require another dragon rider.

An option that, unfortunately, had disappeared long ago.

‘’I would need to be present for the dragons to act, so for now, that option is ruled out. How many soldiers exactly can the houses you mentioned provide, Your Grace?’’

Jon placed his hands on the table, his brows furrowed. – ‘’It's hard to say. The crannogmen don't usually leave the Neck, and what is known about their battle tactics is closely related to the swamps. Lord Reed is imprecise in his letters, but he estimates that around four thousand men could march to the Crossing, a few more hundreds than the Freys, after the defeat of the Boltons.’’

‘’We don't know for sure the effectiveness of the crannogmen in open combat. It's risking too many casualties trying to besiege one of the best-fortified castles in Westeros. It's too risky-…Your Grace.’’ – The elderly Selmy cleared his throat and pointed to the other side of the map, towards the Stormlands. – ‘’In Harvest Hall, it is said that the Golden Company is having trouble accumulating supplies. Apparently, Stannis took a lot of food in his northern campaign, so we have some time. If our Queen sees it fit, I think our approach to the capital should be from Crackclaw Point, instead of from the Bar Emmon lands.’’

Jon seemed to want to respond, but he knew better than that. Daenerys's heart ached, understanding that the young king would want justice for his family, as well as the opportunity to allow people from the North to travel South without fear of betrayal, but the Realm as a whole was the priority, the people of King's Landing were the priority.

She couldn't deliver the kingdom by helping Jon Stark, even if he had tried to give his life for hers. Power often hid many ironies; this was one of them.

‘’I think it's a good idea to avoid the Kingswood. The houses that inhabit the area could divulge our presence to the crown or the Baratheons, trapping us against Blackwater Bay too far for the Tyrells to reach us. We will meet Olenna's troops in Tumbleton, passing through Maidenpool.’’

The Unsullied general, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, looking towards the lower section of the map.

‘’And what about this region, Dorne?’’

‘’We haven't received any sightings of troops from the Peaks, Ashford, or the Tarlys yet, but we need to be vigilant. It's a very large region, and not a single Martell spearman has died during the recent wars in Westeros. The Dornish leaning towards one side or the other could be decisive in many battles.’’

Sometimes Daenerys had been hesitant, but she had to forget that now; it was time.

‘’Then it's time to gather resources and call the fleets that have sworn loyalty to our cause. When everything is ready, we will depart for the capital.’’

All who had sworn to Daenerys stood tall, then nodded. The Stark withdrew from the table.

‘’I will start preparing and distributing the mining materials then. I wouldn't want to slow down the movement of your troops, and speaking of roads not yet taken will do me no good. My Lords.’’ – The members of the table nodded before turning away completely. He looked at her before leaving. – ‘’Queen Daenerys.’’ – He left with a half bow, followed by Ser Davos, who bid farewell in the same way.

She glanced at the attendees. – ‘’With our next moves determined, the meeting is adjourned. You may return to your duties.’’

With an affirmation, everyone began leaving the room one by one, except the Queensguard Ser Barristan, who stood tall and spoke.

‘’My Queen, I would like a word.’’

Daenerys could guess what the man wanted to tell her, but there was something in his eyes, something deeper, long hidden. She nodded, giving him way.

‘’I still haven't properly apologized for what happened on the cliff. As commander of the Queensguard, it is my duty to ensure your safety at all times and anticipate enemy movements. I failed. And your life was almost taken because of my failure.’’

She tried to smile, understandingly. – ‘’Ser Barristan Selmy. All this time you have fought for me, offered me wise counsel, and at times, kept the people who required my leadership united in my absence. In combat and afterward, unknown forces and unpredictable outcomes were mixed. There is nothing for you to apologize for. Have your wounds improved?’’

‘’They have, my Queen.’’

‘’Then all is well.’’ – The gaze in the old man's eyes did not waver. – ‘’Is there something else? You can speak freely.’’

Ser Barristan opened his eyes a bit, surprised. Was he so deeply lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize his expression?

‘’The surprising and improbable appearance of Dark Sister...’’ – He said with suspicion on his face. – ‘’It has stirred old reflections. I have... seen your house in what was near-extinction. And now in what is its resurgence. With silver cloak or without, an old man can't always escape his ghosts. I saved Aerys in Duskendale, true, and condemned the kingdom. I failed in the final joust against the king's heir, and Lyanna Stark received the crown of flowers. And during the war that ensued, I failed to protect Rhaegar. I fear repeating my past mistakes; I fear that fear makes me unworthy of my position, and that it will condemn the kingdom again.’’

Sometimes, she forgot the many decades the man had lived, full of war, full of mistakes. The reign of her father, the reign of the usurper and his monstrous descendant. It was impossible to console the ghosts that inhabited the man's mind. But she was a queen; if she couldn't respond, perhaps she was not unfit of a crown, but of being called friend.

‘’Rare is the life of a person so burdened with responsibility that they have no regrets or mistakes. That is true. But there is something even rarer, that few men can admit to possessing. The opportunity to amend them. The drive to improve. The perspective of wisdom. Keep your head up, Ser Barristan ‘The Bold’. You are a better man. Not everyone shares such a luck.’’

The man's blue eyes welled up for a moment, and he tried to hide his expression by nodding and offering words of gratitude. Selmy grasped his silver helm, ready to leave, but now she had a word.

‘’Ser Barristan, I have a question.’’

He straightened up again. – ‘’And I will answer, Queen Daenerys.’’

She had to listen to her advisers and not let hope cloud her judgment. She had spoken with Missandei and Grey Worm, as brief as their response had been. She hadn't spoken with Tyrion yet because she feared she couldn't handle the conversation without throwing a jug at his head. But the Selmy was a rational and experienced man; perhaps he could provide an opinion worthy of serious consideration.

‘’What is your opinion of the King in the North?’’

The question caught the man off guard, apparently, and the spirit of sadness returned to his clear eyes. The man hesitated.

‘’He is a fine swordsman and seems to be a great leader. Thoughtful beyond his years, but still fighting within the emotions of youth. A good ally, your Grace. Although...’’ – The man paused, as if trying to swallow a sharp thorn. – ‘’There is something about him, something I have seen in someone else, a really, really long time ago.’’

‘’In Ned Stark?’’

‘’No...I couldn't say, your Grace. Perhaps. My memories play tricks on me, and it's hard not to be swayed by fanciful comparisons, especially as the situation of what was once Jon Snow also seems strange. No one ever knew who his mother was, although many people tried to guess her identity.’’ – He paused and flinched with his eyes. Did Selmy also have an opinion on the identity of the northern man's mother? After a moment, he spoke again. – ‘’If I may ask, what is your opinion of him? Your meetings with him have increased lately.’’

How could she encapsulate her opinion of Jon, the Snow turned Stark, in a single sentence? It was impossible. She could argue about the material aspect, of course, but Ser Barristan wasn't asking about that, and she knew it.

‘’Not long ago, I came to Westeros prepared to find a continent of cravens, corrupt leaders. Unbeknownst to me, I had lost faith in much of the Realm I was trying to save. I think Jon Stark gives me…hope.’’

The man nodded. – ‘’Hope is a dangerous feeling.’’

‘’Indeed. But It’s also something worth fighting for, don’t you think?’’

‘’I do, my Queen.’’

‘’Then, perhaps, that is enough, for now.’’

Jon behaved kindly towards her; their interactions were cordial, even friendly, and sometimes just for a moment… During the moment he woke from his wounds…

Another thought crossed Daenerys’s mind. What opinion did the King in the North have of her? The same as hers of him?

Perhaps it was ludicrous, but she wished it were so.

...

...

...

...

Daenerys had never had a dream quite like this. Not quite.

Would this be another of Quaithe's enigmas?

The horrible sound of the horn she had heard during the battle of Dragonstone resonated, threatening to stop her heart and empty her stomach.

She looked around.

She was in a wide green place, although water fresh among the grass, she could feel it. It was night, but something shone in the river.

Rubies, red tears.

What was illuminating them? She looked up, searching for the moon.

She didn't find it.

She only saw the figure of a fortress, with two great towers threatening to pierce the sky.

‘When the sun sets, your line shall end.’

The bilateral Fortress was engulfed in flames. Green flames.

Above the towers, a flapping was heard. A vengeful roar.

The figure of a dragon covered in swords flew over the stone and rock, which melted and fell away.

Upon the back of the draconic creature, a rider could be distinguished.

A shadow.

The fire was extinguished.

The moon opened out of nowhere in the sky, a bloody moon, silencing the fiery dance.

And the smoke from the still hot embers made a blurry drawing in the sky.

The head of a wolf.

Darkness engulfed Daenerys.

And she woke to the sound of her children's wings flapping.

Chapter Text

JON

The cave walls seemed to close in, tighter and tighter with every breath.

The Freys still breathe.

The rock formations took on various shapes, though the most common was sharp, like the tip of a blade.

The Freys still breathe.

Jon could swear that each time he glanced up, the stone seemed closer, lit only by the flickering of the torches.

The Freys live on.

Like knives in the dark. His hands were almost numb now, and he could no longer tell how long he'd been swinging the pickaxe.

The Twins still stand.

Blow after blow after blow, shards of dragonglass scattered at his feet. Sweat poured from his brow, his jaw clenched, knuckles white. The heat that rose from the bowels of the castle was nearly unbearable.

The traitors who killed Robb still live. As do those who took my father.

He struck the wall one final time, wanting to scream, but only managed a sigh. It would have to be enough for today. It must be.

…

Some of the northern men had stopped their work, resting near the mouth of the mine, sitting in a circle, letting the sea breeze cool their skin. They had told him it wasn’t necessary for him to join in, that breaking stone was no task fit for a king, but he had ignored them. He needed to release the tension somehow, and the best way he had found was by striking metal against stone.

Jon had left the Queen’s council chamber quickly, after the refusal to liberate the Riverlands, a refusal—of course—delivered by the knight of House Selmy. What was that about not risking dividing their forces? She had three dragons, the Old Gods be damned. It was as if every voice in that chamber was more determined to forbid Daenerys from using her greatest weapon than they were to win the war. They feared her, and they didn’t respect him. He could see it in their suspicious glances when he explained where he had found Dark Sister.

Of course he had to lie. If they already thought him mad for speaking of the Others beyond the Wall, what would they say if he admitted he found the legendary blade in the crypts of Winterfell, behind the statue of Lyanna Stark? Better to save himself from that trouble.

He had saved their Queen, had defended the Island, and save for Daenerys, none had muttered so much as a word of thanks.

To them, he would always be a Snow, no matter what.

Once more, the King in the North failed to reign in his thoughts. He knew the Riverlands were not a priority in the wars for the capital, but this was more than that. It was personal. The Freys had stabbed, dismembered, and defiled his brother, laughing from their castle, sharing bread and wine with the Lannisters. Would Ser Barristan the Bold be so measured if the same had been done to his kin? If the northern lords had put Jaime Lannister’s head on a pike and paraded it through Wintertown, would Tyrion Lannister keep his wine-stained smile?

He would find out soon enough, if he ever got the chance to cross paths with the Mad Queen who had set the Sept of Baelor aflame, that is.

His steps carried him to the shore. He buried the pickaxe in the sand, running a hand through his hair, now tied back into a rough ponytail to keep it out of his way while working in the damp, narrow cave. The saltwater would only dirty his hair further, yes, but the waters of Dragonstone had begun to cool with each passing day, the heat from the volcano’s core no longer enough to stave off the coming of winter. A bitter reminder of what lay beyond the island, beyond the Wall.

He had received letters from Sansa. The Free Folk had begun leaving Winterfell, accompanied by warmasters to keep their training going in the Wildfort. Sansa and Ghost were well, at least, and the girl would likely be glad to hear of the food, grain, and steel on its way to the North, courtesy of the Dragon Queen.

‘Lord Baelish’s slithery intents still plague the North, but no snake survives long among the snow’—Sansa had written in her last missive. That was one of the few things that brought him some relief. He had been searching for ways to raise an army from the ashes of his home. He had ordered a search for the names of the oldest knights and warriors from the North who still lived, particularly from the houses that had supported the Boltons, but for now, all he had was an idea, and maybe the troops from Greywater Watch. Jon had also sent word to the Blackwoods, hoping to move a small garrison of troops and scouts from the depths of the Riverlands.

He desperately needed Daenerys and her forces on his side. He needed to secure the North’s independence after Daenerys would take the Iron Throne.

He needed the North. Once, he had been called a liar for not coveting silk, songs to his victories, or a crown upon his head, and now that he might have it…

He took up his duties with the utmost willingness and gratefulness, but sometimes, just sometimes, he would imagine himself atop the Wall at night, or hearing the sounds of Mance Rayder’s camp in the daylight, and he would feel… homesick.

How cruel were the gods, and how foolish his mind, to always long to be anywhere but where he stood.

Perhaps he might have found some peace had he managed to reach Ghost in his dreams, but even that had eluded the King in the North. He had caught only glimpses, but it was as though he couldn’t fully enter the direwolf’s mind, as if something kept him at bay. Instead, the rest of his dreams had been fleeting and strange—dark towers surrounded by the dead, voices from the grave, and the terrible sound of the horn that had blown during the Battle of Dragonstone’s Coast.

“With all due respect, my king, but you look like… Fleabottom.” – The accent gave away the speaker before Jon even turned. Seaworth stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes filled with quiet concern. Now that Jon thought on it, with his hands covered in sand, his hair wet with saltwater, and his shirt soaked with sweat, he likely did look like the least royal king Westeros had ever hosted—perhaps only bested by Robert Baratheon after a three-day feast, as his father once said.

"Mining ancient glass is not a pretty endeavor, Ser Davos," – Jon said as he stood, now eye-level with his advisor.

"Indeed, your Grace, it is not," – the greybeard’s gaze drifted from the waves back to the Northerner. "Especially not when you’re doing it with more fury than you’d use in battle. You nearly set Dragonmont ablaze with those blows."

Jon said nothing, and Ser Davos continued with his questions.

"Did something go wrong during your war council? Does it have to do with the Queen, perhaps?"

A long sigh escaped Jon's lungs. – "Yes... and no. Daenerys' council refuses to turn their attention to the Riverlands, as though it hasn’t been a decisive territory in past battles. And without passage through the Twins, northern troops won’t be able to support the conquest of King’s Landing. It would only take the presence of a dragon for that craven Frey to bow his head."

‘And then I’d see to it myself that his head was severed.’ – the King in the North thought.

Davos made a strange face. – "I understand your frustration, lad, I do. But think about it: they’re advisors, trying to protect their queen. They don’t know the size of the enemy’s forces, and worse still, they don’t really know you. Besides..." – He trailed off.

"You can speak your mind freely, Ser Davos. You’ve earned that much."

The man let out a breath. – "Time makes people cautious, fearful. Twenty years without the Targaryens has made some long for them, considering the kings who came after, but it’s also made others loathe them, based on old tales. The dragons disappeared over a hundred years ago, and since then, nobles have only looked to the sky for crows, and the poor to shield themselves from rain. Imagine what the return of three fully-grown dragons could do to them, Jon."

Something stirred uneasily within Jon. – "You think they… fear Daenerys?"

"I think they fear the chaos that three flying forces of nature could unleash on a city. Hells, when they pass near the castle, even I feel the need to shi—" – Davos cut himself short at Jon’s bemused glance. – "What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter how brave or smart a man is. Nothing banishes the fear of a dragon, and fear, along with age, can make a man too cautious. Sometimes even foolish, enough to believe a war like this can be stopped before it even begins."

"The war began when Aegon set foot on Westerosi soil and named himself the Sixth of His Name, and the war I care about began when an executioner took my father’s head. They can have whatever war they want, but my duty is for the North. Otherwise, my brother’s crown means nothing. None of this means anything. Regardless of…"

Jon stopped himself, unable to admit it out loud. It was only a dream, a distraction.

"Regardless of what happens with the Iron Throne." – Jon finished instead, turning away from Ser Davos and starting to walk, aimless but determined to leave the infernal cave behind. The Onion Knight said something, but Jon barely heard him. It was better to leave now, maybe rest, rather than let his frustration out on Davos, who deserved none of it.

He didn’t want to see the decrepit Frey kneel before Daenerys, begging for mercy, promising the passage of the Twins was secure. He wanted him dead. And he wanted to see his corpse dragged from Moat Cailin to the Red Fork, as it was rumored they’d done with the last King in the North.

His anger was growing worse. Like a festering wound threatening to devour him from within. Uncontrollable, the memories and grudges rained down like arrows, sharp and relentless, piercing his mind. He bore a crown, a name, a sword, and yet none of it was enough to help those he loved, let alone avenge them. Jon, Snow or Stark, was no stranger to the knots of anger—he had felt them often. But he had always managed to fill his veins with ice, to bury it beneath a cold façade and sharp words. He wasn’t Robert Baratheon; he couldn’t solve every problem with the swing of a warhammer.

And yet, despite his position, he found himself constantly restrained, pushed aside by older men, accustomed to wielding power, their hands steeped in it for years.

Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, who had watched one king torment his queen, then served another who tormented a different one, only to serve a young king who enjoyed tormenting every living soul until the white cloak was stripped from his shoulders.

What could he know about retribution?

Jon walked quickly, lost in thought, his mind swirling with frustration, so much so that he nearly missed the incoming sunset. It might have brought him peace, if the circumstances were different. He thought about trying again to convince Daenerys privately about the Riverlands, as he had done before. But perhaps that would be another terrible mistake. His negotiation skills were far from their best right now.

He could only watch the sunset. Wait. As always.

That was, until he heard it.

A colossal roar.

A shadow, swift as a blink, screamed against the bleeding sun sinking into the sea, and then, diving down, it landed on the path Jon walked toward the stone castle. The dragon's green scales caught the amber and bronze light of the dying sun, reminding the young king of the tops of endless trees, set aflame from the crowns to the roots.

A dragon. The green dragon. Daenerys had named him Rhaegal, in remembrance of her older brother, slain on the green grass of the Trident.

Jon’s feet seemed rooted to the ground. The creeping shadows of dusk made the scaled creature look even more fearsome, but there was something else, something ancient, something majestic and terrifying all at once. Was this what people felt when they saw Ghost? Another remnant of old magic, unseen for generations.

But this was different.

Was the dragon going to burn him? Now, without its rider, perhaps it saw him as mere cattle, nothing more than prey. Or perhaps just a stranger, or worse, an enemy.

The dragon moved closer, and so did Jon. Why, he couldn’t say. Just as he couldn’t explain how, years ago on the outskirts of Winterfell, he’d heard the faint whimpers of Ghost, a pup buried in the snow.

Smoke briefly drifted from Rhaegal’s nostrils, evaporating into the cool evening air. A sign of danger? Of recognition? If only he had a sword. But what good would a blade do? Lift steel against the maw of a dragon? He would die with his sword held high, yes—but he’d be ashes all the same. A dusty statue in honor of his own foolishness.

Fire made flesh. That’s how dragons had been described. To merely stand in the presence of one was to feel the searing intensity of a great flame. The creature’s eyes were molten bronze, slit vertically down the center like the wound left by a sword. They never lost sight of Jon, not even with a blink. The weight of understanding washed over him, and for a moment, Jon felt an overwhelming empathy for his ancestor, Torrhen Stark, who had once faced the Conqueror himself.

And still, they called him the King who Knelt with sneers and disdain. If it had been a Lannister, Westeros would likely remember him as the King who Shit Himself.

Rhaegal's jaws snapped shut, concealing the gums that held spear-like teeth. For a fleeting second, Jon thought that might be a good sign, or perhaps it was merely the delirium of impending death playing tricks on his mind. Was it foolish to compare the behavior of such a creature to that of a common animal? The intelligence in the dragon's eyes was undeniable.

With deliberate slowness, Jon extended his hand. If he had to risk something in the flames, better it be his weaker arm, so he offered his left. The seconds dragged on, feeling like centuries, and Jon’s stomach churned with every heartbeat. It was a miracle his legs hadn’t started trembling. In that moment, he understood Sam’s terror at the Wall—he knew what it was to face a creature that could obliterate him in an instant.

As the last embers of the dying sun bled into the salty ocean, Jon's fingertips brushed the scales on the dragon’s snout. The contact sent a shockwave through him. The dragon roared, shaking the ground beneath Jon’s feet, as though the earth itself had trembled in fear. Rhaegal's eyes, with their sword-slit pupils, widened dangerously. Jon could neither hear nor feel the world around him anymore, but in that moment, he remembered.

He remembered Winterfell. He remembered imagining his mother when he was just a boy. He remembered the warmth of the castle walls, heated by its hidden springs. He remembered the light of summer, the soft gaze of Ghost. He remembered Sansa's fiery hair and Arya’s wild, tangled locks, her earnest, innocent eyes.

Arya. How he wished he could tell her. I’ve seen a dragon.

A dragon.

Jon remembered Daenerys and the heat that filled his lungs.

He remembered the pyre.

Rhaegal made another deep, guttural noise. His eyes narrowed again, and the ground trembled as the enormous beast moved. With a deafening crack of his colossal neck, the dragon rose on two legs, stretching his wings wide, and with another roar, he took flight. The King in the North collapsed to his knees, breathless, the weight of the encounter pressing down on him like a mountain.

Questions flooded his mind, but the furious rage that had consumed him earlier had now receded, replaced by confusion. Yet the central question remained, gnawing at him.

Why had a dragon allowed him to come so close?

“Who are you really, child of ice, bearer of secrets?” –  The voice was as cold as a northern wind, and it froze Jon where he knelt.

He sprang to his feet, hand instinctively reaching for his sword—only to find no blade hanging at his hip. His eyes darted around the darkening landscape, searching for the source of the voice. It was familiar, but distant. Could it be the ghost of Melisandre, come back to torment him as payment for bringing him back to life?

No one stood in the green grass of Dragonstone. The only sound was the quiet sigh of the sea, and with a silent song, the sun finally sank beneath the horizon. The mournful call of a horn echoed from the castle, signaling the changing of the watch. Life stirred around the fortress once more, soldiers resuming their duties, oblivious to what had transpired. Jon, though still shaken, silently thanked the gods that no one had witnessed the strange encounter.

He needed a bath, and to rest—though he certainly felt the need for the former more urgently than the latter. His stomach still churned with unease, but he would force himself to eat something, to regain his strength. What he longed for most, however, was a large horn of ale. With that thought, Jon turned back toward the fortress, but not before glancing once more at the night sky.

There was no moon, but he saw two bright stars, one a sapphire blue, the other green like an emerald. Jon often found himself lost in the night sky, gazing upward in quiet contemplation. But those two stars...

He didn’t remember seeing them before.

…

…

…

…

Jon’s chest swelled beneath his armor, the sapphire-encrusted sigil gleaming.

His taste buds felt numb, yet he could detect the faint flavor of smoldering wood lingering behind his teeth. It was bitter, nearly revolting, but then it turned sweet and familiar, like the times he had hunted in the snow-covered woods of the North, sharing his consciousness with Ghost.

Instinct and reason clashed once more.

He stood on a river of rubies, before a tower surrounded by blue tears.

Now beside both.

The tower burned. One tower blue, the other green. Both ablaze as one, crackling, groaning, weeping.

The voiceless fire consumed all.

Green. Blue. Green. Blue. Silver-grey in between.

Both pointed the way. One to the North, the other to the South.

Both burned the same. One with cold, blue flames, the other with searing, crimson fire.

Both meant vengeance.

The horizon turned black, or perhaps it had always been so. Black with a red moon, like the sap of the weirwood.

A red iris watched over both infernos with its piercing gaze, like a puppeteer who despised his own marionettes.

What would happen if the King in the North turned his back on the flame?

His feet shifted swiftly.

A throne.

Steel and amethyst.

Glimmers of a bloodied stone.

The sickening sound of that horn shattered it all once more.

Like knives in the dark.

And Jon Stark returned to the snow.

Cold and alone.

…

…

Jon Stark's eyes flew open, cold sweat slicking his brow, the scars tracing his face tingling once more.
He remembered the dream, though he wasn’t quite sure when he had drifted off. Likely, he had collapsed after supper and the bath prepared for him. Yet now, the shivers crept down his spine, relentless. Ever since arriving on the smoky, grey isle, his sleep had grown more agonizing, his wakings more abrupt, plagued by the same haunting images: blood moons and dragonfire.

Would this be the result of his proximity to the winged creatures? Did their fiery powers come accompanied by the ability to unleash madness upon men? Perhaps that was why no one else had access to the creatures outside the House of the dragon, for to attempt it without sharing their blood would surely lead any person to madness. Whatever the reason, it undoubtedly surpassed Jon’s capacity to theorize. This raised another question in him to which he was incapable of finding an answer: Would Daenerys be a victim of these visions as well? But if that were the case, how could he broach the subject with her? She would likely think he had gone mad, incapable of bearing the burden of royalty, perhaps.

And what if he spoke to her about the dragon? Rhaegal. The creature had come to him, as if summoned, behaving much like Ghost when they were forced to spend time apart due to the duties of the Night’s Watch. Would she see him as a fool? A liar? He could not tell; he should not.

The moon hung curved like the blade of many of the Dothraki he had seen on the island, now past the zenith of the sky, meaning the Hour of the Wolf had long since passed. Yet, for the Northman, it was impossible to close his eyes, too occupied by the discomfort of being once again led through a hall of incomprehensible visions. Jon donned his woolen garments, seeking to ward off the chill that had settled within him, draping his cloak over his shoulders before stepping out of his chamber, wandering the castle in search of sleep or until some patrolling guard would return him to his quarters with a warning.

Was he looking for someone? No. That would make no sense.

Yet a voice in a distant corner of his mind urged him to find her.

He traversed the labyrinthine corridors, following the torches, the dragon engravings on the walls, and the guards, still and silent as shadows. They noticed his presence, yet none spoke to him or alerted him, and due to the density of their dark helmets, Jon could not even tell if they were looking at him. The thickness of the black stone did justice to the name of the island, within whose walls hot blood seemed to run, much like in the walls of the northern capital, the place where young Snow had spent his childhood, and the darkness and heat were barely interrupted by the flickering tongues of flame that marked the way.

At last, he arrived at the map room, perhaps by the burning memory of how he had come to it after the meeting, or through a series of less irate recollections, the quiet conversations he had shared with the Dragon Queen, the last of Valyria.

As if she had materialized from his thoughts and tribulations, there she stood again, facing the sea beyond the rough table cluttered with war figures. Clad in a deep crimson woolen dress and white fur, her platinum hair gathered into a single braid cascading down her back, gently swayed by the sharp caress of the sea breeze. Beside her, black trousers and boots, with a dark brown woolen shirt tightened at her neck by a white cord, resembled the spare garments of a steward of the Watch, much like he had been once. He wished to turn back and retreat to his chambers, perhaps to change or to avoid Daenerys’s possible gaze, but that would have been the furtive stratagem of a green boy, not that of a King. And so, he stepped forward.

She turned quickly, and Jon saw in the reflection of the light as she cautiously raised a blade. The moonlight bathed the sharp edge of Dark Sister in silver, just as the sword now always hung at the waist of the Mother of Dragons. Adjusting her lilac gaze to the darkness, it seemed she recognized his shadowed figure and lowered the slender sword to the ground.

“Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, I did not mean to startle you, nor to disturb you at such a late hour.” – Jon felt compelled to apologize as the words caught in his throat.

She lowered the sword completely, gently resting once more against the dragon egg-shaped pommel.

“I did not expect to find anyone at this hour, that is all, Your Grace.” – She paused for a moment of thought, then spoke again, a light tone of concern threading her words. – “Does your bed prove uncomfortable? I could have it changed if you wish.”

“No need. The bed you provided is the finest. I had a... rough sleep, nothing more.” – As if Eddard Stark or Ser Davos had given him a nudge, the Northman hastened to ask. – “Is there some issue with your bed? You find yourself here as well, after all.”

A faint tone of melancholy settled over Daenerys’s words. – “War councils are not a soothing lullaby before sleep, I’m afraid. You would know this well.” – Jon could feel the Queen’s gaze sweeping over him, a playful command dancing in her words. – “Do you intend to keep the conversation from the threshold of the door, Jon Stark?”

“I try to be wary of armed swordswomen in the darkness of night. It’s an old habit.” – He attempted to match her tone. With silent steps, he made his way to the balcony, the distance feeling longer than ever in the dark. As he approached the Targaryen, he noticed a small, high table before her, upon which sat two golden pitchers, and two metal goblets adorned with gold and crimson embellishments. A subtle sweet scent mingled with the cool breeze, yet both were overwhelmed by the lavender fragrance that always enveloped the Dragon Queen.

From the dark thickness of the balcony, the crescent moon cast its own spectacle, reflected in the deepening blackness, causing a thousand pearl-like eyes to blink and shimmer in time with the tides. Furthermore, the natural display seemed to dance to the rhythm of Daenerys, as if everything was shaped in her likeness.

‘The Targaryens are closer to gods than men.’ – This had been said for many generations in Westeros, and Jon felt acutely aware of both himself and those words. Many had told him he possessed the very look of the ancient Starks, and it was something he had taken pride in, even as he tried not to show it. Now, what would he appear to be beside the blood of Old Valyria? Probably nothing more than a shadow of far too simple a form. It seemed likely that no matter how much time passed, Daenerys's presence would always astound him.

She was watching him, her eyes filled with amethyst and midnight, and he tried to focus, diverting his thoughts as if they were cuts from an enemy's sword. With a graceful motion, she poured the red wine into the goblet closest to Jon and looked at him again. Nothing was said, nothing needed to be said. The Northman drank, feeling the fruity flavors of the crimson liquid. Jon had always preferred ale, perhaps out of personal taste, or because living in the Watch made it impractical to favor something as scarce as wine up North. In any case, his dry throat appreciated the drink.

‘You trust too soon. And that has already cost you once, Lord Commander.’ – His mind spoke on its own, betraying him once again, perhaps this time rightfully so. He must remain steadfast; this could be an important conversation, appearing friendly but laced with an undercurrent of power struggles. The King in the North could not be weakened by southern wine and enchanting eyes, but suddenly, words shot from Daenerys's mouth, swift as arrows.

“Do you often dream, Jon Stark?”

‘Many times. Most are nightmares.’ – He wanted to say, but the words remained trapped in his throat. – “I... sometimes, aye.”

“And what do you dream about in those times?”

‘ Death. A wilding girl I once loved. My father. Winterfell. Dragons as of late.’

“I don't quite remember most of the time. Mostly...” – As if he pulled a knife from his belly, he forced himself to speak, ignoring the depths of his mind. – “About the past.”

“The past.” – She echoed, her voice laden with sadness, her eyes hard as iron. – “And what of the future?”

‘Disbanded wolves as my brothers vanished and scattered. An eldritch voice calling me to the crypts, to find a sword of song and legend.’ – Since he began dreaming into Ghost, Jon had learned to scrutinize his dreams, seeking answers, yet often he was unable to comprehend them; he found only questions.

He saw in her eyes everything he had also endured: the fear of madness. He did not choose to lie, not entirely, but he could not express his dreams with ease. Thus, he mingled remembrance with truth. – “Maybe once, long ago, during my time in the Night’s Watch.”

Her eyebrows arched, a silent command for him to continue.

“When I was still a steward of the Watch, thanks to Ghost’s keen senses, we found a corpse of one of our brothers, sent to seek rangers beyond the Wall. We took him back to Castle Black, dead, cold as ice, yet we made no pyre.” – Jon began to feel the chills of Death creeping in, reminiscent of Hardhome. – “That night, I found myself restless, and in my dreams, I was tasked with defending the Wall, using... fire to fend off the shadows that crawled up its sides, just as any normal boy would dream of being a knight I guess but…I felt something was wrong, and I headed to the quarters of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont.” – Daenerys flinched at the mention of the Old Bear’s name. – “The ranger was back on his feet. Eyes blue, unfeeling, but hungry. I managed to kill him by throwing an oil lantern at him; that’s how I earned this.” – Jon raised his hand to the moonlight, revealing the nearly imperceptible circular scars the fire and boiling oil had left on his palm and fingers. – “And my sword, Longclaw. That was my first encounter with a wight. At that moment, I considered it the fanciful dream of a boy of four and ten. Perhaps my dream was aware of a danger that my mind’s logic couldn’t help but deny.”

She turned her gaze back to the sea, and he looked at his hand, recalling the days past and the searing heat of the candelabra in the Lord Commander’s chambers.

“The... dead... in the North. Tell me about them.”

“According to... some, they ought to be unbelievable.” – The Northerner spoke, directly recalling the faces of her advisors when he first arrived in the throne room of the castle.

“Some haven’t seen what I’ve seen during my time in this life, Your Grace.”

The King in the North returned to the cloak of Lord Snow. Back to the ice wall. Back to the blue eyes of death. Back to the letter penned by the trembling hands of Cotter Pyke. Back to Hardhome.

“Far North, when someone dies, their body is burned, and quickly. If you don’t, you risk that body rising again. It matters not the time elapsed or how decayed they are; their eyes turn blue as the clear sky, their wounds freeze in place, and they come for your flesh. Unless they are broken beyond recognition or burned, they do not tire or stop.” – She was looking at him again, not with the strange look he had imagined; it was a look of recognition. – “But they don’t turn on their own; it is because of... the Others. The true cause for the creation of the Watch. Made of ice and mist, their swords forged from frozen screams. They do not move on instinct; they plot, they ambush, they speak. I killed one, by sheer miracle, back in a Free Folk settlement called Hardhome, using Valyrian steel. But it wouldn’t really matter; they lose their bodies at will and regain them all the same. The Others want something, they seek it, and we, the living, are in their way. That is all we know.’’

Her eyes lowered, perhaps worried, but not in fear. – “Is that wound because of them?” – Jon's heart froze in his chest. – “On your neck.”

‘It was Bowen Marsh. Someone I deemed a sworn brother. And he is certainly dead.’ – The ghost of the knife's edge caressed the former Lord Commander’s neck, taunting him. The deceased brother left a wound—or tried to—akin to the one he had inflicted when he killed Qhorin Halfhand. Not that Marsh knew that; perhaps it was just one of the Old Gods' jests, a cruel reminder of his sin.

“The dead did it, yes.” – He did not lie, not exactly. – “It never really healed.” – This time, he spoke the whole truth.

He was grateful that Daenerys had only seen the wound on his neck, not the rest of them—the ones that had truly killed him. None of them had healed, and if she were to see them, he could only dread what she might think. – ‘Monster, abomination, no different from the dead he sought to fight.’

Jon’s stomach erupted into flames, and wine was sent to suffocate it once again, emptying the chalice anew.

“And what does the Mother of Dragons dream of?”

She turned away from the night sky, her steps tinged with anger as she confronted the painted table once more. The candles beneath the lower level cast an amber light across the whole of Westeros.

“Of everything instead of what I should.” – An understandable response, Jon thought. Perhaps she, too, was wary of what to reveal to him. He followed her to the table, gazing upon the pieces, each representing a sigil. – “I am closer than I have ever been to the Iron Throne, yet I feel farther from it. For every step I take, I lose something. While my advisors counsel me into restraint, people keep dying, and my enemies keep plotting—so convinced of my weakness that they dare come to the ancestral seat of my House to defy me.” – A long sigh escaped her lips. – “And yet, at the same time, I understand. I must understand why my advisors say what they say. I have to.”

He approached her at the table, positioning himself right beside her. Close. Their elbows brushed, their bodies nearly touching.

Both locked eyes. Grey opal melting into lilac obsidian.

“If you were in my place, to wield what I wield, Jon, what would you do?”

He crumbled. It was impossible to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in the Queen's head for her to ask such things of him, of all people. But he could not remain stone any longer. Not now. Ever since he had returned from the Old Gods' grasp, he had given himself more and more to what they wanted: to speak, to act, to be.

‘That’s what got you killed. Masking your intentions in cold armor. Wick Wittlestick or Bowen Marsh didn’t betray a protector of the living; they killed someone who let the Watch's enemy through their only defense.’

Yet Jon had always been prone to fighting senseless battles.

“I shouldn’t say. It wouldn’t be... right.” – He drank again, their eyes locked.

Her voice turned into a whisper, sounding both like a command and a secret. – “I am not asking the King in the North, not now.”

“And who is it you ask?”

Both had moved even closer, and Jon wondered if Daenerys was fire made flesh, for he felt his arm and body burn in her presence.

He felt thirst once more.

And he thought of drinking from Daenerys’ lips.

May the gods forgive him.

He had denied it to himself since he set foot on the sands of the island. Jon—Snow or Stark—fought.

And he lost.

‘I won’t love another.’

‘The dead need no lovers, Jon Snow.’

‘He died. The crows killed him.’

‘He wanted it. He had always wanted it.’

He had hoped for a moment alone with Daenerys, a chance to discuss the war. The Twins. He had journeyed to Dragonstone for them. His people. The dead had no lovers, and he had died.

He had been crowned. By his brother.
If he ignored the mantle Robb had given him, now, choosing…

…Love.

How could he call himself a Stark?

And where was all the rage he had felt in the Dragonglass cave?

All because of Daenerys.

She blinked, her gaze flitting between his lips and his eyes, a small sigh escaping her breath as she hesitated.
“I am asking a just man. One that I’ve seen with my own eyes. Jon, it doesn’t matter if Stark or not.”

Is that what he was? Just? While being driven by...the chance of revenge?
Both moved away, and Jon cast his gaze on the mapped table, a blue tower calling his attention.
He had to try to be better. Even if he didn’t want to.

She, at least, deserved it.

“Justice and punishment exist within a fine line, for what I’ve seen. The greater the power a person commands, the thinner the line becomes.” – He tried to push aside thoughts of his earlier closeness to the Queen, dredging up memories of the Wall.
“A father may hit a son; a Lord or a Commander can behead a deserting soldier; a priestess, in favor of a King, may burn a person in the name of a god.” Remembering Melisandre and Stannis left an ugly taste in his mouth, washing away the sweetness of wine and lavender.
He spoke again, noting that he had the full attention of the Targaryen.
“My father always carried his Valyrian steel sword with him, Ice. A sword even taller than he was; some said it was fit only for a giant. But no one ever glanced at it in fear or disgust, because no one had ever seen Eddard Stark use it on someone who didn’t deserve it. He used to say that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. I can’t say what I would do, but…” – He searched for the right words, fighting to mask any emotion. – “The people of Westeros don’t know you, so show them that only the cruel have reason to fear dragonfire. Show them you are a Targaryen, but not your father’s daughter.”

She gazed at the map, her eyes darting across the whole continent, quick and determined. A sense of finality, determination, and lingering sadness took root in her Valyrian gaze. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, and Jon noticed the clouds swallowing the moon when he looked out to the balcony, searching for the two stars that had overseen his encounter with the dragon—the blue one and the green one—but found neither this time. He tried to conceal his fatigue with tenderness.

“You should rest, Daenerys. War can wait until tomorrow.”

Her lips curled into a tired smile.

“How much I wish it could, Jon Stark.’’

…

…

…

…

He woke up, and for the first time, perhaps since leaving Winterfell, he felt rested. His dreams and visions had chosen not to disturb him after he and Daenerys parted ways into the darkness of their respective chambers. His head felt a bit heavy, likely from the hours he had lacked in sleep, but aside from that, he felt good, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

That was, until he remembered her, of course.

Her closeness, and what he had nearly done, the thoughts he had entertained. What a disgrace he was, and how much he had wanted it. Denial was futile, once again, but dwelling on the hope of a love made of songs was also a lost cause. Of all the suitors the Dragon Queen might have, not just in Westeros but from anywhere in the known world, why would she settle for a Northerner who directly opposed her rule in his lands?

And yet, he wanted it all the same.

He wanted her.

What a fool he was.

His breakfast was brought to him just as he finished dressing, and after the meal, he began preparing some light sparring armor, focusing on brown leather with hardly any metal plates. He left his black curls untied, the iron crown resting beside Longclaw. Now ready to begin, the King in the North left his chambers and headed toward the training grounds, where his men would be preparing for morning drills. Though the threat of another Greyjoy invasion was unlikely, it was wise to stay as sharp as possible, and of course, it served as a distraction from the mining sessions that Jon and his men spent deep within the castle’s guts.

As he crossed the castle interior toward the courtyard, which lay in the opposite direction of Aegon’s Garden, he encountered several pairs of Unsullied and maidens hurrying in different directions. No one was truly running, but their steps were quickened. A group of three Dothraki stopped in front of him, sizing him up from head to toe before moving on, whispering something in their tongue. Whatever they said sounded suspicious to Jon.

Upon reaching the castle door, he found two figures almost arguing in front of the stone gates. Neither noticed his presence as he approached.
“You worry too much, Lord Selmy. She often leaves the castle early to fly over the island,” – said the figure barely rising above the ground.
“But she is not flying over the island, Lord Tyrion. Our sentinels at Crackclaw Point reported hearing the flapping of wings heading north just at dawn. As Hand of the Queen, you should…” – Before he could finish, Ser Barristan noticed Jon’s presence and stopped abruptly, bowing his head.
“Your Grace.” – The Lannister followed suit, his expression casual.

“My Lords.” – Jon still held reservations about the greybeard, but that wasn’t the priority at the moment. – “Is everything alright? There seems to be quite a commotion in the castle this morning.”
Ser Barristan wore an even grimmer expression and sighed heavily, but the Hand of the Queen spoke up first.
“My good Queensguard is worried because the Queen and her winged children have been absent all morning.”

A twinge of concern settled in Jon’s chest.

“Your lack of concern is almost insulting, Lannister.” – The knight crossed his arms, the silver armor clinking.
Tyrion’s smile widened even further. – “And your concern suggests you do not consider the Queen a capable dragonrider, perhaps.”
The old man’s eyes went wide, his back straightening in indignation, almost as if his hand were about to grasp the hilt of his sword. Jon thought about saying something to placate their argument, perhaps inviting Selmy to train with his men; even though he had no particular fondness for the knight, it could be a good move toward mutual respect. Landing a blow on such a skilled swordsman was rather foolish for the Northerner, but it was an enticing prospect nonetheless.

But the words froze in Jon’s throat as a terrible chill shook his body, just as three terrifying roars reverberated through the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

Daenerys.

The three men—Northerner, Lannister, and Selmy—hurried into the inner courtyard. Rapidly, the black dragon with maroon spikes landed on the dark walls, and from one of its enormous wings descended a figure as white as snow. The Dragon Queen’s attire consisted of a white woolen cloak adorned with red engravings, but she wore her silver chest and shoulder plates, and her hair was tied back in a long, thick braid. Visenya's sword hung from her hip.
The last time Jon had seen her bearing metal, it had been in a time of war, during the failed Greyjoy invasion.
As she approached, the three men noticed something at once. The lower part of Daenerys’s long cloak was not naturally red; it was stained crimson, as if the girl had wandered through a shallow pool of...

Blood.

Every part of Jon’s body wanted to rush to her, but he held back. She was fine; that was enough. It was not her blood.

To his right, he saw a figure with dark, curly hair approaching rapidly, wrapped in a gray wool cloak—it had to be Missandei, but he did not want to take his eyes off the Targaryen.

The words that followed were drowned in Jon’s ears, as if thunder had crashed through his skull and chest. Daenerys Targaryen spoke, her skin pale, her eyes with the expression of having seen a ghost.

“House Frey is no more.”

Contradictory feelings surged within the former Lord Commander like a turbulent sea.

Vengeance, but not by his hand.

Justice, but not by his hand.

The blue tower was now a cold mausoleum.

What had compelled Daenerys to do something like this?

It had been his words.

But any possibility of pride died in the salty air of Dragonstone.

Missandei handed a piece of parchment to the Queen.

The Rewyne fleet... almost annihilated.

A terrible storm.

The Citadel had fallen.

Before the Red Kraken.

And now the green tower would burn like the Seven Hells.

And so did the eyes of both monarchs met.

Enveloped in the horror of another prophecy.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS 

Three bolts of colossal size had crossed the sky in mere instants, when dawn itself was but a timid glimmer against the endless dark of night. 

There were no roars, for the beating of vast wings was sound enough. 

Daenerys felt the air strike her with its ghostly hand, and she bent forward, pressing herself against Drogon’s armored scales. In that moment, it was not three dragons that cleaved the sky and pierced the clouds. 

It was four. 

They had flown up North, away from Dragonstone, and time passed as fast as the land below her. The Mother of Dragons could only imagine the terror writ upon the faces of the men who kept watch from the Frey towers, as they heard words spoken in a tongue long since buried in times ancient. 

“Dracarys.” 

Before anyone could react, as she had planned, Rhaegal and Viserion parted like a trident before reaching the Twins. The fortress, proud in its dominion over the single bridge that spanned the vast waters, stirred only disgust within Daenerys’s heart. That pride quickly vanished, when pearly fire created a crescent moon across the left side of the bridge, and green-bronze flames poured its twin upon the right. Drogon, before his brothers released their fiery breath, had already set ablaze the trees that tried to grasp both ends of the bridge. 

No living soul within the Twins, Frey or otherwise, could flee their stone prison. Like a decaying raft caught amidst rapids, the castle was encircled in dragonfire. As Harrenhal had been Harren’s oven, so now were the Twins the pyre of House Frey. 

Rhaegal cut off the northern gate, while Daenerys, atop of Drogon, descended upon the southern one, along with Viserion. A guard in silver mail held his torch and spear, unmoving, maybe paralyzed from fear, or stubborn loyalty. It mattered not, so long as his ears could hear. 

Her voice rang against the drawbridge, smaller than the size of her furious mount. 

“Let any man who still has sense enough, listen well! I am Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Daughter of Dragons, Sister of Dragons! Bring me Lord Walder Frey and his sons, and I will convince the King in the North not to behead every traitor that reside within these walls. Refuse, and burn! There is no escape. I care not whether fear or faith compels you, but act before the sun crowns the sky, or your shadows shall dance beside Harren the Black and all those who sought to prove whether or not stone could burn.” 

The three dragons roared as one, and the guards fled their towers and walls, leaving only their torches behind. 

Her children rose once more into the skies, and Daenerys with them. And so, she waited, for either the sun or the will of men, to reach their destination. 

... 

A sudden sting on the back of her hand tore her from her memory, and Daenerys blinked several times to find her tournament sword lying in the dirt of Aegon’s Garden. 

“With all due respect, my queen, but by now you would be dead.” - Ser Barristan slipped his own edgeless blade into his belt with half a smile. - “The battle draws near, and I know the past days have been chaotic, to say the least, but…” 

“ ‘A swordfight requires attention to the enemy and awareness of your surrounding in equal measure’. I remember it well, Ser.” - she answered, picking up the practice sword again, sounding like a girl tired of her grandsire’s lectures. 

“It is an honor for this old knight to know the Mother of Dragons remembers his words. Be sure I will write that in the White Book once we’ve taken the capital. Unfortunately, that will be all for today, I must see to the sailing of another group of unsullied.” 

Dany returned the tournament sword to him, and after a bow of farewell, the old knight left the garden. 

Though she had first intended to train in the main yard alongside her soldiers, the Selmy had urged her to limit their sessions for now to the solitude of Aegon’s Garden. 

‘The Dorthraki might not like it if they see me disarming you, your Grace.’ - the greybeard Queensguard had said. 

‘They are blood of my blood, Ser Barristan. If they see a sword leave my hand, they will know it is to replace it with a whip, or the reins of a dragon.’ 

Still, she had heeded him. Wielding a sword of valyrian steel, no less, required a level of skill that she did not possess at all yet. And besides...the walls of Dragonstone spared her from stealing glances at a certain King in the North. 

The same King in the North who had seemed to be avoiding her for three days. 

‘If the Twins have fallen, I must send ravens to Winterfell. My lords.’ -  And without another word, he had left. Jon had tried to keep the manners and stance of a king, but the sudden paling of his face had spoken louder than any word. But, truth be told, It had been paler when he had seen the blood on the lower end of her clother when she had returned from the Riverlands. 

Which brought Daenerys back to what happened. 

... 

The eastern face of the castle had burned in black and crimson flame, its twin towers cracked open like eggs from above. No souls had been found within, yet on the battlements knights had died with bows in their hands, and full quivers of arrows. At the middle of the bridge, a lone watchtower had once surveyed all the Trident. Not anymore, for beneath the fire the stone that made had melted, leaving only a pool of red rock and blazing timbers. Every band of armed men had been destroyed, turned to ash, and save for fundations of the bridge itself, no chamber had been spared from flames jade, pearl, or onyx. 

‘How many innocents had died in the fire?’ - Daenerys asked herself again and again. 

The servants of Harren the Black hadn’t deserved the punishment of flames for their lord’s pride, yet Aegon had unleashed Balerion’s breath upon them all. It was evil, perhaps a necessary one, but evil all the same. The Twins had to fall, so that thousands needed not. Yet their deaths would never be mere numbers. Dany would carry them always, pressed against her heart. She would not let them be reduced to mere casualties of war. That was the work of tyrants. 

She sent Drogon toward the western face, where the Hall of the Lord was said to be. Stopping in the air before the structure, the sun blazing at her back, she saw something that made her hesitate. 

A soldier opened the doors, and went to the balcony, his steps were careless, as if he couldn’t see the creature that was in front of him. Until... 

... 

“My Queen. Forgive the interruption.” 

Missandei’s voice took her back from the memory of three days past. Her sword hand reached the hilt that dangled on her hip by reflex. A nice reflex, she thought. - “A raven has come, from Houses Tarly, Peake, and Ashford… and another one from Sunspear. Shall I summon the war council?” 

The council was summoned. 

The letter from the Reach brung dark words, as so many had done lately. The three houses that bordered Dorne had abandoned their blockade of Sunspear. With Oldtown fallen to Euron Greyjoy, the lords of the Reach had rallied to their liege lords, the Tyrells, turning their strength to defend their own lands. A new blockade was set, this time around the Hightowers’ domains, and Dany hoped that It was enough to hold any plans of conquest by the Crow’s Eye. 

That was the rational part. The rest told about things that one could’ve found in stories of magic. Lord Peake wrote of crops withering overnight, and of the great tower of Oldtown blazing with wildfire, its eerie glow seen even from Starpike. Stranger tales had spreade as well, that Euron Crow’s Eye had discovered some blasphemous art to make himself a dragon, great as Balerion of old, or a blood Kraken that lurked now in the waters.  All of it was yet to prove, The Queen of Thorns had sent no word from Highgarden yet. 

The letter from Dorne was clearer, if no less troubling. 

‘…House Nymeros-Martell has chosen to pledge itself to the cause of King Aegon, son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, bearer of Blackfyre. A union is declared between him and Princess Arianne, binding the coming crown once more to the lands of the Broken Arm and Sunspear...’ 

Her skull felt ready to split open. 

“Your Grace, are you well?” 

A queen she was, and a queen at war. Weakness was something she could not afford, not now. 

“Yes. Proceed, Ser Barristan.” 

Her nod set the old knight to moving the painted figures across the great table.  

Yellow and orange markers pressed toward King’s Landing, while kraken and rose opposed one another by Oldtown. A lion stood cornered within the capital, while the dragon hovered menacingly over the Crownlands. A lion’s sigil marked Casterly Rock as well, unmoving, as did the Riverlands and the Eyrie. A carved wolf lay poised at the Neck, ready to march south. 

“With the Reach at a standstill, the Dornish will hasten their march to join Aegon’s army at Storm’s End, whether by sea or land,” - said Barristan. - “The Lannisters in the capital are doomed, one way or another, but I do not think they go down without resistance. Especially coming from Cersei.” - His finger moved to the east. - “Im araid we are sending send the Unsullied and the Dothraki to Maidenpool, leaning on allies who have given us no final word.” 

“We are allied with the North. Their crown commands the Riverlands, and they are allied with the Arryns.” - Daenerys answered, her brow furrowed over the map that looked worse with each council called. 

“Has our noble King in the North made that plain since the burning of the Twins?” 

Tyrion’s voice, though wrapped in jest, was heavier than usual. Perhaps because of the mention of his sister. 

“He...has not. Since the Freys fell, King Jon has been much occupied sending ravens to the North, and overseeing the mining of the dragonglass, which was an integral part of our deal, Lord Tyrion.'' 

Barristan frowned too, tugging at his beard. - “The Riverlands trouble me still. Edmure Tully is still in the dungeons of Casterly Rock. Will the rivermen march while their lord, the last surviving son of Hoster, remains a captive?” 

“It may bring them fury and purpose.” - said Grey Worm. - “As it did the Northmen who bled the Ironborn upon Dragonstone’s shores.” 

''If Jon Stark managed to get the houses of the Riverlands to siege Casterly Rock, perhaps Asha Greyjoy and ships from the Second Sonds could blockade the sea surrounding the Westerlands, now that the Crow's Eye is focused on Oldtown. We need to starve the Rock out if we want Edmure Tully released, while not getting into any kind of crossfire.''   

The sound of wine being poured sounded again, much to the displease of both commander and captain.    

“I say it is time we stop guessing what the Riverlords might do.” - Tyrion went on. - “and we finally secure their fealty.” 

Fealty, not allyship. One of Dany's brows raised. 

“I thought that settled, when I mentioned the territories belonging to the northern crown.'' 

''Oh yes, alliance...of word and trade. Not a bad one, but these are chaotic times too.'' - The dwarf took a sip of his wine. - ''Lately I have been reading about periods in which Targaryen were waging war at each other, trying to solve our situation. And then I found the mention of Winterfell and something called The Pact of Ice and Fire. A poetic name, if you ask me.'' 

''Everyone knows what the Maesters recorded about Prince Jacaerys and Lord Cregan Stark, Lannister.'' 

''Of course, of course. And it is also known that the pact never came to completion. A Targaryen heir, married to a Stark one. Can't help but to see a gods-given oportunity to join the northern crown back into the rest of the Kingdoms, secure the Riverlands support by a higher duty, and also secure legitimacy at the eyes of more...conservative lords that remain.'' 

Daenerys’s fury kindled. Legitimacy she had, in her blood, older and truer than any. 

“Legitimacy? That I already possess, Lord Tyrion.” 

“As does this supposed Aegon.” - the Imp countered smoothly. - “True or false, the image of Rhaegar’s son, wedded to a Dornish princess, Blackfyre sword in hand, and supported by a son of the last usurper...It's a good look for someone that may have treacherous thoughts.” 

“You speak of tradition. I too hold a sword of legend, and three dragons.” 

“Aegon the Conqueror also rode a dragon, yet he chose to be crowned in Oldtown, under the light of the Seven. The boy Stark, I think, would rest easier too knowing you will definitely stand with him in the war against the...Others.” 

That first part was true. That had been her first command when she named the dwarf as her Hand: that he spoke truth, or he would lose his tongue. 

Was a wedding to the young wolf such a bad thing? Stability for the realm, and peace assured with the northern crown. And... 

No. Not like that. Not again. She was once wed in exchange for an army. Never again. The word and seal of Jon Stark must suffice. 

It had to. 

And would he even agree to that? A valyrian wedding, while holding pieces of dragonglass? Or maybe a northern wedding, in front of what they called a 'Heart Tree', while exchanging cloaks? And then, the bedding. 

''You want me to fall back on my word, to make him think I might not go North after the war. You want me to trick him into bending the knee, under the premise of duty under the gods eyes.'’ 

The room felt silent. If any of them had an opinion, they dare not speak it. 

The Lannister took a crooked deep breath and a sip from his cup, and talked, his eyes pointing at another direction. 

''Would that be so bad? Your Grace, having lived in Casterly Rock and Kings Landing, I have seen my share of arranged marriages...I even got one, and lived to tell the tale. Yours would be...fairly convenient, in many aspects I dare say.'' - Tyrion could almost feel the rage coming from the Queen, and he tried to find the cold of his wine as fuel for his words. - ''These are times of war, and later we could make use of Valyrian tradition if needed...''  

Dany could see right through her Hand’s plan. Valyrian traditions, meaning how many Targaryen kings had wedded many brides, or maybe how many kings had chosen lovers outside marriage to ease their thirst, she could almost hear it, and she hated it.  

She raised a hand, and, as if the Lannister had turned into a stone man, he stopped talking. 

''I will discuss this matter with the King. In person. Then we shall see how worth his words and oaths are. Our path torwards the crown is set, and the northerners will join us. Thank your for your time and your honesty, my Lords. I will have you called as soon as possible.''   

She had to find him. 

It was not that the dwarf was mistaken. These were trying times, and armies had to be secured, and words could not always be trusted. But Dany believed in him, not in the crown, not in the Stark sigil that he carried, but in Jon. She had seen it, through his eyes, his mannerisms. There was truth and honesty in him, one that she had not seen in... how many years, perhaps not once in her life. 

She swept through Dragonstone’s passages like a gust of flame, the way known to her feet as well as her heart. At that hour of the day Jon would be in his chambers, surrounded by the endless ravens that came from the North, even after three days. But her steps outpaced her thoughts. What would she say, once she reached the northerner’s chambers? Speak of marriages? Of plans? That her council doubted the honor and word of a man who had come seeking her help, only to give it himself, fighting and almost dying to protect her? It seemed insulting to any man’s honor, let alone to a Stark. 

Her heart pounded against its cage. She forced her steps quick, but not so quick as to break into a run. Dragons did not show distress. Not in the sky and not in their nests. 

At last, she passed through the corridor, saluted kindly the Unsullied at their posts, and stood before the door. To her it seemed vast, heavy as the gates of Yunkai, pale marble like milkglass. 

She breathed, and her hand moved toward the handle. Then something made her stop. Voices sounded at the other side of the door. A blow to something wooden, and words sounding rough in dispute. 

She should turn and leave. Wait. To interrupt a wolf that was showing his teeth was the worst you could do. She should. 

She should. 

She did not. 

He stayed, and very slowly brought the glass and wood mixture material closer to his ear, and he heard perfectly, as if the barrier did not exist. 

“Lad. You know why I must tell you this.” 

The voice was hoarse, yet gentle. Ser Davos. 

“Aye, I know my duty, Ser Davos. The Old Gods know I do.” 

Jon’s voice struck her like a cold wave from the sea. Her heart quickened, burning and uncertain. 

“Then you know what must be done. The collecting of the dragonglass is almost done, the lords of the North stand ready.” 

Jon cut him short. - “And their king must lead them. And I will. As I have done every time.” 

Silence. Dany's mind tried to assimilate what they were talking about. The Northern armies were going to mobilize, they would fight alongside her, as Jon had sworn. That should be enough for her to stop listening. She could tell the council, quell her doubts, and focus on the preparations and deployment of her men. And yet she only felt...sadness. 

And yet... 

“What is it that you are not telling me, your Grace?” - asked Davos softly. - “I have lived long enough, and been there enough times, to know grief on the face of a man bound for the sea when I see it.” 

Again, silence. 

'’I have done my duty here. I should return home, relieved that, despite the war, help against the Others will come. That we living beings have a chance to resist, and afterward, a just person in power can give the kingdoms another time of prosperity. And yet...' - Jon’s voice faltered. Daenerys hung upon his words, of justice, of restoration, of trust in her. - “Yet all I can think of is what I leave behind, if I leave this island.” 

He'd just said he believed her word, and now he was talking about losing? Did he also believe that once the King in the North abandoned Dragonstone, and the war for the Throne was over, she would refuse to help against the threat beyond the Wall? 

“And what is it you leave, son?” 

"There's... something about this island. Very similar to the feeling that inhabits certain places beyond the wall. The sorrow of the watchful eye of something invisible, or the connection I feel with Ghost. Besides..." - He hesitated again. - "Tell me, Ser Davos, during your time as a smuggler, how did you manage to leave the port every day?" 

She understood. There was power in Dragonstone, ancient, silent. But was that all? 

''Well, it wasn't easy lad, I can tell you that. I never thought myself a godly man but, I guess I had faith. Faith in my luck. Faith in my sweet Marya.  That she would be waiting, her and my sons, all waiting for me at home. That gave me strength, always, especially during nights in which the sea was dangerously calm without any wind.'' 

“And if Marya had to sail after you, too?” 

The smuggler’s tone sharpened. - “Tell me, Jon, honest. What is do you really fear losing, that has more weight than a crown, a kingdom or, Seven Hells, maybe the life o all of us?” 

Silence again. 

Daenerys felt guilt strike her side, the feeling was similar to the whip of a dragon's tail. The young Northman wasn't always the most talkative person, no, but to hear something so private...why? To see what kind of political secret he could uncover in her favor? To hear something, she'd foolishly dreamed of hearing? Daenerys Targaryen didn't hide behind high walls and iron gates. She never had, and today wouldn't be the day, either. 

She stepped back, silent as she was made of silk, then knocked. The glass pane chilled her fingers. 

The voices hushed. 

''King Jon? I must discuss an important matter with you.''  

The Queen commanded, and waited. 

An affirmative response erupted from the room. The door opened, and Davos looked at her with an unreadable face, perhaps of respect veiling shame. He bowed low, and walked down the corridor. 

That day, Daenerys had donned her three-headed crown, a gown of white wool and dark red silk, the sleeves of which ended at her elbows, giving way to silver silk sleeves, ending in a spear point entwined around her middle fingers. Furthermore, over her left shoulder she wore the pale lionskin that had accompanied her for so many years, no longer white as snow, now the beast's fur was the white of bones. Dany trusted that the trophy would give her the strength and courage to say the right words. 

''My apologies, Your Grace. My quarters are not in a condition fit for a Queen at the moment. Probably not even for an Ice River clansman.''   

That was the first time she had heard his voice in the last three days, and so she looked around to see if at least it was true. The bed was barely made, and the room was mostly clean, except for the desk and mirror. Several cloaks had been laid out and discarded beside the large silver mirror, each with a different pattern and material, though the colors weren't as varied: gray, black, dark brown, and the occasional dark silver. The desk, on the other hand, was a jumble of ink, parchment, and seals. Dany was wary that the Northman had become a shadow since she had returned from the Twins, but she also understood the consequences of her own decision, and she wasn't so inexperienced or stupid as to think it wouldn't cause chaos among the Northern lords. 

Memory came back to her at the worst moment, together with the scent of ash, the sound of screams, the stench of poisoned blood. 

His voice pulled her back. 

''If you would see it fit, I would rather talk in the open.''- The Stark's tired eyes and uncertain voice brought her out of her trance. She looked closely at his face, as solemn and handsome as ever, a balance of Stark looks mixed with a slender build and unique features, now coupled with a small dark circle. - "The self-imposed imprisonment of my chambers has proved too much for me, I fear." 

Aside from uncertainty, there was...something else in his voice. What it was mattered little once she realized the state Jon was in, whose eyes she'd only been able to meet until now. 
 
All of his hair, which almost seemed to have more white strands every day, had been pulled back completely into a high ponytail, unruly lines of black and white extending back, warring with each other. On his chest, the young Northman wore only an off-white shirt, the laces of which had been undone to the middle of his chest, and his trousers were light brown, baggy to the bottom of warm boots. 
 
She had no time to think of how lucky she might have been at the moment, being able to see not the king, nor the Stark, but just Jon, without a royal attire that burdened him or a heavy armor that protected him, because looking at his chest, she caught a glimpse of something that had been seen before. 
 
Something that seemed like- 

He turned around quickly, as if he had realized where his thoughts were going, before Dany got a clear picture of what she was seeing. 

"It was rude of me to enter so suddenly, my apologies. I'll step outside so you can dress. I'll gladly accept some fresh air and a walk, if that's what my guest desires." - She turned away after saying goodbye with a slight bow, her mind trying to go over and over what she had almost managed to see. It looked like a scar, perhaps an intentional mark, or a tattoo, or perhaps it could be something hanging from the cord of his shirt collar. It was impossible to tell, and frustration flared inside the Dragon Queen for a second. 

The Stark left the room with little delay, wearing a dark gray, ankle-length coat under a black cloak draped over one shoulder with a white direwolf broach. The coat folded and closed over a black gambeson, and at the end of it, Jon wore boots decorated at the ankles with two silver hoops. It was an oddly elegant outfit, for what was merely a stroll, and also for a conversation that could turn tense in a split second, but Dany understood that, perhaps after three days of solitude amidst paper, ink, and raven feathers, a stroll in official attire didn't sound so bad. 
 
Especially if the odds were that he would have to spend the next few months in war armor. 
 
Before they began walking, the man nicknamed ‘White Wolf’ extended his arm to her, and once again, Daenerys couldn't help but notice his features, kind and at the same time somewhat harsh, accentuated by the scars on his face, his eyes, cold in color but characterized by honesty and kindness. Perhaps, if it weren't for the details added by responsibility and battle, she might have said his handsome features were almost feminine. 

Daenerys took his arm, a wave of emotions in the pit of her stomach, leaving behind the horror and uncertainty. She didn't know the sweet magic that surrounded the King in the North, but it made him an enemy that always threatened to disarm her at the slightest carelessness. 
 
Even so, she mustn't forget the reason she had come looking for him. 
 
They walked for a while, letting their steps lead them to the northeast wall of Dragonstone's fortress. Along the way, they barely spoke a word, simply enjoying each other's polite proximity. As much as Daenerys would have liked to rest her head on the Stark's shoulder, she had simply maintained her manners, keeping her back straight with the posture of a Queen, and maintaining a serene expression. 

They stopped beneath one of the carved beasts, gazing out across the island and the restless horizon. She turned, meaning to speak of the Twins, of the Freys, but no words came. His face was solemn, colder than she wished. One hand slipped within his cloak, along the line where his sword should be,but he had not carried one from the hall. 

“Daenerys. I...'' - She thanked the gods to hear his voice, while they both locked eyes once more. - ''I...apologize. For not saying a word during the last three days, and denying the requests of council. Things up North...The Lords, they know we are at war now.''  

Jon seemed like he wanted to continue, but Dany stopped him.  

''There is nothing to apologize for. I know well the responsibilities of royalty, and I am aware of the army of ravens that have flooded the castle these days.''  

His whole body turned to her. - ''And I needed to thank you, too.''- He breathed in, trying to get all the air he could. - “By the time I heard what had happened to my brother, it had been too long. I had been beyond the Wall, where I had joined the Free Folk after a failed expedition in search of my uncle. What the Freys did to my brother, to Lady Stark, to the other lords, after they had shared salt and bread with them… Where was I? At Castle Black, lost beyond the Wall, while everyone thought that I should not mourn a dead brother when I had a thousand more. Wishing I could lead Stannis’s own army south, but unable to do anything but sit in the Lord Commander’s chair. 

His eyes closed, and he stepped nearer. She felt the pull to match it. 

"What I am trying to say is, you could have gone anywhere in the known world on that dawn when you took flight. Contrary to what your advisors said, you went to the Twins. And Westeros has witnessed the Queen's Justice. I know now that, wherever they may be, the former King in the North, and the woman my father loved, rest at peace, just as I know that the northern Lords are glad their loved ones that perished that day are also at peace. The North remembers, and they will fight down South once more. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid, Daenerys Targaryen. Thank you." 

It was set then. She knew from the beginning, the North would fight for her cause, with no further arrangements or oaths needed. She should have been happy to hear that, and she was, but-  

But something was missing.  

And she was also taking something that she did not deserve. 

... 

All of the Crossing was being devoured in flames. Shades of grass, bone and charcoal had lit the towers like candles. Soldiers wearing capes of the two towers had been destroyed left and right, and meanwhile the bridge could still function, no taller structure would live to tell the tale, not to watch over the river nor the lands beside it. She tugged on the bond that joined her to her three sons and flew towards the edification that contained the Seat of the Lord of the Crossing. Drogon eased his speed, and with claws sharp as swords, coiled himself around the tower, separating his neck from one of the main windows, allowing her to look directly into the rooms tainted glasses.  

Suddenly, a soldier came out of the windowed door, into the balcony. His face was twisted, his eyes bulging wide as if to burst. He wore only light mail, no sword in hand, though the badge of the Twins hung from his breast. His gaze met hers, yet there was no recognition, no spark of fear, as if he were blind to the dragon before him, blind to the heat and black smoke streaming from its jaws. The nameless man went to the edge of the balcony, looked down, and began to pour out the contents of his stomach with a scream of agony. The liquid that flowed from his mouth had no natural color, but was a black, viscous fluid with greenish tinges along its length. Once it had all spilled out, and it began to rain from the balcony, the man threw himself after his waste and fell to his final place of rest. 

She had hardly noticed the screams of terror coming from the top of the tower. 

She should have ordered Dragon to take flight again. Get to safety, not risking the life of the last Targaryen being extinguished in the crossfire of whatever was happening that day at the Crossing. It could be revenge from a northern plot, or the household gods punishing House Frey for violating the Guest Right. She could have simply turned her back on what she had just seen, take flight, and rain fire down upon the last keep. Let whatever was happening there die in the flames. Silently. Forever. 
 
 

She couldn't do it. 
 
 

She dismounted Drogon, who brought her closer to the balcony against her will. She drew Dark Sister and entered the Lord's Hall. 

As she entered, the screams ceased, and the room looked like a battlefield, or perhaps a slaughterhouse. The men had died in various ways. Some had fallen on the contents of their intestines, the same disgusting, dark material she had seen the previous soldier choke on. Others had received crossbow bolts in their chests or necks, some had been slashed while holding their own weapons. It was almost as if madness had invaded the hall, and those present had killed each other during the feast, perhaps trying to combat an invisible enemy? They all had a look of sudden terror on their faces, as if what they had witnessed before dying had poisoned their sanity first. 
 
 

Could this be the same room where Robb Stark had been murdered? The mere thought made her sicker than the smell of guts and death. And all this happened while the bottoms of the Queen's battle tunic were stained with the pools of blood on the floor. 

Daenerys looked toward the table at the back, higher than the rest, where the lords had breathed their last. From one side to the center, from the right to the left, great and small, all had fallen, and several of them no longer had their heads on their shoulders, but were instead before them, pierced by pikes. 
 
 

All, except one. 
 
 

There, in the center, stood the person they had described as Walder Frey. An old man, aquiline, with hollow eyes and cheeks, with only a few strands of white hair on his head. Pale and wearing a blue robe that displayed the two towers on his chest. In Daenerys's view, the old man appeared as repulsive as the deeds he had committed. The once powerful lord looked at her, eyes oozing terror, but held still by the hand holding what little hair he had left, and the dagger that had left its edge resting against his neck. 

Behind him stood a figure cloaked in black, hood drawn low. Its face was wrong, ever-shifting, a mirage of features folding upon themselves, shadow and semblance both. Slender, silent, its gaze unyielding. For an instant she thought she saw surprise in those eyes, but the knife never wavered. 

No one spoke. No one but Daenerys. 

‘Do it.’ 

Whether it was death itself, a vengeful spirit, a shadow, or a god, Daenerys Targaryen was a queen, and she had come seeking vengeance, seeking justice. 
 
 

If she must carry out the sentence, so be it. 
 
 

The shadow moved its knife in a swift motion, and the knife cut so deep that Dany wondered if the cut had reached the back of the old man's neck. He tried to speak and reach out with his hands, only to spurt a river of blood from the corners of his mouth and raise two fresh stumps at the ends of his wrists. In the end, the old man dropped his head onto his plate, drowned and silenced in a broth made of red tears. With the deed completed, the spectral figure cleaned his knife and placed it in his pouch, next to a fine sword. 

From the faceless mouth came a voice, and many voices all at once. 

‘…Targaryen.’ 

‘Yes.’ - Her answer was cold as steel, steady as fire. 

‘Valar Morghulis.’ 

Just as she had commanded the specter, the specter sounded as if it were commanding her back. The being turned around, and with resolute steps, walked out through the door behind the Lord’s seat. Leaving her alone in the chamber, accompanied only by death and carrion. 

Daenerys returned riding her son, and turned the last tower into ashes, before going back to Dragonstone, having made sure that House Frey no longer existed, and that its name could be forever consigned to oblivion. 

... 

Should Daenerys tell Jon what she had seen? Should she claim merit that was not hers? The praise and the gifts? The loyalty? 

Perhaps she ought to explain what that figure had been. Jon, Snow or Stark, had never been a stranger to the inexplicable and the terrifying, having slain death itself in the frozen forms beyond the Wall. 

But no, there was something deep within Daenerys that told her it was better to say nothing, that perhaps what she had seen that day would be useful when she herself met death, or perhaps she ought to carry her secret to death itself. 

“Take the death of a house that has caused you and yours so much pain as a seal of alliance between Starks and Targaryens. The gratitude should go to those who must leave their homes to fight. Perhaps it is the North that deserves my apologies.” 

Both monarchs were swept by a wave of melancholy. The hour of departure was approaching, and with it the dream Dany might have harbored on the small island of her ancestors. 

“There is… one more thing.” - Jon Stark took another timid step. - “It may not compare to a ruby, or a sapphire, or a dragon egg, but I believe it shares their beauty, and...I would like you to have it.” 

From where he had rested his hand before, at the back of his belt, the Northerner drew out a linen cloth that concealed an object inside. He unfolded the fabric, revealing it. It was a small crystal formation, within which tiny crystalline shards arranged themselves in different circles, resembling a flower that had just bloomed with the coming of spring. The crystal shaded from a deep purple at its center to lilac at the tips of its stony petals. Daenerys gazed at it in wonder, then lifted her eyes back to Jon’s gray ones, as he spoke in almost a whisper. 

“I found it deep within the caverns, where the veins of dragonglass shift into even more colors. It… reminded me of your eyes, Daenerys.” 

Dany received the crystal flower in her hands, feeling fire rise to her shoulders when her fingers brushed against those of the King in the North. It was beautiful and had not been polished or carved into that shape, likely the only flower that had ever bloomed in the jaws of the volcano that warmed the island. Throughout her life, all kinds of men had gifted her with precious gems, most seeking power through such offerings, and she had seen them all: emeralds, amethysts, blood-red rubies, opals, topazes; even her crown, adorned with the faces of her children, had been a gift. And yet here she stood, staring at the crystal formation as if she had just been given a fragment of the moon, or the farthest pearl from the coast in the depths of the sea. She had not received it in search of favor, nor for power, nor even as a gesture to soothe her temper after three days of silence, but because, in the press of mining crystal to forge weapons capable of killing the very forces of darkness, Jon Stark had thought of her eyes. 

He was watching her, constantly, up and down, his brow slightly furrowed. The Northerner’s thoughts eluded her, for she could think of only one thing: to relieve him of his heavy cloak, to wrap her arms around his neck, and to kiss him. 

Daenerys wanted to caress the scars upon his face, to kiss them as a vow that they would never bleed again. Dany thought of the taste of his mouth, the feel of his muscles, his back, his arms, all honed by years of training, of wars, of survival. 

She was fire, from the tips of her boots to the last little bell braided into her hair, with the place where the embers burned hottest smoldering in her belly, and below her waist. She did not know if the Starks were truly made of ice, as the old tales said, but she wanted, no, she needed, to find out. 

And if Jon, Snow or Stark, was fated to melt… so be it. 

JON 

He was nothing but a fool.   

After all he had done, all he had lived. He died, he came back from the bottomless pit of death, took back his home, he wore the crown of his predecessor and somehow earned the allyship of none other than Daenerys Stormborn, the Last Targaryen.   

And yet, in none of those travels, he had managed to leave any of his foolishness behind.   

For all his pride, his honor, and his ambition, he could only lower his head while confroting one thing: the thruth.  

He had battled with himself. Most of his life he had, but these last three days had been a greater war than that of the Snowfield, when he pummeled Ramsay Boltons face into a pulp of blood and dirt.   

This, was a battle he could not win, the Old Gods be damned, no matter how much he tried.   

Even though, if he thought about it, they were two wars, eating at his flesh like a poisoned wound. 

The news of what had happened at the Twins had spread swiftly, through the Riverlands and the North alike. He had confirmed the rumors, soothed the doubts, and sent out the tidings. One by one, the Northern lords had sent their replies. 

‘The Karstarks shall join the King in the North once more in battle, in gratitude for his pardon, may we bleed together on the field, so that Westeros may see again that we share the same blood.’ 

‘House Cerwyn is honed and ready to join the White Wolf and march south once more.’ 

‘A Manderly is always true to its word, and so, our ships shall sail again, may the seas be as grateful as the Targaryen Queen has been to the North.’ 

Those were to name a few, there were many more who had pledged themselves to his cause: from the Mormonts of Bear Island, to the Reeds of Greywater Watch, passing through riverlords such as Blackwood and Bracken. The mountain clans, too, had answered. After receiving word of shipments of arms, food, and seeds for the winter, the Wulls, Norreys, Harclays, Burleys, First Flints, Knotts, and Liddles sent ravens to the King in the North, declaring that no matter the mission, if a Stark marched with sword in hand beyond Moat Cailin, they would march as well. 

All had gone well, and Jon knew that as soon as he returned to Winterfell, banquets, songs, councils, and, of course, war plans awaited him. But there was something more: the truth. A painfull truth that the Northern lords had declared in their letters, some subtlety, others with boldly and direct. 

‘A king who goes to war must leave an heir behind. An heir sired with a daughter of the North.’ 

A daughter of the North. An heir. That was what they wanted, and worst of all, it made sense. It had always been so, and it was desirable that the descendants of the King in the North carried the blood of the First Men. It would be a good omen, and their legitimacy would remain clear for generations. 

‘I will never father a bastard.’ - His own words echoed in his mind. the words of a boy who had died long ago. Now he had a name, the one he had always wished to have. He could have a true marriage before a Heart Tree, and after the cloaks were exchanged, a great feast would follow that lasted for hours, if not days. Winterfell would be his to show, and where to raise his children. It was all he had ever dreamed of, and what for so long he had been ashamed to admit. He should feel...alive, happy, proud. 

And yet, he felt emptier than ever. 

Daenerys Targaryen was daughter of dragonfire, of ash, of silver and the moon. She was a goddess with robes made of silk or wool, and steel. She was daughter of gods more than of men. 

And none of those gods belonged to the North. 

Jon Stark had everything before him, and at the same time, he had nothing. 

But still… 

They had told him how it had happened, and why. In his fever, after being struck by an arrow, Robb Stark had wed Jeyne Westerling, though he had given his word to wed one of the daughters of the now-vanished House Frey. His brother had broken his word and his honor, trying not to shame a girl of a castle he took, which was a vassal of the enemy. 

Was it too late for him? No, it was not. He only had to turn back. Or say what he had planned: that he would leave the island in three days. He only had to speak the words. 

Yet he did not say a word. Silent. As a corpse. 

“Jon.” - Her voice drew him back, pulling him from his mind. - “There is something… I wish to know.” 

He could almost thank the Gods, and her, for pushing back the words that were stuck on his throat.  

''How was it that...you were relieved of your duties of the Night's Watch? The Oath, I was told its for life.'' - His thanks died in the same spot as his words, and damned the Gods in the same breath.   

He could not say the truth. Not all of it. Bastard, monster, oathbreaker and liar. He took a deep breath.  

''I would like to say it was because of a noble reason. That when I saw the dead beyond the Wall I knew I had to do something but, that is not the whole story.''  

''Then tell me the whole story. We have plenty of time.''  

‘No, we do not.’  

He dug deep, between truth and lie, and spoke.  

''When I entered the Night's Watch, I was told that it would be my family, and its members, my brothers. I forced myself to remain, to forget, to be sworn by duty. My father was murdered in King's Landing and deemed a traitor. My little sister Arya vanished after that, never to be seen again, Sansa was sold to the Lannisters, the disappeared as well. Then Rickon and Bran.'' - Even though he remembered when Summer saved his life, killing the thennites. How he wished that meant Bran was safe. - ''Then Robb, and lady Catelyn.'' - He closed his eyes, trying to remember the faces of them, now, they were just a blur in his mind. - ''Then one day, two things arrived at the wall. Sansa, and a letter. 'I want my wife back, Bastard. I will cut out your bastard's heart and eat it, Bastard.' ''  

He heard Daenerys skip a breath, he opened his eyes, but couldn't bring himself to look at her.  

''I...couldn't take it. That monster wanted me to give him the only family I had left, then slaughter the Free Folk. The Watch is supposed to shield the realm of men, but what about shielding the realm of men? Was not Sansa the realm? Were the old men, women and children of the people beyond the wall not the realm? I marched to Winterfell, supported by the Free Folk, the Mountain Clans and some small Housed from the North, trying to see if Ramsay Bolton's heart tasted as bitter and monstrous as he was, then I told everyone about the Others, and if the North wanted to behead me and name an oathbreaker after, I would've accepted. Instead, I was crowned, not only by my people, but also by decree of my deceased brother, who named me heir before marching to battle. The clans beyond the wall joined the Watch and the Mountain clans, and repopulated the castles on the wall, and fortresses in the New Gift...and I never came back.''  

He could not tell her everything. The knives in the Dark. The pyre. He could not. 

The silence was killing him. Her silence. His shame grew. How long had it been since he had felt this way? Perhaps he had never truly stopped. He had hidden it, beneath vengeance, ambition, rage. He felt everything and nothing all at once, as the memories turned to mist within his mind. 

''I...Understand. There are no more Targaryens left but, the dothraki are blood of my blood, the Unsullied and the people from the freed cities are my sons, just as my dragons. I would march against anyone who dared threaten them, with everything I have, oath or not.''  

He had to tell her. She deserved to know, at least. But before knowing, perhaps he could recieve some of the queen's wisdom.  

''There is something I need to ask, too.'' - She nodded slightly, allowing him. - ''You have been Queen for, many years now, and we have talked about the ironies of power, and how important it is to know when to enforce, and when to concede, but.'' - The words got stuck in his throat, unyielding. But the King in the North pushed through. - ''Is it a crown enough of a reason to concede love? Must duty prevail above all?'' 

She understood the very moment the words left his mouth, and she sounded...quiet. 

''An arranged marriage.'' 

''I march to war. The Lords of the North want to know that if they give their lives, the blood of the First Men will prevail, if I were to fall. They must be fighting to present one of their daughters as we speak.'' 

Both of them felt silent, and Jon felt as if the dark high walls of Dragonstone had run out of air to breath. It was deafening, oppressing. 

''You need an heir.'' - It sounded definitive, even in her mouth. Almost like an order. 

''That is what they ask.'' 

She turned could, and even more pale, almost as if she was made from moonlight. - ''I have been married, twice, unwillingly.'' - As she spoke, she crossed her hands over her stomach. - ''First, to secure an army. Second, to secure peace. I learnt that sometimes control feels like love, and that that same love may require too high of a price to pay.'' - It seemed like Daenerys wanted to say something, but she refrained, and so she looked away, her gaze lost at sea. - ''It is my doing that you require the swords of the North, and now the North requires your hand. Just as the khalasar required my wedding to Drogo, or the peace in Meereen asked me to marry Hizdahr zo Loraq. No true power ever comes free, that is our tragedy. One of many.'' 

Jon was aware that Daenerys had been married in the past. He knew to some extent, but to be reminded of it made him feel...uneasy. It was never a welcomed thought the existence of other men in the life of the Dragon Queen. Had she loved them? It was of no use to think of such things. He had been with Yggrite, loved her even, maybe. So really, he had no right to feel anything towards that fact. The only thing that really burned him from inside out was that he wanted her. Her. Daenerys Targaryen.  

He wanted her to say something. To order him not to marry. To threaten to throw him to the dragons or off the wall of Dragonstone if he were not to marry her. To strengthen their alliance. Because she loved him. Anything would have sufficed.  

'No true power comes free, that is our tragedy.' 

He should say something. That a crown was not worth losing her. That he loved her. Desired her. Wanted her. He didnt care if it all ended with a knife in the heart.  

A knife in the heart.  

A corpse brought back to life.  

How much he understood his brother Robb. Was this how he felt? Knowing that it may mean the end of everything he had fought so hard to achieve, only to lose to love? Was it worth it? 

'It was. It should be. Sansa is your heir, you named her before heading to Dragonstone.' - His mind didn't talk anymore, it screamed. - 'Tell her. Hold her hand. Swear your sword. Give her your cloak. Say that you do not wish to leave. You want it. Take it.' 

''Daenerys.'' 

He looked for her amethyst gaze, and found nothing. Her head didn't turn, only her steps. 

''A war council awaits me. I must leave you with your thoughts, your Grace.'' 

She sounded cold, and cold is all he felt. His gaze followed her until she dissapeared, back in the dragon's den, and then he looked back at the sea, that seemed to have darkened, meanwhile the coulds had turned white. A point of coldness touched his nose, then the scars surrounding his eyes. When he rose his head, he saw thousands of tiny white stars, tat felt through the salty breeze.  

Dragonstone was being covered in snow, and for a moment. Jon felt again a bastard at Winterfell.  

... 

For three days, Daenerys Targaryen had turned into a ghost, but it seemed as if it was him who haunted her.  

She glided through the halls and corridors of Dragonstone, fast and determined. She still saluted and spoke to the maidens, guards and bloodriders, and she even visited the fishing town near the shores of Dragonstone, taking the time to talk and listen to the people's worries and complains alike, maybe for the last time before marching torwards King's Landing.  

But, for the King in the North, there was only cold and ice in the Dragon Queen's demeanor.  

It was almost as if she couldn't bear to look at him. 

And that, was killing him. It gnawed at his heart and mind until there was nothing left.  

He tried to dig up his pride, his courage. Nothing worked. 

The last carriage of obsidian had been loaded. The same with the provisions and the steel. Many of the Northerners who had accompanied him were already aboard the ships, waiting on the horizon near their king to set sail. 

And yet. Jon could not move. Not even a step. The white clouds streaked with silken gray had frozen in the sea sky, the sun no more than a smudge at their backs. The cold wind brushed against his skin, granting him a measure of comfort. Not enough. Part of his black wolf cloak billowed behind him, the other part held fast by the scabbard that carried Longclaw on his back, as he had grown accustomed to wearing it when he was too young to carry it at his hip. It was no longer necessary, but it lent him a sense of security, and he liked to remember that this was how Lord Eddard had borne Ice in his own days. Upon his head he also wore his heavy crown, which held the upper part of his black hair and its fragile gray strands, while the lower locks swayed in the gale. Perhaps it was the fault of these three burdens, but his temples and shoulders felt heavier than ever, and his scars throbbed like raw flesh brushed by coarse wool. 

He realized that his fists, clad in dark brown mole-skin gloves, were clenched and taut, and his jaw was locked. He forced himself to loosen. This was not the time to feel the weight, nor to be carried off by foolishness. He only wished to gaze at the sea. To remain there eternally, freezing the moments. 

Today might be the last day he could behold the beauty of Old Valyria. 

He remembered the day near the Queen's Crown. The sting of the arrows. The light and sound of lighting. And the fever he felt for the next days. This time there was no rain, no wildlings, no arrows. Yet he felt the pain and fever all the same. 

And he was about to do the same thing. Leaving the woman he wanted behind, and for what? 

For everything. For nothing.  

What would Ned Stark had done? 

'He brought you home.' - His mind gnawed. 

Howland Reed had talked to him, only once, about his father. Jon would'0ve wanted to ask about the Tower of Joy, and the legendary battle that his father had with The Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur, and also, how the crannogman had saved Eddard's life, as he used to say while lost in thought. But he did not, and Lord Reed only talked about a different Dayne. 

Lady Ashara.  

The woman that his father had loved, long before meeting Lady Catelyn, when he was eighteen years of age.  

Did Howland talk about her trying to suggest that she may had been his mother? The man seemed like he always knew more that he allowed himself to say.  

He did not say a thing, and Jon did not feel like asking.  

Yet, Eddard Stark left all the same.  

Stark or not, we would never be his father. He could not be, even if he wanted to. 

“I have ever heard of the Northerners’ reluctance to travel South, but I would venture to say that perhaps you have found a liking to this place, your Grace.” 

The old man’s voice pulled Jon from his tangled thoughts. Beside him, upon the wall where three days past he had given the crystal flower to Daenerys, stood a knight with white hair and a white beard, clad in silver armor that bore the three-headed dragon upon his chest, this time with a black cloak, its lining dyed scarlet red. For all the years he had lived, the white armor of the Kingsguard lent Ser Barristan Selmy the look of a hero worthy of song. 

Jon had not forgotten the animosity he felt toward the old knight, a feeling ever at odds with the inevitable respect he bore for The Bold. It mattered little in the end; he remained the Queen’s sword and one of her most trusted advisors, and so showing a measure of courtesy was the wisest course. 

''I'm afraid it's inevitable Ser, doesn't matter how far North I've been, the wonders of Old Valyria will never cease to surprise me.'' 

''I am aware of that your Grace.'' - Selmy spoke with a reassuring tone. Jon caught the double meaning in his words, but tried to ignore it. 

''Do you come to this part of the wall often? During patrol, perhaps?'' 

''Not as much as I might want to. Most of my time I stand beside the Queen, as advisor and protector, inside the castle. Sometimes she sends me away, and I come here, it is a good place to think, or to not think at all.'' - The greyberad rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. - ''Some lords have pleaded themselves to serve on the Queensguard, and so they'll wait for us in Maidenpool, I look forward to having new brothers once again.'' 

Jon agreed. - ''They could not in be in better hands than those of Ser Barristan The Bold.'' - Sometimes, Jon remembered how the Old Bear had chosen him as his steward, for so little times. And how much that man seemed to know in his wisdom, and how little Jon asked him. - ''If I may ask, what does such a great man and knight think, when up here, alone with the tides and the stone beside him?'' 

The man chuckled. - ''I suppose it's the same for all old men, your Grace. Greatness or not, all that we leave behind is our deeds, the people we knew and our regrets.'' - The man looked at him, always with that expression of near-contained startlement, as though watching a ghost fade away. - “I remember a man I should not have aided. Another whom I should have done more to guide.” - He turned his eyes back to the sea. - “And a woman whom I should have asked If not for her love, at least for a dance.” 

“You knew her before you joined the Guard, Ser?” 

“No, by then I already wore the white cloak. But even so, I should have done it, without doubt.” 

Jon remembered the words of Maester Aemon, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. 

“I was once told that love is the death of duty.” 

“Yes.” - A melancholy smile rested on the knight’s lips. - “And life is the price of both of them.” - The man straightened, facing Jon. - “My apologies if my answer sounded too drenched in melancholy, King Jon. I must add that above all, I feel gratitude to be able to aid and serve the Queen. Young leaders like you both have enough to take care of than to hear the ramblings of these old bones.'' - Ser Barristan offered his hand. - ''I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, where we will fight side by side.” 

Jon clasped him by the forearm, sealing their mutual respect. After that, with a bow, the slayer of Maelys the Monstrous left with a steady pace. 

... 

... 

Jon’s chest burned, and his hands trembled. His stride was steady, hurried, almost at the point of breaking into a run. He had removed his gloves and hung them from his belt, and had not even glanced back when he finished his interaction with Missandei. 

‘If you are looking for Queen Daenerys, she is in the Painted Table room.’ - The Naathi restrained a smile. - ‘But, she asked not to be disturbed.’ 

He ignored the warning. Once the queensguard left, Jon made a promise, before any god willing to be witness, that he would not remain silent this time. Long ago, he had prepared himself to the fact of being a shadow on the wall, a forsaken man who dared not speak his name, a damned fool and a martyr, silent, dead. But not this time. If anything would come back to the North with him for the rest of his days, it would not be regret. 

But only, if she wanted him. If not- 

'I won't love another.' 

He found her, gazing at the sea, between the two pillars, her right hand resting on one of them, the other on the table where they had shared wine less than a week ago. 

“Daenerys.” - Jon felt ridiculous for a moment, unable to fully mask the fear in his voice. 

The Valyrian woman turned, surprised, and Stark saw that what she held against the table was the crystal flower he had given her. She wore a ruby-red dress that reached her heels, with a hem engraved around the neck depicting a roaring dragon. Draped over her shoulders was a golden cloak, fastened at the upper edge of her gown, its fabric edged with small black spirals of hair. Upon her head she wore a crown that rose in a triangle above her head, encircling a circlet across her forehead, from which three thin swords protruded upward: one green, one white, one black. Her hair, shimmering with platinum starlight, fell in waves down her back, except for two strands, one on each side of her temple, which fell over her shoulders. At her neck hung a net of silver sparkles, and at her hip, she bore Dark Sister. 

Jon was painfully aware that he had chosen to arm himself for the march. Beneath his black wolf cloak, he wore a brown leather vest engraved with the direwolf in white; under the cuirass he had a gray wool shirt, embroidered with peaks resembling black scales. He wore dark gray pants and tall brown boots darker than his cuirass. He bore his crown, yes, but his hair was disheveled, and in certain angles, he could see gray strands falling over his eyes. He had not dressed in his finest clothes before setting out, as he had done before his last meeting with Daenerys, for he had dressed in the garb of defeat. 

'A northern fool to the bitter end, Lord Snow.' 

''I was hoping to bid you farewell, in person, when you were about to board your boat but, I didn't know what to say, and got lost in time. I ask you forgive me.'' - The queen had turned to face him; her hands crossed on her belly.  

''There is nothing to forgive, your Grace. But there is something I want to talk about, with you.'' 

He walked up the steps, unbuckling the belt that kept longclaw on his back, and left the sword on top of the Painted Table. He didn't need it, and the ropes made his chest feel even more restrained that it already was. 

He needed to say something, but how to begin? 

‘’I...don’t know where to begin, or if should at all, but I know I need to tell you this, you deserve to know.’’ - His hands moved on their own, and he took off his crown, also leaving it behin on the table. - ‘’When I came to this island, to you. I did it because you were our best chance of survival against the Others. I also had this...feeling that you were a just ruler, perhaps even a kind woman but, I didn’t know you, not really.’’ 

>>’’ Obviously the rumors were true, about the gorgeous Dragon Queen that crossed the Narrow Sea. But it wasn’t the beauty of Old Valyria what...vexed me, it was your beauty Daenerys. Yours.’’ - Jon felt his throat dry, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. He was not strong enough to see a disgusted frown upon her face. He did not dare to find out. - ‘’I have tried to keep my mind away from any of this; I didn’t want to have my judgement clouded. Perhaps if I buried what I felt deep enough I would not have to be heartbroken but...I failed, again and again. Our conversations, the silences in-between, your grace, your kindness, but also your strength, and your fearlessness. When I felt like I almost had lost myself, you...inspired me to be better.’’ 

Now, he looked at her. He needed it. His scars only stopped burning when he saw her deep purple eyes and her heart-shaped face. Jon’s heart was ablaze, but he did not understand Daenerys expression, and he felt doomed. But all the same, he continued. 

‘’Suddenly I realized that, I just didn’t want to stop looking into you eyes, or talking or walking alongside you. I realized that I wanted to hold you hand again. And when I think of all the things that I don’t know about you, and that I can’t hold you...I know that I need more.’’ - Jon saw Daenerys’ eyes turn cristaline, and he felt as if he was being hanged from his throat. Was she so saddened by his confession, that having to turn him away got her on the verge of tears?. - ‘’I...love you Daenerys. Even if I shouldn’t, even if it...Dooms me. I could not bear not telling you. And If you don’t feel the same you can send me away. I’ll still fight beside y-’’ 

He could not talk anymore. 

He would have. But couldn’t. 

With the softest of touches, Daenerys had caressed his face, full of old and new scars, and she had kissed him, slowly.  

It was everything. The pain in his chest had disappeared, it had been replaced with warmth, as if she had breathed fire and life back into him. The scent of lavender that always revolved around Daenerys it was now the blanket that covered both, his hands were on her hips, but suddenly he found himself moving his whole arm behind her, trying to get her close, even closer, and his other hand gently holding her face. Her hands were lost in his dark hair, sometimes he caressed it, sometimes she grabbed it, hungrily.  

The kiss was long, and sweet. She tasted of berries tart and lilac sweet, and Jon Stark discovered that it was his favorite taste in all of the world. His mind went numb, he couldn’t think anymore, nothing really mattered outside of them. He didn’t feel the cold, nor the war, not death. Daenerys was life, brightness and moonlight. It was as if Jon had been standing guard in the cold night his whole life, and suddenly someone had lit a bonfire beside him. How good was being alive, and how good it was to be alive in Daenerys arms. 

The kiss was not enough, and their closeness was not enough, he soon realized.   

The moments in which they separated to catch their breaths were reluctant, as if breathing was far less important than being together, when they joined again, Jon felt how much his pants now oppressed him, especially now that Daenerys had started to join the space between her thighs with his, so close, yet so far. She gripped his back, under his cloak, and also his arms with a strong grip. He lowered the hand that was behind her back, and when he got to the perfect roundness of her arse, soft and fit, he pulled her closer. She moaned against his mouth, as he felt all sense leaving him. 

His cloak fell to the ground, unimportant, and so did Daenerys’ golden one, as it went to the floor to meet its equal. All his life he had heard people say that there was ice in his veins, given his looks as a Stark. If that was true, it was clear to him that that ice had completely melted under the heat of the Targaryen woman, and now his blood ran like a furious river, threatening to drown him whole.  

‘Im sure the table is quite expensive, your Graces.’ 

His hands returned to her hips, and when he looked at the table, she understood. He sat her on the table, and attacked her neck viciously, allowing himself to be consumed in the moan that escaped Daenerys lips, and the fragrance of her hair. When Jon tried to kiss her once again, it seemed that now it was turn for Daenerys to bite, and she did, sending shivers down his spine, and making the sound that left his mouth that of a stranger. 

The she-dragon and the wolf kept their vicious dance, allowing luck to decide who would be the first one to be completely devoured by the other.  

His hands were unprecise, as he tried to find a way to unlace her dress among the many ribbons that were at her back, just as her hands looked frantically for a way to unbuckle his belt. He could not wait one second more without untying her dress, he had cupped her breasts in spite of it, not big nor small, just a perfect fit for his hands, but, as he felt, it was not enough, he needed to kiss them, to taste every bit of skin under the red dress, to see if all of her was as sweet as her mouth.  

All his clothes oppressed him now, they felt frozen against the fire in his skin, especially the armored stark vest that seemed to dig in his chest. His chest, and neck. And skin. 

‘For the Watch.’ 

The carelessness for death passed like a fleeting shadow, and he felt ashamed for being so naive. If he continued, and so he wanted, he would have to end up as naked as he was on the day of his name, and she would see him. The knife scars that showed his shame, his true self, his loss of humanity. The very thing that turned into a monster. He di not mind the brittle strands of white hair that had begun to plague his head but, the slits, red and open, that daggers in the darkness had branded him with were...monstrous.  

Jon had lost too much, bleeding and frozen on the fresh snow. Most of all, his memories. He remembered some important things but, most of them just were there no more. How did the people that climbed the Wall with him were called? What brothers helped him defend the Wall? Who was the master at arms at Winterfell? How was his uncle’s or his father’s face like? What was the last thing he told Arya? Those things mattered to Jon Snow, but where were they now?  

They both stopped, with a dress half untied and a belt half unbuckled.  

‘’I’m...’’ 

‘’Sorry...’’ 

Each of them stumbled over their own words. 

“Not this.” 

“No I…” 

They tried to let the other speak; suddenly, there was only silence. She was the first to break it. 

“Jon I… there are just too many things you don’t know about me. It’s…” 

“I know, and I…” - He wanted to speak the words, to tell her, but he couldn’t. - “We don’t have enough time to…” - The cold returned to him, and his tongue froze in place. - “I don’t regret what I said.” 

“Nor I what I did.” 

He, slowly, almost trembling, cupped her face once more and kissed her. It was only a brush of lips, but neither dared to do anything else. 

‘’It’s not you...us. The realm...’’ 

He understood. Too many implications, too many responsabilities. The realm could go to any of the Seven Hells. But her, her choice, it mattered more to him than anything else on the world. 

And he was also at fault. For being ashamed. For being a monster. 

‘’I understand. I do.’’ 

But he did not want to. 

DAENERYS 

Tears wanted to push out her eyes, but she pushed back. 

What she couldn’t push back, was the pain.  

‘’Your banners wait for you. It’s...just not right.’’ 

It took all of her strength, and then some, to send him away. She would’ve given anything to not having to do it, but she had to. Her fire disappeared, and shame now ruled her, with a crown made of blood, thorns and screams. 

Just like the blood, the thorns and the screams that engulfed Mirri Maz Duur, all those years ago, along with her curse. 

‘ I can love him, but I can’t give him an heir.’ 

And she did love him. So much that he didn’t even let him finish, her legs mover on their own, just as her lips and her hands. Oh, how happy she had felt and that moment, while letting lust and love for the King in the North consume her.  

‘’Yes,’’ - He put on his cloak, his crown, and his sword. His head hanged low, and his hands trembled so slightly still.

She did not know what to say. Of all the things she should, but could not choose one. So she let the Queen try. 

‘’Jon Stark. This is not the last time you come to me.’’ - Right? 

He looked at her so intensely, as If he tried to burn her image in his memory, forever. His voice was but a sliver of pain. 

‘’You have my word.’’ 

He bowed on last time, and he left, taking the warmth and the softness, she had felt, with him.  

Time passed, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, Daenerys stood still. 

Like a sphinx, like a corpse. 

She felt feverish, and walked to the balcony with lost, erratic steps, and looked at the boats with the direwolf sigil in the horizon.  

‘When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.’ 

‘When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves’ 

‘When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child’ 

She remembered. The pain, all the blood, the smell and feeling of death. Then how she almost bled out while lost in the Dothraki Sea. 

Her heart ached, deeply, as if she was once again the little girl that been basically sold out of Illyrio Mopatis’ big house. The fear of being seen, of being alone. She could never give birth to a child, ever again. She was the Last Targaryen, and she would have to see an heir to name, some day. What would be of the Seven Kingdoms once she died? What would remain? Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion, all alone in the world? 

She had found someone that, in a way she couldn’t understand, completed her. That she wanted to know, to lose herself in. A beautiful, comely, broody and noble man. It wouldn`t have mattered that when he arrived to the island, he would’ve been a Snow still. He hadn’t judged her for the sins of his father, she wouldn’t have judged him for the sins of his. 

She could give him steel, soldiers, food and grain for the winter, obsidian, ships, cloaks, armors and jewels, but not a son, nor a daughter. Would he still love her, if he knew? 

Because he loved her. Jon Stark had said it, with no remorse nor shyness in his voice. 

‘I love you Daenerys. Even if I shouldn’t, even if it dooms me.’ 

The happiness quickly died inside her, when she remebered. 

He had said he loved her. 

But she never said it back. 

JON 

When White Harbor appeared in the far distance, Jon felt the tip of his fingers freeze inside his gloves. The crown that we wore, felt like ice thorns, that now clawed at his head, along with his restless eyes.  

For almost half a moon, he had spent his nights awake, only with the company of two things. 

His hope, and his regret. 

Regret, when he thought on how easy he left. He should have said anything, done anything. Perhaps ripping his vest and the shirt underneath, he would’ve shown her that he was a monster, but at least an honest one.  

Instead, she spoke, and he left her only with his word. 

Then there was hope. Hope that, in the middle of the night, when the winter storms cleared and the moonlight flooded the waves with pearls, Jon would hear the flapping of colossal wings, showing that his runaway was not enough to deter the Dragon Queen.  

No wind moved, and no dragons danced in the sky. 

The captain of the Weilder of Needle shouted an order, and the ship’s sails were hauled halfway, giving way to the song of the rowers. Jon removed his thick gloves, which were of little use anyway, and hung them from his belt, then reached into his pocket to take out the letter Sansa had sent him just a day ago. 

‘Come straight to Winterfell Jon. The banners have been called to Castle Cerwyn, but you must come home, urgently.’ 

The letter did not explain anything, and didn’t say anything else. It would mean at least five days more of travel, but Jon trusted his sister judgement, and her decision of not explaining her motives on the letter. If she had called, he would answer. Thats all the reason he needed. 

‘So much time away from the North has turned you trusting. Soft.’ - His mind reprimanded. 

Jon looked again at the paper with tired eyes, reading the message again, trying to see something that he had missed. There was nothing. Black ink over a field of white. 

He then felt it. 

A lump the size of a fist coming up from his chest. Then his throat. It burned and clawed its way up. Up. Up. Up. Jon could not breath, nor scream. There was only the pain, and the crawl. Razor sharp, unnatural, moving like an ever-growing nest of daggers. 

No, of roots. 

His body bent forward, and his legs carried him to the side of the ship’s deck, in an effort to keep anyone from seeing his struggle. 

It was impossible. He was drowning, so he used every ounce of strength in his body to expel his own heart, if necessary. 

He brought the letter to his mouth, in an involuntary reflex, and coughed, as hard as he could. 

The sight horrified him. 

The ink had vanished. 

And the white field of the page remained. Now covered in a vast lake of dark blood. 

Like the stump of a Heart Tree in a snow-covered field. 

Chapter Text

THE FORSAKEN  

‘These are not my words.’  

Yet all the same, he spoke them. As he used to speak what the waves, the salt and the stone told him once. Now he preached, but it was not the Drowned God who talked through him.  

It was him.  

His voice mixed with the wind, creating an echo, that made his prayers touch the clouded skies and stabbed the hearts of the men. With his screams, Aeron had turned the opulence of the Hightower into a fiery beacon that welcomed the birth of something worse.  

A new god. A mad one.  

The men believed him, as they had done before, when he drank and bathed in seawater, and the waves spoke through him. Perhaps not everyone believed, but at least there was some respect. The Damphair. A name sounded into the soul itself of the Ironborn, just as Nagga or the Grey King were. Now he was nothing. A tool, a puppet. A half-dead man that awaited his own demise. A sheep being pushed to the slaughter.  

Now they all listened, and seemed to be moved by the words, as if they were a vex more than a prayer.  

But these were not his words...but Euron’s.  

He preached of the end. Of the reborn. Of a sea red with blood and a land that was theirs for the taking. Fire and Ice would sink to the ends of the water that engulfed the world. Only Iron and blood mattered. Only Iron and blood would remain. They were the Ironborn, and so they marched forward.  

‘’We already took the tower that pierced the skies. Everything is in our reach.’’  

‘‘We take. Take. Take. Euron king. Euron king. Euron king.’’ - They answered, in a trance. 

‘’Let the name Victarion be that of a martyr. He announced our arrival, he was our herald, our captain, and my brother. His sacrifice gave us the beginning of our time. Let the sky and the deep both hear his name! The Iron Captain!’’  

‘’Victarion! Victarion! Victarion!’’  

Fools. The lot of them.   

He preached about the end. And saw as they wished it so. Like moths embracing the fire, thinking they have reached the stars.  

Euron’s gifts were always poisoned, it didn’t matter if he offered them to a brother, or his people. Poison was poison.  

But it was no use resisting. Aeron knew it.  

He had seen it.  

When strapped to the ship, his mind opened before the warlock's brew. Perhaps it was only in a dream, but It showed him purpose. Or maybe that there was none at all. It was all because of him.   

He sacrificed Victarion, sent him to the dragon's den. He still remembered.  

‘Yes, my dear brother. The Dragonbinder failed, and so did Victarion. Perhaps it sung a song that no newborn dragon knew, it doesn’t matter. We have other instruments, ones that need no ears to listen. We have the tower, the sword, the candles and...’ - Aeron remembered the blue-stained smile. - ‘Your words. Mine. So sing, and let the Ironborn be born again, stronger. Let us take everything.’  

He spoke. But Areon did not feel his own tongue, perhaps it never was. He could only remember.  

Old Wyk. The Seastone chair. All for naught.  

Urri.  

All eclipsed by the sound of rusty hinges.   

The Ironborn looked up, while he stood on his altar of black stone. The looked up at him, mouths open, salivating. They heard of their king. Of Gods unknown, and how they had knelt. Of gold, silk, green grass and dirt. Castles, women, pigs, food. All eternal, never-ending. A dinasty that would endure a thousand years. From the Greyjoys to the lowest of Codds, they would be the owners of both sea and land. Spouses of stone, salt, of ruby, of amethyst.  

The old customs, but born again amidst salt and smoke. Euron had seen it. 

‘’The witch has shared his secrets. Lord Layton has converted, a man of truth, just before his end. There is no use of dragons when we tower above them, and below.’’  

The crowd roared, axes, knives and swords up in the air. The craved combat against the flying beasts. How stupid they were. Was that all that it took for the Ironborn to march to their doom? The greed of a few that shunned the many? Aeron thought of Asha, and hoped she was safe at least. Away from Westeros, as far as possible.   

From up there, they seemed almost like monsters. Deep-ones. It was all his fault. His. Aeron could only watch. Wretched beasts with bodiess similar to fishes. 

He had seen the whirlwind. The Crow’s Eye had spent thirteen nights and thirteen days in the deepest dungeon that Oakenshield Castle had to offer, alone with all the slaves that were allowed to be fit inside the Worm’s Feast, the ship that the Codds have offered as transport for any priest or slave that The Silence could not get on board. Nobody knew what he had done to them, but they never made it out of the dungeons. Still, they all heard the screams.   

And whatever he did, it seemed it pleased the Drowned God. As it pleased Euron.  

Perhaps, now one and the same.   

The Redwyne fleet had paid the iron price, as they turned into splinters and slashed meat, on their journey to the bottom of the watery chambers of the Drowned One. The wind blew in their favor, and in a moonless night, a hundred ships had taken Oldtown, the Hightower and the Citadel, in only one night. First came the fight, then the fire, then the raping and the sacking. Hundreds of people were sent to their God's Watery Halls. Or maybe to any of the Seven Hells. The sea had turned red and dark like wine as the crows prepared for the feast that their master served them, one of many. Aeron could only watch. Like he did that time.  

He tried to tremble just at the thought. His skin always felt dirty, soiled. All because of him. Aeron had tried to wash the feeling off with saltwater, until his skin had bled and the scars had covered him whole. It was of no use. Because the skin could be torn apart.  

But the mind? No. Not the mind.  

He remembered how, after Euron was done, he smiled and took his patch off, so he could contemplate his work. The black-and-red eye, his smiling eye, opened. Then his vision changed. He was relegated to a corner inside his own mind, and now they were his lips the ones that smiled.  

Abomination.  

He would have bit his tongue and tore his eyes out if he had been able to. But Euron was too strong, too cruel, too smart.  

Just as it was now. The crowd roared, and he saw with white and hollow eyes how the fires and the screams started once again, and he turned his back, going up the steps. Up. Up. Up.  

The sound of his steps, then rusted hinges. Aeron prayed, but not to any god, but to the entity that had grown during the last moon among the men that had conquered the island. It seemed some man had escaped the reaping, and had hidden themselves among the town, perhaps even the tower, and now some nights, a Codd, a Harlaw or a Botley would end up stabbed to death in a ditch.    

That presence had been given many names. The folk called them Sphinxes, and they were shadows that gave birth to knives, then use it to gnaw the bone marrow of the men. Other men just called them the Night’s Whores, or cowards, for they never faced groups in the open, nor during daylight. They would be found soon enough. Nothing escaped the Crow’s Eye. But still, the Damphair prayed that the word of the people was true, and during his walk up the stairs, a Sphinx would appear behind him and split his neck open, finally freeing him from the torture of Euron Greyjoy.  

After what seemed like centuries, he reached Euron quarters, an ample dark room lighted by blue flames, that only possessed a large bed covered in black silk, a table covered in maps and scrolls, a stand that wore a black steel armor with images of runes, dragons and whips, and at the center of it all, a single obsidian candle, alight with red fire that projected alive shadows in the walls and on Euron’s face. Aeron stood in front of the table, while his brother lied asleep, sitting on a throne made of molten metal that emulated swords crying salted tears.  

When he was allowed to return to his own mind, his knees collapsed, breathless, and his smiling eye opened again, while he poured himself a cup of wine.  

‘’You always had a way with words, brother. After all, the ones that crowned me were yours.’’ - Aeron knew. The Drowned one cursed him. He cursed all of them. - ‘’And, then, the Damphair started saying my prayers, we took the Mander by storm, and the Sept of Baelor erupted in the color of the flames that kissed my hand when I set the fire alight in all of the beacons. The men that parted from our ancestral seat turned into something else, and the ones who ‘Lit the way’ fell.’’   

Euron stood from his throne, the golden cup still in his hand, now the other caressing the pommel of a sword on his hip that mimicked the same tower they resided in.  

‘Vigilance. So fitting a name for someone who has an eye that never blinks, don’t you think?’ - That was what Euron had said, when he boasted of his treasure in a banquet with his captains, the night after taking the city.  

‘’How could they not see me as a God? I have given them everything they see around them. And to think once you called me a godless man. But I had to forgive my kin, we share blood after all.’’ - He unsheathed the black sword, that sparkled with a green fulgor on his edge. - ‘’If only you understood, I can give them so much more. You forced me to do this, truly.’’  

He had no strength left, and he fell to the wooden floor with his back against it. He could only see his own ribs peeking through the black cloak that he wore. His eyes went backwards, to the other side of the room, looking for the door, but he only saw white. The white and red light of a black candle.  

‘’It's good to see you still possess some ambition, dear Aeron, if it were only to escape. Have you been praying as I instructed? You are a godly man, after all. I will halp you once again, my kin. Let me show you what is it you must understand. Look into the flame, then tell me, what do you see?’’  

Light. Nothing. Pain. The fire turned red, then green, then red. He saw three arrows pierce a shield, or a crown. No, it was a bridge. Then the flames again. They grew tentacles, or wings. A star above a tree, then two bodies beneath it. 

He heard the boots of his cursed kin go near him, he winced in pain, then felt his boot on his chest.  

‘’Look closer.’’  

A crown.   

A man.   

Black of hair, then white.   

His cloak has made of dead crows, and he wrote words on white papers, then burned them, and tried to write again. A terrible cough took him, or maybe...it was a howl.  

Aeron heard the sea, and on top of the man it seemed like snow fell slowly, he blinked, and now they were black ashes; after blinking again, they seemed to be petals of a withered blue rose. On the table there was a glass of wine, or blood. It looked the same.   

Around the man there was fire that danced hand in hand with shadows, and the forsaken brother could almost hear a song. It sang of battle, of tears, of love, of duty.  

The music changed, and the shadows overcame the fire. The dark spikes turned sharper than ever, similar to smiling knives.  

There was a woman at his side, red her coat and her hair. She fought the shadows, to no use. 

‘’Pretty and useful these candles, yes? I'm not interested in your visions, Damphair, they could never hide something from me that they’d rather show you. But they are a lesson to someone of your personality: untrusting, godless and doubtful. You’ll see, they are not used to see in the dark, but beyond it. They helped me see where and when, and how. The Dragon Queen wants to defeat her opposite, as many of her lineage have tried, then come for us, and I welcome her, as I would, and will, welcome her to my bed. Every king needs an heir, a lover, a sacrifice just as a god needs followers.’’ - The wretched man took his boot up from Aeron’s chest and walked to the door. - ‘’But I have no need nor use for a king in Winterfell, at least not one that has fallen for the vex of the Targaryen girl, if his dreams serve me correct. Now if you excuse me, I must ready myself for a...visit from priests from Asshai. I'm sure their travels were long and unforgiving, with all these storms.’’  

He walked away, but on the last step, Euron kinslayer stopped. Aeron could read the smile in his voice.  

‘’Now that I think of it, keep looking at the flame, my dutiful brother. Who knows, maybe you will see something that might serve me even more than your body already has. Your words and thoughts are mine, after all. Sorry to leave you like this, but as a king, I must attend my kingdom, yet I am also a man of mercy, so I will leave you with a question, an exciting one, so you can fight boredom between prayers. Tell me, Aeron. Just as I saw through you, and then made you mine. Do you think that after I have seen through the shadows, thanks to the candle, I could now bind them?’’   

THE MAN WITHOUT HONOR   

The darkness caressed his face, and kissed him, while crying tears of starlight.  

Then he stood to his feet.  

He was in a room, surrounded by men made of stone. He reached for his sword; this time he got the correct side of it. His blade erupted in blue flames, that sometimes spit shades of red that disappeared quickly, like a crimson shy maiden. The statues opened their eyes at the sight of his flaming sword, or perhaps they were just the shadows, dancing on their eyelids, shut forever.  

Steps echoed behind him, and he turned, his sword pointed forward. But his knees betrayed him, and one of them bent, his head hanged low.  

He felt the touch of a sword on his shoulders, with it, they turned heavy, as if a giant was trying to rip them from his body. He could not scream, but he lifted his head when he heard a voice.  

‘’In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave.’’ - One of the stonemen moved, fast as lightning, then stood in front of him. He had a sword in his hand, also made of fire, but it was pale, white as milkglass.   

‘’In the name of the Father I charge you to be just.’’ - Another statue appeared before him. This one had no sword, but his pale hair was wet, and his chest dripped rubies.  

‘’In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women.’’ - A tall woman looked down on him, her sword made of gold, eyes blue as the summer sky. She touched his hair with a strong yet gentle hand, and he felt warmth in his chest.  

‘’In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent.’’ - A presence stood behind him. Another hand grabbed his hair, and pulled his head back. Now he only felt a jarring cold, as cold as the blade that now rested on his neck.  

‘’You made an oath.’’  

‘’I made lots.’’ - His voice sounded distant. - ‘’But this one I fulfilled.’’  

The knife cut Jaime. And his bit was cold and red.   

He stood again. His body felt as if he had spent a year standing. He was clad in armor made of bone, his cloak white as snow. Lights of dawn covered the dark hall. Red, orange, purple, blue, black. In front of him, there was a stone altar, and on top of it, a man in armor, his face was pale, and his smile yellow and red, teeth, gums and blood merged on a growing smile. He felt like he knew him, but not really, not anymore.   

When he tried to move, he realized the bone armor that covered his body was as heavy as stone, and he could not even lift a finger of those who were attached to a golden red sword, that dripped blood all over the floor where he stood. When he tried to look at the armored body that lay in front of him, it was not there anymore, nor the altar. It was way closer to him, and now the sword that he was grasping pierced the heart of the lifeless body.  

When he looked at the smiling face, he found no smile, but two emerald eyes and a blonde long hair that looked at him, open as two recusant moons. The blue plump lips of a woman he once knew only whispered.   

 A word, in a language he did not understand. It sounded like brother.  

 When he tried to pull the sword, it was not there anymore.  

He had the reins of a horse in his hand, the other one, made of metal full of scars, only had them wrapped around its cold fingers. The land was cold, and full of snow. Aside from the rocks that sometimes pierced the way, he could’ve sworn the sky and the ground were one and the same. Jaime felt the snow melt on his face, and his beard, now the color of dirty gold, along with his cut hair. In spite of it all, he felt warmth on his chest, perhaps one that he had not felt...ever. That was the first time in his life he felt something like that.  

Perhaps those were the memories of someone else, after all.   

He looked at his side, and saw a white horse, and atop of it, a blonde woman, wearing a dark silver armor, that had a shield that showed the moon and the sun over field of red and blue. On her hip there was a golden sword, topped by a pommel made of a lion’s head. She was looking at him, her blue eyes the color of clear sapphires, she had a smile of ugly teeth, but at that moment, he felt it was as pretty as a summer dawn.  

The only strange thing was, he could not understand the expression that such a smile concealed. It was not one of love, not entirely, nor full happiness, there was something else, an emotion he had not reflected in a face maybe since...  

He did not know.   

Jaime had seen smiled of satisfaction, of possession, sometimes, even if rarely, of recognition, but this one... No. Not at all. Then it hit him.  

It was one of pride.  

‘’Ser...’’  

He looked forwards. Her words were...sweet.   

In front of him there was a girl. Her eyes were clear blue, and their expression was a tired one, even melancholic, her hair was red as fire, with black shadows kissing the ends of the auburn strands. She also was a top of a brown horse, and she wore a black cloak, with a long hood at its back. The girl talked again, tired, but with sweetness. How long had been since someone showed that to him, too? He didn’t feel deserving of it.   

‘’Thank you.’’  

The word echoed in his mind. Oath. Oath. Oath.  

‘Sansa Stark is my last chance at honor.’  

‘’I...wish to know you name.’’  

‘It’s the family name that lives on. All that lives on.’  

He talked, unable to stop himself. - ‘’My name’s not important. You don’t owe me a song.’’  

He finally remembered.   

Jaime had left the Lannister and Frey troops after the siege of Raventree Hall, when Brienne of Tarth found him. They had crossed half the continent in what seemed a fool’s dream. What would he do when he faced the Bolton’s bloodthirsty bastard? Ask him nicely for the Stark girl? Putting Widow’s Wail up his creepy Bolton’s arse? It did not matter. For the first time in his life, he felt like a knight, like he was willing to die for something else than himself. His left hand was not even a fifth as good as the one he had lost. But he could kill a bastard. He could trick him into getting close, even if he was not as smart as Tyrion. And lastly, every step got him further away from Cersei. That was all he needed.   

‘Make a habit of it, Lannister, and one day men might call you Goldenhand after all. Goldenhand the Just’  

There was a storm. A winter blizzard like he had never seen, and so he and the knight maiden of Tarth had to look for somewhere to cover themselves from the kind and the shards of Ice. They found some desolated ruins, really far away from their way to Winterfell  

And there they found them. A sad redhead girl, being protected by a weird and bleak-looking man, with missing fingers, teeth, and brittle white hair, holding a sword with trembling hands.   

He was thrown once again into the darkness, only this time it was among trees as tall as siege towers. From their branches, hanged men moved at the mercy of the cold wind.   

Brittle wait hair, long scars and tears coming from two furious eyes came at his mind, sharp like a stab.   

‘Jaime Lannister sends his regards.’  

‘She can’t talk. But she remembers. And she hates.’  

‘Oathbreaker.’  

‘The man without honor.’  

‘Jaime. My name’s Jaime.’  

Jaime felt a pair of red-hoy iron hands that strangled him, and they pulled him to his feet.  

‘My greatest act condemned me to a life of shame. Why would this be any different.’  

The maiden words could not reach him. Not anymore.  

‘She has been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack. And as far as I know she could be fucking the Moon Boy.’  

He would have liked to say sorry. Or maybe behead the little blonde Imp. He killed Joffrey. His son. A cruel, mad prince. And then he killed the pyromancer. Or did he? No. That was him. King Aerys. What a king he was.  

‘We are not meant to protect her from him.’  

But he helped her escape from Bolton, was it?  

He could not think anymore. Air escaped him as stabs pierced his guts. The grass felt cold against his skin, it was a sweet caress.  

Then nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The word echoed again, now inside his mind.  

...  

It burned. His heart and lungs erupted in flaming swords. Behind his eyes, he felt needles, his severed hand burned as well, while the fingers on his left filled with pain, as if he had been frozen then thrown into wildfire.   

Was he in any of the Seven Hells? He understood completely. Many people on his lifetime had promised him such a destiny, and whether he believed it or not, he just tried not to think about it. He was still alive, no?  

But he wasn’t. Not anymore.   

‘The things I do for love.’  

..  

Jaime tried to scream out. But he couldn’t. The pain had numbed down any other feeling inside of him, and so he hadn’t realized that the reason for his shut mouth was...another mouth. Soft lips upon his, desperate, lovely, warm. Was he kissing Cersei again? No. The taste of poison veiled with passion was not there. It was as if...  

It breathed life back into him.  

He opened his eyes, fighting against the feeling of burn inside of them. His vision was blurry, but he recognized two blue eyes and a plain face.  

‘Wench. Lady. Ser.’  

‘’My Lady.’’ - It came out of his mouth as a whisper, which felt like hell, as if he had tried to eat all of the sand that made Dorne, castles and all, but no rivers. - ‘I dreamt of you.’ - He wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure.  

‘’Ser Jaime.’’ - It was all he heard. The rest of the noises drowned down in a humming buzz. He looked around, trying to see any familiar faces, but none seemed to be so. Known, perhaps, but not friendly at all. In the blur he identified a dirty yellow cloak, an old man with a long beard, a boy with brown hair, a man with a patch above his eye, and...her.  

The piercing eyes of a dead mother.  

His body tried to move, but no energy was left in him to do so. The redhead turned his back on him, and Jaime saw a sword that was on his belt. If only he could take it or at least talk.  

‘’My Lady, he stood trial, and she brought him back. Lord Beric would’ve...’’  

The man with one eye interrupted him. - ‘’Lord Beric is not here, you drunkard. And he’s still the fucking Kingslayer.’’  

That word. That look. That much, he remembered.  

He heard the wench talk. It was no use. Jaime looked around, there were horses around them. If only he had a sword. If only he had his hand.  

His mouth tasted like burning wood, and his consciousness was leaving him once again, alone among the darkness. His last thought was a stupid one.  

‘What does...brought him back...mean?’  

...  

His head was spinning, and the sound of fast hooves against the ground made his head full to the brim with pain. His eyes weren’t working, but his ears were, and he heard the whistle of arrows close. Way too close for his liking.   

The voices around him seemed distant and blurry. He hated how tired he was and how badly we wanted to throw out the contents of his stomach. A strong arm covered him from falling forwards and kept him steady on the moving horse.   

‘’Hold on, Ser. Please.’’ - The wench pleaded.  

‘It’s quite alright, Lady Brienne. I’m just dying.’ - he thought, feeling a stupid smile on his mouth.  

He did not know how long the chase continued, all he saw were the trees moving fast towards him, the arrows, and the screams of angry men behind them. The were getting closer, and closer, and closer. Perhaps if he threw himself from the horse, their pursuers would be content enough with him, and they would leave her go. Maybe that could be his last heroic deed. Not one worth of the Book of Brothers, but one noble enough for a honorless knight. He looked at his right, and the brown-haired bow that rode along with them dismounted a pursuer with a strike to his horse. Had he been there all this time? Jaime couldn’t remember.  

Another horseman caught up with them, he heard. It would not be long before the others did too. The horse they rode was a good one, but it had two riders. And one of them was tall as the trunk of an old oak. His left hand reached backwards, trying to feel the lionhead pommel of her sword. He would dismount and face them. One last battle for the Kingslayer, and it would look better to be killed by five or six opponents than for just one outlaw. Jaime looked back, his eyes still adjusting, then he heard him speak.  

The outlaw that had gotten close was the greybeard, now up-close, he seemed to have a few strands of red hair upon his brow, but not many. He talked while unsheathing his sword.  

‘’The Lord of Light better have good reason to have done what he did today, Lannister, if you still know who you are. I know who I am. A drunkard, yes, but a red priest.’’  

The man turned a stone to his sword, which blade seemed stained with green, and it turned into a red flaming fang.   

The only thing Jaime saw before losing his consciousness again was that of the old man turning back, ready to face the rest.  

THE BRONZE GRIFFIN  

‘Again.’  

The prince punched the green grass, and look for his training sword, his eyes beaming with frustration. He was already a man, but sometimes, the boy peered through.   

‘A valyrian steel sword must have a wielder just as sharp, just as-’  

‘Strong.’ - The white-haired interrupted. - ‘I know this. I am not complaining.’  

The Griffin knight sighed, spinning his sword. He could not feel the movement. - ‘It is not your complaining what worries me. It’s your frustration. Keep a calm mind, at any moment. Be aware of everything, not only the sword, but how I move, some people signal their movements, but only if you look close enough.’  

‘’That I also know.’’  

The result was the same. At least five times, until Aegon learned the dance steps, then the tide changed, and it was Jon the one who had to make an effort not to lose the duel. He showed an amazing prowess, just as many great warriors of his lineage. When both were tired, they left the swords and drank the wine that he had took from the Roost’s wine cellars.  The humor of the prince was still sour. He wished he could put his hand on his shoulder, talk to him about his father Rhaegar, telling him he is the son he never had.  

But no, the Grey Death was coming for the old knight. So, he only talked. 

‘What is troubling you, your Grace?’  

His eyes were fixated on his sword. A draconic golden sword, with dragonheads on its guard, and a ruby at the pommel.  

‘I am...remembering, Ser. That is all.’  

Sulking, tragic and broody, like his father once was.  

‘Remembrances can make or unmake us, Aegon. What is it that troubles your mind?’ - He was one to know that. 

‘The Shy Maiden. When the Stonemen attacked. I could not even grab a sword. I stood there, frightened.’  

‘That was a long time ago. You have fought and won battles since then.’  

He paused again. 

‘But I will face dragons this time.’  

‘You are also a dragon. And you will not face them alone. We know what to do. You know the plan.’  

Plan.  

The word felt heavy, as if it was a distant memory, and oath, or a lie.  

...  

Two leagues north of Tembleton, where the last affluents of the Mander and the coast of the Kingswood looked at each other from afar, the forces of the true heir to the Iron Throne had stood for little more than a moon and a half.   

Jon’s tent had been built over a high hill with the dying place of the great river at his back, and from his place of rest he could oversee all of the camp they had built while waiting for the Sunspear forces to cross the Dornish Sea and the Boneway. Also, he managed to have a point where, if any sellsword commander wanted to discuss something with him, he could see them coming and grip his sword with all his strength if needed.   

Unfeeling fingers, but with strength all the same.   

And of course, he had solitude. A solitude that allowed him to fight the ghosts of his past, the bells that ringed inside his mind. And to limit the risk of passing on his illness.   

An elevated and lonely position, the same as Griffin’s Roost. The gods were really cruel in their understanding of language when you prayed to them, Jon Connington had realized long ago.   

And also not too long ago, when he discovered that the same dwarf that caused his death sentence when he jumped in the waters of the Sorrows to save him, was now hand of the Targaryen opponent that threatened to destroy his only mission: to see Aegon take the capital, and the Throne. Being that opponent no less than the sister of his prince, a girl which that bastard Illyrio had promised to be Aegon’s bride long before he even set foot on Westeros.   

Truly, the gods were as evil as they were poetic. They all be damned.   

Jon put his glove on, that covered the grey skin that had now taken up to his wrist, then buckled the belt that bore his sword. He had no time to break his fast, nor to sulk in the regrets of the past, near or far. There was a war council. Aegon waited, and so did the Halfmaester, Strickland, Franklyn Flowers, Duckfield, Darkstar Dayne, and of course, Princess Arianne, along with other lords that had come to represent their territorial alliances, such as Arron Qorgyle, second son to Lord Quentyn.   

‘Bastards, killers, sellswords, plotters and power-hungry lords. What would Rhaegar say if he saw the banners that I entrusted his son’s destiny to?’  

He still had time, but he could not wait forever, and he knew. So, he tug his sleeve under the glove, put on his iron and bronze armor pierced by the Griffin’s sigil, and got out of his tent.  

Once in the tent, it seemed some were waiting for him, while others could not have cared less. The long round table had the young Aegon at the end of the room, scouting with close eye and a burrowd frown a map of Westeros, full of wooden pieces of different animals. What called Jon’s attention were two particular set of pieces: ships divided by the Dornish Sea, and wooden Sticks among the Kingswood. The boy, that now seemed more like a king than the blue-haired boy which had sailed on the Shy Maiden, looked at him, and his eyes softened a bit, letting sings of tiredness show. Much like his father once had.   

‘’Welcome, Lord Connington. Please, take a sit.’’  

The knight obeyed, sitting on the king’s left, beside Princess Arianne, and in front of that prick of Darkstar, that looked at him with dead indigo eyes, his hand always resting on the ivory pommel of his stolen sword and heirloom.  

‘’Well, my Lords, time runs against us, and against most of the realm, it seems. We must move forward, and fast at that. My Lady wife, Ser Daemon. Any news on the dornish forces? How close are they?’’   

‘’Our ships and my wedding gift marched from Griffin’s Roost more than a week ago, my love. They are slow to move, that is true, but moving such artifacts is not much easier than to move a catapult or a trebuchet. But they will make it on time to join our cavalry and spears, I assure you.’’  

The mention of his home and that ‘gift’ from the princess made his healthy hand itch. It was always like that with her: pretty words from pretty lips, but power hungry and ravenous eyes. She was a beauty, even the Bronze Griffin could see that, but she had poison in her, a poison that had clouded the boy’s mind. And also, that ‘wedding gift’ that she talked about. When asked by any other outside of her husband the knight, she would only say.  

‘Arrows to pierce the sun, and a dragon's heart, my love.’  

Sweet words, as sweet as the oath that she made to the skies when she discovered the fate of his brother, after trying to meet the Dragon Queen of slavers bay. Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood just brought a chest of bones, but their words about Quentyn’s final moments...they ignited a fire within the princess maybe bigger than that which destroyed the Sept of Baelor. And said flame had inevitably seeped into Aegon’s mind.  Whatever goodness was left of the princess of the proud Dorne, it surely died along with her brother, and her father, who was said to have perished of the gout, mixed with the broken heart of his failure. 

‘’Your Grace, our infantry has already climbed the Boneway, and today we received a raven that claimed they passed Summerhall nine days ago. They plan to join use before we reach the Blackwater Rush.’’  

‘’And then what? We wait so we can be roasted by dragonfire?’’ - Arron Qorgyle interrupted. He was rough, and a cunt, but sometimes, he seemed to at least say that which everyone thought.  

‘’Watch your tongue in presence of the king, Qorgyle, or you’ll lose it.’’ - Ser Gerold intervened. Arron answered back.  

‘’I am not a little Lannister girl, Dayne, unsheathe your sword, and I will see to carry it to Starfall after your burial.’’  

‘’Enough!’’ - Jon screamed. They had no time to argue in petty battles, a throne awaited, the promise that he made to his...friend, years into exile, awaited. - ‘’A knight and a Lord are not to fight like children on a war-council meeting, even less so in presence of a prince and a princess. We are not to face Daenerys Targaryen without a plan, be sure of that, but if you dare disrespect the True Heir, or treacherous thoughts appear on your mind, bring them to me, and my sword, and I'll see them revoked within the moment.’’  

Darkstar stood up and mentioned having to train the soon-to-be knights of the Kingsguard, then left after a bow to the royal pairing. Lord Qorgyle just growled, the skin of his neck red as a strawberry.  

Princess Arianne laughed, her hand hiding her mouth. - ‘’Please excuse Ser Gerold, Lord Connington, he is quick to anger as much as he is skilled with the sword.’’  

‘I’m not worried about his skill. The Kingsguard swear to die for their king. Would Gerold Dayne do that if it was required of him?’  

‘’Thank your Princess, now Lord Hand, do we have word of the scouters we sent west of Bitterbridge?’’  

The Griffin reborn agreed with the prince, and recalled the ravens, thankfully, they brought good news. - ‘’Yes, your Grace, the Reach’s forces had stopped greatly their patrols along Grassy Vale and Ashford. It seems that, instead of joining the Dragon Queen, they have turned to protect the Mander once again, in hopes of protecting their Lords and topping the Ironborn after the Sack of Oldtown.’’  

‘’Hm.’’ - Daemon Sand complained. - ‘’How dangerous can this ‘Crow’s eye’ be if he forced all of the Reach to pay attention to him? Should we be concerned?’’  

‘’People talk about what happened in the Hightower as if the very Black Dread had come back in the form of a lowly Greyjoy, I don’t think we should pay any mind to him, or at least for now, let Lady Olenna and her sons figure that out for herself.’’   

Maybe the Halfmaester was right, but still...  

‘’Anything that weakens the pretender queen is a blessing, still, we’ll keep an eye on Euron Greyjoy, he is still a monster, if the rumors are true. I have no desire nor need for men like that on my kingdom.’’  

‘Some of them surround you, my Prince.’ - Thought Jon bitterly.  

‘’You talked about strategy, Lord Connington, could you share it with us, at least?’’ - Duckfield straightened himself. - ‘’I uh, mean no disrespect but, we are still facing dragons, the men will fight with tooth and nail but, against magic beasts? They are rightfully...aware, Ser.’’ - Homeless Harry Strickland didn’t take much time to agree. He sighed.  

He clenched his covered hand, feeling, or, not feeling, its stiffness. - ‘’Our men awareness’ it’s a thing I welcome. That means they are prepared, that they are not...stupid. I am well aware of what we face, too. Creatures that Westeros have not seen in a hundred years. This land saw the dragons for generations...just as they saw them fall.’’  

He knew what the plan was, but even if he was a commander, he was not one to talk into people's heart, he needed a sweeter tongue, one loaded with the poison of a viper. He nodded to the princess, as he sat down.  

’’What can kill a rebel dragon? A dragon can slay, and even eat, another dragon, of course, as Rhaenyra and Aegon the Elder showed to the continent. Our dragon does soar the skies, but he fights in the fields, he is a dragon, nonetheless. A dragon can be killed by arrows, as Bloodraven showed to Daemon Blackfyre and his sons. It can even kill himself. No, we must go back, way back. When the Conquerors first tried to take Dorne... and Meraxes fell from the sky after being pierced by a bolt. A Scorpion Bolt. The Crossbow of Giants.’’  

Jon felt the will of the room dim.  

>>’’It is not that we are willing to bet a fiery death to a small chance of a single bolt. Not ten. Not fifty. Not five hundred. A thousand? Perhaps. That is my wedding gift to you, my dear. Enough bolts to shade the sun, as a gift from Sunspear.’’  

The prince bowed his head with a smile, letting his golden crown decorated with rubies, black iron and dark diamonds shine. Now came the part that Jon had conjured, and hope that it was enough. The princess kept going.  

>>’’But now, I hear your minds speaking within themselves. A thousand Scorpions can kill a dragon? Three? My father, may the gods have them in their grace, once taught me a lesson, about him, and my uncle. ‘Oberyn was ever the viper. Deadly, dangerous, unpredictable. No man dared tread on him. I was the grass. Pleasant, complaisant, sweet-smelling, swaying with every breeze. Who fears to walk upon the grass? But it is the grass that hides the viper from his enemies and shelters him until he strikes.’ Where is our grass? You might say. Look all around you, Knights and Lords, we are as close as the Kingswood as we could ever be. There is no taller grass than a tree, in which we, could be of course the most in peril. Oh, how easy does wood burn, and it is in our way towards the capital. It would be easy to set aflame that grass even with a small candle, why not with a dragon? So easy, so tempting, another Field of Fire to the powerful Daenerys Targaryen, becoming Aegon the Dragon with teats.'' - She spat with poison. -  ''another dornish to burn, like my dear Quentyn.’’  

The princess stood up to the table, the flame of the candles looking like fire serpents that dance on her onyx skin. Shen then pushed a single black piece of Cyvasse, the dragon, to the Kingswood, and it wooden figures. Jon saw how the dragon was cracked, and her hand bled in anger from crushing it.  

Prince Aegon concluded.  

’’We do not need to slay the beast, but the woman who commands them. Let the Queen of Savages and Slaves try and burn the grass. And let her find a thousand vipers under it. Let the true dragon rise once more.’’ 

THE WHITE WOLF 

His chambers were a chaos, full of ink, paper, wax and books.  

After making it to White Harbor, he had been humbly forced to enjoy Lord Manderly's hospitality.  

‘I know war is so very full of dangers and hastiness, my King. Please, allow us to offer you bread and salt, and also a guard of all the men that I can offer. So you can make it to the battlefield under the Manderly banner along with the Stark. It would be my honor, and a story to tell my grandchildren.’   

Wyman Manderly were one of the Lords that had crowned him, and of course, his title forced him to have some decorum. And so, Jon had complimented the food, the town, the beauty of his daughters, and the braveness of his sons. But there was only so much as a banquet that Jon, whether a Snow or a Stark, could endure. And so, he had retired to his quarters, being as respectful as he could, and of course not before allowing the men that had followed him to Dragonstone and back to enjoy the feast, that including Ser Davos. 

As chambers, to the dislike of the Lord, he had chosen a lone tower, as far as the main entrance as possible to the New Castle, the seat of house Manderly. On the right side of the pale building, there was a big courtyard, then the tower called the lone Scale by the servants. It seemed it was used as storage when the tides grew too much, but with time, it turned to a room to unwelcomed guests. Some might consider an insult to the King in the North to put him in such a place. But he needed solitude, and a room that held no similarities to the great hall of the New Castle, and the opulence of it. It made Jon felt almost nauseous, as if someone had spread too much honey on a dry piece of dirt.  

And so, Jon had spent the rest of the night, which was almost over, writing and reading. He had asked for a few books in the island, and in White Harbour, books about war, legends and many types of gods, Old and New. They might tell him something, give him ideas for strategy, and maybe something related to...that. 

The cough that made him spit the heart of a Heart Tree.  

Was that because of...his resurrection? Perhaps that is how the elden trees got their faces. Perhaps they were once human, and the Old Gods and R’hllor were closer than Melisandre or the First Men thought them to be.  

He realized how much he had spent without thinking of the Red Woman. 

Also, there was the letter from Sansa. After pleading that he came to her, in Winterfell, ignoring Castle Cerwyn, after the bannermen of the north had decided to meet him there, another raven came. 

‘I fell asleep in the wood were father used to sit, beneath the Heart Tree. I know this letter makes no sense, you might think I have gone mad, but I must tell you, nonetheless. I had a dream. You were killed. But the killer had my face. Father showed me, Jon. His Gods. That same night, Ghost escaped the castle. The spirits of the Kings of Winter look after me in Winterfell, but you, stay away from here. Keep your sword close, perhaps even under a Weirwood. I saw knives. Knives in the dark. And then a great fire.’ 

Just as the letter from Cotter Pyke, before he went to Hardhome. Rushed, with few words. But this one was not written by a hand that did not know how. It was written with fear. 

On top of it all. More than his death, be it by a wrong-made resurrection or by a darkness with the face of his kin, there was something Jon Stark could not stop thinking about. 

Daenerys.  

They had kissed. He kissed her, and she did the same back. He hoped. 

Jon tried to remember, but it had happened way too fast and ended even more abruptly. He had been scared. Fearful. The scars, he could not... 

Because she had kissed him back. Or maybe it was just him.  

‘This is not the last time you come to me, Jon Stark.’ - Those words have been the sweetest song he had ever heard; they sounded almost as she was in front of him, again, against the Painted Table. She was more real than the candle and the paper and the ink. 

She had kissed him. First. Even if she hadn’t said she loved him the same way. Perhaps it was only a matter of having someone to warm he bed. He could understand. Maybe it was harder to understand why she chose ...him. 

That was still a better destiny that he could hope. 

‘This is not the last time you come to me, Jon Stark.’ 

As if he could help it. 

The flame flickered, and Jon fell how much his eyes hurt. He dropped the parchment that he had opened, regarding the list of prisoners freed from The Twins and the newly occupied Wildfort. At least those were good news, but at that moment, he only wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and sleep, perhaps until next spring. 

If only there was not the threat of a never-ending winter brought by the Others, that was. 

He forced himself to at least, read the names that he could know. 

The Greatjon, Mors Crowfood, Patrek Mallister, Marq Piper, Whoresbane... 

Greybeards, most of them, but well-honed. Northerners that would eat the heart of any Lannister, Ironborn or any other stupid enough man to mark themselves an enemy. The past was the past, and he would not call to arms anyone that did not have an heir of their blood waiting for them at home. There was also word of willing members of the Free Folk that would follow him. Maybe because of the thrill of adventure in new lands, maybe so they could appease their warrior nature. It mattered not. Warriors and spearwives were as welcomed as any other to their army. 

Then the path was clear, most of it at least. Castle Cerwyn, the Neck, Stone Hedge, march around Harrenhal, so any army coming from the capital or south of the Blackwater Rush could not surround them against the God’s Eye. They were prepared to find remnants of the Riverrun’s siege by the Lannisters, and probably outlaws surrounding Stony Sept and north of the Kingswood, still, for the most part, the northerners would reach the forces of the Dragon Queen unscathed. But, once King’s Landing is under the rule of Daenerys Targaryen, what then? 

‘Sam is still in Oldtown, you fool. Euron Greyjoy sent an attack on the island. To you, and her. Then he made your friend his prisoner.’ - His mind reprimanded.  

Samwell. He had to help him, but how? Trying to take the Hightower by swinging his sword on its base so he could chop it down as if it was a mere tree? He could not think that far ahead. He had enough with two wars, let alone three. Jon prayed to the Old Gods so that they could give Sam the strength and the courage to survive. 

‘He killed a White Walker. He could kill a man.’ 

But still, he prayed. 

A long sigh escaped him, as he looked over to the wood and coals in the hearth. Only some of them glimmered in a dim dark red.  

It did not matter how much he run away, his thoughts always ended on the same place. 

The same face. 

The same moon-kissed waves of hair. 

The same pair of lilac eyes that bewitched him so far from the home he had known.  

Her. 

If only he could drift-off into sleep besides her. Her body had felt exactly how touching the walls of Winterfell. A strong exterior, an immense warmth within. For only a moment, the arms of Daenerys Targaryen reminded him of home. A part of him couldn’t help but think how much of that warmth he would feel, if... 

Yet, what home did a monster deserve? 

The light flicked again. The warmth was an illusion. 

He was all alone. 

He lifted his black silk long shirt, while facing the candle. The scars were still there, unhealing, but without blood in them, his trembling hand touched them, the wounds were hard as stone, yet hot. In the scarce light of the room, they seemed like the slit pupils of a dragon. They would be his shame, until his last breath, that much he knew. He needed rest, urgently. Could he ask the Manderly’s Maester for milk of the poppy? He probably should not, no. 

Perhaps wine would be enough, but what if he dreamt?  

‘I had a dream. You were killed.’ 

Dreams, prophecy and duty. How much he hated it all. Ever since coming back, stars spoke to him, a man made out of trees called him in his sleep, he- 

A man made out of trees. 

‘Keep your sword close.’ 

He looked at his nightstand. Longclaw rested on top of it. - ‘It has never failed me.’ 

The Stark stood up from his table, towards his sword. When he grabbed it, and unsheathed it, saw the flames dance up and down in the black and silver rivers that plagued the edge all over it. He spun the bastard sword, putting it upside-down, now, a shaded white direwolf looked at him, with red piercing eyes. 

‘Sansa said Ghost ran away but, where to? Perhaps he just went on a hunt.’ 

Jon put the sword down, and when he looked through the window at his left, he saw snow falling quietly. Perhaps he would need more wood for the rest of the night. 

He saw it at the last moment.    

A shadow stood on his right, from it, an arm and a gnarly hand were rapidly raised at him, its fingers were sharp as a blade. 

‘He tried to cut me.’ - He had barely dodged it. - ‘It went for my eyes.’  

This time, his hands were fast and strong enough and grabbed Longclaw. Jon stepped back then lifted the sword, ready.  

There was no one.  

Then there it was again. A man, covered in darkness, the light from the candle eluded him. But he was not whole. An arm was missing, his torso were more ribs than man, which seemed made of twisted roots.  

Two cuts. He stumbled on the table behind him, but far away enough to not be cut. He cut as well, and he shadow disappeared into thin air upon the blade’s contact. 

‘Fire. I need fire.’ - His mind screamed, in a voice he didn’t seem to remember.  

His mind rushed, thinking about what and how 

‘I saw knives in the dark. Fire.’ - Behind him, on one side of the table, there was and old oil lamp, near the candle, but if he turned, he would be turning his back on... 

No. Not this time. He held his sword in front of him, silver and black against the darkness. His hearth pounded, he could almost see the room, hear the snow fall, but perhaps it was just his deluded imagination. 

Again. The shadow was more real each time, now it presented as a man clad in an onyx mantle. Long hair, beard, armor.  

A red eye.  

Was it one of his nightmares? 

The shadow got closer, step by step.  

One step, then another. Jon counted thirteen. 

It was in front of him. 

Jon cut, right at the neck of the figure, but it seemed unfazed. The swing was too open, the blade now was on his right hand, and when he saw a shadow hand raise again, he tried to stop it with his left, out of instinct. 

The pain drowned him.  

A knife, black as dragonglass, now pierced his left hand, sending waves of pain throughout his arm, up to his arm, and his head. He felt how his right knee weakened, trying to force him into bending it. 

It would have to kill him, first. 

His body jumped using his remaining strength to the right, and the shadow vanished once more. 

Jon reached for Longclaw once again, first finding it blindly with his left, then with his right. It took him a few moments, he first found the edge, then the hilt. 

‘Fire. Jon Snow.’ - His mind demanded. 

He did not understand, and yet, he did. Jon, Snow or Stark, was no stranger to the mysteries of the world. He had seen the very winter gain body and lose it in front of him, why would the shadows be any different. The figure did not flinch to a strike to the neck, what could he do? This was no wight, no Other. There was no running from the shadows. There was no running from the end.  

Nonetheless, he would meet it with a sword in his hand.  

He wielded Longclaw with both hands once more. If he was to die against the unknown, let it be fighting. 

‘I fought, and I...’ 

No. No. He would not. For her. 

‘Fire.’ 

Her. That was it. He could not remember what his last thoughts were the last time he gave in to the cold, but this time, it would be her. Fitting, for how alive he had felt with Daenerys by his side, even If he would not be able to see her again.  

He should have stayed. There, on the dragon island. On Aegon’s Garden, or on top of the walls. In the bed in his chambers, holding her hand... 

He smelled a foul horror. And he saw it. Them. Standing at the opposite corner of the room. Many this time. One had almost ripped out his hand, now there was one in every dark corner of the room. There was no chance for him, and neither a choice. He counted thirteen steps again. 

He raised his sword, his thoughts travelled far north, then to the seat of dragons. 

‘Fire.’  

Her. 

‘Jon.’ 

Daenerys.  

‘Fire made flesh.’ 

Purple eyes.  

‘The sword.’ 

Many red ones. 

His head felt like it was being licked by flames, he saw blue and red out of his vision. 

‘This is not the last time you come to me, Jon Stark.’ 

He saw the dark blood that covered Longclaw. Then a blinding light. 

THE ONION KNIGHT 

Ser Davos dropped to his knees, as he saw the head of the lone tower being devoured viciously by flames. He did not understand, no matter how much he tried to think of it. 

Dawn fell on them, killing and throwing into the wind...everything. He tried to reach for his severed fingers. His luck. He then realized he had long lost it. And now, that reminder had come back. He had lost four sons in the Battle of the Blackwater, and the fifth at Castle Black, by the hand of Melisandre. This one was the sixth. The young king. 

‘As a sacrifice to the fire, all of them.’ 

Davos wanted to cry, laugh, scream. Claw at his face and beard with severed fingers. Instead, he called for the guards, telling them to bring axes to try and break down the wooden door that served as entrance to the tower. But deep down, he knew there was nothing to be made. Like a great white stone candle, the head of the building had been eaten by red spears, for how long, no one knew. The feast was too busy, the music of the bards too noisy, and the rest of the castle slept way beyond the Hour of the Wolf. 

‘’Water! Axes! A ram! Anything! Help your King!’’ 

Ser Wylis Manderly, of broad shoulders and an even bigger belly, brought a heavy hammer, the veins on his bald head red with rage, wanting to turn the heavy oaken door to splinters. The man hit the door with enough strength to break the back of a horse, and the metal block broke into the wood, entering beyond its head. It shook the structure up to its wooden roof, that on impact, spit two long wooden pieces that had been bitten by the fire on both ends of them. It took a pull from Ser Davos, and another knight of the guard, to pull Wylis out of the falling debris.  

Both wooden pillars positioned themselves in front of the entrance, marking an oaken cross. The Seaworth heard how the main gates of the castle opened, allowing to enter the servants that had been tasked with carrying buckets of water from the port. 

It was all for naught, and the smuggler felt the ale, wine, meat and fish from the banquet come up to hit against the back of his teeth. 

His hope, all of the norths, were vanishing before their very eyes. He fell again, this time on his arse, contemplateing the spectacle of yellow, orange and red spears that now stabbed the Lone Scale.  

His mind jested in madness, thinking how much better it would have been if it was a dragon scale, so it may resist the heat. Or perhaps created more of it, not allowing Jon to suffer...a second time. 

Drowning was bad, but bearable. But burning? He had seen many people meet their ends at the flames of the Red Woman; their screams of pain and ecstasy did not show any peaceful sleep of that which the priestess claimed.  

Not too long ago, he had been taught to write and read. For what? So now he could read a history book the story of ‘The White Wolf, the King who- 

Not even his mind dared to say it. 

A scream pierced the hot air from way beyond the castles opened doors. Davos heard the clattering of chainmail, and remarks of suprise from the men. He did not care. He could not keep his eyes away from the burning tower. The rest of the world be damned.  

He heard a growl, a fast steps on the stone floor of the courtyard, the hair on the back of the mariner stood up, as if a great beast was trying to hunt him down. 

A great beast. 

A thump, then a shadow blocked the sky above him. A white shadow. 

Like a battering ram covered in ebony and snow, the great Direwolf jumped over him, straight to the tower being engulfed in flames. The mass of white fur, now sturdier than a bear, as big as a horse, destroyed the blockade using its own body. 

For a moment, Ser Davos Seaworth was drowning again, in the immensity of seconds. 

He looked at the broken door, dark, the flames had not reached all the way down. It almost looked like the gaping mouth of one of those white trees of the north.  

He saw. He saw... 

Something emerged from the darkness. A man. A wolf. A man. The direwolf stepped out of the broken door, with something at its back. A body, with a black long sleeve shirt stood up, on top of the great beast. It was Jon, it had to be. Strength came back to Davos, as he rose on one knee. Then stopped, when he saw it. 

Half of the long shirt has cut, it had been bitten by some of the flames, and it showed the scars on the king's body. On his left hand, he carried the crown that once belonged to his brother, on his right hand, was his valyrian steel sword, its blade black with ashes, and then. 

‘By the gods.’ 

The King in the North looked at him, with almost a fearful expression. Davos saw red eyes, copies of the one that his direwolf bore, like crimson rubies. And of course, he had seen them in Melisandre of Asshai. 

Then, on top it all, the lad's head had been crowned by white, brittle hair, which imitated the snow that was now melting around them.   

Ser Davos Seaworth heard the cheers. Of how the King had survived. Some cheered for Winterfell. Others spoke of good omens from the Old Gods.  

But. He also heard the fear.