Chapter Text
10 AR (After Reunification)
He dreamt an old dream, of a ship and a pledge, of remorse over a fallen dragon, and most of all her.
In the dream he lay in a bed of furs as he had in life, stripped of his frozen clothing that had brought on the fever that nearly killed him a second time, cold despite all the layers they had bundled him up in. This was the Queen's chambers on her ship, given up to save his life after their excursion North on a fool's errand. Once Jon could have described every aspect of this cabin but the years leech at a man's memories, even those that he claimed to cherish above all others. In the dream it was reduced to shadows cut in by whisps of light here and there.
They were sailing for Dragonstone, the Wight sealed in the hold and the Queen's men recovering on deck. But the Queen stayed, she stayed by his side as he lay there trying to come back to life again, all the while trying to hold back her own grief. He'd seen it then as he saw it now, for she was no shadow; even after ten years her face burned clear. Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons...and she was looking down at him with something between sadness and relief.
But he couldn't feel that relief because the first thing he remembered was what the trip had cost them, had cost her.
Viserion.
"I'm sorry..." Jon whispered out, recalling how the Dragons were children to her. Reaching with what strength he had, he took her ghostly hand in his and said again. "I am so sorry...I wish I could take it back. I wish we'd never gone."
She just smiled and shook her head, regal mask in place holding back tears in those amethyst eyes. "I don't. If we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see it to know...now I know."
But the cost...
"The Dragons are my children." She told him. "They're the only children I'll ever have. Do you understand?"
He could only nod, not really understanding but unwilling to push it considering he was the reason that child was dead.
"We are going to destroy the Night King and his army." She told him suddenly, the embers of her grief replaced with a burning determination. "We'll do it together. You have my word."
Together...he felt an immeasurable weight leave his shoulders, is this what triumph felt like? Gods he wanted to crow his victory but, weak as he was, all he could manage was a whispered "Thank you Dany."
His words put an end to the serious talk, her face lighting up in a bemused smile. "Dany? Who was the last person who called me that? Who was it, my brother? Mmm...not the sort of company you want to keep."
Her brother? He saw her warning beneath the humour and let it go. Something for another time then. "Alright. Not Dany...how about 'My Queen?'"
She wore surprise as well as any other expression on her face, he would've laughed if he could. "I'd bend the knee but..."
"Am I?"
The question came so innocently, so light and gentle that any man might have thought it genuine curiosity. Not Jon. For him, the light vanished, the cabin dropping into darkness, lit up only by her...and he felt dread. It was happening again.
"Am I your Queen? Was I ever?"
He didn't want to look up - down - at her, he knew what he would see, and yet his eyes pulled back to her face. He clothes were the same, that typical Targaryen black and red, but her hair was tied differently, no silver locks splaying over her shoulders but tied back emulating the Dothraki braiding custom. But he barely noticed this, eyes focussed solely on the dagger now sticking in her chest. His dagger.
"I was your Queen..." she told him, that same tiny trickle of blood running down her lip as she stared down - up - at him from the ash covered ground of the Red Keep. "and you betrayed me."
"I had to." It rang hollow in his head, no matter how right those words were. "Dany, I had to."
"No you didn't." And then the last light in her eyes died away, her face empty of all feeling save that same almost childish look of shock she'd worn the first time he killed her. Would that this was the worst.
Please...let it end like this. Please...
But it didn't. The still air around them suddenly picked up a gust...a cutting, unkind wind, blowing in from the North. The kind that Old Nan had told stories about, the storm that foretold the march of death on the living.
Winter is coming.
And it came for her.
Don't. Please Dany, don't!
Her corpse didn't heed him, the unnatural icy cold already working through his gloves as her porcelain Valyrian skin turned a frozen blue, her neck cracking around in that horrid way he'd witnessed too many times before. And her eyes...gone were the fiery purple orbs, replaced with all-encompassing, lifeless blue.
Winter is Coming.
With horrific grace, her hands reached out to him and Jon, as ever, was unable to move away from them no matter how desperately he tried to. Where was Drogon? Where was Drogon?! The icy fingers touched his cheeks in a mockery of a lover's caress, and then the freezing came.
Cold. So cold.
Winter. Is. Coming.
"NO!"
"Snow!"
The rough accent filled his ears and Jon shot up. Gone suddenly was the darkness, gone was the Red Keep and the cabin, and that awful spectre that his dreams always ended on. As usual it took him a moment to remember where he was, the icy grip of his nights making the cool chill of the True North near impossible to distinguish. But it was there, that tiny undercurrent of warmth from the embers of the camp's fire from the night before, and that made all the difference.
There was no sign of the sun yet, though the night was starting to give way to day so dawn couldn't be too far off. Enough time for a short nap if he wanted it...he didn't want it.
"Which one was it this time?" That tough brogue again had him turning around to face the only other member of the camp who was awake. The years had been kind to Tormund, though he'd lost some of the red in his hair and beard and maybe he wasn't as fast with a blade anymore, there was still a lightness in his eyes that had never died. That lightness was dimmed somewhat though as he regarded the unofficial leader of the Free Folk.
Sighing, Jon just sat back, not bothering with a lie. "The boat."
"First time, or second?"
"First."
His friend let out a short 'hmm,' as he always did after Jon told him which one of his nightmares had come to plague him over the last ten years, and left it at that. He'd given up trying to convince him to let her go nine years ago, instead settling for being his silent sounding board. "Getting to that time again, you'll probably be seeing the second one soon enough."
"Maybe not this time." It was a vain hope. He always dreamed a good dream on the day, making them the worst nights of all. Because for one night in a year, Jon felt that all encompassing warmth again, of love and hope, of home.
And then he would wake up. The first time he wept like a baby, he'd thought he'd dreamed the last year.
Still, it was what it was; he was here and she was dead. Nothing for it but to keep moving. Moving was good up here. Kept you warm. And speaking of, "Better get the others up, we'll miss the herd if we're not careful."
"Hah!" Giantsbane let out a disbelieving scoff. "With your wolf's nose and your crow eyes? Never happen, Jon Snow."
Tormund was right of course, something Jon would never let him know, but it gave an excuse to get his mind on something else even if it was for just the day. Their band had been following a herd of woolly cows for the last three turns of the moon, one of Jon's better ideas as it turned out. These animals had provided them with more than just food, they had used the skins and bones for their tents, the pelts for new clothing and even their teeth had their uses. A plentiful harvest that saw nothing go to waste.
The only issue was the herd was always on the move so they had to be too and the snows could make it hard to find the animals especially if a blizzard came through. Fortunately, the last ten years had produced new talents in Jon Snow.
Because of his nightmares he no longer had wolf dreams, something he'd told Tormund who in turn had in turn explained that he must be a warg. What followed was lessons with what surviving skinchangers there were in the Free Folk until Jon could slip inside Ghost's mind again whenever he wished. Jump forward to the present day and such a trick was only one of the things he'd been taught.
He could speak the Old Tongue now, which made conversing with the Thenns much simpler whenever they ran into them. Didn't mean he hated them any less. But it was useful in other ways.
It had been a good distraction. Especially when he wanted to stave off sleep and the horrors that waited for him there.
The day passed much the same as it always did, break camp, hunt a cow, eat, make camp again, and try not to fall asleep.
Tormund told everyone it was his holding on to his Crow days, and for that he loved the man. He was the only one up here who didn't ask about it, the only one who knew everything. He didn't understand, Jon could tell, but he didn't push for an explanation or force him to let her go, he just did what he could for his friend.
He was asleep now, nestled up to one of whichever woman he felt like tonight much like the rest of the camp, leaving Jon awake beside the fire as always.
Well, not completely alone. A small huff at his side was all the greeting he got as Ghost wandered into camp and plopped himself at his side. The years had done the last of the Stark Wolves well, on all fours he was now up to Jon's chin, making ruffling his white furry head a lot easier, and their bond had only grown stronger after Jon embraced his skinchanging abilities. Would that he had learned how to do this all those years ago, who knew what they might have been able to do together?
"Find a good meal?" He asked his friend, noting the red around his muzzle. Ghost just huffed again, maybe telling him 'yes and it was delicious, far better than your cow.' Regardless, he just ruffled the fur around his neck leading Ghost to drop down into his lap with a heavy thud.
"Easy, old man!" Jon chided him lightly, "We're not as young as we used to be."
Ghost just nudged his chest in response, his human might be old but a Direwolf like him? Bah! He'd live forever!
Chuckling at his wolf's indignation, Jon just ruffled his hair again before turning his eyes skyward. No moon tonight. Not exactly a problem but without moonlight it was going to make birds harder to spot. He'd have to rely on his ears, wait for one to make their usual nightly rounds.
A whine from his hip brought him back down to Ghost who was looking up at him with those sad intelligent Wierwood eyes of his, he never liked it when his human did this. Warging was fine, he'd happily let his human go into another animal on the ground, but any time he jumped into a bird there was a fear that Jon would someday just fly away. Just like his Dragon did.
"I'm coming back, boy." Jon promised, like every time before, ruffling his wolf's head again reassuringly. "I'm just going for a little fly and then I'll be right back."
Ghost just whined again, worriedly.
"Hey, you'll keep me grounded, yeah?"
His assurances were cut into by territorial barking from above, something was flying. Looking up, Jon scanned the starlit night for the telltale silhouette of wings...there! An owl was right over them, hunting probably, and right within Jon's line of sight.
He slipped into the animal's mind without a second thought.
There was the customary rush of senses hitting him, the need to feed, the call for a mate, and the urge to fly. It was this last one that he took with all his will, stretching his wings out and just gliding for a moment before beating them hard in the wind to stay aloft. Gods but it was good to be back on the wing, up here there was nothing to fear, no need to think, even his old human concerns wandered away. Well, not all of them. Acting on reckless impulse, Jon tucked his wings away and dove downwards straight towards the snow.
Down.
Down.
And then out! His wings spread again and he rushed back into the air, soaring above the trees again as if he hadn't nearly smacked into the ground. It was exhilarating, addicting...but it didn't come close to Dragon riding.
"You've completely ruined horses for me."
He hadn't meant to think it. In doing so the human senses returned, along with the memories, soaring over Winterfell on Rhaegal, chasing Drogon, a last moment of levity before Death greeted them. The waterfall...
We never should've left that waterfall...
And that did it. The owl's senses shoved him out completely and suddenly Jon was on his back, Ghost leaning over him peering worriedly into his eyes. It took him a moment to pull it all back in, when he had he rubbed his friend's snout and sat back up to offer him a broken smile.
"I'm alright, boy."
"No you aren't." A voice whispered behind him, causing Jon to whip around. No one. Had he imagined it? "No, you didn't."
Again from behind! Looking around again Jon found nothing. Was he finally going mad? If so about bloody time, he'd only been waiting ten years to give the Southerners an excuse to finish his slow execution. Well at least Grey Worm would be happy.
"You're not going mad." The wind whispered to him, now washing over his shoulders and through his unkempt hair. "You must come."
"...Where?"
"To the Heart Tree, three days journey time to the North." The voice told him, calm yet with the tiniest hint of urgency. "You must come, Jon. Three days."
"Why?" Gods, he was demanding things of a voice on the wind. Yes he must have gone mad...but fuck it, why not play along. "Who's calling me?"
"Because you must." The wind insisted, beating against his face to get its point across. "And as for who, I'm...almost a man."
No one was happy when Jon told them he was going. Basing acts on words spoken on the wind wasn't considered good sense, even here in the True North. But what he'd heard was real, he was sure of it. Ghost had heard it too, which shut some people up (Direwolves were considered sacred beasts here, he'd learned). However there were still those who didn't appreciate their leader up and abandoning them like this.
"It's just for a week." He'd told them with more insistence in his tone than he'd used in a decade. "Three days there, three days back. You'll be fine."
That hadn't placated them any and it hadn't been until Tormund stepped in to shut them up, saying that their clan leader had spoken, but it was clear even he wasn't happy about Jon's decision. Though for different reasons.
"You remember what day it is in three days, yes?" He'd asked, that knowing stare cutting right through any bullshit response he might have come up with. "It wouldn't do to find a knife in yeh. We've got no red witches here."
Oh he knew alright, and he understood his friend's reluctance to let him out of his sight so close to...that day. Most times he was a broken mess after his one good dream, but a couple of times Tormund had had to take the knives away and forbid anyone to give Jon a blade until he was himself again. Not that Ghost would have allowed him to go through with such a thing either but it helped to have more than just paws to stop his human from doing something rash.
But that was why the White Wolf was going with him. At least that way there was someone keeping Jon's stupidity in check.
And so, with much grumbling from his people and a worried shoulder pat from Tormund, Jon had ventured into the white wastes.
Two-and-a-half days later found him trekking up a snowy slope, Ghost just ahead at the peak, wondering if he wasn't just doing this to find a nice secluded spot to die. He wouldn't put it past himself to try it, Gods knew he deserved it after what he did. But that was why he'd given all his knives and blades to his people before leaving. It made hunting difficult but that was where having a Direwolf companion came in handy.
And even then Jon couldn't quite work out why he'd been told to come here. The Heart Tree at Whitetree had always sufficed when he wanted to chat before. And he had never called him the way he'd done like that before, usually he just warged into Ghost and lead him back South for a few minutes.
But not this time. What was he up to?
Jon expected he would find out when he came over the snowy rise to see his destination...and what a sight it was. The Weirwood Tree was massive. It even outdid the Tree in Winterfell's Godswood that he could remember, in size anyway. The grandeur of it was somewhat lost though due to one thing: This tree was clearly dead. The white bark was turning grey and the red leaves that sprouted on the branches were missing, leaving a hollowed out shade of what it must have been in life.
Why he wanted to talk here Jon didn't know, but he wouldn't find out sitting around here thinking about it. Therefore he made his way down the opposite side of the slope and up the next one towards the massive husk.
"Well, I'm here." He called out, "What now?"
The answer didn't come in words but rather the wind itself, picking up around him and ushering him on toward an opening in the rock that the Tree stood upon. Shrugging in his head, Jon just followed the hint and stepped inside. There was barely any light to be had so he had to make do with his hands, feeling his way along, watching his step over the mass of roots weaving in and out of the walls and floor. Gods what a thing this Tree must have been when it lived.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom and Jon began stepping over the outcrops with ease until he came to an opening. There was a tiny patch of light which he saw shone on the centre of the chamber where all the roots of the tree seemed to meet. There was a hole, and in that hole...
Poor bugger. Jon caught himself thinking as he stared at the skeleton within. He didn't want to think how this one might have gone but, going by what little was left of his clothing he must have died before the Wall fell. What was he doing here?
A mournful whimper from Ghost had him turning back around, his companion was hunched over another set of bones and looked for all the world as if he'd just stumbled upon the answer to a question he hadn't really wanted answered. Another sniff later and his whimpers turned into a sad howl, if he were human he'd be crying.
"What's wrong, boy?" Jon asked, making his way over to his friend's side and kneeling beside him, what had Ghost found to make him so sad?
And then he saw. The bones Ghost had found were canine...and huge. Not nearly big as he was now, but these were still larger than the average wolf. And going by his wolf's reaction, there was only one wolf this could have been.
"Summer..." So this was where he'd fallen...and it hadn't been quick. Closer inspection showed that only half of his body was here, he'd been torn apart.
Cold fury rose in Jon then, and for a split second he wished the Night King were here so he could pay that monster back for this. But it fled as soon as it came, there was no point wishing for such things and even if he did what good would it do? He'd be torn apart by a horde of Wights before he could get in range.
But if Summer was here...that meant...
"This is where it happened." The voice he'd been waiting to hear confirmed his thoughts, though he barely moved an inch. "This is where Jojen, Summer, Brynden, Leaf and Hodor all died. All so I could become the Three-Eyed-Raven."
Funny, that almost sounded like regret. Jon didn't think his host capable of that level of emotion anymore. Still it would be rude to start like that so he just turned around to face the figure who now stood within the roots which parted like waves at his coming.
"Hello Bran."
"Hello Jon." Bran said back, barely a hint of feeling in his words or face. He didn't look any different since the last time they had seen each other in the flesh, a trick of the Old Magic within Wierwood Trees. He looked the same because Jon's last memory of him was on the pier when he was exiled, saying his final farewell to his family. The only difference of course was that he was standing.
This didn't bother Jon all that much, they'd been talking like this for years now. It kept him aware of how things were in the South, and through these talks he'd probably learned more about what happened to Bran up here and how he became the Three-Eyed-Raven than anyone else living. He'd also expanded on his warging abilities with his brother's help, but that couldn't be why they were meeting here in secret.
Thus, he skipped over the pleasant small talk and jumped right in. "What's going on? Has something happened?"
"Something is always happening everywhere." Bran replied unhelpfully, though there was a hint of a droll tone that sounded reminiscent of Tyrion Lannister. Honestly, sometimes Jon wondered if he put on that mysterious act because he enjoyed the looks people gave him. He'd spent way too much time in the Deep South.
"But I didn't call you here for that." He assured, his eyes briefly flitting over the place that had changed him so before returning them to Jon. "It's been ten years. Spring is here."
"Aye, I thought it was a touch warmer these days." Jon agreed, a deprecating smile pulling at his face for a moment. He barely kept track of the seasons, it was always Winter all the time up here.
His response however drew an almost curious look from Bran if his slight head tilt was anything to go by. "Did you, really? The snows have not melted, the ice remains frozen."
"Well the Crows called it the Land of Always Winter for a reason." Jon pointed out, unsure where this was going.
"Not always." His little brother replied, his eyes tipping upwards and for a moment Jon just knew his mind was travelling elsewhere, his greensight showing him something only he could see. And then he was back again. "I remember the Arrow Head. I remember watching your party venture there, I remember the Night King. I remember watching Viserion fall."
"...Aye." Jon muttered after a moment, this time unable to pull up any sort of levity, he'd visited that day quite a few times himself.
"And I remember that, long before the First Night, it was green."
"...What?"
"It was green." Bran repeated, unmoved by Jon's baffled question. "There was grass everywhere and water, the Children of the Forest made their home there...and it's where they made the first Night King."
"We killed the Night King, Bran." Jon reminded him, unsure as to where this was going. "Arya killed him, you were there. Winter has ended."
"Yes, Arya killed the Night King." He agreed with a nod, his blue Tully eyes suddenly fixing on Jon's dark ones. "And yet Spring has not come to this land."
That declaration suddenly sent a chill up Jon's back that had nothing to do with the cold air blowing in from the outside, a familiar creeping horror that he hadn't felt in ten years. "What are you saying, Bran?"
Let him be wrong. Let Bran be implying something else, anything else but that. It couldn't have been for nothing!
"I'm saying." The King of the South replied, a touch of true severity in his tone as he pinned the Warg King with those ancient eyes of his. "That your nightmares are not just nightmares. They are truth. The Night King isn't dead, Jon. We failed."