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The bruises over his body ached.

The endless wars, and the passionate love of his queen, without doubt.

The Queen, whom he’d killed.

Who’d ridden to the North - a conquering hero and lost more than she’d gained.  

A recurring theme for anyone who’d had the dubious misfortune of meeting him.

His eyes felt heavy, bloated. He’d maybe been crying too much; or maybe he hadn’t cried at all, he wasn’t particularly certain. Was that a thing people did? Cry over grief?

Daenerys  

He'd killed her, and she'd saved him. He'd killed her and in her last moments she had been reassuring him of his worth. He'd killed her, and she'd been mad.

Jon was maybe going mad too.

_____

Jon spent the better part of his exile drinking his way to a grave that was too late in coming.

Downing all the fine Dornish vintage the Martells had sent him as a gesture of support for Rhaegar's last living son. Which was hopefully poisoned.

He’d been disappointed so far; but then again, that was nothing new.

It wasn't like his cruel cruel Gods to deign to give him the dignity of death.

The men of the Watch maintained a careful distance. Trampling around with heaving footsteps to show they weren’t threatened by his presence, or quiet feather rifts on the ground - which apparently, was consideration for Jon’s fragile emotional state.

But one thing they all did agree on, was never approaching him; and Jon couldn’t blame them for it. How could they? He was so very near mythic to them. Not many remained, from Jon's older order, the ones who’d known Lord Snow in all his ridiculous childish glory. These men were weary, and the younger ones thought him a God.

Nay, The Saviour.

The comedic stupidity of it made him want to laugh, if Jon was even capable of such a thing.

The child for whom Prince Rhaegar had sacrificed everything.

The boy for whom Ned Stark had stained his honour.

The man because of whom the realm went to War.

Aegon Targaryen - The Last Dragon.

If he'd never been born, the Kingdoms wouldn't have bled.

Jon was grief struck, not deaf.

He'd heard the whispers.

It was a fools mockery, Dany thinking Jon would be loved at the throne if the truth had come out.

In the end, he hadn't managed to outrun the Sins of his Fathers.

Not one of them, and Jon had many.

Stannis had warned him numerous times. Jon had only been too proud to listen; proud, stubborn and obstinate. So sure, that he knew what was good .

So stupid. So inordinately, unbelievably, childlike.

‘Haven’t you learnt yet child?

You know nothing Jon Snow’

And that was the truth of it.

‘He may have been a worthier king’, he'd thought once, a little guiltily; and immediately chastised himself. Stannis had burnt people alive; but then again -

So had she.

But he’d been good. When he’d listened to his hand. Like when Dany had listened to Tyrion. Like when Jon had listened to Sansa and Davos.

Ridiculous

The hand was only as competent as the King. Ned Stark and Jon Arryn were both evidence to that. As was Jon’s own hand.

Davos . Yet another Jon had made a jester off. Another fool King; too set in his own ways

If Jon had had a sympathetic bone in his body, he'd have apologized to the old man. As things stood, he'd been a coward.

He’d not received a letter from any, which frightened him. Easy enough as it was these days, he still hated the feeling. And the fear didn’t cover up the hurt, which bubbled up all the same.

The silence from Arya was even more worrying , (he couldn’t breathe) and the silence from Sansa, while not entirely unexpected, smarted.

She probably felt guilty; and.. he had no strength to assuage that.

Jon had also been subject to less unpleasant whispers. ‘The Prince that was Promised’ they called him; like it was a title he’d earned and not been born with.

They knew nothing either.

Jon warged often now. It was easier to know what the men thought of him through Ghost. (He'd never be blindsided by anything ever again) It was pleasant, and annoying. All the validation he'd ever wanted as a child and couldn't care less for now.

Pointless . He thought, twirling a dagger between his hands. Raised from the dead, for.. what exactly? To shove a knife into the heart of someone who'd let their guard down around him? Someone who'd trusted him enough that guards were unnecessary?

Jon had made the exact same mistake. He'd learnt the hard way. She hadn't had to.

It was sickening.

He also heard the other whispers. The even quieter, but much crueler 'Queenslayer' muttered within his hearing distance by those who believed the silver-queen right. 'Kinslayer' they spat in icy disregard.

It didn't affect him as much Jon had thought it would have once. Emotions weren't as powerful as they used to be.

Brienne of Tarth, Sansa's Protector and perhaps one of the few people who had known Jon's predecessor truly, had offered advice.

The fire from the hearth had thrown her features into sharp relief. Pain, and terrible grievous understanding in her noble features.

'Leaving your father was one of his greatest regrets' she'd told him. As though Jaime Lannister would somehow be proud of fighting and bleeding for Jon Snow just because he was Rhaegar's Prince .

'I'm Ned Stark's son' he’d corrected pointlessly.

She let him have his whim - a small mercy. Jon heard the unspoken truth. It didn't matter. He had let them both down all the same.

Rhaegar had gone to War for a son who'd live to kill his little sister. (And wasn't that funny? A cruel self fulfilling prophecy. A child to bring the dawn, for which Rhaegar had gone to war. A war that had made Daenerys Targaryen, a fugitive in the first place. Life was full of these funny little ironies)

And Ned Stark? He had risked everything for a nephew who'd bend the knee for dragons and later, killed the little girl he'd tried so hard to protect.

So ridiculous.

Fragile stupid men.

She visited in flickering shadows, and Jon couldn't seem to see her quiet clearly.

He stayed in his room.

--

When the silence got too oppressive, Jon would remember the cells. The quiet aftershock. The Unsullied and the Dothraki, desperate to slowly and torturously bleed him out.

In the skittering of the rats in the corners, and the feeble sound of the populace of King's Landing, the smoke he expected but never felt from the burnt down city, Jon found some measure of fragile stability.

So of course, it had to he immediately ruined. This time, in the form of Tyrion who had come for advice, and, no. Not advice from a friend to a friend.

No. Tyrion wanted advice as to what to do from the King in chains.

Apparently, he was still the morality rudder to these fools.

"Rule Yourselves" Jon had spat, hair wild and mouth bloody.

Ghost was hunting  

"Rule Yourselves" he'd repeated, in a softer whisper, the shackles weighing heavily in his arms. The weight of the world bending his back.

"You have the strongest claim" his co-conspirator had begun, guiltily. Bran was King, but the Kingdoms were still Jon's birthright .

It was so ridiculous he'd wanted to laugh. Like anyone would trust a Targaryen ever again. Like he'd ever deserved anybody's trust in the first place.

"Do you have any wishes? Any commands? He'd been asked.

"That is my command." Jon had snapped back in return, all injured spite, and powerless frustration.

'Let's not pretend I get a choice here.' He'd wanted to snarl, but even he knew when to kneel down and accept defeat. Contrary to popular assumption.

Tyrion gave a weak smile in response. "We'll be sure to do our best." he'd said, turning around to leave.

Jon had rolled his eyes, letting the shackles around his neck and feet pull him back to the floor,

"When?" He had asked. But Tyrion had already left. Jon was alone again.

Figures.

-----

Jon couldn't sleep.

No one with a conscience as guilty as his could. But Jon, really couldn't sleep.

His anger and rage felt underserved. His grief meek, the drowning tempo of repeated words and screams silencing Jon's own voice.

The all consuming stench of burning flesh, sizzling blood, children screaming for dead parents, people being dragged into the streets cruelly and executed by the edge of a sharply curved blade or a three pointed spear.

Is this what you died for Mother?

----

One very fine, borderline lucid day, Jon stumbled over to the mirror.

He looked… to put it politely,   deranged . Hair, messy, loose and tangled, like a nest atop his head. Jon ran a hand through it. It caught and tugged harshly with no leave, and he gave up.

Robb and Theon had loved teasing Jon about his hair. Curly and shiny, Sansa had loved to braid it as a child. Before she had understood the meaning of the word 'Bastard' at least. It was easy to forgive her. Alayne Stone had seen it all, and hate was too hard an emotion; for he who still struggled with it, it was easier to sympathise with someone he'd held so dear.

Dany had been a different mettle. She was dangerous, and fiery, and passionate; like a storm herself. Flashing thunder and blazing eyes. Like an uncontrollable unstoppable tempest. Jon had clung to her and gone along for the ride; not thinking too hard about the trivial things.

Blindly trusting. Always trusting.

Until being proved a fool.

He looked a lot like her now. His red rimmed eyes, and silver lined hair - doing more to prove his heritage than anything else ever had.

Madness did run in the family. Jon wondered for how long he'd been mad.

------

On a scale of everything Jon had endured, returning to the place where he was murdered was possibly the worst.

Olly would stand in the courtyard, the shield too heavy for his young body, weighing him down. But he'd pull it back up, raise it, and hold himself behind it as Jon battered at him.

Marsh would walk into his room, gentle encouragement and tender kindness. He'd wait until Jon relaxed in his armchair by the fire, and then gently tip his head back, bear his throat out, pale and vulnerable and carefully run his knife in a perfect neat line along the width of it.

Jon would watch as the blood stained the floor, Ghost's fur turning red, and his eyes white as Jon just stayed. He wouldn't die, just bleed. With the drip drip sound of his blood hitting the floor.

Melisandre would walk forward, patiently scooping up some of the blood and tipping it over and into the fire.

'King's Blood' she'd tell him apologetically, and King's Landing would burn.

----

It had been nearly a year, after Jon had come to the wall, that he left the company of Ghost and the security of his old room.

He hadn't done that voluntarily either.

Rhaegal stood. Proud and glorious over the weeping wall, green and glimmering gold - like spring, itself.

Jon had stumbled down the stairs and ran to the wall, bare foot, but hardly feeling the chill. The dragon's eerie eyes followed him, and Rhaegal took off from the wall, massive wings casting a dreaded shadow.

Landing with a resounding thump, knocking many of the black brothers to the ground.

His dragon's eyes were wide and wet.

She'd told him all about it once, a smile curving her precious features. They'd both been in the gently rocking boat. His head resting on her chest. One of her hands running through his curls, the other tracing mindless patterns over his skin. "Dragons and dragon riders have a bond" she'd said. Eyes shining and excited. So glad to finally have someone who understood the allure of her little beasts. Jon had smiled teasingly. "So do we and our Direwolves!"

She laughed a beautiful throaty sound. "I'm sure you do" she'd placated, before sobering. "I loved them all equally." Her voice had been low, soft. "I loved them all, but Drogon was mine" she paused, "I don't know what I'd have done if I'd lost him" she'd whispered, guilty, as though finally sharing some heartbreaking secret.

Jon wouldn't hope to understand the emotions of a parent. He'd never hoped to have even one child. He'd wanted one named Robb, he'd also known how unrealistic the dream was. Shaking away the childish fantasy, Jon had risen up on his elbows, placing a gentle peck on her lips.

He wasn't sure if it was right, he still didn't quite understand the bond between rider and dragon just yet either, but even the idea of losing Ghost was beyond excruciating.

"You'll always have each other" he'd promised solemnly.

Surely it wasn’t a promise he could afford to make. But he’d always been empathetic fool.

She'd looked at him then, sharp and penetrating, like she’d wanted to raze and destroy and cherish his very soul , and hugged him hard to her chest. Jon swallowed down his fear, shifted slightly and hugged her back, just as tight. And they'd spent the rest of the ride in silence, luxuriating in the comfort of a warm bed, and an even warmer lover next to them.

It was one of the various glimpses of running thoughts, that went in and out of his memory. One of the various things he was never quite sure as to whether or not it had actually happened.

And yet. Here he was. Beautiful and dangerous, and regal. She was gone, and as strong as Jon's bond with Rhaegal had been, he wasn't his Mother .

And he was smart. He knew.

Jon dropped the hand he'd raised to pet him, let it trail down to his side instead.

Rhaegal roared his fury, so loud, and so heart-rending that tears stung his eyes, and the ancient castle shook. Rhaegal charged toward, all sharp teeth, and earth-shaking footsteps.

He'd woken the dragon, it seemed. And Rhaegal had lost everything , thanks to Jon.

‘Had he gone looking for Drogon?’ He’d wondered absently. ‘Had his brother rejected him? for Rhaegal had taken his mother’s killer for a rider?’

In which case, Jon would have to apologize, and he would! but his Valyrian wasn’t all that great.

Rhaegal’s teeth were sharp and pointy. He wasn’t bellowing fire; but Jon didn’t expect him to.

Rhaegal would have wanted to kill him slowly and painfully.

Which Jon understood. It was what he himself would have done.

Just ask Ramsey Bolton

He closed his eyes, and surrendered to his fate; gladly.

Ghost however seemed to disagree; with a ferocious snarl from the side, Ghost pounced, hackles raised, proud and nearly blocking Jon from view. Defending Jon with every last ounce of his strength.

Rhaegal roared a warning at the direwolf, this tiny creature who had dared presume to tell a dragon what to do. When Ghost didn’t abate, he’d crawled forward, stretchy scaly wings leaving deep gouges on the ground, eyes turned to slits rather than large and warm as it usually was, when the dragons greeted him.

Already adoring him.

Once

Rhaegal cornered Ghost with his massive body, the raging inferno at the back of his throat, threatening to destroy Jon’s dearest friend.

Which, really wouldn’t do.

Jon finally with some semblance of terror crawling at the back of his throat had stumbled forward, pushing the massive direwolf out of the way, and standing in between.

One tiny palm on Ghost’s furry body and another on Rhaegal’s underbelly.

Two of the world’s greatest predators, and Jon was as weak as a newborn babe between them.

But he’d stand firm.

Rhaegal could burn him. He’d never let any harm befall Ghost.

Rhaegal’s large green head flung from Ghost to Jon, and back again before it began to droop, the eye slits widening, turning soft involuntarily. With a large final defeated roar to the sky, Rhaegal dropped to the ground - like a great big green lump.

Jon supposed he'd have to take care of a dragon now.

---

Rhaegal could have roasted Ghost. But he hadn't. So Jon put up with the dragon's flights of fancy.

Rhaegal also hunted beyond the wall, and brought food back for Jon and Ghost. And this way, Jon didn't have to socialise and pretend to accept his punishment with grace. He thus, gratefully stayed in his room with Rhaegal guarding the only entrance, and Ghost lying beneath the window.

It someone tried to.. yeah, they'd probably warn him.

---

When Drogon had taken Daenerys away, Jon had laughed.

He'd laughed standing over the melted remains of the Iron Throne, that didn't seem to want to burn him, and laughed. Head thrown back, blood stained hands pressed to his stomach, were the first dagger had ripped through his flesh all those years ago.

He'd laughed and laughed and laughed, psychotic. He'd wanted to die; He'd wanted to die so badly, but apparently even Drogon didn't want to kill him.

Vindictive little monster.

That's how he'd been found. Jon didn't know how long it had been since, but Greyworm had rushed into the room, shocked and more than a little disturbed at the sight of Jon, bloodstained and laughing.

He'd been followed immediately by Davos, who'd somehow talked Dany's commander down from killing him.

The Dothraki had approached warily, more than a little uncomfortable with all their demons that had come to life off late.

They'd taken him by the elbows, carefully, as though the madness would spread to them from him, and led him away.

The memory still amused him.

------

On hindsight, Jon would admit his relationship with Daenerys had been anything but healthy. For either of them.

Initially Jon had needed her only for her armies, and Dany had been hell bent on him bending the knee for her.

Jon, who on his best days, struggled with authority had balked and spat at it, like a wild fierce thing refusing to be tamed, all desperation, futile anger. In the end, he’d been the one on his knees begging everyone to save themselves .

Jon had maybe once had some pride and self respect that balked at it.

Now, they were scabbed over wounds - blood oozing just occasionally. And Jon could very easily tie a bandage over it and move on.

But Dany ?

She’d threatened his family, she’d wanted his home for her kingdom; told him to lie to his family about himself , and Jon really should have seen the signs. He had perhaps always been terrified of her.

And for her.

And Daenerys; well Jon had been her doom walking, and she had welcomed him into her palace, and her heart. Her Dragon had spared his life.

Jon still didn't understand why.

She had loved him, with all the love and passion and strength that he so admired about her. All the love passion and strength he seemed to have lost.

Maybe that's what he had coveted. He'd looked at her and seen what he could have been.

Maybe he'd never loved her.

Maybe he wasn't capable of emotions as clean and untainted as love.

Maybe his love had died with his beating heart.

Even what Jon had felt for Ygritte felt unfocused, incongruent, ephemeral. He had maybe loved her with all that he had.

But he had left her without a look back all the same.

And there he was! Back to the start

You were wrong to love her.

You were wrong to leave her.

-----

Sometimes, Jon would remember the red of Ygritte's hair. It would throw him when the fire reflected of Sansa's, and Jon would fling around, so sure he'd seen her. But it had been a mirage. Just like Ygritte herself. Just like Jon.

Sansa would smile then, soft and uncertain. careful around him; wary. What if he too were a monster?

His sisters; on his return had been tender with him. Like he was fragile, breakable. Like the wrong word would send him bowling over into the abyss that threatened to swallow him.

Like the wrong thing done, would make him leave and never return, or worse, lay in his bed and never move.

Jon had done little less for the past year and a half. Arya was possibly exploring everything west, and while he worried for her, Jon knew better than to think she couldn't take care of herself, Sansa was undoubtedly ruling wisely, and Bran too - all performing their duties with more capability than Jon had ever had.

Jon had spent his whole life trying to change the world. He'd spent his whole life failing.

The chaotic wheel of emptiness and desolation circling over and over and over , until he was well and truly trampled beneath; buried so far under, that the sun was a distant dream.

He raised red rimmed eyes, rubbing the pommel of his sword. His sword with the White wild Wolf snarling. A gift from the former Lord Commander. A promise for a new beginning in the Watch, to do what was right for everyone.

'The thing with new beginnings' Jeor Mormont would say, sipping his carefully brewn drink, his raven lopsided on his shoulder, 'was that nothing of the past, really counts'

A beginning and a start. For everyone. Everyone but him.

Funny how those things worked out.

-----

In all his years of existence, Jon had never experienced true freedom.

The weighty glances of Catelyn Stark boring into him, as he'd stood, a few paces behind Robb, as his brother excelled in all manner of activities.

Her cruel satisfaction when Jon inevitably failed.

Later, the icy cold glares of Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt. The open taunts and threats. Jon surrounded in a room full of these great wise men of the Watch, the arrows from Ygritte burning, his legs aching, he’d just withstood a siege, and he was tired. But they’d wanted to send him back to the tiny ice cell all the same.

“Without the furs this time” Janos Slynt’s voice echoed in his ears. Or to ride forth and kill Mance.

He’d never had a choice.

He hadn't been free with the wildlings either, or as the Lord Commander, with Stannis's overwhelming demands and Melisandre's cruel prophecies. Not when he'd been King in the North, and not when he'd been whatever the hell he'd been to Dany.

But now, Jon was free . He could go do what was right for him. He could! He could get up and leave, and no one would dare question him or deny him. He suspected that most would be rather glad to see him go.

Pyp, Grenn, Edd, Toad, Halder, Emmet, Hobb, Donal Noye - Anyone who'd wanted him around was long gone. They'd loved him the most, for all of his flaws, and there had been many flaws.

He'd have given anything to stay in that moment. A child running away from the watch, for, don't you see? I'm an orphan now. But he hadn't been; surrounded by friends as he was, risking everything to protect him - to take him back.

What can I do Pyp? Without you to rein me in?

He struggled to his feet. His atrophied weak limbs not supporting his weight, and suddenly Ghost was there. Nudging under Jon's head, and holding him up bodily.

He limped out, and fetched some water he had Rhaegal heat for him, and washed. Rubbing until clumps of dirt and sweat ran down from his hair, leaving them soft and clean.

Then, he carefully lowered himself onto his back on the tub, and leaned back. The water sloshing warm and gentle on his bare skin, picking up the book on elementary Valyrian, Tyrion had gifted him before he left.

-----

See, if Daenerys Targaryen had been just another tyrant, then killing her wouldn't have been as painful as it had.

But he'd loved her. As messy as it had been. He'd sat beside her while she spoke of Viserys, comforted her with memories of his own childhood, with funny stories of Robb and Theon.

He'd made her laugh and delighted in it.

Jon had loved people who weren't exactly innocent before. This wasn't a first.

He had seen Ygritte kill innocents. He'd flinched away from her then, and her eyes had blazed. Ygritte was wild, wilder than Jon had ever been in his worst mood swings.

And then there had been Dany. She'd killed the Lannister army and then had stood beside him to explain the rationality of it.

Two entirely different people, whom Jon had loved so dearly, and they'd both died for it.

------

Arya's letter was blotchy and heavy handed. She seemed to have been in a hurry when she'd written it, but somehow spoke of her infinite care for him, in a way that only Arya could.

It had a grand total of five words.

'Stop Moping.' It said.

I Love You.

-----

Jon walked into his room at the King's tower and threw himself on the furs.

He'd finally mustered up the strength to go for a walk that day. The air was fresh, and sharp. The wall wept and the black brothers almost seemed to rejoice.

The smoother weather had put everyone in the best spirits and many had abandoned the wall to go beyond.

Tormund would take care of them, Jon knew. And didn't join them despite their entreaties.

The cold of Ygritte and the heat of Dany both seemed to have receded.

He felt young.

-----

He hissed for the fourth time when Sansa gave up.

With a cry of frustration she stormed over to him, grabbing his clothing.

"I'll do this" she snapped, holding up the cloth and the furs.

" You do that" she pointed to the piles of paperwork on her desk.

Jon didn't feel this trade off was particularly fair. She got to do something she loved and he was stuck with all the documents.

"I won't" he whined.

Sansa's eyes blazed. "Why?" She snarled vindictively. "You don't want it?"

Jon's own eyes blazed in response. "I don't feel like doing it." He snarled back. "And I'm tired"

She stared at him blankly for a moment. Jon thought he may have seen jubilant victorious glint in her eyes, but it was gone immediately.

"Very well" she said grudgingly, but seemed inordinately pleased.

It was only when Jon had nodded curtly at her, and brushed past to lean by the fire, Ghost in his lap, and Rhaegal's tail curled like a warm band around his ankle, did he realise that he'd asserted himself for a selfish reason for the first time in years.

-----

Just over a year later, Jon Snow stood beyond the wall.

"We could follow Arya?" He suggested. Rhaegal threw him an unimpressed look, as Ghost snorted, huffing and cuddling up to Rhaegal's warm hide.

They'd both taken to teaming up. Which really annoyed Jon, as it was rarely ever in his favour. Though, in all fairness, he really couldn't blame Ghost. Rhaegal was a warm and steadying heat source.

Jon had spent the better part of the last few months learning to knit and stitch, slowly, in a more secure environment, processing his thoughts.

After their disagreement, Jon had cautiously suggested using Rhaegal's shed scales in his clothing. She'd agreed to teach him.

With Reservations .

Inadvertently Sansa and he had bonded. She'd initially been hesitant, quiet and worried around him. He'd often caught her throwing worried glances at the bags under his eyes, his hollow washed out face. Jon had been defensive initially. Had she thought that he too, was going mad?

But she'd never looked at him doubtfully, not once. He had finally broken and asked her one day. Embarrassed and drunk, and crying. He'd gone to his knees before her.

And she'd been gentle. She'd cupped his face. It was an image he'd seen Catelyn Stark do a hundred times to Robb. He'd been silently jealous. He'd have given anything for a kiss in the forehead from her, or her sitting in his bed, reading him a story before he went to sleep.

But Catelyn Stark was an old wound.

Sansa? On the other hand. Had gently cupped his face. Rubbing the tears.

"Worried about others around you ?" She had laughed out, choking just a bit.

" Never." She spat.

She'd tucked his hair behind his ear. "Worried about you around others? Always." She had pulled him to her, and he had buried his face in her shoulder.

"Oh my poor thing" she'd whispered softly, and Jon had cried.

They'd never spoken about it ever again. Even the thought of it embarrassed Jon.

But it was only after that night, that Jon had poured out the ale, and the other expensive wines Tyrion kept sending, and opened the drapes shrouding his room in the darkness. He'd borrowed some of Rhaegal's shed scales, trimmed a bit of Ghost's fur, and had gotten to work.

A few more months later, steady correspondence with all his still living friends, and a whole lot of help from Sansa and finally her painstaking approval (really, she'd done most of the work. In his defence, Jon had done her paperwork in exchange, besides he'd always been good with numbers anyway), Jon had put on his new clothes, sheathed his sword, laced his usual knives, in different convenient spots, and walked out beyond the wall.

"Casterly Rock?" He offered them both, coming back to the present. They could visit Tyrion. Jon missed him dearly. They had spent nearly a year together, and almost dying brought people together like nothing else. Ghost however huffed, and Jon had to concede his point. It was far too hot.

"Valyria, maybe?" He questioned doubtfully. He could visit the doomed city, trace his Father's blood, and maybe, maybe, even learn something about Rhaegar along the way.

Rhaegal blew a stream of air through his nose. Dramatically bored. Jon sighed. He wondered if he'd been this difficult as a child.

"Volantis?" neither of them deigned to answer. Jon had expected as much.

"Bravos!" he finally proposed, and Rhaegal lifted his head, looking mildly interested. Ghost rolled over and fell back onto the snow, legs raised up and tongue lolling out.

Jon huffed irritably. Ghost did have a point. Anything that far South would he too hot. Especially with the onset of summer.

He looked behind him, to the Kingdom that was his birthright, that he'd so easily given away. And forward - to the FreeFolk who'd gladly welcome him.

And Yet .

Jon snarled and climbed atop Rhaegal. Both of them looking up at him curiously.

"I'm nearly twenty name days old." He snapped. "I want to go somewhere . Surprise me" he told them.

Rhaegal huffed a stronger puff of air from his nose. The little bastard was amused. But not cooperative.

Jon turned to Ghost hopefully.

The White Wolf snorted, looking at Jon with an incredulous look, before rolling over and standing up, with an exasperated huffed of his own, as though to say 'I really have to do everything around here.' Which, honestly, Jon couldn't dispute with.

His direwolf took off into the wild, flashing white fur, and blending into the snow.

Rhaegal took a breath and then took off after Ghost, Jon astride, wings beating powerfully on both his sides, following Ghost in a gliding sedate pace.

The wall and the free folk camps disappeared behind him, and Jon Snow flew off into the unknown.